Zombie, Indiana

by Scott Kenemore

  “Thank you for the invitation, but we’ve really got to get to a place where . . .” Nolan began.

  Then he thought about Kesha.

  The girl was probably exhausted from the ordeal in the cave. Her clothes were still wet, and she likely had not eaten for eight hours. Who was he to deny her a rest?

  “Please, I insist that you join us,” the woman said.

  “Who?” sputtered the old man.

  “James Nolan!” the woman repeated loudly and slowly. “You remember him. From the TV.”

  The old man continued to sniff the air.

  “I guess we can come in for a second,” Nolan said. The woman smiled from ear to ear.

  Nolan turned and waved to the quiet spot in the field where Kesha was hunkered down.

  “Kesha!” he called. “Come on over.”

  A few moments later, a figure moved above a soybean plant. Kesha began to approach the house.

  Nolan turned back to the old woman. Her gaze went from Nolan to Kesha and back again. Her smile turned to a cautious frown.

  “What happened with this guy?” Nolan said, motioning to the Amish man with his foot. “Looks like one tough customer.”

  “The dead are coming back to life!” the woman replied, the smile returning to her face. “The end times! Didn’t you read your Scripture? But of course you did! A nice young man like you has got to be familiar with the ways of the Lord.”

  Kesha drew closer. She smiled at Nolan cautiously. He returned what he hoped was a reassuring glance.

  “That thing came to our door with the fury of a demon!” the old woman explained, looking down at the dispatched corpse with an almost tangible enthusiasm. “A thing that shouldn’t be alive . . . but was! I didn’t know if my squirrel gun would put him down, but it did . . . with the help of the Lord. I shot him twice, and it didn’t do a thing. I saw those bullets go right into his heart, and he was still slobberin’. Moaning like an old ghost. But then I said a prayer . . . and then I pulled the trigger again. That was the one that put him away.”

  The woman indicated the headshot with a bony finger. Nolan nodded seriously.

  The old woman gazed up from her handiwork and looked hard at the teenage girl.

  “Hi,” Kesha said.

  “Mmm,” the woman said. Her utterance was like a senator voting present.

  “Whose ’ere?” stammered the old man, blinking his blind eyes.

  “This is Kesha Washington, a high school student from Indy,” Nolan said.

  “Indy?” the old woman said, cocking her ear.

  “We’re both from there,” Nolan said. “Her class was underground in the caves when these things started coming up. Things like the Amish man.”

  “Who is it?” the old man wondered aloud, loping closer.

  “A girl from Indianapolis,” the woman said loudly. “A little . . . Daughter of Shem.”

  Nolan and Kesha exchanged an uneasy glance.

  “How would you all like to come inside and have a nice ham sandwich?” the old woman asked.

  “That would be okay, I think,” Nolan said, looking to Kesha. “Right? We could both probably stand to eat. Then we keep going to find a phone?”

  Kesha nodded. There was a longing in her eyes, probably for rest and food.

  “Okay then,” Nolan said. “You folks lead the way.”

  They stepped over the Amish man and into the darkened farmhouse.

  ***

  Nolan and Kesha sat at the small kitchen table and ate sandwiches. The house smelled like hay and artificial air freshener. There were newspapers in the corners and dishes in the sink. The sandwiches tasted delicious.

  Kesha felt better the moment white bread, ham, and mustard hit her stomach. She stopped at two out of a sense of propriety. She could have eaten five or six of them.

  “James Nolan, in our house,” the old woman said as they finished their repast. “I’ve got a magazine with your face on it around here somewhere. Newspapers too. I certainly do. Oh my, oh my! These are times of portent indeed. The people from my magazines coming knocking at my door!”

  “Yes . . .” Nolan said uneasily. “Now, we really need to find a phone. Or a place where we can get cell service. Or the Internet. Anything, really, that will let us get in touch with people in Indianapolis.”

  “Times like these, why would you care about something like that?” the old man said. “You should be talkin’ to the Lord. Thinkin’ about your soul.”

