by Smith, T. W.
And that really pissed him off.
“Fuck you,” he said, and went looking for a shovel.
The anger was pleasing and helped him get through the rest of the day without focusing too much on the fact that he could have been killed and the dogs would have suffered horrible deaths of starvation, locked in their kennels.
He buried the body and head in a shallow grave in the side yard. He was careful to wear gloves when dragging it there. Using his boot to stabilize, he dislodged the machete from the head, and then rolled it along with the shovel (he refused to pick it up) as if playing some macabre version of croquet. When both body and head were reunited in the hole, he covered them with dirt and marked the grave with rocks.
In the grass near the skirmish, he found the bolo tie. On the silver disc there was an embossed star bordering the turquoise stone. Will held it for a moment, feeling the light relief of the raised design and then put it in his pocket.
He took the bucket with him to the lake. The gate was closed, but it was clear where the tall, blind zombie had plunged over the fence, leaving remnants of tattered clothing and a few other unidentifiable pieces on the sharp barbs and the ground below. Will sprayed the gate with a heavy dose of WD-40 and then opened it. He followed the staggered footsteps to the water where the thing had drug itself ashore. He waded out until he was waist deep and submerged himself, clothes and all.
Once home, he hung the bolo tie on the key-peg next to the phone in the kitchen where he would see it often. He cleaned himself again, prepped more water, and finally relaxed in his office. Through the window at his desk he watched for activity in the street beyond the woods. All was still. He closed the blinds.
The words poured from him much easier than he had anticipated. He detailed the entire afternoon using descriptive phrases and metaphors as if he were writing for publication—knowing that it was for him alone.
…I buried the man in the side yard—west, where the sun sets. It’s quiet there, serene. I hope he finds peace.
After, he tried to resume reading the Matheson book, but could not concentrate on the words. He kept seeing that horrible mouth trying to bite him, the crooked yellow teeth in darkened recessed gums, snapping.
He put the book down and went back to the desk, removing from the drawer a growing list of items to procure on upcoming excursions. He traced downward with his pen until he reached the bottom of the list where he added two words: dental floss.
The Day After
Three weeks earlier.
When Will awoke again he was no longer hung over. Rocko was standing above him, nose-to-nose, horrible dog breath polluting his air supply.
“What are you doing on the bed?”
Rocko’s head sunk. There was a tapping on the floor to his left. It was Lola’s tail as she obediently remained on the floor, waiting to be acknowledged.
“Hey girl,” Will said reaching over and scratching her head. “I bet you guys need to go out. What time is it?”
He looked at the clock on the nightstand and was shocked to see it was nine-thirty. He noted that there was no message light on the telephone. His cell phone was not there either, the charging dock empty.
Damn… need to plug that sucker in right away.
The TV was silent with snow—no Anderson Cooper, no weird live feeds from Brazil. Will got out of bed, turned the TV off, and went into the kitchen with the dogs following.
He let them out and found his phone on the kitchen counter. There was a message. He dialed his voicemail and punched in his pin number. After the automated instructions, he heard Frank’s voice:
“Hey. I’m going to Target right now. I didn’t get my meds last night because the pharmacy couldn’t get the transfer info from home, so I’m hoping they have everything this morning. As soon as I do that, I’m on my way home. Love you. Bye.” The automated voice told Will that the call was at 8:05 AM.
He dialed Frank’s cell.
“Hey,” he answered.
“Hey. Where are you?”
“DC. Traffic.”
“Did you get your insulin?”
“Yes, finally. She couldn’t get through to our Target, but she filled it for me anyway. She even gave me an extra pen, considering the circumstances.”
“What are the circumstances?”
“Have you not been watching?”
Will, stammered a bit. “Uh, no. I slept late. What’s happening now?”
Frank began, “The whole country’s falling apart. The President is nowhere to be found. CNN is completely off the air—I can’t even get it on satellite radio… something to do with a fire in Atlanta. Not sure about New York and DC, but something is keeping them off. FOX is on, but whacked, as usual. The most consistent reports are the local ones. Everyone is saying stay home—so don’t try and go out. FOX is reporting rescue stations, but everyone else says stay put.”
