Zombie Angst

by Jim Couper

  31

  On a high ridge a Sasquatch pair, the only ones living in the central valley, looked down and felt unease. White hairs on their necks rose in anger at the decimation of people in their favorite town. Filthy hands and teeth, belonging to invaders from beneath the ground, pulled asunder the teetering balance that the hairy pair strove to maintain. Their goal was simple: equilibrium. Nocturnal cannibals threatened the fulcrum.

  From nowhere and no time ghastly ghouls had arrived and eaten their way through the natural order. Humans were not alone in being unable to defend themselves against the unnatural force. Only a handful of timid creatures still cowered deep in the woods. When fearing for their own existence as an endangered species, that appeared on no protected list, they were unable to offer a discreet helping hand to humans. Just a couple of gnomes, disguising themselves as lawn ornaments, braved living in town. Rocks from teenage boys posed their biggest threat.

  For Sasquatch, interference remained an action of last resort. Their reputation for justice and fair play preceded them and stood them in good accord with all alterlife. An occasional beheading of a wayward werewolf, or scolding of a greedy goblin, proved sufficient reminder of power.

  Seraphim and Sebastian reigned as Sasquatch rulers of the valley. Bounding down and beheading a dozen or so zombies could be accomplished with ease, but the arisen had strength in numbers, strength in durability and strength in muscles. Should the creatures get hold of an arm or an ankle it would be game over and the surviving mate would have to stride more than 100 miles, at risk of being seen, to find companionship and the possibility of a new mate at a new location.

  Moving without being seen loomed as a perennial problem, for what human woodsman would not want a yeti head among the moose and elk that adorned the trophy wall of his den?What zoo would not want to display a prehistoric Sasquatch beside a bamboo-chewing panda?

  Leaving footprints in the snow created too many problems as it was and, other than dragging branches behind them, the winter imprints couldn’t be prevented. Sasquatch always covered their tracks, no matter how difficult.

  The hairy pair paced, pondered and paced some more and pondered some more and the problem didn’t go away and didn’t get resolved.

  Sebastian strode to north-side shadows, packed a cluster of wet snow, rolled it into a ball the size of his torso and sent it tumbling down the hillside. As it rolled, the snowball grew to the size of a car and passed near werewolves who looked at each other in wonderment. Much too early in the season for an avalanche, they thought. Had the white gods decided to interfere, to set nature against their friends in the valley?

  The snow cluster grew, some small trees fell beneath its weight and a few boulders got a start, rolling and knocked free other boulders. When the snow reached slightly warmer temperatures it broke apart and the white avalanche melted before anyone became aware it had started.

  Rumbling rocks, pushed loose by the yeti pair, gained momentum until they hit sloping fields that had been cleared for vineyards and peach trees. Boulders that once covered the flats had been cobbled together decades ago to make stone walls. Winding roads, cut into hillsides, left wide scars that also slowed gravity. Man-made obstructions made it impossible to bury discord under a million tons of slate and sandstone. As the Sasquatch had anticipated, the tumble of rocks knocked over a few fruit trees, felled some outbuildings, lost momentum and rolled to a stop. The pair did not despair although their experiment, their warning, would not be heeded since it went unnoticed by all but a few farmers irritated by rocks in their fields.

  Time remained an ally. What amount of time the enemy possessed would remain unknown until the final moment, if such a moment existed.

  32

  With no sound and no mumblings of brain, two zombies closed on the crawling soldier. Doogie had ordered a complete fast among his resurrected soldiers: he didn’t want anyone eating children and he didn’t trust a famished zomb to discern child from adult. Consuming could wait for a few years until they attained mature ripeness. Children were the meals of tomorrow.

  Increased hunger proved too much for the flesh-eaters who stumbled towards the crawling soldier. Orders from their boss drifted like fog into black-holes within their echoing craniums. Doogie wanted to preserve bodies with brains in the hope he could communicate with them rather than talking to a brick wall.

  Before the soldier knew what landed upon him his innards felt the teeth of attackers. Darkness prevented the crowd at the edge of the pavement from seeing the horror unfold, except for those equipped with heat-sensing binoculars. They saw nothing of the cold zombies, but viewed warm, glowing pieces of flesh vanish into mouths while rejected bits and chunks glowed in the night air. The sight disheartened the army: a simple recon mission ended in abysmal failure. They had been outthought and outfought by barely sentient creatures no smarter than the worms that crawled through their bodies.

