by Jim Couper
Before first light on the day after mass cremations and burials the flesh eaters were drawn to both cemeteries like filings to a magnet. A bounty of newly-buried had been recharged and reanimated during their 12-hour stay in the dark. Dead police officers, in particular¸ needed help getting out of luxury coffins because the public coffers had sprung for the finest cherry and mahogany secured with stainless steel screws. The electric charge in the ground prevented cement from hardening, so little resistance came from that containment.
Considerably less money had been spent on underground homes for trailer park victims and their cheap coffins came apart easily, although digging out from under a ton of soil could never be described as easy. Dirt in the eyes constituted just one of many problems. Lack of lighting made it difficult to know up from down although zombies-to-be intuited they had been laid to rest on their backs and thus dug upwards. Gravity caused dirt to fall on them and that proved they were headed in the right direction. A Cream Bay man who had installed flooring for 50 years, and loved every minute of it, requested in his will that he be placed face-down in a custom coffin so that, for eternity, he would stare at its inlaid parquet floor. Never did he clue-in to gravity as he clawed downwards and light of day never again shone upon him.
Graveyards became hives of activity as zombs, on bony hands and knees, scooped dirt and aided fresh, lifelike bodies to emerge. Many senior citizens lived at Cream Bay and got help scraping their way out of the last 12 inches of dark, dry ground and loose soil.
In the end, the exercise produced a disappointment, as anyone could have foreseen. The majority of unearthed bodies, sent to their deaths by hungry zombs, had neither innards nor brains. Lack of a brain did not immediately separate them from their mentally-challenged comrades who helped them dig out, but the lack of innards made it difficult for them to stand semi-straight and walk without knuckles rubbing the dirt. This ape-like posture did not put them on a lower rung of the social ladder since discrimination did not raise its ugly head among zombs.
A few of the new had died from being drained by overzealous vamps. Although morticians added makeup, did hair and pumped in fluids, the pale, twig-thin bodies looked like starvation had caused their demise.
The vamp wearing red pumps, who had been chewed apart at the cemetery, had also been laid to rest. Vampire deaths came rarely and when they did their bodies had to be dealt with in the usual way to avert suspicion. Still shod in red pumps, the woman emerged as a zombie-vampire, a rare species with a desire for a red drink with her meal. Her fangs immediately sank into the neck of the zombie who helped her out of the ground. She attempted to draw blood, but learned she was in the wrong department when red dust, suitable for the surface of Mars, caught in her throat. She redirected her pearly incisors to the midriff of the same zombie and pulled a mouthful of flesh that had all the attraction of a dog turd on a hot sidewalk. As a zompire she could not find satisfaction in eating or drinking what was at hand.
A police officer, buried in uniform, wandered off and encountered a young woman of simple mind who had learned to trust a police person. Not being terribly hungry, as he was not long dead, the resurrected cop satisfied himself with a child-size portion and dragged the body back for others to share. Sharing didn't go well as a zomb from the first arising got his face into the thin abdomen and spread himself over head and upper body. When the torso echoed with emptiness the eater uncovered the brain, ate, then moved away. Only one determined revenant found slight nourishment in bits of neglected organ overlooked among the spoils.
Mort, Mona and other shamblers made their way in the black night to Peachland's Catholic cemetery and found several newly-buried extricating themselves. Owls and night birds flocked to trees to watch the unfolding of events, but their happy hoots were drowned out by moans and groans. Mort and Mona faced disappointmentas disembowelled body after body took first bent steps and shuffled aimlessly in circles with neither guts nor brains. Mort's fog-enshrouded thoughts told him these pathetic creatures needed food and they would not be able to get it themselves. He picked up a rock and went hunting, but no moving target presented itself. Eventually he came upon a grey, scabby alley cat that purred around his ankles, apparently enjoying his unique aroma. Mort picked up the purring pussy, intending to take it to the needy, but his face plunged into the soft underbelly while its legs kicked and its claws dug into his putrid cheeks, leaving thin bloodless trenches. The cat’s little head cracked against a rock as Mort swung it by its tail and he started eating, however the little brain did not match the rainbow of flavors found within humans.
