Zombie, Ohio

by Scott Kenemore

  "Yeah," I said. "Take out the sentries all at once, then rush the people from the valley up to the hill before the ATV guys know what happened."

  "Not possible," Puckett said.

  "Why?" I asked.

  "First of all, we need it to be dark to get to the sentry on the farthest side," Puckett said. "There are four of them. Three-like this idiot in the chair-have their backs to the woods, so it'll be easily done. But the sentry on the far side is set up in a lawn chair by the maintenance road. There's no real way to sneak up on him. The only cover on the approach is a couple of shrubs. Even in the dark, taking that one out will be real dangerous. Sam had volunteered to do it."

  I gave Sam a sideways look.

  "We also need the cover of darkness to get the people in the valley safely back up the hill," Sam said, unfazed. "Once you hit the base of the hill, you're into the trees and you're covered, but it's a good hundred yards from the lip of the valley to those trees. I wouldn't like to have them try it while these gangsters can see them. It'd be a shooting gallery."

  "Okay, fine," Vanessa said. "But where does that leave us?"

  "We can still do it," I insisted. "That plan will still work. Just substitute me for Sam."

  "Huh?" Puckett offered.

  "I move slow, but I'm safe, barring a head shot," I said. "Let me handle the one out by the maintenance road. You guys take out the other sentries and concentrate on getting the people out of the valley and up the hill. I'll keep this guy so busy with me, he won't have time to think about shooting anybody else. Then we just hold out on the hill until the army comes."

  "Might work," said Puckett, rubbing his chin.

  There was general cautious agreement all around.

  "Somebody should sneak back up the hill and tell people up there what we're gonna do," one of the bearded men said. I couldn't decide if he was volunteering to do it himself.

  "Is that easy to do?" I asked them.

  "We're getting better at it," said Puckett. "These fuckers can't secure the whole perimeter of the hill the whole time. You just figure out where they aren't, and make a break for it."

  "But don't choose wrong," Sam said. "Somebody already died that way."

  "I'll do it," said the first bearded man. (My guess had been right. He was volunteering.) "Unless the gang is trying some kind of offensive up the hill, I can direct everyone over to the side nearest the valley, to be ready to help. I'll leave right now. Just give me half an hour or so to find my way back up there before you start shooting."

  "Sound good to everyone?" I asked.

  I wanted to keep things moving along. Too much hesitation and planning, and everything could be lost. I wanted to strike first and strike hard. Who knew if the military would actually come? They had had no radio contact for almost two days with the parties who had promised to deliver me. The military might presume them dead at the hands of gangs, or other zombies, or even me. (I was, after all, the Kernel.) They might not even be coming.

  But then again, what if they did come? This airlift was the only hope for these humans for a while. The more I thought about it, the more I wanted to be sure they got their chance.

  There was more deliberation. Some still had doubts. But Puckett, who seemed almost unnaturally moved to favor scenarios involving violence, was quick to stick by the idea of attacking as soon as possible. Though there were pros and cons-and certainly, risksnobody could propose anything concrete that would have the same effect.

  "Let's do this," Puckett said. "C'mon. Let's go fucking kill them. Before the situation changes."

  "I agree," I said, though in measured tones. Puckett warranted no encouragement. (Indeed, I guessed that any additional stimulation would be dangerous.)

  "I'm off then," said the bearded man who was itching to head back to the hill. "Good luck, guys."

  After he had crawled away into the woods, the others explained to me where the shooters were and what their assignments had been.

  "So it all stays the same," I said. "Except Sam and Vanessa can stay here and take out high-chair-guy, and I'll charge the one sitting out in the field."

  "Yeah, that works," said Puckett.

  "And Vanessa, maybe you stay behind Sam," I added.

  "He's the man, so he goes first?" Vanessa quipped.

  "Something like that," I said, looking hard at the man who had cut my brakes.

  After a brief review of our attack plan ("When you hear Peter shooting, then you start shooting"), we moved into the forest to creep to our respective positions. I would have the longest, loneliest walk to the outcropping of trees from which I had to emerge.

