The Living Dead 2

by John Joseph Adams

  Not human.

  The ruckus I’d made was the clarion, the dinner gong. I might as well have shouted, “Come and get it!” while tinkling a comical outsized triangle. If I’d entertained even fleeting hope that these callers were reg’lar folks, their herky-jerky locomotion quashed it in a trice. I gathered up a few more cans—delicious refreshment could double as solid projectile, if need be—and mounted my bike. But I wasn’t sure where to go. I made a few quick figure eights around the parking lot, then made for the private boats. Many of those were missing, but a shoddy-looking motorboat was moored to the jetty. I stepped down into it, and when I didn’t go straight through the bottom decided I’d be a seafaring boatnik after all. I grabbed my bike and loaded it into the dingy little dinghy, then tested the motor. A few yanks on the cord and it sputtered to life just as the lifeless approached. Mazel tov!

  I’d never steered a boat of any size before, but for a first-timer I didn’t do too badly. I managed to follow the basic course I’d remembered from all our trips on the ferry and within, oh, maybe two hours or so I made it to Ocean Bay Park, the dinky community we’d rented in.

  We.

  I remember the concept of “we.”

  “We” was pretty sweet. I was part of a “we.” I had a wife. But guess what? She became one of those things right at the onset. On her way home from work she got bit. Well, more than bit. Consumed. I got a call from a cop who kept pausing to vomit noisily on his end of the line. He vomited, I wept. Then she came back and tore into the officer. Or at least I think that’s what was going on. It sounded crunchy and wet. He kept screaming until, well, until he stopped. It was a really moist call. I’m being flippant, but sue me. It’s all I have left. If I’m not flip about losing her I might just…

  Anyway.

  I might just what?

  Kill myself?

  That’s a laugh.

  All I know is I heard her moaning before I got disconnected—moaning and chewing. I got the picture, even without the benefit of a camera phone.

  So after ramming into the side of the dock—starting it up I could work out, stopping not so much—I got out of the boat, dizzy and nauseous. I lay there for a while gasping, trying not to hurl. I must have looked like a fish out of water. It was mid-October, still not too bad temperature-wise, but drizzling. A good alternative name for Fire Island would be Rust Island. Back in the day people would ride their bikes all over, but always these ratty, rust-speckled wrecks, and here I was with my almost top-of-the-line mountain bike. Like it mattered. But at the moment I felt annoyed that my precious bicycle was going to be ruined by the elements. Priorities, young man, priorities.

  Fog was rolling in, obscuring everything. If there were zombies afoot I wouldn’t see them coming—or hear them. I hastened my pedaling and raced to our house. I say “our,” but really it was just a rental. And now that I was no longer part of a “we,” “our” seemed moot, too. I approached the dwelling that was little more than a shack and slowed as I heard footfalls.

  Not human.

  Deer.

  Fire Island is rotten with these skanky, tick-encrusted deer. They’re not beautiful, cute, or charming. They’re the animal kingdom’s answer to skid row vagrants. Dirty, infested with chiggers and lice and all manner of parasites. Their ears look like warty gourds, festooned with ticks so engorged they look fit to burst. These deer root around the trash, knock over garbage cans, mooch for scraps when you’re eating outside. Where’s Ted Nugent when you need him?

  I got inside, locked the door, checked all the windows and then collapsed onto the naked mattress and into a nightmare-rich slumber, assuming the island to be pretty much deserted.

  I was almost right.

  The next morning I checked the pantry, though why I can’t say. At the end of the season we cleared out all our edibles so I kind of knew it would be empty, which it was. I guess it was wishful thinking. Maybe cupboard elves had left something to gnaw on. Whatever. What else is life but hope? What would propel us forward but the inborn combination of hope and masochism? After hydrating myself with tap water I snatched up a blackened iron frying pan, cracked the front door and took a gander. Still drizzling but the coast was clear.

