by Jack J. Lee
I carefully studied the videos of the zombies attacking from across the world. Americans have the highest rate of obesity in the world. Most Americans wouldn’t have noticed that there were an unusually high number of obese zombies in the initial outbreaks. I spent most of my adult life in the Middle East. There are very few obese people in that part of the world and they are typically wealthy. The wealthy always have more protection than the poor. There should have been a lower frequency of obese zombies during the first few hours of an outbreak, not more.
I knew that obesity damages the immune system. Obese people are more likely to get sick. Zombies don’t look human. Their skin color and their lack of normal facial expressions made it difficult to judge their age. Once I started paying attention to their age, I realized that there were much higher numbers of elderly zombies than there should be compared to the general population. It looked like the zombie virus preferentially infected the immuno-compromised, the sick, elderly, and obese.
I was sure that only a few of the FLDS got infected with the zombie virus. As a percentage of their population, they had relatively few elderly and obese. Also they were used to turning on each other. If any of them turned into zombies, their family members wouldn’t hesitate to shoot. The boys I sent wouldn’t be able to help themselves; they wouldn’t be able to keep quiet about the biggest news of their lives. They would tell everyone in Colorado City that I was the next FLDS prophet and that I had made them my disciples. I decided that the odds were good that the FLDS wouldn’t kill the boys immediately. If any of three were killed it would probably be Tom. He wouldn’t be much of a loss. Martyrs are good for religions.
I knew the assholes would come for me. Civilization died yesterday. The FLDS no longer had to worry about law enforcement. The assholes had too much to lose if I took over and my fortress was desirable property. The go-alongs for now had nothing to gain by starting a civil war. If I was the prophet, the assholes would fail. If I wasn’t the prophet, who cared if I died?
The boys left for Colorado City at sunrise. Shortly before lunch, we saw a caravan of vehicles headed for my fortress. I had all the gates open and deactivated the mines. I told my disciples to put away their guns. We waited for the caravan unarmed.
Malachi Marsden arrived with two others who were high up in the asshole camp followed by over a hundred armed men. The only guy from the go-along camp, was Lavel Sondermann. Graydon, Tim, and Tom came with the FLDS. Tom had been beaten; his face was bloody and his hands were cuffed behind him. I was surprised to feel a slight sense of relief that he was still alive. I guess I really did like the kid. The other two were unarmed. Their rifles and revolvers had been taken away from them. They didn’t look like they had been beaten. They weren’t restrained.
I greeted Malachi as soon as he got out of his vehicle. I pretended that I didn’t notice what had happened to Tom. I shook his father’s hand vigorously using a two hand grip. “Welcome Brother Malachi, come and enjoy my home.” I stepped back and gestured to my tower as armed men circled around me
“Funny you should say that Mr. Levin because I have come to claim this ranch for the FLDS. It’s a time of crisis and we need your ranch.”
“Brother Malachi, are you saying that instead of accepting my hospitality and the gifts I freely offer that you have come to take everything I own?”
“Mr. Levin, you understand correctly.” Malachi grinned; he was having the time of his life. He enjoyed taking.
I looked at him and the FLDS behind him. I angled my face to the sun. They flinched. My eyes were flashing red. I raised one hand in the air. I said, “The thief shall lose his hands and the sinners will speak no more.”
I set off a radio detonator. As part of my stage act as a magician, I used to pull up volunteers from the audience and switch out their watches without them noticing. When I shook Marsden’s hands, I wrapped bracelets made out of C4 around his wrists.
There was an explosion and Malachi’s hands were blown off. One of Marden’s men behind me was struck by a flying hand. His scream joined Malachi’s. Blood shot from Marsden’s wrists with every beat of his heart. He waved his stumps in agony. All of us nearby were sprayed with his blood. While attention was focused on Malachi, I shot his two councilors with tetrodotoxin darts. I didn’t need to attach flies to these darts so they flew well. My targets were too spooked to notice the darts penetrating. The poison was set to work immediately. Forty-five seconds after I darted Marsden’s buddies, they collapsed. In four minutes they would die. The FLDS were stunned. They stood looking at Malachi and the others on the ground. Whatever they had expected when they came into my compound, it wasn’t this. Marsden never stopped screaming. The jets of blood coming from his wrists got weaker. He staggered toward the other FLDS seeking help. They backed away from him in disgust. In the strongest possible way they had been shown that he was damned. Finally he fell to the ground and lay unmoving.
