Evangelists: A Reader's Request (Pt. 6 et fin)

Nutria are not, by any means, as filling or palatable as humans. They have a grainy meat typical to rodents, with a fir that sticks between teeth and catches in a zombie's throat.

Not that he cared.

The man was hungry, always hungry. After the stampede along Old Highway 99, he was ravenous. A constant fever, nigh intolerable pain and sudden switches between activity and rest gave the monster a ridiculously high rate of metabolism. Food was fuel; and he was a train engine. Around him, 30 ghouls were feeding and fighting. Above, the sky was uncharacteristically warm.

A dog, frustrated by the sight of food in others' possession, made the almost imponderably tragic mistake of barking.

Day 590
C.S. Lewis once said that the reason we read of music in heaven is not because we'll be singing for all eternity, but because music most strongly speaks to we mortals of the ecstasy and infinity we'll see there. I do not know how accurate his theology is; but I can agree with Jack's latter point - there is, in music, some sort of timeless otherness which calls us up to something.

In this particular instance, the vaguely Spanish melody being plucked and its subsequent strumming, drums drumming and bass thrumming called me further away from the despond I had entertained in the recent months and into a humble sort of fearlessness, the "muchness" Manuel and Liz had fought for me to regain.

We were atop the cement behemoth that had been known, Back When, as Vallenmarkt. The dutch retailer had been enjoying great success amid a world in turmoil when the infection hit. Most businesses had spent the preceding years competing at various levels of "staying afloat" while this one watched its stocks reach record highs.

While Vallenmarkt took its turn in the lap of luxury, the world as a whole was fighting to survive; and everywhere was a quiet assumption that an apocalypse was overdue. Some people said it would be an economic fallout; others feared the wars around the world would escalate to radioactive levels; I spent a lot of time wondering if this was Jesus' way of readying humanity for His return. How strange that it was the most fanciful, ridiculous theories that had ultimately proven correct.

"There's a propane tank in the bed of that pickup;" Liz pointed to a small Chevy not far from the front of the store, "I'm sure I could hit it from here."

I gave her a look of disapproval; she rolled her eyes.

"You're kidding." she sighed.

Behind us, a large, black man named Jeff commented, "This is like going to a barbecue with a vegan."

It took me a moment to laugh. Jeff's deep voice made everything sound profound; so I often had to remind myself to take some things at face value.

In Liz's thin hands, the .50-caliber Smith and Wesson revolver seemed an anti-aircraft weapon. The manly gun was all that remained of Brett after a bloody death that had played out in a manner typical of his last living year: with much conflict and unnecessary violence.  Seeing as I'd put my days of zombie-slaying behind me, I gave my "trophy" to Liz, who had no problem with violent self-defense.

The girl had hoped to thin out the horde before us with some fireworks; but I was reluctant to resort to that. Instead, I handed her a few items I'd pulled together, gave some quick instructions and slid down a rope to meet the adventure ahead.

Above me, an air horn went off.

It was the sort of horn built for sporting events, not nearly as loud as those used by mariners. The label had indicated that I could expect about 3 minutes of continuous sound. With the help of some duct tape and an archer, this meant three minutes of intense distraction on the far side of the parking lot. Unfortunately, not all seven thousand zombies would fail to notice fresh meat sliding down a rope on the front of the store; hence the baseball bat.

By the time I reached the sidewalk that ran along the front of the store, a sizable herd had gathered around. I paused for a quick prayer before dropping from the rope.

A song by the band "Cake" came on as my bat struck the jaw of a nearby zombie. A random piece of information I'd picked up Back When told me that a certain nerve behind the mandible could be pinched by such a blow, knocking my attacker out cold. Whether it worked or not wasn't clear to me; the zombie went down and I moved on.

I spun, crouched and swung my bat low, tripping three of the attackers in front of me. I walked across their fallen forms, ignoring the zombies to my right and left. Addressing every undead person between the sidewalk and the exit across the lot would mean a daylong battle. It was best to focus on moving forward. Behind me, I heard Liz and Jeff land. The three of us fell into a dead run.

We fought and sprinted our way across the parking lot in about two minutes. At the corner where our parking lot exit met a road, we caught sight of a large horde answering the air horn's call. Jeff knocked the glass out of a window and we entered a structure that had been intended to serve as a strip mall, Back When. It had never been used.  We  were able to find our way to the roof quickly and survey the route to our first destination.

The San Juan Medical Center was a large building by Longview standards. While the risks of entering a hospital during a zompocalypse seemed pretty obvious even Back When (Where do sick people go? A hospital. What are zombies before we realise they're zombies? Sick people.), it occurred to me that we would need transport, first aid, food and a portable container for the needles that held our cure - all things we'd find at a hospital.

In a zompocalypse, one-stop shopping is a survival imperative.

From the top of the might-have-been strip mall, we could see that our "noise-grenade" had caused an unforeseen problem. The streets and byways leading to Vallenmarkt were flooded with zombies almost two blocks back. Getting from our location to the hospital was going to be difficult. Difficult and time-consuming.

"Thoughts?" I asked my two co-adventurers.

"I see only one way through it." Jeff spoke without hesitation, "We'll have to cut across streets and go through yards and houses. The open walkways are no good to us until we get past the horde.".

I thought for a moment about how sometimes, we take the conventional path because we see safety in numbers. Too rarely do we consider the quality of the people in the crowd. Walking down a street full of zombies is about as wise as casting in your lot with ten thousand corrupt men.

At this point I stopped myself and decided Jeff was right. Our best bet was to avoid the clogged roads and move from house to house instead.

We spent most of the day quietly moving from yard to yard, hopping fences and quietly slicing (or clubbing) the zombies we encountered. I found myself cringing every time Liz or Jeff dispatched another assailant; but I tried to keep my discomfort to myself.  To stand a chance at saving humanity, we had to be a little inhuman.

It was late in the evening when we finally arrived at the hospital. Police cars and road blocks still littered the drive-up at the main entrance. We climbed over the mess of cars, blocks and decayed bodies, passed the shattered glass sliding doors and found an empty room.

After we locked and barricaded the entrance, sleep came easily.

The Noise! Oh, the Noise! Like a shriek and a roar at the same time! He was instantly thrust into a frenzy as the Noise - such Noise!- filled the air from somewhere close. 

He joined the faster monsters in a rampage to attack, to kill and silence the Noise. They clambered and climbed, stumbled and sprinted over fences, over cars, over each other. They found a large open area and tall walls. He raced across the lot, to the largest horde he'd ever seen. He fought his way to the center, where the Noise was coming from. He couldn't hear the grunts and screams around him; the Noise was too loud. The Noise was all-consuming, like a fierce blaze burning his ears and his thoughts and making his head swell and thud. 

KilltheNoisekilltheNoisekilltheNoisekillthenoisekillthenoisekillthenoisekillth-

Suddenly, it went quiet. 

As quickly as the Noise and frenzy had started, both ceased. His aching ebbed to its normal levels and his attention was diverted to the almost-alive dance of a leaf crossing the lot. Hunger replaced curiosity; and he was running again.

Day 591.

The thing about  hospitals is that, once the nurses and doctors leave, the place is creepy as all get-out. Add some decomposing corpses and broken windows and you've got a veritable haunted house of the zompocalypse. Blood was caked on the floor in some areas. Red hand prints smeared some hospital rooms. We even found, in the hallway, a bed with a body covered in a sheet and, pressed through the sheet into the body underneath, an impressively large hunting knife. A sad narrative played out in my head; and I wondered how the owner of the knife would react if he learned of our cure.

