Brains: A Zombie Memoir Part 13

It took zombiedom to give me a soul, death to make me "human."

Scouting ahead of us, Guts found a corpse at a k.u.m and Go. Male. From the waist down, he was unharmed and clothed in Levi's and Nikes. He had no torso or head, just a spinal cord sticking straight out of his pelvis, picked clean of every speck of flesh, like a lollipop stick. By his side was a pistol. He must've shot himself and then been eaten by vultures or crows, not zombies. Otherwise his legs would be marching in blind circles.

We fell to our knees and gobbled his groin, thighs, ankles, feet, all of it, the meat tough and old but at least not poisoned with the virus.

Eve was stooped over the body. Her hair had grown, as everyone knows it continues to do after death, and it hung in her eyes. She shoved the guy's bladder in her piehole, rubbing blood over her face like a p.o.r.n star. She was nothing like my skinny Lucy. Not even close.

AS WE NEARED Chicago, we began to see more zombies. Wandering the shoulder and weaving down the yellow line. Icicles hanging from their noses, their open wounds like c.o.ke slushies, their eyes as filmy as dirty snow. Isaac moaned for fresh meat. My professor pockets were empty. Chicago, we began to see more zombies. Wandering the shoulder and weaving down the yellow line. Icicles hanging from their noses, their open wounds like c.o.ke slushies, their eyes as filmy as dirty snow. Isaac moaned for fresh meat. My professor pockets were empty.

"Must be cold," Ros kept repeating. "But can't feel it. Hungry, hungry, hunger, hunger, hunger. I'm so well hunger. Ha. Brains. Oh. Where's Sergeant Collins?" He trailed off, mumbling, then began the litany again.

The moon went from full to crescent, slivered like a thumbnail.

We hadn't seen a rabbit or squirrel in days. All creatures great and small, eaten by or hiding from my kinsmen. Only the birds remained, flying out of reach.

With zombies at the top of the food chain, the ecosystem was out of whack. If current trends continued, we'd eat ourselves into extinction.

By the time we reached Cook County, the road was thick with zombies. Like Times Square on New Year's Eve, it was hard to shuffle through them all. So many were naked or wearing only soiled boxer briefs or thongs or their clothes were shredded like shipwreck survivors on a deserted island, their bodies gray and covered with cuts and bruises. b.r.e.a.s.t.s sagged to hipbones. c.o.c.ks and b.a.l.l.s hung limp as if stricken with some incurable venereal disease. Joan's eyes darted from patient to patient, her doctor's bag clutched in her hand; with her perky cap, she looked like an alert blue jay.

And our hunger. And our moans. We were deafening. Distracting. It took all of my will to keep our little group focused and together, to fight the urge to join the pack and wander without purpose, lose ident.i.ty, become just another ant.

I understand why humans join cults. Free will is overrated.

There's freedom in surrender. Ask any POW. Ask any kidnapped kid with Stockholm syndrome. The questions are over: What do you want to do tonight, dear? What do you want for dinner? Should we have kids? Rural, urban, suburb, or exurb? Paper or plastic? c.o.ke or Pepsi?

There are no more questions because there's only one answer left: Brains. Do I repeat myself? Very well then-I repeat myself. Brains, brains, brains, brains, brains, brains, brains, brains, brains, brains, brains, brains, brains, brains, brains, brains, brains, brains, brains, brains, brains, brains, brains, brains, brains, brains, brains, brains.

Did I mention brains?

d.a.m.n, was I hungry.

We had to get off that state highway to h.e.l.l. Saint Joan was dragging Eve through the snow and Eve was turning into a Popsicle. Eventually the rope tethering them together would cut Joan's arms off and then who'd sew us back together?

I steered us off the road and toward a strip mall with a Dollar Tree, a Rent-A-Center, a Payless, and an empty parking lot covered with virgin snow.

If only I had some capital and a supplier, I could open a Brains Superstore in that strip mall. Good location, plenty of customers. BrainsMart, I'd call it. Or BrainSmart. How about Old Brainy? Brains R Us. I could go on, but why bother?

Beyond the mall was a scrubby little field, and beyond that a scrubby suburb of cookie-cutter McMansions and McTown Houses. That's where we headed. From there, we'd continue east, through fields and subdivisions, away from the highway with its teeming ma.s.ses. Even if we were to encounter an edible human on the main road, the compet.i.tion would be keen.

