Zombies: The Recent Dead

by Paula Guran

  “Get off!” his dad shouted. Jack could not see what was happening—he had landed so that he looked along the lane away from Tewton—but he could hear. “Get the fuck off, get away!” A thump as something soft hit the ground, then other sounds less easily identifiable, like an apple being stepped on or a leg torn from a cooked chicken. Then the unmistakable metallic snap of the shotgun being broken, reloaded, closed.

  Two shots in rapid succession.

  “Oh God, oh God, oh . . . Jack, it’s not Mandy, Jack, you know that don’t you!”

  Jack struggled onto his back and looked up at the thing atop him.

  You can name your fears, Mandy had said, and Jack could not bear to look, this bastard thing resembling his beautiful sister was a travesty, a crime against everything natural and everything right.

  Jack closed his eyes. “I still love you, Mandy,” he said, but he was not talking to the thing on top of him now.

  There was another blast from the shotgun. A weight landed on his chest, something sprinkled down across his face. He kept his eyes closed. The weight twisted for a while, squirmed and scratched at Jack with nails and something else, exposed bones perhaps—

  A hand closed around his upper arm and pulled.

  Jack screamed, shouted until his throat hurt. Maybe he could scare it off.

  “It’s all right, Jackie,” a voice whispered into his ear. Mandy had never called him Jackie, so why now, why when—

  Then he realized it was his father’s voice. Jack opened his eyes as he stood and looked straight into his dad’s face. They stared at each other because they both knew to stare elsewhere—to stare down—would invite images they could never, ever live with.

  They held hands as they ran along the lane, away from Tewton. For a while there were sounds of possible pursuit behind them, but they came from a distance and Jack simply could not bring himself to look.

  They ran for a very long time. For a while Jack felt like he was going mad, or perhaps it was clarity in a world gone mad itself. In his mind’s eye he saw the dead people of Tewton waiting in their little town, waiting for the survivors to flee there from the countryside, slaughtering and eating them, taking feeble strength from cooling blood and giving themselves a few more hours before true death took them at last. The image gave him a strange sense of hope because he saw it could not go on forever. Hope in the death of the dead. A strange place to take comfort.

  At last they could run no more. They found a petrol station and collapsed in the little shop, drinking warm cola because the electricity was off, eating chocolate and crisps. They rested until mid-afternoon. Then, because they did not know what else to do, they moved on once more.

  Jack held his father’s hand. They walked along a main road, but there was no traffic. At one junction they saw a person nailed high up on an old telegraph pole. Jack began to wonder why but then gave in, because he knew he would never know.

  The countryside began to flatten out. A few miles from where they were was the coast, an aim as good as any now, a place where help may have landed.

  “You okay to keep going, son?”

  Jack nodded. He squeezed his dad’s hand as well. But he could not bring himself to speak. He had said nothing since they’d left the petrol station. He could not. He was too busy trying to remember what Mandy looked like, imprint her features on his mind so that he would never, ever forget.

  There were shapes wandering the fields of dead crops. Jack and his dad increased their pace but the dead people were hardly moving, and they seemed to pose no threat. He kept glancing back as they fell behind. It looked like they were harvesting what they had sown.

  As the sun hit the hillsides behind them they saw something startling in the distance. It looked like a flash of green, small but so out of place amongst this blandness that it stood out like an emerald in ash. They could not run because they were exhausted, but they increased their pace until they drew level with the field.

  In the centre of the field stood a scarecrow, very lifelike, straw hands hidden by gloves and face painted with a soppy sideways grin. Spread out around its stand was an uneven circle of green shoots. The green was surrounded by the rest of the dead crop, but it was alive, it had survived.

  “Something in the soil, maybe?” Jack said.

  “Farming chemicals?”

  Jack shrugged. “Maybe we could go and see.”

  “Look,” his dad said, pointing out towards the scarecrow.

