Zombie, Ohio

by Scott Kenemore

  It was a difficult situation. The fact that the gang did not know that the military was coming-unless someone in the captured group had already blabbed-was the one thing in our favor. The one ace still up our sleeve. (Though the more I thought about it, the less sure I was that it was an ace. Maybe it wasn't even a face card.)

  "They're remarkable," Bleckner said, concluding a lecture on the benefits of fragmentation grenades. "All it took was a couple of gentle lobs up the hill ahead of us, and all your Kenton College friends came out to surrender."

  I knew I had to act fast.

  "To return to the matter at hand: It seems like you want something, and I want something," I said.

  "Yes, that sounds right," said Bleckner, obviously pleased that I was willing to get down to brass tacks.

  "You want me to join up with you, correct?" I said. "You want a zombie in your gang."

  "Yes," said Bleckner. "But it's more than that, Peter. I believe that you'll eventually come to see eye to eye with me again. Maybe your memory will come back one day, and you'll recall the way we used to agree on what kind of place the world of Kenton College had become, and what we'd like to do about it. I think you'll be pleased when you realize that now we actually can do those things."

  "Okay," I said. "I want something, too, though."

  Bleckner sighed. "I know what you're going to say," he told me. "You're going to ask me to release Vanessa and her girls here."

  When he said "girls here," he patted Sarah's head gently. It turned my stomach, and a dull anger inside of me, which had been growing since I'd met Bleckner, now threatened to boil over.

  I did my best to keep cool.

  "No," I told him. "That's not what I want at all."

  "Oh?" he said.

  "I want to kill Sam," I told him. "I want revenge."

  It was clear this pleased Bleckner greatly.

  "That sounds like something I can arrange," he said brightly. "Yes, indeed, it does."

  He extended his hand.

  "Have we a bargain then?" he asked.

  Nobody had offered to shake my hand since I had become a zombie. I had to admit that there was a seduction to it. Though I was operating, now, under false pretenses, it felt right and real to shake on an agreement with somebody. It was like being invited back to the world of men.

  Since giving in to my brain-eating desires, I had started thinking of humans as less than zombies. As food. After being captured by Vanessa's group, I'd started feeling less than human. They had treated me like an animal and tied me to a tree. Now, Bleckner's chubby, womanly hand beckoned to pull me out of the lower echelons of existence and back into the world of nlen-the world of contracts, and brotherhood, and equality.

  It was seductive, but I was not seduced.

  I made my conditions clear to Bleckner. Both of them.

  I wanted it public, and I wanted it now.

  As the aggrieved party, I desired something more than physical revenge. More than "a life for a life." I wanted to humiliate Sam, I told Bleckner. I wanted to establish myself as dominant in front of the others. I wanted to show everybody what happened when you messed with Peter Mellor-that even when you killed me, I would cone back for you.

  "Now you've come around," Bleckner said when he heard this, slapping me jovially on the back. "You see the importance of establishing yourself as a powerful force before the rest of the pack. That's the spirit! You know, it's funny-the zombies seem to have died down recently, but gosh, I hope that when I die, I'll come back as a zombie just like you, Pete!"

  Bleckner lost some of his good humor, however, when I continued to insist that my justice must be delivered instantly. Within the hour.

  "Of course you desire swift reciprocity, but we still need to secure the rest of the college," Bleckner returned. "There could still be a few holdouts in some of the buildings. We can't be too careful. And what if another group should arrive and attempt to take the college before we've had the chance to fortify our position? No, let's wait until nightfall. Hell, we can even build a pit, get some torches-it'll be appropriately dramatic to your purposes, I think."

  "No deal," I said. "It's got to be now. Right now."

  Bleckner cocked his head, as if suspecting something. I decided my task was to convince him of my bloodlust.

  "Listen," I said, "I want to kill that motherfucker right now. I want to eat his brains in front of everybody."

  "I know you do," began Bleckner. "You said that."