 

No one spoke as we made our way up and down each hallway on the first floor.

We encountered a room full of medicines, presumably where the ER's pharmaceuticals were kept. Swiping a backpack from a decomposing battle scene near the cafeteria entrance, we stocked up on everything we thought we could use.

It was Jeff who noted that certain first-aide essentials were absent.

I wondered what sort of essential things I was lacking in life - what internal resources I would miss in an emergency. Smacking myself in the side of the head, I stopped the tangent.

In the cafeteria, we ate a quick meal of untoasted toaster pastries washed down with some canned cola.  Once we'd filled our pack to the brim with what food contained some semblance of nutritional content, we prepared to make our way to the ambulance garage.

Jeff commented on how the more nutritional nonperishables were gone. 

I pondered whether I was investing enough time in good things that would last. Jeff gave me a concerned look as I smacked the side of my head again.

We came around a corner where the hallway opened into the ER's waiting room. Jeff put a hand on my shoulder. Instinctively, I surveyed my surroundings. No movement, moan or munch told of a hungry zombie.

After a moment of fruitless observing, I asked, "What?"

"Something's bothering me, boss." Jeff rumbled.

"Jeff, could you do me a favour?" I asked.

"What?

"Stop sounding so deep."

"Deep?"

"Yeah. I'm spending way too much time finding the hidden truths in everything you say. I'd like to have a normal, shallow human conversation with you."

Jeff was silent for a moment,

"Is having someone around to make you think deep thoughts a bad thing?"

It was my turn to be silent.

"Nevermind, then."

I was about to start walking again when the black giant tightened his grip on my shoulder.

"I never told you what bothered me." He sounded like he was smiling.

So much goes unsaid between friends; it's deeply tragic that even people whose souls are indelibly intertwined can find themselves in a state of mutual ignorance.

"What's bothering you, Jeff?" I sighed at myself.

"The closer we get to this area, the cleaner it is."

Purity is not a constant force. In some areas of a heart, you will find diamonds cut by the hand of God Himself. In the same heart, there can be  mountains of filth. Perhaps you'll be in the part of the heart where a man's guilt is piled sky-high; as you wander to the area where he is a great friend, it gets cleaner and cleaner, until the floor shines. There, you find where God has been given leave to do His work. A pure heart is not one that has avoided this or that particular evil, but one in which God has been allowed a free hand. Purity is not a sign that someone has kept himself from every kind of sin, but that Someone has been around to clean up the messes.

Then it clicked.

I turned to Jeff, "You think someone's living  here?"

Jeff sniffed.

"Was." he  stated quietly. Before I could think on how transient life is on this side of eternity, or whether eternity would have need for  words like "was", he added, "I think someone was living here, until recently."

One squirrel is not enough to share. When you're scrambling over a dog, there's enough for you to chew on without getting in another zombie's way. Even a cat can be broken into two in the course of a skirmish. A squirrel is a different story. A squirrel is a morsel with a fluffy tail. It's a fun-sized snack that is no fun at all to share.

And yet.

And yet this other misanthrope wanted a piece of the delicious action. So they fought. With shrieks and punches and kicks they fought. Grabbing and falling and striking and standing back up to grab and fall and strike some more. They felt powerful and loud and vicious, like beasts at war.

From a distance, they looked like two drunk men.

Being human means that certain things hurt. If they don't hurt, if they fail to catch you in the throat and draw tears, you have let something important drop off from your heart.

I was feeling very human when we found the boy's body in an office behind the reception desk. He could not have been more than sixteen years old, yet the gun in his and and the bite on his arm told us a very adult decision had been thrust upon him. A silence settled between the three of us as we looked over the scene. It was tragic, even more so when I considered the pencil box of hypodermic needles in my pack.

Jeff and I began surveying the room while Liz knelt down next to the boy.

In drawers and on desks we found many of the medicines that had been missing from the closet. In a trash pile in an adjacent room, we found wrappers from the healthier food Jeff had commented about earlier. We also found girls clothing and boots belonging to a man much larger than the boy against the wall.


When we told Liz about our findings, her quiet thought turned to tears. She stroked the boy's hair, pulling some of the clean hair down to cover part of the deadly wound.

"Can you imagine losing everyone a second time?" her voice trembled, "I mean, it was bad enough losing my family and friends once. But, I got you guys and everyone at the store. I got a second chance. This boy.."

She trailed off, as though pondering, like me, how the boy's camo jacket seemed oddly oversize, big in the way a father's shirt looks large on a child who's "getting ready to go to the office, daddy!" When she spoke again, all three of us were near tears, "He lost everyone twice. I don't think I could do it."

The silence that fell among us was thick with thought and feeling, as though our hearts and minds were so full that they were pouring their excess out into the open. When Jeff opened his mouth, his typically heavy words were like boulders falling into a lake.

"We should all be this kind of brave. He made it until he got bit; he kept on fighting until he thought his choices ran out. With the cure, we have no excuse for ever giving up. Not on ourselves, not on each other."

In a flash of unmitigated selfishness, I hoped that Jeff would be around to give my eulogy someday.

Jeff reached down suddenly and grabbed at the boy's chest. With a quick yank, he removed a necklace I hadn't even realised the boy was wearing. Turning to Liz, he tied the string around her neck. Just as quickly as he'd started, Jeff stepped back.

A thin black string held up a round, celtic-style knot made of pewter   At center, intertwined with the design, was a triquetra. It was somewhat reminiscent of a tattoo I'd seen somewhere - the sort of thing you see sold at carnivals and flea markets. In any other circumstance, the necklace would have evoked no sentiments or thought of deeper meaning. For the three of us in that room in that moment, nothing was without meaning.

"I want you to wear that," Jeff rumbled, "and remember what brave is."

Outside, a crow squawked.

Noise! Killethenoise! Alive! Killthealivething!

The meal fought and fluttered a called for its feathered friends, but the man held fast. With a quick squeeze and tear, the insides came outside and the alive thing became the edible thing.


This time, no one expected him to share the kill; and that was good. He was hungry.

For a moment, the man thought he heard voices. Human voices. HUmans are much grander meals than any bird or dog. He stopped munching to listen for the direction of the sound. A few seconds of quiet passed; but nothing happened.

So he enjoyed his bird, down to the last scrap.

I believe that God speaks to us in ten thousand different ways. Whenever understanding come more quickly than normal, I believe He has involved Himself in my thoughts. When coincidence becomes blessing, I believe He has orchestrated events. Because He so great at acting subtly, I believe many of His whispers go unnoticed until we reach the end and look back.

I cannot tell you why the handcuffs hanging from the doorknob of the office we exited caught my eye. I know that, as I pocketed them, I had some vague thought that I might use them to restrain a zombie as we cured him; but I had no concrete reason for hanging onto them.

It wouldn't be until I'd traded myself out for a better model that I would see Providence at work.

The three of us entered the ambulance garage cautiously, glad to find the doors were pulled down and the area clean. Across the doors were painted instructions for an escape. We all tossed our bags into the back of the single ambulance and set ourselves to the tasks written there.

1) Fill gas tank from canisters.
Behind the ambulance, we found four sealed cans of gasoline. We carefully filled the gas tank, making sure to get every possible drop from the containers. It was likely to be along trip: and running out of gas halfway across Kelso sounded like a terrible idea. With care and vigilance, we had our fuel.

2) Move battery from trickle charge to engine.
 It was Jeff who found the battery connected to cables that led outside. Next to it he found a handwritten notebook on the care and tending of a car battery connected to a solar panel. In a few minutes, we had power.

