Brains: A Zombie Memoir Part 4

I felt expansive that night, filled with purpose. I forgave the humans for hunting me, as I forgave myself for eating them. Like Anne Frank, in spite of everything, I still believed we are all really good at heart.

AS I WATCHED Eve turn, I thought of Lucy. My human wife. The dam burst, and I remembered what happened to her. What I'd done. No wonder I repressed the memory; it was as painful to relive as an alien abduction. Eve turn, I thought of Lucy. My human wife. The dam burst, and I remembered what happened to her. What I'd done. No wonder I repressed the memory; it was as painful to relive as an alien abduction.

Wretch that I am, I'd eaten her. All of her too. I can't believe I ate the whole thing. Every single morsel. She was good to the last drop.

Pa.s.s me a Tums, please; I've got indigestion.

We were sitting with the boxes of Christmas decorations-no Hanukkah junk, mind you, no menorah, nothing Hebrew in sight-next to the never-used tent and Lucy's treadmill, also never used. We were in the bas.e.m.e.nt with our life's detritus around us and my cheek was on the concrete and Lucy's hand was in my hair and I closed my eyes and I died.

Let that sink in: I died.

There was a moment of suspension when I was no longer human and not yet zombie. My body was nothing, was as good as a couch cushion or a blow-up doll or the giant plastic Santa mocking us in the corner. Walt Disney cryogenically frozen. Pinocchio before the breath of life, hanging limp from his strings.

It's true what they say about viewing your corpse from above. I floated near the ceiling, gazing at Lucy and what used to be me, and in that moment, I was as content as one of the Lord's sheep, a member of His flock. The zombie horde seemed far away; I could barely hear them pounding at the cellar door. My ears were flooded with celestial music, the singing of the spheres. It sounded like twee Britpop. Was it angels with harps? Maybe. Belle & Sebastian? Perhaps. Was it Jesus strumming an acoustic guitar like some traveling barefoot hippie? In my dreams.

Because let's rationalize: The whole "near-death experience," the whole light-at-the-end-of-the-tunnel trip, is a trick of the brain, a hallucination. It is not a supernatural event but one last fantasy brought to you by your endorphins to mitigate the absolute terror of death. To inspire hope against the nothingness we all fear. The whole cessation-of-ego-and-selfhood business. The loss of the world. Because everyone wants to exist, right? And we all die in the end.

Unless we're undead.

But then there are the suicides. Hanging themselves on reinforced beams in their empty Seattle apartments; overdosing on pills in their mothers' bedrooms; blowing their brains out with rifles or shotguns or pistols; starting cars in garages and reading Dostoyevsky until they fall asleep; driving minivans off cliffs with their children strapped in the backseat. They screw existence. In the a.s.s.

Bear in mind, this is a zombie talking-a supernatural being. What do I know? I might not even be real.

Oh, ontology.

Regardless of religion or science, there I was, floating near the ceiling and at peace, when the heavenly music turned into Norwegian death metal and I was ripped away from the fuzzy blankets of cloudland and confronted with demons and devils and a descent into h.e.l.l. I was whisked into some sort of meat tube, like a large intestine, where trapped souls screamed at me from polyp walls and everything was flaming orange and too hot. The guy from Munch's The Scream The Scream was there with his hands on the sides of his face. A child tattooed with the mark of the beast morphed into a stampede of wild horses running away from a gothic mansion that morphed into a laughing fat lady in pearls. The typical horror-movie shtick. Cliche, but true. was there with his hands on the sides of his face. A child tattooed with the mark of the beast morphed into a stampede of wild horses running away from a gothic mansion that morphed into a laughing fat lady in pearls. The typical horror-movie shtick. Cliche, but true.

And then I was reborn.

Chew on that for a while.

Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I fear no evil. For I am evil. And I am the shadow. And I am death.

Not just zombie but archetype. Not just villain but hero. Jungian shadow, id and ego. Man is woman. Ovaries are testes. Cats are dogs.

Mr. Hyde was inside me clawing his way out. Dr. Jekyll was nowhere in sight.

I opened my eyes. And Lucy screamed. The zombie horde broke through the door and I lunged at my wife and my wife was lunch.

Heavens, she was tasty. We ate her communally: the fresh-faced blond zombette from next door; the nuclear family from across the street, which, as a result of decay, truly did have 2.5 kids; the haggard waitress zombie from Denny's, varicose veins now black and inky; the suspicious loner zombie who never gave out Halloween candy; the teenage geek zombie with his pimples and Lord of the Rings Lord of the Rings T-shirt; and me, the professor zombie, with my tortoisesh.e.l.l gla.s.ses and robin's-egg-blue shirt. T-shirt; and me, the professor zombie, with my tortoisesh.e.l.l gla.s.ses and robin's-egg-blue shirt.

