Zombie, Ohio

by Scott Kenemore

  At first, I had the impulse to strut through the rows of zombies like a newly minted CEO inspecting his workers. Who would have thought there could be so many? The zombies were diverse in both appearance and character. Some were old corpses-little more than walking skeletons, flesh and rags hanging down from their bones like wet mud-while others were recent additions, still strong and hale-looking. One delegation wore bright-orange prison jumpsuits with lettering that read MANSFIELD CORRECTIONAL. Another subset was comprised of police, fire, and prison guards. (I imagined a prison riot in which these two groups had fought one another bitterly and to the death. Now they stood side by side, united in purpose.) A smattering of children and teenagers-and at least one "little person"-were interspersed among the living dead.

  Some of the zombies regarded me curiously as I passed. Others failed to notice me at all, their gazes fixed forward, locked on the horizon. Others still (perhaps the majority) seemed to notice me with only a corner of their attention, like a man or woman engaged in an all-consuming task who is momentarily pestered by a fly.

  Almost all of them had blood around their mouths that was not their own. An army marched on its stomach, and this army of zombies was no exception. There could be no doubt; this was a group that fed.

  I was wading against the current, and before long I was through it and standing at the tail end of the parade. Behind them, the zombies had left a swath of footprints in the snow fifty yards wide. In addition, they had left behind scraps of clothing, splotches of blood, and even the odd body part. This group was a force to be reckoned with. It was like a slow-moving snowball, growing larger as it rolled. Adding new members. Using up and spitting out everything that lay behind it.

  These were my kind of people.

  It was a few days before I found him. (I say "him," but it could just as easily have been a "her.") I had resolved to search the entire horde, if necessary. At times, I walked at the head of the pack. Other times, I lost myself in the center of the great bolus, or skirted around the edges of the grim formation. I was looking for any sign of dominance or influence. I was looking for any action or reaction that would denote intelligence. In short, I was looking for someone like me.

  Did I expect a chatty, reasoning, gun-toting zombie? Of course not. But I did expect to find one who was smarter than the others. One who was more advanced. A leader. And this leader-as I eventually discerned-came in the form of a bald, overweight, Middle Eastern zombie in a golf shirt and khakis. He wore several gold chains around his neck, and had sandals on his feet. His eyebrows were heavy, and a placid smile lingered on his face. He appeared to have been embalmed, but bore no visible injury, and I could not discern his cause of death.

  He was one of the zombies who looked back at me as I walked by. And as the days of searching the ranks went by, I noticed how his gaze lingered longer than most. His eyes stayed on me when I approached him, and sometimes his expression changed. Though silent, his mouth sometimes opened as though he had something to say.

  There was another clue to his strength and superiority: He wore far more gore down the front of his face than any other zombie in the crowd. When it was feeding time, this one clearly knew what to do.

  He walked at the head of the group, though not at the very front. That honor went to three giant zombies. As I watched the leader (for the good part of a day), I observed how he interacted with these huge zombies. Before long, I could have no doubts-he was using them. There was an intentionality to it. The leader allowed the three large zombies to clear the way, to move obstacles, or to feel out dangerous situations. He never spoke to them with words, but directed them with expressions, gestures, and the occasional nudge. He was conscious of the situation. He knew he was in a group-on a team-and that he was the captain. There was a responsibility to it, as if he understood that he must lead for the good of all. He had a lust for brains-the still-fresh gore upon his chin was ample evidence of that-but he also had an understanding that he was not alone in this lust.

  He was not as cognizant as a human (as I, more or less, was). He was more like a dog-a smart, happy dog. He was pleased to he among friends, and pleased to reap the benefits that came with being leader of the pack. Accordingly, my first action was to stroke his head gently. He smiled back pleasantly, and we strolled together for a time. He seemed to appreciate my company.

  "Who's a smart zombie?" I asked cooingly. "I think you are ... Wes, I do. Wes, I do. I think you're a clever little zombie."

  He smiled again and looked bashful, as if to say I must stop because I would make him blush.

