Play Dead: How to care for your Zombie

by landau, marc

  “They're amazing. I could never do it. I don't have the patience.”

  Downstairs Jackson goes quiet. Charlie checks her watch.

  “That was quick. Let's go see how he is.”

  The basement looks pretty much the same as before. The good news is that there aren’t any new holes in the walls, and Jackson has calmed down fairly quickly. Charlie knows how important it is to reward positive behavior. She hates that it’s the same thing people do when training dogs but beggars can’t be choosers in this world. It’s better than the alternatives.

  “Wow, this is great Jackson. You calmed down so quickly. And look, no new holes in the wall. You’re so awesome!”

  She makes sure to go over the top with her compliments, just like you would when training an animal. It makes her stomach queasy to treat a human this way, but she makes sure to keep smiling big. It’s the results that count.

  “Great work today Jackson. You did so great.”

  Jackson replies with a soft grunt. The infected don’t get excited like dogs when you reward them with treats. Unless, of course, they’re off their meds and the treats are human flesh. Then the infected get very excited.

  He grunts again, and Charlie decides it’s as close as she’s going to get to a thank you. It most likely meant, I’m hungry. At least it wasn’t aggressive.

  At the front door Charlie leaves Mary with a few words of encouragement. Infected, or not, everyone enjoys rewards.

  “You two are a great team. Keep going out and coming back. First for a few minutes. Then an hour. Then several hours. Do it until he's comfortable. Okay?”

  Mary nods, then spontaneously hugs Charlie catching her off guard.

  “Thank you,” Mary says.

  Being touched makes her uncomfortable. It’s been a long time since she’s had any human contact. Too long. On the plus side, who doesn’t like a hug?

  Mary releases Charlie from the awkward but also pleasant embrace, then turns to the camera, “When Charlie first came I wasn't sure she would be able to help. I was so scared Jackson would get out and hurt someone, or be sent to a euthanasia center. I'm so relieved. I feel like everything's going to be okay now. Charlie is some kind of angel.” Mary grins, “No pun intended.”

  ***

  Sweat drips down Charlie's face and neck as she punches her hands raw against a heavy bag. She jumps rope. Does push ups. Then attacks a dummy. Hits it with a stun gun. Zap! Next up, target practice. She pulls the trigger — bottles explode.

  A boiling shower washes away the day. Charlie rubs the ache from her legs and neck. Closes her eyes and exhales with relief.

  The microwave beeps. She towels off, makes her way into the kitchen, pulls out a sad pre-made meal, and sits at a place set for one. On the table there's a picture of the Patterson family, all arm in arm. All smiles. Charlie, mom, dad, and brother Michael. She's the only one left now.

  She lifts a spork and digs into her scientifically created “Fish and Veggie Supreme Dinner.” It reminds her more of a used diaper than any fish or veggie she’s ever seen. As she puts a heaping sporkful of the fishy diaper mush to her lips, the phone rings. Charlie drops the utensil and reaches for the phone grumbling like an old man.

  “Can’t even eat my stinking dinner,” she mumbles, then picks up the phone and immediately switches to happy helper mode. “Hello, this is Charlie Patterson.”

  Charlie listens for a moment while playing grumpily with the microwaved diaper.

  “Yeah. Okay. I’ll go check it out,” she says, sounding more like a cranky child than she meant to.

  She hangs up, grabs her stun gun, zip ties, and is out the door.

  ***

  Charlie checks her maps app with one hand while steering the van with her left pinky finger. The map indicates she’s where she’s supposed to be, but she’s not seeing what she expects to be seeing. Is she lost? She slows the van to a crawl and scans the area. Bingo.

  She finds what, or, more specifically, who she’s looking for. Ambling ahead a few hundred feet a young man wobbles like he's drunk. Her phone rings again. She picks it up, listens, then responds.

  “Yes, I found him. Yes, I know the authorities could pick him up any second. What was his name again?”

  Sirens begin wailing in the distance. Someone must have called it in. The police are on the way. “Damn,” she mutters, as the person on the other end babbles anxiously.

