Dead North: Canadian Zombie Fiction

by Silvia Moreno-Garcia

  Hell, if I don’t kind of imagine it screaming.

  We’re silent, all of us. Even Jeff ain’t got nothing to say at first. It’s Eddie who speaks.

  “Well, that’s it. I quit. I’m getting out of this place.”

  Like I said, I figured he was planning on quitting. Didn’t reckon on anything like this being the final straw, though.

  “We should all leave,” Lana says.

  “Quitters,” Jeff grunts. His face is white, but he’s trying to tough it out. “That hand ain’t gonna hurt anyone now.”

  “No,” Lana says. “But that hand was frozen hard. And when it got warm enough, it came back to life.”

  “Too warm now to do a damn thing,” Jeff says. He laughs. It ain’t much of a laugh.

  “Da. But thaw comes in what, two months, maybe three? And somewhere out there is rest of Kathy Devlin. Hungry Kathy Devlin.”

  And I realize what she’s saying.

  The frozen North can kill you, sure. We all know that. We fight our way through winter and when spring comes we breathe a big, long sigh of relief.

  But what if you’re in even more danger when the thaw comes?

  ESCAPE

  Tessa J. Brown

  There’s something about the stench of rotting flesh. You can get used to almost anything else. I had a friend whose cat pissed on everything – every single day, that cat would piss on a chair, or up against a wall, or hell, just in the middle of the goddamn floor. The stench was incredible. If you went to visit him, you could smell it in the hallway when you got off the elevator. Going into his apartment you would hold your breath, gag, try to breathe through your mouth, anything to avoid smelling the air. But he never smelled a damn thing. He was completely oblivious, and if anybody ever said anything, he’d look at them like they were nuts.

  The fact is that if, for whatever reason, you had to spend a couple of hours there, you’d start to forget about it too. Your nose would just gradually adjust, as if the air had always smelled of cat piss.

  But flesh, human flesh rotting is something entirely different. It permeates everything, just like the cat piss, but it never goes away. You smell it all the time. It fills your mouth – you can feel it on the back of your tongue when you breathe, taste it, practically see it in the air. It’s everywhere. Before there were so many of them it worked almost like a warning. You could smell them coming before you could see them, before you could even hear them moan. But as their numbers grew, the smell grew too. Now it’s everywhere, even if you’re alone. There isn’t one of them for miles, so far as I can tell, and I can still smell it. It’s like the world is rotting with them.

  Jim succumbed to the infection last week. I never even noticed they got him – almost didn’t realize he was infected until it was too late. Still don’t understand why the bastard didn’t tell me: none of us wanted to end up like that. I ended it when the fever took him over. Dumped the body off the roof. So that’s the last of us. I’m the last of us.

  I’ve started talking to the monkeys. Nice thing about being trapped in the biodome – even if I’m the last human alive, at least I’m not the only animal in here. If the things were any bigger they’d probably be dangerous, but as it is they mostly stay out of my way, clambering around high above me, chattering furiously. I guess they’ll die when the generator goes, when the reality of a Canadian winter finally sets in. Poor little buggers. I feel like I should find some way to save them, or at least to put them out of their misery. I guess we’re all as fucked as each other.

  Some of the animals are saveable – I could break the skylights in most of the other habitats, at least let the birds escape. Can’t really see any way to help the land animals, though, and the sea creatures are super fucked. The predators will finish off their food supply and then they’ll gradually starve to death.

  I wonder if that’ll happen to the things outside. Somehow I can’t imagine them starving to death. But what are they going to do when there are no more humans? Maybe they’ll die, really die, as soon as the last of us does. Or maybe they’ll just wander the earth, mindless, purposeless and hungry until they finally rot away. With enough supplies, in the right place, we might even outlast them. But I’m not in the right place, and I sure as hell don’t have enough supplies. I can’t even catch the fish in the ocean habitat – as a matter of fact, I’m kind of scared of them. The fruit in the tropical enclosure will only last so long, and we exhausted the crappy sandwich supply from the café a week ago. The plan wasn’t long-term survival. The plan was to come to the biodome, hang out for a couple of days in a comfortable and attractive environment, and then get picked up by rescue helicopters by noon on the third day. But the rescue helicopters seem to have missed the memo, and the radio’s picking up nothing but emergency signals and static – I’m on my own here.

