Dead North: Canadian Zombie Fiction

by Silvia Moreno-Garcia

  At least, Montreal is an island – and the cows have shown no inclination to cross the water. They don’t look like they can swim. Then again, they don’t look like they can chew through steel and concrete and annihilate a metropolis. Hell, they barely even look alive.

  ∆ ∆ ∆

  Burgess is furious with Agent Gupta for not following orders, going so far as to threaten she’ll face charges of treason. Maybe she’s being stupid, but she has to stay and hear the kid’s story. Nita hangs up on Burgess a second time, mid-threat. She tells Gilles to take over until further notice. Her last order: she dispatches Derek and Gilles to the airport and Stéphane and Jocelyne to the port, to help coordinate the rest of the remaining air and sea portions of the evacuation.

  There’s a small kitchen with a fridge attached to the underground CSIS office. Agent Gupta grabs two beers, invites Tony to sit at the table with her, and then says, “Okay. Take a few sips. Then tell me your whole story. But focus. Stick to the cows, and try not to segue every which way before you finish an idea.”

  Tony nods. They drink in silence for a couple of minutes.

  Then Tony asks, “What did you understand from what I’ve told you already?”

  “My best guess is: you and your quasi-girlfriend Thea used top secret CSIS intelligence to unleash a Chinese biological weapon, thinking it would somehow save some cows and further some kind of animal rights agenda. You’re lucky I haven’t arrested you yet. I don’t understand why you brought up the Hindu goddess Kamadhenu or…what was the other name…Haptor?”

  “Hathor. The Egyptian cow goddess.”

  “So your girlfriend is a cross-denominational cow worshipper?” Nita’s aunt would love this girl. Maybe she knows these kids. She teaches anthropology at McGill. Or did. The cows have probably eaten the whole campus by now.

  “She wasn’t my girlfriend. Not really.”

  “Sorry I brought it up.” Nita takes another sip of beer. “Alright. Go on. Explain all this craziness.”

  “So my minor is chemistry. Plus, I’ve been around my dad all my life. Chemistry comes easy to me. The Chinese had all kinds of weird, abandoned projects in that folder. One caught my attention, though. When I opened the files on his computer, I got it immediately, what the Chinese had developed.”

  Nita gestures for him to move on.

  “Okay. So this would only work on ruminants, because of their distinctive digestive chemistry. If you added a compound to their feed, it would, in time, toughen their hide so that they’d basically be indestructible; as a side effect, it also made their milk indigestible to humans. It would only take one dose to kick-start the chemical process. Imagine if all the cows could be infected…”

  She may think he holds important information, but it’s hard for Agent Gupta to sympathize with this young man. The prime minister is right: these environmentalists and animal rights activists are enemies of the state. Terrorists. If she could prove they were responsible for these cows and for the destruction of one of Canada’s most beloved cities, the weak-kneed progressive opposition would be neutered in Parliament. CSIS and the RCMP would be empowered to clamp down on these nutjobs once and for all.

  Agent Gupta has read about this Chinese project. “You realize that wasn’t the goal of the Chinese. They were using cows as test animals. They’re trying to make supersoldiers. They don’t care about cows. They just want to take over the world.” She probably shouldn’t be telling him that; none of this information has been released to the public. She appreciates that this government knows how to keep secrets. The Liberals used to blab everything to the public. None of that anymore. Transparency is just another word for weakness. A safe public is an ignorant public. Not that you can tell that to civilians’ faces, but it’s true nonetheless. But who knows how many secrets this kid has stolen from his careless father?

  “I’m not stupid. I guessed that’s what the Chinese were up to. But I still thought we could use it to sabotage the meat and dairy industry – without hurting cows or people.”

  “Okay, okay, Mister Animal Ethics. Back to what actually happened.”

  “Anyway, the compound was easy to manufacture. All I needed was—”

  “The recipe’s in our files already. You stole it from us. Skip forward.”

  Tony resumes his narrative: “So this older Indian lady drove a bunch of us to the farm. We were, like, seven or eight in the back of her van. I didn’t know anyone, except Thea. That’s when I learned about the cow cult. These people were all part of it. I started to ask questions, but Thea shushed me and said she’d explain later, after. Except there wasn’t any after. Things went way beyond anything I was expecting as soon as we reached the gates of the farm.”