  “No, those weren't sirens,” she lies, then hangs up, gets out of the van, and cautiously walks towards the shambling man.

  “Randy is that you?" she says, knowing there’s zero chance of it being anyone else. Unless, of course, it’s date night for the infected. Or an alien invasion.

  The man doesn't respond. The sirens get louder and with it her pulse quickens. If the cops get to Randy first he’ll be put in a detention center, or worse. Charlie pulls out the stun gun. “Randy. I'm sorry about this,” she says, then zaps him unconscious, or as close to it as possible with the infected.

  The sirens blare loudly. The authorities will be on them in moments. Time’s up. Charlie quickly zip ties Randy, clumsily drags him to the van, and heaves him in, but not before thumping his head on the door. If he wasn’t infected he’d wake up with a nasty bump.

  She jumps into the van, stomps the accelerator, and peels away seconds before the police arrive. “That was too close,” she murmurs to no one.

  ***

  “Help me with his legs,” Charlie says to Randy’s father Elliot.

  “I can’t tell you how much I appreciate this. My boy, he likes to roam,” he says, wiping a sheen of sweat from the worry lines on his forehead.

  “This country’s not good for roaming anymore,” Charlie replies.

  The word roaming triggers another from somewhere in her memory, Beatniks. Young people who liked hitch hiking, drugs, and sex. Not a dollar in their pockets. Not a care in the world. Beatniks. What a ridiculous word. Her grandfather used to call her a Nudnik when she was little. She wondered if the two were related. Nowadays, roaming pretty much gets you eaten, raped, or thrown into a detention center. Today, it’s more like when Vikings roamed the earth, not the Beatniks. Stupid happy-go-lucky Beatniks. The Vikings would make mincemeat out of them. Mincemeat. Another stupid word. The plague almost made mincemeat out of them all.

  Charlie holds Randy’s arms, Elliot his legs. Randy sways between them like a sack of wet laundry as they shuffle towards the large Georgian house, on the perfectly pruned block. Elliot scans the area nervously, looking out for uptight, nosey neighbors, who might call the police because it’s the right thing to do. It keeps out the riff-raff. Keeps the neighborhood safe —from the flesh eating zombie hordes.

  In the living room, they plop Randy down on a decorative but clearly uncomfortable couch.

  Victorian probably. Made to look good not feel it. If Randy weren’t infected he would definitely be waking up with a sore neck.

  “You're going to have to keep the restraints on at night,” Charlie says.

  Elliot sits in one of the stiff Victorian chairs. He sighs and wipes his brow. It’s been a long night. Charlie can see he’s tired, relieved, and embarrassed.

  “He's a really good kid you know,” he says.

  “I'm sure he is. But that was too close of a call. If he gets picked up he's going to a euthanasia center,” Charlie replies, her face stone cold serious. She’s not sure Randy would actually be sent to a euthanasia center. He’s not violent. But she needs to drive the point home. Shock Elliot into action.

  “I just didn’t want to use the restraints. They’re so…medieval. I’ll use them from now on. I promise.”

  She knows he’s got good intentions but like many parents Elliot’s too unrealistic. They think the power of love is enough to keep the infected under control. It isn’t. Medications and restraints are needed.

  “He’s depending on you Elliot,” Charlie says, then turns to Randy, who has regained consciousness.

  “Take care Ran
dy. Nice to meet you.”

  He emits what sounds like a confused grunt, but it could be his back hurts from laying on the rock hard couch.

  Charlie drives away breathing a sigh of relief that Randy’s safe, at least for one more night. She makes a mental note to check in and make sure Elliot’s using the restraints. Too bad that the infected can’t be more easily contained. Restraints suck, but sometimes they’re the only option. Better to be locked up at home than be in “The Cube.” A small surge of anger heats her throat. It’s taking too damn long to find a cure.

