In the end, there was an investigation and an inquest, but very little was established. Nobody had seen the four students driving on the road that night. Nobody at the party could recall who had climbed behind the driver’s seat when the four had left, and no security camera had caught them stopping for burgers and fries on the drive back to Muncie. Even the students themselves had no clear memories. Ultimately, the driver of the car was never determined. The surviving students, including Nolan, would pay fines and do community service.
It was also the end of the road for Nolan’s basketball career. (And, it seemed, for the Ball State Cardinals—at least for a while—who finished that year 9–21 without Nolan, and didn’t even make the NIT.) After three operations over eight months, Nolan was able to walk normally again. He might even play basketball, they told him. Not competitively, of course. That was over for good. But backyard hoops with friends might be possible.
After a few intense weeks of coverage, the crash had gradually faded from the national news. Then from the sporting news. Then, even from the local news. Nolan had quietly completed his degree and left Ball State for parts unknown.
Yet now those parts were known, at least to Kesha. Somehow, James Nolan was the police officer who had rescued her from a cave full of walking dead people, and who would not rest until he had found the governor’s daughter.
“Sorry,” Kesha said quietly. “I didn’t mean to bring it up. I just couldn’t figure out how that woman knew you.”
“No harm done,” Nolan replied. “If you want to ask me any questions, I don’t mind answering. I think a lot of people want to ask about my basketball days, but they don’t. Then they just assume things.”
“Okay,” Kesha said. “Then why did you become a police officer . . . you know, after everything?”
“I like helping people, I guess,” he told her. “I figured I had to have some kind of job. See, the whole thing with basketball was really . . .”
And the tall man simply trailed off.
For a moment, Kesha thought she had upset him. (Perhaps she should not have taken him up on the offer to ask questions.) Then she looked and saw what had stopped Nolan’s words. They were now cresting the top of the hill, and they could see the landscape beyond. Being a full foot taller, Nolan saw it first.
In the valley below them was a country fair. It had a very modest Ferris wheel, and a few other smaller rides. There was a long row of carnival games, and food vendors, too. There were also pens full of hay where prize farm animals were being displayed.
And it was in chaos. Utter chaos. The power was apparently out, and the rides had gone dark. People were running to and fro. Parents were calling for their children, and farmers were trying to load bleating farm animals into trailers. The only light came from the headlights of cars and trucks . . . and there were lots and lots of cars and trucks. A giant parking lot sat next to the fairground. There were so many white and red headlights. People were driving right into the carnival . . . looking for loved ones or God-knew-what.
Some fairgoers were trapped at the top of the Ferris wheel. A worker below was trying to rotate the wheel with a giant metal pike. The passengers seemed very alarmed, though the drop to the ground was not particularly severe.
There was an urgency as if a tornado were on the way. But the night sky was clear and still. Why such alarm? Why such madness? All that had happened—Kesha reflected—was that the power had failed.
No.
In a trice, Kesha knew the missing element. In the beams thrown by an F-150, Kesha saw a cadaverous body teeter into view. Dripping matter oozed from its empty eye sockets. Its teeth were black as tar. Something that might have once been a nose was hanging down the side of its face. The fingernails at the ends of its hands had rotted into talons. The thing stumbled forward, gnashing its ebon teeth and howling like an animal.
Then another. A rotund man in overalls wandered into the same set of headlights. He was barefoot, and most of his skin had rotted off. His face was a horrid mask of death, but this one’s eyes still shone in their sockets. It was horrible to see them fix upon a terrified fairgoer, and then watch as the thing loped in that direction. It didn’t move quickly, however. That was the only consolation. (This man could not have moved swiftly in life, and in death was now even further handicapped . . .) The portly zombie swung its arms to and fro, and clacked a set of square Teddy Roosevelt teeth in anticipation. A trickle of red adorned its mouth, indicating that, despite its lack of speed, it had already found at least one human who was even slower. The thing had fed.
“What is this?” Kesha asked.
