by Robert Kent
She was dressed in the same blue blouse and jeans she'd been wearing the last time I'd seen her, except the sleeve of the left arm was torn and everything below her elbow was gone.
The eyes beneath her blonde bangs were all white, and her face was pale, but I would've known it anywhere.
I spoke a single word before the tears came: "Mom."
90
"ALL THINGS CONSIDERED, SHE'S A fine specimen," a man said from behind me. "I expect her to make a full recovery."
I wiped my eyes as Kirkman turned my wheelchair from Mom to face a bearded man in a white lab coat.
"We'll have to tend to her arm, of course, but otherwise a fine specimen."
"This is Dr. Romero," Kirkman said. "What's the good word, doc?"
"Atlanta's ready to begin human trials."
Kirkman grinned so wide it threatened to split his head like a grape. "That's outstanding! Excellent work!"
I don't remember the exact things Dr. Romero said, so I'm not even going to try to recount them here. He explained he'd been working on a cure before the first cases of dead people walking were reported.
He talked a lot about samples and tissue regeneration and trial phases, but what I took away from all his talk is that he thinks he's already developed the cure.
But that wasn't what blew my mind.
When I followed Dr. Romero to his desk at the corner of the "laboratory" to view the data, I saw he had a news web page open in his browser. He went to minimize it in favor of charts of medical data I didn't understand. I stopped him.
"Your internet is up?"
"Of course," Dr. Romero said. "It's slow, but—"
"Is that's today's date?" I asked pointing to the ledger just beneath the headline reading: Millions Raised for Recovery in Areas Hardest Hit by Zombie Disaster.
"Yes."
"But... but..." I could only stare and stammer. Above the story was another headline proclaiming: Evacuations from Quarantined Zones Still Underway.
"What is it, Ricky?" Kirkman asked.
"I thought... I thought..."
"You thought it was the end of the world?" Dr. Romero suggested.
Never have I been so glad to be sitting in a wheelchair. The weight in my head gave out completely and if I'd been standing, I would've fallen over.
91
I HAD MORE QUESTIONS THAN Dr. Romero had time to answer. Kirkman wheeled me out of his lab so the doctor could work, but he gave me a tablet so I could surf the net and read the news myself.
When I started this journal, I wrote that there were zombies in Europe, China, and Japan, and there were. I wrote that the human race was probably extinct because I honestly believed it.
But Harrington hadn't had power or phones or internet for days and everyone here is dead. As I read various news sites, I learned what I would've already known if I hadn't been living in ground zero of the zombie outbreak.
Zombies had infested most of Indiana, Illinois, Ohio, and Kentucky. Parts of Michigan and Tennessee were heavily infected, but outside the Midwest, the outbreak had been contained.
People in Wyoming and California were going about their daily lives. They were drinking Java Jive coffee and going to the malls.
92
CHUCK, MICHELLE, AND MOM STRAINED against the bars, snarling and reaching through them for the living men.
Kirkman seized Michelle's arm and held it while Dr. Romero stuck her with a syringe.
"What are you doing?" I called.
Kirkman waited until Dr. Romero's syringe was withdrawn to drop Michelle's arm and turn toward me. He was positively beaming.
"The cure works."
I rolled closer. "Really?"
"Early results are promising," Dr. Romero said.
Kirkman seized Mom's hand next, and then Chuck.
I watched them expectantly.
They reached for me and snarled, their all-white eyes still seeing no Ricky, only food.
"The cure could take several hours to show any progress," Dr. Romero said. "You gentlemen are welcome to wait elsewhere and I'll send word just as soon—"
"That won't be necessary, doctor," Kirkman said, rolling a desk chair in front of our family's cage and planting himself.
I set the brake on my wheelchair.
93
AT THE BEGINNING OF THE fourth hour, Michelle stopped reaching through the bars and let her hands drop to her sides.
Kirkman stood and she snarled at him.
Chuck didn't snarl.
I rolled closer to the bars. Chuck didn't stare at me, but through me. Michelle clocked my movements, but Chuck looked off in the distance as though I wasn't there.
I wrapped my fingers around one of the bars.
Mom snarled and dove her head, teeth bared. Even though I yanked my hand back long before she could bite me, she smashed her face against the bars and fell over.
I looked up at Dr. Romero. He shrugged.
Mom stopped snarling and lay panting on the cage floor.
A short time after that, Chuck tottered as though the weight in the center of his head were jittering the way mine was. He fell back hard enough for his skull to bang off the steel floor loudly, the sound a metal timpani's beat.
Michelle stayed standing another ten minutes before she fell. I watched Kirkman's face as she toppled and I knew he wanted to catch her, but couldn't from this side of the bars.
He took a set of keys from his pocket.
"I wouldn't do that yet," Dr. Romero said.
Kirkman opened the cage door anyway.
94
"THEIR EYES HAVE CHANGED!" I shouted.
Chuck's eyes had faded from all white to a filmy sheen through which I could see his irises and pupils.
Michelle's eyes fluttered and she turned to Kirkman. "Daddy?"
Her voice was a stiff croak, but it was hers.
He rushed to her. "I'm here, baby. Daddy's here."
"Ricky?"
"I'm here," I said, I put an arm under Chuck and lifted him to my lap.
"Where am I?"
"You're safe," I said.
I looked into Michelle's eyes over Kirkman's shoulder, and saw she recognized me.
I squeezed Chuck tighter. "You're safe."
95
I HAVEN'T WRITTEN IN THIS journal for at least a year, though I've typed it up to publish it online.
I was just rereading that last chapter. It's a great ending to this story. I like it, and I don't see any reason to write anymore.
