by Thom Adorney
“As far as I can tell.”
“Can you describe them for us?”
“Well, they’re a rather unfortunate sight. Faces are ashen, clothes are untidy, kind of a glazed look in their eyes.”
The woman from Channel 7 was next. “What was your first reaction? Revulsion? Terror? And have you heavily armed yourselves?”
“I would say more like pity. And, no, we have not armed ourselves.”
Her eyebrows arched in question. “Pity? Weren’t you afraid for your family?”
“No reason to be. They made no threat to us.”
Back to the man from Channel 4. “You said ‘they.’ Exactly how many have you seen?”
“Five.”
The woman again. “Were they eating corpses, Mr. Bell?”
“No, they just walked by.”
“Where do they come from?” asked the man.
“Well, we don’t know exactly. They move from the southwest corner of our property, across the vegetable garden, up the driveway and across the road.” Their heads quickly turned to look across the road like our golden retriever when you fake her out by pretending to throw a stick. The two shot glances at each other, questioning if the other would bolt for Jessup Canaday’s property. “Beyond that, I haven’t got a clue.”
The woman fired another round. “Why do you think they’ve come to your property, Mr. Bell? Is there anything here that might attract them? Wiccan ceremonies? Occult practices?”
I paused to consider the sensationalistic tact she was taking. It was more the line of questioning I expected from the Fox reporter. “What brought them up out of the earth, one can only speculate. Scientists and theologians are better equipped to address the cause of such phenomenon. Why here? Well, I suppose it’s merely coincidence. I can assure you there’s nothing about reading the Bible to your children that attracts the undead.”
She looked as if I’d just cut off her approach to the cookie jar. Neither of them seemed to know what to say. Finally, the man asked, “Would you mind our camera crew coming back tonight to document the zombies? You know, in your back yard?”
I smiled. “You’re welcome to stand across the street, off of our property. That’s the Canaday’s land, so you’ll have to inquire with them.” His shoulders sank a bit and he realized the interview was over.
“You all have a nice day.” I nodded to Seth, who lowered is camera and we started back to the house. Then I stopped to face them once more. “You will honor our agreement, now won’t you.” The reporters nodded solemnly and began to pack up their gear.
In the kitchen, Ruth was folding the laundry. She raised her eyes to give me a soft smile, then returned to the laundry.
“Mom, you should’ve seen Dad! He was awesome out there, the way he outsmarted those TV reporters. Especially the guys from Fox! Man, I feel sorry for that dude.”
Ruth nodded knowingly. “Your father’s no country bumpkin.” Then turning to me, “Principal Mortly called. He’s on his way out here with Francine Rakus and a few others.” I looked down at the legal pad on the table. On the right side was a list of the day’s chores, and on the left a list of names: news outlets, neighbors, and notable townsfolk and busybodies, several of which had been checked off.
I turned to Seth. “The barn’s waiting for you.”
* * *
Within the half hour our living room looked like an ad hoc town hall. Mr. Mortly arrived first, shortly followed by Councilwoman Rakus, Felix Torte, the county attorney, and Bertrand Carey, the head of the Rotary Club. Felix hustled to keep up with Francine, nearly tripping as his eyes darted this way and that, no doubt looking out for zombies, while Bertrand casually eyed our house like a prospective realtor.
“Good morning,” Francine quipped, her hand outstretched and an I’m-nobody’s-fool smile creasing her face. Years of going to council meetings had never quite prepared me for the voracity of that woman’s handshake, particularly compared to Felix’s more feeble one and Bertrand’s long-fingered clasp that had me checking for my wallet afterwards.
We settled into the living room where Ruth greeted us with a coffee tray.
“Mr. and Mrs. Bell,” began the principal, in his dry, monotone voice, “I suppose you’ve heard of the stir your daughter…ah…”
“Cecelia,” Ruth offered.
“Yes, Cecelia. I must confess at first I was a bit perplexed. I’ve known your family since your oldest one, Michael—”
“Seth,” Ruth corrected.