3) Map is in the glove box.
With the press of a button, we had our path.

4) Open the door and make sure alley is clear of debris.

The man was certain there was food behind the metal wall - like noisy, living  food stored in an oversize can, something kept moving and talking. 

 Then, suddenly, the fates smiled on him. The can began to open itself. Rolling back like a sardine tin, the metal wall lifted to reveal three humans!

The man shrieked in ravenous delight.

Time froze as a blood-chilling scream erupted mere feet from me. I looked up and stared into the face of my attacker, the face of my best friend.

He leapt forward to meet the feast. Suddenly, he wasn't there.

My body took over, doing what my mind was not yet ready to handle. As Aaroneous rushed at me, my hands took hold of his head and directed  him around me. My foot came up and gave a quick kick to the back of a knee as my mind still tried to grapple with the best man I know stumbling and writhing around like a common infected.

He sprawled on the ground and scrambled to get back up. Turning again to face his victim, the zombie didn't see the dark shadow forming overhead.

"NO!" I screamed as Jeff lifted a fire axe over his head. He froze, momentarily confused, then deeply annoyed.

"Isaac, you said this would be a Romans 14 thing. You said we could kill them if we had to."

Aaroneous rushed me again. This time, I took the cables from the battery charger and wrapped them around his neck. I spun around and pulled him backward to the rear side of the ambulance. I knew we only had a minute or so before whatever zombies had heard the first shriek would come in search of the source.

"My bag!" I yelled for whoever would listen.

Liz tossed it to me. Sitting on the concrete stage, which was level with the rear door on the vehicle, I pulled the box of needles out with one hand and held Aaroneous down with the other. Already, the tips of the hypodermics were poking through the end of the box. Pulling the plastic latch free, I grabbed a needle.

"Jeff!" I motioned for him to hold the zombie down.

Reaching into my bag again, I stopped short.  I looked at Jeff, whose massive hands were wrapped around Aaroneous' shoulders. Seeing the looked on my face, his eyes widened a bit.

"My gloves." I said, "Jeff, do you know where my gloves are?"

"Why would I know?" my friend was (understandably) exasperated, " You're the freaking vegan!"

Leaning into the ambulance, I emptied my bag on the floor of the vehicle. No pierce-proof gloves.  Sudden gun blasts told me that Liz was fighting off the first of what would likely be a horde. Leaning back onto my butt, I became aware of the handcuffs again. It was instantly clear to me what would need to happen. Jeff seemed to pick up on my thoughts.

"Boss, don't - "

"Jeff, I have to. You'll see soon enough why. Just do me a favour."

Jeff sighed a deep, manly sigh, "What's that, Boss?"

"If I don't make it back, say something nice at my funeral."

I looked Aaroneous' zombie form in the eyes and said, "Listen to me: When you wake up, help these guys with the cure. They needed me; but now they need you. Find Hannah. If you can, come back for me, too."

I quickly handcuffed my left hand to a handle  that stuck out from a cement post near us. Biting down on the needle of the hypodermic, I yanked as hard as I could. The metal grated against my teeth and poked my gums. I groaned as the tip came off at the last second.  Jamming my hand into the zombie's mouth, I pressed the plunger. Aaroneous screamed and fought and bit down as hard as he could.

The pain was blinding as I pulled my hand free and grabbed my empty backpack. I had just finished pulling it down over his head when I forgot who I was.

***

 "Why him, Liz? Why would Isaac leave us like that for him?"

"You don't know who that is?"

"I heard him say, 'Aaroneous'. Who has a name like 'Aaroneous'?"

"I heard Isaac telling Manuel about him once. This guy's a legend."

"Man, that's just how Isaac talks. Everything's a legend."

"No, this was for real. For starters, imagine if Isaac was good at math and science."

"If Isaac was good at math and science, he'd know how to fly, too."

"Exactly."

"What, this guy's like Isaac with superpowers?"

"If knowing just about everything Isaac didn't is a superpower, yes."

"I don't trust him. He's funny-shaped. I want Isaac back."

"If this guy's all Isaac said he was, it'll happen."

Day 616.

Aaron had noticed that Jeff and Liz were wary of him at first, while the doctor was enthusiastic about talking with him. Aaron also noticed that, whenever Isaac came up in conversation, Liz would reach for her necklace - a pewter celtic peace knot. Jeff would become quiet.

In the weeks following the encounter between best friends in Longview, life was an exercise in adaptation - adapting to having lost almost everyone he'd known before, adapting to an entirely different world, adapting to memories of the most disturbing sort. 

The doctor was a good confidant, gentle in his approach but deeply interested in hearing about the retroactive nature of Aaron's memories. He was also brilliant. 

At first, he began explaining the basics of what was going on. The doctor was so engaging that, as quickly as he could be shown the way to the library, Aaron was soaking up all kinds of information about chemistry and the cure. Before long, the two of them were bouncing ideas off of each other at breakfast and writing down plans by lunch. As Liz and Jeff saw the progress being made with the cure, they began to show Aaron more friendliness.

They lived in a house and yard that had been specifically fortified for a zompocalypse. There, they could safely do just about anything that needed doing.

One day, as they talked of how hopeful things were beginning to look, the doctor spoke.

"We are in for a mess." he said, "There is no simple way to mouth-feed an entire world of cannibals a cure. There is no simple way to rebuild entire civilisations from the rubble we've inherited. There is no simple way to keep this disease from coming back. No, there is no simple way to do any of it; but, if we're up for some hardship, there is a way."

The End

-isaac 

Evangelists: A Reader's Request (Pt. 5)

Even after a month of mourning and another month and a half of praying and working through the melancholy, my nights, which had finally evicted their old ghosts, found themselves with new heartaches to dwell on.

I could still see myself fumbling clumsily with the pierce-proof gloves, syringes and pliers while one zombie became five.

I could still see Manuel trying to climb off of a rickety shelf to help me contain my mistake. I could see the pain and injury his attempts had caused him.

I could still hear the wet "crunch" of Joshua's suicide.

How had I let things fall so far out of control?

Day 582.

"I don't understand this. Why do you constantly need to antagonise everybody? Why am I stepping in, pulling you off a different angry victim every day?"

Brett didn't reply, he only leaned back in his chair and smirked. I let the question sit for a few moments.

I wanted to reach across the table between us and smack that smirk off of his face. I wanted to pull him to the ground, pound the arrogance out of him and cut out his defiance with my machete. If he didn't survive the surgery, my job would be that much easier.

This man brought out the worst in me.

"Look." I sighed,"I don't enjoy this. I don't like telling you off every day; I don't like feeling that you and I are on opposite teams. I want everyone here to work together. What will it take to get you on our side?"

More silence. More smirking.

"Three days." I hit my palm against the table and stood to leave.

"Step down."

I sat back down, leaning forward.

"Come again?" I asked

"If you step down, and leave someone aside from Manuel in charge, I'll play nice."

"So this is personal." I stated.

More silence. Another smirk. God's grace kept my machete in its sheath.

"Well, I can tell you this: I'm not stepping down just to satisfy your personal issues. Three days in Joshua's cell will probably accomplish nothing for your attitude; but it will give us all a break from you."

I stood once more and left the table. The small group of observers that had gathered around the public hearing in our cafeteria began to murmur as they dispersed. I heard one man complain, "It should have been a week at least."