  "What's your name then, I wonder?" I said to him. "You're a mystery, you are. Looks like you aren't from around here. You look like you're from the Middle East. Maybe someplace like Iran or Iraq or Turkey?"

  He smiled at this last word. It was more than the idiot-dog smile. There was definitely something to it.

  "Turkey?" I said. He smiled again.

  "Nice," I said. "So you're from Turkey, maybe. What if I call you `the Turk'? How would that be?"

  He appeared, more or less, to accept the idea. I continued to stroke him gently.

  "So, Mr. Turk, I have to say: This is quite an impressive array of zombies you've got here. Believe it or not, it's about to get even more impressive. See, I'm a zombie like you are. That's why you don't smell me. That's why you don't want to eat my brain. But I can do things you can't even imagine. It's clear that you're very smart, but I can do things even you can't do, like shoot a gun and read road signs. And I think if we can combine forces-as it appears we already have-then wonderful accomplishments are going to be possible. Wes, they are. Wes, they are, indeed."

  The Turk smiled and even nodded a little. I returned his goredripping grin.

  Something told me it just might be the beginning of a delightfulif not exactly beautiful (at least not in the classical sense)-friend- ship.

  The next day we attacked a grocery store in Pipesville. I had taken up a position alongside the Turk in our marching order, near the front of the pack. We were not exactly the lead dogs, but forward enough to steer the group when we needed to. The road into Pipesville ran through a hilly stretch of crevasses and crags, making it feel more like southeastern Ohio than smack-in-thecenter Ohio.

  We walked through the town slowly, an obscene parade of rotting flesh and naked bone. All the windows were dark, all the houses empty. I felt safe with the Turk and his three giant zombies leading the way.

  A few cottages and modest farmhouses dotted the outskirts. Past these, the town revealed itself as one long street. A VFW hall. A hardware store. A couple of horrible-looking diners. One tiny church. About fifty houses in all. And, intriguingly, a grocery store around which a ten-foot-high fence (topped with barbed wire) had been recently erected.

  The Turk and I steered the group slowly toward the grocery enclosure. There were no humans to be seen, but there were several automobiles inside the fenced perimeter. A gate at the front of the fence had been fastened shut with bike locks. (This frustrated me. Those were the kind you had to saw through.) To the side of the gate, but within the fenced perimeter, a makeshift watchtower had been erected in the crook of a giant maple. Like an armored tree house, it featured metal plates and a homemade turret that could rotate.

  "Whaddaya think, Turk?" I said. "Looks like a tough nut to crack, but I'll bet it's worth it."

  He looked at me and smiled. That was all I needed.

  The fence would be the only real problem. I began thinking about a way to breach it. If I could find a car, I'd be able to run it down. But there did not appear to be any vehicles left outside the fence. Every car in town seemed to be inside the perimeter of the grocery store's parking lot. ("Frederick's Fresh Produce" it was called, or so said the sign affixed to the structure's tin roof. I wondered how fresh the produce could be-even pre-zombie-apocalypse-in the middle of winter in rural Ohio.) As an alternative, I wondered if there might be something-trash cans, boxes-that I could stack up beside the fence to make im
provised stairs.

  As if from out of the ether, I distinctly heard a voice from above cry, "Oh shit!"

  The Turk heard it too. We began looking around. Some of the zombies in front of us began lumbering toward the fence, as though they had scented something.

  I 'detected movement in the tree house above us. At first, just a shuffling. Then a man with a rifle slung over his shoulder popped out from a hatch in the bottom. As he scampered down the wooden slats nailed to the tree, he looked disbelievingly at our horde and began turning white. He dropped to the ground and took off toward the grocery store.

  "Oh shit!" the man shouted again. "It's the big one. It's the fucking big one. They finally found us, dudes!"