I stood among the FLDS covered in Malachi’s blood. I shouted, “Glory to our Heavenly Father! We are at the end-of-days. I was born in the Holy Land. I have eyes of flame. I bring God’s judgment by word and touch. Answer me! Am I your prophet?”
They shouted, “Yes!”
Chapter 15: Mike Kim, September 15th to October 10th, Year 0
After my conversation with Jeff, it was clear that there was no point in waiting for the government or another organization to come and save us.
My family’s compound in Ann Arbor was in a suburb that had two to five acre lots. My house in Sugar House was on a .18 acre lot; this was about average for the neighborhood. Jeff had cleared out most of streets near him by killing a couple hundred zombies. To do the same, I needed to kill thousands, maybe even tens of thousands.
Before I started trying to do anything, I needed a plan. First, I had to find out what kind of people chance had dropped into my lap. Alex was the only person I knew in Salt Lake City that I felt comfortable having my back during the end-of-the-world. I hadn’t asked anyone else to move in with me. It was hard for me to predict how someone would act in a life threatening crisis. I considered the choices of having no one and knowing this versus having someone who wasn’t dependable and not knowing that. I had space for more roommates; my house had three bedrooms and two full bathrooms. I used my basement as a workout room. When I had moved in, I figured correctly that friends and family would want to visit during ski season. I had two bunk beds in the workout room. Alex stayed in one of bedrooms on the main floor. I had the master bedroom upstairs. Cecilia was using the main floor guest room. Steve and Wayne were bunking downstairs.
I had never expected to have two Mormon missionaries and a neighbor hole up in my house during a zombie outbreak, but that’s the situation I was given. After talking to my family yesterday, I was too distracted to do anything besides hang out in the living room and play Halo with Alex, Steve, and Wayne.
People talk about living in the moment; Alex actually does. He’s one of the most enthusiastic people you’ll ever meet. When he’s having fun, he’s actually joyous. I haven’t met many who actually love life. Alex’s ability to forget his troubles and to have fun infected Steve and Wayne. Initially Steve looked reluctant to play. Within a few minute he was laughing and whooping it up like the rest of us. We ended up playing for about ten hours straight, taking a break only for dinner.
Wayne told me later that missionaries are only allowed to spend a limited amount of time a week doing ‘fun’ things like writing letters or sending email to their family. The use of games consoles was verboten. Unfortunately there wasn’t anything else to do in the house; Steve was a true believer, trying his best to do the right thing. There is no greater temptation than a game console when you have too much time on your hands. The spirit is willing but the flesh is weak. Wayne didn’t bother feeling guilt. He just went with the flow. I kind of felt bad that Cecilia got excluded; she didn’t know how to play. She wandered in and out of the living room looking bored out of her mind. Alex has a kind heart. At on
e point he asked her if she wanted to play. It was agonizing watching her try to figure out Halo; only a girlfriend should be allowed to cause this much pain. After a few minutes she stopped bothering.
You can get to know a lot about someone after playing Xbox with them for hours. Steve was a standup guy. He seemed truly religious. By this I mean he loved God. He was trying to do the right thing to please someone he loved. I could tell that he had no interest in looking down on other people. He was a missionary because he wanted to serve. Wayne was not a natural missionary. He didn’t have much brotherly love in him and he was competitive as hell. He didn’t like to lose, but he wasn’t a jerk about it. I found out that in high school Wayne had raced motocross. He had broken both collar bones and his left leg in motorcycle accidents but those injuries hadn’t stopped him from racing. He wasn’t the kind to freak out in dangerous situations.
