Brains: A Zombie Memoir Part 8

I heard the squawk of a walkie-talkie and Guts ran forward like a sprite, revealing his true superpower: He moved with the speed and agility of a human. When he returned, he handed me the device and I turned it off. How he wrested it from the guard, I'll never know.

We moved forward, slow and sure. Methodical monsters. Zombies fell in front of me, shot in the head. We stepped on them. They made a soft carpet.

"I can't control her!" the general said. "I'm losing her!"

The general dropped the long pole with a clank. The Queen of All Media picked it up, wielding it like nunchakus. She swung, missing the general but ramming the remaining three corpse catchers. The men fell down.

"Shoot her!" someone yelled.

"Negative! Hold your fire!" the general said. "That's our prized catch. She is to be taken alive. That's an order!"

"Actually," Ros said, "I believe undead is the word you're looking for."

"I've had enough out of you!" the general yelled.

The Queen was free. With a pole in each hand, she knocked down Ros and Guil. Their guns clattered to the ground. Guts sprinted up, kicked the walkie-talkies and guns out of reach, and removed Ros's helmet. The general fired and hit Guts in the back, but the urchin barely flinched. The general fired again and hit Ros in the arm. The soldier rolled in pain. Guts ran back to my side and presented me with the helmet, which I immediately donned. It had a Blink-182 sticker on it.

Brad Pitt Zombie, inspired, perhaps, by the bravery of Guts, stumbled forward and removed Guil's helmet. Someone shot Brad in the head and his brains exploded in a star-spangled display of gore. Guil ran for cover.

"Noooooooooah!" Eve moaned. It was the closest to language I'd heard from her, such was her grief.

Emboldened by the protection of my brains, I grabbed Guil's helmet out of Brad's stiff arms and gave it to Joan, my second in command. Ros was lying on the ground a few feet away, shot and helpless, and, Lord forgive me, the timing was all wrong, my attention should have been on the melee and the escape, but the urge, the urge, the urge, always the procreant urge...I bit him on top of the head, scalping him.

Ah, creamy nougat of live human flesh, I adore thee. A thousand times better than cow or rabbit. Ros screamed. Guil ran to his side.

"Shoot me," Ros said, clutching his friend's collar.

"How could I?"

"Death is not anything. Death is not...," Ros said.

"Life?"

"Death is the absence of presence. But living death is..."

"The presence of absence?" Guil said.

"But do I want to die?"

"Why would you?"

"Perhaps life as a zombie is better than no life at all," Ros said.

"Roger that."

The photographer ran away, her sweet fat untasted. The general fired aimlessly, pointlessly, until he ran out of bullets, stopped to reload, and was attacked by the hive. The general had read the script. He knew his part: corpulent, arrogant, dinner.

I took a few moments to chew on Ros's hairy head while listening to him and Guil prattle. Gunshots whizzed around me. Humans emitted their death shrieks. In the distance reinforcements were running toward us, firing away.

"Wait with me, old friend," Ros said. "The future."

"The future?"

"It's murky."

"It always is."

The Queen snuck up behind the babbling pair and bit Guil in the neck, making it official: Rosencrantz and Guildenstern were undead.

Oh, gotta love those allusions.

Stringy veins hung from the Queen's mouth like bean sprouts. I looked into her eyes; no one was home.

I left the three of them and pushed my way through the feeding frenzy surrounding the general. Zombies fell away, bowing as I marched past, paying homage to their liberator.

I was commanding as much respect as Jesus Christ on Palm Sunday. Wrap your juicy brains around that.

The general's head was cracked open, brains exposed, helmet on the ground next to him. I grabbed a fistful of the gray matter and stuck it in my pockets. I also extracted his liver and a layer of blubber from his stomach-who knew when we'd feed again?

I gathered my family and bestowed the general's helmet on Eve, securing the straps underneath her weak chin. Only Guts was left unprotected.

