"What," I said aloud, "you've never seen a zombie before? Fuckers!"
The one who was not at the controls next produced a camera and began to train it on me.
Enough's enough, I thought. I lowered my defiant digit. With both hands free, I shouldered my rifle and pointed it menacingly at the helicopter. I did not intend to fire, but my anger and annoyance were real. Reacting instantly, the whirlybird shot up and backward, clearly taking no chances with my desire to shoot.
"That's right," I shouted. "Get the hell out of here. Dicks ..."
The helicopter departed by making wider and wider circles around us-cautious, but still clearly intrigued.
"Fuck this," I said. "Let's get back into the forest, guys. Nothing else to see here."
I took Rock Star, who was nearest, by the hand and pulled him after me into the trees. Before long, the other zombies followed. I could still hear the helicopter's cavitations in the distance as we disappeared into a canopy of snowy branches.
Hours later, we were out of the forest and walking through the open countryside again. I was still trying to decide what our encounter with the army helicopter had meant.
"What was that about?" I asked Mario raspily. I had taken to speaking with Mario because he tended to moan in response to things-as opposed to randomly-making it feel the most like having a conversation. Also, I liked his cool mustache.
"It's like, first they're taking pictures of us like we're lions at the zoo or some shit, and then they go crazy when I give 'em the old up-yours. What's up with that?"
Mario moaned in what I took for agreement.
We eventually moved out of the trees and into an empty soybean field just outside of West Lafayette. A giant, abandoned enamel factory loomed on the horizon south of us, though I had no inclination to explore it. As we marched, I played the encounter with the helicopter over and over again in my mind. I felt like a businessman who is worried he has just said the wrong thing at an important meeting and queered the deal. I considered what else I could have done-or should have done. What had the men been saying to one another so frantically? If only I could have heard.
"I would've liked to have eaten their brains," I said to Mario. "I just couldn't think of a way to do it. I kept hoping they would crash or something-that would have been awesome, right?-but they didn't."
Mario moaned again.
Then his forehead exploded.
I made a noise like Whaaaggh? and ducked instinctively. Then I heard the rifle report echoing across the grim, gray farmland.
Fuck, I thought. We're being shot at. But from where?
A quick scan of the horizon told me. Someone was shooting from the old enamel factory. There was thick forest in one direction and sloping hills where a marksman might have concealed himself in another, but I glimpsed a flicker of movement in one of the bashed-out factory windows. We were being hunted. Maybe one person. Maybe a couple. Definitely with scopes.
Suddenly, I wanted very much to save the rest of my little band. (Maybe they weren't much, but they were mine. And fuck me if I was going to stand by and let strangers gun them down for sport.)
Hunter was nearest. I grabbed him by the sleeve of his blazeorange jacket and started running for the trees. A second shot crackled out over the empty soybean farm. This time, a miss. (I didn't see an impact, but nobody else went down.) Hunter was a poor choice for a running companion. His ancient, watercorrupted flesh and muscles were weak and rotted. For him, just a simple amble was a calculated dance to avoid coming apart. Pulling him after me was like pulling a sickly, arthritic mule.
Another shot rang out. It missed us, but this time I saw the impact in the dirt nearby.
"Fuck it," I said. "Hunter, it was nice knowing you."
Determined that at least one of my compatriots should be saved, I retraced my steps, and this time gripped Rock Star by the wrist and began to pull on him. He was more solid-stiff, but solid-and responded to my urgings that he should attempt a run. We made for the nearest swath of forest. There was still a lot of open field to go. As we passed Hunter, a bullet lit up his chest and knocked him over. Another hit the ground nearby at exactly the same instant. Multiple shooters, then. At least two.
I tugged Rock Star into a lumbering half-run. His leather jacket was slick against my grip. Hunter and Matilda were trying to follow us, but I didn't give them much of a chance. The rifle reports became more and more frequent. I took a look back, and saw dirt dancing at their feet.
