Zombie, Indiana

by Scott Kenemore

  Though few had the temerity to hazard a look, everyone working in the conference room froze for a second as the sound of palm-on-cheek ricocheted off the marbled walls.

  Then it was back to business, as if the blow had never happened.

  “This is serious, Huggins. Serious. I’m not paying you to look at Internet videos like a teenager. Not at this particular moment in time. No sir! Do you understand me, Huggins?! Not right now! I’m depending on you to be sensible, Huggins! I need your help. . . .”

  “I do understand, sir,” Huggins said, retrieving his glasses from the floor. “But these videos . . . They’re being uploaded from all over the area.”

  “It’s a prank,” the governor insisted, raising his hand. “People taking advantage of the chaos outside to pull a prank. How in the Sam Hill do you not see that, son? It is a goddamn. . .”

  Only the approach of the mayor of Indianapolis prevented his chief of staff from receiving a second blow.

  The familiar click of her high heels preceded the mayor by several seconds, giving the governor the time he needed to compose himself.

  “Kelly, how are you?” Burleson boomed as she strode into the room.

  The mayor—whose office in the City-County Building was about six blocks from the state capitol—was accompanied by a pair of staffers and two security officers with holsters on their belts. All of them had the same no-nonsense look.

  Personally, Burleson had never known quite what to make of the mayor. Though they were members of the same political party—hell, they attended the same church—Burleson had difficulty relating to anybody who had come into politics reluctantly. And that was the mayor’s whole spiel. The reluctant politician. Except maybe it wasn’t even a spiel. From all appearances—when it came to Mayor Kelly Brown—it might just be the real thing. Sure, Burleson thought, the whole “working mom reluctantly runs for school board, reluctantly runs for city council, reluctantly runs for mayor . . .” It could happen. It was a nice political story to tell, sure. And Kelly gave quite a stump-speech. It chronicled the way that her modest wish—any parent’s wish, really—to improve the safety of her community for her children had led to the difficult decision to seek ever-higher public office in order to create positive change. It was a hell of a speech. No doubt about that. It had just the right mix of “Aw, shucks” humility, Hoosier pragmatism, and spirited pride in the community—with just a sprinkle of soccer mom thrown in for good measure.

  It was so good that Burleson thought it might actually be true. And that, for him, was the confusing part.

  How do you not know you want to be mayor? How do you not wake up every morning since you were a kid wanting the power and prestige that came along with elected office? And why, on God’s green earth, would you wait for other people in the community to “insist” that you run?

  Burleson would not have said that women, generally, were a mystery to him—but he’d have gladly granted that Mayor Brown was. He just couldn’t relate to anybody, male or female, who didn’t want.

  “Hank, what’s this I hear about you turning away federal troops?” the mayor said, speaking as if calm discourse required great self-control. “Please tell me there’s been some sort of mistake. We need all the help we can get.”

  She might have been a mother chiding a son fresh from detention.

  “Kelly, I can assure you . . . when it comes to the point that Indiana actually needs federal assistance, I’ll be the first one to make the call,” the governor began.

  “Omigod,” the mayor sputtered. “It’s true! You actually did it. You actually told them not to send help.”

  The governor bristled.

  “Soldiers in our streets—with machine guns and grenades?—that’s not help,” Burleson replied sharply. “That’s a PR disaster. Please try to think about the future, Kelly. People will remember what Indiana does here. You want us to be like New Orleans after Hurricane Katrina? People thinking we’re a third-world country? Have half our population evacuated to Houston, or wherever?”

  The mayor cast a long, meaningful look of disappointment across the conference table.

  “Hank, what the hell is going on?” she said. “You’re not telling me something. You know something.”

  “No secrets, hon,” the governor said brightly. “I know as much as you do.”

  “Then why did you say no?” the mayor replied, telegraphing genuine concern. (This too—Burleson marveled—appeared to be no act.) “People are running wild. I heard gunshots a block from my office!”

  “Gunshots downtown?” the governor replied skeptically. “I’ll bet it was a car backfiring.”