The reinforcements were almost upon us. The Queen stepped between us and them, waving her arms like Vishnu, the poles still attached. Destroyer. Preserver. She stopped them in their tracks.

"Holy s.h.i.+t, bro, is that who I think it is?"

She swung those steel octopus arms and knocked a few soldiers down.

They shot her in the head, and she fell to the ground.

Even the great tumble.

As for us, we ran, shambled, hobbled away. A bullet pinged off my helmet but did no damage. We looked at the road ahead of us. We didn't dare turn around and look back.

CHAPTER TEN

AT A REST stop near DeKalb, we spotted two young humans looting a k.u.m and Go. I felt sorry for the critters; they couldn't have been more than ten and they were completely vulnerable. The easiest of prey, they might as well have been wrapped in plastic in the meat department of your local grocery store. No weapons, no strength, no adult protection; it's a wonder they were still alive. The girl clutched a package of Zingers; the boy held a Twinkie. stop near DeKalb, we spotted two young humans looting a k.u.m and Go. I felt sorry for the critters; they couldn't have been more than ten and they were completely vulnerable. The easiest of prey, they might as well have been wrapped in plastic in the meat department of your local grocery store. No weapons, no strength, no adult protection; it's a wonder they were still alive. The girl clutched a package of Zingers; the boy held a Twinkie.

No bell dinged as we entered the store; the electricity was out. Joan locked the door behind us. The kids tried to run, but we circled them like cavemen; on my signal, we attacked.

I watched Guts closely but discerned no negative effects from eating someone his own size, a child he might identify with. Joan and Eve displayed a lack of sympathy as well. Each bit, slurped, and bit again with relish.

There was no reason to feel guilty, I rationalized. Jesus served his own flesh and called it communion. What is the transubstantiation if not cannibalism? The raising of Lazarus and Jesus's own resurrection: ancient zombie activity.

And the guy who started it all, YHWH, G.o.d of the Old Testament, He lived to smite the enemies of Israel, demanded the sacrifice of lambs and rams, and turned Lot's wife into a pillar of salt just for fun. Righteous, vengeful, and jealous as all h.e.l.l, He asked fathers to murder their sons and ate firstborns for dinner. Just as we did.

I caught a glimpse of our gang in the round security mirror as we sat on the b.l.o.o.d.y floor, hunched over body parts. A swatch of stone-washed denim clung to the human girl's thigh. A rack with Bubble Yum, Cheetos, and other brightly packaged junk food loomed over us. Eve's stomach was huge.

Clearly, the Lord was on our side; we were made in His image.

I made sure there were leftovers, putting a few toes, ligaments, a stomach lining, and an ear in Ziploc bags before hitting the road.

Isaac, I decided, patting Eve's belly and feeling all biblical. Boy or girl, the baby would be called Isaac.

AFTER WALKING NORTH for days, we came upon a sculpture garden of chain-saw art created by a human-turned-zombie named George Kapotas. Chicago was less than a hundred miles to the east. for days, we came upon a sculpture garden of chain-saw art created by a human-turned-zombie named George Kapotas. Chicago was less than a hundred miles to the east.

Kapotas had been a religious man, and the bulk of his own private Eden depicted the life of Jesus: the virgin birth in the manger attended by wise men and camels; Jesus, suddenly an adult, preaching the word and petting a lamb; the Last Supper as imagined by da Vinci; and the piece de resistance, the crucifixion, with all three crosses and the wound in His side.

Jesus Christ Superzombie, the whole Pa.s.sion Play, chainsawed out of trees.

In addition to his devotional work, Kapotas carved bears, racc.o.o.ns, and American Indians with his chain saw. Woodland creatures were scattered among the religious tableaux, making for a peculiar vision of the Holy Land. There's Jesus healing the lepers and behind him, climbing a tree, is a koala bear. And Jesus chilling with John the Baptist, both of them leaning against totem poles.

When we stumbled in, George Kapotas's chain saw lay impotent at his side, and his head was inside the torso of a small child, sucking the last specks of meat from its rib cage.