  I’ve been sleeping in the security office since Jim died: I was in there last night, fast asleep – or as fast asleep as I ever get these days – when the motion sensors went off. It’s lucky the generator’s still up; it’s the only warning system I’ve got. I switched on the security monitors as I loaded my handgun. Only three shots left. Not like I was going to find more ammo anytime soon.

  The enclosures were dark, simulating night in the animals’ natural habitats. I squinted, peering intently at each screen, and checked that the security office’s door was locked. There was movement in the tropical habitat. Shit. I hoped there was only one of them.

  I grabbed a flashlight from the equipment cupboard – no sense leaving it until morning. Might as well deal with it while I knew exactly where the thing was. I turned the lock with exaggerated care and waved the flashlight’s beam in a wide arc across the foyer. Empty as I’d left it. I edged along, pressing my back to the wall as I went, holding the gun and the large, heavy flashlight out in front of me. At least if I ran out of bullets I could use it as a weapon. I just wished I were a better shot.

  A dark, slippery trail wound its way into the tropical habitat – it was barefoot, but only one of the feet left proper, human-looking prints: beside it there was just an extended drag mark, shining a dark brownish-red in my flashlight’s glow. One of the thing’s legs must have been dragging behind it. The smell intensified as I stepped towards the curtain between me and the door to the jungle. I tasted bile at the back of my throat – couldn’t complain, though. It sure as hell tasted better than that smell. I thought of the old-fashioned plague masks, long-beaked and featureless, full of flowers and herbs to cover the scent of death and disease, and I wished that I had one. What do they say about wishes and horses? I swallowed hard and stepped through the curtain, pushing open the door, listening intently for the telltale moan. That’s the only advantage with these things: they never come at you silently.

  I heard a moan off to my left and turned, shining the light along the walkway. Damn it – where the hell was this thing? I held the gun out in front of me, aiming along the flashlight’s beam. I could hear the moaning, closer now, and I shivered as every hair on my body stood at attention. Where the fuck was it? Another moan, to my left again – but there wasn’t anything to my left. It had to be off the walkway. I heaved a sigh of relief. Holy crap. The damn thing had fallen straight into the crocodile enclosure.

  I held my flashlight close to my face, staring down its beam until I saw a croc’s eyes glowing red, half-concealed in the water – it held the creature clamped tightly between its jaws. As I watched, the croc leapt upwards, muscles rippling as it tossed its head back, prey still firmly in its grasp, ripping off bite-sized chunks of the thing’s rotting flesh. Its strength was incredible. Its sense of smell must have been non-existent.

  The light attracted the once-human thing’s attention – it looked up at me and reached out, its hands opening and shutting uselessly. There was nothing left behind those eyes. The croc lashed upwards again and the thing’s head snapped back, bones shattering as it was flung upwards again. Below its waist, its legs were a mangled ruin. The croc dropped it into
the shallow water and dug its teeth into the creature’s torso, writhing furiously, whipping its head from side to side to pull out the thing’s innards.

  I gagged, spitting bile over the railing. The creature reached down, pushing at the croc’s head uselessly, mouth opening and shutting as its intestines were pulled out; a long, tangled rope, pale and malodorous. Jesus. Poor fucker. I couldn’t even tell if it had been a man or a woman. Who were you? I thought as I stared into its uncomprehending eyes. I remembered the last meal I had shared with Jim – we’d been trying to remember all the best lines from Ghostbusters, laughing and arguing over what they would have done in this situation. I raised my gun, aiming carefully at the thing’s head. I squeezed the trigger slowly, exhaling, but the croc reared up suddenly, ripping another chunk out of its stomach, and the bullet slammed uselessly into the earth. High above me, the monkeys screamed and chattered as the sound of the shot echoed through their woods. Birds screeched in surprise, taking to the air.

