The priest did not bother to correct the man’s language. Sensing an approaching breaking point and hoping to placate, Father O’Brien called out to the couple. “What experiments did you have in mind?”
That simple question silenced everyone. Despite the various stances on whether or not to keep the head, simple curiosity had snagged them; that was the hook. Expectant eyes followed each subtle sway of Bryant’s body as he tried to think. His body tingled nervously under their roving gaze.
“Well, um.” He began unsteadily. “How do they hunt us? I think that is the first question. If we figure out the answer, we’ll know how to hide from them or avoid detection at least.” He sat down and set the decapitated head down on its still dripping neck.
“I haven’t seen it blink yet.” Eric observed, feeling his heart settling back to a slow, steady rhythm.
“So, when a human doesn’t blink what happens?” Bryant uncomfortably asked the audience.
Cara answered him. “It is a reflex that happens at least every ten seconds. If a person has his or her eyes propped open for a length of time (let’s say for a surgery), the eyes have to be regularly hydrated or else it can affect vision.”
“So, that means its vision should be impaired, however it still tries to bite me when I reach for it.” He did not demonstrate and no one asked him to. “Let’s take away its vision completely and see if it can still sense me.”
Bryant reached into the side pocket of his backpack and pulled out a sharpened pencil. Both the writing utensil and his hand wore red smears from the where the leaking head had soaked his book bag. He placed one hand on the creature’s matted hair and pressed down to hold the head in place. Building suspense (though not consciously), Bryant slowly eased the pencil forward wanting to make sure that he punctured the eye and nothing else. The difficulty of that task increased exponentially by his unsteady nerves. The graphite tip of the pencil seemed to dance around an inch away from the wide staring eye. Gradually easing forward, the sharpened end pushed into the tender flesh of the once human eye. It indented slightly before the surface integrity gave, sending the interior of the organ leaking out over the pencil and down the pale cheekbones of the deceased. Shuddering, he pulled the weapon out, hearing a suction noise as it exited the tight puncture. He repeated the process with the second eye, noticing that the butterflies dancing inside his stomach did not abate.
Bryant reached toward its mouth, carefully keeping his distance. The mouth began snapping at him even without sight. He pulled his hand back.
Father O’Brien watched with horrid fascination. “How does it know when we’re close by?”
“Body heat?” Cara offered.
The grown man sitting in the corner away from the group shouted. “This is pointless. We should throw it away and stay put! God is in this place and that thing’s presence is an abomination. God will not let his servants perish after they sought him out.”
The priest turned around to face him. “What is your name, sir?” The voice was controlled but stern.
“What does it matter?” The man screamed back.
“What is your name?” He asked louder.
“Daniel Rogers.” He replied.
“Your children are in out circle trying to understand. Why aren’t you?” The priest motioned at a small boy and a small girl.
“I told them not to get closer. They disobeyed. Not honoring their father, God sees their sin!” The venom in his voice shocked everyone present. Cara noticed the children wince at their father’s words. The girl appeared on the verge of tears.
“Now see here, Mr. Rogers!” The priest stood up, looking down at the man curled into a tight ball. “Children are born with curiosity. Man can reason and discover the world around him and God bestowed those gifts. So, to shut out enlightenment is to deny a gift from God.”
Daniel fell silent and turned his face away. He did not listen to anything the old man had said, but he knew enough to understand that he was out numbered. He cast one last glance at his children and pulled his knees in closer.
Bryant saw that the exchange had ended and continued his lesson. “I’m going to try to talk to it.” He lowered himself onto all fours. “Can you hear me?” The mouth snapped at flesh that was not present. “Okay. Try to speak.” He coaxed it but the mouth only snapped again.
Cara interrupted. “This is pointless. It has no lungs. It couldn’t speak even if it had the mental capacity.
Bryant’s cheeks flushed red. “Stupid” he muttered under his breath. “We did learn something though.” He added as if to make up for his foolish idea of speaking with a zombie. “It responds to audio stimuli. It tried to bite at any sound. Let’s puncture the ear drums and see if it still attacks.”
