So what the hell am I going to do with my life now? It’s over. It’s most definitely over. There’s nowhere to go in a world overrun by the living dead. There’s no starting over, no growth, no 401k, no golden years.
I found myself craving Facebook, just wishing I had grabbed my phone on the way up and could get in on the social networking about zombies. What would I even say?
Facebook: What’s on your mind?
Sam Bland: Goodbye turds--it was I who started the zombie apocalypse! Bwahahaha. Hot girls, private message me naked pics and I will give you the antidote! Posted 7-18-2018 at whatever godforsaken time this is!
By now, I had accepted that these were real zombies. If it looks like a zombie, and walks like a zombie, and eats people like a zombie, then…
Our entire past is a sitcom of divine proportion. The whole thing alternates for me between a warm fuzzy nostalgia and an abject disgust for my life and the lives of everyone else.
I remembered an undergrad paper I’d written ten years ago about the ancient mythologies of resurrected dead. It started as a fictional idea, eons ago, in some writer’s mind. Or was it fiction? Zombie mythology dated back long before the Christian and Hebrew mythologies. The Ancient Greeks had fables of Cleitus, Ganymede, Menelaus, and Tithonus rising from the dead, and the Chinese had Chan master Pahua. The Old Testament has Elisha and Elijah both raising the dead before Jesus raised Lazarus.
You’ve likely never heard of those, and only peripherally have heard the Haitian Voodoo tales in watered down Hollywood films. Science had never captured evidence of a corpse returning to life: the longest Clinical Death lasted 20 minutes prior to return of spontaneous circulation, but the patient was brain dead.
All this means is that there was no precedent for these zombies. My speculation at the time was that this plague was something entirely new, never encountered before, and that it was a man-made pathogen.
My expertise was in Mortality Salience research. You probably never heard of that, but in a nutshell, it goes like this:
when you remind humans of their own death, they become subconsciously vicious toward people who seem different from themselves, and friendly toward people who are like them.
Basically, we’re all just scared monkeys trying to form groups and feel important and forget about death. That’s why people spend one-fifth of their lives watching television.
Of course, nothing in my studies had ever prepared me for real zombies--I vaguely recalled something about Hades opening the Underworld to let the dead return, and Revelation in the Bible said something about it. But there was nothing about how to stop the undead.
Thump. There was a zombie right underneath where I was sitting, knocking over a stool in the kitchen.
I wanted to look around the attic for a weapon, but I was terrified to move--literally paralyzed with fear. I imagined a zombie hearing the scuff or creak of my feet on floorboards, then wandering around until it found the pull cord for the attic door. Or maybe its hand would just bust through the floor and grab me like in Michael Jackson’s Thriller.
They looked like people, so it seemed plausible they could figure out I was here. How smart were they? They knew enough to break my front windows and climb in, so they might know enough to grab that pull cord. There was a window at each end of my attic I could climb out, if they came up, but then I would just be on the roof with zombies climbing out after me.
The sound of a low-flying airplane got me moving. Zombies couldn’t fly airplanes, I was sure. I ran to the tiny window when I heard it growling overhead. It was out of sight, to the right of my house, and I threw open the window and poked my head out. I couldn’t see anything; the house must be in the way now and I was just getting the Doppler Effect. The airport runway was three miles away, so I often had planes taking off over my house. But what could possibly be going on now? Evacuation? Was there some evacuation broadcast going on, and everyone needed to get to the airport now if they wanted to reach safety, or else be left behind?
That was my panicking mind, and I shut it up.
I didn’t bother running to the back window, because there’s a forest behind my house and the trees are too tall to see over. Was the forest safe? Or was it, too, infested with zombies? The rail yard was on the other side of the forest. Could I jump a train somehow?
Now that I was up and moving, I didn’t worry about the zombies downstairs hearing me. It was as if I had snapped into motion and I knew I couldn’t stop. I had to keep going. I began rifling through the boxes of junk in the attic. This was my second time ever coming up here. The first was when I’d begun renting this house, and I poked around just to see what had been left here by the previous tenant. Nothing much interesting, I recall.