  “Enough with the dramatic pauses. What happened?”

  “All the others had guns, is what. They shot the two guards. I tried to protest, but then one of the girls trained her gun on me.”

  “Were they all women?”

  “No. But most of them were. I think there were two other guys.”

  “Go on.”

  “And then I recognized the old lady. I’m in the science half of the Environment program. But there’s a humanities stream, too. We make fun of those students. They’re just hippies. Or lazy. Or both. Anyway, this woman taught the Anthropology & Environment class. We all have to take it, even in the sciences, but I still haven’t. I had seen her around before, though.”

  “Wait a minute… When you said Indian earlier did you mean First Nations or…?”

  “No, I meant Indian – like you.”

  Holy fuck. It could only be her. “Her name?”

  “Padma Ven – Ventash, I think?”

  “Venktesh. Padma Venktesh.”

  “Yeah, that’s it. You know her?”

  It was her. Her aunt. Aunt Padma has unleashed crazy, unkillable demon cows on Montreal. Of course she would. Deranged leftist old bitch. “Yeah, I do. Just go on. I need to hear this. Just skip to the cows. What did the lot of you do to the cows?”

  “Once we got to the cows, we fed them the compound. And then this Padma woman ordered the other students to slaughter all the animals quickly, before the formula could take effect. They killed all the cows. They used knives and guns…There was so much blood. Have you ever heard a cow scream? How about dozens of them at the same time? I threw up. It was disgusting. Horrifying.”

  “Wait a minute. I thought you lot were trying to save the cows. And if you killed them all – what the fuck are they doing eating the whole Island of Montreal?”

  “I didn’t kill any cows. This crazy woman and her cult did. They tricked me. Anyway, the cows all came back to life.”

  “So the Chinese formula is really a resurrection formula?”

  “No, no…not the compound. Well, I think maybe it played a part. But, really, it was the goddesses who resurrected the cows.”

  “Goddesses?”

  “Yeah. The slaughter of the herd was a ritual. To invoke the two cow goddesses, Hathor of Egypt and Kamadhenu of India. And it worked. The goddesses appeared. They were, like, ugly as all sin and twice as tall as anyone I’d ever seen. And stinky. Even above the stench of the farm and the slaughter, these cow goddesses reeked something fierce. This Padma woman knelt before them and spoke in a language I couldn’t understand. In answer, the goddesses walked among the cows. One by one, each cow was kissed simultaneously by the two goddesses – and then came back from the dead. Only, maybe not really alive, either. They still had gaping wounds. And there was blankness to their stare, like the eyes were dead.”

  “Are you sure about all this, Tony? Were you on any drugs? Tell the truth. I’m not going to bust you for drugs. I’m CSIS. We don’t care about that stuff.”

  “No, ma’am. I was clean sober. Anyway, I was so terrified, even if I’d been on anything, the adrenaline would have scared me into sobriety. There’s no doubt about what I saw. I’ve thought about this. There was no opportunity for anyone to slip me anything either. This is what I saw.
This is what happened. But there’s more.

  “The goddesses said…I’m not sure how I understood them; they seemed to be speaking dozens of languages at the same time. I understood what they said in English, in French, and in Cantonese, but I don’t remember hearing any words per se. Anyway, they said the cows needed to feed, that it could not wait. And the cultists, they…Thea, and this teacher, all of them…they gave themselves to the cows.”

  “Gave themselves? You mean, as…as food?”

  “Yes, food. The cows moved like tigers. They were fast, and vicious.”

  Damn it. Aunt Padma couldn’t do the right thing and stick around to take the blame. “How did you escape?”

  “By then, no one was holding me. There was nobody left to threaten me. I ran for the van. The teacher had left the keys inside, thank God. And I drove out of there. I was stupid, though. I was right next to a bridge. I should’ve driven off the island. To Ottawa. But I was freaking out. I drove towards the city instead, to my apartment in Park Ex. I don’t even remember the drive itself. When I woke up, I thought I’d dreamed the whole thing. Then on the internet I saw that video of the cows eating those soldiers…”

  Agent Gupta sighs. “Kid, this may surprise you, but I believe every crazy word you’ve just told me. Of course, the fact that there are, defying all logic and sanity, mutant demon zombie cows devouring Montreal kind of helps your credibility.”