Bryant slowly pushed the same eye encrusted pencil into the ear canal, being careful not to move too deep. The pencil kept sinking in, encountering resistance but still penetrating. A trickle of sanguine fluid dripped from the lobe, spilling over the contours and down the neck. After both ears were rendered useless, he tried speaking again. “Hello. Can you hear me?” The mouth moved slightly but not in the same manner as before.
Eric spoke this time. “It might be responding to the vibration. That is the case with some deaf people. They can’t hear but they can sense the beat of a song through the vibration of the sound waves.” Though he looked calmer than before, his eyes still darted around wildly.
Cara nodded. “That sounds reasonable.”
Slowly, Bryant stretched his hand out toward the mouth. As the distance closed, the mouth remained stationary. His trembling fingers stopped almost touching the gray, cracked lips. The teeth snapped shut with unexpected force and a quickness that sent Bryant reeling back and looking at his still intact hand. “It almost had me” he thought.
“That was close.” He tried to laugh it off as he stood up. “Now for the acid test. How much damage to the head can it withstand? As we have seen, it survived dismemberment. It has attacked without sight or hearing. It has also not bled to death.” In a grandiose manner, he scooped up a pencil and a fistful of hair. Lifting the head in one hand and thrusting with the other, he sent the sharpened cylinder of wood through the destroyed eye and into the brain. The mouth slackened and an odd tension left the facial muscles. Bryant set it back down and repeated his taunting with his hand. They waited but it did not strike. “Congratulations. We know exactly what to do to kill it.”
“Good.” Daniel shouted at him. “Take a pencil and go out the front door! I want to see you save us.”
Everyone, even the man’s own children, shouted in unison. “Shut up!”
Eric pulled Bryant to the side. “I’ve got a theory I’d like to run by you.”
Bryant patted him on the arm. “Let me get my girlfriend in on this. I think she may be a little smarter than me.”
Eric stood dumbfounded as the young man stepped away and came back with the petite young girl he thought he recognized. “I remember you” he whispered to himself. This was definitely the girl who met him in the parking lot on a day that seemed a million years ago. He shrugged it off and spoke to them in hushed tones. “We shouldn’t have killed the head. We need to know what specific part of the brain is essential.” He leaned in even closer and both teenagers could smell the dried sweat from his exertions. “My idea is that the reptilian brain is what is active. The frontal lobes are dead, useless fat, but the lower brain, the primal instinct is still alive. That explains the mindless, animalistic behavior.” Excitement crept into his voice.
Bryant glanced at Cara and she nodded, adding, “That sounds like what we’ve seen.”
Bryant turned back to the doctor. “What else does that reptilian brain control?”
The doctor began speaking like the text of a medical book without realizing it. “It is composed of the brainstem and is the smallest region of the brain. It determines the general level of alertness and regulates the vegetative processes.”
“What is a vegetative process?” Bryant asked.
“Breathing and heartbeat.” He quickly answered. “It also controls the fight or flight mechanism. It lacks language and complex memory and concerns itself mainly with survival, physical maintenance, hoarding, dominance, preening, and mating.”
“What the hell is preening?” Bryant interrupted.
Cara cut in. “It means ‘dressing up’, like when animals clean themselves.”
Eric smiled. “Yes, that’s it.” He turned his attention back to his explanation. “It is generally accepted that the lower brains is also where love, hate, fear, lust, and contentment come from.”
A small child’s voice ended the conversation. “Daddy, I’m hungry.”
The trio turned and looked in the direction of the speaker. The little girl pulled at Daniel Roger’s arm. He still sat facing the corner, ignoring everyone. Cara reached out and gently pulled the girl away from the unmoving man.
“Come here sweetie.” She directed at the girl, and then turned to the group. “Does anyone know where the kitchen is?” Cara looked around for a response.
The girl’s brother raised his hand, unsure of why he used a gesture from school on the teenager. “We go to this church, Miss.”
Cara sincerely smiled at the young boy. “I’m not a ‘Miss’ or a ‘Mrs.’. I’m just a kid, too.” Just the day before, she would have vehemently argued that she was an adult, but at that moment, she realized that (despite her intellectual maturity) she still knew what it was to be a frightened child.