  “We’re heading over to the church,” the old woman said. “We were almost out the door when you walked up. I imagine that’s where others will head if they’ve already realized what we have. We were going to take the truck. It’s out back.”

  Nolan nodded evenly.

  “I expect there would be room for the two of you,” the old woman said.

  “That’s kind of you,” Nolan said. “I think that would be perfect.”

  Kesha could tell that Nolan’s mind was not on religious matters, but on finding civilization as quickly as possible.

  “This is no time for anyone to be alone outside,” the woman said. She took the sandwich plates and put them delicately in the sink. They went clink-clink-clink as they settled on top of others already there.

  Kesha and Nolan drained their tall glasses of Cola-Cola and ice cubes, and then stood up to signal they were finished. The old woman agreed that it was time to go. Nolan convinced her to leave her rifle behind.

  They went outside. Nolan and Kesha watched as the old man—despite his handicap—locked up the house. They circled around the side of the house, where a 1988 Toyota pickup truck was resting underneath a weeping willow. The old woman helped her husband into the passenger seat, then indicated that Kesha and Nolan ought to get in back. Nolan climbed in first and then helped Kesha up. The truck bed was wet and full of old leaves and smelled a like a dog. Kesha stuck her head over the side to minimize the odor.

  The Toyota roared to life and pulled away down a crunchy gravel drive that led into the trees. The way was dark, and the headlights on the old pickup had clearly dimmed over the years. But the old woman seemed to know the way, anticipating each turn before it came.

  Eventually, the trees gave way, and the gravel drive merged with a paved road. The truck picked up speed. They began to pass new fields of cultivated crops. For the first time since entering the caves with her class, Kesha felt herself beginning to relax. The food in her stomach helped, but something about the familiar lull of automobile travel seemed to be the central factor. She had been plunged into a nightmare cavern of murder and walking corpses and what had seemed like certain death. Now she was being carried back to civilization. Back, eventually, to a city. And there was a huge policeman with a gun right next to her in the truck bed. That helped, too.

  Kesha relaxed and allowed her eyes to wander over the green fields.

  That was when she saw it.

  “Omigod,” she said loud enough for Nolan to hear. “I think I just saw some of the kids from my class.”

  “What?” Nolan said. “Where?”

  Kesha pointed across a half-harvested field of feed corn.

  “There,” she said. “At the far side, I saw . . . I don’t know. It looked like people running into the woods.”

  Nolan took a long look but did not respond. Then he banged hard on the back of the cab.

  “Stop the truck!” Nolan called, and banged again. A few moments later, the wheezing Toyota pulled to the side of the road.

  Nolan jumped down from the bed and walked to the driver’s side window.

  “I have to go look in that cornfield,” Nolan told the old woman. “Please take Kesha somewhere safe.”

  “No,” Kesha called, alarmed. “I’m going with you.”

  She jumped down from the truck as if her life depended on it, taking her place beside the tall police officer.

  “You don’t have to come with me,” Nolan said, turning to her. “These folks can take you to a town where there will be other people;
where you can find a phone and call your dad. Think about it.”

  Kesha adamantly shook her head no.

  “Okay then,” Nolan said.

  “What’s this about . . . ?” the old woman asked from the front seat. She seemed only vaguely aware of what was happening.

  “Thanks for your help,” Nolan said. Then he took Kesha’s hand and they raced off into the field.

  ***

  They had not gone more than fifty feet when Kesha tripped. Nolan helped her right herself.

  “You got to watch how you walk,” Nolan said. “You can get your feet hooked real easy. Try to take bigger steps.”

  “Yeah,” Kesha said. “Okay.”

  Halfway across the field, Nolan began shouting hello. Kesha joined him. There was no response. When they had nearly traversed the entire field, Nolan stopped and put up his hand. Kesha became still. For a moment, all they could hear was their own breathing.

  “Do you see anything, hear anything?” Nolan asked, shining the flashlight into the woods ahead. “What color were their clothes?”

  “I saw a pink jacket . . . I think,” Kesha said.

