Then, something out of the corner of my eye. Maybe nothing. But ... Maybe ... The fingers on the corpse of the father, twitching. I walked over and leaned in close. I squinted hard. The middle finger seemed to move a little. Then it definitely moved a little. Then it positively jumped. Did zombie corpses twitch before they awoke? I had no memory of twitching-only of suddenly waking up-but that didn't mean I hadn't twitched first. Maybe finger twitches meant the corpse still had hours to go before reanimation. Or maybe only seconds.
"Time to go," I croaked to the kid. "Come on. Help me."
"What's your name?" the boy asked as I began to move his father's body off the Harley.
"They call me Peter," I told him, casting his father's body to the side of the highway. "What's yours?"
"Billy Hernandez," he said. "They call me Billy."
I gripped the father's body around the shoulders and pulled it off to the side of the road. (I wondered-if, in fact, he was coming back-if the right thing to do might have been to find a way to put the body down. Mash in the head. Hell, run it over a few times with the bike. But I couldn't do it with the little boy right there. No matter how well he seemed to be taking the situation. Some things you did, and some things you didn't do. Even if you were a zombie. I decided that defiling a father's corpse in front of his little son wasn't one of them.)
I got on the motorcycle with no idea if I'd ever driven one before. I looked at the kid. "Billy, did your father ever tell you anything about how to start this thing?"
"You turn the keys," he said. "On the side of the motorcycle."
There they were, right in front of me.
"Ahh," I said. "That makes sense. Do you need to buckle up or anything?" I asked him.
"No," the kid said. "I just sit down."
"Oh," I replied.
"Mister," the kid asked, "where are we going?"
"Someplace warm," I said. I pulled my baseball cap down hard over my forehead and started the motorcycle.
Once I'd gotten the Harley going, I turned around and headed back in the direction from whence I'd come. The motorcycle was much faster than the four-wheeler, and it didn't take long to get to the outskirts of Galen.
I had no memory of having driven a motorcycle before, and I certainly wasn't good at it, but with the road deserted and empty, it was hard to feel like we were in any danger. The snow was light. The temperature might have risen above freezing-I couldn't really tell-and there didn't seem to be any ice. Even so, I kept it below fifty the whole way.
As we drove, I stole a couple of glances over to the sidecar to see how the kid was doing. He looked back at me each time I turned my head, seeming to study my features. I wondered if he could tell. Was I only a stranger, or was the zombie aspect of my appearance becoming apparent to the child?
The destination I had in mind for Billy Hernandez was Galen's Federal-style home-the forbidding, Christian one that had shown signs of life. I would not normally-as a human or a zombie-have even been inclined to approach it. Flags and Jesus and a shotgun. (It definitely seemed the kind of place where liberal arts professors didn't hang out.) And yet, in a zombie apocalypse, perhaps those were some of the things that would protect a child.
In a best-case scenario, I anticipated a gruff conversation at gunpoint with someone like the Matilda-woman. Worst case, they shot first and asked questions later.
We entered Galen, and I pulled the Harley into the abandoned gas station.
"Stay here," I told the kid.
I got off the bike, walked up to the glass door of the station, and cupped my hands to the window. Inside, on the counter by the cash register and the gum and the lottery tickets, I saw what I was looking for.
I regarded the door for a moment. There's a way to do this. There's a way to do this, and I know it, I thought to myself. Trusting my instinct or memory, I stood facing the door with my hands at my sides, pulled back one leg, and kicked hard next to the handle.
The glass began to give.
Several kicks later, and the door had fractured enough for me to reach through and undo the lock. I stepped inside the abandoned station and took the pen I found lying next to the cash register. Then I took a missing-cat flyer from the station window, turned it over, and began to write.
Moments later, I was back outside with the kid.
"Billy," I said to him. "Do you see that big square house at the end of the street? The one with the American flags that hang down in half-circles?"
Billy nodded.