Since my return to leadership, I'd made a point of being more active in protecting the people in my group. Outside missions had ceased altogether; our work with the cure had taken a back seat. In that season, I only took the syringes out of my freezer when one of our own had turned and we were able to tie the person down. All other zombies caught the business end of my machete. When it came to Brett, it seemed that the more I tried to dissuade him from bullying others in our small community, the more he felt the need to bully.

Forbidden fruit seems twice as sweet, I suppose.

I spent a few hours weeding and cleaning our rooftop garden. As I prayed about Brett and my attitude toward him, a crisp wind blew across the town, I stood and spread my arms out. Small graces were my whole sustenance in those days.  A soft shower fell later, carrying me through a few more hours before I noticed my mood darkening again.

Manuel wheeled up to me as I descended the ladder back into the store. He was riding a lawn chair we'd rigged up with bicycle wheels. His days of climbing much of anything seemed to be a thing of the past; and I could blame only myself for that. Walking at his side was a smiling Liz. They'd become an official "thing" a few weeks ago; and neither had stopped grinning since.

As I stepped from the bottom rung, I greeted them . Manuel began talking animatedly about an indoor forest idea, putting small trees in pots to filter the air inside. He'd even begun designing a gutter system to collect water from leaks in the roof and and drain it into the pots.

"The birds-to-stone ratio here is great! We can stop emptying those buckets we've got laying everywhere and make watering the trees a non-issue."

I leaned against the ladder, crossing my arms.

"I really like your  idea, Manuel. I just don't know where we'd find the materials for it. I mean, a gutter system that canvases the whole store would be quite a project. Do you think we've enough stuff laying around?"

Manuel shook his head, "No, I'm actually sure we don't; but the Hardware Depot across the lot still has quite a bit of goods left in it. If you sent a team of four or five, they could bring back most of the materials we'd need in two trips, three at most."

I looked down and began shaking my head as he spoke.

"No. No going outside. It's too risky."
 
Lifting my eyes again, I saw Liz rest a reassuring hand on Manuel's shoulder as he gave her a quiet smile that, for all its authenticity, bespoke a deep sadness - perhaps even disappointment. The man fell fifteen feet and landed in a whole new life, one with a myriad of restrictions he'd never had to consider before. Yet it seemed that he mourned for me.

"If you say so, boss." He gave me a respectful nod before wheeling away.

I climbed back up to the roof to soak in some more rain and wind. Small graces.

Day 583.
I took a plate of food to Brett at lunch the next day. I sat in front of his cell and ate with him, as I sometimes had when Joshua lived in it.

A few times during the silent meal, I had to close my eyes against the memory of Joshua's death and shame and pain it pulled up.

After Brett handed his empty plate and cup to me, he spoke.

"You know what the difference between you and me is?" he asked.

I'm not a dirtbag?

"Which one are you thinking of right now, sir?" I replied.

"You care too much."

I am sure that whatever expression I had on my face in that moment was almost telepathic in how openly it betrayed my skepticism.

You mean, I care.

"I know I sound like the heartless bad guy here." he nearly drawled, "Listen to me."

Yes, listen to the heartless bad guy.

As much as I wanted to leave, to dismiss the man once more, I decided to stay and listen. Small graces can facilitate grace.

"When crap hit the fan," he began, "I knew that being sentimental was something I couldn't afford. I needed to stay alive, nothing else. Not listen to people's problems or be their friend. I didn't have time to gain trust or respect; so their fear had to do. You treat me like I'm some kind of threat to people here; but let me to tell you something: Your feel-good nonsense about curing everyone and sending folks out on rescue missions is going to get us all killed.

"So yes, I am a jerk. I don't care about how people feel about me; I speak my mind; and everyone knows I'm not going to play the noble game when it comes to getting out alive. At least I'm not like you. I don't have them all rooting for me while I take bets with their lives."

I thought for a few minutes before taking our dishes up to the roof for cleaning.

I handed two plates and two cups to the crewman overseeing the aftwernoon's dishes and returned once again to the far edge of the roof. The sun was high in the sky and the air over Longview clear, lending me a wide view of my town. Once more I wondered what the streets would look like if I walked them right then. Looking down, I could see a horde had gathered around the side of the store, where a few unfortunate dogs had made their last stand.

Something in me shifted as I watched the grotesque feast going on below me. Something about what Brett had said to me made me feel weak, as though my desire to be trusted and helpful made me a spineless leader. As I took in the heartless, zombie-eat-dog world laying before me, I wanted to prove that I could make difficult calls and do those uncomfortable things that needed doing. I wanted to prove that I could be rock-hard.

I turned away from the scene and made my way back down the ladder. Across the store, I stopped short at the emergency door Joshua had entered through as a zombie. I took a deep breath and pushed the door open, stepping outside.

Alone.

I swept my blade upward at my first assailant, gutting him as he fell. Before he hit the ground, I grabbed the zombie behind him, pulling on the front of her shirt until she tripped over her comrade. As I curb-stomped the one, I spun around to decapitate another. I push-kicked the headless body, knocking down at least three behind it. A hand grasped at the back of my shirt; I turned, took off both arms and bashed the man's head against the wall until I heard the satisfying "crack" that told me he was done. By this time, the two dogs had been eaten and my potential as dinner made me far more interesting than anything else in the parking lot.

A zombie offered its head to me, snarling and snapping. I took it as payment toward Manuel's legs. I took the next one's legs before laying it flat and piercing his heart. That one was for Joshua. Next came one for the eleven people we'd lost to the battle during Linda's attempted escape. Then I worked my machete across a throat as retribution for burying my sisters. A head flew off as I recalled killing a cashier I had been charged with leading. An attacker fell to the ground because I'd had to read my best friend's last words as a text message. Another for the times I'd loved recklessly and walked away with a heart more broken than I knew was possible. Another for my mother's death when I was sixteen. Another for every pet I'd buried in our back yard to the dirge of my sisters' tears.

With a crowd around me, I went nuts. I pushed and kicked and hacked in every direction. A cry escaped my lungs as tears blurred my vision. I felt furious and grief-stricken and inhuman. For some reason, I thought of Mel Gibson.

Arms wrapped around me, pulling me off my feet. Another set of arms wrapped themselves around my legs. I was suddenly carried away at a speed and with a purpose that seemed atypical to the hungry creatures surrounding me. Using what little of my arm was loose, I tried to cut my way free. One of the zombies yelled my name; and I started screaming.

Suddenly, I was inside the Vallenmarkt building, dumped on the floor. One of my crewmen was grabbing his arm, cursing and bleeding. Manuel, looking like a Brazilian Professor X, told the other men who'd brought me in to tend to their friend. He pointed a crossbow at me.

"I need a word with our leader." he gave me a look that foretold of the reprimand to come.

At his asking, I told him about my conversation with Brett and all that had followed. He still had that look on his face; and he was still pointing a crossbow at me.

"So, let me get this straight: To prove that you're a good leader and that you know how to be strong and independent, you decided to put yourself in pointless danger and risk bringing the infection back inside with you? You know, that really does show everyone -Brett especially- that you don't play games with our safety."

I felt more than a little foolish.

"You forgot to mention injure one of my crewmen." I sighed.

"What's going on with you, Isaac?"

I didn't meet his gaze; and I didn't respond. He leaned forward in his makeshift wheelchair.

"Isaac, do you realise you left a pile of dead people out there? Not zombies, people. You slaughtered a bunch of people we could have helped today -people we could have cured - and you did it because you're sad? You won't rescue people or get supplies because 'that's too risky'; but you'll go kill a crowd of people to prove something to Brett?

