Zombie, Indiana

by Scott Kenemore

  The news was a little better when it came to emergency services. A trickle of firemen, policemen, and EMTs were coming back on the job. Most hospitals were still operating on generators, but those would fail soon. There were also several large fires ranging across the city, and probably others around the state. By messenger, the chief of the fire department had assured Burleson that they would begin putting them out as soon as possible. (The governor noted that no hard-and-fast deadline for this was included.)

  A bigger problem was the zombies. Many of the patrolmen sent out as messengers returned with stories beyond crediting. Tales that had to be whoppers. Had to be. (Who’d have guessed the police department was so prone to exaggeration?) They told stories of packs of zombies all across the countryside, apparently traveling in large groups. One officer said that hundreds of the undead had emerged from watery graves in Eagle Creek Reservoir, and were now clogging the west side of Interstate 465, making it virtually impassible. Another astounding report—surely, it could not be true—said that the Brickyard Crossing golf course was full of holes where zombies had burrowed out. The course had apparently been a dumping ground for hit men and gangsters wishing to conceal bodies. Now those bodies, quite unconcealed, spilled out onto the Indianapolis Motor Speedway and stumbled around aimlessly on the track.

  Yet the behavior of the ravenous undead was sometimes less troubling than that of the city’s criminals. Governor Burleson heard tale after tale of violent robberies and rampages. Of living humans mistaken for zombies (with tragic consequences). Of neighborly grudges and family vendettas settled once and for all . . . now that the law wasn’t looking. Of prisons across the state abandoned by their guards when the electric fences had failed, and now in the hands of the inmates.

  These and similar reports weighed on Burleson’s mind. And on Huggins’s, too. You couldn’t hear these tales and not wonder. Probably people were exaggerating. Yet even if only one out of ten was true. . . .

  For these and other reasons, Burleson forgave his chief of staff.

  For the moment.

  They were alone in Burleson’s office. Burleson had eventually retreated there to smoke a cigar and, if possible, rest his eyes for a moment. He had forgotten his jacket on a chair back in the war room. Huggins noticed this, and had picked it up, intending to bring it up to the governor. It was then that the satellite phone had fallen out of the jacket pocket, and Huggins’s jaw had nearly hit the floor.

  “You can leave my jacket on the desk,” the governor responded coolly, not even lifting his head.

  Huggins unceremoniously tossed the governor’s jacket on the corner of his desk, but the satellite phone remained in his hands. Both halves of it.

  “You took it apart,” Huggins said.

  This statement was true. Both men knew it. The governor fiddled with his cigar and considered how to respond. After a few awkward seconds, he silently nodded in agreement.

  “But we won’t know what’s going on!” Huggins cried. “The federal government could be trying to contact us this very moment. They might have a cure for the zombies already. Or Army troops could be on the way.”

  Burleson, who had taken the phone apart just after his successful on-camera defense of Mayor Brown, wrinkled his nose at this final suggestion.

  “Answering that phone is tantamount to begging for help,” Burleson said, moving the unlit cigar to the corner of his mouth. “I can’t allow that to happen. I can’t even put myself in a situation where someone can suggest that that could have happened.”

  “But—” Huggins began.

  The governor waved both arms wildly, an unusual gesture that Huggins had long ago realized meant Burleson desired complete silence.

  “Do you remember the Mike Tyson rape trial that happened here some years back?” the governor asked, lowering his arms and rising to his feet. “You’re younger than me, Huggins, but not that young. It took place in Indianapolis, back in the early ’90s. You couldn’t have missed it.”

  “I . . . sort of remember it, yeah,” Huggins answered.

  “Do you remember what Tyson said after he was convicted?” Burleson asked. “He never admitted to the crime, but he said his failure had been putting himself in a situation where he could have committed the crime. Taking an eighteen-year-old beauty pageant contestant back to a hotel room in the middle of the night, where it would be his word against hers? Even if nothing went down, that’s a situation where something could have happened. If you put yourself in that position—even if you do nothing wrong—you make yourself vulnerable. For a guy who got hit in the head for a living, I thought that was a pretty bright observation.”