  "Then prove it," I said. "You want me on your team? Fine. But you're going to have to show me that you're not bullshitting."

  "I'm offering you a life of killing and eating brains and doing whatever you want, for as long as we can hold out here," Bleckner said.

  "Yeah," I told him, "with strings attached. I already had that life when I was on my own."

  Bleckner sighed.

  "It really can't wait?" he asked in distress.

  I knew that I had won, and indicated that no, it could not.

  "Very well," said Bleckner. "We'll get her going, then. There's a little rock garden outside of Gunther Hall, in case you don't remember. It should be perfect for the primal, authentic sort of justice you're seeking."

  "Then let's stop wasting time, and fucking get there," I told him.

  Bleckner smiled, and we were away.

  We walked, silently, up the side of the Kenton College hill to Gunther Hall-a small, squarish building, hewn long ago from rough-looking stone, where the school's modest dance department met to pirouette and waltz (and possibly Electric Slide; I didn't remember). The fifty or so hostages had been rounded up into the building and the doors locked with chains. As we approached, I saw a couple of nervous faces peering out from one of the tiny glass windows. One was Vanessa's, and it became visibly relieved when Sarah came into view. (Vanessa's eyes also lit upon me, but only for an instant.)

  Several of the thugs milled about. Like those they had captured, they looked exhausted and spent. I might have looked piteously on them, had I not known better.

  Vanessa's take from the building window must have been confusing at best, as Bleckner began to bark orders, and the thugs hopped up and began tipping stone statues and moving benches to create a kind of fighting pit.

  "I want everybody to see this," I told Bleckner.

  "I'm not letting the people we captured out of Gunther Hall, if that's what you're getting at," he responded. "They killed many of us. I expect my men will want to exact their own revenge when yours is complete."

  "The hostages can watch through the tiny windows there," I said, as if I didn't care. "But this is about establishing me as a member of your gang. I want all the members present. Do you have a name, incidentally? A name for the gang?"

  "No, we ..." Bleckner began. "That is to say, I hadn't thought of it."

  "You should really consider it," I told him. "Breeds terror among the populace. Gets your name out there with other gangs. Might help with recruiting."

  "I'll think upon it," Bleckner said seriously.

  "But this fight," I continued, "is about establishing me as a member of your gang. I want your men to see what I'm capable of. No, that's a lie. Really, I want them to see what I do to somebody who fucks with me."

  "Ahh," said Bleckner. "It's to be an initiation and a warning, all in one. Delightful! Yes, of course! I see your aim."

  "Good," I said.

  "Though it would be a good deal more dramatic at night," Bleckner tried, clearly still wishing to postpone the proceedings. "I imagine torches and so forth would really create a spectacle-create something that will stick in the men's memories for a long time."

  "What I want sticking in their memories is that justice from me comes swift and deadly," I said with all the bile I could muster. "I want them to know that if anybody fucks with me, then they get eaten alive."

  "I suppose that's something that might also stick," granted the provost.

  The fighting pit was soon completed, and the gang gathered around.
Some of them had evidently found a vending machine and smashed it open. The gangsters were circulating sodas and chips among themselves, and soon exhibited the restored spirits of a junkfood high.

  The hostages inside the dance building began crowding around the two small windows that faced the improvised pit. Their nervous expressions betrayed a true terror of whatever was being prepared. They also looked askance at me, for it was clear from our body language that something had transpired between myself and the leader of the gang. We were definitely looking chummy. Though Bleckner still held one of Vanessa's daughters at gunpoint, his weapon never once pointed in my direction.

  With the men relaxing and eating on the ground around us, Bleckner raised his hand and the group fell silent.

  Bleckner addressed the men sternly, his tone harsh and commanding, his voice deep and powerful. I realized in a trice that this was what had allowed a chubby, weak college administrator not only to make himself accepted by a collection of felons and killers, but also, to establish himself as their leader. These men had been used to verbal commands since their earliest days, from school principals, policemen, and prison guards. They knew a voice of authority when they heard one. And yet, this voice was not berating them, pointing out their faults and transgressions, or laying out the conditions of their parole. This voice of authority accepted them for who and what they were, and for the things they liked to do. (It even gave them advice on how to do it collectively, to create better outcomes.)

