Brains: A Zombie Memoir Part 10

His eyes met mine and he flicked them from Ros to Guil, then to Annabelle. His forehead crinkled significantly. He nodded his head at Grandma and Grandpa and smacked his lips-and I understood.

We let go of Ros and Guil at the same time, and the pair went straight for Annabelle.

"Watch out, dear!" cried Grandma and Grandpa.

Oh, poor zombies, trudging along at turtle speed. Annie had plenty of time to pull out her gun, take aim, and shoot Guil in the head. Kablam! Brains everywhere. I was glad it wasn't Ros. We needed his voice.

Meanwhile, Guts darted out on all fours, quick as a ferret, and bit Annabelle on the ankle. She turned and fired as he scuttled, crab-like, to her grandparents, who were still clutching each other in the middle of the parking lot. The bullet glanced off his helmet. Annabelle grabbed her ankle; an egg-sized chunk of flesh was missing and she was bleeding a royal red. I emerged from the bushes, took out my pipe, and rubbed the bowl.

"You shot my friend," Ros gurgled.

Annabelle looked up. "Dude, you can't talk," she said.

"Says who?" Ros said. Annabelle looked at me. I shrugged my shoulders and attempted a grin. A dollop of my cheek fell off at the dimple. Joan would have to repair that when we got back.

We must've been quite a sight for the girl. Me with my tweed jacket and pipe, Guts with his swift dexterity, and Ros with his exposed cranium and miraculous powers of speech. Her face went through a series of emotions: confusion, shock, disbelief, anger. It was like watching an actor practice her craft in workshop.

Finally, she hit determination, lifted her pistol, and aimed it, first at Ros, then at me. Cool as James Bond, I c.o.c.ked my head, raised one eyebrow, and pointed behind her at Grandma and Grandpa.

"Brains," Ros said. "Yum." And strolled over to dinner.

The old lady was on the ground, Guts crawling on her like a fruit fly on a moldy peach. Grandpa had an arm around Guts's waist, trying to pull him off. Guts sank his teeth into Grandma's chest just as Grandpa pulled hard; the duct tape and embroidery thread gave way and Guts's guts spilled onto Grandma's stomach. Grandpa let go and gagged.

As for me, I was jonesing hard for some of that cannibal action.

"Hey, kid!" Annabelle yelled. "Get off her!"

She started to run to her grandparents, but her ankle gave out. Standing on one leg, she fired at Guts, hitting him in the back, but he was in la-la land, a feeding frenzy, the point of no return.

I wanted to bring Grandpa back to the Garden of Eden alive so that Joan, Eve, and Kapotas could have fresh meat, and I desperately hoped Annabelle would join the ranks of Zombie Army. That meant I had to be careful, play my cards right. Exercise restraint and NOT EAT EVERYONE IN SIGHT! NOT EAT EVERYONE IN SIGHT!

But a little snack first wouldn't hurt anything.

I knelt down and took a bite out of Annabelle's juicy teenage a.s.s. Spitting out the acid-washed denim, I chewed on the fat. Bootylicious.

Annabelle swiveled her torso and b.u.t.ted me in the head with the handle of her pistol. It made a thudding sound on the army helmet. I took another bite and she hit me in the shoulder, the pistol connecting with my Jason-mask shoulder pad.

"Annabelle!" Grandpa yelled, and he turned and ran toward her. He only made it ten feet before he fell down hard, his face kissing the blacktop.

Great gobs of snot were bubbling out of Annabelle's nose; her bottom was bleeding, but her ankle had already clotted and was turning a deep purplish brown. She turned her pistol around so that the business end was staring me in the face. I pointed at my eye, hugged my chest with my arms, and pointed at her-the universal sign for "I love you."

"Well, I hate you, zombie sc.u.mbag," she said, her finger on the trigger.

"Hey," Ros yelled, looking up from Grandma, her blood smeared on his chin, "be nice, girlfriend!"