  “So . . . ?” Huggins began. “Why are you bringing this up now?”

  “So, I don’t want to put myself in a position where I can even be accused of having asked for help from the federal government of the United States of America!” the governor boomed.

  Then he chewed his cigar for a moment, seeming to grow calmer and more thoughtful.

  “Look, between you and me, they’re going to send something eventually. We both know that. We’re both adults, Huggins. It’s gonna happen. It might be troops. It might be first aid kits and FEMA trailers. I don’t know the details yet, but they’re gonna send something. And when that happens—when the grid gets back online and people start asking who did what during the great zombie blackout—I want people to know that I didn’t ask for help. Indiana didn’t ask for help. I want to be able to look at the cameras and say there was no phone call to the Feds begging for troops. I want to say, ‘Search through the electronic records for any instance of a phone call between me and the federal government—and you will find nothing.’ And that will be God’s own truth.”

  “When did you make this decision?” Huggins asked soberly.

  Burleson brushed off the question.

  “Look, we are going to be fine,” Burleson told him. “I know what I’m doing here. I know how to play this. Things are going to be up and running again before you know it. When they are, you’re going to be damn glad I did this. Search your heart. You know I’m right.”

  Huggins searched his heart.

  “Is there anything else I should know about?” Huggins asked. “I’ve devoted my professional life to you for over eight years, Hank. I think I deserve to know what’s going on.”

  The governor moved his cigar to the other side of his mouth.

  “I sent some people up to Whiting,” the governor said quietly. “Couple of squad cars and an armored tank-thing the SWAT team had. I don’t know how long it will take them to get there with the roads all crazy, but I said not to dilly-dally. I gave them a message for Burundi Petroleum. Wrote it on official stationery and everything. Told them to be ready for . . . every contingency.”

  For a long moment, Huggins said nothing. He placed the broken satellite phone on the corner of the governor’s desk, and turned to leave the room.

  “Thank you for telling me,” Huggins said as he walked out the door.

  “Close it behind you, would you?” the governor called, preparing to light the cigar.

  Huggins did so.

  Flanked by the flags that surrounded the governor’s office, Huggins felt a tear roll down his cheek. He knew it was only the exhaustion—the chief of staff was not a man readily given to emotion—but it felt real nonetheless.

  The governor had sent folks to Whiting.

  He had reached out to BP.

  The man might just have a soul after all. . . .

  17

  James Nolan and Drextel Washington crept deeper into the woods. They followed the muddy footprints that were sometimes visible on the dirt paths beneath their feet. The prints did not occur regularly, and did not always look like Kesha’s or Steven’s, but the two men would take what they could get.

  In the early afternoon, they stopped to drink from a creek.

  “Look . . . I appreciate your help with Kesha,” Drextel said. “I know finding her wasn’t your original focus
. You were looking for Madison.”

  “At this point, I’m not convinced the two are exclusive,” Nolan said, standing up from his perch next to the creek.

  Drextel looked puzzled. Something clearly did not sit right with him.

  “It’s just . . . why would a guy like you work for a guy like Hank Burleson?” Drextel asked. “You’re near to a damn hero in this state. You could work for anybody you wanted.”

  Nolan sighed.

  “Not everybody likes the governor’s politics,” Nolan said. “I realize that. I’m an adult. Maybe you didn’t vote for him. That doesn’t mean we have to be enemies.”

  “Naw,” said Drextel, wiping his mouth and standing. “I mean you personally. You could work for anybody. Hell, I’d give you a job if you wanted one. First white columnist for the Indianapolis Recorder. Why not? It’d open up new circulation markets for us, for sure. Why do you stay with the governor?”

  Nolan hesitated and shook his head.

