ZOMBIE BOOKS

by Gnarly, Bart

  Then the girl’s little brother fell ill.

  The older brother said he would travel to the closest town, Cheney, and see if he could find medicine or someone who could help.

  The next day the horde was on them.

  It was night. They were camped on an island in Long Lake. Zombies weren’t supposed to be able to swim. Zombies were supposed to drown. The girl thought she was safe. Her father told her she was safe. Her mother knelt over the paling body of her brother. He was sick, but the girl believed he was safe.

  They all were.

  They were going to be just fine.

  The zombies didn’t moan. They didn’t say anything at all. Before the girl knew the danger was even there, the family was surrounded. They just walked up out of the water, right over to the girl’s mother and brother, and pinned them both down with their dripping hands. The zombies then bit off bulky chunks of flesh while the victims screamed in pain. Her father awoke to the sounds of his wife and youngest child expiring under a swarm of hungry dead. Without thinking twice, he scooped up his only daughter and made for the canoe. Kicking zombies out of his path, the man made it to the boat and placed the girl within it. The girl was confused and scared, but knew the worst had not occurred until she looked her father in the eyes. The man winced in pain, said that he was sorry, told her to find her brother, and shoved the canoe with all he had.

  “Noooooo!”

  The girl watched as the father turned and swung at the zombie holding his leg. The man grabbed an ax by the fire and began chopping down any zombie within reach. The girl watched, feelings of horror and hope mixing in her stomach as her father ended six zombies one after the next. On the seventh, his swing missed. Off-balance on his injured leg, the man fell to the dirt beside the remnants of his wife and little boy. The girl cried aloud as the remainder of the horde seized the man who had preserved her for so long in this wilderness and tore him to the bone.

  He tried not to scream at first. He tried to remain silent for his little girl. But in the end everyone goes shrieking and crying.

  ◊◊◊

  “C’mon you chubby bastard. Come on.”

  I’ve been watching this fat one for a couple hours now, and he’s really starting to piss me off. He won’t leave the open spaces around the town’s buildings and come up my driveway of zombie death.

  When I first started catching and destroying zombies, I would meet one in the open with a net in one hand and a catchpole in the other. I’d fancy myself a modern gladiator in the pit of life squaring off with a tiger for the roar of the crowds. That worked well once. The second time I tried the same stunt I found myself surprised by three extra dead-heads and ended up running for my life. I learned two things that day. One: I like being alive. Two: Always bring the fight to you. Now I spy a zombie the way a deer hunter spots a buck and waits for the most opportune time to strike. My battlefield of choice is a loading dock at the milling facility by the rail yard. On top of the building, I have a crow’s nest that allows me to spot zombies coming from far off and gives me plenty of time to prepare. Then I lure them onto the loading dock where I can snare the bugger in the net, nab it with the catchpole, and drag it back to the van.

  How do I lure them?

  It turns out that zombified humans are a lot like spiders: Their vision sucks, so they rely heavily on their other senses. I put myself above the dock, and they sniff me out.

  I don’t mean to brag, but zombies find the smell of my flesh irresistible. Don’t be jealous. I’m sure they would love to eat you too, but I’ve seen zombies walk a straight line over a mile to where I am just to end up in the van and on their way to the ranch.

  Chubby here trailed my scent from the Cheney Spokane Road, and walked right up to the entrance of the driveway where he stopped, and is now nervously pacing in the street like a kid waiting to use the bathroom. Anxious. Noisy. Indecisive. Hands fidgeting.

  I know what he’s doing, and it’s making me uneasy.

  He keeps looking south down 1st St, and then back to the loading dock.

  Not now.

  As if Chubb-o has finally made up his mind, he starts the fancy cadaver shuffle down the street and doesn’t look back.

  I’ve seen zombies do this a hundred times, and only ever for one reason.

  I scramble up the ladder, through the stairwell door, and pop out the roof. I find Chubby sauntering along 1st, right down the middle of the road, his dysfunctional gait becoming more excited with every little hop. I raise my binoculars, scan out in the distance, and spot him. He’s small, trying to slip between cars in a dealership lot. Damn fool doesn’t realize he’s downwind.