"Hunhhhhhm," Saint Joan gurgled. She was struggling with Eve, trying to lift the insentient Mother Zombie off the snow. There were rust-colored ice crystals hanging off Eve's stump and her entire back was frozen solid like a side of beef hanging on a meat hook. Joan showed me her shoulders; the rope had burned through her nurse's uniform and was making headway into her flesh.

"Stupid zombie," Ros said, pointing at Eve where she lay on the snow. "Stupid zombie," he repeated, pointing at Kapotas, who was at least standing on his own but leaning forward on his peg leg as if about to fall, his arms hanging at his sides. The blue embroidery thread on his neck was unraveling.

Nothing lasts forever. Not even zombies.

I nodded. If I had any breath, I would've exhaled a plume of steam in the cold air.

"Undead weight," Ros said. "Slowing us down."

Guts pelted Ros with a s...o...b..ll, hitting him on his metal head.

"Why you little...," Ros said, and took off after the rascal.

Poor Ros. Our speedy Gutsy Gonzalez ran circles around him. Because Ros, despite his amazing ability-pull his string and watch him talk!-traveled at zombie speed. Ros stretched his arms out, thumbs together in the cla.s.sic throttling position-Homer Simpson about to choke Bart-and shuffled a few inches through the snow. Guts. .h.i.t him with another s...o...b..ll, square in the face.

Sitting in his red plastic sled, Isaac clapped his devil hands.

Rosebud, I thought. Red wheelbarrow. All of it necessary.

Ros had a point about Kapotas and Eve, but I couldn't abandon the mother of the child. Not yet.

We heard a caw, and a pair of crows flew overhead, dwarfing the s...o...b..rds and cardinals we had been seeing. Annie drew her pistol, aimed, shot twice, and the crows thumped to the ground. Everyone clapped her on the back. Our sharpshooter. Not consumptive Annabel Lee but Annie Oakley, Queen of the Dead Midwest. I pointed at Guts, then in the direction of the felled birds, and he jogged off to fetch them.

"Love that kid," Ros said. He looked at Annie. "You too," he said.

Guts returned with the birds. They were scrawny and underfed, but we ate them, feathers, feet, bones, beaks, eyes-everything. Zombies are like Indians; no part of the animal is wasted.

"Mooooaaaauah," Kapotas moaned, grabbing for the pebble-sized heart speared on Isaac's fingernail. Before he could reach it, however, Guts sprang to action and tackled Kapotas, who went down like a meat mannequin. Guts perched on the sculptor's barrel chest, restraining him while munching on a crow's foot.

"Needs salt," Ros said, iridescent black feathers hanging from his mouth. "And brains."

What a joker he was, a regular Groucho Marx.

After the meal, we headed toward the subdivision. Kapotas remained on the ground and I didn't coax him up. If he rose on his own, we wouldn't prevent him from coming with us; we weren't cruel. But he didn't. He just lolled right where Guts tackled him, staring up at the sun and moaning. Saint Joan looked back at him, and if she were capable of nuanced expression, I'd say her face was wistful. She was, after all, a healer.

"Good riddance," Ros said. "Bad rubbish." He pointed at Eve, who was walking backward, being pulled by me. "Her next."

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

OURS WERE THE only footprints on the snow-covered asphalt, and the trail we left behind was dragging and heavy as if we were skiing, not walking. We pa.s.sed the subdivision's sentries: two concrete lions atop two concrete pillars with the word only footprints on the snow-covered asphalt, and the trail we left behind was dragging and heavy as if we were skiing, not walking. We pa.s.sed the subdivision's sentries: two concrete lions atop two concrete pillars with the word KING'S KING'S etched in one and etched in one and COURT COURT in the other. in the other.

King's Court was a typical housing development-all the trees had been razed to pour foundations and only a few homeowners had bothered to plant new ones. The houses were a combination of aluminum siding and brick, with a maximum of three floor plans to choose from. There were no sidewalks or corner stores, but there were basketball hoops in driveways, plastic play sets in backyards, and two-car garages. Inside the houses we found Berber and s.h.a.g carpets, linoleum kitchens with faux-granite countertops, and more bathrooms than necessary.