  What had gone wrong? Why hadn’t the soldier been warned of the approaching menace? As questions were asked, Donald and Jane gazed about with innocent looks until the soldier in the tree pointed to them and shouted about sabotage. A heated row ensued and accusations flew in both directions. Nothing was settled: both forces had the best of intentions, both worked for the greater good.

  Night provided an opportunity to stretch out on a car seat, or blanket on the ground, and sleep intermittently, occasionally roused by the sound of gunfire or exploding grenades. In hills afar the forces of good and evil clashed and reports of casualties filtered in. This enemy did not fight fairly: it did not die when shot, stabbed, burned, concussed, shocked, suffocated or gassed. Beheading seemed the only way to neutralize evil and that didn’t happen easily.

  The day’s first solar rays squeezed between rounded tops of ancient mountains and reanimated creatures wearing sunglasses lurched from classroom onto schoolyard turf with shovels. The shaded soldiers of misfortune aided those buried the previous night in rising unsteadily from shallow graves. With dark glasses plunked over their eyes the arisen commenced their second lives as living dead. One of the vacated graves immediately found use as home for the crawling soldier.

  A half-hour later a zombie wearing a black skirt and silk blouse that might once have been white, shuffled outwards from the school’s main door. She walked hand-in-hand with a six-year-old girl dressed in a classic frilly white dress. Long blonde curls hung in disarray, partially hiding swollen eyes: she had not had a good night. Fingers of the hand that the zombie didn’t clasp squeezed her nose closed.

  Loudspeakers interrupted the still morning with Doogie’s voice, "Yoo broke trust. Yoo doo more bad and kids die. Kids tooo small. Swap little for big. Yoo sooper-size us. Trade half kids for adults in twoo hours. Noow, yoor penalty."

  As those words were spoken the zombie raised the little girl's arm and bit off half her hand, leaving just a thumb sticking out. The child's scream reverberated through the schoolyard and every parent leaned forward on toes with an urge to run and rescue. The zombie changed hands and the girl instinctively stuck her one-digit mitt into her dress to halt the bleeding. The dress slowly turned red as the monster spat out little bones and fingernails.

  Colonel Mayhew-Shostakovich's voice boomed: "That was despicable and cowardly. Without a doctor she will bleed to death. We must help her."

  "Yoou have 10 minutes."

  Mayhew commanded that a doctor rather than a medic be sent and designated three men to find one. He also ordered that delegations be sent to the hospital, to senior citizens' residences, to heart and cancer clinics and to other places where the elderly and the ill resided, in an effort to find volunteers who would give up their remaining years in exchange for the lives of children.

  A young GP in a pin-stripe suit stepped from between randomly parked cars and offered to attend to the injured child. He ran to his car to get his black bag and Jesse intercepted him in the parking area and quickly flashed his ID. He explained to the doctor that he belonged to the plain clothes militar
y police, had studied first aid and had been ordered to attend to the girl. Jesse said they needed a trained fighter to help the girl escape as there was a good chance that whoever went to her would be eaten. The doctor cringed at the idea of being a meal and quickly handed his medical bag to Jesse who said he needed brief instructions on how to treat the girl.

  "First aid, in this case, is somewhat complex,” the doctor replied quickly. “Use anaesthetic to stop the pain, then antiseptic to clean the wound as there is a good case for infection. A tetanus shot is a must, but it can wait. Stop the bleeding with a tourniquet and then stitches to the hand. And proper bandaging. Cleanliness above all."

  "I can do that. Show me where I’ll find what I need in your bag."

  "Start with this pill and a glass of water. You'll be dealing with a screaming six-year-old so you'll need to sedate her. It’s for her good too. Infection and blood loss are the major concerns." The doctor spent precious minutes showing Jesse where to find what he needed and how to use it.

  "Got it," Jesse mumbled impatiently and rushed between cars with black bag at his side. Without a word he darted towards the bleeding girl and those on the sidelines turned to each other and asked, "Who is that?"