This was no symbolic eating, no representational wafer. We didn't just break bread-we broke flesh; we drank blood. It was a living Eucharist.

Lucy's still in me now. Transubstantiation. Her remains remain. Forever and ever. Amen.

EVE AND ME, underneath the fryer. She was hot and feverish, barely breathing. Her skin was pale green, an anemic summer shoot. A fading spear of summer gra.s.s. That's Zombie Walt Whitman by the way. He never died either; look for him under your boot soles. underneath the fryer. She was hot and feverish, barely breathing. Her skin was pale green, an anemic summer shoot. A fading spear of summer gra.s.s. That's Zombie Walt Whitman by the way. He never died either; look for him under your boot soles.

Soon the senseless ma.s.ses would raid the rest stop. Whitman's catalogue of Americans: the farmer and the cobbler; the carpenter and the lunatic. The poet and the priest. Zombies, every single one.

I locked and barricaded the doors. Eve's moment of transformation was private; it belonged to us alone.

I FELT THEM before I heard them, before the humans even smelled their rot, their arrival heralded by a tingle in my shoulder, like when your foot falls asleep and you stamp it, waiting for the blood to return, the pinp.r.i.c.ks to subside. before I heard them, before the humans even smelled their rot, their arrival heralded by a tingle in my shoulder, like when your foot falls asleep and you stamp it, waiting for the blood to return, the pinp.r.i.c.ks to subside.

I welcomed the coming of the flock this time. I am more alive when I'm with them. We zombies are nothing more than a flesh-eating ant colony, but without a queen.

Because was anyone in charge? Could we even have a leader?

Death rattled like a snake in Eve's throat, and she closed her eyes. When she opened them again, I had my bride.

She was even whiter than before with a hint of sea-foam green. Her wrist had stopped bleeding; it was a scabbed and black stump, the bones poking through. They were thin and fragile looking, more balsa wood than dinosaur fossil. Girl could have used some calcium supplements. Of course, she didn't have to worry about osteoporosis anymore.

All she had to worry about was brains.

If my d.i.c.k worked, we might have made love.

Urge and urge and urge- Always the procreant urge of the world.

I fashioned a leash of sorts for Eve. In the frenzy of a feeding or while running from a lynch mob, I didn't want to lose her. The rope was tied securely around her chest, underneath her b.r.e.a.s.t.s and above the rise of her belly, and attached to my belt. I would've preferred to hold the rope in my hand, but I didn't trust my flesh. One good yank and my arm could fall off.

First things first: the wedding feast.

We left the McDonald's and headed for the Travel Center. Where chaos was king. Zombies were advancing toward the building in an unrelenting march; humans took potshots at their heads from the safety of the diner and gift shop.

Shambling, that's what the deplorable Max Brooks calls our gait. His book The Zombie Survival Guide The Zombie Survival Guide was once shelved in the humor section of your local bookstore. Now every redneck and zombie hunter from here to California has a copy in his glove compartment and uses it as an actual survival guide. Every word turned out to be true. How's that for postmodern irony. was once shelved in the humor section of your local bookstore. Now every redneck and zombie hunter from here to California has a copy in his glove compartment and uses it as an actual survival guide. Every word turned out to be true. How's that for postmodern irony.

We exist in a season born of pulp fiction and video games, B movies and comic books. The word made flesh wound.

Any minute I expected to see Peter Cottontail hopping down the bunny trail with a basket of brightly colored eggs.

I led Eve back to the El Dorado-that mythic city of gold c.u.m luxury Cadillac-and pacing around the vehicle was a man I took to be her husband. Or at least the father of the child.

Or, as I thought of him, wedding cake.

I pushed her out a few feet in front of me and hid as best I could behind her. Eve took a few steps forward, moaning.

"Susan!" Eve's lover cried when he saw her.

His eyes followed the rope connecting her to me. They took in her pallor, her shamble, her vacant eyes and inarticulate groans. He raised his rifle and aimed for her head. He grimaced and lowered the rifle.

I was betting baby would save us.

Lover was wearing a Night of the Living Dead Night of the Living Dead T-shirt, which I took in the spirit it was no doubt intended-satirical, cynical, detached. Youthful, knowing, and hip, like being a 9/11 victim for Halloween 2001. Which I was. "Too soon," everyone at the party said, booing and hissing, when I showed up wearing a business suit and covered in dust. "Too soon." T-shirt, which I took in the spirit it was no doubt intended-satirical, cynical, detached. Youthful, knowing, and hip, like being a 9/11 victim for Halloween 2001. Which I was. "Too soon," everyone at the party said, booing and hissing, when I showed up wearing a business suit and covered in dust. "Too soon."

