Brains: A Zombie Memoir Part 9

"Noooaaaahmmmm!" he said, reaching out to his appendage, which hopped away on its own volition, going who knows where.

Zombie Army's first foot soldier.

Doomed. I put my head in my hands. We were doomed.

I WAS WITH Eve in the Garden of Eden, my hand on her thigh. The serpent hovered above our heads. Chain-Saw Eve clutched the apple in her hand, already won over to the dark side. My Eve nibbled on an olive-green toe. Eve in the Garden of Eden, my hand on her thigh. The serpent hovered above our heads. Chain-Saw Eve clutched the apple in her hand, already won over to the dark side. My Eve nibbled on an olive-green toe.

Her eyes were getting worse. Filmy and yellow, like faded gauze curtains, they were as dead as Kapotas's Eve-and she was carved from wood. We were down to the last of our provisions: digits, skin, fat, blood. Everyone was desperate for viscera. If I didn't secure brains soon, my army would go AWOL looking for some.

Earlier that day, the president had been on the radio. I was shocked that we still had a president. And it was still the same guy.

"My fellow Americans," he said, "we are in a crisis of biblical proportions. Basic services are down and many citizens don't have electricity or running water. There are no police forces or hospitals to, uhhhh, provide protection and administer aid. As a matter of fact, we're unsure how many of you are receiving this broadcast. Or how many are left alive.

"Although I have declared martial law to restore order, for the most part you are on your own. We are in the process of rebuilding infrastructures and getting food and water to those who need it. But the problem is finding you without attracting attention from the enemy. And that's a hard job. We work very hard at it.

"The enemy is crawling all over our great nation, from Portland, Maine, to Portland, Oregon. Our intelligence suggests it's Armageddon, as foretold by the Book of Revelation. In other words, Judgment Day.

"We are sure, positive, there is no doubt, that one of the prophecies has come true: The dead walk among us. And they're zombies.

"These are extraordinary times requiring extraordinary measures. I understand vigilante groups have been formed. I support this. I also support citizens, uhhhh, gathering gathering supplies from stores and supermarkets, as long as it's done in an orderly fas.h.i.+on. I urge you to bond together and help your neighbor. Reach out to one another. And above all else, pray together. supplies from stores and supermarkets, as long as it's done in an orderly fas.h.i.+on. I urge you to bond together and help your neighbor. Reach out to one another. And above all else, pray together.

"Not since 9/11 have the American people stood stronger or firmer. I am proud of your conduct and courage. G.o.d bless you all.

"Our military commanders have given me some practical advice to pa.s.s on to you: Never forget the enemy. If you see one, don't approach it or talk to it. Even if it's your father. Because it's not your father. Not anymore. Shoot it in the head or burn it. It's essential to destroy its brain.

"Let me repeat: If you don't have a weapon, do not approach the enemy. Walk away as fast as you can. You may even want to run. Find a structure, make sure it's not infested with the evil ones, then secure it and protect yourself. You have the full support of your president to do whatever it takes to survive. Any means necessary.

"Rest a.s.sured that your government is working toward a swift resolution to this crisis. The full power of our military has been deployed. Congress has declared war and given me the authority to use extreme force-and that includes nuclear force.

"Stay safe, stay together, and stay alive. G.o.d bless America."

"The Star-Spangled Banner" came on. The president had mentioned nuclear war, another kind of apocalypse.

Contacting Stein became more important than ever. With compelling rhetoric and a receptive audience, I could speak for my people, represent our point of view. Maybe even end the war.

First things first: I had an army to feed.

CHAPTER ELEVEN

MY FATHER NEVER took me hunting. Dad and I read and discussed books together. We visited museums and cafes. He taught me how to swirl brandy and smoke a pipe. All the splendors of old Europe. took me hunting. Dad and I read and discussed books together. We visited museums and cafes. He taught me how to swirl brandy and smoke a pipe. All the splendors of old Europe.

"The forest is a primeval place," he said, "where ticks suck your blood, brambles scratch your legs, and rednecks lie in wait for people like you and me."

"Like you and me?" I asked.

"Jews," he said. "Intellectuals. And the blacks too. The rednecks are not fond of them either."

As a child, I thought rednecks were creatures with bright red necks, like the tropical birds I saw at the Central Park Zoo. It was years before I realized they were just people, not monsters with bulbous necks hiding behind trees in woods.

Now I'm the monster, lying in wait for a fat red neck. Tables turned.

Guts and I trudged along the highway on our hunt. I put my hand on his helmet. He looked up at me and when I gazed at his undead visage, a surge of emotion swelled in my chest: his sunken and watery eyes, the blackened strip of his tongue, the chicken pox scabs pulsing greenly. I felt paternal and tender toward the tyke, maudlin even, and I understood the love my father held for me: unconditional and pure, selfless, and without a trace of irony.

It made me wish Lucy and I had created a child.

There was a rustling in the overgrown wildflowers in the median. We heard moans and chattering, giggles and nonsense. Two heads emerged from the tall gra.s.s.

