Brains: A Zombie Memoir Part 14

Part of me admired Eve. Her behavior was cla.s.sic Romero zombie and there's something to be said for tradition. Like a woman who stays home to raise the kids, she was old-school.

"Muzzle her," Ros repeated, and I nodded.

Saint Joan grabbed the garden hose and tied Eve up. She removed Eve's helmet and gave it to Annie. Guts took Isaac out of his stroller and they stood facing the garage door, holding hands.

"Lock and load," Ros said, looking at Annie.

Corn-fed and flaxen-haired Ros's dialogue was straight out of Die Hard with a Vengeance Die Hard with a Vengeance. I imagined he was that star quarterback in high school who got drunk on weekends and popped the head cheerleader's cherry, the kid who sailed through algebra and Beowulf Beowulf on his beefy good looks. After graduation, he joined the military to keep America free. on his beefy good looks. After graduation, he joined the military to keep America free.

"Don't eat the human," Ros reminded everyone. We were standing in formation, lined up for battle. "Everyone ready?" he said. "Let's roll."

The only thing I rolled was my eyes. If all language is fossil poetry, as Emerson claimed, then Ros was burning fossil fuel faster than a jet engine. Rehashing tired movie cliches, not an original thought in his head.

Annie's gun was drawn and c.o.c.ked, her finger on the trigger. I nodded at Guts and he opened the garage door.

Green Cap was in the driveway, feet planted a foot apart, rifle drawn in a defensive posture. Isaac crawled toward his legs, but Guts grabbed the devil child by the seat of his onesie. Eve was writhing on the floor, the garden hose coiled around her like a snake. Saint Joan clutched her doctor's bag and moaned, a plaintive wail filled with such longing I almost gave in to desire myself.

"What the f.u.c.k," Green Cap said.

Imagine you haven't eaten in a week and your favorite dish-fried chicken or foie gras, beef Wellington or beef tacos-is in front of you. Or you've been crawling across the Sahara for three days, sun pouring down on your bald spot, sand in your teeth and eyes, and you can't even sweat anymore, you're that dry, and the lake in front of you is not a mirage but an oasis.

And you can't eat or drink. Verboten.

"Brains," Ros said. It was the truest thing anyone has ever said.

Green Cap sighted with his rifle but before he could squeeze the trigger, Annie shot it out of his hand.

"Jesus," Green Cap said.

Here I am, I thought, resurrected and full of grace.

Green Cap took a step backward. It was fight-or-flight time, and it looked like he was going to fly.

Ros cleared his throat; it sounded like the glub of the Loch Ness Monster, a creature whose existence I'm currently rethinking. Because if zombies exist, why not Nessie?

"We come in peace," Ros said.

Annie and Joan inched toward Green Cap, each step painfully slow, stroke victims learning to walk again. Annie brandished a rope, la.s.so-style. Guts tucked Isaac back into his pram.

"Holy Mother of G.o.d," Green Cap said, and turned and ran. Guts followed suit, and the chase was on.

What a miracle Guts was. He dove for Green Cap's feet and tackled him before they reached the cul-de-sac.

And poor Guts. Longing illuminated his urchin's face, but he could only sit on top of the human until the rest of us reached them. No biting, no touching, like a lap dance.

Green Cap was thin; he probably hadn't eaten a Hot Pocket in days. He looked like Paul Bunyan. His hair was long and matted underneath the John Deere cap and his beard was wild and woolly. He was wearing jeans, a flannel shirt, a down vest, and Timberland work boots. He was a survivor, all right. Who knew how many of us he'd fought off? Hundreds, at least.

He punched Guts in the face. He wrapped his hands around Guts's neck and choked him, trying to poke his thumbs into our little guy's eyes. Guts bared his teeth, snapping at Green Cap's thumbs.

And one small bite is all it takes...

"Don't do it," Ros warned him.

"This can't be happening," Green Cap said. He let go of Guts's neck and propped himself up on his elbows, ignoring the adorable zomboy perched on his chest. He watched us approach. By now, we were halfway down the driveway. "Are you all zombies?" he asked.

"We like brains," Ros admitted.

"Is this really happening?" Green Cap asked.

"You better believe it," Ros said.

"Why are you talking?" Green Cap asked.

"Why are you?"

Green Cap rested his head on the concrete. "Then it's over," he mumbled, "if they can think."

Here's my favorite recipe. Pretend you're reading Like Water for Chocolate Like Water for Chocolate.

Ingredients: One human, warm and alive, preferably wriggling, maybe screaming.

Preparation: Using both hands, hold human firmly in place. Take a big bite. Chew. To enhance flavor, let pieces of flesh and viscera swing from mouth.

Repeat until human is a pile of bones.

But I couldn't do it. It was triumph-of-the-will time. Mind over matter. Brain over brains.

I had a mantra and it was this: Do not eat the human...Do not eat the human...Do not eat the human...Do not eat...

Eve's moans were at a fever pitch, loud enough to attract our brethren. She needed a sock in her maw. p.r.o.nto. I signaled as much to Joan, putting my hand over my mouth and nodding in Eve's direction. The old gal did a 180, back to the garage, almost creaking as she turned. She was a dutiful zombie, a first-cla.s.s minion.

We were almost to the end of the driveway. The Trail of a Thousand Zombie Tears.

"Brains," Ros said. "Mmmmmmm."

Ros's arms were outstretched; he was slipping into character, losing cognition. I grabbed his elbow and shook him. Forcing him to face me, I made the peace sign, then pointed the two fingers to my eyes, then to his eyes, signaling: Look at me. Stay with me.

Do not eat the human...Do not eat the human...Do not eat the human...Do not eat...