  I tiptoed down the short flight of creaky wooden steps to the dirt path and stepped onto the sandy asphalt. Sandy Asphalt. Sounds like the name of a third-string stripper of yore. I digress. To my left was the beach followed by the ocean, a mere hundred or so feet away; to my right the ferry dock and the bay. The island’s about thirty miles long, and at its most expansive only about three-quarters of a mile wide, just a long strip of sand. I mounted my bike and bay-bound made for the general store, a weathered gray clapboard number that had overcharged for everything. Ocean Bay Park—what in its heyday I’d referred to as Lunkhead Central—was silent apart from the patter of rain. Granted, even before this apocalyptic turn of events off-season would have been pretty calm, but this was different. The store’s screen door hung open, not swaying on its corroded hinges. Even a rusty creak would have been reassuring. The silence was unnerving. Unnatural.

  I jiggled the doorknob. Locked. A swing of the frying pan through the window later I was inside, stuffing my face like a little piggy with beef jerky, chips, and lukewarm Pepsi. I filled my pockets with snacks and potables and hit the road in search of I don’t know what. Other survivors? More food? A gun? Yeah, all of the above. Inland, such as you’d call it, the roads were much clearer so biking was easy. The fog was burning off so visibility wasn’t bad. I cut through Seaview and approached the larger—in relative terms—town of Ocean Beach, relishing the pleasure of riding my bike where the town ordinance had been “no bicycles allowed.” The jolly scofflaw in a world where law is passé. Fun. I did a couple of laps around the center of town, checking out the spoils: general store, hardware store, a couple of shops devoted to souvenirs and beachwear, a disco, some eateries, bars, and ice cream parlors. And the old movie theater, a wooden structure I’d avoided, something churchlike in its mien that had kept me away.

  I broke into the hardware store—funny how natural looting becomes—and selected a few lethal objects: a small, wieldy ax, a 12-volt battery-operated nail gun, and plenty of ammo, namely nails. I also grabbed a heavy jacket and rain slicker that were hung on a peg behind the counter. What can I say: I packed light and forgot a few things. After knocking on doors and shouting, “Is anyone there?” till my throat was raw, I rode back to the crib and charged the nail gun. It would have to do until I found a real gun. If I found one, that is. At least the power was still on.

  As I ate a dinner of processed foodstuffs I heard a noise outside. The indicator light on the battery charger was still flashing, so I grabbed the ax and snuck up to the front door. Even with the porch light on I couldn’t see anything. I heard the noise again. Something was moving out there. Had my light attracted it? Likely. I pulled on the heavy jacket and opened the door a hair, casting a focused beam from my flashlight into the hazy darkness. This fog was getting tiresome. The crunch of underbrush drew my attention and straight ahead was a ratty stag, one antler broken and dangling, the other an elaborate six-pointer. Listen to me trying to sound like the great outdoorsman. The deer on Fire Island were a protected species. They were completely unafraid of humans, so certain were they that they’d remain unharmed, like city squirrels.

  It was a little early in the season for this buck to be shedding its antlers. Maybe it had gotten caught on something or been in a fight over a doe. Satisfied it wasn’t a zombie I closed the door and resumed my repast, savoring each salty morsel of dry beef and chips. Amazing how salty American snack foods are. Stomach full of delicious garbage, I fell asleep easily, legs sore from all the abuse I’d heaped on them.

  Over the course of the next few days my notion of retreating to Fire Island proved both a prescient blessing and shortsighted curse. It was indeed quite empty, but too empty. I was hoping to find some other refugees from the world. A young or even not so young widow. A couple wit
h the swinger ethos. Maybe just a guy to hang with. I rode southwest through Robbins Rest, Atlantique, the aptly named Lonelyville, Dunewood, Fair Harbor, Saltaire, and Kismet. I stopped there because I didn’t want to get too close to the Robert Moses Causeway, the bridge linking the island with the mainland—or at least Long Island proper. I was afraid that where there were cars there might be problems. Zombies and people in quantity.

  I felt like Charlton Heston in The Omega Man, Vincent Price in The Last Man on Earth, both mediocre adaptations of Matheson’s I am Legend. Oddly, the one that felt the least like the book was the one that used the actual title. Go figure. Anyway, tooling around like a tool on my ten-speed I was nobody’s legend, that’s for sure.