I pulled an ear out of my professor pocket and bit into the cartilage, studying the grunting, moaning folk artist. We would hide out in the Garden of Eden until Isaac was born. I signaled as much to my comrades and they made themselves at home.

BESIDES BEING A chain-saw sculptor and religious nut, Kapotas had been a ham radio operator. Guts and I found a modest setup in the garage while exploring and securing our fortress. chain-saw sculptor and religious nut, Kapotas had been a ham radio operator. Guts and I found a modest setup in the garage while exploring and securing our fortress.

First signal I picked up, we heard this: "Moooaaaan. Ohhhhnhnn." Silence. Then, "Mooohhanaa."

Radio Free Zombie.

Guts turned the dial and picked up some joker out in Lawrence, Kansas, calling himself DJ Smoke-a-J and spinning Roky Erikson's "I Walked with a Zombie" as well as songs by Rob Zombie-solo and with White Zombie-the Cramps, the Misfits, Ghostface Killah, and My Chemical Romance. Even that old standby "The Monster Mash."

In life, I would've written an article about the fool and his broadcast. Postapocalyptic stoned DJ waxes postmodern with songs that spit cynically in the face of his life-or-death situation. The t.i.tle would be: "The Living Death of Irony: How Pop Culture Illuminates and Comments on the Current Zombie Crisis."

If only DJ Smoke-a-J weren't so G.o.dd.a.m.n pathetic. He introduced the oldies cla.s.sic "She's Not There" by the Zombies with this: "I feel bad and I'll never forgive myself, never f.u.c.kin' ever, not in a million years, but I hid in the closet and listened to zombies eat my baby girl. She was only two years old. Meagan. And...and...G.o.d, I can hardly believe I'm saying this, but one of the zombies doing the eating was her mother. I tell myself I had no choice in the matter. It was the baby or me. And I chose me. Sweet Jesus, I chose me."

DJ Smoke sobbed for a bit and Guts grinned in a way that was evil, if an adorable zombie urchin can be evil. Finally Smoke took a big breath and continued, "So...I guess Meagan's not there either. And neither is her mother. I mean, they are in that they exist, sorta, but they're not really there. Like their minds aren't there. Just like the girl in the song."

Cue music. It was enough to make a flesh-eating zombie weep.

Guts started to break-dance and wiggle when the chorus rang out: Let me tell you 'bout the way she looks Let me tell you 'bout the way she looks. The way she acts and the color of her hair The way she acts and the color of her hair. He was bouncing around the garage, kicking his legs high in the air, throwing his hands up like he just didn't care. He snapped his fingers-and a chunk of his thumb flew off. I picked it up and handed it to him, signaling that he should go visit Saint Joan by making pointy b.r.e.a.s.t.s with my hands and simulating sewing the top part of the thumb back on. He gave me the thumbs-up-his poor digit only half there, the tissue moldy green and coagulated with black blood-and skipped out.

I was glad to give Joan something to do. And glad to be alone.

Finding Stein suddenly seemed impossible, a needle in a haystack, a wild goose chase. I needed information, Stein's exact location; I needed Google and MapQuest. I needed a reliable search engine and the glut of the Internet.

I wanted my MTV. I wanted CNN and Larry King Live Larry King Live. And there was only the radio; Kapotas didn't even have dial-up-no desktop in sight. When I turned on his television, there was nothing. Not a test pattern or the bleat of the Emergency Broadcast System.

I still didn't know who was winning the war, but with ma.s.s communication down, I suspected it was a draw. And as anarchic as World War III.

There had to be other zombies like us, small groups of them scattered across the country, challenging the hegemony of the humans. Drawing their own escape plans and fighting for their existence with intelligence and forethought.

The big question was: Where were they?