“What does it look like out there?”
“Not good. Traffic is the worst I’ve ever seen—and you know that’s bad considering DC. There are fires and smoke everywhere. Feels like I’m in a movie. Those things from the reports are showing up in places. I saw one on the beltway a few miles back. It was burnt and smoking, but still trying to crawl out of a flaming car, and attacking the people that were trying to help it.”
“Things?” Will asked .
“Did you not watch the news last night?”
“A little. But I went to bed early.”
“Really? Honey, I know you’re not a big fan of TV, or phones, or people in general—but this is a crisis!”
“Duly noted,” Will said. “So, what’s the latest?”
Frank continued: “People are attacking other people. Biting them. It’s got something to do with the bombings yesterday. According to the CDC, a possible pathogen has been released. CNN was calling them infected. FOX, of course, is calling them zombies.”
“Zombies?” Will said, remembering the Brazilian video feed. He felt a tiny pang of nausea down deep. “Like Night of the Living Dead?”
“You know FOX… they’re trying to scare everyone. Before CNN went off, they were calling it an outbreak, probably triggered from a chemical released in yesterday’s bombings.”
“Oh. That makes me feel better.”
“The point is,” Frank continued, “the whole country is falling to pieces. People are attacking others and it’s spreading fast.”
“And you’re stuck in DC traffic.”
“I’m moving as fast as I can. I’ll need gas though. I’ll wait until I’m south of Richmond before I stop. That way I will only have to stop once. And it’s more rural and, hopefully, less—”
“Populated?”
“Yeah,” Frank finished and Will’s phone beeped.
“I’m running out of juice.”
“OK. I’ll call you in a couple hours.”
“Is there anything we need? Should I go out and get anything?”
“NO!” Frank said, a little too forcefully. “You don’t realize how bad this is.”
“YES I DO! I was trying to tell you yesterday.”
Frank paused. They rarely raised their voices to each other. “I know,” he said. “And I’m sorry. I should have listened and I should have come home then. But we can’t change that now. They’re saying stay home. Just take care of the babies. I hope to be there before dark.”
“I’m calling you in a couple of hours.”
“OK.”
“You keep the radio on and I’ll watch the TV.”
“OK.”
“Love you.”
“Love you too.”
“Bye.”
Will turned the cell off, took it to the charging dock in the bedroom, and plugged it in.
After he fed the dogs, he made a cup of coffee and went into the den. The TV was still on—silent snow. He hit the guide button on the remote. The channel was CNN. Really, he thought. CNN is the first channel to go?
He flipped over to FOX and the caption at the bottom of the screen read: ZOMBI
E OUTBREAK—the crawl beneath listing areas for rescue stations in most major—and some minor—cities. The woman talking on the screen was Holly Sherlin—pretty, blond, wearing a red blazer and speaking with Joe Sanchez on location in Des Moines, Iowa. Joe was nowhere near as well attired, looking as if he were reporting from a war zone. His clothing was disheveled, torn and stained. His face was dirty and panicked. Will turned up the volume.
“…the hospital here in downtown Des Moines is in chaos, Holly. Authorities are saying to take your sick elsewhere. The dead are taking over, their bites contaminating others. Their numbers are growing and nothing seems to stop them.”
Holly interrupted. “Joe, is it true that these contaminated patients are actually dead? Many are reporting that it’s simply a disease or virus mimicking the stuff of horror movies, similar to the drug scare with bath salts years ago.”
“Yes, Holly, I know what they’re saying, but—” Joe said, breath rapid.
“LOOK OUT!” someone shouted from off camera.
Joe’s head snapped around, seeking the source of the shout. His eyes grew wide and he yelled: “IN THE VAN! IN THE VAN!”
The world went upside down, spinning with the camera in jerky movements. Will sat down on the sofa.
There was the sound of a van door closing and then heavy breathing. A light came on and Joe was back on the air, the picture dim and grainy.
