Zombie, Ohio

by Scott Kenemore

  "Jesus," Sam managed. He put his hand on his chest and began to look a little faint. "Are you going to eat me?"

  "No," I told him.

  "That's good, at least," Sam managed.

  "He was a bad guy-the one I ate," I said to Sam. "He was going to rape Kate's little girl, I think. And he tried to kill me. So it was probably good that I ate him."

  "Still, though," Sam said. "That's pretty fucked."

  "Yeah, I know," I said. "I'm not exactly happy about it."

  "So what ... What're you going to do?" he asked me.

  I shook my head.

  "I don't know," I told him. "I kinda hoped you would have some ideas in that department. That's why I stopped by."

  "M-m-me?" he stammered.

  "Yeah," I said. "Have you ever heard of anything like this? You're a science guy, right?"

  Sam ran his hands through his hair and sat down against the foot of a tree.

  "Jesus, Pete," he said after a sigh. "You should've found yourself a biology professor. I'm a physicist."

  "Do your best," I said.

  "Well, okay," Sam said, thinking for a second. "Maybe it's like AIDS. Do you remember what AIDS is? HIV?"

  "Yeah," I said, recalling several harrowing impressions of a deadly STD.

  Sam said, "There's a small group of people who get HIV-the blood virus-but they never get sick and they never develop AIDS. It's a small fraction ofa percent. Like one in every one hundred thousand. But these people never get sick. They have HIV-they can pass it along to others-but it never makes them ill. Nobody understands exactly why it happens, but it does. Shit. I wish we still had a biologist on campus. They might be able to tell you more."

  "So maybe one out of every hundred thousand zombies gets to keep talking and thinking?" I asked.

  "It's a theory," Sam said. "But here's another thing: Right now, when people die, they come back as zombies. They're usually dead for a while, though. A few hours or a few days. But you came back right away. Like, almost instantly, from your description of things."

  "The tires on my car were still spinning," I told him.

  "Exactly," said Sam. "So maybe zombies lose their memory and speech and whatever because they're out for so long before reanimating. It's like brain death. Or maybe brain rot. But you weren't out for very long-maybe just for a second or two-so you're relatively untouched."

  "So I just randomly got lucky, then?" I asked. "Assuming that `lucky' is the right word for this."

  "Freaks happen in anything, or in any group of things," he said. "It's like with batteries and lightbulbs. I know more about them than I do about biology."

  "Batteries and lightbulbs?" I asked.

  "Yeah," Sam said. "You know how whenever you see an ad for batteries on TV, it always says `Duracell batteries last up to six times longer than the average Energizer battery,' or vice versa? That language is an advertising trick. They're comparing the top of a range to the middle of another."

  "Explain that," I said. "And keep it simple. I'm a zombie."

  "I'll try," said Sam. "So when they make a battery, it usually lasts for fifty hours, let's say. But there's always some variation. Some batteries last for fifty-one hours, or forty-nine hours. But sometimes, every few years or so, a freak battery comes along-one that's going to last three hundred hours. In those ads, they compare that battery to their competitor's average battery. See, even if their average battery lasts forty-nine hours and their competitor's average battery lasts fifty, they can still say that their batteries can last `up to' six times longer. And it's because they're going by that once-in-adecade freak battery, you see? It's the same thing with lightbulbs, too, but I won't go into that."

  "What, then?" I asked. "I'm a lightbulb that burns for a really long time? A battery that can keep the stupid bunny going forever?"

  "Yeah, sorta," Sam said. "Maybe most people, when they die and become zombies, have virtually no self-control or memory. They can hardly think or talk at all. But you ... Compared with a human, yeah, you've got a terrible memory. But compared to a zombie, you're an elephant. You're Funes the Memorious. You're ... you know ... somebody who remembers things really good."

  "I see," I said slowly. "I'm some kind of statistical freak, is what you're saying? A freak that comes along once in many years?"

  "In my opinion, it's a tenable hypothesis," Sam replied, the professor in him emerging. "It's ... remarkable, really."

  "Hmmm," I said, unconvinced. "If you say so."