“Maybe, um . . .” Nolan said, baffled by the chaotic sight. “It’s a little late in the year for a fair. Could be a 4-H get together. You don’t see a police officer down there anywhere, do you? Anyone with a radio?”
“I don’t know,” Kesha said. “But I see those things. They’re stumbling around in the shadows on the edges of the carnival.”
“Yeah,” Nolan said in a disappointed tone. “I see them, too.”
A car successfully pulled away from the carnival lot. It sped off down the road leading out of the valley. It was going fast—far too fast, Kesha thought—and a few moments later there was a thunderous crash as the car swerved to avoid something and then struck a tree head-on. The headlights blinked once, and then went out. It was as if the vehicle had suddenly disappeared into the darkness.
“Let’s see what we can do for these people,” Nolan said. He began jogging down the hill toward the madness below.
“Um . . . okay,” Kesha said, trailing after him.
“Stay close and be careful,” Nolan added.
He didn’t have to tell her twice.
By the time Nolan reached the bottom of the hill, he’d already heard what he was dreading: gunshots rising amid the fray. With so many people running hither and thither, it would be all too easy for someone to get struck by a stray.
Nolan made for the Ferris wheel first. The operator was still doing his best to rotate it with the long metal pole. The cars were small, only two occupants each, but many were nervous and rocking back and forth in alarm. With no hesitation, Nolan jumped and gripped the base of a car that dangled above his head. (Kesha was astonished at his vertical. The policeman must have jumped three feet or more.) Nolan hung from the bottom of the Ferris wheel car, letting his own weight pull it closer to the ground. The entire wheel rotated. The couple inside the car understood what he was doing. After a few moments, they risked a jump—plummeting awkwardly and landing on top of one another. Nolan released his grip on the car and stooped to help them up. Kesha lent a hand. Then Nolan jumped again and gripped the next car.
“Never seen anything like this,” called the ride operator. He still struggled to guide the wheel with his pole, though it was clear Nolan was doing most of the work. He had a pack of Winstons in the pocket of his blue janitor jumpsuit, and a lived-in face that looked like it could tell some tales.
“What happened here?” Nolan shouted as he struggled to pull down the next car. From his hanging position, he hazarded another glance around the darkened midway. There were no walking dead in the immediate area, but it was clear that people were now avoiding certain parts of the fairground. The zombies in the shadows were gaining ground.
“Power went out a few minutes ago,” the ride operator shouted as he strained to move the cars. “We’re ready for that, o’ course. Got generators. But then these strange people—covered in mud and look like they’s dead—come on out of everywhere. Start chasing people and nobody knows why. Then we lose our generators for some damn reason. Then . . . well, you got this.”
“Understood,” Nolan said as he helped the next pair of Ferris wheel riders to the ground. “Do you know where we are?”
“Huh?” said the operator. He looked Nolan up and down to make sure he’d heard right.
“Where are we?” Nolan shouted as he jumped again to grip the next hanging car. Only one more contained riders—a
couple of petrified-looking teenagers, obviously on a date.
“We’re not really anywhere,” the operator said. “This late in the season . . . this is what you’d call a ‘secondary market’ for us.”
“You must know something,” Nolan insisted as he dangled. “Come on! We’re in southern Indiana. Where in southern Indiana?”
“Uh, we passed Oakland City on the way in,” the operator said. “I think that’d make us . . . east of there?”
Nolan had never heard of Oakland City.
The two men combined their efforts to rotate the Ferris wheel a final time. The teenage couple above them leapt to the ground. Nolan released his mighty grip and landed back on his feet.
“Thank you, mister,” the young woman said as she fled into the night. Her suitor wordlessly adjusted his baseball cap and followed after.
“Jesus Christ!” the ride operator suddenly cried, his eyes going wide.
“What?” Nolan said.
The operator did not immediately answer. Nolan drew his Ruger and spun around to see whatever he was missing.
“You . . . you’re James Nolan!” the operator said.