"I want you to go to that house and knock on the door," I croaked. "Take this piece of paper and give it to whoever opens the door, okay? Here. And give them the side with the writing on it, not the cat picture. Can you do that?"
"Yes," he said, taking the flyer from me. "Not the cat picture. Are you coming?"
"No," I told him.
"Why not?" he asked. "Is it because you're a zombie?"
I hesitated, wondering if all kids were as perceptive as this one. "Yeah," I said. "Something like that."
Billy walked away from me, down the empty street. It took a good two minutes for him to reach the house. He carefully climbed the steps up to the imposing door and knocked hard with his twicegloved hands. Nothing happened. He looked back at me. I motioned for him to press the doorbell. He gave me a reluctant glance, then turned and depressed the button. Moments later, there was movement from inside. Two windows on the upper level of the home opened slightly, and shotgun barrels emerged. I saw drapes pulled aside at other windows. And it may have been my imagination, but I thought I heard a woman's voice on the wind say: "It's a child."
The front door opened. An older man with close-cropped white hair emerged, rifle at the ready. At first, he looked not at the kid but past him. He looked all around, for any sign that this was a trick or trap or ambush.
I was way down the street, on the other edge of the little town, but he saw me right away. I gave a little wave, then gestured to the boy who was holding up the flyer.
The older man took it-cat side first, of course. Confused, he looked back down the street in my direction. I made a "flip it over" motion. The man turned the flyer over, where he would have read all or part of the following:
Sir or Madam,
I found this boy alone on the road. His father has just died. He has been outside in the cold most of the night. His name is William Hernandez. He has an aunt in Columbus. Please care for him until they can be reunited.
Yours in Christ.
Perhaps the final flourish was a tad patronizing, but it seemed to do the job. The silver-haired man lowered his gun and crouched down next to the little boy. They spoke. The two were out of earshot, but the boy nodded at what was being said. Then the man moved aside and the boy walked inside the house. The man stood and gave me an awkward half-wave before closing the door behind him.
I started up the motorcycle (noting that the shotgunsobviously aware of my presence-had not moved from the upper windows). I drove away slowly, as if trailed by a police officer. As I passed the Federal-style house, I gave a little wave to the shotguns.
Jesus and shotguns, I thought as I pulled away. They weren't good or bad, they just were.
Back along the highway, I approached the place where my ATV should have been, and found that it had been taken. I had been gone for no more than thirty minutes, and yet my vehicle had already disappeared. I slowed the motorcycle to a crawl and saw the body of Mr. Hernandez Sr. in a ditch. It had been moved.
I cautiously pulled the Harley over to take a closer look and saw that Mr. Hernandez's head had been cut from his body-I guessed with a chain saw, judging from the jagged flaps of skin. It sent a shudder through me that had nothing to do with the gore.
I was not as alone as I seemed. These fields and forests had eyes. (And, apparently, chain saws.) I wondered if Mr. Hernandez had come into his full presence as a zombie, or if the decapitation had merely been a precaution. I would never know.
Next to the body was a pool of water created by
melting snow. I stooped over to put some of it into my eyes, and caught my reflection on the surface. The water was getting muddy, and the reflection it showed was a bit uneven, but one thing was clear: I looked really terrible. And not just a "You've been out all night drinking vodka and Red Bulls" kind of terrible. It was more of a "You're not going to be able to pass as human too much longer" kind of terrible.
My skin was a deathly shade of white. My eyes had a manic stare. My hair looked unhealthy-like it was an old, dried-out wig ready to slip off a bald head. Even with my Kernels hat pulled down low, the days of my being able to seem human were numbered. I looked, if not dead, then deathly ill.
And it had been such a short time! Only sixteen hours (give or take) since my accident, and already I was looking this bad. My eyes made no tears. My nose made no snot, so the dirt that went into my nose stayed dirt and didn't become boogers. My skin was bereft of all natural moisture and oil. They sounded like small things, but their combined absence for less than a day made me look like a sickly monster.
