“Hey!” My dad shouted. Slowly, the man at the door began to turn around, revealing his glazed yellow eyes, and mouth covered in blood. His skin was pale, and he moved very slowly toward my father.
For a few seconds, Suzy and I forgot to breath. We were speechless.
“Stop!” My dad ordered, aiming his gun. The man ignored him, and walked on. “Stop or I’ll shoot!” the rifle was shaking in my dad’s hands. It was the first time we’d ever seen a zombie up close, and it felt unreal. Something about actually seeing it in the flesh felt strange. I don’t think any of us could’ve explained it at the time, but I think I know now why we felt that way. It looked too human.
My dad gave it one final warning. “Stop or God help me I’ll shoot you.” The man growled that same inhuman growl we’d heard on TV, and my dad pulled the trigger.
The bullet hit the dead center of the forehead, and the man fell to the ground, a small black hole sitting above his eyebrows like an empty third eye socket.
Blood began to trickle out of that dark hole, mingling with the blood on the floor. We stood there, the shock beginning to set in.
They’d come home.
No longer were the zombies just some distant threat, accessible only through the news and internet. No longer could they be worried and talked about as a frightening “what if?” They were as real and dangerous as the loaded gun Dad held in his hands.
This realization set in like a cold wind, sending a shiver up our spines. Millions of horrifying thoughts ran through our minds; a mental parade of terrifying futures, each more gruesome than the last.
It was then that we heard a soft moan coming from Diane’s bedroom.
“Mom!” Suzy ran up to the door, and fruitlessly tried to turn the still locked door knob. “Mom, open the door!” She started pounding on the door as me and Dad caught up with her.
“Mrs. Peterson!” I said.
“Diane! Unlock the door!” My Dad said.
For a few seconds we heard nothing. Then there was a sound like something being scrapped against wood. Then another of those moans.
“Get back.” My dad said, raising his rifle. We got behind him, and he shot the door knob off. The moment it hit the ground, the door was gently pushed open, and we found Diane.
She stood in the doorway, looking at us with a blank dazed stare. A large gaping wound sat on her right shoulder, and it was bleeding. The back of the door was covered in long bloody scratch marks. We looked down at Diane’s finger nails and saw that they were broken and bloody.
“Mom.” Suzy began toward her mother, when my dad put his hand up. Diane slowly stumbled out of the doorway toward us. Her skin had become pale, and her gait was slow and uncoordinated. And she kept moaning. We slowly walked backward to the living room.
“Mom?” Suzy said, tears rolling down her cheeks.
“Diane.” My dad said. Still nothing but low moans. “Diane…please say something. Please say something.”
Silence for a few moments, then a moan. She lifted her hands up, and reached out to us.
“Mom, please.” Suzy said. Diane didn’t respond as she continued down the hallway.
“Kids go outside.” My dad said.
“No.” Suzy shook her head. I put my shaking hand on her shoulder, and began to tug her in the direction of the living room. My dad gently pushed her down the hall. I put my arm around her shoulders. She continued to shake her head, but she put up no resistance when I started to walk her down the hall.
“Wait in the car.” My dad said. Both of us sobbing, we walked to the door, and exited into the front yard. We didn’t hear the gunshot until after we’d gotten to the car.
V
I spent the next few days trying to get some rest at the truck stop. My leg still ached, so I spent a lot of time limping. And I did finally develop the common sense to not leave the bike lying in the middle of the floor.
I didn’t have to worry about food. What was in the little shop was more than enough. But after a few days I started to get stomach aches from all the junk food and sodas. Thank God the plumbing still worked.
I didn’t have to worry too much about zombies. There was only one, and all she did was claw at the glass, snarling and moaning at me whenever I passed by.
I finally had some time to play my copy of Super Mario Odyssey. I played it in one of the back offices without windows. The carpet there was reasonably comfortable, and I’d been using it as a place to sleep.
It only took me about three days to beat it. Not a particularly long Mario game, but it was still great; the levels challenging but fun, the art style cartoonish and charming, and the music soothing. Nintendo games have always (or were always before the apocalypse) primarily about entertainment and escapism. They allow one to forget about the harsh foreboding world that surrounds us, and find temporary shelter in the rescuing of a princess from a giant turtle monster. I needed that now.
As the credits rolled across the little screen, and the satisfaction that comes with defeating a good game began to set in, I started to wish I’d had more games. But there were some adult magazines in shrink wrap in the gift shop. They helped to release some tension.
I tried playing some Street Fighter II on the arcade machine. It was okay in small bursts, but I was always reminded how tedious single player Street Fighter II was. I missed playing with a human opponent. Multiplayer games aren’t the same without someone in the same room to throw insults at.
I spent a lot of time in the security room in the back, watching the silent monitors that stood vigil over the parking lot. Nothing ever moved on those screens. No zombies, no people, just various cars, buildings, and useless discarded objects, like empty bags, and lost shoes.
After four days, my leg had stopped hurting, and I began to plan out my next move. The map in the main area proved useful. According to it, I was about thirty miles from my destination. It was a city called Brooks.