Nolan exhaled, shook his head, and put his gun back into its holster. Then he turned back to the ride operator.
“Yes. You got me.”
The emergency at the Ferris wheel now corrected, Nolan turned his attention to the remainder of the carnival. The chaos seemed to have abated slightly. More people had made it to their cars and trucks and were pulling away into the darkness. Some clogged the road headed north out of the valley, but others took off willy-nilly—careening into the moonlit fields and whatever lay beyond. Those with four-wheel drive had an easier time of it. The hills gradually became pocked with the red and white lights of stranded cars never meant for off-roading. The drivers usually abandoned these vehicles and fled on foot.
There was a frightening crash on the far side of the carnival. A trailer that sold cotton candy had been turned on its side. Nolan had trouble seeing exactly what had happened, but there were several shadowy presences lurking beside it.
“Stay here,” Nolan barked to Kesha. Then he bounded toward the overturned trailer.
Kesha considered obeying this command for about half a second, and then followed Nolan’s trail through the darkened maze of rides.
They passed a Scrambler, an Alpine Slide, and a Tilt-A-Whirl—then found themselves astride an empty midway where unattended ball- and ring-toss games sat quietly in the darkness. Giant winnable stuffed animals swayed softly in the breeze at the tops of the booths. Hurdling past a Guess-Your-Weight machine, Nolan looked over his shoulder and saw Kesha running after him. He frowned and slowed to let her catch up.
A man in short pants and a straw hat came sprinting out of the darkness. He did not speak or stop, but his eyes comported the entirety of “Don’t go in that direction.”
Nolan and Kesha continued on.
The overturned cotton candy trailer was covered in gaily-colored flags, bunting, and laminated pictures that showed the treats it sold. Three silhouetted figures stumbled soporifically beside it, looking for a way in. Their heads and limbs lolled as if they were exhausted. At the same time, their night-dark mouths masticated with a horrible ferocity.
“Help,” a male voice cried from inside the overturned trailer. “Help me, mister! I got hot oil on me.”
He had seen Nolan. Somehow, through the darkened side window, the man inside the trailer could look out.
Nolan wheeled on his heels, looking for anything that might solve this problem. There was nobody else in this section of the fairground to assist him in righting the trailer. A cart serving elephant ears and another advertising sno-cones stood dark and empty. A broken Whack-A-Mole machine rested against an empty tent. That was all.
Forty feet away, a car suddenly turned on its high beams. Nolan was not blinded, but the figures of the three undead became less distinct. Despite this, Nolan could tell that they had already lost interest in the man in the trailer. They were now shambling in his direction.
“Fuck it,” Nolan said quietly, producing his Ruger.
With the gun in one hand and his flashlight in the other, Nolan approached the first shuffling corpse. It had inky green-black skin. The remains of a T-shirt showing the faces of two radio DJs had fused with the flesh of its upper body, forming a disturbing mix of cloth and plasma. The thing had powerful-looking limbs, but moved them slowly and carefully, as if this required great exertion. Nolan didn’t yet know the implications of being bitten or scratched by one of these things—besides, probably, a horrible infection—but he didn’t want to find out. At the same time, he could not risk discharging his weapon at this distance and hitting a panicked fairgoer.
Nolan leaned in to the zombie, lighting up its horrible, dripping face with the Maglite. He brought his gun up to the thing’s mouth like a dentist aiming to do a field extraction. The thing bared its teeth and hissed. Then, in a sudden motion, Nolan jammed the gun up inside its mouth. Nolan squinted his eyes shut and pulled the trigger, and the top of the thing’s head exploded.
The report of his weapon was nearly lost amid the surrounding chaos, but a couple of people in the distance screamed. The undead man went weak in the knees and fell to the ground. Nolan’s weapon and forearm were instantly covered in a gauntlet of gore.
“Jesus!” Kesha called. “That might not be safe to do. What if you get that stuff in your mouth?”