  Fresh apple pie, Chubbs, and it’s pinned-down between a pair of gently used four-doors.

  Something in me says to ignore them. The voice reasons that he’ll either be turned now or later. An idiot like that – trapping himself with no escape route – it’s amazing he lasted this long.

  Then there’s the other voice. The one that reminds me that one fewer human is one more zombie to have to deal with. I can’t save him forever, but keeping him alive until he moves on means he’ll be some other town’s zombie problem.

  Shit.

  I scoot back to the stairwell, and in no time I’m cautiously gaining on Chubby, who is completely distracted by the town’s new resident. The wind is still firmly at my back, so there’s no chance of Captain Shuffles smelling me out. Even so, I really don’t like this. I’m keeping my eyes open and taking precautions to keep from being surprised by any unseen zombies, but I can’t ignore the danger I’m in. I’ve now put myself on the ground, on a level playing field with the horde, and I’m stalking one while it’s hunting. Catching a zombie who isn’t hungry is like bagging a tired preschooler: They make a bunch of noise but don’t really fight that hard. Snagging a hungry zombie is like trying to wrestle a giant snake barehanded with rodents tied all over your body.

  Read: Stupid and Reckless.

  So no, I’m not feeling great about my situation.

  I whittle the distance between Chubby and myself to within twenty yards when the dealership comes into view. Just as I draw my net from my shoulder bag, the boy dives across the street all hunched-over like a character in some Halloween cartoon. Chubbs yells in excitement and I break into a full run. The boy reaches the curb and stops, sees us running at him and screams.

  A long… high-pitched… horror movie queen scream.

  Chubbs doesn’t care. If anything the noise is just setting the appropriate ambiance for turning this curb into a modern street café, specializing in only the most raw of delicacies.

  For me, the sound stirs something deep within and makes me double my efforts. My mind switches to autopilot. The next few minutes were retained and reviewed in vacation slideshow fashion.

  Net out and tossed onto the zombie. Chubby falls. Girl turns to run.

  Girl. It’s a girl.

  Chubby turns on me and claws at the rope. Catch pole out. Chubby pulls off part of the net. I scream and curse at Chubby. He swipes at me and tries to stand up. The girl stops and watches her fate play out before her.

  Girl. It’s a girl.

  I flick the end of the catchpole over Chubber’s neck and tighten the snare. He stands and lunges at me but with a twist I have him sprawled on the ground again. He pushes, claws, and gurgles at me ferociously, but Chubby isn’t going anywhere. In a flash I have dug out my framing hammer. It’s a special little tool I carry for such special occasions. There will be no dragging this one back to the ranch. I draw back and begin slamming the milled face of the hammer into the collapsing face of the zombie. Then I work his shoulders and arms. Then his knees. My arm aches from wrist to shoulder as I crush Chubby’s hips and pelvis. In a matter of minutes, what was a terrifying killing machine is no more than a shivering glob of zombie jelly. I slip the snare from the around Chubb-o’s head pudding and stand over what I’ve made. My pants and shirt are covered in zombie spatter. I’m pretty sure I taste z-jelly, causi
ng me to subconsciously push the back of my hand across my lip. Recalling that I’m not alone, my eyes rise to meet the disgusted stare of the young lady, hand still at my mouth.

  “Is it dead?” she asks.

  The girl’s voice snaps me back to the situation. We’re still in the open. We’ve made a lot of noise. And there is never just one zombie shuffling around. Suddenly I’m mad again.

  This is who I risked my neck for? Some stupid girl?

  “Yeah,” I snap, “its dead. But it’s a zombie, so it’s been dead for a while now, hasn’t it?” My tone is harsh. Maybe too harsh. She looks at me and her face becomes stone.

  “Yeah, well,” she stammers, “screw you too.” The girl turns to walk away.

  Definitely too harsh.

  “Wait,” I offer.