  “Cars don’t backfire anymore,” the mayor shot back. “It’s not 1970, Hank.”

  The mayor turned as though she would now depart. Burleson relaxed and finally slumped into his leather chair. Then the mayor wheeled back around on a pointed heel.

  “And I will tell you something, Mister Governor,” said the mayor. “You’re right about one thing. People will remember this. Voters will remember. And I will be good-God-damned if I will stand by and say that I agreed with this decision. Do you hear me, Hank? I will not do it.”

  The governor smiled. The girl had a political bone in her body after all.

  “I hear you, Kelly,” Burleson said. “Loud and clear.”

  The lights in the windowless conference room flickered. The TVs momentarily lost power. Everyone looked at one another.

  “I want updates,” the mayor said, heading toward the door again. “Regular updates. You keep me in the loop, Hank Burleson. If the phones stay down, you send a damn foot messenger to my door. Got it?”

  Burleson nodded and watched the mayor depart. Then he took a very deep breath.

  “Governor . . .” Huggins said.

  Burleson took a second deep breath.

  “Governor . . .” his chief of staff called again.

  “What, Huggins?” Burleson said.

  “Look at the TV,” Huggins said soberly, extending his finger toward the screen.

  After a third sigh, the governor turned and regarded the glowing television. The screen showed a familiar news reporter holding a microphone. He was standing outside a museum where a traveling exhibit was on display—real, preserved human bodies, reduced to muscle and sinew and posed in a variety of educational positions. As the reporter looked on, museum-goers ran screaming from the institution’s regal copper doors. Burleson could not hear the narration, but the reporter appeared confused. Then something emerged from the museum that was not a patron, but one of the embalmed, skinless bodies. It walked slowly and dragged a large plastic cube behind it, to which its foot had been affixed. After a few moments, it sighted the reporter and began to lope closer. The camera operator backed away. Then suddenly the feed went black.

  “So?” Huggins replied. “What do you think? That’s not the Internet. That’s a museum just a few blocks away from where we’re sitting.”

  “Just . . .” Burleson began, wagging his finger in the air. Huggins recoiled in anticipation of another smack.

  “Just let me think,” the governor managed.

  A uniformed police officer entered the conference room and looked around hesitantly. He was very young;—probably fresh from the academy.

  “Governor Burleson?” the policeman said.

  Burleson saw the officer and smiled.

  “Some good news, I hope?” the governor said.

  The policeman nodded.

  “Your wife is inside the capitol, governor,” the policeman said. “We’ve taken the precaution of creating a secure perimeter, and assigning her a permanent security escort. Since the phones are going down, they sent me to tell you personally.”

  The governor stood.

  “My wife?” he boomed. “My wife? You came here to tell me about my wife? Tell me, did you bring her tennis coach inside the capitol too? What about her therapist? Or her nutritionist? Does he get a goddamned security escort?”

  Confused, the yo
ung police officer shook his head and slowly began to back away from the conference table.

  “I gave the police one request, and—as I recall—that was several hours before this bullshit even got going,” Burleson growled.

  “Yes, I’m sorry, sir,” the policeman managed.

  “Now I want you to go back to whoever the fuck you report to and tell them I only want to know two goddamn things: Where the hell is James Nolan, and where the hell is my daughter?”

  7

  Kesha stayed close to Nolan as he conducted her through the indention in the underbrush that might, very charitably, have been called a trail. They chased the sunset, but already most of the illumination came from Nolan’s flashlight. Everything felt wrong. Everything felt strange. Even the early fall leaves around them smelled different than they should have, as though their normally pleasant scent concealed something wrong and awful.

  After twenty minutes of walking, they found an empty vest.

  “This belong to any of your friends?” Nolan asked.

  “Not everyone in my class is my friend,” Kesha said. “But yes. I wonder why she dropped it.”

  “Moving fast, sweaty, not really thinking . . .” Nolan said. “Makes sense to me. Who does it belong to?”