My one hopeful thought was that I'd still be able to pass-for a few more days-as someone with pneumonia or a terrible flu. Yet even playing sick would likely arouse suspicion. (There was not a flu epidemic raging across the land, but there was a zombie epidemic.) I would have spat down at my reflection if I'd had any spit left in me.
From here on out, it would be a game of proximity. I'd be able to pass as human at a distance-as long as I kept moving (and driving, it occurred to me, because most zombies didn't drive)but up close, I'd be fucked. Within ten or fifteen feet, people were going to be able to see that something was very wrong with me. So I would have to be careful. I'd have to make sure I didn't let people near. I didn't know what this meant for my lifestyle in the long term, but in the short term, I decided it shouldn't be too difficult. I looked again at the decapitated corpse next to me, and considered the alternative.
Then I got back on the Harley and pulled away.
I rode the bike up and down rural highways for most of the day, exploring Knox County. (The thing sipped gasoline compared to a car, and apparently it had a full tank.) I saw very little in the way of signs of life-or "life"-until near dusk, when I crested a hill and saw a group of zombies wading through a snowy field of winter wheat.
As I say, the light was dying, but I could easily make out fifteen or twenty in their group. Maybe there were more. The zombies were all in the later stages of decomposition, and I could smell it from the road. Black flesh or mud clung to their bones. They moved slowly and stiffly. They made almost no sound at all.
How, I wondered, did a group like this happen? It was a mystery. Was there a single source for all of these zombies-like a country graveyard-or had they gradually found one another and banded together?
Then, another question: Even if they had been reanimated at the same time, what kept them together? I tried to imagine how it was that certain zombies did not veer off from the herd.
I pulled the bike over and watched them until the light died. They moved through the wheat like a flock of birds in slow motion. There was a formation to it. One in front seemed to lead the way, and the others followed like links on a chain. But even within that, there were small variations. Now and then, two zombies might seem to notice one another. They would adjust their courses for a moment, investigate each other, and just as quickly correct themselves to rejoin the group. They were not moving in my direction, but across the field toward a distant farmhouse. From where I stood, the home looked shuttered and lifeless. Perhaps, however, the zombies "knew" on some level that it would be worth their while to go and have a look-see.
Unlike my compatriots shambling in formation, I felt no supernatural ability to divine for humans. I could only look for movement or listen for human sounds. Unless these zombies had something I didn't, they were likely heading for the farmhouse because it was the nearest thing. Maybe the lead zombie could remember that humans usually lived in houses. Whatever the impetus behind their march, the zombies sauntered on, determined.
When it was completely dark, I started up the bike again and continued down the empty highway. Along one familiar-feeling stretch, a road sign announced GANT z S. Kenton College was only fifteen miles ahead. The sky was dark, but my incandescent watch told me it was only seven-thirty in the evening.
I decided to pay my friend Sam a visit.
I drove the bike for what felt close to fifteen miles, then turned off the headlight and pulled to the side of the road, edging the bike forward slowly through the darkness. To my dismay, it was still very loud. (I wasn't sure who I thought I was sneaking up on, but a clandestine approach just felt like the right thing to do.) After a few minutes, I encountered the welcome sign for Gant. This was a different two-lane highway than the one where I'd wrecked my car. I had little memory of it, but apparently more than one road ran through the little college town.
I piloted the bike to a clump of trees near the welcome sign and killed the engine. I covered the motorcycle's reflective chrome parts with brush and branches, and took the keys out of the ignition. Stand a few paces away, and you'd never know it was a motorcycle.
This way into Gant / Kenton College was utterly alien to me, but I knew that the town and the college buildings must lie up ahead. I also knew that a team of people was defending the college against zombies and strangers. After seeing my reflection in the dirty puddle by the side of the road, I no longer liked my chances at passing as "living human college professor Peter Mellor." Not even with people who had once known me. In fact, it might be worse with them. (To a stranger, I might claim to have always looked this haggard and ill. To an old friend, it would be apparent right away that something was very wrong with me.)
