Zombie, Indiana

by Scott Kenemore

  “What?” Burleson and Huggins said at exactly the same time.

  “Yeah, we don’t know exactly what’s causing the bodies to get back up again,” the general said in a relaxed tone. “Some astronomers are saying it could be dust from the tail of a comet. I’ve heard other theories too. Crazy stuff. But the point is, it’s nothing you all did in Indiana.”

  Burleson and Huggins looked at each other.

  “I don’t doubt what you’re saying,” the general quickly added, turning to Huggins. “You say you put stuff in the water your citizens drink that makes dead things twitch. I believe you. But it isn’t the culprit. The dead are rising from Manhattan to Moscow to Melbourne. The outbreak is global.”

  There was a commotion behind Burleson. The general and his men were evidently distracted by something. Their faces showed confusion and alarm.

  The governor turned.

  The crowd had made it through the barricade and was coming up the street. They were moving slowly. In horror, Burleson realized that this was because they were carrying the giant body of James Nolan with them. They held him at their fore like the masthead on a ship. More horrible still, Nolan did not appear to be completely dead. He still clutched his abdomen, and his eyes were open. On one side of him was the governor’s own daughter, riding piggyback. To his other was a very angry-looking black girl.

  “Well good God-damn . . . that’s James Nolan,” the general said. The military formality fell away from his voice. In a trice, he was just a Hoosier again. A citizen. A basketball fan.

  “That man shot him!” the black girl screamed, pointing straight at Burleson.

  “He did!” Madison shouted. “My dad. The governor. That man right there. We’re all witnesses.”

  A newly arrived Army medic came running forward to examine Nolan’s wound.

  General Belden turned to the governor with an iron-clad expression that asked: “Is this true?”

  “Self-defense!” Burleson said. “I was . . . protecting the state. Protecting my citizens. That man was sowing sedition. He proposed a breakdown of law and order. You understand about order, general. You see that I had no other choice . . .”

  A beat passed. The general said nothing.

  A few paces off, the medic said, “This man needs surgery right away. He should be airlifted.”

  General Belden stuck a finger in the air and twirled it, as if to say: “Make it so.”

  Another medic advanced and helped shoulder Nolan’s massive bulk. Together, they began to move him toward a waiting helicopter. The crowd seemed reluctant to let him go. Some people were not even properly supporting him, just eager to touch him with a finger or two.

  Nolan groaned and allowed the transfer to happen. Then he looked back and nodded to the crowd. It was time for them to let him go.

  As the medics began to ease Nolan toward the helicopter—looking for all the world like trainers helping an injured baller off the court—General Belden strode over.

  “Son?” the general said to Nolan.

  Nolan looked up, his face contorted. The huge man was evidently in great pain. He opened his mouth to speak, but nothing came out. He had given all that he had to give.

  General Belden nodded and made the spinning motion with his finger again. Nolan’s head fell to his chest. The straining medics hurried away. The general marched back to Burleson.

  “Mister Governor,” Belden said. “I think you’d better come with me.”

  “Of course,” Burleson said firmly. “Now that the federal government is here—unbidden, of course—I suppose we should coordinate efforts . . .”

  “Uh-huh,” the general said. “Right this way, Governor.”

  Burleson straightened his shirt and slicked down his hair. Then he followed the general across the verdant capitol lawn to where the helicopter was waiting.

  This was not the end, the governor assured himself. It was only the end of the beginning.

  Epilogue

  Kesha Washington stood at the front of the social studies classroom. She wore her best dress, and even a little makeup. In the autumn that came to Indiana two years after the outbreak, her small private school had finally reopened.

  Things had changed.

  Before, Kesha had been a misfit, nervous about keeping her grades high enough to retain her scholarship. Now she was one of the school’s star students. In fact, the school had contacted her father to ensure that she would be returning when they reopened. A full scholarship for the rest of her time was now guaranteed (whatever her grades or disciplinary history might be). After that, a full ride for an in-state college was more or less assured. Kesha Washington had become one of the most famous people in the state.

  Kesha had agreed to return. Her one request—perhaps it had been closer to a demand, Kesha would allow, if pressed—was that Madison Burleson (now bereft of money and title) be allowed to finish school with her. All three remaining years, without tuition or fees. And that an orphan named Steven Hipwell be admitted as an incoming junior, with similar conditions.

  On this particular morning—as the school formally restarted once more—there was an electricity in the air. It was as if the state itself were restarting. After two hard years, things were finally getting back to normal. The zombies had been cleared from all major cities, and from most of the countryside. Agriculture was operating smoothly again. Commerce was largely unhindered. Military law had been rendered unnecessary, and so rescinded. There were jury trials again.

  This was also a special morning, because the class had a visiting guest. The newspaper photographers gathered at the back of the room attested to his importance. (Some of the photographers were also in the employ of the school. The images captured today would be prominently featured in admissions brochures for years to come.) The special guest was James Nolan, commissioner of the IMPD.