  "Gentlemen," Bleckner said, leaning against a gnarled ironwood tree. "This man next to me is Peter Mellor. I knew him in life, and now he is a zombie. Yes, question?"

  One of the gang members had extended a Cheeto-stained hand.

  "If he's a zombie, how come he can talk and stuff?" the man asked.

  "You want to field that, Peter?" Bleckner said, stepping side.

  "I just can," I told them.

  "He just can," said Bleckner. "There you have it! Yes ... a follow-up question?"

  "He's not going to try to eat us, is he?" the gang member asked.

  I shook my head.

  "There, that's a clear no," said Bleckner. "You're safe, Fred. Now, to continue, Peter was killed by a man inside that building. Though he's been on the wrong side lately, I've asked Peter to join us, and he has accepted. His condition is simple: He has asked to kill the man who killed him. What say you all?"

  Bleckner held out for a rousing cheer, as from a crew in a pirate movie. There was only a confused silence. (I guessed this was not the first time that Bleckner's wax toward the dramatic and formal had made his meaning quite lost on these men.)

  "Should we let Peter kill the guy who killed him?" Bleckner tried again.

  "A'ight den," offered one gang member.

  "Yeah," said the man with the Cheeto-stained hands. (There were several men with Cheeto-stained hands, but this was the one who had spoken before.)

  "Yeah, totally," said another.

  "And shall this be his initiation into our band?" Bleckner said, resuming his theatricality. (I have no idea why he tried this again. Did he need, in his mind, to be some kind of pirate king?)

  There were only quiet nods of agreement.

  "Very good, then," said Bleckner. "We'll bring forth the condemned and ... and ... How did you want to do this exactly, Peter? Just shoot him, I suppose?"

  "Not at all," I said. "He turned me into a zombie, so I want to kill him like a zombie. More poetic that way."

  "You propose hand-to-hand combat?" Bleckner asked.

  "I was thinking more tooth-to-brain, but yeah," I said. "I don't need a weapon."

  "Fair enough," said Bleckner, with an evil smile. "We shall now bring out the condemned. Or, I guess ... I guess I shall, because nobody else is going to recognize him."

  Bleckner stepped toward Gunther Hall, and I followed after him.

  "Wait one second," I said, putting my hand on Bleckner's beflabbed shoulder and turning him. "I have something I want to ask you."

  He looked into my face like a stern old priest.

  "The little girl," I continued, pointing to Sarah. "No need to have her out here, is there? She's seen so much already. I don't know what your plans are for her, but please, you've got to spare her from seeing this."

  Bleckner's good humor fell away.

  "The girl is insurance," Bleckner said. "Don't take me for a fool. I like to think that I can trust you, Peter, but with your memory loss-it's like we've only known each other for a few minutes, really. I'm concerned that you seem to have forgotten entirely some of the most crucial points on which you and I used to connect."

  "Please," I tried. "I still connect with you."

  "No," said Bleckner. "And in the future, don't question me in front of the men." He turned and began to march toward Gunther Hall, pushing the girl with him. (From their bored looks, I doubted the men cared very much about who said what to Bleckner.)

  "I'm sorry, but I have to insist," I said, catching up with him at the door. I leaned in so we could speak confidentially.

  "Who are you to insist?" he returned coldly.

  "Look," I told him firmly. "You want a zombie in your gang? That's fine. It doesn't have to be me. You can't threaten me, see? I can't really feel pain, and I'm already dead. Just put the girl back inside so she doesn't have to see me eat Sam's brain. What am I gonna do? I'm unarmed, and you all have guns. I can't run eitherit's not physically possible for me."

  "We saw you sort of jogging a little," Bleckner said.