  As we trudged away, Sam attempted to take me aside.

  "Look, Peter," Sam whispered. "I don't know what's with these sidelong looks, who told you what-or what you think you knowbut I didn't kill you."

  "Sure, you didn't," I told him. "You just had the motivation and the opportunity and were the only person at Kenton who knew how to cut brakes."

  "Look, I didn't do it," he countered. "And I can prove that to you.

  "What're you talking about?" I asked. "A witness puts you somewhere else at the time of my accident-and oh, let me guess, that person just happened to get eaten by a zombie?"

  "No," he said. "I can prove, 100 percent, that I'm not the one who killed you."

  That phrasing unsettled me. I stopped walking and turned to face him.

  "You say that like you know who it was," I told him.

  "Well... ," Sam waffled. "I do."

  I bit what was left of my lip in consternation.

  "But look, that person is dead," Sam continued. "I would never kill you, Pete. You've got to believe that. You were my only friend out here."

  "So wait," I said, needing some clarity. "You thought I was alive when you found me and drove me to Vanessa's sister's ... But now, when I come back here as a zombie, you know that I was murdered?"

  "It's complicated," Sam stammered.

  "You're telling me it's complicated," I returned.

  "When we get back to the hill, I can give you all the proof you'll ever require," Sam insisted. "Until then, you've just got to trust me."

  I looked hard into his eyes. For a long time. Sam did not look away, nor did he blink. For the life (life?) of me, if I hadn't known better, I might have gotten the impression he was telling the truth.

  "Whatever," I said, turning away. "We've got a lot to do before we get back to the hill."

  I walked away, leaving him standing there, staring at my back. After a moment, I caught up to Vanessa.

  "Is everything okay?" she asked.

  I shrugged.

  "He says he didn't do it, and that he has proof," I told her.

  "But who else could it have been?" Vanessa asked. "Someone related to that professor who killed himself?"

  "It's possible," I said. "The list of suspects is pretty damn short."

  I cast another suspicious glance back at Sam. He was holding his rifle awkwardly and looking at an early-spring toadstool.

  I wondered: Was this really the man who had volunteered to make the dangerous charge against the shooter in the lawn chair? In that moment, as Sam stooped a little to examine the mushroom's glistening bone-white top, he hardly looked capable of killing anyone. Me included.

  "Just keep an eye on him," I said to Vanessa.

  This next part is hard to tell. We came so, so close.

  At first, things went perfectly. We fanned out through the woods just as agreed, positioning ourselves as close as possible to the shooters guarding the valley. Puckett and the remaining bearded man each took a shooter for themselves, Vanessa and Sam shared the one in the high tennis chair, and I crept around to take out the one on the far side of the valley.

  I'd been told my job would be difficult, but was not prepared for what I saw when I stood at the edge of the woods. The task before me would be very dangerous, even for a zombie. There was a tremendous amount of distance between the trees and the guard in the lawn chair, and virtu
ally no cover in between. For a normal human, it would be suicide to attempt a charge in daylight. Yeah, maybe you'd have a chance at night, but even then, unless the guard was sleepy or distracted or something, it'd be a very risky thing. Again, I found it hard to believe Sam had volunteered. Maybe he'd wanted to die.

  For all the advantage his position afforded, the man in the lawn chair was not an imposing figure. He was around fifty, oafish, and decidedly porcine. He wore a leather jacket against the chill, and held a rifle in his lap. Beside him on the ground was a cooler and several empty beer cans. He alternated between eyeing the valley and rotating his girth toward the hill to see if there were any new skirmishes to watch.

  Before I charged (I was to "set things off," with the others commencing their attacks when they saw or heard evidence of mine), I studied the man's search pattern, aiming to charge at the opportunity calculated to afford me the most time.

  At first, I had considered that some kind of ruse might be appropriate. I could conceal a single weapon in my belt and walk up to the man as though I were a lost traveler. I'd get as close as I could, and then whip out my piece and hit him at close range. So what if he beat me to the draw? As long as he hit my chest and not my brain, I'd be fine. (And I would definitely kill him.)