Zombies Ros and Guil.

"Brains," Ros said.

That voice! Musical, yes, and a miracle too, for it was a zombie talking. Talking! It was deep and guttural, Barry White singing in a tar pit, the devil speaking through Linda Blair in The Exorcist. The Exorcist.

"Br...buh, buh, bray. Mmmmmm," said Guil, and he sounded as primal as the rest of us.

The soldiers looked worse for the wear, but whose looks improve after death? Ros's cranium was exposed, but besides that he was in one piece. Guil was in much worse shape; his head fell to the right, resting on his shoulder like a broken jack-in-the-box. The neck veins and muscles hung out like stuffing.

Clearly, they needed Joan-and Zombie Army needed them.

Ros pointed at me.

"You!" he wheezed.

Gadzooks! Not only did he talk but he had a memory to boot. Triple hallelujah!

"Bwaaaaahmmmnoh!" I shouted, and rushed to Ros. Arm extended, I stuck my finger in the top of his head, tickling the edges of the bite.

His eyes rolled back. He looked like Ray Liotta in Hannibal, Hannibal, the scene where Anthony Hopkins eats Liotta's brains while Liotta is still alive. It's both a lobotomy and a feast. the scene where Anthony Hopkins eats Liotta's brains while Liotta is still alive. It's both a lobotomy and a feast.

"Gooood," Ros said. "Hmmmmm."

With my other hand I touched Guil's neck, where he'd been bit less than a month ago. The three of us stood there for a few minutes, locked in the zombie embrace, a mangled menage a trois. Guts skipped around our legs like an oversized puppy.

A crow cawed high above us. Ros put his hand on my shoulder.

I pulled away and pointed at Ros and Guil, then at myself and Guts. I scissored my fingers, the sign for walking.

"Yaaa," said Ros, nodding his head.

Martin Luther King he wasn't. But at least he could articulate actual words. Coached by me, Cyrano de Bergeracstyle, that might be enough. With practice, he'd improve.

I had a dream...or I would if zombies slept.

WITH THE ADDITION of Ros and Guil, we became a true hunting party-three men and a boy. And there was no better place to stalk humans than in their natural habitat. of Ros and Guil, we became a true hunting party-three men and a boy. And there was no better place to stalk humans than in their natural habitat.

The question was: Wal-Mart or the mall?

That's the brilliance of Dawn of the Dead, Dawn of the Dead, the second movie in Romero's trilogy. Set in a shopping center, the film exposes the rib cage of capitalism. Humans are safe within the confines of their s.h.i.+ny prison. They try on furs and fine jewels; they run through the stores, "shopping" with abandon. But it only lasts so long. Because the acc.u.mulation of material goods is a panacea, a subst.i.tute-it can never fill the void at our spiritual center. It can never acquire the depth of real meaning. It keeps us tethered to the material world, with zombies clawing at the double doors, greedy for more. the second movie in Romero's trilogy. Set in a shopping center, the film exposes the rib cage of capitalism. Humans are safe within the confines of their s.h.i.+ny prison. They try on furs and fine jewels; they run through the stores, "shopping" with abandon. But it only lasts so long. Because the acc.u.mulation of material goods is a panacea, a subst.i.tute-it can never fill the void at our spiritual center. It can never acquire the depth of real meaning. It keeps us tethered to the material world, with zombies clawing at the double doors, greedy for more.

And zombies are never satisfied.

Neither are Winona Ryder, Donald Trump, or Jane Doe with her credit card debt of fifteen thousand bucks spent on manicures and pedicures and shoes she'll never wear to glamorous parties she'll only read about in Glamour Glamour magazine. magazine.

I'd rather crave brains than Gucci, Pucci, or Coach. There's an innocence to brains; the desire is instinctual and primitive. Brains are necessary; we need them like sharks need surfers, like babies need mother's milk. And like with babies, our wants are our needs.

Brains are truth. Truth brains. That is all ye know on earth, and all ye need to know.

That's Zombie John Keats, by the way. A pale flower, Keats died at twenty-six after a year of coughing up blood. The way I feel right now, I'd suck on his tubercular handkerchief. The blood of genius.

WE FOUND A Wal-Mart first. Of course. Discount scourge of the nation. It was off I-39 on a commercial strip with Mickey D's, Subway, BK, DQ, KFC, all the acronyms. But there was no grease smell hanging thick in the air; there were no cars snaking through the drive-thrus. The sky was cloudless and Windex blue and it seemed like a late-summer's day, although I can no longer gauge temperature accurately. In fact, I barely feel temperature. I exist; I am that I am. But for the warm tingle at my bite site and my hunger, I'd be as indifferent as a daisy. Wal-Mart first. Of course. Discount scourge of the nation. It was off I-39 on a commercial strip with Mickey D's, Subway, BK, DQ, KFC, all the acronyms. But there was no grease smell hanging thick in the air; there were no cars snaking through the drive-thrus. The sky was cloudless and Windex blue and it seemed like a late-summer's day, although I can no longer gauge temperature accurately. In fact, I barely feel temperature. I exist; I am that I am. But for the warm tingle at my bite site and my hunger, I'd be as indifferent as a daisy.

