Zombie, Ohio

by Scott Kenemore

  "Don't shoot!" I screamed. (It seemed hackneyed, true-like something I was half-remembering from a war movie, or, worseand perhaps more likely-a television cop show, but it was all that sprang to mind.) "Don't shoot!" I repeated, raising my hands above my head. "I'm ... I'm ..." I paused.

  What to say, what to say ... Somehow, "Don't shoot; I'm an unusually intelligent, self-aware zombie" just didn't feel like it was going to cut it.

  Was I "human"? Did I dare make that claim? They would see right through it, just as they would see through my increasingly translucent zombie skin and the bullet holes that riddled my body. (The dried blood covering the front of my face probably wouldn't help matters, either.)

  Something else, then.

  Should I claim to be "one of them" on some level? (As in: "Don't shoot-I'm one of you.") It would be a lie, and an unconvincing one. I was not one of them. I was the one who had killed and eaten their fellow humans for the past few months.

  In the end, I decided to tell the truth.

  (Fuck it, right?)

  "I'm Peter Mellor's zombie," I said, turning over and sitting up. "I used to be Peter Mellor. I was a philosophy professor at Kenton College."

  Three camouflaged men carrying rifles-and one woman with an enormous Gurkha knife-regarded me cautiously. The men trained their guns on me but did not shoot. Past their masks, they looked as startled as I was scared.

  "I was killed in a car accident," I said. "Someone killed me. Someone cut my brakes. I have no clue who it was."

  "What the fuck?" one of the men said. "It fucking talks."

  "My girlfriend is still alive, and I was kind of hoping to find her again," I said. "Her name's Vanessa. I think she's around here. Half-Chinese? Hot?"

  "It knows Vanessa?!" another of the men said, incredulous.

  "Just fucking shoot it," the woman said. "It's a zombie, like all the others."

  "No, don't shoot me!" I said. "I'm not like all the others. I'm talking to you, aren't l?"

  "Look at the design on its hat," one of the men said. "It's the Kernel. It's the motherfucking Kernel!"

  "So?" the woman said. "It still eats people. It's a fuckin' zombie; just shoot it."

  "Yeah, I'm gonna shoot it," another of the men said. He sounded unsure, but lifted his rifle and took aim at me. From this distance, he would not likely miss.

  "Wait, don't!" I said, instinctively shielding my face.

  "Yeah, don't," someone else said. It was a high-pitched voice. A woman's voice, but not Vanessa's. I heard quick footsteps. The three men (and the woman with the evilly curved knife) looked over. So did I.

  It was not a woman, but a small boy. He wore a red bandanna over his mouth and nose, and was armed with a rifle.

  A familiar-looking rifle.

  "I know him," the kid said. He pulled down the bandanna, revealing his face.

  It was the freckled, red-haired boy from the enamel factory. The one I'd ... (What had I done? Helped to kill his relatives?)

  "This is the one I told you about," said the kid. That was all he said.

  We just stayed there like that for a while, frozen together. The humans looked at one another, their eyes scanning me nervously. I took my hands away from my face and waited for one of the guns to go off, but nobody shot anybody.

  The kid eventually walked over and stood right in front of me.

  "Yeah," he said. "This is definitely the one."

  They took my guns and tied me to a tree-not taut against it, but like you'd tie up a dog. I had a little lead. They also tied my hands behind my back and put a collar around my neck. It was not my proudest moment, but at least I hadn't been shot.

  The humans proceeded to have a meeting about fifty yards away. I was upwind and out of earshot. They stood in a circle-about thirty of them, all armed and exhausted-and they spoke in low, confidential tones. They rubbed their chins, considering me, and occasionally gesturing in my direction. They looked like construction foremen trying to decide how to tackle a difficult new project. We were still in sight of the "battlefield," if you even want to call it that. (It hadn't been all that much of a battle. My battalion had walked into a carefully planned ambush, and been destroyed. It was difficult for me to accept. My group of zombies-which had accomplished great deeds, ravaged the countryside, and had been growing at a healthy rate the entire time-had been destroyed in less than ten minutes.) What remained of my army had been piled into stacks and set afire.