  “They need to hear your voice, not mine,” Nolan told her. “They don’t know me. They’re running because they’re scared. Their phones don’t work. They don’t know where they are.”

  “And they’re a bunch of spoiled brats who have everything handed to them all day,” Kesha said. “Which makes them really ill-fucking-suited to this situation.”

  Nolan raised an eyebrow and smiled.

  “What?” Kesha said, smiling back. “Whose feelings am I gonna hurt?”

  Nolan laughed a little.

  “I think we’ve been following them,” Nolan said. “I think they came out of the forest like we did, and then saw that house with the dead Amish man in front of it. But then they just kept running.”

  “Those people were not cool,” Kesha said, feeling bolder. “What was up with that ‘Daughter of Shem’ stuff?”

  “I think the scientific term is ‘racism,’” Nolan said with a smile. “But you’d be surprised how folks act in a crisis. I mean, when their whole world is changing.”

  “What does that mean?” Kesha said, crossing her arms.

  “What if they were usually more racist than that?” Nolan said. “I have a feeling those folks were on their best behavior just now. Thinking of their souls, and all.”

  “Ugh,” said Kesha.

  Nolan merely shrugged.

  They pressed on.

  At the edge of the cornfield was a tall hill silhouetted against the moonlit sky. Aside from an ancient, half-collapsed barn, there was no sign of humanity.

  “Do you think they went up that hill?” Kesha asked.

  “I don’t know,” said Nolan, his eyes intently scanning the horizon for any sign of movement.

  “Maybe if we go up there, we’ll have a better view?” Kesha offered the suggestion like a question.

  Nolan stopped his frenetic visual search.

  “Yeah,” he said. “Good idea. I don’t know if they would have made for the top of the hill—if their goal is not to be seen, which I think it is—but I agree with you; maybe we’ll be able to see them better.”

  They began the trek toward the hill. Soon the grass at their legs was nearly knee-high, and nighttime insects chirped and whizzed in their faces.

  From somewhere in the back of his memory, Nolan recalled that Indiana was full of mounds built by Indians. They were not burial mounds. That was the creepy thing. Burial mounds, Nolan could understand. Just a Native American mausoleum then, right? Everybody buried their dead. But the fact that, thousands of years ago, the people who had lived on this land had gone to great effort and expense to move and shape giant mounds of earth for some other, unknown reason? That was what sometimes gave Nolan the willies.

  He swallowed hard and hoped that the hill before them was naturally occurring.

  The ground began to tilt upwards beneath their feet. The insect buzzing intensified.

  “So, I have a question,” Kesha said.

  “Uh huh,” Nolan responded. “Hit me with it, as they say.”

  “Did those people back there know you?” Kesha asked. “I mean, they did. They knew you. How?”

  Nolan swallowed hard. He knew what was coming, and it never got easier. Even in the middle of a zombie-filled blackout, on a remote hill in southern Indiana, with only one person asking—it never got any easier.

  “Are you, like, famous or something?” Kesha pressed. They were starting up the incline now. Kesha was a little out of breath.

  “I used to play some college basketball,” Nolan answered. “Some people still recognize me from that, I guess.”

  “Waaaaait . . .” Kesha said. “Are you the guy from Ball State? The one who had the car accident?”

  Nolan took a deep breath that had nothing to do with the incline underfoot.

  “Yeah,” Nolan managed. “That’s me.”

  “I remember hearing people talk about you!” Kesha quipped cheerily.

  Then her tone turned respectful and somber.

  “I . . . I’m sorry for what happened to you,” she added. “It sounds like a real sad story.”

  Nolan was taken aback. For a quick moment, his eyes scanned the tops of their sockets as he thought about how to respond.

  “I don’t know if it was sad, exactly,” Nolan huffed as the incline further steepened. “I feel pretty lucky that I got to play D-1 ball at all. Most people never even get the chance.”

  Kesha looked up at Nolan. She tried to recall the snatches of information she’d heard about this man who was suddenly a celebrity. She remembered articles in newspapers that had mentioned him, and the references that sportscasters had dropped. (References that had eluded Kesha entirely at the time . . . and she’d had to Google to understand.)