Rock Star and I neared the woods-brown, barren trees, but densely packed and replete with undergrowth that looked wellnigh impenetrable. If only we could reach it, the foliage would provide more than adequate cover.
We neared the edge of the copse, and as unexpectedly as it had started, the rifle reports stopped. I entered the underbrush, tugging Rock Star after me, and then chanced another glance behind me. Miraculously, both Matilda and Hunter were upright and still moving. They had new holes in their chests and abdomens, but were basically intact. For whatever reason, the shooters had elected to grant them a reprieve.
f 'stepped out from the trees and risked a quick inspection of the enamel factory. No movement. Windows still and dark. All quiet on the Western Front. Matilda and Hunter loped their way over to the underbrush, only vaguely aware-I think-that anything out of the ordinary had just occurred.
Mario's body was left on the soybean field. He had fallen facedown. In his fine clothes, he reminded me of a drunk passed out at a wedding.
Not wishing to take any chances, I ushered our group deep within the trees. Then, after a few minutes, I began formulating our plan of attack.
Now, you see, it was personal.
The basis for most of my video-game-based puns had been taken from me. (I mean, I still had Rock Star, and there was actually an incredibly popular video game franchise called Rock Band, which was very close to Rock Star ... but I still missed Mario. His moans had felt like interplay. Rock Star was just silent and mean-looking, like Lemmy after a fifth of bourbon. [I remember Lemmy! Remarkable! And something called "Ace of Spades!"])
I waited in the trees until dusk. Then I went scouting.
On one side, the trees ran to within fifteen yards of the enamel factory's loading dock. Bluish-white metal doors with (climbable?) ridges looked out on snow-covered parking spaces where no trucks had backed in for many years. There were windows above, dark and empty.
When darkness fell completely, I risked leaving the wooded area and scouted along the side of the building until I found a padlocked emergency exit. I thought about the little bunker with the sorority girls again. The key to success was defying the expectations of the humans inside. According to them, zombies couldn't talk, reason, or take cover in the woods to scout for openings in an old enamel factory. They certainly couldn't use the butt of a rifle to smash an ancient, rusted Master Lock. But that's exactly what I did.
First, however, I waited.
Humans needed sleep. We did not. Best to catch our enemies when they were as groggy and disoriented as possible. As I waited to attack, I sought to ensure that no other zombie would be picked off as Mario had been. I led my band of undead brothers to the far side of the thick woods, a good distance from the enamel factory. We waited there until my Timex Indiglo said that it was three in the morning. Then we slunk back through the twists of tree and thorn and emerged in front of the factory's emergency exit.
At first I thought about just shooting the lock. People did that in the movies, and it wasn't likely the bullet would ricochet back and hit my brain. However, the lock looked so old-positively calcified-that I decided to give it a go with the butt instead. It took only four forceful whacks to send the thing into a pile of rusted pieces. Its rusted guts looked mealy and vaguely chemical, like the inside of an old battery.
I surveyed the dark windows above us. I saw nothing, but my blows had been loud. There was no way to tell yet if any residents had been roused. The humans might still be sleeping soundly in their cots, or alread
y strapping on Kalashnikovs and grenades. There was no way of knowing. As I stood there, listening and considering, the Matilda-zombie brushed past me and walked toward the door. She smelled something. They were close.
I opened the clasp where the lock had been hanging. (I did this in complete silence. So far, so good.) Then I gripped the cold metal handle and began to pull. There was a sudden shriek. At first, I thought an alarm had gone off. But no. It was only the squeak of hinges that had not seen WD-40 since the late 1950s-the angry, metal scream of iron parts pleading to be left to entropy and oxidization.
I threw the door wide. It screamed epically, like a murder, then ceased just as suddenly. In the silence that followed, I heard reverberating sounds like footsteps on a metal staircase. Any fantasies I'd had of sneaking in like some kind of zombie-ninja were not coming true.
Through the doorway in front of me, I saw a short hallway leading into a large room that appeared to be full of moldering pallets. I hesitated. Defy expectations. Defy expectations. I repeated it like a mantra in my head. Win through treachery. Ask yourself What would zombies not do? Then do that.