  There burned Rock Star. There, Matilda. And somewhere, in that steaming, smoking mass, burned the Turk-who had been as smart as a dog, or maybe even a monkey. Now they were stacked up and on fire. Slowly turning to ashes, an inglorious end. (But, then again, did zombies get to have glorious ends? It seemed like eating a bunch of brains before finally rotting into nothingness was the best they got.)

  So the humans talked in their huddle. Now and then they debated or argued seriously. Other times, their palaver came across as relaxed and playful. Once, they even appeared to share a laugh. The humans also talked into radios like the one I'd seen (and shot) at the cabin by the quarry. Pickup trucks full of food and ammunition came and went. And still, clearly, nothing had been decided. Still, I was tied to a tree.

  In all of my time as a zombie, I could not recall having been this defenseless. I'd been hunted, shot at, chased-sure. But never had I surrendered and allowed my fate to be deliberated by others. It was nerve-wracking. (I hadn't been shot on sight, but that didn't mean they weren't eventually going to take a vote and put a bullet through my brain.) Nothing good was going to come of this meeting, I quickly decided. It wasn't like they were going to vote to let me go. The longer they talked, the more concerned I became.

  When the palaver adjourned, I was guardedly relieved to see the humans did not instantly gravitate toward me to carry out a death sentence. Instead, they dispersed in all directions-some tending to the burning bodies, some disappearing into the woods, and others leaving on the pickup trucks. They slapped one another on the back, spoke in casual tones, and shared food. None of them gestured at me and my tree any longer. It was as though I had been tabled.

  A few of the humans did wander in my general direction, but they paid me no mind. A loose Peter Mellor memory left swimming in my brain told me: "A jury never looks at a man it has convicted."

  Later in the day, a Chevy Silverado pulled up and a new group of humans got out. Among them was Vanessa. She wore an ugly yellow parka and carried a rifle like the rest of them. She looked apprehensive-her eyes were wild and searching, like a relative rushing to the scene of a loved one's accident. Then she saw me, a sad, wet zombie-muddied, bloody, and tied to a tree-and she just disintegrated.

  She fell against the side of the truck as though her legs would no longer support her, and her hand went to her eyes-shielding them from the sight of me. Other humans had to rush over to keep her from falling. They comforted her as she cried.

  "Let me get this absolutely clear," Vanessa said, restored by an hour's rest and now speaking like a trial lawyer aiming to establish a crucial fact. "When I saw you back at my sister's house, you were already a zombie?"

  "Yes," I said. "I'd been a zombie for ... I think for a few hours."

  "Really?" she pressed.

  I nodded back.

  Night had nearly fallen, and the humans had built a small campfire. Vanessa kept her distance, like it was hard for her to look directly at me. Two other humans, weapons at the ready, stood to one side of her, listening intently to our conversation. I was starting to wonder if the humans had elected to have Vanessa determine my ultimate fate.

  "Why didn't you tell me?" Vanessa asked.

  "I don't really know," I said, being honest. "I guess I was scared, or maybe embarrassed. I woke up like this, and then everything started happening so fast."

  "So, what you said about having amnesia ... ?"

  "That was true," I declaimed. "My memory is really bad. I've forgotten most of the major parts of my life. I just remember random stuff. So
metimes, if I'm lucky, I get little hints about important things."

  "Did Sam know you were ... a zombie?" she asked.

  "Not when he dropped me off," I said. "He knows now, though. I went back to Kenton and told him. Look, what happened to you? I went back to your sister's house to find you, and it was destroyed. I thought you were dead. It made me crazy."

  "A biker gang came," she said. "We had to fight them off."

  "I saw that they killed Matilda," I stated. "We found her body." I decided not to mention that I'd also seen her become a zombie and that she'd followed me around Knox County for the better part of the spring. Instead, I wondered aloud if the kids and her sister Kate were okay.

  "Yeah," Vanessa said. "We got out of there all right, but it was a miracle. All that time, I'd been thinking we'd be able to hole up forever in that house-that we'd be safe there-growing our own food, making our own power, and not needing to be on the grid. Kate really had me sold on the idea. I was such a fool. It was all an illusion. All it took was four or five guys with guns to send it all crashing down."