  The problem with that plan was that I anticipated a hell of a firefight before the last friendly was rescued from the valley, and I wanted all my guns for it. (I'd carried them all this way, hadn't I? Why not use them.) Sure, I could sneak up on one person with just a pistol down my pants, but what about after I'd emptied it? What then? Even if I took the guy down with the first bullet, that left only five more shots-a situation which simply would not do. I wanted all of my weapons with me, even if it meant charging this guy head-on.

  However, as it turned out, I did end up using a bit of subterfuge.

  When I felt it was time (I was loaded down with all my weapons, and the sun had grown heavy and low in the clear spring sky), I emerged from my spot in the woods and began crossing the untilrecently manicured college landscaping. The paunchy man in the chair had turned to check out a flourish of loud skirmishing up on the hill. I walked as quickly as I could, but my zombie bones had grown old over the winter and my muscles were stiff and stringy. It was hardly a run. Even to call it a jog goes too far. At best, I managed a kind of lumbering dance, like a slow-motion vaudeville performer imitating a running man.

  Eventually, he saw me. His first reaction was clearly confusion. I could read the thoughts on his face. Who was I? Why was I coming in his direction? (Most people ran from gangsters, after all.) And why was I walk-running in such a strange, awkward way?

  Then he noticed my guns. My many, many guns. (I could still read his face.) He raised his rifle nervously.

  "Stop right there!" he said. "You! Stop!"

  I did no such thing.

  The man hesitated-looking around, as if for someone to tell him what to do. Soon, I was within fifty yards.

  "Stop there!" he shouted, taking aim at me. "I don't know you. Don't come any closer."

  I kept coming. I'd decided to go with a shotgun first, and I brought it up and leveled it at the man.

  "Shit!" he shouted, and beat me to the draw. He might have said more, but I couldn't hear it over the crackle of his gun.

  His first two shots missed, but the last one hit me in the chest. High in the chest. Almost my neck, really. Much too close to my brain for comfort.

  I staggered under the impact of the bullet, but did not fall. My attacker had seen his weapon connect with me, and hesitated for a moment. Then he fired again. This blast also connected, striking my lower torso.

  He hesitated again, waiting to see if I would go down.

  Suddenly, shots rang out in what seemed all directions. The paunched man lowered his rifle and cocked his head, as if smelling the air. He wanted to look away, but dared not while I still stood. I saw my chance.

  As dramatically as possible (even managing a theatrical [if raspy] Arrruugh!), I stumbled as though one of his bullets had struck home, and fell forward into the grass, unmoving. (I made sure my head was cocked forward and to the side, giving me a more than adequate view of my target from the ground.)

  More gunshots rang out around me.

  "What the fuck is going on?!" the gangster yelled, clearly growing alarmed. Seconds after I'd fallen, he felt comfortable enough to survey the horizon. (The different sentry posts were not close to one another.) As quickly as it had started up, the sound of shots died away completely. I hoped it signaled that my companions had been successful.

  "What the fuck?!" the man said again, looking back and forth like an anxious animal. I considered trying to move my weapon up slowly and taking a shot at him. However (to my delight), he began approaching nie-all the time turning around and around, scanning the horizon for the source of the gunfire.

  He drew closer. Twenty yards. Fifteen.

  I looked directly at him all the while, but mimicked the straightahead stare of the dead. (It came quite naturally.)

  Finally, when he was within a first-down, I sprang up and leveled my shotgun at him.

  "Shit!" he screamed, fumbling for his rifle on its strap.

  I empted both barrels. Ram! Ram! The first blast tore through his gut, removing his defining feature. The second tore his face apart, splitting his skull and opening the side of his face into one giant eye. He fell to his knees, and then to his side. I smiled and reloaded my shotgun. Then I took off toward the valley.

  So, okay, we'd all been calling it a "valley," but don't picture this giant incline or anything. It was a gradual, sloping hill. Maybe ten feet. Just barely deep enough to conceal something like a school bus.