I inserted my finger in Annabelle's gun, as if that could stop the bullet. If it didn't work for the hippies at Kent State, it wouldn't work for me.

Four dead in Ohio. Millions undead all over the place.

"What the f.u.c.k is happening?" Annabelle asked. She was crying, hiccupping and barking like a baby seal.

I took out pen and paper and wrote this: If you can't lick 'em, join 'em. If you can't lick 'em, join 'em.

"I'd rather die than be one of you," she said.

Too late, I wrote. I wrote. Already infected. Already infected.

Annie bent down and touched her ankle-the meat pulsated, almost glowed. She turned, ignoring me, and hobbled over to save Grandma, firing away w.i.l.l.y-nilly. I admired her grit. She would make a first-rate soldier, even without cognition.

"Uhhhhhhh!" I yelled.

Grandma was lying open, bare, letting it all hang out. Ros and Guts were chowing down, but Guts looked up at the sound of my voice and in a flash our little trouper sprang forward and attacked, flying through the air like Wonder Dog and coming close to biting Annie's t.i.t off. A strip of her Strawberry Shortcake baby tee caught between his teeth and the two fell backward in an awkward cuddle.

Annie hit her head hard on the asphalt and was down for the count.

"One of us?" Ros asked, pointing at the girl, and I nodded.

Guts scrambled off of Annie's chest and ran back to Grandma. He scooped up a handful of the old lady's brains and presented them to me with an exaggerated bow. I stuffed my face with them.

"She'll be sick soon," Ros said, a piece of intestine hanging out of his mouth.

Annabelle turned green and vomited. I moved her head to the side so she wouldn't choke and dragged her to the gra.s.s. She curled up like the sweetheart she was. Her a.s.s had clotted just as it should. I stroked her golden pigtails, fighting the urge to bite her face off.

BY THE TIME we finished Grandma, good to the last sc.r.a.p of rubbery aged meat, Grandpa had regained consciousness and Annabelle was morphing; she was sick and feverish, murmuring Dashboard Confessional lyrics and rolling her head from side to side. we finished Grandma, good to the last sc.r.a.p of rubbery aged meat, Grandpa had regained consciousness and Annabelle was morphing; she was sick and feverish, murmuring Dashboard Confessional lyrics and rolling her head from side to side.

Grandpa's left side wasn't functioning; apparently he'd had a stroke. Which was lucky for us-he was compliant and docile. We tied him up with Dumpstered twine and lined a Wal-Mart shopping cart with flattened cardboard boxes. We did the same for Annabelle and started back to the Garden of Eden with our groceries.

Cavemen returning home with a mastodon and a woman for the clan.

We had to protect our harvest. The living dead have a sixth sense when it comes to fresh meat and although Grandpa wasn't exactly steak tartare, he was at least alive. Annabelle, on the other hand, was already unpalatable: She smelled like spoiled beans, rotten chicken, and that stuff the janitor sprinkles on puke in grade school.

The best plan was to avoid zombies altogether, which, once we reached the front of the superstore, proved impossible. The crowd of corpses pounding at the double doors moved in our direction, noses in the air like prairie dogs. My shoulder twitched, my bite site tingled, and the urge to join them seized me.

We zombies are a collective, a writhing ma.s.s: ants carrying pupae across a puddle, bees working a hive, a pack of wild dogs hunting, humans a.s.sembling cars in a factory. The impulse to lose one's self in the swarm, to abandon individuality for group ident.i.ty, is strong.

Flash mobs, soccer hooligans, n.a.z.ism.

The greatest good for the greatest number...

We couldn't give in to it.

I grabbed Guts by the elbow and positioned his hands on Grandpa's cart. I simulated running and pointed in the direction of the Garden, giving Guts an encouraging push on his back.

"Wait," Ros said, and picked Guts's guts off the ground, sticking them in the waistband of the young zombie's pants. "Now," he warbled. "Run!"