There was a wooden rocking chair, a box full of old tape cassettes, a porcelain lamp shaped like a cat, a broken plastic mop handle, two dusty dollhouses full of creepy dolls, and a storage chest full of glassware wrapped in newspaper. Useless junk.
“Fuck!” I screamed, hurling a glass plate across the room, hearing it shatter against a rafter on the steeply sloped attic roof. Then I just started grabbing glass and chucking vases and cups and bowls and plates, loving the sound of it all crashing and breaking. This was somebody’s nice dinnerware, neatly preserved up here for a special occasion, and I was that special occasion. The tinkle of shattering glass felt musical. Perhaps some part of me wanted to attract zombies, to have them come storming up here and just get it over with. Maybe I would enjoy life more as a zombie?
No zombies figured out the complex mechanism to breach my stronghold, however.
I heard some groans down there. I assumed the noise was attracting more zombies so I walked to the window and, sure enough, there were more zombies heading across my yard toward the broken front window.
“Fuck you!” I shouted. One of them looked dully up at me, and I Frisbee-hurled a plate at it. The plate hit the zombie’s head, jerking it sideways with a satisfying thud, then the plate toppled into the grass.
I ran back to the chest and carried an armful of breakables to the window. It was like one of those moments where you see red and just let all of this stored-up anger explode out. It was my second time having such a tantrum in my adult life. The first was when I was spastically fighting Daedroth and accidentally spilled an extra-large mug of hot coffee into my keyboard three days after I bought The Elder Scrolls Morrowind. It shorted out the A, S, Z, X, and shift keys, and the rest were all hopelessly sticking down, making the game impossible to play at 11 PM, when all the goddamn computer stores were closed. I’d already leveled my Dark Elf Nightblade up to 21st level! So I went into a rage, saw red, tore that keyboard from the computer and began smashing it face down on the desk while keys clattered out like teeth, then I flung it across the room and broke my mirror.
Afterwards, I’d been shocked and frightened at the amount of anger I apparently carried inside me. I’d enrolled myself in therapy for a while, but found the process repetitive and degrading. Yes, like many psychologists, I don’t believe therapy is worth a shit!
Anyway, this was like that Morrowind rage moment. Bowls and plates and serving dishes and a flower vase flew from my window at the zombies below, and I screamed incoherently as the rage took hold. Every childhood jeer I’d received, every girl who shunned me, every humiliating moment standing in my classroom being outwitted by a smartass student, all of it packed inside to the breaking point. I just exploded here.
The zombies didn’t even understand what was happening--shit was just breaking on their heads and they were looking around. When I ran out of dishes, I pushed the whole chest over to the window and started throwing everything I could find: cups, silverware, napkins, crumpled newspaper. My lawn looked like a bad divorce.
And then my hand reached into the chest and encountered a pile of flat metal wrapped in newspaper. I pulled it out, and a bundle of kitchen knives clattered to the floor of the chest. This moment felt as triumphant as Bruce Willis laying eyes on the samu
rai sword in Pulp Fiction! Cue Comanche vengeance saxophone!
I began sheathing the knives in rows along my belt like I was V for Vendetta. Time to go.
Chapter 6: Sorta Recently (Three Weeks Before Now)
The whole reason Team Doyle wound up plotting this suicide mission on Walmart is because three weeks ago, the six of us went there to look for supplies. We saw lights on the inside and pulled into the parking lot.
Motion sensor floodlights erupted to life the moment we did that, spotlighting us for whoever was there.
They took out the mirrors on our truck with warning shots. So we waved a white kitchen trash bag around as a flag of peace, then the automatic front doors opened and a bunch of guys on motorcycles rode out to meet us on the edge of the parking lot.
When they got close, we had assembled outside our truck with hands in the air to indicate that we came in peace. The point man said, “Every single one of you has a sniper who’s one sneeze away from turning you into road kill. So don’t make any sudden moves.”
“We’re not here for trouble,” Doyle said, his hands held up in a display of submission. “Just looking for other survivors to help rebuild.”