  As I approached it, I saw others running too. They were all friendly. The remaining bearded man was emerging from a line of trees. Puckett and Vanessa and Sam were making their way toward the valley too, but I was closest.

  Hurdling the dead body of an old woman who had been shot through the neck, I reached the lip of the valley and looked down into it. And indeed, I did see a bright yellow school bus and an assemblage of weary-looking people. I also saw a police-style Glock pointed right at me.

  "Wait!" I rasped, throwing up my hands.

  I was too late, and the terrified man holding the weapon began firing.

  I fell backward, taking one to the arm and another to the shoulder. I decided to stay on the ground.

  "Pete!" cried Vanessa.

  "Stop shooting!" I heard Puckett shouting. "Stop shooting! Goddamn it ... We're from the college! We killed the sentries! We're friendly!"

  I decided to get up, just to show Vanessa I was all right.

  "Don't shoot!" I called raspily, echoing Puckett. "We're here to get you out."

  A few tentative heads poked up furtively from the lip of the valley, like wary groundhogs.

  "Omigod!" one of the heads cried. "Vanessa!"

  Weapons lowered on both sides. A woman emerged fully from the valley. It was Kate, Vanessa's sister. They reached one another and embraced.

  "We thought you were dead," Kate cried.

  "Everyone else is dead," Vanessa told her sister. "Peter and I were the only ones who made it out."

  "Peter?" Kate said.

  Vanessa pointed at me.

  Kate looked me over, and slowly put her hand to her mouth.

  "Is he ... ?" Kate began.

  "Yes," Vanessa responded. "But he's friendly. It's complicated."

  I gave a tentative wave, and a bullet fell out of my elbow.

  "Are the girls okay?" asked Vanessa.

  Kate nodded.

  "They're on the bus," Kate said. "They're fine." The women embraced again.

  "No time for love, Dr. Jones," quipped Puckett. "We've got to get going, people."

  "Yeah," I said. "Everybody needs to get up the hill. Now. Just run. Forget about your stuff. The other gangsters could come back any minute now."

  The call was repeated throughout the valley camp of about twenty pe
ople, and they too began to move. The exhaustion and terror on their faces was sad to see. These folks looked like they'd been up for days, and terrified for every instant of it. I smiled when Vanessa and Kate's girls emerged from the bus. They had lost, tearfilled eyes, but they looked pleased to finally be freed. Vanessa's daughters ran to embrace her.

  "No time-no time!" reiterated Puckett. "Head for the hill!"

  On exhausted legs and empty stomachs, the group of twenty or so began running for the base of the hill that was Kenton College. I waited until the last one had left the little valley, then took up a position as the rear guard. As I lumbered forward, I searched the hill ahead of me for any sign of life or movement (or gunfire), but saw nothing. I also heard nothing. All the guns and ATV engines had fallen silent. I hoped, desperately, that this boded well and not ill.

  I could think only of the task at hand. Get these people into the cover of the trees, then get them up the hill and into the college proper. Then defend the hill for a couple of hours, and bingowe're outta here. With the ranks of the good guys swelled to double their number, I reasoned that this should be an eminently accomplishable task. For all of their exhaustion, most of the bus group looked like they knew how to use a weapon.

  The front of the group reached the tree line and began working its way in. I breathed an unnecessary sigh of relief. The gang would have no way of knowing that the army was on its way. Perhaps they would retreat for a time, and there would be no additional fighting.

  No sooner did I have this thought-this inkling that a peaceful denouement might be close-than a new crackle of gunfire erupted from the hill.

  I turned toward it, and heard a scream, and people began spilling back out of the tree line. I was confused, but not for long.

  A great group-a posse of angry-looking men-emerged from the trees. It appeared to be the entirety of the criminal gang, and with them marched the disarmed Kenton defenders. I recognized Bowles, the doctor, and Starks, the guard, among them. They had been taken prisoner.

  "Drop your weapons," commanded a sonorous voice from among the gangsters. It was a voice I'd heard somewhere before ...