  Jack frowned, saw what his dad had seen, then saw the trail leading to it. It headed from the road, a path of crushed shoots aiming directly out towards the scarecrow. It did not quite reach it, however, and at the end of the trail something was slumped down in the mud, just at the boundary of living and dead crop. Jack thought he saw hair shifting in the breeze, the hem of a jacket lifting, dropping, lifting again, as if waving.

  They decided not to investigate.

  They passed several more bodies over the next couple of hours, all of them still, all of them lying in grotesque contortions in the road or the ditches. Their hands were clawed, as if they’d been trying to grasp a hold of something before coming to rest.

  Father and son still held hands, and as the sun began to bleed across the hillsides they squeezed every now and then to reassure each other that they were all right. As all right as they could be, anyhow.

  Jack closed his eyes every now and then to remember what Mandy and his mum had looked like. Each time he opened them again, a tear or two escaped.

  He thought he knew what they would find when they reached the coast. He squeezed his father’s hand once more, but he did not tell him. Best to wait until they arrived.

  For now, it would remain his secret.

  About the Author

  Tim Lebbon is a New York Times-bestselling writer from South Wales. He’s had twenty novels published to date including The Island, The Map of Moments (with Christopher Golden), Bar None, Fallen, Hellboy: The Fire Wolves, Dusk, and Berserk, as well as hundreds of novellas and short stories. He has won four British Fantasy Awards, a Bram Stoker Award, and a Scribe Award, and has been a finalist for International Horror Guild and World Fantasy Awards. Forthcoming books include The Secret Journeys of Jack London: The Wild for HarperCollins (co-authored with Christopher Golden), Echo City for Bantam in the U.S. and Orbit in the U.K., Coldbrook for Corsair in the U.K., and the massive short story collection Ghosts and Bleeding Things from PS Publishing (U.K.). Fox 2000 recently acquired film rights to The Secret Journeys of Jack London, and Lebbon is writing the screenplay with Christopher Golden. His story Pay the Ghost is in pre-production with Sidney Kimmel Entertainment, and several more of his novels and novellas are currently in development. Find out more at www.timlebbon.net.

  Story Notes

  Lebbon juxtaposes the hope and optimism of a twelve-year-old boy against complete and utter death. As Jack makes his journey he discovers that not only humans, but animals, insects, plants, even color have died and been monstrously transformed. Jack’s faith in his family and ability to name his fears propels both character and reader through the nightmare of what the world has become. Both hope and fears dwindle, but the reader remains transfixed.

  Jack and his father reverse roles as the story develops. By the end, it is the child who is protecting the adult from what he suspects is the truth.

  There’s another possible “reversal” in the novella as well—a hint that the zombies, for all their menace and danger, seem to be weakening and dying off. They see bodies after they leave Mandy and continue to the coast, but no more fast-moving zombies attack them. We are left with a faint glimmer of positivity, if we wish to accept it: whatever has happened is over and done, it is no longer spreading, the zombies are dying off. If so, are there others somewhere in the world who have avoided it?

  Dating Secrets of the Dead

  David Prill

  Hey Jerry, there’s that new girl.

  Oh yes. Her name’s Caroline May Ames. She’s a swell kid.
r />   Why? Do you know her?

  Not very well, Bud. I wish I did.

  I don’t know what it is, but there’s something about her you like.

  Well, she always looks nice for one thing.

  They all look nice, at first . . .

  Jerry hadn’t had a date in an eternity. He didn’t know why. They had dressed him so stylishly. His black dress shoes had such a sheen to them. His wispy brown hair was trimmed and combed. His cheeks had a ruddy, outdoorsy hue. His fingernails had once been nicely manicured—now they had grown long. Too long. Maybe that was it. Maybe his uncut fingernails were turning off the girls.

  No, it had to be more than that.

  All in all, I look pretty sharp, he thought.

  Then maybe it’s my personality or personal habits.

  I’m soft-spoken—my breath would hardly fog a mirror.

  Polite. To a fault.

  Interesting experiences to share. Absolutely. My life review was a gripping melodrama.