  "You really don't remember me, do you?" Sam said. He seemed-somewhat abruptly-to want to make things personal.

  "You seem familiar," I told him. "Lots of things seem familiar. But I can't remember us doing much together. Now and then I get a few mental pictures of you, but it's hard to know what they mean. I don't know the events surrounding them."

  "No memory of, like, conversations we had?" Sam questioned. His eyes were searching, sad.

  Suddenly, I felt for the awkward little guy. It would have been easy to tell a white lie. No doubt, he had invested much of himself in our friendship over the past few years. Hundreds or thousands of hours of his life. And though I was walking and talking right in front of him, it was also like the Peter Mellor he had spent all that time with was dead. That person he had been friends with no longer existed. All of the time and effort he had devoted to that friendship was wasted.

  But I couldn't lie. Now was not the time for lying. Not to the one person I still hoped might help me.

  "No," I answered. "Like I said, I just sort of have ... impressions of you. They're good impressions, though. They're really good."

  Sam sighed and picked himself up off the ground.

  "So what're you going to do with yourself?" he asked, changing the subject once again.

  "I don't know," I said. "It's dangerous out here."

  "Dangerous?" Sam said, incredulous. "Dangerous?! Are you serious? You're already a zombie, Peter. What're you afraid of? You ate a guy."

  "Everybody I see has a gun, even the Amish," I told him. "Everybody is hunting zombies. If they realize what I am, they'll kill me. I'm all alone."

  "Hmmm ... Maybe you should hang out with other zombies," Sam said.

  "I'll assume that was a bad joke," I told him.

  "Then how about keeping your hat on?" he said. "You're walking and talking and ... obviously you can drive if you got here this fast."

  "Dude, it was a Harley," I said with a smile.

  "See, there you go," Sam said. "When you need to be a human, be a human."

  "But I can only be a human in the shadows, or from very far away!" I protested.

  " `Not in perspective, and not in the light,' eh?" Sam said.

  "Have you really looked at me, Sam? I saw my reflection in some murky water today, and it was terrifying. My skin is fucked up and too white. There's no moisture left in my body. Listen to how hoarse my voice is-and it's getting worse by the minute."

  "I'm not saying there's an easy answer," Sam said. "But you can't just focus on the negative. In a way, I'm envious of you."

  "Envious?" I said. "You, of me? You're kidding."

  "Christ," Sam shouted, suddenly hostile. "The news is ... it's bad, okay? Bad. Everything we hear-from the TV, from the Amish, from people passing through-it's all terrible. Violence everywhere. People acting like animals-fighting over food, hoarding, killing each other. Criminal gangs forming across the countryside. Bikers taking over towns like Brando in The Wild One. Jesus, Pete, there are twenty-five of us left here who can fight. Twenty-five. If a hundred Hells Angels ride into town and decide to go on a looting, raping, and killing spree, we're pretty much fucked. Even if the phones were up, and we could call the National Guard, how long would it take for them to send troops up from Columbus? And something tells me they might have their hands full down there."

  I nodded, solemnly.

  "And that's not even talking about the zombies!" he railed. "What's left of the news is showing some pretty horrible shit. The zombies ... H
ordes meet with hordes, and they decide to cooperate and grow stronger. They become armies. Out west, where people haven't been around to put down all the country graveyards, they're forming massive divisions out on the plains. When they decide to turn on a town, there's no way to stop them. The pictures I've seen-they can't be real-but it looks like zombies as far as the eye can see. They're going to have to be nuked or something. Apparently, the other day, one of those massive waves ate Iowa City. Like, ate the whole city. The people just aren't there anymore."

  "Wow," I said, genuinely impressed. (And also horrified.)

  "Don't you see, Pete?" Sam continued. "You're on the winning team."

  "You can't believe that," I said to him. "The cities are doing okay. There are still Green Zones and such. I saw it on the news. They've got food, and law and order."

  Sam sighed.

  "I don't know," he finally said. "I just don't know. How long will the food last if people don't go back to farming? If we can't import anything? I hate to imagine being in a city when the food runs out. Nah ... I think I'll make my stand here on the hill with people I know."