  Nolan, who had already made a few introductory remarks, stood at the side of the classroom while Kesha finished her report on the history of Indiana’s role in the “Z-Day” outbreak. The class stared up at her with something like awe. (Except for Madison, the faces were entirely new. The original sophomore class had been completely decimated.)

  “In conclusion . . .” Kesha read from the pages stacked on the podium in front of her. “The Z-Day outbreak in Indiana was important because Indiana had a different challenge than any other state during the crisis. Indiana showed that even if a leader became unfit to govern, the people could work together to peacefully remove him and preserve the interests of the state and its citizens. Thank you.”

  Kesha knew that this was, of course, ridiculous.

  The idea that she could sum up what Z-Day had meant to everyone in the state was a fantasy. There were six million Hoosiers and six million stories. Some were tales of heroism. Others were of murder or neglect or craven fear. What about those? Summing up what had happened was beyond anybody’s power. Yet, as Kesha had slowly realized, it had to be done. And because of who she was, it would now be expected of her.

  Kesha looked up from the podium. The beaming social studies teacher standing near the door applauded with all her might. So did the principal, and several other members of administration who’d dropped in for this class. The seated students applauded too. At the back of the room, the cameras clicked and flashed.

  Kesha smiled weakly. She was still growing accustomed to the attention. As the applause continued to ring out, she looked over at the tall, uniformed police commissioner standing in the corner. He applauded, too.

  It was because of Nolan, of course, that Kesha’s role in the events leading to the downfall of Governor Burleson had been recognized. Nolan was already a hero. Accordingly, the media had wanted to make the events on the barricade a singlehanded achievement, as if he had been operating alone. Yet Nolan had insisted—again and again—that it was only through the intercession of a brave high school student that he had found the strength to do what he had done.

  After the incarceration of Burleson, the record c
oncerning Nolan’s accident in college had been reopened. There was still no hard evidence for what had happened, but in the court of popular opinion Nolan had been exonerated. The cries for his promotion to commissioner had come soon thereafter.

  Nolan looked over at Kesha and smiled. He was proud of her. He hoped she would go far, and that all of this to-do would be only the beginning for her.

  After Kesha’s presentation concluded, she gave Nolan a quick tour of the prep school (with photographers and administrators in tow). The damage sustained in the first days of the outbreak had been completely repaired. The school had been restored to its former glory, and then some. Carpeting, windows, and guardrails were all shiny and new.

  Kesha concluded the tour at the entrance to the school. An IMPD SUV with an officer behind the wheel was waiting for Nolan. The photographers took a final set of photos of Nolan, Kesha, and the principal of the school standing together.

  “Thanks again, Mister Commissioner,” the principal said. “Kesha, I’ll see you back in class.”

  “Sure thing, Principal Armitage,” Kesha called. “I just need to have a quick word with James.”

  “Oh . . .” said the principal. “Of course, Kesha. Take as long as you need.”

  The principal headed back inside the school. The photographers wandered away to the parking lot, chatting and sometimes shaking hands. In moments, Kesha and Nolan were quite alone underneath the fragrant trees that framed the entrance to the school.

  They looked at one another for a long beat, smiling. And then Kesha laughed.

  “I’m sorry,” she said. “I’m not even sure what I’m laughing at. This is just so strange.”

  “It is pretty weird,” Nolan allowed.

  “Thank you again for everything,” Kesha said. “I never know what to say.”

  “Are you kidding?” Nolan said. “Thank you. None of this would have been possible without you. I’d still be working for Burleson and . . . you know . . . the entire state would be a whole lot shittier.”

  Then they both laughed a little.

  “You look like you’re doing well,” Nolan said.

  “I’m old for a sophomore now,” Kesha said. “We all are. We missed two years of school. It’s weird.”

  “I think that’ll work itself out,” Nolan told her. “When you’re older, nobody will even notice it.”

  “I suppose,” Kesha said. “I’ll do my best.”

  “You’ll do more than that,” Nolan said.

  He looked at his watch.

  “You have to go,” Kesha said.

  “I kinda do,” he told her. “You take care, kid. I’ll catch you around.”

  Kesha nodded, and watched as Nolan climbed into the passenger seat of the SUV. Then she turned back toward the school—that was now somehow hers in a very real sense—and walked back through the doors.

  “Pull over,” Nolan said to the patrolman in the driver’s seat.

  “Hmm?” the driver said as if he had not quite heard correctly.

  “Right here,” Nolan said.

  “Commissioner, we’re already late.”

  “This will only take a second,” Nolan said.

  The SUV crawled to a halt in front of a nondescript subdivision along College Avenue. The nearest home had a real estate company sign on the lawn. Part of the legend read—“Fixer-upper’s dream! Minimal zombie damage!” Nolan got out of the SUV and strode up the walkway to the dilapidated dwelling. He raised a hand and hailed the scruffy-looking man sitting on the front porch smoking a cigarette.