  "Oh, come fucking on," I told him. "That wasn't exactly a sprint. You're telling me you're afraid I'm going to get away? I'm surrounded by thirty men with guns. What are you afraid of?"

  I stared Bleckner down as hard as I could.

  "Clearly, you pose no threat to us," he said. "As you say."

  "Well, then," I said, "unless you need to feel like a big man by pulling my girlfriend's kid around, then let her go back inside the building while I kill Sam."

  "Fine," said Bleckner, and pushed the girl away. He stepped back and stared at me hard. I think he was waiting to see if I was going to do something-if this was a trick. Was I going to scream at the girl to run, like in an action movie or something?

  But I just stood there. So did the girl. She looked very sad.

  "Fine," Bleckner said again. "Let's do this."

  We walked over to the door, which the gang members had crudely locked by jamming a wrench in the door and further tying it with chains. It took a couple of minutes to "unlock."

  The chain fell to the floor of the stone walkway with a loud clatter, and Bleckner threw the door open wide. On the expensively matted floor where liberal arts students once danced, a grim compendium of refugees huddled-waiting to be killed, or worse. I think Bleckner relished the terror in their waiting faces.

  As Bleckner watched, I took Sarah by the hand and pulled her to the doorway of Gunther Hall. Then I bent and whispered in her ear, then whacked her hard on the backside, as if to say "Get in there!" Sarah needed no further prompting. She ran straight past everyone and into her mother's arms. Vanessa, who was already holding her other daughter, embraced Sarah with a little cry like a wounded bird.

  "We've come for you, Sam," Bleckner pronounced, spotting his target seated in a corner. Sam looked up at Bleckner, and then over at me. I put my hand on Bleckner's shoulder and nodded.

  "That's him, all right," I said.

  "Peter, don't do this," Vanessa cried. "This isn't the way to deal with Sam."

  I did not respond.

  Sam stood.

  "Let's go," I told him.

  Sam didn't look me in the face, but walked past me and exited the building.

  "Why would you do this?" Vanessa shouted. "What does this accomplish, Peter?"

  I turned away from her, and we closed the door on the hostages. Bleckner reattached the chain.

  Sam marched dutifully toward the circle of men who waited, eyes straight ahead. I joined him presently.

  "Peter, this i
s the man who killed you?" Bleckner announced more than asked.

  "Yes," I told him, taking a position in the circle opposite Sam.

  Bleckner stepped between us, like a referee. I looked at the sky, and wondered how much time was left. The sun seemed low. Too low. The western sky was already tinged with red. How long did I have until it qualified as "sunset"?

  "Now," said Bleckner, as if settling in to deliver a long sermon. "These two men will settle things the way nature intended. The way real men do, in the real world."

  Bleckner night have said more, but I don't remember. I wasn't listening. I was looking at Sam.

  He looked horrible, like ... I guess, like what he was-a condemned man. For a naturally chubby person, Sam's face had grown more gaunt than I would have thought possible. I looked hard at him, this man who had killed me. He wasn't much of a foe. He certainly didn't look like a killer. He looked sad and sallow. There was no fear in his eyes, as I'd imagined there would be in a man waiting to be killed. Instead, there was only a grim emptiness. When Sam looked at me, he looked right through me, his shoulders slumped forward like a sullen teenager trying not to be noticed. He stared at the ground and at his feet.

  And yet ...

  I could have sworn that a wry grin danced at the edges of his lips, fighting to become a full-fledged smile. I wondered what was playing in his mind. Was it the beginnings of the insane grin of a man unable to comprehend the implications of his own impending death? It sure didn't look like that. But neither was it the grin of a man with a secret that can save him. I was fairly sure there was no machine gun secreted in his pant leg.

  No, it was closer to the grin of a man who has found the most profound irony in his life's last situation. It said that this was funny, because the opposite thing had been supposed to happen. Or that this had been supposed to happen, but not in this way. It said this was "The Cop and the Anthem." He had expected something like this, but not this, and not now ...