She checked her pistol and waved for him to lead the way. “Let’s go find a snack.” She walked through the doorway, gun drawn and surveyed the short, narrow hallway. The boy led the way and the girl made sure to stand a step behind Cara. The adolescent felt sure that the eight year old would be standing right beside her if the narrow passage had permitted it. She took a moment of pause to converse with the two children, halting the boy’s substantial lead. Squatting in a more comfortable position, she descended to the girl’s eye level.
“What is your name?” Cara tentatively began the introductions.
The girl curtsied like a noblewoman introducing herself at the king’s court. “I’m Sylvia.” Then she pointed at her brother. “That booger eater is Tommy.” The boy replied by sticking out his tongue.
Cara laughed. “Pleased to meet you both. By the way,” She cut her eyes over to the ten year old boy. “Do you really eat boogers?”
“No, but I do like peanut butter.”
“I think everyone likes peanut butter.” Cara took Sylvia’s hand while addressing Tommy. “Well, let’s get downstairs and see if they have some.” The trio descended the bare concrete stairs, which looked out of place in a church and more at home in an office building. One flight down, the passage ended in a wide expanse of carpet. Spread out in front of them was a kitchen with a counter forming the boundary to the massive (but empty) dining area. The majority of the tables and chairs had been used to block doors and windows.
Before she could stop them, Sylvia bolted away, chasing Tommy around the unobstructed floor. Cara sighed and decided to let them play. The situation was hard enough without making it worse for two children that could not fully grasp the desperation with which everyone else felt weighted down. “Besides, their childhood is going to be short enough” a mocking voice in her head sardonically commented. Instead, she searched through the remnants of an ill-equipped kitchen. She found silverware in a drawer, at the same time hearing plaintive cries of “give it back”. She wanted to call out scolding the children, but the question “What’s going on in there?” sounded like her mother. Frozen by the sudden thought and all the ugly thoughts it led to, she stood looking dumbly at the gleaming knives, forks, and spoons trying to get a grasp on her emotions. She felt as if she were standing on the beach and was caught by a tall, unexpected wave. Her legs developed a curious trembling feeling, as if her muscles were revolting against her mind. A strange, painful hollowness that stole her breath away blossomed in her chest and she reached out to steady herself on the counter top.
“Get your head together.” She commanded herself. The children did not notice, too enraptured in their games. Cara took long, cleansing breaths, exhaling the stale air in her lungs. After a brief moment, she could continue looking for food.
The first cabinet held a twelve pack of snack cakes which Cara pulled down. She waved the brightly colored box, hearing the cellophane wrappers inside make their squeaky noises as they brushed against each other. “I found Little Debbie.” She called in the most cheerful manner she could muster, and the children came running.
Tommy sprinted toward her with a book tucked under his arm. Sylvia vainly tried to catch up to him with arms stretched out. “Make him share.”
Cara opened the box quickly, then a clear wrapper containing two of the prized treats. “Why don’t you trade me the book for a snack cake?” She made the offer to Tommy who readily accepted. Cara took the tome in one hand and passed out the snacks to both children who sat on the floor seconds later. Cara crossed her legs, stretching out on the carpet with the book in her lap, examining the cover while the children greedily ate.
Cara thumbed through the pages, glancing at the illustrations. It was obvious that she held a children’s Bible of considerable age. One picture depicted a man hanging from a tree by his hair and another man brandishing a sword at the helpless victim. A turn of the page revealed a two-page spread of the ark floating in tumultuous waters under an overcast sky. On the top of a few rocks barely breaking the rising ocean’s surface, people held on, shouting with agonized expressions on their faces. Some young vandal had written in obscene dialogue above the image of a pregnant woman standing on a mountain top. The waves lapped at her sandal clad feet as she placed one hand on her full womb, longingly staring at the retreating ark. The words above her head, scrawled in black ink, read “Oops, I’m fucked.” Cara shuddered and closed the book.
The children finished their sugary meal and ran to the sink, washing the sticky residue from their fingers. When they returned, they both sat Indian-style facing Cara.