A legless zombie was dragging herself down the yellow line in the middle of the road, her torso torn up like ground beef. Other zombies slipped in the trail she left behind.

Members of my tribe surrounded the Wal-Mart, pressing their foreheads against the barricaded automatic doors, leaving streaks of blood on the panes, trying to get to the humans inside. We could feel them in there, going about their business: eating kettle corn and tuna fish, riding bikes, trying on cheap lingerie, making desperate love in the dressing room, shooting guns at targets. And filling the toilets with their waste.

I'm glad zombies don't s.h.i.+t. It gives us a superior moral edge. We don't need Charmin or enemas. We're beyond the body. Beyond good and evil, we use all that we consume; perfectly efficient machines, we absorb nourishment like tapeworms.

With the weight of all those ghouls, eventually the gla.s.s Wal-Mart doors would break and zombies would rush in.

I didn't have that long, however; I had to get back to Eve.

The four of us skirted the perimeter of the parking lot and found the back entrance where the oil and lube center was located. There were no zombies back there-just Dumpsters, trucks, wooden pallets, and shopping carts. We waited for humans to come. And come they would, seeking refuge, adult diapers, and Cheez Doodles. Seeking community, lawn chairs, and Milky Way bars. Comfort, trash bags, and Goldfish crackers.

We hid behind a clump of decorative bushes at the edge of the lot. Guts was tending to Guil's neck, wrapping it with what looked like poison ivy. I pointed at the two soldiers and made an inclusive circle with my arms, asking them to join Zombie Army.

"Ahhh," said Ros. "You can...count...on me."

I threw my fist in the air-power to the undead!-and heard a human squeal. A girl's peal of laughter. My shoulder tingled. I put my finger to my lips and motioned for everyone to crouch down.

"Annabelle," a man said, "be quiet."

"And don't run ahead," a woman said.

"It's okay, Grams. I can shoot a zombie a mile away."

They were less than fifty yards from us, emerging from some trees to cross the parking lot. The girl-a teenager-sported long blond pigtails, a crossbow draped over her Strawberry Shortcake baby tee, and guns stuck in the waist of her low-rise jeans. The old couple clutched each other, their heads whipping from side to side. They appeared to be unarmed.

And oh! How thin the grandparents were! Emaciated as cancer patients. Shuffling on the asphalt in orthopedic shoes. The woman with long white hair coming out of her bun and an eggplant-colored polyester pantsuit; the man bald and bespectacled in a plaid s.h.i.+rt, cardigan, and jeans.

They were poster children for the old and fearful. A commercial for Celebrex.

They would be easy to overpower; the girl was another matter.

"I hope they let us in," the woman said.

"Grandma, that's like the fiftieth time you've said that in the last hour."

"But what if they don't hear us? What if there are zombies?"

"Grandma, there are are zombies. That's the way it is now. Like the Internet. Suddenly there it is and you've got to deal. Even if you are old." zombies. That's the way it is now. Like the Internet. Suddenly there it is and you've got to deal. Even if you are old."

"Don't talk to your grandmother that way, Annie."

"The guy on the radio said this is the place and this is the way to get in. They'll help us, you'll see. It's all good."

Guts and I were restraining Ros and Guil, both of whom were ready to charge as soon as they caught a whiff of flesh. But without helmets, they risked getting shot in the head by pretty Annabelle. To communicate this idea, I made a gun with my hand and "shot" Guil with it, then shook my head no and knocked on my helmet. Ros nodded and gave me the thumbs-up. I put my arm around Guts and, through a complicated series of hand gestures and facial expressions, indicated that he and I would capture dinner while Ros and Guil stayed put. I thought they understood.

The best laid plans of zombies and men...

"Ohhh," Ros said in his burbling rasp.

It was a loud trumpet. Annabelle snapped to attention.

"Did you hear that?"

"Hear what?" Grandpa said.

"Our hearing's not what it used to be, dear. You know that."

"You guys stay right here, okay? I'm gonna go check it out. Whatever you do, don't move!"

Annabelle marched toward us. If Guts and I couldn't control Ros and Guil, we were destined to be shot by a smart-mouthed teenager in combat boots and trendy clothes.

She could have been a student of mine, one of those postfeminists who eschew the label "feminist" although that's exactly what they are. A lifetime ago, one such young lady had written a paper in my freshmen survey claiming that Spenser's Faerie Queene Faerie Queene was an allegory of c.u.n.n.i.l.i.n.g.u.s. I'd given her an A, even though the course was contemporary American literature. was an allegory of c.u.n.n.i.l.i.n.g.u.s. I'd given her an A, even though the course was contemporary American literature.

My shoulder felt like throbbing gristle-the meat by-product, not the industrial noise band.

It was Guts-our urchin, our orphan, our own li'l Webster-who came up with the plan.