  “No!” she blurts, rearing back at me. Now it’s her turn to snap. “Thanks for saving me, but I have enough problems without you treating me like I don’t matter.”

  “Run.”

  “What?”

  She turns and gets my perspective. No less than eight zombies are jogging up 1st Street, howling and singing animatedly.

  “Run!” I repeat.

  I grab her wrist and pull the girl toward the milling facility and my van. It’s half-mile away but we’ll cover that easily, what with being motivated by a ravenous horde and all. As we run, my only real fear is another horde cutting us off and being penned-in. Fears gone to waste, we reach the van without encountering any other shufflers. Moments later we’re driving out of Cheney proper and heading to the county.

  ◊◊◊

  We drive for several minutes without speaking. She’s tucked her knees to her chin and is staring out into the fading light of the evening. I’m grinding my teeth and trying to think of something to say that won’t result in her getting pissed and snapping at me again.

  She saves me the effort.

  “Amy,” she says, barely over a whisper.

  “Kyle,” I reply.

  “Thank you for saving me, Kyle.”

  I think back to standing atop the mill and debating helping her at all or letting her be eaten. I choose to keep that deliberation to myself. Instead I glance her way and offer a weak, “Don’t mention it.”

  She twists in her seat in response. Amy reaches behind her head and draws her hair out of a small tight bun. She sweeps a few nomadic strands from her eyes and sets to giving me an honest once-over. When her gaze drops to my hands, Amy’s nose crinkles and she makes a bit of a sour face for the briefest of moments before turning back to the road.

  I look at my hands - all eight fingers. I raise my left hand and wiggle my thumb, index, and middle finger at my face. “Yeah,” I admit, “it ain’t pretty, but I lived.”

  “How’d you lose them?” her timid voice squeaks.

  “What else? Zombies.”

  Panic takes over her expression as she tries to process this new revelation. “”But that means you’re…”

  “Nah,” I interrupt, keeping my tone light. “I’m a carrier of the Z gene.” I stare at the mutilated appendage and the words seem to come out on their own, but they’ve lost any happy tone and have adopted the attitude of a biology lesson. “They can’t infect me. They can eat me, and try to, often. But I will never become one of them.”

  “So, people like you… with the zombie gene…”

  “Infected the world,” I finish for her. “They think the gene mutated and started attacking non-carriers.”

  “So does that mean your family members are carriers as well?”

  She would have been a smart kid in school, but she must have been helpless in the world.

  “No,” I answer, a small part of me reliving the day the outbreak hit and the fire that killed my parents. “They’re dead.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “They burned in a house fire, but not until they were turned.”

  “Turned?”

  “Into zombies.” I breathe hard and let the words just spill out. “In the end, they tried to kill and eat me. The fire, it took them both.”

  “Where do you live now?” The distraction is nice for both of us right about now.

  “I took a farmhouse up on the ridge. Harder to get to, and it already had a good fence.”

  “You live alone?” The question carries no judgment and sounds like nothing more than just idle curiosity with a hint of surprise.

  “Nah, not really. I mean, there are always the zombies,” I say with a strange smile.

  “Yeah, they’re everywhere.”

  “No,” I laugh. “I mean the zombies at the ranch. I keep them in pens.”

  “Huh,” is all she says in response. Then, after a moment or two, “Why, Kyle? Why do you have zombies at your house?” She makes a disbelieving laugh and adds, “Are they like pets, or something?”

  “Hardly,” I chuckle darkly. “I keep them and kill them. I practice snaring them and subduing them.” Yeah, I sound crazy. “When I’m done with them, I toss ‘em on the burn pile.”

  She nods knowingly, but I’m worried that if I say anymore I’ll scare her off, so I decide to change the topic.

  “So,” I begin, “I haven’t seen you in Cheney before. What brought you out here?”

  God I sound lame.

  “I have to find my brother.” Amy says it in that way which does not allow the listener to question the speaker’s sincerity. It is more than a statement. It’s a declaration.

  She’s young, sixteen or seventeen, and she’s alone. No parents with her, which makes them dead and buried or dead and shuffling. Looking for her brother, which means he’s lost and probably dead as well.