  I felt for Vanessa, having lately seen my own illusions of security and strength dispelled with similar swiftness and cruelty.

  "What exactly happened?" I asked, wishing for all the world that I could have been there to help-her (mostly) bulletproof hero.

  "It was a gunfight," Vanessa said. "What's there to tell? They drove up and started shooting at us. We shot back with Matilda's guns. It went on for hours. In the middle of the night, they just left. I don't know if they were tired, or they went to get more guys, or what. It was our chance to escape, and we took it. We lit out into the woods, wandering and foraging like everyone else. Two women and four kids with no map or supplies or anything."

  Then she stopped, and her face fell. Vanessa put her hand to her mouth, and it appeared she might cry again. (Obviously, there had been something ...)

  But then she continued, and said: "The worst part, Peter, was that I thought you'd run off."

  "That's what Matilda told you?" I replied. "I mean, that was all she said?"

  "Yes, that was all," Vanessa answered. "She didn't say you were a zombie, if that's what you mean. I was gonna go looking for you the next day, but the biker gang attacked before I could."

  She looked down and swallowed hard.

  I felt like shit.

  "Peter, I was so worried about you," she said, averting her eyes. "And I was furious with you, too. I couldn't understand why you'd leave us like that-why you would do this to me. To us. When I needed you the most."

  Now it was my turn to wince at the memory of ancient injuries.

  I might have been a zombie with near-total amnesia, but I -could recall some things. And this tone of voice-like the whimpering of a wounded animal asking why you'd kicked it in the face-was one of them. I'd heard it from Vanessa, but from other women, too. It soaked back through my brain, making me feel sad and trapped and paralyzed by my inability to explain myself. Making me feel like a heel. I was being asked why I'd opted for an odyssey of crosscountry mayhem and murder with a gang of zombies in the same tone of voice that had once asked why I'd been so late at the bar, why I hadn't noticed her new hairstyle, or why I wasn't spending more time at home.

  "I ... ate a guy's brain," I stammered hoarsely. (Hoarse as a function of general physical deterioration, yes, but also as a function of emotion.)

  "And you didn't think you could talk to me about it?" Vanessa returned sharply.

  "I'm waiting for an answer, Pete," she said.

  "Well, no, frankly," I said. "I didn't."

  "Do you remember any of those times we talked about complete honesty?" she asked sternly. "Any of those times we said we'd tell each other everything? Christ, Peter. Was there a thing I couldn't bring myself to accept about you? I knew about the women. I knew about the drinking. I knew that you'd once fooled around with Sam."

  "Umm, okay," I said slowly. "But seriously ... I ate a guy's brain. And I liked it. I wanted to do it again."

  "And?" Vanessa shot back.

  It was dawning on me that my girlfriend was less concerned with my being a member of the walking dead than she was with how I had broken the news to her-or had failed to break the news.

  "I didn't think anybody could accept that," I said. "I was confused. I was scared-"

  "You were scared?" she retorted.

  "I was," I insisted. "I'd never been a zombie before. I didn't know what was happening. I still don't. It's not like I've got this figured out, Vanessa. I'm making it up as I go along."

  "Did you think about me at all?" she asked.

  "Vanessa," I said in exasperation, "once I got over the initial shock, you were the only thing I thought about. You were the only thing that I figured could still make sense for me. When I got back to that shot-up house-and I thought you were dead, or worse-it fucking crushed me. That's when I started eating people for real. Like, for real, for real. The thought of you not being around-even if, yeah, my memories aren't so great-made me crazy. It made me wanna give up and say `Fuck the world.' I didn't care anymore. I roamed around the county, and I ate people's brains. You want the whole truth? There it is. You got it."

  Vanessa paused.

  "Tell me the rest of your story," I said into the silence. "Who are these people? How did they find you? They look like they really know their stuff."

  "We found them," she said after a moment. "And it's a lucky thing that we did. I think we would have been dead after a couple more days, otherwise. Running into these folks was a godsend."

  "Are they soldiers or something?" I asked.

  "They're just a group of people trying to survive," she said, shaking her head. "They're folks from around the county who knew each other. Just people trying not to get killed, like us."