Soon, I heard whispering in the darkness far above us. I chanced a look. The roof of the factory appeared to be a nest of ladders, precarious walkways, and pulleys. If our guests were in position above, setting foot on the factory floor would only turn it into a killing floor. Going inside in a blind, murderous rush was not going to work.
I gripped the incredibly squeaky door-inciting further protestations-and pulled it closed again until only a two-inch crack remained. Keeping my curious compatriots at my back, I did my best to impersonate a zombie.
"Braaaaaains ..." I moaned into the crack. "Braaaaaaains ... Want ... eat ... braaaaaaaains."
I nudged Hunter in the ribs, and got him moaning a little too. Matilda clawed at the door, which also helped.
Before long, I heard muffled voices approaching (once distinctly making out the word "zombies") and footsteps cautiously padding down the metal staircases. As the human sounds drew closer, I moved us so that we weren't visible through the crack. We huddled behind the iron door, moaning and clawing.
"Braaaaains!" I shouted again, then slammed the door with the butt of my gun a couple of times.
As the reverberations ceased, I caught the end of a whispered sentence from inside: ". . . the zombies from yesterday?" Then another voice said: "Flamethrower?"
And I thought: Flarnethrower!?!
But then another voice whispered: "No sense wasting it on zombies."
Whew.
These humans were aiming to conserve their resources. There were things in this world worse than zombies. Like other humans. (Like, I also reflected, me.)
The footsteps approached. Soon, I was sure there were humans very close to the other side of the metal door. I heard somebody whisper, "Don't see anything." Soon, as I had hoped it would, the barrel of a rifle emerged through the crack in the door, just an inch or two. I heard the same voice whisper, "Still don't see."
Then-delight of delights!-one of the humans kicked the squeaky door open from the inside, and I saw that we still had numbers.
Ranged before us were three nervous-looking humans: A bearded farmer in a plaid shirt and overalls, a pretty thirtysomething woman with long blonde hair, and an older Asian man with a buzz haircut and big muscles showing underneath his flannel pajamas. All were armed. The farmer and the woman carried rifles, and the Asian man held what appeared to be a long metal sword with a thin blade and no cross-guard. ("Asian guy with a samurai sword?" I almost said aloud. "Way to be a stereotype, dude.")
Anyhow, I was loaded and ready, and I shot all three of them in the face before they knew what had happened. The farmer went down instantly, stone dead. The blonde woman managed to get one shot off as she fell, but it only hit Matilda in the thigh. The Asian man-though I had shot off part of his jaw-remained standing, and managed to stumble backward and begin a retreat back into the factory. I lumbered through the doorway and shot him again in the back as he ran.
The zombies behind me were squirming and bucking to get at them. I felt like a man trying to keep a group of large, hungry dogs from assailing a Christmas ham. When the last human went downwith my bullet in his back and his sword clattering across the concrete floor-I quickly moved out of the way and let the horde descend.
"All yours, boys," I said with a smile.
The zombies charged past me and were upon the humans in moments. The blonde woman-as I could soon hear-was not quite dead. But after Rock Star's dedicated efforts, she soon claimed that honor alongside us.
I, like all zombies, was hungry. And I, like any zombie in that position, had an almost uncontrollable urge to stop and eat the brains of the newly dead humans on the floor. However, I was also the only one in my party with the sense to understand that there could be more humans ready and waiting to kill us if we weren't careful.
Thus, with what I do not hesitate to call a supreme effort of will, I forced myself to pass up the feast that presented itself. Instead of stopping for a meal, I cautiously crept past the dead swordsman's body and into the depths of the enamel factory, my rifle at the ready.
The factory floor was a mess of heaped, broken pallets and giant presses. I tried to imagine the factory floor as it had been long ago-loud and profitable and full of workers and enamel. Now it was only silent and dark. Suspended high above the factory floor was an office-about the size and shape of a trailer home-set against the roof and accessible only by a series of ladders and metal staircases. It was very, very dark inside the factory, but I was certain I made out a flicker of movement in one of the office windows.