  The man wore an unbuttoned parka that flopped awkwardly behind him as he ran. He was thin and bearded and had enormous, expressive eyes that looked very, very afraid. His face also looked tired, and I decided that this sentry had likely been napping. As he neared the door to the grocery store, a surprised-looking man opened it and they collided, falling back inside the store together. This display of cowardice was not entirely unamusing. I elbowed the Turk in his fleshy ribs and laughed.

  The bulk of our zombie battalion began to gather around the grocery-store perimeter. (A few drifted off to explore the houses and empty buildings, but there was nothing for them to find-no humans, dead or alive-and they soon joined us back at the fenced perimeter.) We nearly encircled it. The windows at the front of the grocery had been sandbagged with sacks of cat litter and rock salt, but I saw slices of faces peering out at us.

  For a while, nothing happened, and this, I decided, was important. If the humans had had a flamethrower, or unlimited ammunition, they might well have begun the task of picking us off through the fence. We were easy-albeit numerous-targets. But they did no such thing. This bespoke limited resources. That was good for zombies.

  I wondered, as the four hundred zombies crowded around, moaning and scratching, if we might not be the ones with the appearance of unlimited resources. Only the scared man in the parka had actually seen us from any perspective. Once we got to be a few rows deep in front of the fence, it might appear to the humans inside that we went on forever. We were a huge group, true, but through a fence we might look like we numbered into the thousands.

  After a few minutes, a group of humans emerged from the grocery store: five of then-three men and two women. The shaky man in the parka was not among them. These humans had the grim, steely-eyed stares of soldiers on their third or fourth tour of duty. The types who would crack under the pressures of a zonibie- world had long since fallen away here. These were the strong ones who had made it their business to survive.

  Each member of the little band carried at least one gun. Two had machetes that looked somewhat similar to the samurai sword I carried. One of them appeared to be ex-military, and wore the fatigues to prove it. Unlike the screaming, wide-eyed man in the parka, this group appeared confident that we posed little threat. They made no aggressive moves toward us, instead seeming content merely to observe. I decided to do the same.

  They began speaking to one another. I sidled up to the fencethrough the rows of hungry, gibbering zombies-until I could hear what was being said.

  "God, they're ugly," one man was saying. "I never get over it."

  "You were right about the fence, Don," said one of the women. "It's holding up just like you said it would."

  "How many do you think there are?" asked another. "A thousand? Two thousand?"

  "Not hardly," the military-seeming man said flatly, and spat from the corner of his mouth. "Just a few hundred. I'd say less than five. They look like more than they are. Roger, do you still have those dowels from the hardware store?"

  One of the steely-eyed men nodded.

  "Righty then," the man in fatigues continued. "I reckon we can take 'em out through the fence."

  I was intrigued. What did they think they were planning?

  "But we can take them out through the fence right now, with bullets," one of the women said after a moment. "What do you want with dowels?"

  Thank you, I almost said. That had been my question.

  "Sure, we could," said Fatigues Man. "Shit, we prob'ly even have the bullets to do it, too. But what about when the next group like this one shows up, and it's bigger? And then the one after that? We'd be out of ammo before we knew it. Then we open ourselves up to the gangs."

  I had to admit, he made a good point. (There was a definite pleasure to be taken in this kind of eavesdropping. It was like being invisible. I was so close to them-probably less than fifteen feet away-but I might as well have been a tree, or an animal, or a part of the fence itself. Little did they know... Little did they know... [I forced myself to suppress a smile.])

  "The U.S. Army will have to come for us soon," one of the men said. "The helicopters could air-drop something, or pull us out and take us to one of the cities."

  I detected a longing in some of the faces-especially the faces of the women-at this idea. The military-looking man, however, appeared half-ready to vomit.

  "Is that what you really want?" Fatigues said. "To move to the city and pay that price? To suckle on the teat of the governmentthe fucking federal fucking government?!"

  Aha! There was some tension here! This was getting good.

  "Answer me this," Fatigues continued. "Why didn't you people move down to Columbus before this all happened?"

  "Are you serious?" one of the men answered him.