There was a brochure for the city in the gift shop, and I thumbed through it. It had a large aquarium with what appeared to be an impressive shark exhibit, and a bronze statue of William Livingston, first governor of New Jersey. That was about it.
The brochure touted Brooks as being the “Third most populous city in New Jersey.” I didn’t know if that was still true, but it was the closest city, and there was still a chance people were there.
Sometime after the outbreak had begun, when it started to really ramp up, and cities started to get destroyed, a few cities were able to barricade and protect themselves from the undead hordes that threatened them. They were called fortress cities, and Brooks was one of them.
Most of them were eventually overrun, either because the barricades fell or a single zombie was able to break in, and start an infestation from within. But last I checked, a few fortress cities still stood, and I hadn’t heard anything about Brooks falling. There could still be lots of people there.
I knew it was a risk. The cities were usually to be avoided; the countryside safer, but the possibility that I could find people attracted me to the city. It could be dangerous. Or it could be a safe haven, with dozens, maybe hundreds of people, and not the painful silence broken only by inhuman moans.
And I still wasn’t sure how much longer I could stay at the rest stop. It all depended on how long it would be before more zombies showed up. I could have no more zombies and be able to stay here for the rest of my life (or until the food ran out), or I could wake up one morning to a swarm of the damn things pounding on the window, cracks forming in spider web patterns on the glass, until they broke through, and ripped me to pieces.
I needed to think. Even before the apocalypse I wasn’t very good at making decisions quickly. I’d always agonize over everything. It’s a miracle I ever worked up the courage to ask Suzy out on our first date. At this thought, the memory of us holding hands as I walked her home after the movies flashed in my mind, and I stopped myself from thinking further about her.
That was another thing that’d star
ted happening. Ever since I came here and started relaxing, I kept thinking about my family. It’d been weeks since I’d gone on the run on my own, and I’d had very little time to think about anything but staying alive.
But lately, during this period when I was getting some rest, I’d started to drift into my memories, catching glimpses in my mind of the people and places I used to know.
And I couldn’t allow it to go on.
Every time my mind dipped a toe into that pool of memories, I’d feel a taste of the pain that would come. The only way to stop this was to leave this place, and get back on the road. But if I did that, I’d be exposing myself. I decided to give myself a little more time to make a game plan. A few more days at least.
I realized that I may need to leave the place at a moment’s notice. I stopped walking around with my shoes off. Also, I started walking around with my backpack, which I’d since packed to capacity with everything I thought I might need: five water bottles, four bags of fat free chips, seven protein bars, and the bullets for my gun. The rifle was slung over my shoulder at all times, and I made sure the bike was never more than a few feet away from me.
I spent many days in the gift shop. The back offices were getting claustrophobic, and the smell of candy and unread magazines comforted me. It reminded me of road trips and vacations. I tried not to think of them too much, but the smell was still nice to me. Plus, the lack of zombies was starting to make me question my over-cautiousness.
I spent most of my time replaying levels from the Mario game. Occasionally I’d pace up and down the area, and inevitably pass the big window. The naked female zombie was still there. During those first three days when my leg was still healing, I did my best to avoid the front area so I could stay away from her. But as time wore on I started to get used to her. She was the closest thing to a companion I had.
Another week passed, and I started playing with her. Little things at first. I’d stand to the side of the window, and throw stuff in front of it, and watch her react. It never got old, seeing her head snap to attention at an empty soda can, as it rolled across the floor. I’d walk up to the glass, and knock on it at certain places, and watch her follow the sound.
More time passed, and I grew bolder with my games. I’d open the door to the entrance just a crack, and throw a can into the darkness of the parking lot. Through the big glass window, she’d stare at me as I walked to the entrance. She’d leave the glass, and begin to slowly make her way to the doors. Before she could reach me, I’d throw the can, and the sound of aluminum hitting concrete would stop her in her tracks, and she’d go and investigate. It was kind of funny watching her go after it every single time.
After I’d been there for about a month, I noticed my food supply was starting to run low, and I had to start practicing some discipline; one meal a day, no more, no less.
I’d also stopped playing the Super Mario game. I just found playing with Lola to be more fun. Yes, I named her Lola. Don’t ask why, she just seemed like a Lola to me.
We’d play fetch, tap the glass, a few times I think I even scared her.
What I’d do is turn off all the lights in the place. She’d stare inside, her head looking side-to-side, up and down, trying to find me. Then I’d leap from the darkness, and yell “Hey!” as I stood up against the glass. There’d be a few seconds as her mind registered what was happening, before she’d snarl at me. She’d press her body against the window, and her soft breasts would flatten against the glass. She had a wide mouth, and its snarls were only barley muffled behind the glass. That was more aggressive behavior than what she usually exhibited. I took this to mean she was frightened, but I really couldn’t be sure. It was amusing all the same.
Sometimes I wouldn’t even play with her. I’d just look at her through the glass. Her pale skin still had a decent, semi-healthy completion, and becoming a zombie hadn’t diminished her natural beauty much anyway.