I had to take it out. Whatever or whoever was still up there, I had to take it out. Proud of myself for having resisted the strong urge to stop and feed, I began contemplating my next assault. From those interior windows, anyone left inside would have a clear shot at us, especially when dawn came and light began streaming through the factory windows. Attacking it would be difficult, but not impossible.
I gripped my rifle hard, advancing carefully across the factory floor, using the giant machines and presses-some over twentyfive feet tall-as cover. I poked around and explored. Soon, I found a set of stairs that ran straight up to the elevated office, on a side where there was a door but no window. I decided to make my assault using that staircase. The iron steps were loud under my feet, and the entire network of ladders and suspensions around me seemed to vibrate as I ascended. The door, as I neared it, moved slightly, jostled by my own approaching footsteps.
I stood before it, feeling some trepidation. Then I remembered that a bullet to the heart would not fell me. (Hell, I thought, protect my own brain, and I've got nothing to fear. And from the way I'm walking and holding a gun, whoever's inside will think I'm alive, and probably aim for my chest.) Emboldened by this thought, I kicked the metal door open as hard as I could and bounded into the little trailer. Inside, I found an office that had been converted into something like a dorm room, with beds, clothes, and other necessities. Food and hot plates were stowed against the wall. There were also weapons-lots of weapons.
In the far corner was a boy, shivering and curled, as though he hoped the wall itself would absorb him. His brains would be delicious, and yet I knew-instantly-that I would not kill him. Kids were off the menu. Off mine, at least.
"Well, fuck," I said.
I approached the boy. He was unarmed. He curled tighter and tighter into the wall as I stepped over, as if willing away realitywilling himself into oblivion.
"Hey kid," I rasped. "I'm not going to hurt you. Hey! Listen to me kid, would ya?"
He seemed to consider it, and slowly uncurled from his ball. He looked up at me, his face a mask of fear. He was red-haired and freckled. His searching blue eyes scanned my alien face. I selfconsciously pulled down my hat a little.
"What happened?" he asked.
"Uh, some zombies came," I said. "You should probably get out of here. Is there another emergency exit or
something?"
The kid paused for a long time, then said: "There are some back stairs, but we boarded them up."
"Show me," I said.
The kid took a flashlight off of the wall and walked me down the noisy iron stairs. We reached the factory floor, and he conducted me through it to a row of planks in the back of the factory.
"What's that sound?" he asked.
Me missing delicious brains, I wanted to say.
"I don't know," was what I actually said.
We pulled away the hastily nailed planks to reveal a metal fire door that opened easily. Outside was only darkness.
"Okay," I said to the kid. "I want you to walk through that door and keep walking till you're far away." The kid obeyed. I closed and locked the door behind him.
Just a few yards behind me, my compatriots were still working their way through the corpses. I noted with relief that they had yet to open the heads in any substantial way. I decided, finally, to allow myself to join them.
"Here," I said, picking up the samurai sword. "Let's do this sashimi-style."
With just a few forceful chops, I opened the skulls of our three victims-keeping one for myself. It was delicious. This time I didn't stop at the brain; I ate most of the face and some of the neck. It wasn't the same as brains, but I still had that feeling of "Sure, I could eat."
And eat I did.
Afterward, leaving my companions to stumble aimlessly around the factory floor like slow, lost pinballs, I returned to the trailer room at the top of the staircase and began to search through the group's possessions. I took a new flashlight and a pair of binoculars, and I traded my rifle for a pair of heavy revolvers and a box of bullets. The revolvers came with holsters, so I strapped them on. I also kept the samurai sword; it would come in handy for opening up heads.
As I was tying the sword to my belt loop, I heard a knocking sound at the bottom of the stairs. The zombies below instantly started moaning. I unholstered one of the loaded revolvers and cautiously made my way down to the factory floor. The sound was coming from the fire door. I opened it and found myself pointing the heavy revolver right in the freckled kid's face.
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