  ***

  The Brute gets up from the chair and slowly trudges from room to room checking each one. Progress is slow. He moves like an angry snail with Parkinson’s. In a bedroom, his shaky hand pulls a desk drawer open. He paws through it and finds a stack of dusty index cards and a felt tip pen. He pulls the cap off the pen and sniffs the wet marker ink. Then takes a card and methodically scrawls the letters Y-O-U.

  In another room, with another hour gone, he discovers a baseball bat in a closet. Dusk comes and he hits the jackpot, a small metal lock box in the basement. With no key in sight, the Brute smashes it with his thick fists. Dirty, cracked knuckles, dent and bend the metal until finally, the top surrenders, and pops open. Inside, there’s a revolver. He checks to see if it’s loaded. It is. He slips it into a pocket, goes back into the living room, takes the dead man’s wallet and phone, and stuffs it all into a duffel bag.

  ***

  Charlie dumps the cold microwave dinner into the garbage, wondering if she’ll ever eat a home cooked meal again. She shuffles into the bedroom, plops onto the bed, and is asleep before she can even think of getting undressed or brushing her teeth. Not that it matters. No one’s going to smell her morning breath.

  In the middle of a lush green field, on a postcard perfect day, Charlie smiles big as she watches the clouds roll by. Wait a second, does that one puffy, fluffy, floating cotton-ball look like a zombie? Charlie pushes the image away, closes her eyes, and soaks in the warmth and comfort of the bright yellow sun.

  A shadow passes over, and a chill travels down her spine.

  Plink. A drop of liquid falls onto her face. She wipes it off and looks to see what it is.

  Blood.

  Plink. Another drop hits her forehead.

  Plink. A drop hits her in the eye.

  She blinks it away. When her eyes open again, her brother Michael is standing above her.

  He's infected.

  He — attacks!

  Charlie wakes abruptly, and rushes into the bathroom, pulls open the medicine chest, and downs a couple of aspirin. She slams the cabinet shut, and rubs the sleep from her eyes. When she opens them again she shutters.

  Her father’s staring back at her instead of her reflection. He’s infected. He smiles, his rotting teeth dripping with black slime. She blinks hard and he disappears.

  Charlie grabs a bottle of gin from the kitchen counter and downs a big gulp. It tastes rancid. She should have brushed her teeth before going to sleep. She takes another swig and gargles with it. That’ll kill the germs she thinks, as she wanders over to the computer and clicks open her email.

  It’s a mixed bag but always extreme. People love her or hate her. As always, Charlie hopes for the best but prepares for the worst.

  The first email reads, "Thanks for helping Sofie. It changed our lives.” There's a video attached. Charlie clicks, and it shows an infected woman in a small garden slowly watering vegetables. Charlie smiles.

  Another email is from the "VC Fan club” and has a picture attached. A comic book style rendition of Charlie as a superhero. She's super hot, big boobed, and kicking zombie ass.

  “Always with the boobs,” she mutters, then types back, "Thanks for the support guys! Safe and secure until there's a cure!”

  Charlie scrolls a few more emails and clicks on another video. In it a young handsome man stares at the screen.“I just wanted to thank you in my own special way.” Upbeat music starts playing, and the man begins a slow steady striptease.

  Charlie winces, “Ew.”

  She closes the video thinking, maybe it’s best to call it a night. So far there’s nothing too bad. She should probably quit while she’s ahead. But she can’t. She’s tipsy now and wants more compliments. It’s shallow, but she’s human.

  "He's so much better.”

  "You really saved us.” Charlie smiles as she sips some more gin. She opens another email and her stomach drops. She should’ve quit while she was ahead. Vegas, baby. Stay too long at the table and it always turns cold.

  “Zombie loving bitch.”

  "You're worse than a zombie!”

  "Hate your filthy rotting guts.”

  "Hope you die and burn with them!”

  She finishes the gin. It helps dull the anger burning in her stomach. Before really deciding to call it a night, another video catches her eye. Hard to tell if this one’s going to be good or bad. All she can see is a cabin window. Inside, a weathered recliner sits in front of a TV. On the screen, there’s an image from her show “Working with the Virally Challenged.” Charlie decides to roll the dice. She clicks “play”. It’s a losing bet. Should’ve called it a night.