We wandered up and down Bishop Lane and Queen Street, through Knight's Crossing and Crown Drive, zombies on a giant chessboard of middle-cla.s.s mediocrity. We ransacked the houses, hoping for a whiff of human or pet and searching for supplies.

In a two-story Tudor on p.a.w.n Way, Joan found an all-terrain stroller for Isaac. It was one of those trendy carriages, a three-wheeler with a Gore-tex awning and shock absorbers. Designed for the active mother trying to lose that baby weight, it used to cost more than a beat-up station wagon. It was free now.

Guts lifted Isaac from his sled and strapped him into the stroller, fussing over the baby like a mother hen.

Although Isaac could walk, he preferred not to and I didn't blame him. Like free will, walking is overrated. Plus, the tot wasn't very good at it, wobbling around like a drunken devil, and we all enjoyed coddling and protecting him.

We believed Isaac was the future.

There was movement at the end of the cul-de-sac, a human scurrying from Rubbermaid trash can to Ford Focus like a wild animal. We picked up the scent, bite sites tingling, and convened in the middle of the street.

Everyone except Eve, that is. She took off after the creature, arms raised, helmet on sideways, the ear protector covering her left eye. Ros was right: Eve was a liability. Her presence did not contribute to our cause; in fact, she undermined our credibility. It was like allowing a convicted rapist to join NOW. I had to face the facts: She was incapable of learning. A mindless sheep.

We let Eve go on her stupid march. With hand gestures and nods we planned our own attack.

"Looks like a child," Ros said. "Feral."

Saint Joan nodded. Guts jumped up and down, clapping his hands and rubbing his duct-taped belly.

That Guts, the pixie, he was no longer black; he no longer bore the cross of his race. Annie, Ros, and Joan were no longer white, and neither was I. In zombiehood, race is erased. Brothers and sisters of the brain, we are gray, the ultimate race, a nation of nations. We are completely h.o.m.ogeneous. As a society we would be quite peaceful; all of the differences we used to fight over-religion, race, oil, the economy-are wiped out. We are a single unit, a focused target audience, a marketer's dream.

If we were five zombies with consciousness, how many more of us existed? One out of every hundred? Out of a thousand? Ten thousand? How many in total? Enough for a revolution, that much I knew.

A gunshot rang out. We looked at Annie; her guns were holstered.

Eve was walking down the street like a crippled cowboy in a western. The Great Brain Robbery. A Fistful of Viscera. The Quick and the Undead. The Good, the Bad, and the Zombie. The Great Brain Robbery. A Fistful of Viscera. The Quick and the Undead. The Good, the Bad, and the Zombie. Another few paces and she might turn and shoot, spurs twinkling and jingling. Another few paces and she might turn and shoot, spurs twinkling and jingling.

There was another shot, and this time I heard it ping Eve's helmet. She continued walking, totally unaware.

"Stupid, stupid, stupid zombie," Ros said.

We took cover in a garage. Next to a weed whacker was a pile of dog bones, matted fur still stuck to them. Ros picked up a rib-it had been a big dog, maybe a German shepherd judging from the hair-and gnawed on it. He handed Isaac a piece.

"Reverse situation here," he said. "Me chewing on a dog bone. Like a dog. With his bone." He crunched. "Crazy G.o.dd.a.m.n world."

I bent down and put my arm around Guts. I poked his tummy, pointed at the wagon in the corner-a cla.s.sic Red Flyer-then shook my finger, which flopped and wiggled, held on by nothing more than Krazy Glue, at Eve.

"Jesus," Ros said. "Captain wants the kid to save her. Lovestruck fool."

I shook my fist at Ros. He stuck his tongue out at me. It looked like sloughed snake skin.

Saint Joan tightened the helmet straps under Guts's chin. The urchin looked like a Pound Puppy plushie; his eyes were milky and plastic, the lashes caked with dirt and soot in such a way that they separated, appearing lush and long, like Tammy Faye Bakker eyelashes.

I gave him a little push and he was off.

"Suicide mission," Ros said once Guts was out of earshot, halfway down the street, running as fast as he could, the little red wagon wheels squeaking.

Eve didn't even turn at the clatter. In her defense, she only had the one ear. Guts took bullets to his guts, his chest; nothing slowed him down. It was like the Iraq War footage we all saw on television before the zombie outbreak-the intrepid American soldier in the new urban battlefield, executing a daring guerrilla mission, dodging enemy fire, kicking down doors, searching for insurgents.