  “Fuck,” I muttered. As if I could afford to waste ammo like this. Still, I took aim again. I counted slowly in my head as I stared down into the thing’s ruined face. One. Two. Three. I fired. Its head snapped back as the bullet shattered its skull seconds before the croc tossed it into the air again.

  I stood for a moment, listening to the offended cries of the animals, the splashing of the water as the croc enjoyed its meal. A bead of sweat rolled down my neck. Then, watching the shadows around me carefully for movement, I walked back to the security office and locked the door behind me. I flicked the monitors on again, staring at each in turn, over and over again, until the hum of electricity lulled me into a fitful sleep.

  When I woke up, the monitors showed the bright, warm light of early fall spilling into the foyer. I picked up my gun and took the heavy flashlight for backup as I patrolled the dome, checking each door and window. How the hell had that thing gotten in here? Glass crunched under my feet as I rounded a corner. Shit. One of the massive windows stood before me, utterly shattered – how could I not have heard it? How the hell was I supposed to fix it? How the hell was I supposed to fix any of this? My shoulders slumped – I was suddenly filled with a strange sense of relief. There really was nothing I could do now. No haven to wait in, no rescue forthcoming. They would get in.

  I’ve been sitting here for a couple of hours. One of the tamarins came down pretty close, and I’ve been having a chat with him. Cute little guy. I wish I could do more for him. I climbed around in each of the habitats, smashing windows, opening up vents. Nearly broke my neck – cut my hand pretty badly, too. Most of the birds have flown out already. The monkeys are good climbers – I’ll bet they could get out, too, but I don’t know where they would go. Hell, maybe they’ll head south. I’d say they’ve got about a month before the first frost. How fast do monkeys move, anyway? I don’t know. It’s just nice to think they might get out of this alive.

  My stomach is aching a bit – it’s been a while since I ate this much, even if I did share half with the animals. I ate all of the fruit I’d collected over the past couple of days. No more supplies now: no going back. The light through the smashed window is incredibly bright, lancing down through the thick canopy above me. The air is still warm and wet, but for once I don’t think I can smell them. Everything is fresh and green and alive. I can still hear the birds calling to each other, squawking and flapping high above. It’s a little weird to see them all mixed together like this – huge blue macaws and pink ibises, little grey and black catbirds and bright bluebirds from the Laurentians, black guillemots and king eiders from the arctic habitat, all flying around at once. Makes me laugh. It’s such a beautiful day that I could almost believe the past few weeks have been nothing but a dream. But I guess I’m in luck: I’ve got one bullet left.

  HALF GHOST

  Linda DeMeulemeester

  They call me s’igee sha’awu’, because I am the child of a spirit – a half ghost. When my father arrived from the spirit world, our summer village gathered on the beach. My people watched the waves lap the supernatural vessel and tug it to our jagged shore. Dead, leafless trees planted on the deck held billowing shreds of clouds that drifted between his ghostly world and ours.

  The skin of the dead men on that ship had faded until it was almost as white as those clouds. The spirit men could not speak our language but we understood that they found our world displeasing. I am told they crawled off their ship on hands and knees and remained animate for only a few short days. Perhaps they arrived only so my people could wrap them and leave them in the living trees thinking it would please the spirits of the old ones on the coast.

  I like to think my father lingered because of my mother.

  As the crow chief’s daughter, Guna’ was chosen and then offered as a wife to a dead man. Lying with a spirit has its price. My father soon refused to draw breath and returned to his ghost world, but he longed for her, I think. Impatient, he claimed her again and she left her own body behind. Her journey, I am told, was wracked in agony and fever as Guna’ kept one foot in our world long enough to birth me.