  “Hank Burleson helped me out back in the day. He was good to me. So I try to be good to him. I like helping people, and he knows that. It’s just my personality. This job I have, it puts me in positions where I feel like I can do a lot of good. I like that.”

  Drextel narrowed his eyes, as if somehow unconvinced.

  “Our esteemed governor’s had a long career in Indiana politics, as I recall,” Drextel said. “Long career . . .”

  Nolan knew where this was going.

  “Look, you can stop right there,” Nolan said, “because the answer is no.”

  “Hmmm?” said Drextel, feigning innocence.

  “Yes, when I had my car accident in college—the one that ended my career—Burleson was the mayor of Muncie at the time. Yes, he was involved in the investigation afterwards. And yes, he was one of the people who argued for leniency. But I don’t owe him anything. That’s not why I work for him. We just—you know—got to know each other during the whole process. Years later when he found out I’d joined the IPD, we sort of reconnected. That’s it.”

  Drextel looked skeptical.

  “That’s it, huh?” he asked.

  Nolan nodded.

  Drextel shrugged as if to say he had heard worse prevarications. Maybe not much worse, but worse.

  They went back on the march and followed the creek for about a mile. After that, the worn trail beneath them seemed to veer away, but Nolan stayed with the water. A footprint near the bank had caught his eye. Also, water. Teenagers needed water. So did adults.

  After following the creek for a few hundred yards—through a landscape that was often hilly and full of rocky outcroppings that were a challenge to traverse—they sighted a small lean-to. The walls featured haphazard tarpaper and odd scraps of wood and insulation that had been left exposed to the elements. The door was an oblong grate that looked as if it might once have been part of a farm animal’s pen. A dilapidated ATV was parked beside it.

  “What do you think?” Drextel asked as they observed from behind a hill. “Meth house? Moonshiner’s den? Broke-ass hunter’s cabin?”

  Nolan shook his head. The hovel was upwind, and it sure didn’t smell like anybody cooking meth or moonshine. All he could think about was the ATV. They could probably both fit aboard, and it would allow them to navigate the wooded trails at five times their current speed.

  Drextel whispered, “Look!”

  Nolan did.

  A man emerged from the lean-to. He had the slouch and distracted stare of a person who clearly believes himself unobserved. He was in his late 50s or early 60s, and had wild, shoulder length grey-black hair. He wore glasses and was dressed in jeans, a flannel shirt, and a blaze orange vest. He had an unkempt beard that grew wild and uneven across his face. In his hand he carried an oblong case that might have been a fisherman’s tackle box.

  “What do you think?” Drextel whispered.

  “I don’t see a gun,” Nolan observed. “I think we go say hi.”

  Nolan stood to his full height, instantly becoming visible. The man in front of the lean-to stopped and eyed him warily. Drextel stood up too. Both men waved. The stranger cautiously set down his case and waved back.

  The only sound was the trickling creek.

  “Howdy,” the stranger called as Nolan and Drextel approached. “Y’all hunters?”

  He indicated Drextel’s .22 rifle with a nod.

  Nolan could tell the man was nervous—and possibly dangerous. Just because he didn’t have a visible weapon did not mean he couldn’t be concealing one beneath his shirt, just as Nolan himself did.

  “Not hunters,” Nolan replied as they reached the lean-to. “I’m a police officer. This is Drextel Washington, a newspaper editor. We’re looking for Drextel’s daughter. She’s missing somewhere in these woods. About yea high. Short hair. Big pretty eyes. You seen anybody like that come through?”

  “Hmm,” the man said, as if not entirely convinced by their story. “I recognize you. You’re that ballplayer, right?”

  “Yeah,” Nolan said. “Used to be. Police officer now.”

  He fished his shield out of his pocket and perfunctorily held it up.

  “Long way from Indianapolis,” the stranger observed, eyeing the badge.

  Nolan nodded.

  “Have you seen anybody come past?” Drextel asked. “My daughter could be with another teenager.”

  “No,” the man said. “Haven’t seen anybody. Not for two days.”