I turned the dial: "The rapture is here, brothers and sisters! Hallelujah! Those who have sinned against G.o.d-the h.o.m.os.e.xuals, the abortionists, the atheists and rapists-they are the living dead. They walk among you, eating your children. G.o.d is punis.h.i.+ng us for our wickedness. These creatures are demons and sinners, and they want to drag you down to the fires of h.e.l.l with them. They want you to decay and rot and cannibalize your own family. But Jesus will protect you, hallelujah. Those who accept Him into their heart, those who truly believe in Him, will be spared. Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I fear no evil for the Lord is with me."

I turned the dial again. Static.

WE STARTED AN exercise routine at the Garden of Eden. Mind, body, and spirit. exercise routine at the Garden of Eden. Mind, body, and spirit.

Because when I returned from the garage, I found Eve and Kapotas doing the zombie dance around the crucifixion scene. Walking in no particular direction, drooling, moaning, eyes and minds empty as seash.e.l.ls, heads banging against the chain sawcarved crosses.

Tabula rasa. Tabbouleh for brains.

I signaled to them, waving my arms and jumping up and down, but it was as if I didn't exist. I was not only zombie but ghost as well. The Invisible Man.

"Eeeeoooaaah," I said, which meant: "h.e.l.looo. Anyone home? Earth to zombies!"

No reaction. Kapotas rubbed his head against the robber's cross, while Eve fell to the ground, her hands holding her stomach, which had grown so large and roiling it looked like her skin might rip apart.

Kapotas was a hairy zombie. He was covered with the stuff: black, oily, on his arms, legs, back, and belly, like a b.l.o.o.d.y teddy bear. And he was stocky, with stubby arms and legs and a barrel chest. He looked like the type of guy who's comfortable using a chain saw-for creation or destruction. Kapotas's primary bite site was on his neck, which was so thick it was barely there. Joan had sewn the wound up with sky-blue embroidery thread; it looked like a spider's web. I stuck my finger in its center, grabbed Eve by her stumpy wrist, and led them to the courtyard, where Joan and Guts were looking up at the clouds.

The problem with zombies is they're incapable of entertaining themselves. Leave them alone for a few hours and they become despondent and depressed, staring at the wall, dreaming of brains and guts and brains and guts and brains and brains and...

I lined them all up in a row and led them in a series of calisthenics. Hands over heads, reach for the sky! Hands on the ground, touch your toes! Nothing too strenuous; I didn't want any body parts to fall off. They all did as I asked them to, even though Joan was so stiff with the rigor she could barely bend at the waist and Kapotas and Eve needed to be bribed with brain-treats to keep from wandering off. Those two weren't any smarter than dogs, but, like dogs, they could be trained.

Besides, the best soldiers are the dumb obedient ones. And that's what I wanted. An army. A Zombie Army to limp our way to victory.

It was a long shot, but long shots don't stop heroes. Think Sitting Bull standing up to Custer; the Allies invading the beaches of Normandy; think Luke Skywalker destroying the Death Star and David slaying Goliath.

This was my plan: gather a militia and storm Chicago. We had the element of surprise on our side. That's why we succeeded with Ros and Guil; they never expected an organized attack from corpses. Once inside their perimeter, we'd grab hostages and take over a tank, using force, the only language the military understands. After we had their attention, we'd request an audience with Doctor Stein. Violence would give way to diplomacy when Stein perused my doc.u.ment, an elegantly worded and pa.s.sionate plea to his sense of equality and justice. With my background and knowledge, I would write an argument as persuasive and historic as "Letter from a Birmingham Jail" or the Declaration of the Rights of Man.

First the power of the sword, then the pen. I'd be hailed as a savior. A leader. Thomas Jefferson. A king.

I put the chain saw in Kapotas's hands, hoping to jar his memory. A weapon like that could be an a.s.set in the revolution, especially wielded by a resolute cadaver. I pulled the ripcord and it sprang to life, roaring Texas Chain Saw Ma.s.sacre Texas Chain Saw Ma.s.sacrestyle.

Kapotas dropped it and sliced off his own foot at the ankle.