  I am already half a ghost, one that is neither fully alive nor fully dead. It makes sense that they send me on the traverse to be the wife of the man who had two wives die in winter – each claimed by the hungry demon, the widjigo. It makes sense but I fear it.

  “Each man must have a wife to traverse the traps – to mend the fur skins as they wear thin, to render the bear fat and scrape the caribou’s gut,” my clan auntie explains to me. “But once the widjigo has claimed a family, the demon will return if winter lingers too long.”

  “So why send me?” My voice sounds bitter, but truly it is cracked with terror.

  “Sha’awu, what do you have to fear?” my clan mother scolds. “You will have an advantage over others if the widjigo creeps into your camp. You are already half-dead.”

  And then what, I think. Clan auntie spits out the bitter aftertaste of the tanning juices from chewing my moccasin lining until it is soft and smooth. I like to think this shows affection. I say no more, but inside me I don’t feel as if I half-belong in the spirit world. My skin is pale like the dead – but I bleed red blood. I know this. Clan auntie’s spit turns into brown frost as soon as it hits the ground. The temperature plunges already – a harbinger of a cruel winter as the ice shield stretches its arms in early greeting. I shiver and not from the cold.

  The village prepares to move inland for winter and travel from camp to camp – a harsh choice but the Northerners will soon travel south for winter’s harshest months, and if we stay there will be war. All families pack up – they will cling to the tree line chasing the caribou, but my future husband and I will be forced closer to their territory as we tend the traplines and avoid the Northerners. It is the most perilous route.

  My mother’s mother, Nokomis, has bidden me to come visit her at her lodge the night before I leave. Only Nokomis rests as my people work. She has chosen to stay behind this year. She does not fear the Northerners; she says she will join my mother in the ghost world before they arrive. If only I had her courage. On my way to her lodge, the new moccasins crunch through dry powdered snow even though the long nights have not yet fallen. Again a shiver of trepidation travels down my spine. When I arrive, my Nokomis has a deerskin bundle prepared.

  I try and show gratitude but my hands are heavy as I fumble with the gifts inside – ivory awls carved from walrus tusk filed sharp to pierce the toughest hide. Seal gut stretched thin and sleek to mend and darn, and a precious necklace of purple and white shells – a treasure of my mother’s. My eyes water.

  Nokomis flashes a toothless grin, pleased by how I love her gifts. Then as the smile disappears in a fold of wrinkles, she goes to the corner of her house and lifts up birch boughs and pulls up an object wrapped in beaver fur. I see a flash of silver. She moves towards me, gingerly carrying the object as if it might burn her.

  “This is from your father.” She places the object in my hand. “I have kept it
away from the rest of the villagers because I fear the menace of its otherworldliness. But I dreamed of a use for it – a desperate use.”

  I unwrap the object and pull out a knife – but what a strange knife – with a blade so thin and cruel. I touch it and pull my finger away as blood beads on my fingertip –red blood.

  “A spirit knife,” I gasp.

  Nokomis nods,.“To fight the widjigo. Keep it on you always, Sha’awu, day or night – for what the others don’t tell you – what I suspect – is that the widjigo can appear in many forms – both strange…and familiar…”

  Her words freeze my heart, and I tuck the forbidden blade in the folds of my underclothes. There is no village feast for my wedding or farewells as I pack my belongings on my new husband’s toboggan. The snow has already begun to fall – it is the persistent flakes of many blizzards to come.

  Dzagwa’a is handsome, except for the scar on his face, a red bite mark. Still, he has fine features and the bitter winds that carve sharp lines into our faces have only chiseled deeply around his eyes. But those eyes... Staring indirectly at my husband’s face, I fully realize I am joined to a haunted man. I suppose he sees me, a half ghost, as a fitting wife, though he says little – simply gives orders in a way that sounds similar to the snapping of our dogs; to bundle our trap snares more safely at the front of the toboggan, and tuck the moose skins more firmly in the corners before I lace them with thick moose gut. Then we are off.