  Nolan turned the vest over in his hands. It looked expensive. He had never heard of the designer.

  “It’s not Madison, if that’s what you’re wondering,” Kesha said.

  “Oh,” said Nolan. He let the garment fall back to the ground and continued down the trail.

  “Can I ask why you’re so interested in her?” Kesha asked. “It’s because she’s the governor’s daughter, right?”

  “You’re a smart young lady,” Nolan pronounced. “Yes. I work for the governor. He and I are old friends, you might say. Sometimes I do special favors for him.”

  “What kind of favors?” Kesha asked.

  “Not interesting stuff,” Nolan said, smiling. “Boring adult stuff.”

  “Does the governor know about these . . . things?”

  “Not that I know of,” Nolan said. “All they told me was that his daughter’s field trip had lasted a couple of hours longer than it should’ve. See what I mean about boring?”

  “Yeah, I guess,” Kesha said. “Even if you don’t find Madison, I’m glad you’re here. But I also hope you do find her.”

  “Yeah,” Nolan said. “I do, too. But my number-one priority is to get you home safe, if I didn’t make that clear. Did I make that clear?”

  Kesha nodded.

  “All right then,” Nolan said. “So where do you live?”

  “Just southwest of downtown,” Kesha answered. “Where they’re redeveloping?”

  “Sure,” said Nolan. “I know it.”

  “I live with my dad,” Kesha said.

  “Uh huh, and what does he do?”

  “He’s the editor of the Indianapolis Recorder. The African American newspaper?”

  “Wow, the editor,” Nolan said. “That’s like the top guy, right?”

  “The publisher is the top guy,” Kesha said. “My dad reminds me of that whenever he can’t afford to buy me something.”

  “Ha,” said Nolan. “That’s a good one.”

  “You got kids?” Kesha asked.

  Nolan shook his head.

  “No, I don’t,” he said. “I was married for a while, but it didn’t work out.”

  Kesha said nothing.

  “Look,” Nolan said. “I think the forest ends up ahead.”

  It was now almost completely dark. The Maglite’s beam showed Nolan that the trees surrounding them were near to terminating. Terminating into what, he was not yet sure.

  Nolan pressed forward cautiously. After a few moments, they stepped out of the woods and into a farmer’s field full of soybeans. The plants were healthy and green and ready to be harvested. Nolan could now see the sky. It revealed a nearly cloudless night. The moon was full and bright. Nolan turned off his flashlight to conserve the battery.

  The soybean field was several hundred yards wide and at least two hundred yards across. The woods rose at its edges. There was no artificial light anywhere. No headlights from cars. No residential lighting.

  Because of this darkness, it took a full minute for Nolan to see the tiny farmhouse on the far side of the field. It had filthy glass windows with thick curtains. It was old and didn’t look structurally sound. The grounds around it had not been tended for years.

  “See that little house?” Nolan asked.

  “Yeah,” Kesha said.

  “Maybe they’ll have a phone.”

  Kesha nodded hesitantly.

  “You okay?” he asked, this time more quietly.

  Again, just a nod. Then a shrug.

  Nolan turned to Kesha and flashed an expression that said this was not a time for subtlety. Out with it, girl.

  “I just . . .” Kesha began. “It looks scary, is all.”

  Nolan smiled. He did not disagree.

  “Maybe you don’t get out of the city much?” Nolan said.

  “I told you I’m a city girl,” Kesha said.

  “Well, I grew up in a house like that,” Nolan told her, and began to stride across the soybean field.

  Kesha trailed after him.

  ***

  Nolan kept an eye out for any sign of Kesha’s schoolmates having also crossed the soybean field—another dropped item of clothing, or perhaps an errant iPhone. He saw nothing. Nolan knew, however, that if the teenagers had emerged from the woods here, they would have done exactly what he and Kesha were doing; they would have made straight for the only sign of civilization.

  When Kesha and Nolan were about fifty yards away from the tiny home, the moon came out from behind a cloud. In the increased light, Nolan suddenly made out a clump of clothing on the ground about ten paces beyond the front door. He knew, of course, that it was not a clump of clothing.