"I feel like the Mad Hatter in that Tim Burton movie. You were so much bigger and braver and smarter before. What happened? You've 'lost your muchness'."

I felt like crying just then.

"You need to get it back, Isaac," he continued,"'cause your version of caution is going to get us all killed."

Manuel sentenced me to two days in Joshua's cell, granting Brett an early release.

Day 584.
Liz came and prayed with me the next morning. She told me that Manuel had been working his way through Linda's computer. He'd found an address for the scientist she'd been working with.

"He also found a whole grip of music. He put this together for you; he thinks it could help you get your muchness back."

She handed me a small iPod and some earbuds, presumably taken from the pile of electronics we'd moved to set up out theatre. I turned the player on and found a playlist called "Action Hero". I switched it off, talked with Liz a bit longer and slept.

Manuel woke me later, having been carried up the ladder to my locked perch by one of our larger crewmen. He sat in front of my cell with his misshapen legs turned to the side. I threw my blanket off and sat with my face very nearly up against the bars.

"Did you listen to the playlist?" he asked.

"Not yet." I admitted, "I've been sleeping most of today."

"You should listen to it. It'd do you some good."

It was quiet for a few moments.

"I'm a mess, aren't I?"

Manuel laughed quietly, "Yeah, yeah you are."

"How do I undo that? How do I keep from failing you all again?"


Again, there was a short silence.

"You wanna know what's funny about that?" Manuel mused, "You didn't start failing us until you became convinced you were failing us. Once you started trying to not fail us, you started making a wreck of things."

"How? How does making an effort to keep more people safe cause so many problems?"

"It's not that you were trying to do things better; it's that you thought it was about you at all. Remember grace orientation?"

"Yeah, 'It's not about me.'"

"Exactly. You're carrying too much weight. You think that we succeed or fail because you're awesome or not. There was a time when you were satisfied to do your best and let God handle everything else. That includes all the things that have been breaking your heart."

"I guess you're right."

"Of course I am; and there's something else I'm right about."

"What's that?"

"You need to go on mission. You need to take the cure to Linda's doctor friend.."

I groaned.

"...and get it mass-produced."

"Manuel, listen-"

"No, you listen." Something about how he said that made me stop short, "There is an entire world out there, burning to the ground. We have a way of saving it - the only way of saving it. You mean to tell me that you can't be bothered? You mean to tell me that you're not willing to give up your cozy little cell for that? That is not the Isaac I follow. That is not the character of a leader I'm interested in fighting for. I mean, look at yourself! I believe in you more than anyone else here; and I'm locking you up!"

As he spoke, his frustration dissolved into disappointment; and I couldn't be sure which was worse.

"I don't know what to say, Manuel. I'm sorry?"

"Don't apologise; just remind me of our motto."

"What?"

"Our motto, Isaac. What is it?"

"Um, 'Deadly in battle..."

"...lively in good deeds.'"

The second half we said in unison. I couldn't help but smile.

"Be that man again, Isaac. Listen to the music; it'll do you good."

The crewman appeared without command, carrying my closest friend back to his chair.

After a few minutes, I put the headphones in my ears and let the music do its work. I spent the rest of that day and night listening to the songs on that iPod. Manuel was right, it did me quite a bit of good.

Day 588.
"I'll be taking our best fighters on this mission. It will be the most dangerous trip we've made and will take us further away than anything we've done thus far. Manuel will be left in charge again. Are there any questions?"

Brett's hand was up before I'd finished speaking.

"You already know that I think this is a stupid move that is likely to get you all killed. But you're going to do it anyway. And you already know that I don't want to serve King Isaac's favourite as successor. But you're going to leave him in charge anyway. Well, I'm done being dismissed. I refuse to see the few lord over the many."

"Brett," I smiled as I spoke, "you know that we do most things by vote. You also know that I hold a very loose grasp on my leadership here. If a vote shows that Manuel is not wanted as a leader, we'll find someone else. I appointed him because I trust him."

Brett sneered, "I'd ask for a vote, but you've already won all these people over to your nonsense; I see through it, Isaac. I see straight to your slimy, lying bones. I won't do this anymore."

"Well, Brett, you are welcome to leave at any time." Manuel smiled broadly. A soft laughter rose from the group.

"That's not what I mean, Your Highness." the man nearly spat the words, "I'm going to handle this the way folks did hundreds of years ago, before humanity went soft." He pointed a finger at me and declared, "I'm challenging you to a duel."

The whole group burst into laughter, myself included. Brett stormed up to the box I was standing on and turned to face the crowd.

"I mean it!" he shouted. We quieted down, "A tyrant is only strong until the people he oppresses stand up; and I'm tired of waiting for this nutcase  to do something that really will kill us all!"


"You can't be serious!", one man guffawed again.
  "Oh, come on Brett!" Gladys spoke up, "Isaac's made mistakes, sure. But you've always had a thing against him, since he rescued your sorry butt from that church. Some people would think a bit of gratitude's in order; but not you!"

"Stow it, Gladys." Brett growled, "Just because he saved you doesn't mean he's going to save us all."

"No, that's Jesus' job." I interjected. Sometimes, I'm an incorrigible smart alec.

"Actually, sir," the whole of Brett's college group was standing; but only one of them spoke. The speaker was a young girl, holding tight to Liz's hand, "you'd be doing me - I mean, us -  a favour if you fought with Brett."

That silenced even Brett.

I stepped down from my milk crate and asked, "What makes you say that?"


In the silence that followed, tears escaped the girl's eyes. Liz put an arm across her shoulders and murmured reassuringly. When the girl spoke again, I recognised the uneven tones of heartache and fury.
  "He's made our lives hell since Back When. We've always been afraid to say anything because he threatened to kill us if you or Manuel found out. We think, if you two fought, maybe he'd stop."

I was stunned. Manuel looked unsurpiresd, but no less furious than anyone else in the room. Brett started to storm toward the speaker of his group; but the whole of our community stood up at once.

"All in favour of a duel?" Manuel asked.

No one laughed; the vote was unanimous.

Brett approached me as the group dispersed and spoke with quiet vehemence, "Make no mistakes, King Isaac: one way or another, this is to the death. If I am still alive when you leave -and I will be- your buddy in the chair will be the first to go. His blonde girlfriend will be next. I am done with all of you."

Manuel approached us and issued a one-hour preparation time.

I sat at a table with my machete while Brett made his way to the back room. Manuel pulled up next to me. Our usual quiet camaraderie preceded any speaking. I broke the silence.

"When we go on mission, I think I'll have to leave the machete behind."

Manuel turned in his chair to express his puzzlement.

"Why?"

"Because, if I really believe that the zombies I encounter are people in need of the cure we have, I have no business killing them. I'll probably have to resort to some kind of incapacitation, but not killing. "

Manuel started laughing and clapping his hands.

"What?" I demanded, "I think it's a valid point!"

"Yes, yes I agree!"Manuel crowed, "This is the Isaac I'd follow into battle! This is the fearless, selfless man I believe in! Now," his voice dropped to a whisper, "what are you going to do about Brett?"

"Kill him." I was surprised at how level my voice was, "The kids have asked for their revolution; and he's already told me he'd kill everyone he didn't like as soon as I was gone. I can't take the chance."

Manuel nodded.

"Deadly in battle, right?" he smiled.

After a pause, I said, "Thank you for the playlist. Somehow, it's exactly what I needed - something to remind me of what it means to be truly 'manly'."

Manuel just nodded again.