Guts looked up at me; his eyes widened and I again rejoiced. I loved looking in his eyes. They were yellow and full of pus, like all of us, but the light of understanding was in them. I knelt down and hugged him. His raw guts pressed against me. Never in life had I felt that way for a child. In fact, I'd never felt that way at all, not even for Lucy.

Cry your hearts out, ladies, and hand me the tissues while you're at it. I'm watching Saving Private Ryan, Brian's Song, Love Story, and and Steel Magnolias Steel Magnolias with you. I'm saying good-bye to cynicism and ironic detachment and h.e.l.lo to love. Because this is with you. I'm saying good-bye to cynicism and ironic detachment and h.e.l.lo to love. Because this is important important. This is a matter of life and death.

Or what pa.s.ses for life and death in postapocalyptic America.

Of course, the apocalypse label adds weight to everything.

Guts watched the approaching horde with longing, but like the good zombie he was, he set his narrow shoulders, thrust out his scabbed jaw, and took off running with our dinner.

"Good kid," Ros gurgled. "Make it?"

I shrugged. Guts turned onto the frontage road and ran down the alley behind Best Buy and Old Navy. He looked small and alone, like a homeless street kid pushing a shopping cart full of marbleized meat, clogged arteries, a worn liver, two shrinking kidneys, and one glorious brain.

I didn't know who to pray to for his safety. n.o.body was watching us; everything was permitted. So I prayed to the only G.o.d I could count on: Oh, Jack Barnes, who art myself, please allow Guts safe pa.s.sage to the Garden of Eden with our meat alive and intact. This is a world without end. Amen.

ROS AND I took turns pushing the feverish Annabelle up I-39. We saw no humans along the way and the zombies left us alone. They were as clueless as chickens, stumbling pea-brained through cornfields, hay bales, and fences. One zombie walked into a tree and became stuck with his face pressed against the bark, unable to negotiate the obstacle, like a wind-up toy against a wall. took turns pushing the feverish Annabelle up I-39. We saw no humans along the way and the zombies left us alone. They were as clueless as chickens, stumbling pea-brained through cornfields, hay bales, and fences. One zombie walked into a tree and became stuck with his face pressed against the bark, unable to negotiate the obstacle, like a wind-up toy against a wall.

The undead don't avoid bodies of water like the living do. We walk right in, navigating the bottom like catfish, shuffling over the sand and rocks and getting snagged on broken bottles and lost lures. I watched one enter a stock pond, disappear, then reemerge on the opposite bank like the Creature from the Black Lagoon. As miraculous as Chauncey Gardiner.

I felt the urge to preach: "Stop your wandering, my zombie children, and follow me to the Promised Land. The second coming has arrived. The Undead Diaspora is reunited and your suffering has not been in vain. Join us! Together we will meet our maker and fight for a homeland."

"Waaaaaah," is what I said. And they ignored me.

I prayed Saint Joan would save a few pieces of Grandpa for me and Ros. Like Napoleon, I knew that an army marches on its stomach.

If Jesus fed the five thousand with two lousy fish, why couldn't I do the same with one old man?

The truth is, people long for miracles. They want to believe.

"Brains," Ros mumbled. "I like brains." He reached down and petted Annabelle. "One of us," he said. "Soon."

"Worms in my mouth," Annabelle said, slapping at Ros's hand. "Two tons of concrete. Billy, get off me!"

We approached a billboard advertising the Garden of Eden. Take the next exit, the sign said, and turn right. Paradise is one mile down the road, behind the BP. At our pitifully slow pace, it could take us several hours, but I wasn't tired, not in the least. Although we are incapable of rapid locomotion, the walking dead don't need to rest. We can shuffle along forever, circling the globe a hundred times, under oceans, over tundra, crossing deserts.

Except for Guts. He could run. And I can write; Joan could heal and Ros could talk. Blessed are we, the new race, each of us granted one amazing ability. Separately, we are incomplete. Working together, we form a whole.