“Joe,” Holly said. “What’s going on? Are you ok?”
“Yes. Yes, I think so.”
“I was asking…Are they really dead or is that just an Internet rumor?”
Joe’s voice was rushed and breathy. “It’s true, Holly. I’ve seen it. I watch one of those things gnaw through a construction worker’s throat. Then, only a few minutes later, the construction worker was up and walking.”
“But, Joe, surely he was just in shock, seeking medical attention.”
“HOLLY, THE MAN’S HEAD WAS HANGING FROM HIS BODY LIKE A FUCKING HOODIE! HE WAS TRYING TO WALK BACKWARDS TO GET TO ME!”
A hollow pounding began to echo in the van. Someone said, “Oh, shit. We have to get moving.”
Joe looked into the camera, eyes weary. “Holly, we’re out,” he said. “We’ll be back when we can.”
“But—”
The screen went black.
Back in the studio, Holly looked startled, concerned, and a little annoyed. She raised her hand to her ear-piece. “I’m getting word now that we have a report from Atlanta.”
Will reached for the remote and turned up the TV.
On the screen a woman was standing on the southbound I-85 overpass at Clairmont Rd., overlooking a Sam’s Club parking lot. “Holly, Anne Robison reporting here at the site of the Atlanta bombing yesterday. As you can see the parking lot is full of the creatures, at least a hundred or so. I think we’re safe up here for the time being, and I wanted to show you just how fast this epidemic is spreading.”
“Creatures, Anne?” Holly asked. “Aren’t those people?”
“Well, yes and no. If you see someone moving really fast then they’re likely still… human. But the majority of shapes you see down there, roaming aimlessly are what we’re now calling zombies.”
“How is the situation in the rest of Atlanta?”
“Not good.” Anne said, gesturing to her right where the camera followed, revealing the Atlanta skyline—a tableau of flames and black smoke amid the skyscrapers. “As you can see much of the city is burning, forcing people to flee to the surrounding suburbs. Authorities are saying—”
A distant scream in the background interrupted. The camera jerked back to the Sam’s Club parking lot. Anne’s voice, lowered to almost a whisper: “It appears we have activity below.”
A woman toting a child had entered the parking lot. The camera zoomed in on her, but it was still too far away to offer much detail. The woman was no more than a figure, running zigzag into the center of the parking lot while other groups of slower figures begin closing in from all directions, like ants targeting a wounded insect. There was another brief scream before the masses converged into one pulsating cell. Seconds later, the mob dispersed, and the lady and her toddler were gone.
“Anne, tell me what just happened there. What are we witnessing?”
Anne didn’t face the camera right away. When she did, her eyes were glassy. “The end,” she said, her tone wavering. “You’re witnessing the end, Holly. We… “ Then her voice cracked, and she motioned to cut with a slash of her hand. The screen went black.
Once again the camera was on a perplexed Holly Sherlin in the studio. “We’ll be back after these words,” she said.
At the bottom of the screen, the rescue stations crawled. In Georgia there were three: Augusta, Macon, and Columbus. Atlanta was not listed.
For the next two hours Will watched various accounts of the breakdown of society from the comfort of his couch. He channel-surfed between FOX News, MSNBC, and a couple of local television channels. ABC, CBS, and CNN were not broadcasting. He determined that the president had been removed to a secure and undisclosed location, before so stressing that the military had things under control and that there was absolutely no reason to panic. People either needed to get to a rescue station or simply stay home and wait for further instructions via TV, radio, or Internet.
Meanwhile, Atlanta burned, the Golden Gate Bridge was destroyed (by one of our own missiles) and Manhattan had been quarantined forcibly by the military. On one station, he found an insane religious fanatic talking about the end-of-days, casually dropping terms like human sacrifice; on another he saw a school bus full of terrified children surrounded by at least fifty of those things.
Zombies? Will thought. Is this really happening?