I saw how they handled themselves on Saturday. Neither one of them panicked; they both did what needed to be done. The guys were broken up about not being able to get in touch with their families. They were handling it better than me before yesterday. I lucked out; both Steve and Wayne were assets.
We took a long break from the Xbox to cook and eat dinner together. I know stereotyping is bad. I’m not white so I’m allowed to do it. All Chinese men are good cooks; Alex was no exception. Cecilia was a single white female literature professor at the University; she had to be vegetarian. When it came to preparing vegetarian pasta, she was actually a pretty good cook. Alex pulled out some Costco steaks. He by habit headed out back to our propane grill when Steve wondered if the smell of meat cooking outside would attract zombies. Alex considered this question for a few seconds and then headed to the oven to broil the steaks. Cecilia made buttered noodles. Steve, Wayne, and I took up space in the kitchen and did whatever Alex and Cecilia asked.
I wouldn’t say it was the best dinner ever, but the food was good. I was getting to know the people who had randomly come to my house. For the first time since the 11th I felt centered.
I started the next morning by calling my family. I bounced ideas about how to handle the situation in Utah with my Dad and brothers. Afterwards I sat everyone down in the living room and started a discussion.
“Ok guys, we haven’t had any access to the outside world since Saturday night. My brother’s been surfing the internet on his smart phone. It’s a bummer Cecilia that you lost your phone. It would have been nice to have a phone here that could access the web. Jeff says that there are bloggers still online. According to the bloggers, our government is gone. There’s been no word from any government official on the web. All radio and TV stations are down. We don’t have a military anymore. We’re on our own. We have to save ourselves.”
Cecilia spoke up, “There are literally thousands of zombies outside. What can we do?”
“We’ll have to kill one zombie at a time. I’ve prepared for this outbreak. I’ve got two suppressed rifles and thirty thousand rounds. If we’re lucky we’ll run out of zombies before we run out of bullets. My brothers found out that the sound of a bullet from a silenced rifle will attract zombies from about a quarter mile away. I’m not sure how far the sound from a regular unsilenced rifle would carry but I’d guess close to nine miles. A quarter mile is a lot better than nine miles. I’m thinking we should start nailing zombies on the street from my bedroom window and keep going until the zombies stop coming. Once that happens we can think about going outside.” No one said anything. “Oh yeah, the bloggers also think that we have to deal with vampires.”
Alex said, “What! Vampires?”
“Yup, until we find out whether or not the bloggers are right, I think it’s a good idea to keep up a curfew. None of us should go out into the backyard past dark. The rumor is that they’re attracted to light and strong electromagnetic signals. This could be an explanation of why all the power lines and broadcast stations were taken off air so quickly. Luckily weaker signals like those put out by home generators and hand held radios don’t seem to be a problem.”
For the first time since Saturday morning, I opened my second floor bedroom window. I drew a bead on the closest zombie. I fired and missed. “God damn it!” The noise from my rife drew the zombie closer. I fired again; this time the zombie dropped. I pulled the trigger again, another one fell. The 10/22 has a detachable ten shot rotary magazine. The sound of my shots and the sight of fallen zombies started attracting new ones. I was knocking them down from less than thirty feet away. When my clip was empty, Alex took my spot in front of the window. I’ve taken Alex before to a target range a couple times. Alex is a good athlete. His coordination is good and his speed is amazing. The last time I took him on the target range, he was hitting bullseyes from a hundred feet nine out of ten times.
He didn’t do as well today; he missed more times than he hit. He looked shaken, almost like he was ready to upchuck when he stopped.
“It’s alright, man. This is the first time you’ve done this. It’ll get better.”
I handed my rifle to Wayne. He checked it over like he knew what he was doing. He went over to the window and started taking shots. Wayne was a machine. Every three seconds he pulled the trigger and a zombie dropped.
He was close to being finished with his clip when Cecilia screamed, “Oh my God! That’s Tariq!” She pointed a zombie. She grabbed at Wayne’s rifle. I pulled her away. “That’s my friend!” Cecilia struggled in my arms. I looked at the other guys. None of them wanted to touch this.