The man laughed. “Rebuild what?” He swept his arm to encompass all the stores on Genesee Street. “Curves Fitness? Edible Arrangements?” He laughed. “I think we might be better off if we don’t rebuild any of it.”
Doyle screwed up his face. He didn’t get it at all. “I’m not talking about any of that shit--I could give a rat’s ass about this yuppie shopping zoo. I’m talking about basic humanity and survival. We need each other.”
“Well, we seem to be doing just fine without you,” the man said smugly, drawing some laughter from his group.
I studied the men’s faces, irritated with their demeanor. They were getting off on these semantic games, and something in me just snapped, “Look, quit wasting our time. We want to talk to whoever’s in charge here.”
The point man stabbed me with his eyes. He was trying to dominate me, and I knew it. I had smacked his ego. His tone was cold when he said, “This group calls themselves Mavreides Gang. I’m Jeff Mavreides, so I guess that makes me the leader. You can call me Mav.” He wore pistols on each hip and had some kind of automatic weapon slung over his shoulder. Most of the others were armed with two or more guns. He grinned, his eyes boring hard into me. “Welcome to Mavmart.”
Army Dave said, “Like Mav from Top Gun.”
Mav nodded. His smile was as empty as Wayne Newton’s.
I wasn’t sure if Dave was trying to lighten things up, or if he had missed the tension going on. Either was possible.
Mav looked like he used to be a gynecologist…or a pedophile. He had pale, pasty skin, glasses, and a bushy black beard that rode four inches down his throat like a thick, neatly trimmed hedge. Child-Molester-Chic. What makes guys grow beards like that?
I forced a smirk that I didn’t feel. “Well, sorry if I upset you, Mav--but we’re standing in the middle of a ruined world, and it’s pretty obvious that people need cooperation to build--”
“Shut up, Sam,” Doyle growled, glaring at me before he turned to address Mav. “He didn’t mean nothing by it; he just sucks at social skills. I’m Doyle, and this is my gang.”
Mavreides raised an eyebrow and looked at our band of geeks. “This is…a gang?” he said, dubiously, eliciting chuckles from his team.
“Sure,” said Doyle.
Obviously, their Wall Street biker gang got its wardrobe from the Walmart. Clean khakis, cargo jeans, sweaters and sporty windbreakers--the newest fall lineup to stave off this autumn chill. I wanted nothing to do with them.
“This all’a your mates?” Mav sounded like he was trying to come off as tough and streetwise, despite having spent most of his life in a shirt and tie. One on one, Doyle could’ve ripped Mav’s heart out with a look. But there were nine of them out here and untold snipers on the rooftops.
“Maybe,” Doyle said.
“Where’s your women?” Mav said. “It’s not safe to leave your women unattended these days.”
“Ain’t got no women, unfortunately,” Doyle said, barking out a bitter laugh.
“That is unfortunate…for Team Doyle,” Mav said, coining the phrase that we would assume as our namesake, “because membership to our gang requires at least two-to-one male-to-female ratio.”
Doyle was quiet a minute, then said, “So we’d need three women to get in?”
“Your math skills are astounding.”
Smug prick.
“How many women you got in there?” Doyle said.
“Not enough to share,” Mav said.
The silence was tense. I wished we could get inside that fortress, spend some time around girls. They wouldn’t even like me, not with guys like Doyle and Stan around, and Army Dave, but even seeing them would be enough, hearing their laughter, watching them play with their hair. Maybe they’d throw a dog a bone once in a while… I mean, in a world where almost everyone is dead, wouldn’t you think the survivors would be a lot kinder to each other?
“So if we go out and find three women, you’ll let us in?” Doyle said.
“Not exactly,” Mav replied.
“What’s the problem then?”
Mav ran his fingers through his beard like a contemplative intellectual. I recognized the type--you always saw the older, tenured professors doing this shit. The minute a professor grew a beard, he began putting on this air. “Well, theoretically, yes. But the problem with your equation is that women are scarce these days, and wherever you find women, you’re guaranteed to find men. Which will throw off your numbers. Unless of course, you kill the men, which would make you an unsavory lot indeed.” Mav’s showman chuckle sounded like Pat Sajak on Wheel of Fortune.