“Stuff” was hardly adequate, but Nolan understood what she meant. He wiped his gun and hand against the side of his shirt—then regretted the decision. The horrible smell of rotting flesh immediately attached to his clothing.
“Try getting behind them,” Kesha cried. “You could shoot them in the back of the head.”
Nolan narrowed his eyes as if to say ‘Oh, have you done this before?’
“Here, I’ll distract it,” Kesha added.
Though she looked terrified, the girl edged her way to the overturned trailer and picked up a box of wooden cotton candy sticks. She ripped the box open and began to throw handfuls of sticks into the face of the nearest stumbling zombie.
The reaction was instantaneous. The thing growled and lunged in her direction. Nolan saw that this would indeed give him the opening he needed. He leapt to the direct rear of the zombie and angled so his bullet would travel away from Kesha. Then he pulled the trigger.
The thing’s forehead exploded out, resulting in a shower of brain-grey matter. There was an audible slurp as the contents of the zombie’s forehead hit the ground like a thrown cup of water. Then there was a louder slump as its rotting body fell to the earth.
“Good work,” Nolan said to Kesha. “Do it again.”
Kesha steeled herself and eased toward the remaining zombie, a heavy woman in a floral-print dress, now caked in mud. Most of her nose had rotted away, and her scalp was hanging heavily to one side of her skull like a wig gone askew.
“Roarrr!” Kesha screamed like a battle cry, and threw a handful of sticks in the round woman’s face. The zombie took two lumbering steps toward Kesha, walking with heavy feet as though its legs were stuck in a bog. Kesha threw another handful of sticks, and then another.
The box in her hands was empty. Kesha threw the box. The thing stepped closer still . . .
A moment later, Nolan’s gun thundered and the zombie fell back, arms outstretched—motionless—to the earth below.
Nolan used his flashlight to probe each of the zombies, ensuring they no longer possessed whatever force made them move. Then he motioned for Kesha to help him with the trailer. They heaved once, but it was clear they hadn’t the strength to move it.
“Can you get out?” Nolan shouted into the window that had formerly been used to sell treats, but now constituted part of the roof.
“I’m burned on my leg,” a voice called back. “Hot oil burned me, mister.”
With some effort, Nolan climbed to the top of the trailer and looked down into the gaping window. Insid
e was a teenager in an apron with a thin beard and a buzz cut. He was wedged awkwardly between a fridge, fryer, and cotton candy machine. Syrup and oil had indeed been splattered on his side. For many would-be rescuers, the man would be beyond assisting, but Nolan had a longer wingspan than most.
As the young man looked on with a mix of hope and incredulity, Nolan lay flat on the trailer and reached his enormous arms inside. Nolan gripped the man under his left armpit and began to pull him up. The man was slippery with oil, but Nolan gradually made progress.
“Ugh,” the man complained as he was lifted.
“Help me,” Nolan said as he strained. “You have to help. Use your legs.”
The man scrabbled against the slick metal walls like a rodent struggling to get out of a trap. Nolan could see that one of the machines had him partially pinned.
“Here,” Kesha said.
Suddenly, she was next to Nolan on the top of the overturned trailer, reaching down into the opening alongside him. Kesha gripped the young man’s other arm, and together they pulled him out.
They paused for a moment on top of the trailer, exhausted.
“You’re strong for a . . .” Nolan said, then raised a finger to say “wait” as he struggled to catch his breath.
“Strong for a girl, you were gonna say?” Kesha shot back, also breathing hard.
Nolan, still panting, shook his head no.
“I was going to say for a teenager,” he told her. “But that’s not even true. You’re just plain strong.”
“Ha!” Kesha said with a smile. “I do track and field.”
“I believe it,” Nolan said.
“Oooogh,” the young man said, looking around the nearly abandoned carnival. “I feel horrible. What’s happening? What is this?”
“The short version is zombies,” Nolan said. “Actually, that might be the long version too. Dead people who eat people are coming out of the ground. Been that way for at least the past few hours.”
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