“Yes, Seth…started school. I didn’t think that you two would approve of such a thing.”
“What exactly are your referring to?” asked Ruth.
“Well as I’ve heard it told, your daughter told her class—”
“Of first graders,” Francine interjected, leaning forward with piercing readiness.
“Yes, of first graders, that your house was visited upon by…by zombies.”
“And she drew a picture of them,” added Francine.
“Yes, and well, you know our district’s policy about Halloween. This has got a lot of people quite upset. I must’ve fielded a dozen calls from parents and school board members last night.” Although Mr. Mortly had permanent dark circles under his eyes, I noticed that they seemed to sag more on his pale, tired face. “And apparently she made some slanderous comments about one of her classmates—”
“Called Philip Season a zombie,” remarked Francine.
“Yes, and well I’ve brought along a copy of our Conduct Code book,” which he then handed to me. “You’ll find on page 14 that slanderous comments fall under the category of “Threats and Intimidation.” And on page 21, lying falls under the heading of “Maintaining Personal Integrity.” Now I understand that your daughter may have an overactive imagination, but some people are calling for her suspension, or even expulsion from school.”
My jaws clenched as I narrowed my gaze into the principal’s eyes, and behind me I sensed Ruth rise another two inches.
“Principal Mortly, let me set the record straight. My daughter’s drawing, while a work of her imagination, was based upon the fact that zombies walked through our property the past several nights.”
The words shoved him back into his seat, his eyes recoiling into his skull.
“As for the slandering,” I continued,” she simply confused Philip’s well-known history of sleepwalking for someone’s who’s risen from the dead.”
Francine’s eyes flared. “So it’s true!” she charged.
“Our daughter doesn’t lie,” countered Ruth.” And she doesn’t slander.”
I noticed Felix looked pinned against the couch, while Bertrand’s eyes sparkled beneath his bushy eyebrows. Having lived in the same county for the past twenty years, I have rarely had the misfortune of dealing with him directly. It was on a Boy Scout outing, during which he felt it was his sworn duty to enlighten the boys with mischievous tales from his childhood and ribald jokes that would meet a mother’s glare and a mouthful of soap if they were repeated at home. One couldn’t help but watch him from a distance as you would some coyote on the edge of your property.
“Let’s not get hasty, Principal Mortly,” he chided, leaning forward. “I’m sure it was all a misunderstanding. The little girl meant no harm.” He smiled at Ruth and I as if to say, “I’ve come to your defense.” But he was a most unsettling ally. “No real harm has been done, and I’m sure Cecelia would offer a heartfelt apology to young Mr. Season.” I gave him the slightest nod.
Then addressing me, he continued. “John, I’m sure that if we’ve heard about this, well, then so have the local papers and news stations.”
“We’ve had some calls,” I acknowledged.
“So we can expect quite a bit of attention ’round here.” I suddenly noticed the dollar signs lurking behind his gaze. “And negative attention, as we all know by watching the news, draws more interest than so-called positive attention. This little misunderstanding could turn out to be quite a boon to our little town.” He glan
ced around the room for converts. Principal Mortly looked cast aside, while Felix was lost amidst legal calculations. And Francine Rakus was clearly wedged between her Puritanical values and what the pending economic boomlet would mean with her at the helm of the Chamber of Commerce.
Bertrand smiled like a fox that had its teeth around a chicken’s neck, bringing it back to the farmer as a peace offering.
“Now I’m not saying we hang banners across Main Street proclaiming our town as the ‘Zombie Capital of the World’—although that certainly has a ring to it. I’m simply offering that we make the most of this unusual opportunity. Consider the visitors that will come, not just from the metro area, but from around the country, or even the globe. How many people visit the infamous Area 51? Why, it must be in the thousands every year. It doesn’t matter whether it’s true or not. It’s the urban legend that counts.”
“Bertrand,” Ruth glowered, “there is no way that we will let you turn our home and our farm into some kind of carnival sideshow.”