Mort felt an urge for a cigarette although he still did not know if he smoked. A hint of emotions tried to emerge: shame for what he had so quickly done to the feline, regret that he had so little control over his carnivorous cravings, embarrassment for not sharing the friendly pet with those more needy. Mort’s shallow emotional morass would not have registered on a scale for human emotions.
Dropping the bloody, matted remains of the cat, Mort made a vague vow that he would behave better in the future and lumbered off, wondering what a future was. He could now think ahead, a minute at a time. Beyond that, the picture needed adjustments.
At a rural intersection a brown delivery truck stopped for a red light and Mort lunged forward and smashed the window with a rock. The startled driver stomped on the gas and protesting tires launched the truck into the intersection where a small car T-boned it. Air bags exploded, metal bent, dust and rust fell and an eerie silence prevailed until a pretty blonde passenger in the car uttered a plaintive cry. Blood seeped from a split in her forehead, but Mort did not let temptation get the better of him despite the fact he thought he saw bits of brain mixed with the blood. He opened her door, helped her out and led her to the curb where she sat, dazed and sobbing. His hand had touched her head and he licked his fingers, hoping for brain drain.
Both male drivers suffered severe injuries and bled profusely, but survived. Mort pulled them from their smoking vehicles and dragged them to the edge of the road beside the woman. Before another car arrived Mort’s right hand grasped the pant leg of the car driver plus the ankle of the sobbing woman and his left hand fastened onto the ankle of the delivery truck driver. Dragging his wailing, wounded prizes like a triumphant hunter, Mort shuffled back to the cemetery.
Only token resistance came from the drivers, dazed and in shock from injuries. They felt little additional pain as zombies feasted. In contrast, the woman, who had writhed and screamed the entire way to the hillside cemetery, doubled her resistance when she saw what happened to the men. Mort laid her on the soil in front of five ravenous eaters and in an instant she bounced to her feet and took strides towards freedom. As she sped away Mona latched onto her long hair. The escapee screamed and squirmed, but the mouldy hand didn't let go. Mona’s teeth couldn’t penetrate while the woman squirmed wildly so a revived policeman grasped a furiously kicking leg and solved the problem by twisting the ankle into a notch in an overhanging branch of a tree. She hung, writhing and screaming, with skirt hanging over her face. Hungry zombs found her unique position accommodating for eating: something like Greek market lamb on a spit. Instead of slicing off cooked outside layers, they focused on warm, chewy insides. As Zombs stuffed meat into their mouths and her screeches continued. Mort didn't understand the commotion. Neither did those enjoying her. They did not recollect pain nor did they know what it was to fear death. They did not recall anything. Many did not remember they had no capacity for food storage. No sooner had they jammed spleen or ovaries into their mouth, chewed and swallowed, than the items dropped out of a hole where a digestive system should have been. Other zombs picked up the fallen organs, pushed them into pie holes and found them at their feet. One spleen fed many, but satisfied few. Organ recycling ended when a flesh eater, who had died from vampire draining, found the masticated morsel, munched it down and retained it.
A zomb, who met her maker from natural causes, cracked the inverted woman’s skull wit
h a shard of shale and saw the contents dribble to the dirt. The screams stopped. Several fell to their knees as if someone had shouted scramble, grabbed for dirty brain bits and benefitted from the onrush of neural synaptic energy.
Mort wondered what to do about hollow comrades who seemed to get no benefit from body surfing yet did it compulsively. Then he wondered about his wondering. The fog had lifted a little. His name: Mort. He opened his mouth and said M orr th. The name still slurred and dribbled from his sagging lip like he had a starboard lisp.
"My name is Mortimer Smithers," He said that clearly, in his head. After the morphemes drooled across his tongue and seeped from swollen labia his ears were assaulted with, "My aim ith more shivers."