  Jane provided the answer to those beside her, but by the time word spread to Mayhew, Jesse had charged forward, shedding his role as specially trained soldier. He sprinted across the grass and slid to a stop in front of the girl and her captor. "I've got a magic drink for you that will make you feel better," he said calmly. "What's your name?"

  "Liberty," she sobbed.

  "OK, Libby," Jesse whispered. “Here's the plan. First you gulp down the magic drink then I'm going to put a strap around your wrist to stop it from bleeding and then I'm going to wrap a bandage around your hand. Then you are going to run. You are going to run to your mommy and daddy as fast your little legs will take you. I'll stay and make sure no one chases you. Do you understand?"

  "Yes. And my name's Liberty, not Libby." After she swallowed the pill and took some sips from a water bottle she asked, “Are you going to get my fingers back?”

  “Your mommy and daddy will be in charge of that, now put out your hand.” She complied and Jesse tightened a rubber strap around her wrist as blood and tears burst forth between screams. He looked carefully for any sign that the zombie had relaxed her grip on her other hand while positioning himself to evade sudden lunges. Liberty screamed louder when Jesse poured antiseptic over the wound. Skipping stitches, he went right to bandaging. The sight of a little white thumb sticking out the side of the dainty hand churned his stomach and vomit positioned itself at the back of his throat. Liberty turned white as a light bulb and Jesse felt that he probably looked the same. They both might topple. The zombie held tight. Plan A could not be executed unless the girl could run. Plan A had certainty. Plan B depended on negotiating with zombies. Before he finished bandaging, Jesse tugged lightly on Liberty’s good hand and could feel strong resistance from the ghoul’s grip. He stood up and shouted towards the school, "I want to talk to your leader, to the person who can speak. I have a proposition."

  Before the wrapping of Liberty's hand was complete Mort shuffle-stepped from behind the school door.

  "Are you the leader?" Jesse asked.

  "No. I juth a shoulder of mithfortune."

  "How many of you can talk?"

  "Juth two."

  "Can I speak to the leader?"

  "No, juth me."

  "This little girl needs help. See how pale she is. Her other hand is hurting because that dame holds her too tight. I offer myself in exchange for her."

  "Ith not my choith," Mort replied, then stepped forward, took the fingers of the girl's captor and pried them apart slightly. Not what Jesse had hoped for. Mort stepped back leaving Jesse to reconsider his options. It didn’t take long. While the zombie gripped Liberty's wrist he faced a blank page. They stood in a triangular stalemate until Mort asserted himself and confidently stated, "I accthept."

  "OK. Release the girl and I will go with you."

  Mort unwound the fingers of his fellow undead and in a flurry of little legs Liberty fled across the lawn and ran and ran until she disappeared into the arms of her father. Before she had taken her first fleeing steps Mort’s hand gripped Jesse’s wrist like too tight cuffs.

  Together they walked through the school's front doorway.

  "What’s it like to be a zombie?" Jesse asked.

  "Ith hell."

  "Why do you eat people?"

  "Taste good. Give orgathms."

  "Do you have a choice?"

  "Somethimes. Doogie hath ordered no more eathing. We hungry."

  "Who is this Doogie?"

  "He say he ith the light shines on mithfortune."

  "You and Doogie are the only ones who talk? How ith that, I mean how is that?"

  "We downed. Brain got oxthygen from wather. Doogie said so."

  "If you free the children we could help you with your eating problem, with your addiction. We have resources, councillors, drugs. You could enjoy your second life and have a future with hope. What do you say?”

  Mort ignored the wall of words that arrived too quickly for him to comprehend. Behind the big gymnasium door teachers, secretaries and caretakers milled about and demanded his attention.

  "Do you expect me to go in there?" Jesse asked when Mort opened the door and took his hand from Jesse’s wrist.

  "Yeth, you hath no choith."

  "Of course I have a choice. I'm human. You could have choices if you let us help you. You could decide to eat or not to eat. Things like that."

  "Go in room."

  "Why should I? I could run down that hallway, past that guard and be free."

  "Doogie would eat arm from a child." With that he gave Jesse a slight push that made him stumble forward into the big room. The door closed.