Playing these games with Lola made me think more about how she might have perceived the things I was doing.
One night, I sat in front of that glass window, and tried to remember if there had ever been any studies or reports on zombie psychology. Lola stood there, softly growling at me.
Most of the studies done on zombies focused on how to kill and/or cure them. Not much research had been done on how they think, but there were a few theories and ideas. Some said they didn’t remember a thing, and had the mind and attention span of a gnat. The way she acted seemed to imply that.
Others said that their normal human memories were still trapped in there, but that they were in a coma-like trance. They’d done tests in labs, where captured zombies reacted to objects they’d used as humans; a hammer given to a zombie construction worker, a guitar given to a zombie musician, and a canvas and paint brush given to a zombie painter.
The construction worker would slowly pound on the metal walls of his cell, making small circle-shaped indentations. The musician would grip the guitar neck with one hand, and limply drag his other hand across the strings. And the painter would dip the brush into the paint bucket, and attempt to make lines on a blank canvas.
To some scientists, these tests proved that the zombies still retained their old memories in some small way, and that maybe they could be rehabilitated. However, even the most optimistic admitted that it would likely take years of research before they could find a cure. In the short-term, the only thing that came from those tests was a meme video of the zombie guitarist, where people would overlay different musical tracks over sped-up footage of the zombie aimlessly plucking his guitar strings.
As my mind went through the various theories of zombie psychology, I recalled, with a cold shiver up my spine, the most disturbing theory. It was the one that I didn’t like to think of; no one with a zombified friend or relative liked to think of it. It was a disturbing possibly of infection, made more horrifying by the fact that we could never be sure what a zombie was truly thinking.
What if the zombies not only retained all their old memories, but were still conscious of them? What if the person they once were still existed, and was aware of everything they were doing as a zombie? They’d be helpless, unable to do anything, except watch their bodies roam the Earth aimlessly, attacking and hurting innocent people. Would they feel the gunshots as people tried to kill them? Would they taste human flesh, as they were forced to consume it against their will?
I looked up at Lola as she stood in the parking lot. My eyes scanned her curvaceous pale figure. Could she feel the cold on her naked body? Did she still sit in her brain, screaming in horror at what had happened to her?
And how did she feel about these last few weeks?
I immediately turned away from the window, careful not to look at her. My heart sank. It became hard to breathe, and I had to clutch the table in front of me. I stood up from the table, my legs shaking. Behind me, I could still hear her moaning on the other side of the glass. My stomach churned, and I felt like I was going to throw up.
How could I do this to someone? I tried to tell myself that I was being stupid, that I was getting worked up over some unproven theory. I chanced a glance back at her. I looked into her glowing yellow eyes, trying to find a clue into her mind. They seemed as blank and unreadable as always. I couldn’t imagine the pain and humiliation going on in her mind. That might’ve been going on.
I didn’t know what to think. I quickly made my way out of the front guest area, to one of the offices in the back, and slammed the door behind me. I didn’t leave for the rest of the night.
The next day, I left the office, and made my way back to the front guest area. Bright morning sunlight poured in through the window. Lola wasn’t standing there anymore. I ran up to the window, and looked up and down the parking lot. Nothing. I checked the security monitors, and even searched the interior of the rest stop just in case. I didn’t find her.
After searching for about a half hour, I finally gave up. She’d left.
I was alone again.
I looked around. The warm rest stop around me had stopped being a refuge from the hordes outside, and had become a prison that did little more than keep me isolated. Without another moment’s thought, I gathered my things, took a brochure for Brooks and a map of New Jersey. I got my bicycle, made sure my backpack was well stocked with supplies and that my gun was loaded, and I left.
VI
I was sitting in my living room, trying to watch a movie with Suzy and Stan, when the knock came. My mom opened the door, and saw an armed national guardsman standing on the porch. This wasn’t very surprising at that point.
A month after Suzy’s mom had died, the government declared that any town that had had even a single zombie sighting was to be put under martial law. Curfews were put in place, quarantines were enforced, and the sight of uniformed soldiers with rifles slung over their shoulders became common across America. It had gotten to the point where almost every city in the country had seen at least one zombie.
We all felt a little uneasy about it at first, but it only took a few weeks to adjust to it. The soldiers didn’t intrude in our lives or homes; they weren’t worried about spies or defectors or traitors. Zombies were the only enemy in history where there was absolutely no advantage in joining their ranks.
All the soldiers did was patrol the street corners, and when necessary, deal with reported zombie sightings. They were a little stricter on the curfews, but most people didn’t want to go out at night anyway. Who can enjoy a moonlight stroll, when there are zombies on the prowl?
In a way, the soldiers that marched up and down our sidewalks were more like policemen than soldiers. The real soldiers were the ones stationed on the outskirts of town. They were the ones enforcing the quarantine. They stood on the roads, makeshift barriers preventing any vehicle or person from passing through. When martial law was first declared, they made it very clear that anyone caught exiting or entering the towns without permission would be shot on sight.
Our Last Bow Page 4