Doyle squinted in thought. “Pardon me, Mav, I don’t mean no disrespect, but isn’t there more to be worried about than vaginas? I mean, the entire species is dead and there’s a handful of human beings left, and you’re worried about gettin’ laid? Goddamn it, look around you at the world…humans need as much help as we can get.”
If ever there was a moment where I was proud of Doyle, it was that moment.
Mavreides’ smirk was frozen on his face a little too long, like a plastic doll. Underneath that fake, smug mask, I could see Doyle had wounded him, hurt his manhood in front of his men. It didn’t even make sense to me that these guys would follow a guy like Mav. My eyes traced along their ranks, and there were tougher-looking guys, smarter-looking guys, more confident-looking guys. How did Mav become their unofficial leader?
Because he’s a doctor, I realized. Just like the PhDs at the college. People automatically look up to a doctorate and think you know more than them if you buried your head in academia for 8-13 years. For me, I had nothing better to do but read books and write papers. Other people have real lives, and the rest of us just hide in school.
“Look here, Team Doyle,” Mav said, his voice cold. “You assholes are like a gaggle of single guys at a swingers club. You’re a sausagefest on wheels. If this species is going to continue, then it requires a certain…” he paused, stroking his beard, thinking of the words. “…biological harmony. Since you guys want to mingle with my gang, you gotta follow my provisions. If I were trying to be on Team Doyle, then you could make up the rules. But I’m not. Team Doyle doesn’t have a chance of surviving. Team Doyle can’t reproduce, but Mav’s Gang can. Team Doyle is driving around a big diesel truck in a world with finite gas.” Mav paused for effect, and I could see other men in his cult smiling. “But I like you, Doyle,” he continued. “I like you, so I’m going to give you a piece of advice--go out, find some women, steal some women, do whatever it takes to get yourselves out of this wilderness and into our little family. As for tonight, I’m a generous man, so Team Doyle will dine with us in style.”
Chapter 7: Then
When I finally got the courage to lower my attic door to see how many zombies were in my house, I had a thick wooden club in
one hand and a big chef’s knife in the other. The club was actually a runner broken off the rocking chair, and it was heavy enough that it gave me both reach and skull-crushing ability. I’d wrapped my mouth and nose with a strip of cloth to make sure no zombie blood splattered in. I’d seen enough movies to know.
The attic door dangled down at head level, but the stairs were folded in half on each other, so for a zombie to be able to get up here, they’d have to unfold the stairs. Peering down the hallway toward my living room, I saw a pair of shapely legs standing in there. They were covered with dark stockings, accentuating their curve and form, and a light purple skirt that fell above her knees. She was the only zombie in sight. It was also the only pair of shapely legs that had ever stood in my living room since I’d moved here.
“Hey, toots,” I called in a low tone, like some mafia hit man. “Come here.” I waved my club around in her view.
I could see the legs turn toward the hallway, and then they began shuffling forward. Shapely hips attached to shapely legs, a slender body with gentle breasts rounding into her shirt, dark hair tangled down to her shoulders like some adorable bedhead. I could easily have been hypnotized under different circumstances; her face was so pretty if the right side of it wasn’t all chewed up and oozing. Yup, that’s me--creepily checking out the undead ladies even during a zombie infestation in my home!
Her brown eyes were glued to mine, and she seemed intrigued by how I got up here. She reached her hand toward me, grabbing the folded top of the stairs but not in the right spot to unfold them. I brought the club down hard, crushing her metacarpals with a thick chunking sound. She didn’t even flinch, just tried tugging on the stair only to feel her useless fingers slip off. So she reached up with her other hand and I smashed that one too.
It tugged on my heart strings to hurt this girl, although she didn’t even wince from the blow. I stared into her eyes, wondering how she could have become this. A day ago, or whenever, she was a normal girl, doing her makeup, giggling with friends, texting on her phone, batting eyelashes at boys. Now she was this thing. It felt surreal to me, as if I was looking at a girl in a costume, just masquerading for Halloween. Some impossible piece of me wanted her to smile and say it was all a joke and that I can come down now.
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