Based on these concerns, C decided to discreetly pick my way into town through the underbrush and find Sam's house with the red roof using backyards. I crept along the edge of the road leading into town, and then did my best to melt into the first clump of trees I found. Briars and branches grabbed at me, but I felt no pain as their hooks and needles found their way into my skin. The leaves beneath my feet were wet and snowy, and I was relieved to find this helped me move noiselessly. (There was no crunch just a soft gloop sound to my steps.) I carefully maneuvered through the brush and eventually found a long, contiguous row of trees that seemed to run right into the center of town. I followed it like a trail. I moved slowly. Took a few steps, then remained still, sometimes for a full minute. I listened and looked for any sign of life. Then I repeated the process.
I passed an empty football field, covered with snow and strewn with trash. Then an abandoned student parking lot, and a massive athletic building. Except for a dead raccoon moldering at the foot of a tree, I saw nothing living or dead. Certainly, no movement.
But then, as I neared the top of the hill that was Gant, Ohio, I caught a flash of nickel and steel in the moonlight. I huddled against a tree and froze. Bowles and Starks, the college doctor and the security guard, were walking the perimeter of the town, weapons in hand. They chatted with one another but frowned seriously as they surveyed the woods with grim eyes. I ducked down and waited, certain they had seen me. Moments later, I saw that I had been wrong. They had noticed nothing. The two men resumed chatting, and moved away.
Still clinging to the trees as best I could, I moved on, entering a residential area. Here, I crossed from yard to yard until-finally!-I found the house with the red roof. I crept near the modest dwelling and saw the flicker of a single candle in the upstairs window.
Hoping I would not be simply shot on sight, I emerged from the trees and threw a stone against the window like a teenage suitor. I saw movement inside instantly. Moments later, the top of Sam's head peered out from the window.
"Saaam," I rasped, waving my arms.
He regarded me suspiciously.
"Sam, it's me ... Peter," I said.
Sam left the window. Moments later, I watched as the candle moved through the house, through the upstairs, descending a stairc
ase, and finally edged over to the sliding-glass door that opened into his backyard. He cracked the doors slowly, and cautiously looked to his right and left before addressing me.
"Pete, is that you?" he called.
"Yeah," I said.
"Well ... what are you doing back here?" he asked.
"It's complicated," I told him.
"Is Vanessa with you?"
"No," I said. "It's just me."
"Do you want to come in?" he asked.
I thought about it. "No," I finally answered. "Can we talk outside?"
"Let me get my coat, then," Sam said.
He reemerged in a puffy jacket, carrying a pistol. "Do you want your gun back?" he asked. "You left it in my car."
"No," I said. "That's fine.
He followed me into the trees. When we both felt sufficiently insulated by the forest, we faced one another and crouched down confidentially.
"I'm a zombie," I told him.
"What?" he said. "No, you're not."
"Dude, look at this," I said, and removed my hat.
Sam's eyes went big. I watched as he absently mouthed "What the flick?"
"Seriously, I'm a zombie," I told him.
"But ... but you can't be a zombie," he stammered.
"Dude," I said, and bowed as if to a dignitary. Sam shrank back from the top of my head. "Yaaaah," he ejaculated. "Okay. I see your point. Just ... put your hat back on."
I obeyed.
"I think when I crashed my car yesterday, I didn't just get amnesia," I rasped to him. "I also died and came back as a zombie. I'm not really alive anymore."
"But you're walking and talking," Sam pointed out.
"I know," I said. "But I'm also a zombie. My head's half gone. I don't breathe. My heart doesn't beat. And ..."
I hesitated like a nervous man on a date, afraid to go in for that first kiss.
"And what?" Sam said.
"I ate a guy," I told him. "This stuff around my mouth? It's blood."
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