He muted the TV and picked up his tablet. He went to Wiki and typed in the word zombie. He browsed the usual table-of-contents listing and began with the origins link. Most of what he found there he already knew—that zombies were traditionally of Haitian voodoo legend, used as slave labor, and controlled by evil masters. This was done via predictable methods like spells and potions, but often even more disturbing practices were implemented—like cramming a cadaver’s mouth with salt and sewing the lips shut. These voodoo-type zombies were popularized during the twentieth century in movies like White Zombie and I Walked with a Zombie…
Will scrolled down.
In the late 1960s, an amateur filmmaker named George Romero had redefined the concept by making zombies cannibalistic creatures from the grave in an infamous B-movie entitled Night of the Living Dead. Post Holocaust and Vietnam-age horror films had continued to grow more outrageous and gruesome in those times, reflecting the paranoia of the atomic age as well as living in the shadow of infamous murder cases like Ed Gein, the Clutter family killings, and the soon-to-be Manson family…
Will scanned further, this being somewhat of a refresher course in films he’d watched in his youth. He remembered that modern zombies were the reanimated dead and that to destroy them you had to incapacitate the brain. Nothing else worked—period. His mind drifted, imagining the wall of yard implements in his basement garage, sifting through an inventory of tools that could be used as effective weapons.
“This is crazy,” he said, closing the page and putting the tablet back on the coffee table. He stood and paced. “It has to be a stunt. Things like this don’t happen.” Rocko crossed the room and went to him. Will scratched the dog’s head absentmindedly.
He was anxious and loathed not being in control. With these obsessive bouts, he had learned tricks to compensate for waves of helplessness. When he was young he had turned to numbers and counting. Now he made lists, identifying relevant observations on paper, diminishing the magnitude of a problem by eliminating flotsam.
And there were also the dogs. Rocko always seemed to sense his unease, offering consolation with nudges—which he was doing right now. Will sat down and took the large hound’s face in his hands, kissing him on top of the head. Lola, always observant from the periphery, left he
r chair and joined them. Both were trained to sit if they wanted to be petted and they did so now, tails wagging. Will stroked them, easing his tension and placating their need for affection.
After the mini love-fest, when his brain had slowed to a more manageable pace, he retrieved the tablet and went to Facebook. He and Frank would need a plan—just in case—and he knew where to start. He typed in No More Tomorrow, ignoring all the posts of doom and destruction, focusing his attention on the advertisements to the right. Facebook was a marketing whore; he would simply submit to her teases, letting the algorithms lead him to the web pages of zombie enthusiasts. Maybe there he would find more practical information, leaving the sensationalism behind.
But there was a lot of sludge to wade through—literally hundreds of horror movie appreciation pages, as well as small press horror fiction fan sites. Deeper among these, he found a plethora of ads for genre-specific books and movies—mostly available through Amazon. After a half hour of false leads, Will steered away from the advertisements and fell back to Facebook where he sifted through apocalypse-fanatic and survivalist pages. It was while surfing through these that he came across Brian’s Basement.
At the top of the top of Brian’s Basement Facebook page was a testimonial written in italics:
F**king amazing! This guy has written the bible of zombie-apocalypse survival guides. Look no further. When the end is near, I want to be Brian’s next door neighbor!
—Kyle Durden,
author of Return of the Swarm
Will scanned down the front of the page, which was mostly spam and promotional posts—Facebook dreck, where people joined pages only to in turn advertise their own service or product with links and pictures. To the left, in the Brian’s Basement info column, there was a website link. Above it, he noticed that Brian had 11,681 “likes.”
“Impressive.” He clicked the link.
Will liked Brian immediately. Brian’s Basement was simple and organized, contained no advertising, and was made up of only 2 components: Brian’s Manifesto and Viewer Comments. He clicked to open the former, and found what resembled a graduate thesis on surviving a zombie apocalypse—complete with a forward, table-of-contents, introduction, history, offensive and defensive strategies, tool and gear checklists, situation/location hypotheses, and a works cited at the end. The entire manifesto was 216 pages long. At the bottom of the cover page was an asterisk with the phrase: This guide is updated on a regular basis. The most recent amendment had been two days ago.