But more did happen.
For months, I've been debating: should I leave this journal with the ending I like, or should I tell you the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth.
I tell you what. If you're like me and you like that ending, stop reading.
I mean it. Put this journal down and walk away.
If you want to know the truth, read the last chapter.
96
A LOT'S HAPPENED THIS LAST year, but I don't have enough time to tell you everything or even most of it. When I finish this chapter, I'm going to post this journal online so it can never be destroyed.
No matter what happens to me, my story is intact and waiting to be read. I'm in these pages and can never be destroyed.
When exactly is a zombie cured? How cured is cured? It all depends on what you mean by cured.
If you mean a disease's worst symptoms are stopped and a person is returned to a state of life, then Dr. Romero cured the zombies.
Militaries around the world shot their zombie populations with darts full of "the cure," and the dead stopped attacking the living. I watched footage of entire towns lying about, and then slowly sitting up.
Some zombies, the ones that were badly injured, came back and then promptly died again; this time they stayed dead.
Others, like my mother, had to receive medical attention. She wears a prosthetic arm now and she manages well enough with it.
The dead remembered who they were and those with homes still standing and families still li
ving went back to them. Many of them even went back to their jobs.
I saw a report on the news of a former zombie teacher leading a class of former zombie students. When she asked a question, every one of them raised their hand. Most of them gave wrong answers, but they made an effort.
Harrington's still under reconstruction, but Kirkman's plant is bike up and running. They don't make Chrome Lightning anymore, but all their old flavors are available with one added ingredient.
A version of the cure is now mixed in with every bottle of Kirkman Soda and there haven't been any complaints. Nor have there been any zombie outbreaks.
I read online that China has been putting the cure in their water supply. I haven't heard where all it is in America, but if Kirdman's putting it in his soda, I'm sure it's in other things.
If I hadn't drank a bottle of soda earlier, I'm sure I would've bone exposed sooner or later.
None of the zombies' eyes ever completely returned to their original color. You always know when you're talking to a former zombie because there's a film over there pupils.
None of them laugh, unless you laugh first. And they don't read books or watch television or even ply video games.
If you don't talk to them, they stare. I've walked away from the kitchen and come book hours later to find Mom and Michelle sitting in the exact position I left them in.
If I ask them to clean the kitchen, or play cards, or jump rope, they will. If I tuck to them, they'll talk back, and if we play checkers, they can't beat me, but they still ply.
If I ask Michelle for a kiss, she gives me one and she never stops me fishing her. But she never asks me for a fish and doesn't seem to care whether we kiss or not, so usually we don't.
I found a turtle for Chuck. He held it when I showed it to him and he feeds it every morning before school. But he's never picked it up since I gave it to him and he never looks at it.
Kirkman was made for this world. He loves coming home to find his wife and daughter having cooked for him and hoppy to sit and listen as he tells them about his day. I think he loves my mamba more than ever.
Kirkman received a medal from the president a month ago and he never shuts up about it. He brags about his metal and about how productivity at the plant has never been better.
"I've been telling every boss I know. No bun makes a better employee than a former zombie."
For months, the news has only been good. Crime rates have dropped to their lowest levels ever. Drug abuse is practically non-existent and I can't remember the last time I read a story about someone getting killed by someone else.
My head's getting fuzzy, like I hit it again.
I need write faster.
I drank the soda. Think I told you. Can't remember.
But I drank it.
Why?
For there's no greater pain in heaven or hell hurts worse than being on my own.
I can't stand sitting at the table another night with Mom, and Michelle, and Chuck, and none of us talking. All of us just waiting until dinner is over, and it's time to wax the car.
That didn't make sense.
I'm scared.
I'm out of time.
I've got to post this while I'm still cantaloupe.
But you understand, don't shoe?
Me, Chuck, Michelle, and Mom are all together now. We're all together now.
Goodbee.
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ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
This book wouldn't have been possible without the love and support of family and friends.
Tremendous thanks to Steven Novak, whose amazing cover art is the mostly likely reason you're reading this at all.
Special thanks as always to my best friend and life-long partner in crime, Adam Smith, for his equally amazing artwork. Special thanks also to the Smith family for putting up with Uncle Rob occupying space on their couch until it was done.
It speaks volumes about my writer's group that I used to write cuddly middle grade and now that I'm a member of the YA Cannibals I've written a story about teenagers eating each other. This book would not exist without the enthusiasm and sharp criticism of Shannon Alexander, Lisa Fipps, Mike Mullin, Jody Sparks, and Virginia Vought (and Eleanor and Magnolia). For better or worse, I never would've written this without you, and consider each of you to be family.
It was only by bugging Courtney Summers to write This is Not a Test that I figured out I wanted to write my own YA zombie novel. Thank you, Courtney, and all the authors, literary agents, and editors who've appeared at Middle Grade Ninja. Your instruction and advice have inspired me and Esteemed Readers around the world.
Without my parents, I wouldn't have survived my childhood to write this. Special thanks to my father, professional copy editor. His notes and suggestions have made me appear smarter than I really am and taught me more about professional editing than I could've ever learned on my own.
There do not exist sufficient words of appreciation for Uwe Stender, who believed in and fought for this story from the beginning. No author ever had a stronger champion than Uwe. His belief in me made me believe in myself.
But no one deserves more gratitude than a writer's wife and without mine, my life wouldn't be possible. She thinks zombies are gross, but she loves (and edits) me anyway. It's my joy in being with her that taught me there's no greater pain in heaven or hell hurts worse than being on my own.
Robert Kent, September 2013