  “Whoa there,” Nolan said, putting a hand on Kesha’s shoulder.

  “What?” the girl said, startled. She looked around for a sign of danger.

  “Change of plans,” Nolan said. “I’m going to go knock on the door, and you’re going to stay over here.”

  “Okay . . .” Kesha said, sounding confused.

  “I just want to be careful,” Nolan told her. “We don’t know these people. If it looks good to me, I’ll call you over. If anything seems weird, just run back into the woods.”

  “I thought you said this was safe,” Kesha said, sitting down cross-legged on a soybean plant.

  “I said I grew up in a place like this,” Nolan corrected her. “Safe is another matter entirely.”

  Nolan crossed the rest of the field by himself and strode to the door of the ramshackle farmhouse. It had once been painted light blue or gray, but years of neglect had allowed the natural wood color to seep back through. It felt like a place where any pretense of hospitality had long since been abandoned. Where you’re not worried about neighbors stopping by. Or maybe you just don’t give a fuck when they do.

  Nolan’s eyes trained on the dirt-encrusted windows. There was suddenly light and movement from inside. The particular kind of illumination was dim and hard to place. After a moment, Nolan realized that it was candles.

  He hazarded a quick investigation of the clump on the ground. It was the body of a very old Amish man. Nolan turned on his flashlight, aware, now, that he was being watched from the house. The Amish man was embalmed. The eyes and mouth had been sewn shut. The fingers and fingernails were full of tiny pine splinters. The corpse had a bullet hole from a .22 in its forehead, and two others in its chest. They looked recent.

  “Hello there!” Nolan called to the house. “Anybody home?”

  Nolan kept his hands in plain sight, and turned so that the bulge of his sidearm beneath his clothes would be less visible.

  The door of the farmhouse opened with a squeak, and an elderly man in a plaid shirt and suspenders emerged. Behind him stood a woman about the same age. She was holdin
g a candle in one hand, and a rifle in the other. It took Nolan a few moments to realize that the man was completely blind.

  “How y’all doin’?” Nolan said in his friendliest country accent.

  There was an almost tangible silence as the couple considered their response. Would it be friendly or hostile? (Nolan did not think the elderly woman would be quick on the draw. He let his free hand hover closer to his own weapon, just in case. If it came down to guns, Nolan liked his chances.)

  “Yes?” the old man said, turning his head toward Nolan. His voice was feeble and ancient, like a tight cord dragging across old wood.

  “Hello,” Nolan said slowly. “I was wondering if I could come in and use your telephone. There’s been an accident in the caves. A group of high school students was attacked. I need to call 911.”

  “Phone’s not workin’,” the man said. “Power’s out, too.”

  “Ahh,” Nolan said in genuine dejection, supposing that a charged-up laptop with WiFi was probably also off the menu. “Is there another house around that we could try? One of the students is with me. I need to get her to her parents, you see.”

  Nolan instantly regretted the choice of words, as it was clear the man saw nothing.

  “It’s the end times,” the man stated, as if Nolan had asked for another subject to discuss.

  “Is that right?” Nolan said cautiously.

  The woman behind the old man nodded in agreement. Yet as she stared hard into Nolan’s face, he saw a sudden twinge of recognition. The old woman’s heavy lids began to lift, and her eyes went round and wide.

  “Oh my sweet Jesus!” the woman softly declaimed. “I know who you are!”

  She pushed past her husband and set down the rifle. The husband teetered for a moment, but found his balance. The old man opened his mouth to object, but then thought better of complaining and kept silent. It was apparent to Nolan that this happened with some regularity.

  “Oh, these are times of portent indeed!” the woman cried. She stood next to Nolan. Her neck craned until she was looking straight up into his face.

  “Whazzat?” the blind man asked, sniffing the air.

  “Why, this pilgrim at our door is James Nolan!” the elderly woman cried. “Please, come inside. Join us. You look weary.”