  As a boy I’d been pretty self-sufficient, at least in terms of my ability to have fun alone. Often I’d play games like I was the last person on the planet. I’d deliberately choose routes to and fro bereft of people. I’d walk beside the tracks of the Long Island Railroad or along the traffic islands down the median of Queens Boulevard. Sure there’d be cars whipping by, but for miles I could walk without encountering another person in the flesh. My dad accused me of having a morbid fascination. I liked horror movies too much. Now, looking back, I reckon it was all a rehearsal for what was coming. Look at me, the Nostradamus Kid.

  The loneliness was eroding me from within.

  I tried heading in the other direction, which proved tricky. Point o’ Woods was fenced off from Ocean Bay Park—no doubt to keep out the riffraff, of which in its day OBP had been densely populated. Unable to negotiate my bike over or around the fence, I climbed over and made the rest of my slog on foot. I’d never explored any of the other parts of the island back when it was alive. Sunken Forest was just that. Pretty, but creepy like everyplace else. Sailor’s Haven wasn’t. The super gay Cherry Grove was a bust. Hell, not that I’d have made a lifestyle change, but I craved camaraderie and so long as it was platonic I was up for anything. Anyone.

  But there was nothing. No one.

  I was so tired and dispirited I didn’t bother schlepping to The Pines and points beyond. This was a ghost island, and I suppose as crushing as that fact was, ghosts were less harmful than zombies—at least physically. I’d managed to evade being literally consumed only to end up consumed by crippling melancholy. This was living?

  There was no television, not even a test pattern.

  Radio was fine if you enjoyed static.

  I embarked on a house-to-house search for reading matter. I needed something with which to keep my mind occupied. Crossword puzzles. A Game Boy. Anything. The problem with summer rentals is that people don’t leave stuff year-round. Sure I found some romance paperbacks—which I read, I hate to say—but nothing edifying. I found a cache of techno-thrillers, you know, Tom Clancy garbage. I read those, too, but stultifying doesn’t begin to describe them. The bodice-rippers were better. I was in and out of almost every house between OBP and Robbins Rest before it dawned on me that I didn’t have to stay in my trifling little shack. What the hell is wrong with me? Seriously. I had the run of the land and I spent my first three weeks in that drafty dive.

  What a goon.

  I took up residence in a sturdy and significantly more comfortable five-bedroom ranch-style number. The little pig had wised up and abandoned his straw hut for the brick palace. There was even a stash of porn in the master bedroom. I’d found my roost. With the power still on I kept my drinks cold. There was booze, and though I’d always been pretty much a teetotaler I began indulging. I’m not saying I became a drunkard, but every night after sashaying around my new demesne I took the edge off. And if that sometimes meant ending the night flat on my back, the room spinning like Dorothy’s house on its way to Oz, so be it. Sobriety had lost its charm.

  On a ride back from the market in Ocean Beach my front tire blew and I wiped out, spilling ass over tit into a shallow ditch opposite the ball field. Maybe I was a little hung over. It’s possible. Not being a seasoned inebriate I was still defining my limits. For the first time in weeks the sky was cloudless and the sun was blinding. Even before the tumble my head ached. Now it throbbed, my palms were scraped raw and my vision was impaired. Even behind dark glasses I squinted against the glare, sprawled in the dirt angry, and even though there were no witnesses to my slapstick, embarrassed.

  But there was a witness.

  Hiding behind a water fountain near the bleachers was a zombie. How could we have missed each other this whole time? I scrabbled to my feet, groping for whatever weapon I could find, but in my pie-eyed complacency I’d left them all back at the ranch. All I could manage was my tire pump, which was pretty impotent.

  The thing is, the zombie just cowered there, maintaining its position. Still wobbly from the fall and residual spirits, I stumbled backwards against a staple-riddled lamppost, gauzy remnants of weather-beaten notices for past community events clinging like scabs to the splintery surface. We stared at each other for what felt like eternity, neither of us doing anything. I began to wonder if this was a zombie or just a hallucination. Maybe the spill had given me a concussion. But it wasn’t. My vision cleared, yet the zombie remained, staying put. Not attacking.

  “Hello?” I asked, feeling stupid for doing so. “Can I help you?”