  Her brow furrows as she watches the TV version of herself. I’m watching myself talking to myself. Now, I’m talking to myself about watching myself talking to myself. The thought made her head throb. Too bad she already hit her allotment of aspirin for the evening. Instead, she pours another glass of gin and gulps a mouthful. She hates the taste. It reminds her of her father. She hates thinking about him, but the anger helps keep her going when all she wants to do is give up. Then again, maybe she does it just to punish herself.

  She watches herself on the screen and cringes at the way her TV personality tries to act so damn positive. A big fake smile plastered on her stupid face, hoping it’ll convince people not to hate the virally challenged.

  “Hi, I’m Charlie and today we’re here to talk about how to work with the virally challenged. I know some call me the Zombie Whisperer. Some call me Dr. Frankenstein. But like all of you out there, I’m just doing my best to help us all to be safe and secure until there's a cure.”

  The camera moves around the room as she continues to speak. The cabin is a mess. Broken bits and pieces of furniture are everywhere.

  “The plague wiped out millions. But we fought together. We united in tragedy to eradicate the infected. Many of us did the unthinkable. We ended the suffering of people we loved. Husbands, wives, parents…children…We killed them.”

  The camera pans to the crushed skull.

  Charlie feels the gin coming back up on her. She holds back a gag.

  “It was a horrible time in human history. It was hell on earth. We can’t ever go back there. We don't ever have to. The virus has been contained. Yes, there are a few remaining infected, but they pose no danger.”

  The camera shows pools of blood on the floor of the cabin.

  This time Charlie does gag. Warm bile fills her throat. She forces it back down and continues watching.

  “With medication, the proper precautions, and training, the infected can remain loved members of the household. Just like AIDS or cancer, a cure could be just around the corner.”

  The camera exposes broken body parts, then pans back to the TV screen where Charlie stares bright eyed with her patented, fake smile.

  “And remember, let’s all stay safe and secure. Until there's a cure.”

  The program ends, and the Brute looks into the camera. It's hard to see his face. It's dark and he's wearing a respirator, but it looks like he’s smiling. The video ends abruptly, and the screen goes black.

  Charlie’s hands shake as she grabs her phone and dials a number.

  “Hello, I'd like to report a murder. Someone sent me a video. Yes, a video. No, I don't know who it's from. Was the person what? Were they infected?…What does that have to do with anything?…Yes he was, but —”

  The other end of the line go
es dead. “Hello? Hello? Dammit!”

  She throws the phone across the room.

  ***

  The cameraman checks one of his lenses while Charlie angrily fluffs her hair.

  “Do I look okay?" she asks.

  “Hot.”

  “Thanks.”

  “You want to get a drink after?”

  “No.”

  “Aw, come on Charlie.”

  “This isn’t the time. Some asshole just murdered one of the challenged. Let’s just do this please.”

  “Just one drink.” He can’t help but ask again. He knows he shouldn’t push it, but sometimes he can’t help himself. It’s always been a problem. He was one of those kids that wouldn’t stop asking, “Are we there yet?" He just keeps pushing, even when it annoys people.

  Charlie stares the cameraman down, until finally, he backs off. He lowers his eyes and fiddles with the equipment. Charlie stuffs her anger down, tries to sound serious but not angry.

  “I wanted to post a special message today. Last night someone sent me a very disturbing video. If there are young children in the room, please parents, don’t let them watch.”

  Snippets of the gruesome cabin murder video appear.

  “I know there are people out there who have decided to take matters into their own hands. People who think it's okay to murder the virally challenged. And yes, it's MURDER. Even if the law doesn’t think so. These are sick people, not monsters. They are our loved ones, our friends. Would anyone murder an autistic child. Or someone with Alzheimers?

  She knows she’s getting carried away but can’t stop herself. It’s too hard keeping the emotions stuffed down all the time.

  “Is it okay to murder someone with the flu? Or pink eye? Or acne. They might squirt zit juice on you and turn everyone into zombies. Stupid pieces of —”