14
Hirsute hunters hunched on a hillside above Peachland hating the full moon. It forced upon them the identity canis lupis, an idiotic carnivore related to the dumb dog. Impatiently they awaited the waning moon that would let them go back to being postal workers, mechanics and hockey players. No romance came with lazing in dirty caves and gnawing on old bones.
Rarely did human flesh pass their thin hairy lips: they had little taste for cannibalism. As werewolves they knew who they were and they could easily stifle their instinct to hunt down humans. Occasionally, in lupine identity, they would remember a backyard spat over an encroaching fence or a traffic mishap involving upturned middle finger. Then they would lope into town and scare the bejesus out of an old foe. If the foe didn’t move quickly enough he or she might lose a chunk of an arm or a leg, but not a life.
Normally, when hungry, werewolves looked to deer. The only fun in being AKA werewolf was chasing down a buck after a rollicking romp across rocky terrain.
Lynda, the female leader, gnawed on a femur as she studied the turmoil below. Lucas, the alpha boss, looked on in scorn. The femur belonged to a human left leg; one she had scavenged from Cream Bay trailer park. Its owner may not have been quite dead, but he was well on his way and wouldn’t be finding much need for his lower left appendage given the look of his abdominal cavity. The stinking creature who feasted on him had gone off in search of a cranial opener and that’s when Lynda leapt in with several well-placed bites, and removed his long pale leg. She didn’t believe the ensuing bleeding had actually caused death therefore she avoided concern over breaching a code of conduct that forbade preying on humans. She shared the spoils with fellow lycans who chewed on tibia and fibula while her friend Launa gnawed on a foot and spat out toenails. Lucas refused to indulge.
A swhooshing sound and an accompanying gust of icy winter air filled the forest. Lynda stopped chewing. The hill-dwellers feared this noise above all else, but had no time to find cover or protect themselves. The onomatopoeic swoosh instantly stopped without echo. Lynda’s head thumped onto the sloping ground, bounced down the hillside, broke through the window of a cabin and landed on a bed where it would rot until the owners opened up in spring.
The lycans knew what had struck and cowered behind rocks and trees, not knowing if another swoosh would rattle their world and remove a second head. Purveyors of justice had such speed and stealth they could strike without anyone seeing or hearing. The white giants presided as a force against which no defence existed. To stray from one’s predetermined path, to wander into uncharted territory was to feel their wrath. Lynda had known better, but instinct took control. Lucas shook his head in despair and a shiver of fear raised his hackles.
15
Where Ramon Reynolds left leg should have been a hospital blanket sagged. His right leg, encased in white from knee down, lay atop the covers as did the rest of his body including two arms clad in blue plaster casts. Bandages swaddled his crotch so he resembled a child with overflowing diaper. More bandages girded his head: a large bulge around the nasal area indicated severe damage beneath. Curly red hair dangled over the edges of white wrap and stitches held together splits in his black, swollen lips. When he smiled, more empty spaces than teeth expressed happiness.
Kelowna General Hospital, after days of delays, allowed Jane Dougherty and Jesse Nesterinko to talk to Ramon. When they walked in his sedation had worn off and a doctor had just explained to him that the remains of his leg had been amputated, his right toes were missing, his reproductive organs were gone, his nose would never be straight, his front teeth were out and his arms would remain crooked. The only good news was that his missing toes would not cause him to limp as he had just one leg.
Ramon was furious: nurses had trashed his Grateful Dead t-shirt after cutting the bloody rag from his body.
“It was an original. Do you know what that’s worth on eBay?” He shouted, as best he could through puffy lips. He directed his vitriol at a tall nurse carrying a wad of bloody bandages. By entering the room the two cops gave the nurse a chance to escape without responding to his question.
Following quick introductions Jesse asked, “Could you tell us what happened?”
“A zombie ate my leg, that’s what happened. And he swallowed my favorite organs. My shirt got a bit of blood on it and they destroyed it. I’m so mad.”
“How do you know it was a zombie?” asked Jane.
Unexpectedly, Ramon smiled. “There were a few indicators. First, she was in a grave. Second, her flesh was rotting. Third, she ate part of me and wanted more. That should be enough to define a zombie. She also stank like a shit hole. It’s not like I could mistake her for a bear or a politician.”