  ∆ ∆ ∆

  Burgess doesn’t believe her. “Sir, I know this sounds insane, but everything about this is insane. Say it out loud: indestructible cows are eating the City of Montreal down to the rubble. If you patch me through to Dr. Chen, we might have a chance to beat this thing. Or at least tell him it’s related to the Chinese supersoldier project. Even if you don’t believe me, we have to try something.”

  “Agent Gupta…”

  “Yes, sir.”

  His sigh is loud in her ear. “I’m sending a helicopter to get you and this young man out of there. We’ll discuss this at HQ, not over a wireless connection.”

  “Yes, sir. Thank you, sir.”

  “Don’t thank me yet. You’re still in a lot of trouble.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  ∆ ∆ ∆

  The cows haven’t gotten to this building yet, but they will soon. Agent Gupta and Tony are standing on the roof, waiting for their ride off the island.

  All around them, skyscrapers and hotels are crumbling to the ground, as the cows devour the ground floor of each building. Montreal is unrecognizable. There are none of the city’s usual sounds. None of this feels real. Her mind feels sluggish, too, like in a dream. Parinita is fed up with thinking about these cows. She doesn’t want any of this to be real. Looking to the east, she stares at Montreal’s most iconic building: the Olympic Stadium, an eyesore every Montrealer loathes. At least we’ll finally be rid of it. She snickers. Tony looks at her quizzically, but she gestures off his unspoken question, suddenly irritated with herself.

  Then she hears the unmistakable beat of rotors: their ride is almost here.

  Agent Gupta says, “Okay, kid, ready to try to save the world?”

  Tony gapes at her with a look of dumb terror.

  The floor beneath their feet starts to shake. Shit. The cows.

  The helicopter is here, but she gestures for it not to land. As it hovers a few feet above the roof, Agent Gupta grabs Tony’s arm; they run and climb aboard the vehicle.

  The driver flies off even before the pair have strapped themselves in. After Agent Gupta has secured both herself and the kid, she looks back to see the whole block of buildings collapse on itself.

  “Kid, I’ll make you save the world, whether or not you think you’re up to it.”

  Tony gulps as Agent Gupta holds his stare. She hadn’t meant what she told him as encouragement. It was a threat, and she poured every ounce of her anger into every word.

  THE FOOD TRUCK OF THE ZOMBIE APOCALYPSE

  Beth Wodzinski

  I was driving the poutine truck to the Whispering Pines survivor compound when I spotted the hitchhiker.

  It’s never exactly been safe for an old woman driving alone in the middle of Saskatchewan to stop and pick up hitchhikers. But these days? When there’s no way to tell if someone’s got the Z and their brain just hasn’t rotted enough yet to show? Yeah. It’s not safe. It’s not safe at all.

  But come on, he was just a kid, not even old enough to drink, all gangly and stupid-looking like they are at that age. I was still a few hours drive from Whispering Pines; it would take him days to walk there, soft snow up to his ankles and no sign of a sleeping bag. How the hell did he think he was going to survive?

  I figured, even if he was infected, well. I may look like your granny, trick elbow and all, but I didn’t survive the Z this long without picking up a few tricks.

  That sounds brave, and maybe I was even feeling feisty that day. But the truest truth was that I’d been missing my husband Carl something fierce. When I saw that helpless kid, all I could think was how bad he needed help – and how much I wished someone had helped Carl when he needed it.

  So I slowed, tapped the brake, and came to a halt a dozen feet ahead of him. The road stretched on ahead, covered with pristine snow, unbroken by tracks of either humans or vehicles. Totally silent and perfect and the cold made my elbow ache and I missed Carl.

  Oh, God, the hope on this kid’s face. He broke into a run, stumbled on a rock or something buried under the snow, and jogged up to the truck waving his arms and yelling.

  “Thank you! Thank you! I thought I might be the last person alive!”

  I resisted rolling my eyes. But it was hard.