Saint Joan m.u.f.fled Eve's moans. The suburb was quiet save for Green Cap's sobbing. No snow shovels. .h.i.t concrete; no children cried "Ollie ollie oxen free." There were no dogs barking or screen doors slamming or cars revving. No middle-aged women power-walking or Mormons knocking on doors.

No one was left.

We reached Green Cap. Guts jumped off him and helped Annie hog-tie his ankles and wrists together.

"Why are you doing this?" Green Cap asked.

"You drive," Ros said.

"You want me to be your chauffeur?"

We nodded.

"None of you can drive?" he asked.

"Too hard," Ros said.

I took out my pad, wrote this down, and held it in front of Green Cap's eyes: Dear Sir,Don't be afraid. Although we covet your brains, we need you to drive us to Chicago. And please, call me Jack.

"Holy s.h.i.t," Green Cap said, looking up at me.

"Nice man," Ros said. "He'll drive."

Green Cap wiggled on the driveway like a worm. Annie and Guts had done a fine job with the rope. "Don't see that I have a choice," he said. "How many like you are there?"

I shrugged my shoulders.

"We're special," Ros said.

I pointed at the note, like the ghost of Christmas future forcing Ebenezer Scrooge to look at his own grave.

"Okay, Jack," Green Cap said. "You can call me Pete. I used to be an electrician but now I'm a survivor. A good one too. After the evacuation, I ruled all of King's Court." He lifted his chin as if to encompa.s.s the entire subdivision.

"Not anymore," Ros said.

Up the street, a flash of color, along with a fresh tingling in my shoulder. The feral. I nodded at Annie and Guts and they took off, Guts running ahead, Annie lagging behind with the rifle over her shoulder.

Saint Joan came walking down the driveway, swinging her doctor's bag and winking like a kind, matronly nurse in a World War I movie.

Compared to the Zombie Apocalypse, World War I was a walk in the park. Forget trench warfare and machine guns. Forget Woodrow Wilson and A Farewell to Arms A Farewell to Arms. h.e.l.l, forget World War II and Hiroshima while you're at it. Remove genocide and the postwar baby boom from your mind.

Now is the only thing that's real.

"Leave Eve," Ros said.

"Groooaaamph," I said, meaning, "Perhaps."

I wondered if humans still did it, the old in-out. And whether Pete was lonely in his barren subdivision. Were matters of the flesh and heart important to him? Were there Jews left in Israel?

Did the Holy Land ever even exist in the first place?

I wrote Pete another note: We need to find Howard Stein, creator of the virus. Is he still alive? Take us to him. We need to find Howard Stein, creator of the virus. Is he still alive? Take us to him.

"Stein. Him," Pete said. "Killed by a mob, apparently. Of humans, mind you, not the undead. This is word-of-mouth info-no more CNN-so I can't vouch for the truth of it. But yeah. His own kind turned on him."

"Go on," Ros said, and coughed up some black goop.

"From what I heard," Pete continued, glancing at Ros, "zombies controlled most of the city. A group of scientists and politicians were holed up in a building downtown and Stein was their leader, for a time. Guess he said that since he created them, he knew how to fight them. Food started running low, tempers high, and at some point they realized they weren't holed up but trapped."

"Stupid humans," Ros said, shaking his head. "Typical."

"Long story short, they decided Stein was the cause of their misery, so they took revenge. Can't say I blame them. They threw him over the fire escape, right into the stenches below."

Teeming ma.s.ses. Quiet desperation.

"He didn't even hit the ground, there were so many of them. Of you, I mean. Gobbled him right up. Apparently, there was nothing left."

So Nietzsche was right: G.o.d is dead. And I had been looking forward to meeting my maker. He would have listened to me, understood my worth. I sat down in the driveway.

Ros must have seen the disappointment in my face. "We've still got each other, captain," he said. "We'll make it."

I stood up, gathering myself for the troops. They were counting on me to lead them.

I wrote: Take us where we want to go. Or else! Take us where we want to go. Or else!

Pete squeezed his eyes shut. A tear traveled down his cheek.

I nudged his head with my toe. His eyes opened; I bit the air and moaned. I was a fierce and hungry zombie. A fiend. Hear me roar!

"Kill me," he said. "Just kill me already."

"No way, Jose," Ros said. "You drive."

Pete sighed. "Fine," he said. "Where to?"

Chicago, I wrote. I had to see it for myself. I wrote. I had to see it for myself.

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

BRAINS! BRAINS, I tell you. We needed a thalamus for the road. A frontal lobotomy. A side of cerebellum. A medulla oblongata. Anything to take our minds off the meat of Pete, who was lying supine on the street, curled in the cul-de-sac, a lamb for us wolves, as open and available as any wh.o.r.e. tell you. We needed a thalamus for the road. A frontal lobotomy. A side of cerebellum. A medulla oblongata. Anything to take our minds off the meat of Pete, who was lying supine on the street, curled in the cul-de-sac, a lamb for us wolves, as open and available as any wh.o.r.e.

Ros, Joan, and I waited for Annie and Guts to return. We did the zombie dance, circling around Pete like Native Americans in a peyote trance. I paused and wrote down my thoughts like a self-help housewife: This is my affirmation journal. My dream book. Captain's Log: Stardate: Zombie Apocalypse. Do not eat the human!

There was a gunshot followed by silence. Moans wafted through the subdivision like wind through an Aeolian harp.

Guts turned the corner onto p.a.w.n Way. He was skipping, the feral's leg slung over one shoulder like a hobo's stick.

"Annie?" Ros asked, and Guts jerked his thumb in the direction he came from, imitating our gait and throwing in a few robotic dance moves and a moon walk. Show-off. He pulled a handful of brains out of his jeans pocket, which he proffered to me with his customary bow.

I smashed the red, hot sweetness into my face with both hands, smearing it on my cheeks. I could not get those brains into my mouth fast enough.