Brains: A Zombie Memoir Part 20

"Get Stein," I heard Davis bark. "Now!"

My stomach jumped at the mention of our creator. I felt Lucy's sweet meat moving inside me. And Pete's brain in my bowels and my boss's pudgy flesh and A. J. Riley's bullet-ridden cerebellum. Every human I'd munched on, all the entrails I'd savored, they were a part of me now, as integral as my own intellect.

Ros clutched my sleeve. "Stein?" he said. "Pete said he was dead."

The stern hit the bottom of the harbor. The boat stopped sinking and settled. There wasn't much separating us physically from the humans now: the bow, twenty feet of water, and the pier. Ontologically, there was a chasm: beating hearts, digestive tracts, and s.e.xual reproduction; architecture, h.e.l.lo Kitty, and barbecue pork rinds.

But under the right conditions, zombies have something humans will never have: eternity. And at that moment, we had hope.

Howard Stein was coming in our greatest hour of need. He was a man of reason. A scientist. Surely he believed in Enlightenment ideals. Surely he'd help his creation.

"What should we do?" Ros asked.

I held my hand up, palm facing Ros, the traffic cop's signal to wait.

"I should try to talk to them," he said.

I shook my head no.

"But once they know I can speak, they can't kill us."

I didn't trust the military. I remembered Hurricane Katrina. Those Americans could speak. In fact, those Americans held up signs just as I had. Stranded on rooftops, the floodwater rising. Help us, the signs said. Save us.

"Can they?" Ros asked, rubbing his hands together, worrying them. "Would they?"

I put my hand on Ros's shoulder and nodded.

Tuskegee, Guantanamo, the crucifixion.

Ros stood up and saluted. "Private Drake, reporting for duty, sir!" he shouted, his voice deep and wavering, an underwater tuba.

Drake? To me, he'll always be Rosencrantz.

"Stand down, private," Davis said into the bullhorn. "Get back on deck."

Ros slumped next to me. "They don't care," he said.

A helicopter circled us. I looked through my binoculars at it and saw someone looking back. The hunter and the hunted; the gaze and its object; exhibitionist and voyeur-I didn't know which one I was anymore.

"Wish I still had on my uniform," Ros said. "That would show them."

I grabbed my sign; it was wet and limp, the letters blurry but still legible. I held it up for the men in the helicopter.

WE ARE YOU. That statement should end all wars: Christian vs. Muslim; White vs. Black; North vs. South; Bear vs. Shark. Us vs. Them.

Zombie vs. Man.

The helicopter hovered for a moment, then angled left and flew away. The first streaks of red appeared in the clouds, bathing Joan's splattered brains in crimson. Behind the skysc.r.a.pers, the sun was setting.

I took out paper and a pen. It was time to finish my masterpiece.

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

THE STARS LIT the sky like so many dynamos. The electric glow of Chicago was lost to the postapocalyptic power-plant shutdown; the lap of the water lulled Ros into near-catatonia. He was drooling in the bright moonlight, his vacant eyes closed in an imitation of sleep. the sky like so many dynamos. The electric glow of Chicago was lost to the postapocalyptic power-plant shutdown; the lap of the water lulled Ros into near-catatonia. He was drooling in the bright moonlight, his vacant eyes closed in an imitation of sleep.

As for me, I worked on my treatise: A Vindication of the Rights of the Post-Living A Vindication of the Rights of the Post-Living.

Because this was America, the City on the Hill, where everyone's inalienable rights were endowed by their creator. And my creator was on his way.

Let justice roll down like water and righteousness like a mighty stream!

I saw the boat approaching and my shoulder tingled, but I ignored them both, intent on scribbling the letters and words that represent the greatest concepts we can imagine: democracy, truth, equality.

"h.e.l.looo?" a voice called. "This is Dr. Stein. Are you friend or foe?"

Ros stirred and tried to stand but I blocked him with my arm.

"Friend," Ros said.

"Man or zombie?"

"Zombie."

"Can you be both?"

Ros stood up, turned on a sloppy dime, and saluted. "Private Dennis Drake, reporting for duty."

"Mother of G.o.d," another voice said, and I heard guns being c.o.c.ked.

"No need to overreact, gentlemen," Stein said. "I don't expect any trouble from these zombies."

I gathered my courage, tucked away my doc.u.ment, and made my stand next to Ros. Dr. Stein was perched on the bow of a sightseeing boat, the kind that takes visitors on sunset tours around the lake. He was surrounded by men with guns. A cane rested between his legs like a third limb, both his hands gripping the top. His hair and beard were long and white. He looked like Walt Whitman or Father Time.

I held the sign in front of me like a life preserver. A light shone on it.

"We are you," Stein read, and chuckled. "I suppose you are."

"Yes, sir," said Ros.

"And who are you, exactly?" Stein asked.

"Just me and the captain left, sir."

I threw my shoulders back and nodded at Stein, looked him square in the eye, communicating that we were both men of letters, rational, well-bred.

"There were more?" Stein asked.

"All dead."

"But you're you're dead, aren't you, Dennis?" dead, aren't you, Dennis?"