“It’s not me who’s doing anything, Ruth. The word is out there and it will bring people to your home and to our town. John, have you considered the royalties to be made from filmmakers at the cable networks, made-for-TV movies, appearances on Oprah and 20/20? If you play your cards right this could be a windfall for your entire family. Not just now, but for years to come. I’m simply suggesting that we get out of the way and let it land in our yards.”
“You’re suggesting nothing of the sorts, Bertrand,” I countered. “It sounds to me that you want to set up a souvenir stand in our front yard and sell t-shirts in your store. You don’t know what you’re dealing with! None of us do. There is a phenomenon afoot here that defies explanation. We’re talking about someone’s family members or ancestors, perhaps yours or mine, being disturbed and rising from the grave. This isn’t time to be counting royalties.”
“Might I suggest something,” offered Felix, leaning tentatively forward. “If it’s true, as you say, that the dead have risen from the grave, there are certain to be some health risks from unknown pathogens, which could lead to an epidemic, and put our county in certain legal jeopardy. Shouldn’t we be calling the county or state health department? Or the Center for Disease Control?” This gave all of us, even Bertrand, pause to think.
After a minute or two of collectively staring holes into the carpet, Ruth spoke up. “Whatever’s to be done and whomever we should call, it should be done before tonight because we expect they’ll be here again.”
And that’s how the wheels were set in motion that brought a half dozen news crews, part of city council, the county sheriff and some deputies, and a couple of scientists from the Colorado Department of Public Health to our farm that night. By dusk, there were cars and trucks parked up one side of the road and down the other.
That evening’s dinner carried a curious avoidance of any conversation having to do with the evening’s impending events. It’s as if each of us made deliberate conversation about how delicious the roast was, and how the yams tasted better with butter and gravy instead of just one or the other. But all was told in the sideways glances between us while passing the string beans or gravy boat around. Michael, in particular, seemed to be sitting on top of a corked bottle, ready to pop. Little Cecelia looked a bit sheepish, still painfully aware that she was the catalyst for the string of events that was about to unleash something far from normal onto our house.
The sun was sinking behind the mountains, illuminating the western sky in brilliant flames as we cleared the table and Ruth and the young ones started in on the dishes. Seth and I stepped out onto the back porch to take in the sunset.
“You’ll be telling your grandkids about this night,” I told him.
He stood silently, sensing the enormity of it all.
“What if they don’t come?” he finally asked.
The thought had occurred to me as well, but my hunch was that the wheels were set in motion leading up to this, and there was no derailing this train. I simply shook my head.
That’s when we heard the first helicopter. Coming out of the west, it flew in a wide arc around the area. A news chopper. The rumble of trucks came up the road and, by the time we had gone up the drive to see who had arrived, Sam Reynolds, the county sheriff, was walking across the yard, flanked by two of his deputies.
“Evenin’, John,” he said, shaking my hand. “I believe you know Josh Carter and Darrell Simmons.”
I nodded. “How’s your mother, Josh?”
“Much better, Mr. Bell. Thanks for asking.”
“Well, John,” continued Sam, “word’s out that you’ve had some unusual sightings—some say ‘zombies’?”
I smiled. “Strange but true.”
“Well, we’re here to secure the area and step in if things get out of hand. Mind if we have a look around?”
“Be our guests.” I replied. “Seth, show Sheriff Reynolds and his men around.”
Next came a white SUV with a State of Colorado emblem on the door. The man and woman who emerged seemed to be taking in everything—air temperature, wind speed and direction. The woman noticed something on the ground, knelt beside it, and teased it into a Ziploc bag, then labeled it. The two conferred for a few moments, glancing once or twice at me, and then slipped it into what looked like a tackle box. They approached me quickly.
“Mr. Bell, Patti Elkins, Colorado Department of Public Health and Environment. Are you aware that you had a dead mouse there in the grass? Have you noticed other dead mice or rodents on your property? Anything in the barn or around the house?”
I turned to her partner. “And you are Mr. Fitch,” I said, reading from the ID on his jacket. He nodded nervously. “Well, Ms. Elkins, we do have the occasional dead mouse around here. This is a farm. In fact, I sent in some samples to have them screened for Hantavirus, but the results came back negative.”