  Jerry didn’t want to face rejection again, but he did like that new girl, Caroline May Ames. They had exchanged small talk once before, the day she arrived. They were in the same row, after all. She was so pretty. Her white dress had ivory beads and lace. Her blond hair cascaded comfortably over her shoulders. She had such a peaceful look on her face.

  He called for her.

  Hi, Caroline. This is Jerry.

  Oh hi, Jerry.

  I was wondering, Caroline, if you want to go out with me tonight?

  Tonight? I’m sorry, I can’t, Jerry. I already have a date for tonight. Why don’t you call some other time?

  Oh, okay. Thanks anyway, Caroline. Bye.

  Goodbye, Jerry.

  Strike out, Jerry thought, feeling dejected. Didn’t she like him? She acted like she did. Then why didn’t she want to go out with him?

  He decided to ask Bud about it. Bud had been around longer than Jerry, and always seemed to have good advice to share.

  . . . so I don’t know what happened. I asked Caroline for a date, and she turned me down flat.

  How long did the conversation last?

  Not long. A minute or so.

  That’s good. Your call shouldn’t go on for hours. That’s a pretty sensible attitude. When did you ask her to go out with you?

  Tonight.

  There’s your problem. Be sure not to wait until the last minute to ask a girl for a date. It’s no compliment to any girl to call her so late that she thinks she’s the last resort.

  I never thought of that. Thanks a lot, Bud.

  Glad to help, fella.

  Jerry tried again the next day.

  Hi, Caroline, this is Jerry.

  Hi, Jerry.

  Caroline, uh, I don’t suppose you’d want to go out with me sometime?

  Oh, I suppose we could. Call me sometime.

  That was better. A real step in the right direction.

  He told Bud about his success.

  That’s great, Jerry. When are you two going out, then?

  Uh, we didn’t exactly set a day.

  How did you ask her?

  Jerry told him.

  Don’t ask a girl out in a backhanded way that makes her feel uncomfortable. It’s a mark of your insecurity, too. And one other tip: Don’t ask a girl if she is busy on a certain night. That puts her on the spot.

  Boy, this is more complicated than I thought, Jerry mused. So how should I ask her then?

  Think of something to do that she might like. Don’t leave it entirely up to her. Suggest two or three activities, and see how she responds. Perhaps go out with a group of friends.

  There’s a skating party on Friday. Maybe Caroline would want to do that.

  Now you’ve got the hang of it.

  He called for Caroline again.

  Hi, Jerry.

  Hi, Caroline. Say, the gang is going to a skating party on Friday. I was wondering if you’d want to go with me. We’d have to leave early, but we’d get back by eleven. Or else we could spend the evening watching the flesh rot off our bones. We’d get back later if we did that.

  Gee, Jerry, the skating party sounds like loads of fun. I’d love to go.

  Great. I’ll come for you around six.

  Jerry was smart. He kept a date calendar, and checked it before asking Caroline to the party. Not a bad idea.

  Good boy! Bud congratulated Jerry when told of his success with Caroline. I wish I could go to the skating party but I told my folks I’d spend the evening with them. They don’t get out much anymore.

  I really appreciate your help, said Jerry. I just wish I could take you with me!

  Jerry was joshing Bud, but it was true. His friend knew the proper habit patterns, and what it took to be popular.

  The days leading up to his date with Caroline seemed to crawl and creep. Throughout the week Jerry quizzed Bud on how he should behave on his date, what to say, what a girl expects. Finally, the weekend rolled in, and Jerry grew stiff with anticipation.

  Wardrobe. Jerry decided to wear what he had on. His dark suit. It made him look more mature. A few holes, hardly noticeable, some mild staining in the crotch area, but Caroline would understand. She was that kind of girl.

  A few minutes before six Jerry showed up where Caroline lived. He didn’t need Bud to tell him the importance of promptness. He wanted to make a good impression on her folks, too.

  Her parents were side by side when he arrived.

  Good evening, Mr. and Mrs. Ames. I’m Jerry Weathers, Caroline’s friend.