  He was an American, I could hear by his voice. Apparently there’s a rumour going around that zombies freeze in the winter, so the Americans head up here, thinking they’ll be safe. But they don’t know a damn thing about surviving outside their comfortable cities. They don’t bring enough warm clothes or food and end up freezing to death or starving. Weak and helpless, the lot of them.

  Most of them don’t even bring guns. I have no idea how they get this far; are American zombies just lazy?

  I rolled down the window, and aimed the rifle out it. Now that I was close enough, I saw something that looked suspiciously like blood on his jacket. Maybe this was a bad idea, after all. “Hold it right there.”

  He froze, and his hopeful puppy-dog face turned wounded. Seriously? His feelings were hurt? He thought I’d just get out of my nice warm armoured truck and give him a big hug?

  “I’m clean,” he said, raising his hands like we were in some crappy movie. “I swear.”

  “How’d you get that blood on your jacket?” I asked. I let him leave his hands up. Worst case, it was his own blood that spurted on him when one of the shamblers took a big bite out of him. That would mean it’s just a matter of time before the infection wins and he starts shambling hungrily, too. Best case, it was shambler blood that got on him when he killed a bunch of them with an expertly wielded machete or chain saw.

  But I didn’t see any sign of a machete.

  “I’m clean,” he said, again, but he didn’t answer my question. Oh, hell, kid.

  I shot a few feet above his head. He shrieked and jumped away, and flailed his arms up over his head as if that would save him from a bullet.

  “How did you get that blood on your jacket?” I asked again, my voice steady.

  “Holy crap! Don’t shoot! Don’t shoot! I’m clean! It’s not my blood. I didn’t get bit. It’s Andrea’s, God, it’s not mine! It’s not mine! Help me, please, don’t let me die out here.” He was about to start crying.

  “Take it off.” He hesitated, but I chambered another cartridge, and he hurried to unzip the jacket. He tossed it on the ground beside him, and looked up at me imploringly. “Now the shirt.” It was cold and he was shy but I didn’t care. I pointed the gun at him until he was stripped all the way down and I could see for myself that he hadn’t been bitten. Anywhere.

  Fina
lly I was satisfied that every inch of his cold white skin was clean. “Get in.”

  ∆ ∆ ∆

  I shoved the rifle under my seat; plenty of time to get it out if we ran into some shamblers before we hit Whispering Pines. The truck was safe and warm.

  This truck, it was our dream, me and Carl. We’d saved up all our money when we were working, and then when we retired, we bought the truck, equipped it with a deep fryer for the fries, and a big pot for the gravy, and travelled around selling poutine. We had a few good years but now it’s just me.

  Most people want to hunker down in their compounds where it’s safe – relatively safe, that is – but not me. Carl always said I was too damn stubborn for my own good, but I just couldn’t see my way clear to hiding out. It felt too much like giving up. So every spring, as soon as the roads were passable, I’d gas up the truck and head out, selling poutine to survivors. Of course, these days I sold more guns and ammo than poutine, but I still kept the fryer oil hot and the gravy bubbling.

  It reminds me how things used to be. It reminds me how things might be again some day, if we have the hope and guts enough to make it happen.

  “Thank you, thank you,” the kid said. “I don’t know what I would have done if you hadn’t stopped.”

  “Died, probably,” I said, and started up the truck. He’d be safe enough in Whispering Pines for the winter. They’d grumble about taking him in, another mouth to feed, but I was bringing enough food and ammo to buy us both a safe winter. Maybe the kid would even find a way to make himself useful and be able to stay in Whispering Pines come spring. At the very least, he’d probably be handy when it came time to start repopulating the earth. Lucky kid.

  “Who was Andrea?”

  He swallowed, hard. “My friend,” he said, but the way he said it told me she was more than a friend to him. “We came up from Boise together.”

  He told me his story, one I’d heard a hundred times before. A thousand times. It’s the only story anyone has any more: you hear a rumour about some settlement where there might be enough survivors and supplies for you to really be safe, to start thinking about what would happen next. So you start walking. You walk and suffer and starve and freeze and one day you get caught off guard and people die. The lucky ones die fast.