Our "duel" was arranged more like a boxing match. We stood at opposite sides of an open area next to our cafeteria, with everyone in the store gathered around us. Manuel listed the rules: one-on-one, any weapon, to the death. Many people gave a double-take when he added the last clause; but no one protested aloud.

I had my machete out of its sheath; Brett appeared to be unarmed.

Manuel stepped out of our impromptu ring and shouted, "Begin!"

I read once that, if you must fight, you should strike first and strike hard. I've yet to find a situation to which that did not apply.

I rushed forward, swinging my blade upward as I had so many times before. From behind his back, Brett drew a pistol and leveled it at my rapidly approaching face. It was a large-caliber revolver, nearly a handheld cannon; and Brett looked like he knew how to handle the thing. As I dropped into a somersault, an explosion sounded though the whole building. Standing, I found myself exactly where I had hoped to be. His arm was over my shoulder; and his face only inches from mine.

There was a grunt and a spurt of blood as I broke the man's nose with my forehead. He stepped back once. Before he gained his footing, I brought my blade around and took his head.

"A true man fights not for hatred of what stands before him but for love what what's behind him."
-Evan Beacom

In the silence that followed, I found that tears were again falling from my eyes. Brett's headless body stood for a moment, blood spraying from his truncated neck; and a soft, sad note played like a wind flute as his last breath escaped his open throat. As the dead man finally slumped to the floor, I sobbed.











Turning around, I found Manuel and Liz tending to the poor man who'd taken the bullet I dodged. The man would lose his arm, but live. I found one of the buckets we used to collect rain water and washed the blood from my machete. Brett joined the rest of our fallen in the pit behind the store. 

We have a habit of canonising the dead. Somehow, even the worst men we know are not so bad when they step across the threshold of Eternity. Though the people in our community had long hoped Brett would leave us, they mourned for the manner of his departure. Though everyone would later hear of the horrors he had committed against his  students, those same students wept bitterly  as we set the pit ablaze. 

Manuel later asked me if I repented at all for killing Brett.

I told him no, that I was certain I'd done the right thing.

He said nothing.

On the roof, I prayed about all that had happened, thanking God especially for friends like Manuel, gifts like music and attributes like bravery. I prayed about the next day's mission and all the uncertainties involved in trekking across a zompocalyptic wasteland. I promised to never make fun of Elijah Wood again.

Day 589.
Liz and I dug through a pallet of baseball equipment. She was annoyed that I wouldn't use any of the aluminum bats we were surrounded by or any of the wooden ones we'd already inspected.

"Why does it matter?" she complained.

"Because it does!" I retorted.

So we kept digging.

Another 15 minutes later, I shouted in elation, holding up the prized item. Liz walked over and inspected the words burned into the wood implement.

"Louisville Slugger?" It was clear they held no significance to her.

"It's pronounced 'LOO-ah-vull' or 'LOO-ee-vill', depending on who you ask."

She rolled her eyes.

"Seriously, though. This bat is legendary. If I'm going to non-lethal my way to Linda's doctor, I'm going to use the best equipment."

As I spoke the words "non-lethal", my friend began to look nervous; and I knew she was counting on her archery and knives to clear a path back to Manuel. I assured her that this was a Romans 14 thing, a matter of personal conviction.

"I get that you think of it as self-defense; and I'm not going to pick a fight with you over it. This is my thing."

"Oh, good." she sighed. After a few moments, she asked, "So, do you feel ready for this?"

"For what?"

"For this - our mission, fighting across post-apocalyptic Longview and Kelso to the house of a man who may or may not still be alive and may or may not be able to do anything with the cure we're bringing to him. Are you ready for something like that?"

"Oh that? No, of course not."

"Me neither."

"Good."

To be continued...

 Isaac's "Action Hero" Playlist
Seven Nation Army (Remix) - Glitch Mob/White Stripes
The Distance - Cake
Welcome Home (Clean Edit) - Coheed and Cambria
Flower - Moby
E-Pro - BeckSail - AWOLNation
We're Not Gonna Take It - Twisted Sister
The Word is Strong - Nate Grossman
Handlebars - Flobots
Boom - POD
John Woo - Newsboys
Code Name Vivaldi - The Piano Guys
Ain't No Rest For The Wicked - Cage the Elephant
Beautiful Things - Gungor
Du Hast - Rammstein
Alive - POD 
Moonlight - The Piano Guys

-isaac

Evangelists: A Reader's Request (Pt. 4)

We found her lair in Lawn and Garden. There, a closet I had forgotten about was found opened; and in the space above it, we discovered something more odd than we could have imagined. From that awkward corner of a big-box store, the keys to changing the world came into our possession. I suppose it was like a pinch of yeast in the dough of humanity - because of something minute and obscure, nothing would ever be the same.

Day 477.
Manuel looked at me in horror, setting down the journal he'd been reading.

Linda's lair, a small laboratory installed in the ceiling of an out-of-the-way closet, had been full of strange equipment, even stranger smells and ten journals packed with the cashier/scientist's small handwriting.

My pre-apocalyptic hobby of hunting down etymologies was a boon to our reading; I was able to mentally break down a lot of her scientific terms to get a clearer picture of Linda's work. However, even with that help, what we gleaned from the books could only have been a fraction of a glimpse into the strange world she'd inhabited

We found that, somehow, Linda was connected with a doctor in the neighboring town of Kelso. He was a scientist of the fringe variety.

His lab was in the basement of his house; and he and Linda had made the fight against a zompocalypse their secret work long before the infection hit. Most of the first three journals we read chronicled their process of ruling out different zombie-infection possibilities.

They had compiled a list of scenarios which could lead to a zombie outbreak. Their ideas read like a science fiction thriller. The pages included everything from weaponised viruses to nanobot infestations - diseased crops and mutated "mad cow". I never found out which terrifying model they'd based their cure on - only that a cure had been found and that the doctor was ready to mass-produce it in his basement.

Their joint research had utilised an intranet connection (somehow installed the first night of the outbreak) and a myriad of field missions - like samples taken from living subjects. Apparently, she'd even had a zombie tied up in her lab with her for three days. She killed it only when she feared its shrieks would lead to her discovery.

I learned that she'd kept her research a secret because she and her doctor believed a failure in their work could lead to panic, retaliation and a world of other problems.

"Best to work alone," she wrote, "best to come forward with only the best of news."

Linda's last journal revealed that she'd been attempting a human trial the night she died; she had two-hundred doses of the cure ready for transport once its effectiveness had been confirmed. It was in the entry Manuel had been reading that a terrifying detail came to bear.

Apparently, the only way to administer the cure was orally. According to Linda's research, the infected avoided foods into which the dose had been inserted, as though something about the smell and taste of the medicine was unpleasant to them. Cures administered by squirting the liquid into the zombie's mouth from a distance had only been spat out and resulted in an even more aggressive attack. The dose had to be sent directly down the zombie's throat.

The records detailed that there were two hundred hypodermic needles with wax-clogged tips in her lab. Her idea was to use pliers to separate the sharp from its cartridge. Then, shoving her hand as far into the mouth of the zombie as possible, she was going to use the needle's plunger to spray the liquid into the assailant's esophagus. She figured one dose would take effect within a half-hour.


Day 478. 
I found some pierce-proof gloves and a few lengths of rope in our hardware bins. At the back of the store, we positioned shelves around a fire exit to bottleneck any entering zombies.

Manuel and Liz stood by with crossbows ready while I waited at the end of a miniature hall. One of our men pushed the door open with a long dowel. At the end of the dowel was a hook that he set around the door handle. It was less than a minute before footsteps approached the opening. Red eyes met mine; and a shriek of anger alerted the man to begin pulling the door closed. He managed to get it shut as soon as our test subject cleared it.