  Bit by bit, Kesha began to pull it all together in her mind.

  James Nolan had first risen to attention as an Indiana high school basketball standout back in the 1990s. He was from some flyspeck town out in the sticks—a place with no real basketball tradition. It took everybody by surprise when his team started doing well in the state tournaments. After a hit-or-miss freshman season, Nolan had led his team to the state finals three years in a row. The final year, they won. The sports pages loved it. It was like something out of the movie Hoosiers.

  There was a lot of speculation as to whether or not Nolan would leave the state for college—he must have had scholarship offers from all across the country—and locals were overjoyed when he chose to stay home and play for Ball State. Nolan was the starting small forward for the Cardinals his freshman year. He was everything coaches loved. A team player who made those around him better. A hard worker. A soft-spoken, good-looking kid who didn’t have an ego and didn’t say stupid things in press interviews. And each year, he got better.

  During Nolan’s sophomore year, Ball State went to the NCAA Tournament for just the fourth time in the school’s history. His junior year, Ball State made the tournament again, and surpassed all expectations by advancing to the Elite Eight. And Nolan’s senior year?

  That, Kesha recalled, had been the doozy . . .

  It would be an understatement to say that folks were excited to see what would happen during Nolan’s senior season. Was this going to be the year? Would the NCAA Championship finally come back home to the state that loved basketball more than any other? It was exciting to think about. The air was thick with promise. Even fans fiercely loyal to Purdue or IU would stop and acknowledge that something special was going on over at Ball State. You didn’t have to be a Cardinals fan to want to root for Jimmy Nolan. He was the kind of guy Hoosiers could get behind. Handsome, honest, clean-cut as his crew-cut, a great white hope if there ever was one.

  And, look, he wasn’t going to be the next Michael Jordan, all right? Nobody thought that. Hell, he wasn’t even going to be the next Reggie Miller. But he had a shot at doing the best that a farm kid from rural Ind
iana could do these days. He could win an NCAA Championship with an in-state team, and go on to be a bencher in the NBA for a couple of years. Then, after riding the pines in the big leagues for a while, he could return home as a conquering hero. Be a big man in Indianapolis. Hell, a big man anyplace in the state. He could be a coach. Probably a college head coach right off the bat. Or go into business. Any company would be proud to have him as a “senior manager in training.” They could use him in their TV commercials. Or what about politics? Who wouldn’t want to have James Nolan as their state representative? Or their city’s mayor? Or maybe even something bigger . . . but whatever he chose, James Nolan would be beloved by Hoosiers forevermore. He would be a living reminder that it was possible. That the Hoosier dream could still come true.

  All this was to be James Nolan’s.

  And then the accident.

  The accident—Kesha now remembered—that was what had interested the adults around her so much. That was where they always dropped their voices when they talked about James Nolan in public. The accident told Kesha a lot about how things worked in the big dirty world . . . .

  In the fall of his senior year at Ball State, Nolan had been one of four students coming back to Muncie from a party over in Anderson. It was two in the morning, and they were driving in a brand-new convertible. Everybody in the car was blind drunk. When the convertible ran into a thick-trunked sycamore near campus, it was going over sixty miles an hour with the top down. All four were thrown from the wreck. Police arrived ten minutes later. One student was dead. The remaining three—including Nolan—were seriously injured.

  Exactly what had happened was not clear. The only thing upon which the police, the school, and the mayor of Muncie were in total agreement was that James Nolan had not been the one driving. This was articulated from the start in one voice, and repeated again and again in all official statements and press releases.

  But they protested a little too much . . . or so the national media thought. And thus it had begun. The investigative newspaper reports. The magazine cover stories. The TV specials. The Internet gossip. Was the NCAA coddling its star athletes yet again? Were college ballers now so untouchable as to be literally above the law? Would universities, municipalities, and law enforcement agencies collude to ensure that sports stars got away with crimes?