  "Sure I am," Fatigues said. "You ask yourself that, and you'll find the answer. You wanted to be free. You didn't want to get dependent and lazy and fat. You didn't want to be a ward of the damnblasted federal government. You wanted to be a self-sufficient American."

  "Jack, I live here because my family's farm is here," the man replied.

  "You can go down to Columbus if you want to," Jack/Fatigues said, as if the other had said nothing. "Anybody can leave at any time. You know the rules. You're always free to go ... But all Columbus is, is a bigger grocery story running out of food, with a bigger fucking fence around it."

  "And bigger assholes in army uniforms telling folks what to do?" the man quipped.

  Jack stared at him hard. His hand that was not on a gun curled into a fist.

  "We'll try the dowels," one of the women said, hoping (much to my disappointment) to diffuse the tension. "No sense in not giving an idea a try, right?"

  "Need to do it soon," Jack said. "I want to make a dent in them before it gets dark. They dig under the fence in the middle of the night-I feel like some of us might not know what to do if that happened."

  They went back inside the grocery store. They were planning something.

  That was all right. I was planning something too.

  For the next hour, I heard the intermittent sound of hammers and power saws coming from the back of the store. It was like a reality show or something-where each team has some lumber and odds and ends and a couple of hours to build things. The two teams are separated by a fence, but can kind of guess at what the other is doing.

  I went exploring, though there wasn't much to explore in a place like Pipesville. Most of the homes had been pillaged for everything valuable or useful. Other houses had just been respectfully locked, but I found a toolshed behind a ranch-style home and cut through the moldering wooden door with my sword. Inside was an assortment of garden tools. I took a pair of pruning shears with a long wooden handle-the kind that could cut very thick branches.

  I stuffed the shears down the leg of my pants and walked stiffly to the back of the fenced perimeter behind the grocery store. There were a couple of windows facing the back of the store, but they looked like they'd been boarded up with sacks of charcoal and pet food. Most of the other zombies were still in front of the store, but a handful were milling around in the back. I had to chance that we were unobserved.

  As furtively as I could, I took the shears out of my pants and began to cut the fence. The "snaps" when I clipped the wire were
louder than I would have liked, but it was quick work. In under a minute, I'd made a hole big enough for a zombie to wander through.

  "Hey, buddy," I said, grabbing a nearby zombie by the scruff of the neck. "In you go."

  I guided two or three other zombies through the hole in the wire, and watched them wander absently around the back of the building. Trusting that more would soon follow, I dropped the shears and returned-at what I hoped appeared to be an unhurried zombie's gait-to the large group at the front of the fence.

  After a few minutes, the same group of humans reemerged from the store armed with an assortment of homemade spears-dowels with very long, very thin nails at one end. I had to grant, they looked perfect for driving through a zombie's skull.

  The humans approached the fence. I noted-with some excitement-that they had not brought their firearms with them, only the spears. Jack, the one in the fatigues, took one of the spears and slid it through the fence. He didn't have to slide it far, the zombies were right there, inches away. In his other hand was a flathead hammer.

  "Now watch this," he said. "It's two motions. You're going to stab into the forehead in the first, and hit the end of the dowel with your hammer in the second. That should be enough to pierce the skull. Then you just keep hitting until the zombie goes down. Most of these guys, the skulls are old and brittle. You'll get through on the first try. The newer-looking ones, like ... that one," he said, pointing directly at me, "those fresher ones may take a few more blows."

  The other humans nodded grimly at the thought of the work ahead. Behind them, I saw the first zombie peek its head around the side of the grocery store, inside the fenced perimeter.

  "So-watch me, here-I'll start with one of the easy ones," Jack said. "Watch how I do it, and then y'all give it a shot."

  Jack took a new stab through the fence and found the forehead of a crusty, skeletal zombie standing just a few feet from me. As Jack closed one eye and raised his hammer, I extended one finger and began to gesture.

  Jack contemplated his hammer blow like a golfer preparing to make a difficult shot. As he raised back the hammer to strike, my gesturing became more insistent.