  Somebody has to tell this kid the truth. She could use some reality in her situation.

  My eyes flick over to the girl riding shotgun. Her chin is on her knees again and her stare into the darkness is determined. I lose my nerve almost immediately. “Okay,” I respond. “Any idea where he is?”

  “No.” There is a sadness to her tone, but it’s not without hope. “My little brother got sick and Tom went to Cheney to find medicine.”

  “Where’s your little brother now?” The question is a stupid one, and I regret it the moment of its utterance.

  “He’s dead.”

  Dammit.

  “And my mom. And…” She huffs and sucks the tears back with a rigid jaw and a tense neck. “And my dad.”

  “Sorry, I…”

  “It’s okay. I just need to find my brother.”

  I can’t bear to tell her what I think. That her brother is probably strolling the countryside by now, eating everything with a heartbeat without the slightest thought for her or her dead family.

  “So you’re what, fifteen?” I ask instead.

  “Seventeen.” She exaggerates every syllable in the way girls do when they are trying to emphasize how mature they are.

  “Damn. S’cuse me.” I laugh and she frowns back at me. “Got a plan, Miss Frickin’ Grownup?”

  Amy’s head droops as she admits that she has no idea where to start.

  “We'll hit the pharmacies and drug stores first. Not because there are any medicines left there, but we may bump into your brother while he’s searching. How long has he been gone?”

  “Two days.”

  “He’s probably still scouring the town.”

  If he’s alive, that is.

  ◊◊◊

  For the next week, it’s the same routine, day in and day out. Amy and I head out from the ranch. We cruise up and down the main drags of Cheney, breaking into any store that sells narcotics and antibiotics. Just like I promised, universally every shelf is bare.

  And no sign of Tom.

  Eventually we start breaking into eldercare facilities and medical offices. No drugs.

  And no sign of Tom.

  By the second week, we’re breaking into homes and rifling for any little plastic bottles we can find. Nothing.

  And no sign of Tom.

  Meanwhile, when we’re not searchi
ng for drugs and lost siblings, I teach Amy how to net and rope a shuffler from a safe position. I teach her to always gain the better location. Always have an escape route ready. Never feel safe when you’re in the open. It’s not over until the creature can’t move. Always keep your eyes open. Trust no one.

  We take zombies back to the ranch. She watches in silence as I crush, burn, and grind them. Amy just stands there, watching the zombies being dismembered, disemboweled, and decapitated. As I purge myself of the voice that tells me I’m one of them, Amy wordlessly stands guard while the monsters get their comeuppance.

  “You saw them die, didn’t you?” I ask one night, zombie fire fading to a glowing smolder behind the barn. She doesn’t answer, but she doesn’t have to.

  Specks of ash and red sparks flit skyward and I think she realizes for the first time that she may never find her brother. Her arm slips around my waist, she rests her forehead on my shoulder, and for the first time I realize that I don’t want her to leave.

  ◊◊◊

  I’ve done a lot of extra driving since Amy came along. Gas isn’t exactly attained with ease anymore, so I sit Amy down and tell her that we need to change our plan of attack. I tell her we can’t just keep scouring the town at random. That if we are going to continue the search, we have to set a goal, and maybe a timeframe.

  “If we don’t find him within an amount of time that you agree on,” I’m choking on my words and feeling like an idiot, but I force the words out anyway, “I think you should make a plan to settle somewhere.”

  She cocks her head at me.

  “Like here,” I add. “With me.”

  “Kyle, I…” Her words die before they even begin.

  “I’m just saying… you know. How long can you last searching for someone who might not even be there?” Carefully. Carefully. “You should put a time limit on the search, and have a plan for after.”

  “Okay, Kyle.”

  “Just in case, you know, Tom is… well… lost… or…”

  “Okay, Kyle.” Her voice is cool and even. No hint of worry or anxiety. “But let’s find Tom, and then we can all live here together. We’ll round up zombies and take care of each other. The three of us.”