The first rule in disposing of a zombie: Destroy the head. A bite is the most common way to transfer the virus, and without it, every other attempt to attack you is rendered weak and ineffective. I acquired my long sledge, and caved-in the zombie’s face with a single wild blow.
Then I did the same to Peter.
It was necessary, I told myself. He would come back. He would try to kill and eat me. He was already dead. The zombie struggled and Peter’s body dropped in a heap.
I broke the zombie’s arms at the elbows and left the legs intact. This made it so that the creature couldn’t grab me, but I could still walk it around.
Was this decision cruel or practical? If you answered the latter, I could use a good partner these days.
I dragged Peter’s remains to a fenced gravel area behind the mill before walking the zombie out. I put them together and then took the sledge to the zombie’s right knee, just to make it easier to keep him in place. I poured the kerosene, and put the torch to them both. Their meat crackled and popped under the flame. The light in the sky faded under a fire fueled by the body of the only human left in my life.
My parents.
My brother.
Wood and Duck.
Dave and Molly.
Sissy.
Peter.
Alone in the world, I warmed myself by the fire as an autumnal wind blew over me.
That night, I lay in my bed but didn’t sleep. I thought I had regressed to Dave’s level: Silent, cold, and murderous. Something within me had died. Only long after the sun rose did I follow suit. I didn’t eat. I didn’t change my clothes. I strapped on a helmet and grabbed a club. The sadness needed to leave me.
Then I took a walk.
Finding a zombie when you want one is an effort in endless frustration. I screamed. I called. I cut myself.
Nothing.
I broke windows and pounded cars.
Nothing.
I set a fire and screamed myself hoarse.
Finally…
Mercifully…
A zombie came shuffling down 1st Street. I ran to meet it. It was a slow one with a bad leg. I cracked it in the head and the creature was down before it could even fight back. I bashed and clobbered the zombie until it had no moving parts. Invigorated by the kill, I continued my search.
I moved to a field just outside of town. I figured I could more easily lure a zombie from a more open position. Peter had a theory that the zombies hunted by smell and not by sight. That in mind, I stood tall on a hill so my scent would be more easily carried by the breeze.
I yelled.
I pounded the Earth.
And my efforts were rewarded.
Three zombies approached me.
I had never confronted more than one at a time, but I had seen Dave do it before. Bash bash bash, right? I stepped into the first one and swung for the fences. His head collapsed under my club and dark bits of brain decorated the grass. The second and third came at me simultaneously. I plowed one in the neck, and then pushed the other away.
Dumb move.
The zombie grabbed my extended arm and stuffed my hand in its mouth.
Pain.
Burning.
Swinging club.
Battered zombies.
Bloody grass.
No left pinkie.
Half of a left ring finger.
The ridge of the hand: Mangled.
I could feel the death flowing through me.
Run.
Run.
Run.
Back to the mill.
I didn’t know how long it would take, or what a transformation looked like. All I knew was that the condition was, as far as anyone would guess, a virus that you could catch and die from, only to be reanimated as a zombie.
Not me.
I ran to the mill, burst in the back door, and grabbed the kerosene. If I was going to die, I wasn’t going to be one of them. I went to the office and grabbed a box of matches.
Could I do it?
Could I set myself on fire?
Could you?
I started to have doubts. What if I wasn’t infected? What if I wasn’t going to become a zombie? Did I feel any symptoms? How did I even know a bite would infect me? Wasn’t that just the movies talking again?
What if I wait too long? What if Peter was right? What if my body becomes zombified, and I remain conscious? “A prisoner in your own head,” he had described it. A walking death. What if I delay so long I go past the point that I could light the fire?
I knew that I had to move soon if I was going to do this. I just kept repeating to myself, “You’re already dead, Kyle Moore. You’re already dead. The virus just hasn’t taken hold. You are already dead.” Over and over I repeated this as I exited the rear of the mill. I stood near the area where I burned Peter the previous night, and emptied the can of fuel over my head. The liquid was cold on my skin and the fumes made me woozy. I blinked through the burn and located my box of matches.
I took a deep breath, and drew out a match.
“No!” shouted a voice.
A human voice.
A real, live, human voice.
I flicked my eyelids at the source and saw the blurred outline of a woman.
“No, Kyle,” she said. “Don’t. I can help you. I can help you live.”
Before I passed out from the fumes, my last though was, “She knows my name.”
CHAPTER 8
Alive
There was a buzzing in the room, but I couldn’t tell if it was machines or the pounding in my head causing my ears to ring. I tried to blink the pain away to look for my watch, but my vision was obscured in darkness. I couldn’t see a thing. I tried to reach my face but by hand felt trapped in a pipe. A panic crashed into me as I roared and struggled to move. My arms didn’t work. My legs wouldn’t move. I couldn’t.
What happened to me? How am I here?