  Even though they were Midwestern stoic, Jerry felt at ease with her mom and dad. There wasn’t enough left of them to make trouble.

  Jerry, how nice to see you.

  Caroline.

  She looked wonderful. White dress. Beads. Blond hair. Shoulders. A portrayal of peace on her face.

  Hi, Caroline. You look so natural.

  Thanks. How nice of you to notice. She addressed her parents. We should be back from the skating party by eleven.

  There is no magic formula about when to come home from a date. The hour Jerry and Caroline would return was decided by where they were going on their date, whether tomorrow is a school day, how many dates she has had recently, and so forth.

  I’ll take good care of her, Mr. and Mrs. Ames, said Jerry. Good night.

  ’Night, Mom and Dad. Don’t wait up for us.

  The skating party. It seemed unreal, that’s how entranced he was with Caroline.

  He felt light on his feet, Dead Astaire, his skate blades cutting into the dark sheet on the pond. They skated in a long loop, hand in hand. Caroline’s hand was colder than Hell. He tried warming it up with his own, but it didn’t seem to help much.

  As they skated beneath the festering full moon, they seemed to get into a rhythm with each other, carried away with the dance. Jerry would release Caroline, just the tips of their fingers touching, then he would draw her back in, and they would spin around, laughing inside, and skate on down the ice. Caroline seemed to be enjoying herself a lot. She was a good kid.

  Jerry had been concentrating on Caroline so much that he was surprised when he looked away and saw that the whole gang was watching them waltz across the pond.

  We’re a big hit, he said, nodding to the onlookers.

  When Caroline realized they had an audience, she self-consciously tried to stop, her blade catching a ridge on the ice. She lost her balance, and they fell in time, too.

  The gang rushed over.

  Are you guys all right?

  I think so, said Jerry. Caroline, are you hurt?

  I’m fine. Just a little bump.

  We should probably sit and watch the others skate for awhile.

  No, don’t stop, the gang said. You two were skating so beautifully.

  Yes, how long have you been skating together?

  Well, actually this is our first date, Jerry explained.

  You’re kidding! Wow. Talk about a perfect match.

  Caroline got a blushing expression on h
er face, although no blood filled her cheeks. It was pretty cold out there on the pond.

  I think we’ll catch our breaths, Jerry said, helping Caroline back up onto her feet.

  They skated carefully over to the edge of the pond, stepping through the snowbank to a concrete bench. A weather-worn angel watched over them, a dollop of snow on her nose.

  Jerry tried to call up the advice Bud has passed on to him. What did he say to talk about? A popular movie, friends they have in common, anything that is of mutual interest.

  Movies were out. He hadn’t seen one in ages. Friends? She was new in his neighborhood. Anything they were both interested in. That was the solution, but what did they share other than their place of residence? He didn’t know.

  Say something . . .

  Uh, Caroline . . .

  Yes, Jerry?

  That’s a lovely dress you’re wearing.

  Why, thank you. You look very nice, too.

  Do I really? I mean, it’s my only suit . . .

  It looks fine.

  And my skin. The flaking . . . the bugs . . .

  She took both of his hands in hers. Jerry, I like you. For yourself. I don’t care about the bugs. Forget about the bugs. You’d have to be looking for them to see them. You have a good heart. I’m glad you asked me out. I’m having a fun time. I really am.

  Gosh, Caroline, you’re really a neat person.

  Silence, and then Jerry began to feel awkward. Think of something.

  Then it struck him. How could I have missed it? The perfect topic for first date small talk. He knew Bud would be proud.

  I like the smell of . . . dirt. Do you?

  I didn’t at first. But I think I’m getting used to it.

  Me, too. I mean, I didn’t like it at first either. But after awhile, it kind of, you know, gets under your skin.

  Yes, I suppose it does.

  In the springtime, they bring flowers.

  I love flowers.

  Sometimes, you can smell the rain.

  I always liked rain. Rain makes the whole world fresh and new.

  Sometimes, there are leaks.