"Just a little." Ros looked at me. His eyes were hungry, desperate. "Pete said you were dead," he continued, licking his lips with his dry stick of a tongue.

"Rumors of my death have been greatly exaggerated. The more recent myths have me turned into the king of zombies. I've also been thrown from a fire escape and eaten by infected dogs." Stein paused. "Who's Pete?" he asked.

"n.o.body. Anymore."

"For someone just a little bit dead, you're in remarkable shape. Do you have a doctor? A caregiver? Someone responsible for your upkeep?"

"Nurse. She shot herself in the head."

Stein bowed his head in sympathy. "I'm sorry for your loss," he said.

Ros pulled me down behind the railing. "Help me," he whispered. His eyes were yellowing like an old newspaper. He curled into a fetal position. "Brains," he whined.

I put my sign aside and embraced Ros. My brother-in-arms. My only friend.

Stein tapped on the boat.

"Private Drake," he called, "can I a.s.sist you in any way?"

Ros stood up, clicking his heels together. "Brains!" he wailed, and buried his face in his hands.

"There, there," Stein said. "It's not your fault. This should calm your stomach. For now."

He threw Ros a calf's liver and Ros shoved the whole thing in his mouth. Blood dripped on my head, and the killer inside me roared.

"I have something for your friend too," Stein said.

I am not your trained monkey, I wanted to shout. I am a PhD!

Nevertheless I stood up and held out my hand like a beggar.

Oh, humility! This was the moment when I should hand Stein my treatise; we would match wits and establish sympathy; empathy, love, and protection would be born. Cheeks would be turned, neighbors loved, peace agreements signed.

The American dream realized. Its promises fulfilled.

No such luck: Stein tossed me some pig intestines and I stuffed them in my mouth the long way, not even bothering to chew, sucking them in like linguini.

"Let me tell you a story," Stein said, "while you dine." He cleared his throat. I didn't look up from my meal. "Once upon a time," he began, "there was a scorpion, and this scorpion asked a fox to carry him across a rushing river.

"'But you'll sting me,' the fox protested.

"'If I did that,' the scorpion replied, 'we'd both drown. Since I need to cross the river, it wouldn't serve my interests to sting you. Have no fear. I'll refrain.'

"The fox agreed. He certainly couldn't argue with the scorpion's logic. But a funny thing happened: Halfway across the river, the scorpion stung him anyway.

"'Why?' the fox asked as they both drowned.

"'It's my nature. I'm a scorpion.'"

I stopped swallowing.

"You boys are scorpions," Stein said. "Do you understand me?"

I understood: Dogs chase cats. Bees make honey. Humans wage war. Zombies eat humans. No free will. And no compromises.

There was an old lady who swallowed a fly. We all know why she swallowed the fly. And now she'll die.

"There have been others like you," Stein said.

"I know. I collected them," Ros said, his face b.l.o.o.d.y. He looked like a greeting card photo of a baby covered with spaghetti sauce, the bowl on top of baby's head, a few noodles hanging down, and a caption reading: I Didn't Do It! I Didn't Do It!

"Each of you proved the viability of my theory," Stein said, "that no one has to die."

"Where are they now?" Ros asked.

Stein made a sweeping gesture with his hand, as if the night held answers. As if the man in the moon cared. "My son," he said, "nothing has worked out as planned."

The best laid plans of mice and men...again and again and again.

"It was to be a new beginning," he continued, the cane impotent and resting against his leg. "Not an army of automatons or an enemy of man, but a new race, one with the potential to live indefinitely. One that wouldn't require food or shelter or gasoline or television. One that wouldn't waste natural resources." Stein looked up. "The virus wasn't ready when they unleashed it. Not even close." His eyes shone in the flashlight beam. They were the brown of mud, of dirt, of the clay with which he made us.

"Dr. Stein," one of the soldiers said with a note of warning in his voice, his eyes and rifle trained on Ros, who was twitching and contorting and moaning. Falling into character. Becoming the scorpion he was.

Stein shook his head, clearing it. "The military wanted to ship you to the desert. Turn you into soldiers for their war. But all h.e.l.l broke loose first."

"Father," Ros gurgled.

"I have failed miserably. Our only choice is to give in, give up, submit."

"Save...us," Ros said. He grabbed my hand and held tight.

"It's too late for that," Stein continued, rubbing his forehead with his hand. "You're both prime specimens, and at first we tried to help your kind. We sought you out and brought you to our labs. We conducted experiments using positive and negative reinforcement, trying to teach you right from wrong. We had some success, but, well, Private Drake here, his behavior is typical."

Ros glanced my way; his eyes were as yellow as stomach bile. He was vibrating, a Holy Roller about to speak in tongues, the secret language, the word of G.o.d.

"BRAINS!" he yelled, and catapulted himself over the bow, heading straight for Stein.

It was a graceful dive, a swan dive, Olympic worthy. The soldiers opened fire; bullets pinged against Ros's metal trapdoor of a head and bullets penetrated his cranium, but Ros continued flying, free as any bird. And Stein, our father who art an old b.o.o.b in a boat, stood up with open arms to receive him.