  "You have a few groups, and you keep in touch by radio," I said. "One of your outposts was a cabin next to a quarry."

  She craned her neck, as if straining to hear me completely. "How do you know about that?" she asked.

  "I ... that is, we ... we ran into it the other day-the cabin," I said, opting for a half-truth.

  Vanessa stared hard at me, tight-lipped.

  "Was that you?" she asked. "Peter, did you eat those nien?"

  Again, the tone was familiar. It was the same voice that asked if I'd gotten drunk and slept through a daughter's piano recital, or forgotten a birthday, or eaten the entire pizza that had been meant for everybody. There was seldom a reward for answering this sort of question honestly. And yet ...

  "They attacked us first," I said. "They attacked my flank. That's how it all got going. We acted in defense, really. But yes, we killed them. "

  "Your flank?" Vanessa spat. "Like you're ... like you're a little army general, or something ... Peter, those people were my friends."

  "I didn't know," I said. "At least not until after. See, I heard your voice on one of their radios, but then it got shot. I tried to get it to work again, but I couldn't."

  "I don't know what to say to you, Peter," Vanessa said.

  "Why are you guys out here?" I asked, attempting to change the direction of the conversation. "Do you know about the Green Zone they've got going out on the interstate? We almost walked there. I talked to a helicopter pilot about it. It's supposed to be safe and patrolled by the army."

  "Oh, it's great-if you can get there," Vanessa said. "There are criminal gangs everywhere, killing and raping and pillaging like pirates. It gets worse every day. Now they camp out along the roads to the Green Zone, waiting to catch people who are making a break for it."

  "I've seen some signs of gangs, maybe," I said, not actually recalling that many. "But we were able to walk straight to Highway 71 with no problem."

  "They would have avoided you," Vanessa replied. "They don't care about zombies. They just want to prey on other humans. Zombies are a waste of ammo."

  Vanessa gave me a withering look and walked away, joining a group of men holding radios.

  Once again, I was
alone with my thoughts.

  Many minutes passed. I lost track of time. They'd taken my watch. (I know, right? What did that accomplish?) Vanessa lingered over by a campfire, talking to the radio men. While her back was turned, a man walked out of the darkness and stalked up to me. He was tall and gaunt and wore a short haircut. A white guy, about forty. Mean face.

  "Vanessa said you killed them?" he said to me. "Our friends at the quarry-you killed them, yes?"

  I nodded.

  "I want you to know that the only reason we're keeping you alive is that the military seems to be interested in you," he said. "That's the only reason. If it were up to me, you would not exist. As far as I'm concerned the moment-the moment-that the army tells us you're anything less than our ticket out of here, I cut your head off myself. I don't know if I can make a zombie feel pain, but I'm damn straight going to try."

  "I'm ... I'm sorry," I said quietly, as he turned to go.

  "What did you say?!" he exploded, pivoting back around. "What the flick did you just say, you stinking dirty zombie?"

  He pushed me hard against the tree, then punched me in the chest. (I, of course, felt no pain, but I wouldn't say it was a comfortable situation. He was really, really mad.)

  "I said I was sorry," I clarified. This only seemed to increase his anger. He reached behind me-where my hands were tied-and bent the little finger on my left hand until we both heard tendons creak and bones snap.

  "George, what are you doing to it?" another of the humans shouted.

  George released his grip on me.

  "I'm serious," he said to me. "The moment you're not useful to us, you die. You're nothing. You're debris. You're flotsam floating in the river."

  I leaned back against the tree and stared at him. He spat in my face, then turned and marched back into the darkness.

  After a few minutes-when the rest of the humans seemed to have lost interest in me-I pulled my finger back into its socket.

  It grew late. The fire was brought low, and many of the humans retired for the night-some sleeping in trucks, others in tents or on tarps on the ground. Others still remained awake, nervously watching the perimeter. A couple of them had clearly been assigned to watch me. They sat on a log-the pair of then-staring at me disappointedly like I was a television stuck on educational programming. At one point, they chewed Skoal from a tin. I tried waving hello, but the two just chewed like llamas, staring right through me.