I had tied one end of my rope, creating an adjustable loop, to a pillar just to the side of  the "hallway"exit. As a short, stocky man with blood on his beard stormed at me, I drew the rope tight, clothes-lining the poor guy. He went down hard and struggled to get back up, giving me time to grab the back of his shirt collar and drag him to the pillar. He turned to bite at my calf; I punched him in the nose. Even if it didn't hurt him, his eyes watered, blurring his vision.

I loosened the rope around the pillar, set the zombie's back against it, drew the rope tight again around his chest and wound the remainer around the man until I could be sure he'd stay put. Then, opening his mouth, I pulled his tongue out with one hand and pointed a de-sharped hypodermic cartridge down his throat with the other. I depressed the plunger quickly and backed away.

Sitting down on the floor directly ahead of him, I watched the dezombification of Patient 1.

The stages of recovery were very distinct. At first, the zombie sputtered and coughed and gagged, kicking his feet and shrieking at the top of his lungs. Then, he quieted down and the colour in his eyes and face began to fade. A confused look fell on him, as though he was trying to remember something important. Then, at twenty-seven minutes and ten seconds, his eyes widened, his face turned a deep red again and the man began to weep uncontrollably.

"I'm so sorry!" he wailed.

Liz, Manuel and I looked at each other, unsure of how to react. He had spoken, a trait we had never encountered in an infected individual. One had to wonder, though, how completely the cure cured.

The man cried, non-stop, for an hour.

After his wails had resolved into hiccuping sobs, then to sniffling breaths, I made eye contact with Patient 1.

"Sir?" I cleared my throat, " my name's Isaac; you're in an old Vallenmarkt store; and my friends and I are here to help you."

"I know where I am." the man replied. I nearly jumped, "My name's Joshua; I live in Kalama; and I killed my whole family." As he said the last bit, he began to weep again.

"I ate them!" he sobbed, " How could I do that? How could I tear my little Sammy apart like that?"

Manuel appeared next to me with a bottle of water and a handkerchief. handing these to me, he nodded toward our heartbroken guest. I looked up at my friend, at a loss. Reading my expression, Manuel shrugged and nodded again at Joshua.

I approached slowly, opening the water bottle and sitting down again, this time at Joshua's side. I lifted the bottle so he could see what I intended and set the neck against his mouth. He parted his lips and tilted his head back, taking in about a third of the bottle before pausing to breathe.

"I didn't realise how thirsty I was." he coughed..

I let silence fall between us as tears fell down his face again. I poured some water on his head and dried him off with the handkerchief. He cried and the rested and then cried some more. I sat with him silently.

As he slowly regained his composure, his story flowed from him.

He had been alerted to the danger by gunfire and screams up and down the main road in Kalama, a small town about five miles south of Longview. Joshua had grabbed a gun, locked all the doors, pulled the shades and hidden in his basement with his wife and two girls. As though he'd never seen a zombie movie in his life, the poor man returned to the main floor to fetch their dog. It was in this quest to save the family pet that he met an infected neighbor who'd zombie-raged his way into the house, became an infected neighbor with zombie-rage of his own and returned to the basement to devour his family.

He tore his wife and children limb from joint; and now, in his saner mind, he remembered every moment of the attack.

From there, he told me about life as a zombie, how the infected roam and fight in packs much like dogs. He described a fierce hunger which sometimes had him eating other infected, though they tasted disgusting to even his deadened senses. He spoke of sporadic, frantic stampedes and days spent wandering until a loud noise, a bright flash or something moving quickly had him rushing at a full, enraged sprint.

Vallenmarkt attracted the infected, he said, because they could smell the flesh of slain zombies or fallen cohorts burning in our pit out back.

"It's like a zombie barbecue" he told me.

We built a cell  for Joshua on the top of one of the high shelves in the back room. It was so constructed that, though our new guest was able to move about, he would fall some fifteen feet to a concrete floor if he tried to escape.

"I know it feels like a prison." I said as we closed the door on his new abode, "I hope you'll believe me when I say that it's only because we know nothing about how well the cure works and that it's only until we can feel sure that the change in you is permanent."

He didn't reply, only looked at me with eyes full of loss.

Manuel and I arranged for Joshua to have a constant armed escort during the day. This way, we could observe his behavior, allow him some freedom from his cell during daylight hours, integrate him into our community and keep him from hurting anyone - all at once. Joshua seemed glad to be allowed to walk around, though his "gladness" was more like "only ninety-nine point nine-eight percent as much heartache as before".

When he slept, he had nightmares that kept us all awake.

I told the men who'd be trading off as his escort to catalogue any odd behaviour and to alert me post-haste if he showed a hint of aggression.


Day 492.
Brett got punched; and everyone said a quiet "Hallelujah" when it happened.

It had been clear from the start that Joshua's cure touched only the physical effects of his illness. What had not been affected were the habits he'd formed during his life as a zombie or the heart-rending memories of all he had done in those days.

He showed a shortness of temper that, considering how unsure we were that the cure would last, was unsettling. I could tell, in watching him from my various perches throughout the store, that he was trying - as hard as I could imagine anyone trying - to stay calm. Still, retaining his composure was an almost constant effort for him.

Being Brett, the youth-pastor-turned-I-wish-I-was-a-zompocalypse-commando refused to believe or even hope that the cure had worked. Thus, convinced that the right push would send Joshua back to his monstrous past, he pushed hard from every angle. Every day for two weeks, Brett would pile insults and heartless verbal attacks on Joshua. At lunch, he'd "accidentally" dump food onto Joshua's lap, just as he'd "accidentally" bump-shove Joshua when they crossed paths during the day.

Secretly, I was glad for Brett's assaults.

From my various perches throughout the store, I could watch the altercations. As my men focused on Brett, I could watch Joshua and monitor his reactions. I found that the rage he felt was manageable; it was a deeply seated habit that he was desperately trying to unlearn. In my watching, I could see the fire growing in his expression, then subsiding as he pushed it back. When he got to his cell each night, the furious man would beat the daylights out of his pillow.

One morning, as I was contemplating Joshua's progress as observed against Brett's d-baggery, Liz stopped me. She seemed more flustered than I'd ever seen her. Flustered and angry.

"I just came from the cleanup in the back room." Each day, one group within our community cleaned a certain part of the store. This way, we had a constant rotation of people keeping our living space decent, "I watched Pastor Brett feel up one of the girls in his group. The girl's half his age, Isaac. Can we step in NOW?"

I sucked in a deep breath and exhaled as slowly as I could manage. Before the air was out of my body, I knew I wouldn't be in a state to make a good decision for at least a few minutes. I so badly wanted a solid reason to hang Brett from the wall by his toenails.

"Let me meet with Joshua first. I'll take a couple minutes to pray on it, then we can talk over lunch."

Liz nodded reluctantly and left. Just as she rounded a corner at the end freezers, Joshua  walked up. The timing worried me. Did he hear what we were just discussing? I wondered.

We talked for about an hour, discussing all that he'd been through, including Brett's constant antagonism. I encouraged Joshua to continue working on his anger, giving him Bible passages to recite and memorise. We prayed together. As the haunted man stood to go, I told him a bit of what I'd seen in him since he arrived.

"You were a monster for a bit, " I said, "and you lived a monster's life. Now, you've been remade into a human, set free from monsterhood. The difficulty I see with you is not that you might become a monster again, but that you are unlearning all your monstrous habits. This anger you're dealing with doesn't make me think you're not healed - only that you're learning what it means to be human again."