"Oh, Susan," Lover cried again, his shoulders drooping.

Eve and I moved toward our first meal together. The eating of her former partner would sanctify our relationship, like the lighting of the unity candle. Nothing is taboo once you've scarfed down your lover.

He raised his rifle again and c.o.c.ked it. He fired and hit Eve in the shoulder. She flinched but kept walking.

"Forgive me," he said as he rec.o.c.ked his weapon. "Lord forgive me."

I held my hands out in front of me like a statue of Jesus standing on top of the highest hill in some third-world village, His hands blessing the people below, protecting all. I opened my mouth to say, "Believe in me, my son, and you shall be forgiven."

"Mooooooorah," I said instead. Which was perhaps my most articulate moan yet.

He fired again and blew off Eve's ear. It flew past me, wavy and surreal, like van Gogh's ear. We're not zombies, I thought, we're artists. We're not artists, we're paintings. Cannibalistic Sunflowers. Whistler's Zombie. Zombie Descending Stairs. Moaning Lisa. Cannibalistic Sunflowers. Whistler's Zombie. Zombie Descending Stairs. Moaning Lisa.

Eve and I fell on him. I wish I could say we were graceful as ballerinas, but ours is a clumsy, awkward race. Lover dropped his rifle. Eve bared her teeth in his face and he retched at her breath. It's a scene familiar to us all: Lovers in the morning turn to each other in bed, and both open their mouths to say, "Did you have any dreams, sweetheart?" And both pull back from the vestiges of last night's beer or cheesecake, the buildup of plaque, decay, and death in the other's mouth. A reminder that our bodies are science experiments, laboratories of bacteria. Ever-changing and evolving.

I let Eve take the first bite; she was, after all, eating for two.

Like a good little zompire, she went for the neck and hit the jugular. Blood spurted up, the money shot. She slurped the veins like lo mein, sitting back on her heels, her chin and mouth covered in blood, ropy sinews hanging out of her delicate overbite like this was the spaghetti-eating scene in Lady and the Tramp Lady and the Tramp. A third of Lover's neck was gone. I grabbed his head and gave it a good turn and off it came. Lover's eyes blinked once, then his soul left the building.

I presented the head to Eve. She clutched its s.h.a.ggy hair with her remaining hand and buried her face in the open end, bobbing for brains. I plunged my hands into Lover's stomach, ripped out the intestines, and shoved them in my mouth. They tasted like sour milk and I liked it.

I looked at Eve and she appeared to be smiling, but I couldn't be sure. Do dolphins actually smile? Dogs?

Fig leaf, I thought as I gazed at my bride. Serpent.

CHAPTER FIVE

WE REDUCED LOVER to his essence, a pile of bones and puddles of blood, then I struggled into the El Dorado. In spite of all I knew about zombies-the myths and realities, our limitations-it struck me that I might be able to drive to Chicago. If any cadaver could do it, I could. to his essence, a pile of bones and puddles of blood, then I struggled into the El Dorado. In spite of all I knew about zombies-the myths and realities, our limitations-it struck me that I might be able to drive to Chicago. If any cadaver could do it, I could.

The keys were lying on top of the dashboard, the gas tank was full, but I just sat there staring at the speedometer like a crash-test dummy. Behind the wheel, I was incompetent, as confused as an Alzheimer's patient puzzling over how to make a ham sandwich.

Disappointed, I got out of the car, and Eve and I shuffled to I-80 on foot. Soon enough we found ourselves in the middle of a herd of five hundred moaning, groaning corpses. A band of zombies is louder than you think. We gurgle, like giant rotting babies. An occasional limb hit the ground with a dull thud but everyone just shambled right over it. Zombies with broken backs dragged themselves across the blacktop, leaving trails of spinal fluid. The runts of the litter, those crips are lucky if they get to suck the bones of a kill.

I-80 was a junkyard. Vehicles with open doors and steaming engines. b.l.o.o.d.y piles of clothes. The odd washing machine or Big Wheel. A stuffed Pink Panther. A desktop. A coffeepot. A dirty diaper. An algebra textbook and a Game Boy. The remains of Western civilization. No cars pa.s.sed us for an eternity. Eve walked in circles, b.u.mping into other zombies. No one said excuse me.