Cecilia was tiny. I decided that it best to get her out of the room. I lifted her off the ground and carried her down the stairs to the main floor. I held her in my arms as she struggled and wept. I didn’t know what to say. All I could think to do was to say quietly in her ear, “It’s going to be ok” over and over again. I don’t know how long it took, but she finally stopped struggling. I was grateful that she had finally calmed down. Cecilia was small and light for an adult woman but she still weighed over a hundred pounds. It hadn’t been fun carrying her down the stairs. I didn’t know Cecilia that well. I wasn’t comfortable being this close to her.
I tried to back away. She wouldn’t let go. She said, “I know that he’s dead. I know that he needed to be put down. But I can’t take it. I killed them. I’m responsible for them being like this. I killed my closest friends.”
I didn’t see any other option besides listening to her. I gently patted her on her back as she buried her face into my chest and mumbled her story. About four months back, Cecilia and her friends had decided to pool together to prepare for a possible zombie outbreak. One her friends had bought a recently built McMansion, a six thousand foot house on a quarter acre lot in the Harvard/Yale section of Sugar House. Cecilia and her friends formed a co-op. They all chipped in cash to fortify the home. The plan was to all gather at this house if the zombie virus reached the states. Cecilia convinced the other co-op members that they would be fine with nonlethal weaponry like Tasers until the government learned how to solve the zombie problem. She was devastated when her best friend, a woman named Helen, tried to convince the others that they needed guns. They argued. This ended up destroying their friendship. Helen left the group. Cecilia hadn’t spoken to her since.
By early August, the McMansion was ready and Cecilia and most of the other members starting sleeping there. Around 4 am on Saturday morning, three of Cecilia’s friends got violently sick. The co-op had eaten dinner together. At first they thought that the potato salad had been bad. By 7 am her friends weren’t any better. Cecilia was in the kitchen trying to call for an ambulance when she heard screaming. When she went to look she saw her sick friends had become zombies. Her co-op found out the hard way that Tasers had no effect on zombies.
Cecilia panicked. She fled without thinking. It wasn’t until she was at her front door that she realized she had run home and that her friend Neil had come with her. She and Neil tried locking her doors. She hadn’t fortified her house. When zombies came through her front windows, she and N
eil ran out the back. Neil helped her over the fence into my yard. Cecilia blamed herself for not listening to Helen.
I didn’t say anything. What could I say? I agreed with her. She and her friends were complete idiots. Darwinism worked. Bringing Tasers to fight zombies? For the most part, I kept my mouth shut. I just kept patting her on her back. A couple of times I told her, “I’m sorry.” I said those words with complete honesty because I was truly sorry that she and her friends had been idiots. I was sorry that I was the guy listening to her. I’d much preferred to have been upstairs shooting zombies.
She finally stopped crying. She said, “Mike, thank you, I’m glad we talked.” It’s the story of my life. Somehow I always end up having ‘great’ conversations with women where they do all the talking and the only thing I say is “I’m sorry.”
“Cecilia, I need to go back upstairs. I think it would be a good idea for you to stay down here for now.”
She nodded. I walked back upstairs. Alex asked, “What was up with that?”
“You don’t want to know.”
We went back to shooting zombies. The days passed. All of us took turns shooting. Even Cecilia took a turn every once in awhile. I guess you can get used to anything. It didn’t take long, just a few days until taking out a zombie came to be old hat. There’s no recoil with a .22. It was just aim and shoot. The zombies were usually less than fifty feet away and they didn’t try to dodge. They walked in a straight line toward our window or started tearing into downed zombies. Just to make it interesting I pulled out the Mark III pistols. It took a little bit more skill to hit a head size target at fifty feet. There was room for two of us to shoot at the same time. We all got plenty of practice. For now we had plenty of bullets. Still, there was a little voice inside me saying “Please God, don’t let us run out of ammo.”