  “James!” Nathan Dazey cried. “James Nolan?! Is that really you?”

  Nolan could hardly believe his eyes. Dazey was like a cockroach. The whole state could go to hell, and somehow he’d survive.

  “Me in the flesh,” Nolan said.

  “You never used to wear a uniform. And when you did, it didn’t have that many gold trinkets on it.”

  “Times change,” Nolan said with a smile. “How you doin’? It’s been a couple of years.”

  “I been, you know, survivin’,” Dazey said. “Gettin’ by. Looking out for zombies.”

  “There haven’t been any for a while,” Nolan said. “Not in the cities, at least.”

  “Yeah, I suppose,” Dazey said, drawing on his cigarette. “Never can be too careful, though.”

  Nolan grinned.

  “Are you squatting here?” Nolan asked.

  “For now I am,” Dazey said, looking away. “For a while there, the livin’ was good. Empty houses everywhere. Empty stores. Things just there for the takin’. A man like me could live like a king.”

  “I’ll bet,” Nolan said. “But times are changing again, buddy. This house is gonna belong to somebody soon. Maybe a family. A lot of people still need a place to stay.”

  “Yeah . . .” Dazey allowed. “I suppose so.”

  “Why don’t you let me give you a lift somewhere?” Nolan said.

  A mischievous smile crossed Dazey’s face.

  “Anywhere on the east side, right?” Dazey asked. “Just like old times?”

  “Anywhere you like,” Nolan said to the scruffy man. “We can go anywhere at all.”

  “A New Indiana.”

  Hank Burleson looked down at the heading on the photocopied pamphlet as the guard thrust it through the bars of his dingy cell.

  “What the fuck is this?” Burleson growled.

  The meaty guard smiled through crooked teeth.

  “Orientation brochure,” said the guard. “Tells you all about how the world has changed since Z-Day. State says we have to give one to anybody who might get paroled. You got your first review board hearing coming up next week.”

  Inmate #2345723 of the Marion County Hospital for the Criminally Insane ripped the pamphlet away from the guard with great ferocity. The guard’s smile widened.

  “Not that I give you much of a chance,” the guard said. “In fact, you’re the last person I expect to see get out of here. Ever. But you should still read the brochure. It’s supposed to familiarize you with the way things are on the outside now.”

  Burleson was no longer listening. He retreated to the bunk at the back of his cell and began to read the pamphlet.

  Because of recent events, the world outside this hospital may look somewhat different from the one you left when you were admitted.

  No shit, Burleson thought.

  The outbreak of undead approximately twenty-four months ago has created substantial changes to the state’s infrastructure, commerce, government, and culture. When you re-enter society, you will probably become aware of these changes.

  No shit again, Burleson thought. Who the fuck had written this? Who was this for? He knew many of his fellow inmates were feeble-minded, but this was ridiculous.

  Many of these changes are positive.

  That stopped Burleson cold.

  He frowned down at the page in his hand.

  What on earth . . . ? Was this someone’s idea of a joke?

  Ever intrepid, he read on.

  Some of the changes you are likely to notice include:

  • Increased citizen engagement in the political process

  • Increased openness in government

  • Increased social connection among community members

  • Bartering of goods and services

  • Decreased use of gasoline and personal cars

  • Increased use of public transportation and alternative energy (solar power, wind power)

  • Increased access to city services

  • New connections between farmers and consumers (“farm to table”)

  • Renewed partnerships between Indiana and other states in the region

  • A stronger sense of state and national pride

  • Sharing

  • Cooperation

  Burleson put down the pamphlet. He could read no further.

  This was not his Indiana. This was not anything.

  He wanted no part of it.

  “Guard!”
Burleson cried. “Guard, come here!”

  A few minutes later, the attendant trundled down the grim hallway to Burleson’s cell.

  “What?”

  “Here,” Burleson said, shoving the pamphlet back through the bars. “I don’t want it.”

  “You have to take it,” the guard informed him.

  “No,” Burleson said. “I don’t want to.”

  “If you don’t take it, you can’t go to your review board hearing.”

  “Then I’m not going,” Burleson barked.

  He threw the pamphlet through the bars where it settled at the man’s feet. The guard looked down at the pamphlet, then up at Burleson.

  “Are you sure?” the guard said. (His tone indicated he might be dealing with a six–year-old who’d just insisted he didn’t need to use the restroom before a long car trip.)

  Burleson retreated to his bunk and sat down with his arms crossed. He stared straight ahead. He was very, very still.

  “Yeah,” Burleson said.

  “You’re sure?” the guard repeated.

  Burleson looked at the guard and nodded.

  “There’s nothing out there that I want.”

  The guard shrugged, picked up the offending pamphlet, and shuffled back down the hallway. Burleson listened to him plodding away, his steps growing softer and softer. Soon there was nothing to hear at all.

  Burleson was alone in the silence.