  Far away, a car horn sounded several times. It was an awkward cadence, like a code. Something told me it was being sounded in frantic alarm. It was very, very distant, but still definite. We both searched the sky, as if trying to judge from which direction it came-though neither of us, I think, knew what we would do with that information. After a full minute, it stopped with a sickly, final squeak, like the life leaving a trapped animal.

  We both looked at one another as if to say What the fuck was that?

  "Anyhow, I can't stay here," I continued. "I won't pass as human for long, and I can't trust that the others here would understand. You know? I'm a zombie, I already ate a guy, and I have no memory of them ... but I want them to take my word that I'm not a threat? That's a hell of a hard sell."

  "I think you might be right," Sam said, taking a cigarette out of his coat. "Best-case scenario, they might chain you in a basement somewhere. `Monitor' you."

  "Yeah," I said. "I'm feeling-and don't ask me how I know this-but I'm feeling like a lost teenager. A runaway. Something tells me this is not the place for me. I've got to go somewhere, and I don't know where. But I'm just going to go."

  "Follow your heart, huh?" Sam said, taking a drag on his smoke.

  "Not that it beats anymore," I said, tapping my chest.

  "It goes without saying, but you can come back and visit whenever you want," Sam said.

  "Okay. .. Thanks, Dad," I said, a hollow joke.

  "Final question, then," Sam said. "Can I give you a ride anywhere? Do you need anything?"

  "No," I said. "Got the Harley, remember? And I can't think of anything I need."

  The truth of that statement really started to hit me. It was true. I didn't need anything. I was a zombie. The open road was my world.

  "Look," I said, "I appreciate all your advice, but I should go now. I'm just going to head back through the trees here."

  "See you around, then," Sam said, finishing his cigarette.

  I shook his hand.

  "See you," I said, and picked my way back into the thicket.

  Halfway back to the Harley, they were upon me. Seemingly from out of nowhere, I heard the sound of automobiles and shouting men, and saw flickers of flashlights or headlights through the trees. They did not appear to know where I was, but something had put the residents of Gant on alert.

  I picked up the pace of my picking. Had someone spotted my motorcycle? Perhaps they had seen me leaving Sam's place and raised an alarm. I hadn't concealed my exit through the yards with the same gusto I'd used on my approach.

  There was no time to consider it. I saw headlights approaching from the far side of the hill. The voices increased in volume and number. My motorcycle was close now. Did I hide or run for it? I needed to make a decision, and I could hear the townspeople nearing. It was only a question of whether or not they would head in my direction. Their flashlights seemed to shine all over-past me and above me-but never lit upon me. They knew I was here, but the specifics of my position remained undiscovered.

  I made a break for it. The operative word being "break." My legs stayed intact, but the extent to which my body had stiffened became ever more apparent as I tried to move with speed. It was like running on stilts-horrible, arthritic stilts. I slipped and nearly fell.

  Fuck, I thought to myself. What did I expect? Everybody knows zombies aren't supposed to go fast. I hustled down the rest of the embankment on iron legs and found the motorcycle by the coppice where I'd left it. It appeared to have remained undiscovered. I moved the branches away and got on. I started the engine. It was loud. There was an instant fluttering of the flashlights up the hill, and then they all began to shine in my direction. The Kentonites would not catch me, however. The bike was too fast, and I left Gant, Ohio, in a growl of snow and dust.

  It was a quiet, cold night. The snow continued to fall in thin waves, never accumulating much, but always present. Aside from my single headlight, there was total darkness all around.

  I rode the bike deep into the Ohio woods. First, I took the two-lane highways, then I turned down even darker country roads-the darkest I could find, the darker the better. When I came across an abandoned railroad track, I turned onto it and followed it for as long as I could. The bike ran out of gas atop a crumbling trestle bridge. I left it there, and walked deeper into the forest.