  It recoiled at the sound of my voice. The zombie was female, and had been fairly young when she was alive—maybe a teenager or slightly older, judging by its apparel more than anything else. I’d never gotten to study one up close, most of the ones I’d seen a blur as I’d whizzed by them in transit. Her facial epidermis was taut, not slack as I’d pictured it in my mind, and the color of raw chicken skin, only the yellow wasn’t quite so robust. Her deep-set eyes were filmy and lacked focus—in my present condition I could relate—yet her gaze never drifted from me. Her mouth hung slack, her breath slow and wheezy. Two things struck me: one, she was breathing, and two, her teeth were toothpaste commercial white. In the movies zombies are always snaggletoothed, their enamel grossly discolored. This undead chick had a movie star grill.

  She also seemed impervious to cold, considering her bare feet and midriff, low-rider relaxed-fit jeans and thin tank top. I could see a pink bra under her low-cut white top. She had cleavage. Was I appraising this animated corpse’s sexual attributes? Yes. Yes, I was. I was wondering if sex with a zombie constituted necrophilia. Who could say? The definition of necrophilia is an obsession with and usually erotic interest in or stimulation by corpses. But what of ambulatory corpses? What then? Though her body skin was a bit loose—relaxed-fit skin?—she was well preserved. Was it loneliness or madness that motivated these thoughts? Not to mention a surge of blood into my groin? Both.

  “Uh, hello? Can you, uh, you know, uh, understand me?”

  She cocked her head like a dog, her brow creased in concentration. It was almost adorable in a sick, macabre kind of way. Against my better judgment I took a step in her direction and she flinched, then began to back away. I took this as a sign to curtail this insanity and make tracks. I righted my bike and walked it home, looking over my shoulder at my hesitant new companion who did likewise.

  I didn’t drink that night, but I must have jerked off a half-dozen times.

  Maybe that’s too much information.

  The next day I replaced the inner tube, grabbed my nail gun and hit the road. The weather had turned much colder over night and the gray misty gloom had rolled back in. As I pedaled, it began to drizzle. Soon snow would come. I considered gathering wood for the fireplace but was focused on finding the zombie girl again. I tried the ball field, of course, but she’d vacated the area. Still, I thought, slow moving as they seem to be, how far could she have gotten? Was she a local? Did she retain knowledge of her surroundings? Was she capable of anything beyond rudimentary mentation? Or even that?

  As I approached Lonelyville, two does broke through the brush and blocked my path. They looked unwell, to put it mildly, even by Fire Island standards. Their fur was patchy, the bald spots scabby and oozing. Tum
id ticks, as per usual, enshrouded their ears. In the rain they steamed; the smell was not good. I slowed, hoping they’d clear the way, but they just stood there looking unsure what to do next. I didn’t have some fruity little bell to ring at them so I braked and shouted, “Hey, clear the road! Go on, beat it! Scram!” I made those nasty noises through my teeth that shoo cats away, but no dice. They tottered, looking drunk. I felt a flash of envy, then yelled at them a few more times, but the filthy beasts were unyielding.

  I didn’t feel up to a hassle with nature, so I made a U-turn and wended my way back home, zigzagging the streets up and down, looking for you-know-who to no avail. That afternoon I emptied a bottle of vodka, polished it off with a variety of mixers, then disgorged the contents of my stomach into the kitchen sink. Thank goodness for the garbage disposal. I managed to clean up before passing out on the linoleum floor.

  Flashes of Days of Wine and Roses and Lost Weekend flickered behind my throbbing eyelids. When I awoke it was the middle of the night and I was disoriented as hell. At first I thought I’d shrunk—The Incredible Shrinking Souse or Honey, I Shrunk the Drunk, to keep up with the movie theme of this bender—my sightline being that of a man whose face is stuck to the floor.

  I literally peeled myself from the sticky surface, rubbing my face, which had been imprinted with the texture of the linoleum. I felt like crap, but upon seeing my pattern-scarred punim in the mirror began to laugh until the choking curtailed my mirth. Symmetrical red striations etched the right side of my face. What a boob. I stumbled into the bathroom, urinated painfully, then gargled away the sour booze-vomit aftertaste. It hadn’t been that long. Why was I falling apart like this? Could it be something to do with the death of humankind, especially my family, and most of all, my precious wife? Could it be because I was pining for the company of a female zombie I thought was passably attractive? Yeah, maybe that justified this rotten uncharacteristic behavior. There have been worse rationales for hitting the sauce.