As a human, I hadn't cultivated any sort of group affiliation or identification. In fact, I'd carefully avoided it. Being a lone wolf and an observer, an outsider with a melancholic disposition, suited my ideology and career. As an academic and cultural critic, I interpreted popular phenomena like NASCAR or reality television, but I certainly didn't consider myself a fan.

That's why my feelings surprised me: I felt a kinship with the creatures as we ambled down the road. I had sympathy for their hunger, compa.s.sion for their unquenchable thirst, sorrow when I looked at their maimed corpses. And I was worried about the future. Our collective ontology concerned me.

I practiced speaking as we walked, but I must have coughed up my vocal cords, if that's possible, and my tongue was a black and useless thing, a limp and charred sausage.

How could I discuss our survival with Stein if I couldn't even say goo-goo-ga-ga? For all I knew, Stein had become a zombie too. Just a slob like one of us. Crying for brains and covered with wounds that don't heal or weep.

"Eeeeeee," I said. Vowel sounds I could handle; consonants made me gnash my teeth.

The ground rumbled and shook. I pulled on the rope and brought Eve to me, inserting the tip of my finger into her wrist, which seemed to calm her. The unmistakable whir of a chopper filled the air.

Behind us, a military convoy crested the horizon. The American flag flew on the first tank, Old Glory waving in the wind.

This was why Eisenhower built these highways in the first place: to mobilize the military and evacuate citizens during an atomic attack. Black asphalt crisscrossing the contiguous forty-eight like bondage gear.

Never mind that most Americans took the highways to visit Disney World or dying grandmothers, not escape giant mushroom clouds and Russians. The roads brought us purple dinosaurs and snake farms. All-night diners and oil refineries. Buicks and monster trucks. The world's largest ball of twine. Cold War dreams turned millennial nightmare.

Better dead than red.

But better undead than dead.

Over fifty years after its construction, the System of Interstate and Defense Highways had finally fulfilled its original function. Mission accomplished.

Zombie Ike must be proud.

The tanks were accompanied by foot soldiers equipped with hand grenades, rocket launchers, submachine guns, pistols, flamethrowers, MREs, cigarettes, p.o.r.n. And sharpshooters who went for the head.

Civilization hadn't completely broken down yet if the military was killing to the tune of "Walk This Way"-the Run-DMC version.

Doesn't anyone slaughter to "Ride of the Valkyries" anymore?

The soldiers opened fire. They were marching in unison, to the beat. They were, in fact, walking "this way," if "this way" meant the wholesale and rhythmic ma.s.sacre of innocent American zombies.

I crooked my finger deeper inside Eve's wrist, hooked it around a bone, and pulled her closer. The other zombies were walking directly into the bullets. They simply couldn't comprehend the danger-they looked at the soldiers and saw only breakfast, dinner, a light snack.

My tribe is a stupid tribe, and that's precisely why I wanted to save them. To teach and lead them. But I couldn't do it if they wouldn't let me. It's like convincing your alcoholic girlfriend not to drink: It ain't gonna happen. Booze or brains, it's all the same. The addict has to want to change.

A nearby zombie's head exploded and a piece of his brains splattered on my gla.s.ses. His teeth flew out of his mouth and chattered down the highway. Eve took a hit to her swanlike neck, the chunk of flesh whizzing behind us so fast it whistled. My bride was falling to pieces under my care. I tugged hard on her rope and we took cover behind a Toyota Tercel.

THE CONVOY WAS easily a mile long, the middle guard a ragtag battalion of soldiers and civilians, Hondas and Beetles, motorcycles and skateboards. A young mother carried her baby in one arm and a machine gun in the other; a blond moppet of a boy skipped hand-in-hand with a cornrowed African-American girl, both throwing grenades into the zombie mult.i.tude. Humanity was finally united against a common enemy: us. Me. easily a mile long, the middle guard a ragtag battalion of soldiers and civilians, Hondas and Beetles, motorcycles and skateboards. A young mother carried her baby in one arm and a machine gun in the other; a blond moppet of a boy skipped hand-in-hand with a cornrowed African-American girl, both throwing grenades into the zombie mult.i.tude. Humanity was finally united against a common enemy: us. Me.

This was genocide in front of my eyes and I couldn't stop it; my people were being extinguished like all the powerless ma.s.ses of the world. Oppressed, dispossessed, hated. History teaches us that humans kill what they fear.

"Immigrant Song" came on at a lower volume than the Run-DMC, and the convoy stopped. In front of us was a giant cage on wheels, like the lion's cage at the circus, only bigger and pulled by a Hummer. There were zombies trapped inside, dozens of them at least, b.u.mping into each other and clamoring at the bars. A small troop of battle-dressed soldiers walked alongside the corral, two of them on the side facing the Tercel.