  By the time dawn broke, I was in the middle of nowhere. It was just where I wanted to be. I strolled idly, enjoying the quiet forest and the snow on the trees. I had no idea if I was still in Knox County. The people from Gant had not pursued me, and I hadn't needed to stay on the highway for very long. I still had no clue how they'd known I was there, but I was impressed at how quickly they had been able to organize and come after me. Cell phones were down, but perhaps they'd had walkie-talkies. Perhaps they'd simply shouted to one another.

  The sun rose higher in the sky. I reflected that not needing to sleep was going to give me extra time. Most people needed eight hours a night. I could keep going, twenty-four/seven. (Sure, it was extra time. No question about that. The question was, extra time for what?)

  I walked and walked through the empty forest. Despite the silence and stillness, I encountered reminders that this was a settled country. Wherever I walked, I was on someone's property or on state land. Here was the broken head of a pickax. There, an empty bag of potato chips built into the nest of a bird. There was no "getting away" from humans, even in the most rural of areas. I followed a frozen creek until it terminated in a little pond full of Canada geese. On the other side of the lake, the woods thinned out and a farmer's field became visible. As I approached it, I saw an old hay cart with wooden wheels, forgotten and overturned.

  Then: Astounding! Not zombies. Not people with guns. Something more unbelievable.

  As I approached the overturned cart, a wild turkey emerged from underneath. It was jet-black, and disgusting to look at. And it appeared very much like the one who had kept me company the night before. His tread was slow-almost absent-much like mine. He had nowhere to go, and nowhere to be. My jaw dropped a little. I approached the bird, but it did not shrink away.

  "What's up?" I said.

  The bird, as if only hearing my second word, climbed the overturned cart and hopped to the top until it was face-to-face with me. It was creepy. (And here I was the zombie.) For a moment, I thought the bird might actually speak to me. It might talk, like something out of a fantasy movie. But it only stayed still and watched from atop the cart. It was just a bird.

  "What?" I said to it.

  No response.

  I let out a superfluous sigh. "I went back and talked to Samwho I guess is my friend-but he didn't know what I should do. It almost got me caught, though. People from the college came after me with guns. And I didn't get a better idea of what I should be doing-other than to keep moving."

  The turkey nodded, or seemed to. Again, creepy.


  "I don't think I can go back there anymore. I've got to, like, accept being a zombie or something. Maybe accept eating people." My stomach growled upon uttering these words. It took me aback. My stomach was supposed to be dead, like the rest of me. It wasn't making gastric juices anymore, or turning food into shit. I didn't even feel hungry anymore.

  Or did I?

  Thinking about eating brains again had definitely triggered something ... down there. In Iny mind, I ran through the details of eating the ATV man's brains like paste. Nice.

  "Wait ... okay, just wait," I said, to my own stomach as much as to the turkey. The turkey cocked its head as if to say Wliat?

  "Eating brains feels nice. Really, really nice. But I can't just ... kill people. People who don't deserve it. There are people that I like! I don't remember them much, but I still like them. Sam and Vanessa were-or are-good people who I cared about. I wouldn't want to eat them."

  The turkey bobbed again. This guy approved of everything.

  I made my monologue internal.

  Maybe there was some way I could "help." I liked eating brains. I liked thinking about it. But I would be different. I would have rules. I would only eat the brains of bad people-would-be child rapists and such-as I'd already done. I had little memory of my past, true. But from what I could tell, I had loved others and others had loved me. These remnants of feelings told me that my girlfriend Vanessa was associated with love. If I could help her ... be useful to her ... save her-then perhaps my "life" would be worth something.

  And then I could eat the brains of her enemies, which would be totally awesome.

  Yeah, I thought. I could be a moral zombie, never eating the brain of a good person. (I had already shown that I was above eating the brain of a child.) I would use my murderous appetites to make the world a better place. Somehow.

  "Yeah," I said aloud. "Maybe that's it."

  I gave the wild turkey a little salute and walked out into the farmer's field, determined, in some vague and general way, to use my powers for good.

  The bird watched me go.

  I'll try to give you some sense of the way it felt to be there, in those lonely days that followed, stalking around the empty countryside, trying to be a zombie. I think I said somewhere before that it was like walking around on a holiday. There was the emptiness and quiet of Christmas Eve. Except it was Christmas Eve with guns.