Robin Becker - Brains - A Zombie Memoir

The feeling in my shoulder intensified. Our quarry was getting close. “Ooormph,” I cried, and somehow Joan understood. She pulled on the ropes and the dumb duo fell backward behind the stand. I walked as quickly as I could to safety. Eve and Kapotas would have to be restrained as the humans walked by. I hoped we could restrain ourselves.

I re-created the battleground by scratching our position in the snow with a stick. I depicted us hiding behind the fruit stand and the humans moving toward it. I drew lines between us and them like a coach diagramming football plays.

I looked to Ros for a recommendation. Even though I was the leader, Ros was a soldier, experienced in warfare. His input was indispensable. I pressed the stick into his hand.

“Annie here,” he said, indicating that she should position her gun on top of the counter. “Wait until they pass us by. Then shoot. Back-door attack.”

It was a good plan. We wouldn’t get them all, but we didn’t need them all. Just one or two would do. I gave my helmet to Annie-with her head above the counter, she would be the most vulnerable.

“Everyone shh,” Ros said. “Here they come.”

The humans entered our field of vision. There were seven of them, walking in loose formation and at a pace I envied. Only one of them appeared to be armed, a bulky man in an orange hunting cap. A girl about Guts’s age pulled an infant on a sled.

Eve started moaning. I made a zip-your-lip motion with my hand and Joan covered Eve’s mouth with a handkerchief. I was holding tight to Kapotas; Ros cuddled Guts in his lap.

The little band of humans passed our hideout, the gunman so close I could hear him muttering under his breath. Every dead cell in my body was screaming to be fed, but I didn’t move. None of us did.

“Quiet out here,” one of the people said.

“We haven’t seen any zombies for miles,” a woman said. “Maybe they’re mostly in the cities?”

“Haven’t seen any people either,” said the man I took to be their leader. Like me, he had tortoiseshell glasses. Unlike me, he was bundled up in a parka and ski mask, protecting his fragile skin from the cold. That’s another advantage we zombies have: We’re impervious, some might say oblivious.

Then I was looking at his back, and that could have been the end of it. We could have let them pass unharmed. They’d never know we were there, never know how close they’d come to death.

If only they didn’t taste so good.

Ros nudged Annie with his elbow. She stood up, took aim, and blasted the gun-toting traveler in his shoulder blade. The gun flew out of his hand and slid across the icy snow.

The group turned to face us. They went on the defense, vigilant and tense, raising their shovels and baseball bats. Pitiful weapons. The young girl pulled the sled closer and picked up the baby.

“Don’t shoot!” the leader said. “Can’t you see we’re human?”

Annie shot him in the stomach. He bent over and collapsed, his blood turning the snow into the most delicious of sno-cones.

Guts scurried out from behind our shelter, retrieved the gun, and pounced on the slain gunman; the rest of us stood up and began our laborious attack. The humans gasped collectively.

They were our parallel-universe doppelgangers, right down to the teenager and baby. It was like looking in a funhouse mirror, our bizarro-world selves. We stared at each other for a moment, taking the coincidence in.

“You have brains,” Ros said.

Well put, I thought. I couldn’t have said it better myself.

“Run!” the fallen leader yelled, his hand clutching his abdomen.

The spell was broken. They took off, except the brave one who stayed behind to help the leader, offering her body as support so they could hobble to their deaths together.

“I’m as good as dead,” the man said to her. “Save yourself.”

She stood up, unsure, watching Joan, Ros, and me walking toward her.

“Annie,” Ros said, pointing to the woman. “Shoot her.”

But Annie was behind us. She couldn’t get off a decent shot. We were in the way.

Meanwhile Eve and Kapotas reached the gunman and commenced feeding. Their crunching and moaning was loud and rude. The woman turned her head at the sound, her mouth opened in a silent scream.

“Go!” the leader yelled.

She turned and ran, zigzagging to make herself a moving target. Annie shot and missed by an inch; snow flew upward where the bullet buried itself.

We reached the leader and snapped our jaws at him. To his credit, he put up a fight, smashing snow in my face and kicking Joan in the groin. Too bad for him, his attempts were futile, like a bunny trying to escape the mouth of a cat.

Ros unbuttoned the man’s parka and lifted up his sweater and thermal shirt, peeling the layers like an onion. He took a bite of his stomach and made a face.

“Tastes like lead,” he said.

I shrugged. That’s what happens when you shoot your prey. I bit into the man’s shoulder. It was delectable, not a trace of bullet residue. His blood bloomed like roses on the snow.

WE MARCHED FOR a thousand more years. For a long stretch, Illinois was desolate. The trees were weighted down with ice, limbs luminous in the low winter sun. Once the snow stopped, it was dry and crisp, frost crunching underfoot and ice chunks falling from power lines. The highway was slippery and we fell often, sometimes dragging Kapotas and Eve when they couldn’t-or wouldn’t-pick themselves back up.

I envied Isaac-he had always been a zombie; he had no memories to haunt him on this endless trek. No human memories, that is.

As for me, I had a million.

Like the moment I fell for Lucy. She was a student in my semiotics class and I’d hardly noticed her until she was tardy one day, slipping in during my lecture on Umberto Eco’s seminal text Travels in Hyper-reality. We were dissecting the essay on Disneyland.

It was my first semester in the Midwest. I was not yet acclimated to the culture and so was surprised to see Lucy wearing Winnie the Pooh pajama bottoms, a sweatshirt emblazoned with the university logo, and dirty suede moccasins. Her hair was long then and pulled into a sloppy ponytail.

“Are you in the habit of wearing your sleepwear to class, Miss?” I asked.

“ Ludlow,” she said. “And it’s Ms.”

She found a seat, took out her notebook, which was metallic silver, and her pen, which was metallic pink with a fluffy pink glittery ball on the end. She looked at me attentively, that ridiculous pen poised above the paper.

Lucy had all the hallmarks of the anorexic-immense and sunken eyes, cheekbones like jagged edges, baggy clothes, and skeletal hands. I adored anorexics. With their low self-esteem, desire to please, and rigorous self-discipline, what’s not to like?

“Well, Ms. Ludlow?” I said.

“Excuse me?” She blinked.

“I asked if you were in the habit of wearing your pajamas to class.”

The tips of her ears turned red.

“Is something wrong?” she asked.

“Let’s pause for a moment,” I said to the class. “Take a brief detour with me while we ponder the semiotic message Ms. Ludlow is sending by wearing her jammies to school. Please, if you don’t mind, Ms. Ludlow, could you stand up in front of the class?”

Lucy stood and the dear girl vamped it up. Turning in a circle, her hands on her boyish hips, pointing her toe, she looked like a Sears catalogue model. We all had a laugh and then I led a discussion on the cultural myths and ideologies implicit in wardrobe choices, the ever-changing rules governing fashion and decorum. My students taught me that in the Midwest it’s acceptable to wear pajama bottoms to class or the supermarket, even the coffee shop. Philistines, I thought. Can’t tell mole from gravy.