Jeff and I hadn't noticed such a phenomenon, but we were curious enough to say we'd watch for the same effect. The possibility of zombies not functioning permanently on their own would be a major new development. Each of us turned our thoughts to that possibility and stayed silent for a time while watching the abandoned landscape go by.
On this information procurement trip, our goal was to gather knowledge covering any subject related to methods of survival in the pre-industrial ages of the thirteenth to seventeenth centuries. There wasn't much to choose from as we pillaged the shelves of Parks Library at Iowa State University. At mid-morning, we departed the dark, cold, musty smell of the acclaimed hall of learning with only three small boxes of hardcover books. We weren't even sure the deteriorating volumes would reward us with the type of information we desperately required. Our procurement needed to culminate quickly because all derelict library's books were drawing moisture and would eventually rot in the humid atmosphere.
Thus far, we'd found far more stinking zombies than useful books. Many of the undead students on campus had been infected there and still hung around waiting for their next human meal. We avoided them as much as possible because the noise of multiple gunshots simply attracted more of the disease infested beasts. It was still a mystery to all of us as to how the undead could hear, see or smell, when all the body’s faculties for those senses had rotted away. That's why our group, almost in unison, bucked the original opinion that the zombie affliction was caused by a virus. In our minds, it was most definitely an ungodly curse deliberately spawned by some dark, despicable disciple of evil. That said, we couldn't explain to a person how the zombie curse transferred among humans by drawing blood through bites or scratches. Somehow the zombie bodies exuded some ingredient that infected humans almost immediately when induced in sufficient amounts directly into the blood stream. And yet, if trace amounts of zombie body fluids were allowed to slowly seep into the human body through abrasions or under fingernails or cuticles the transition might take weeks.
The experience of visiting a huge, complex edifice designed and previously inhabited by humans and not seeing a single one roaming the streets at any hour of the day or night always felt eerie. It was as if the world had suddenly stopped and the entire human race had fallen to the ground and turned into dust. Only in the real world, they had turned into evil, human-hunting zombies.
Our next stop was the city's public library on Douglas Avenue. I drove off the street and parked on the brick apron close to the quartet of glass doors highlighting the main entrance. Jeff and Frances stood guard four feet behind me. They leaned against the truck as I labored to pick the lock. Martin Radcliff taught me the basic mechanics of picking; I needed practice to hone the skills to a workable level. My gloves were off, and my hands quickly chilled in the cold and blustery mid-March temperature.
After struggling for ten minutes, I finally pulled the door open to the smartassed applause of my heckling audience. The undead had sensed our arrival, but they hadn't managed a full-scale assault. Three of the stinky smellies got close enough to be an immediate threat if they'd advanced closer. Those stumblers were put down with single head shots from my team’s military rifles. We entered the vacant building quickly before the undead milling about in the distance sensed us and massed to attack.
Inside, we sniffed the air. It smelled musty like Parks, but it didn't cause us to make a face as we would have if rotting zombies had recently shuffled through the rooms. Light from the mid-morning sun filtered in through large floor-to-ceiling glass panes letting us glimpse the back of the first huge room. I hadn't been surprised to find the door, lock, and glass panels intact. The typical survivors sought out food, water, ammunition and clothing. Few had the time or inclination to pursue the knowledge of higher learning.
While looking for the research section, we eliminated the newer, modern architecture addition as a prospect and climbed the stairs to the original 1920s redbrick library building. Each of us moved with quiet caution while involved in our own private thoughts. My flashlight beam brushed an overhead sign that indicated we were entering the children's section.
Our light beams danced from book shelves to the floor and occasionally flashed across the beamed ceiling like spotlights crisscrossing a moonless sky. A space in the middle of the room contained small tables and chairs for children to sit and read. The scene of the abandoned public resource was a sad reminder of our not to distant past.
Frances's voice echoed in the dark space, "There's a stairway ahead and to my far right. I'll see what's there. Cover me."
A quivering, fearful voice cried out, "Stay where you are. I have a gun. If you come near me I'll shoot you. Now go back the way you came in and leave."
"Miss," I ventured, "we're here to pick up books. We won't harm you. We don't want trouble."
"Sure, I've heard that one before, right before I was raped by three of your kind. Now leave or I'll shoot you."
Frances stopped twenty feet away. Our flashlight beams halted and lit the space with a dim eerie glow. "Miss, I'm Frances Halcom. I'm with Tom and Jeff. We're visiting libraries looking for information on how to survive in the future after the zombies are eradicated. We have a compound in Iowa. There are forty-seven of us there, nine are children under sixteen. I