Sylvia spoke first. “Is your Daddy here, too? I heard you call that man ‘father‘.”
Cara shook her head and fought the urge to cry. Now, in the company of children, she felt like she had to give them some kind of hope but the question about her father brought the sick sensations flooding back into her. She managed to choke out a satisfactory answer. “No, I called him ‘father’ because in my church, that’s what you call a preacher.”
“Weird.” Tommy mumbled looking at his hands.
“Have you ever been to a Catholic church?” Cara asked while blinking back tears. The damn memories just wouldn’t leave. The dead, but oh so alive, eyes peering out of the closet were hungry for her. Not just behind the door of her parent’s closet, they were everywhere.
Both children shook their heads and Tommy replied with a soft ‘no’.
Cara looked up to keep the tears from spilling over the edge of her bottom eye lids. “That’s a shame. They are very beautiful.”
Sylvia spoke up then. “Daddy says that he feels sorry for everyone that doesn’t go to church here, because they don’t know that they are lost.”
“What difference does it make if you love Jesus here or at home or even on the playground? God is everywhere, so He knows if you love Jesus everywhere too.” Cara spat out disgusted at the way their father had tried to bring self-righteousness to his young children. A little voice in the back of her head urged her toward anger. Yes, get furious. The rage would dispel the sour-stomach and the shaky legs. Concentrate on that ignorant zealot.
“What about demons?” Tommy innocently asked. “Daddy said a demon made Mommy hate God and that’s why she tried to hurt us.”
Cara felt her skin grow cold. “What?”
Sylvia “shushed” him but he continued. “Mommy came inside with blood on her. Then she chased us and bit Daddy hard. He said that a demon made her do it.”
Cara remembered Daniel R
ogers sitting motionless and speechless in the corner. Her heart plunged. He was about to come back as one of them. Just then, a muffled shot filtered down to them. Cara stood up so abruptly that the children jumped back in fright. She ran for the stairs and the confused children ran after her. The steep incline barely winded her when she reached the actual worship level.
Everyone was gathered near the windows, even Tommy and Sylvia’s father. Cara heard the rumbling of a motor, tires screeching, and another shot fired. Bryant felt her hand on his shoulder and faced her. His excited eyes gleamed as he tried to whisper, but the enthusiasm was too much. His voice came out louder than he had intended. “There are more survivors.”
Cara peeked through the window and saw an older Malibu plow over a zombie. After the tires crushed the head like a ripe melon placed in the path of a steamroller, the car stopped.
***
Martin hit the brakes and exited. He surveyed the ground with a quick side to side head motion and yelled “it’s okay”. However, it was far from okay. A girl that Cara scarcely recognized jumped out after him. They both reached in to the back seat and began tugging at (from Cara’s vantage point ) a large shape. The unidentified object in the back seat turned out to be an overweight man who stumbled trying to exit the vehicle. It was obvious that he could barely hold himself up. The noise caught the creatures’ attention and they converged on the car‘s newly departed occupants.
Martin looked at Stephanie and commanded. “Stay in front of us and shoot them if they get too close. I’ll carry Mark.” The full weight of the man slowed Martin down but Stephanie faithfully stayed only a few steps ahead. Except for directly in front, the new arrivals were surrounded. The normal quiet of the creatures shattered under their sheer numbers. The footsteps multiplied into the cacophony of an advancing army. Each moan produced by nonfunctional lungs rose up to join the other inarticulate vocalizations until the world filled with dead voices.
In this blanket of noise, a crack - signifying a bullet rocketing out of a barrel - managed to assault the ears of the three desperate souls entreating entry. Stephanie looked up at the door and saw a barrel recede back into the second floor window. Then something much more immediate caught her eye. One of the creatures had been camping by the door and now staggered down the steps, sizing her up. She aimed and fired. Despite never having shot a gun before, she scored a lucky hit. The bullet went in above the Adam’s apple and exited at the base of the brain (where eyesight is interpreted). The body rolled down the steps like a rag doll and stopped in a tangled, unnatural position at the base of the stairs.
Darkest Days: A Southern Zombie Tale Page 20