“Have you noticed any prairie dog die-offs—”
“Oh, the occasional one here or there. You concerned about bubonic plague? In my understanding, we’d have to see a whole colony go down, and I can assure you they’re a pretty healthy lot.”
“Well, Mr. Bell, we just want to be prepared. Now, we’ve got extra hazmat suits in the truck and, should we need it, we can call in for a quarantine tent for you and your family, from which, of course we’ll need blood samp—”
“Ms. Elkins,” I interrupted before she got carried away and turned our family and farm into some medical freak show, “we’ve observed these comings and goings over the past several evenings and everyone in our home appears to be fine. If you’ll use tonight for an initial observation, I think you’ll have a better idea of how to proceed. You’ll have front row seats on our back porch.”
She replied with a dumbstruck look, but, sensing no other option, set off uneasily toward the backyard, Mr. Fitch in tow.
Of course, we didn’t have to wait for long before Bertrand, Francine, and Felix arrived. This time around, Bertrand grinned as his eyes swept in all directions, as if proud of receiving confirmation of his prediction. Francine followed, a bit more cautious, and Felix looked scared to even walk on the grass, lest a hand should rise up and grab his ankle.
“Quite a show, John, quite a show,” Bertrand gloated.
“These aren’t the paying customers you hoped for, Bertrand,” I stated matter-of-factly.
“No, but it’s a start.”
“You’ll want to be on the back porch,” I suggested and the strange trio made their way down the driveway, Felix’s head bobbing as he looked quickly about.
I heard the front screen door slam, and in a moment Ruth had slipped her hand into mine. Together we surveyed the cars, trucks, and news crews up and down the road. Two more helicopters took turns circling overhead. And beyond them the stars began to appear in the darkening autumn sky. The smell of a wood fire wafted on the breeze, and the cottonwood leaves chittered.
“We should get back there,” suggested Ruth softly.
T
ogether we walked into the house, where Michael and Cecelia stood waiting with eager eyes.
“I don’t suppose there’s any point in you two trying to get some sleep,” I said, with resignation.
“Yes!” yelped Michael, exploding like a jack-in-the-box, punching the air with his fists. Cecelia just stood there wide-eyed, not quite sure what to expect.
“But you’ll be upstairs with me in your bedroom, reading,” affirmed Ruth. “Shades drawn.”
“What?! No way!” charged Michael. “Mom this is so unfair!”
“It’s not a matter of fairness, Michael,” replied Ruth. “It is not a fitting thing for either of you to see.”
“But Seth got to see them.”
“Seth’s almost eighteen.”
“That’s only seven years older than me!”
There was that silent thud when a child’s complaint hits the chest of his parents and drops limply to the floor. Michael gathered in the recognition of his defeat, dropped his head and reluctantly walked upstairs, followed by Ruth holding Cecelia’s hand. Cecelia shot me a smile of relief.
I glanced at my watch. Only seven o’clock. I headed through the kitchen and out onto the porch where our guests were gathered around the tall coffee urn on a folding card table. The lights from the news trucks out front cast a large halo over the house like a car dealership at night, washing everyone in a soft glow. The people gathered there took my appearance as some sort of cue that the curtains were about to go up, and turned to peer expectantly into the darkened field beyond the reach of our porch light. Seth rested casually against the corner of the house down by the driveway. Next to the barn, stood the sheriff and his men, one peering out through night vision goggles. I supposed they didn’t want to be amidst the crowd should panic erupt.
“How long do think it’ll be?” Bertrand finally asked.
“Hard to say,” I replied. “It may be a while.”
“Are you sure they’re coming?”
“Well, they didn’t exactly RSVP us, Bertrand.”
Long minutes passed. The pensiveness settled into dulled frustration. Feet shuffled and shoulders slumped. Ms. Elkins checked her watch and scribbled some notes. Then her associate, Mr. Fitch turned to me.