I suppose that war's over. Guess what? Zombies won.

In no time Guts reached Eve and rammed the wagon into the backs of her knees, causing her to fall into it. He turned and trotted toward us, Eve spilling over the sides of the wagon, her feet and stump sc.r.a.ping the street. The shots stopped.

I imagined triumphant music. "Pomp and Circ.u.mstance" or something military. Guts made a victory fist and pumped it in the air. I reimagined the scene in slow motion.

To put the brains on the icing on the cake, the sniper made an error: He poked his head out the window of a three-story brick monstrosity.

We knew exactly where he was. Which house, which window. We knew his ball cap was green and he sported a full, dark beard. The man was trapped in a suburban nightmare. And this was no metaphorical trap like before the epidemic. As in: Oh! The tragedy of being owned by your possessions! Cry for me because I am rich yet my soul is poor! Oh! The tragedy of being owned by your possessions! Cry for me because I am rich yet my soul is poor! Please. This time it was literal. There was no exit. Please. This time it was literal. There was no exit.

Of course, everything is literal now. The metaphor is as dead as I am.

And I didn't want to eat Green Cap Sniper. Allow me to rephrase that: I very much wanted to eat Green Cap Sniper. I was h.o.r.n.y for his brains. If I was Zombie Verlaine, then he was Rimbaud.

But-and here's the delicate turn, my narrative's volta-he was worth more to us alive.

According to the history books, that's what Che Guevara-revolutionary Christ figure, beret-wearing silkscreen on a thousand T-shirts-that's what he told the CIA before they shot him, before they cut off his hands postmortem. Not that it mattered.

There's nothing new under the sun.

I communicated my plan to the gang, pantomiming the attack on Green Cap, mimicking a feeding, then shaking my head no. Vehemently. Ros agreed.

"Muzzle her," he said, jerking a thumb at Eve, who was still sprawled in the wagon, lowing in the alto range.

I got in the car and acted human. I adjusted my pretend ball cap and put my hands on the steering wheel at six and nine o'clock. Guts hopped in the pa.s.senger side. The keys were in the cup holder and I thought, What the heck, maybe we don't need Green Cap. After all I've learned in my new incarnation, maybe I can drive. It was a Crown Victoria, an old person's car, fully automatic, designed to float like a boat and guzzle gas as if the oil supply were endless.

I picked up the keys, located the right one, and tried to fit it in the slot. I jabbed at the ignition a few times, but the task seemed impossible, the level of coordination beyond me. I gave myself a pep talk: You can do it, professor!

Nothing happened. The keys fell out of my hands and slipped underneath the gas pedal. Guts and I just sat there in the garage like two kids playing Sunday Afternoon Drive.

The separation was complete: physical and spiritual; mind and body; thought and action. I was the living dead embodiment of Cartesian dualism: Though my soul was housed in my body, my body was divorced from my soul.

Ros pointed at me and squealed. The sound was otherworldly-a rabid pig with emphysema, a demon gloating over murders and wars, a cannibal with a baby at the end of his spear, Donald Sutherland in the final scene of Invasion of the Body s.n.a.t.c.hers Invasion of the Body s.n.a.t.c.hers.

Saint Joan covered her mouth with her hand, hiding her rotten teeth, putrid tongue, and obvious glee at my incompetence.

Humans call it laughing, but zombies don't have a name for it. We don't have a name for anything.

I got out of the car and held the door open for Ros. Let him try it, if he's so smart.

Ros climbed in. And sat there. And continued to sit there. Impotent, like me.

"Can't," he gurgled.

As a human, I would have said something cutting to demonstrate my superiority. But I'm a compa.s.sionate zombie. My anger drained away and I was flooded with pity. Our poor dumb species. We'd never make it.

"Joan?" Ros said.

I looked at Joan and she shook her head, waving her hands in a gesture of adamant protest. I walked over to her, intending to escort her to the vehicle, when my shoulder began tingling, and everyone, Annie, Guts, Ros, Joan, even Eve, perked up, alert and poised. Stiff as lawn statuary.

Green Cap Sniper was approaching.

Eve headed straight for the brains, as steadfast as a pimp targeting a runaway. Guts sprang forward and closed the garage door in her face. Eve walked right into it, clawing at the barrier and moaning.