To paraphrase the Bible, the Gospel according to John: A living grain of wheat remains alone, a single seed; but when it falls into the earth and dies, it bears much fruit.

I looked at Annabelle, who was delirious with fever, covered with vomit, and all-around sick as s.h.i.t. Ros was pushing her cart, humming the theme song from Batman Batman. I prayed Annabelle would be reborn as a Super Friend, with a superpower like us. Another mutant, another adaptation. The X-Men, Magneto and Wolverine. Masters of the Universe and the Powerpuff Girls. Spider-Man, Plastic Man, and Baby Plas. The Green Lantern. O mighty Isis!

Odds were against her-they were against all of us-but I had faith. And if faith can move mountains, then keeping Annie smart would be a piece of cake.

We slogged on down the highway; I thought of Joseph Campbell's The Power of Myth The Power of Myth and I was comforted. I know heroes exist because I am one. Destiny, fate, Power Rangers, G.o.ds, they all exist. and I was comforted. I know heroes exist because I am one. Destiny, fate, Power Rangers, G.o.ds, they all exist.

Zombie John Keats called the physical world the valley of soul-making, and I finally understood what he meant. Because I was walking through that valley. I felt it in my brain stem, my cortex, my G.o.dd.a.m.n pineal gland. He meant transcendence; he meant immortality.

I believe in you, my soul. Through my earthly trials I am creating you.

Holy blade of gra.s.s, Batman! Holy plateful of guts.

CHAPTER TWELVE

AS WE NEARED the chain-saw sculpture garden, we heard an ancient narrative unfolding: the childbearing wails of Eve. The birth of Isaac. the chain-saw sculpture garden, we heard an ancient narrative unfolding: the childbearing wails of Eve. The birth of Isaac.

"Ooooh," Ros said. "Nasty."

I patted my pretend-pregnant belly, spread my knees, and guided a phantom baby out of my crotch.

"Baby," Ros said. "Zombie?"

I nodded. Ros cooed.

When we entered the Garden, Kapotas was sitting with his back leaning against the Tree of Knowledge, munching on Grandpa's forearm. He turned and hunched over the limb when he saw us, protecting his prize, a dog with his bone. Joan had been busy: There was a boot attached to a short length of broomstick where his foot used to be.

The screen door slammed. Guts ran out and threw his arms around me, pressing his cheek against my belt. He took my hand and led me into the house.

Eve was on the living room floor, legs spread, knees high. Maternity jumper bunched around her waist. Joan sat on the love seat, nurse's hat askew, ripping a sheet into strips. There was a large pile of sheet strips on the cushion next to her, as if she'd been at it for hours, caught in some loop. She stopped for a moment and blew me a kiss, the minx.

It smelled like burning tires and burnt hair. A burnt-out toaster coil and burnt toast. The New Jersey Turnpike on a humid summer day. It smelled like sucking on a battery.

It smelled like zombies.

Kapotas's living room was a cornucopia of Americana: porcelain angels, lace doilies, an afghan over the couch, family photos on every surface, "Footprints in the Sand" on the wall, Reader's Digest Reader's Digest on the coffee table, and a giant television presiding over it all like a judge. on the coffee table, and a giant television presiding over it all like a judge.

I knelt next to Eve. She was a wild animal trapped in this bourgeois cage-there was no rationality left in her eyes, just fear.

"When you see only one set of footprints," the Lord says in that famous poem, "it was then that I carried you."

Joan appeared to be out of commission. It was up to me to deliver our child.

Ros popped his head in the door.

"Annie," he said. "Dead. Maybe."

Joan fluttered her hand to her bosom; her mouth opened in surprise at the talking zombie. She rubbed her knee. I motioned for her to attend to Annie and she did as she was told. A teakettle whistled. Guts ran into the kitchen and brought back a pan of hot water and towels.