  The school's principal stepped forward, introduced himself and asked if Jesse knew about the condition of the children. All the adults had been separated, the principal explained, and then herded into the gym. The children went to a classroom. Jesse updated the staff on events right up to Liberty gaining freedom and added that escaping from the gym presented no difficulty. Doing so without repercussions to the children was more complicated.

  33

  Donald’s escape from the blood bank caused more worry among the vampires. They feared he would reveal what he had found and alert the town to their presence. On the other hand, thought the vamps, the town had much bigger problems on its collective hands and perhaps the presence of a passel of bloodsuckers would be overshadowed by the zombie threat.

  The mental fatigue of juggling all possibilities caused the bar owners’ heads to ache.Headaches also resulted from hangovers following blood draining from captives. Blood spiked with alcohol presented an unanticipated problem that had to be put into the complex equation. Limiting the amount of beer supplied to captives would reduce alcohol content, but blood donors would be less docile and less manageable. Alcoholics without beer would be noisy, combative and looking to escape. Complex problems didn’t present simple solutions.

  "Be patient," nearly everyone said, but patience departed when television showed blood wells drying up as temps died, streets closed and citizens trembled behind locked doors. A school full of children now fell under control of undead. The big screen's continuous coverage received a moan of despair from viewing vampires when a camera zoomed in on a local RCMP officer running towards a schoolgirl cradling her bleeding hand.

  "He's a goner. Gonna get eaten," pronounced Vince confidently. “What a waste of good blood. That big guy has enough for eight of us.” No one had anything to add so Vince continued, "Our number one problem is a clot in our blood supply, excuse the pun, – both present and future. It’s not about an insignificant escapee telling the town what he found. How long can we keep a gang of drunks locked in our basement anyway? Do we kill them so they won’t talk? Eventually they must walk and they will talk even if no one listens. We
need three times the number we have. Hookers have vanished and the curfew stops us from wandering about to replenish. Look at me. I'm white as snow. And look at Vaughn and Vicky. Would you know they’re from Nigeria? They’re pale as the rest of us. It’s gotten out of hand and this time we have to do something. We have to get rid of flesh eaters and we have to do it now." Vince stopped and took a breath. He didn’t know that talking took so much energy. Never before had he addressed a crowd.

  "You're stating the obvious," said Vaughn, stating the obvious. "The question is how. Do we go over to the school and tell them they are diluting our blood bank and they should go back to where they came from? I'm sure co-operation is part of the zombie code of ethics."

  "No need to get sarcastic," Vince cautioned. "Sarcasm is the lowest form of humor.”

  “A low form of humor is better than no form of humor, I’ve always said.”

  “Change the subject,” Vanessa interjected loudly. “My limited information suggests some sort of electric charge keeps them going and that same charge has got some of us going too. Without the unexpected awakenings of some of our friends we might get by with what we have, but that's not the way it is. Also, you might recall how the police tasers got us dancing. That was fun, man. It's all related to electricity and I think the resolution comes from that direction. Cutting off electricity to the school will accomplish nothing because the extra charge is stored in the body and comes through the ground. Adding electricity might provide better results."

  "How do we do that?" questioned a voice at the back.

  "No idea. Velo is an electrician. Someone call him and get him over here."

  "He hasn't had much work since he burned down the seniors' home."

  Six hands went into six pockets and speed-dialled the same number. Five got a message service and one spoke to a morose Velo, who said he would come if they promised him a sip of blood. The wait for Velo allowed the covert congregation to recover from the dizzying exchange of information and non-stop talk. No one could recall so many words at any time in the past and then suddenly no one had anything to say. Silence massaged the vamps’ sensitive ear drums for five minutes then Velo arrived, sat down and gulped a diluted bloody Mary. After enthusiastically licking his lips he edged forward on his wooden chair, ready to answer questions. Vanessa briefed him on their situation and explained that zombies must be stopped if vampires wished to continue living contentedly in beautiful Peachland. If not, relocation to Rutland or West Kelowna would come up for consideration. Relocation would have to be quick, with little time to pack electronic toys. That worried Velo and he suggested they could borrow any one of many generators placed around town to power extra lighting. He could stick 220 volt wires into the schoolyard, into the school itself or even into an undead if he could get close without getting eaten. Eliminating a single zombie would have little overall impact he suggested, other than ‘One less zombie’ making a nice bumper sticker.