  “Are you a hunter?” Nolan asked. He looked at the strange, oblong case the man had set down. The man saw him looking.

  “I’m a biologist,” the man said. “I teach up at Purdue. Name’s Richard Niel.”

  He extended his hand to both men, and they shook it.

  “I study the things that live in the water in this part of the state—in creeks like this one,” Richard continued. He opened the case to reveal tiny clear plastic boxes full of field samples.

  “Do you, uh, know what’s going on?” Drextel asked.

  Richard looked back and forth between them and raised his eyebrows. He clearly didn’t.

  “What do you mean ‘going on’?” Richard said.

  Drextel and Nolan both sighed.

  “Do you have a radio or a cell phone or anything?” Nolan tried.

  “I listen to an iPod while I’m working,” Richard answered. “And my cell phone’s broken, I think. It hasn’t worked since yesterday.”

  “Maybe you should sit down for a second,” Nolan said. “There are some things we should probably tell you.”

  “I’m fine to stand,” Richard said—still clearly uncomfortable, still unsure what to make of these strangers.

  “Sure . . . stand,” Nolan told him. “Either way, you should hear this.”

  They stayed standing.

  18

  Kesha kept her body low and hidden as she looked down from the crest of the rock outcropping to the creek below. Her mouth hung open in surprise. Her eyes went back and forth rapidly as she tried to make sense of the scene.

  First of all, her father—her father!—was here. Not up in Indianapolis. Not at home, or at the offices of the Recorder, or even out somewhere trying to find her mother. Against all reason, he was here, in southern Indiana. Less than a hundred feet away.

  And Kesha wanted nothing more than to bound up to him and hug him. To run to him, calling his name, and throw her arms around his middle. To feel her arms around the familiar daddy-contours of his shoulders, his chest, his belly. To smell his cologne that smelled like home—not even like a house, like the idea of home. To feel safe and loved and like Dad was there once more.

  Not even “like.” He would be there. He was. Right there, in the clearing below.

  But standing next to him were IMPD Special Sergeant James Nolan and a strange bearded man with a tackle box.

  She looked again at her father. He appeared exhausted, and utterly out of his element. He was also holding a gun, which Kesha had never seen him do. He was sweaty. His glasses were fogged fro
m exertion. His spavined frame bore the wear of years spent hunched over typewriters and computers, and a steady diet of crullers and black coffee. This was not a man designed to roam zombie-filled hills with a gun. This was a man built for reclining in leather chairs and examining written copy with a careful eye. (And still Kesha loved him. And still she wanted to be with him in this time of horrible crisis more than anything in the world.)

  Kesha turned and looked behind her. There, at the foot of the hill beneath the outcropping, crouched the rest of her group. Sara and Tara relaxed against the same tree. Steven had helped Madison into a seated position atop a mossy log. All four of them looked up expectantly at Kesha. What were the noises that had sounded like conversation? What had the scout seen and heard?

  Kesha raised a finger to say they should wait a moment more. She took another long glance down to where her father stood. The three men were talking. Actually, James Nolan was doing most of the talking. He was the concern.

  Nolan worked for the governor. That was the one fact that Kesha just couldn’t shake.

  She’d seen him in action. How he always rushed in to do the right thing without a second thought. And that was what worried her.

  In her year-and-change among the children of Hoosier royalty, Kesha had come to understand what the system rewarded. If any single trait was encouraged, it was an alacrity to help. Whatever the task, you showed up and did it with a smile. Whatever the request, a good Hoosier said yes if he possibly could. That was what good Hoosiers did. That was especially what good Hoosier athletes did. You did what coach said. Whatever he said. It was no great leap for Kesha to imagine how a man like Nolan might go into the “real world” seeing every authority figure as a coach. And who was a bigger coach than the governor of the entire state? When coach said hit those free throws, or block that shot, or find my daughter—you just did it. There was no reward for stopping and thinking. For wondering if it was the right thing to do. There was only the task at hand. The play. The score.