“You were found at the side of the road. Where was the grave?” Jane asked the question.
“At the cemetery, where else? Up the hill. I crawled away.”
“Have you ever seen a zombie before?” Jesse questioned as Jane backed towards the room’s only chair and silently sank into its seat, stunned by the first evidence that her town was under attack by a force she could not come to terms with.
The turn-taking questioning had been repeated a hundred times when interrogating suspects. They called it the good cop/good cop strategy and laughed at how it confused felons. Jesse would snarl, “Are you going to admit you did it or do we wait here until your conscience gets the better of you?” Then Jane would step in and ask if the felon wanted coffee or slice of pizza while they waited. The thief frequently confessed to stealing a bicycle or loaf of bread. They hadn’t figured out why it worked, but it did. Ramon was victim rather than perp, but they continued, out of habit, taking turns with questions.
“Is this your first zombie encounter?” Jane asked, hoping that Ramon would turn out to be a member of a weird cult and his observations would be worthless.
“I’ve walked through that cemetery for years,” Ramon responded. “Never seen or heard a peep. I admit I’ve been scared sometimes. I’ve seen zombies in movies. The art people do a good job. Just like the real thing.” Ramon paused to giggle, then added, “They need to work on the skin, though. Add maggots, millipedes and slugs.”
Jane leaned forward and told Ramon she had visited many wounded people and accident victims in hospitals and had never seen one smile as often as he did.
“Hell, why wouldn’t I smile? I’m alive. I can’t believe it. That thing had me and I got away. But not before I got her. And that ambulance could have run over my head instead of saving me.”
“Did you say you killed it?”
“Not sure. She wasn’t looking too good last I saw. Her head was practically backwards and her hands looked like clown’s gloves. I pounded her with rocks. I lost my T-shirt though. Did I mention that? Sorry.”
“No problem,” Jesse responded. “Are you sure it wasn’t some robber hiding in the cemetery waiting for someone to pass?”
“Oh yea. Like someone is gonna dig a grave, hide in it and wait for someone to drop in? It was a goddam zombie attacked me. I’m not crazy.”
Jane called the station and ordered two men to head to the cemetery and investigate. With voice recorder and notebook in hand she asked Ramon if he would tell his story from the beginning, giving details. At the end of his lengthy account a voice
from the doorway asked if he had seen any bright lights. Jane looked around and Donald Sinclair stood behind her. “How long have you been here?”
Sinclair said he had heard the story from the beginning. “It explains a lot. The aliens are reanimating the dead. That’s a perfect way to study us without harming us. That explains the gutted bodies, not just here, but in other places.”
“That’s so nice that no one is getting hurt,” Jesse said with a sarcastic nod towards Ramon, who sported a smile that made him look like a pumpkin carved by a spastic hand.
“Not what I meant,” Sinclair countered. “I mean the aliens don’t want to hurt us. If they wanted to it would be easy for them to wipe out the whole town. How are they to know that when the dead are resurrected they start eating live flesh and brain? Let’s consider …”
Jane interrupted with a blunt statement, “You said it would stop. You would clean it up and blame it on canned beets.”
“This is new territory. It’s exciting. I mean where is it leading? Has it stopped? I don’t know. Are aliens going to abduct us? I’m out there every day offering myself. I want to be first to go. I’ve got an antenna rigged up and I’m ready to talk.” From the floor he picked up a bicycle helmet with a rabbit-ear antenna sticking out the top and put it on his head. He plugged it into a battery pack around his waist. “I should have been listening. I’m tuned to a frequency that no one monitors.”
“You’re telling me,” Jesse said.
“Am I in any sort of trouble?” the hairdresser asked.
“What for?” Jesse countered.
“For assault. I bashed a gal’s head in and turned her hands into dinner plates.”
“Looks like self defence,” Jane explained, “The rules have changed. I don’t know the new rules. You killed the dead, or the undead, or something that’s not covered in the criminal code. You have nothing to worry about.”