I gave the poor man an awkward hug; and he left.

I spent a few minutes praying about what Liz had told me. Even as I asked God for peace and wisdom, my blood boiled.

The issue was again pushed to the far corner of my mind when I heard shouting coming from the back room; pulling my machete out once more, I ran. As I burst through the double-doors, I found two of my crewmen holding Brett and Joshua apart as they exchanged threats.

"How did they taste, Josh?" Brett was taunting, "Is it true that people taste like pig? Did your little girl's arms taste like pulled pork? Maybe next time, you'd like some barbecue sauce, huh?"

At that, I saw every hint of self-restraint leave Joshua's eyes. He shrieked at Brett, shoving the man holding him to the side. He grabbed Brett's shirt. Brett looked stunned, yet somehow satisfied.

"You are everything I hate about who I was." Joshua seethed, "You're an animal on two feet. You bully the kids that trusted you and molest girls who depended on you. You're as soulless as I ever was."

Pulling back his fist, Josh sent forth a strike that smacked against Brett's face like a tenderiser against steak. The room was quiet for a moment; then Brett, his nose pouring out blood, laughed.

"I knew I'd get you." he spat, "You're still just a zombie who can talk. All the primal rage is still there."

Suddenly, as though we'd all come to our senses at once, those of us who'd been watching reacted. The men who'd held them apart at first once again separated Brett and Joshua, directing each in the direction opposite the other. I followed Brett and gave Manuel a signal to stay with Joshua. Brett was taken to the men's room, where I tended to his nose with some rags.

"He belongs outside, with the rest of the zombies." Brett sneered.

"Don't be ridiculous." I sighed, "I'd punch you, too, if you said those kinds of things to me."

Next to me, a crewman said, "I wanted to punch you for saying those things to anyone."

"So what, violence goes unpunished now? Or is it only when King Isaac likes you?"

I sighed again. The guys who had joined us started cursing and suggesting a few different orifices into which Brett could insert his attitude. I quieted them down; and we finished in silence.

Day 495.
Joshua spent three days in his cell for punching Brett though, secretly, I was glad for the incident. Even when pushed to that extreme, Joshua seemed to have retained his humanity. A punch was reasonable; biting Brett's face off would've been worrisome.

Manuel and I sat atop the freezer/lockers I shared with some of Brett's college-age youth. My daily Bible study was going to start soon; and Manuel was taking a quick break between repairing a broken sky light and tightening some loose bolts in the back room shelves we used as beds for my crew. I was giving Manuel a hard time for a quiet adoration of Liz that he'd been fostering for a few months, at least.

"When're you gonna' ask her out to the movies, man?" I teased, "I'm sure we could rig up a drive-in style theatre in electronics. You could cry together while you watch Titanic."

Manuel blushed as he punched me in the arm.

"Oh!" I yelled, "That's it! Send him outside with the other zombies!"

I had told my friend about Brett's comment in the men's room after the nigh-fabled strike; so Manuel laughed. We talked some more about the nature of romance and the picture of God pursuing humanity in how a man pursues the woman he loves. Manuel told me about how he'd often pondered the way Solomon called his lover his "sister".

"I read somewhere" he told me, "about how when you get married, your wife plays every role a woman has ever played in your life. She mothers you. She's your friend, your sister, your teacher, your student, your counselor, your lover. She's everything." he pause, reflecting on the idea once more, "I think that sounds awesome."

"Yeah," I laughed, "Liz would totally get stuck mothering you." He punched my arm again.

As Bible study students began to arrive, Manuel meandered toward the back room.

We discussed the the Bible's teachings on loving people that day. I explained that the believer didn't have any human enemies for his part. The believer was called to treat every other Christian as his brother or sister, and every unbeliever as someone he meant to win over. Even people who hated him should be loved by him.

I was in the middle of reading a passage from Matthew 5 when one of the ladies in our group bent over and sighed heavily. After a beat, I asked,

"Gladys, are you okay?"

It is a rare thing; but sometimes, for no reason I've been able to make sense of, someone can become a zombie without being bitten. It will infect only one person - not a rash of people as would happen if it were an airborne or waterborne germ. From there, the rash of infectees is only as far away as a bite. What makes it all more terrifying is that in whatever case - bitten or not - the turning is instantaneous.

When Gladys looked up, time came to a crawl. Her reddening eyes and the way the corners of her mouth were curving told me all I needed to know. Within moments, she'd be shrieking and snarling and biting.

I scrambled out of my seat in what felt like slow-motion, reaching for my machete. Others in the group were beginning to examine Gladys a bit more closely.

 As my hand grasped the electric-tape handle, I realised that Gladys was not beyond saving. I dropped my machete and turned to grab the bag in which I had hidden one hundred ninety-nine doses of Linda's Cure for the Zombie Apocalypse.  I grabbed a needle and fumbled for the pliers I'd lodged in the corner of the case.

A hand fell on my shoulder.

Day 496.
 It was a difficult thing to admit. After more than a year of taking care of people, I had to stand up and say that I'd been making a poor run of it. Explaining how trying to grab one dose for Gladys had necessitated five doses to cure her victims was hard. Explaining how I'd let Manuel work alone on a rickety shelving unit, so when he tried to answer my calls for help he'd fallen fifteen feet to a concrete floor and broken his leg, was an exercise in shame.

"I realise that I have not done enough to ensure that the trust you've put in me is well-placed; and I am sorry. So far, I have believed that your faith in me included faith in my riskier ventures; I fear I may have taken that further than I had any right to. I apologise for that; and I will change."

The meeting ended quietly, save for some scathing comments from Brett; and no one said much to me for the next few days. I decided to take a shift escorting Joshua. We took a walk on the roof - the only place to get any fresh air.

"What if Brett was right?" Joshua asked me during a lull in whatever conversation we'd been sharing before.

"About you still being a zombie?" I shook my head, "Nah. The cure worked; I'm sure of it. Gladys is fine; her friends are fine; you'll be fine."

Joshua seemed to ponder that for a moment and then said, "What if it's not a medical thing? What if the zombie is part of my soul now?"

I knew I had to get what I said next right.

"I don't believe a soul becomes tarnished by virtue of an illness; but, if there's something wrong in your soul, only One Person can help you with that. You'll need to find your cure for that with Christ."

Josh shook his head and sighed. I considered pressing the matter, but figured I'd spoken plainly enough for the occasion.  I still wonder if maybe I spoke too plainly.

"I dunno, man." he sighed again, "I think there are some things that push a man so far off the reservation that he can't be fully a man anymore. He must become either a monster or a ghost."

"And you think you've been pushed that far?" I asked.

"Yeah." Joshua spoke quietly and then spent a few moments surveying the view before us. We were standing at the front edge of the roof. Below us, some infected fought over the remains of a stray dog; in the distance, we could see the ruins of a small city.

I wondered what my hometown would look like if I was able to wander its streets right then.

"There's this problem, though." Joshua's voice seemed to take on a more confident tone than I'd heard yet, "You've taken the monster out of me."

Still looking at the ruins out yonder, I replied without really thinking, "That leaves 'ghost'."

"Right." Joshua seemed to "smirk" the word more than say it. I turned to ask what he meant; but he wasn't there anymore.

I didn't have to investigate when a wet, splattering "crunch" reached my ears. I knew without looking that the stray dog no longer seemed so tasty to the zombies below, not with fresher meat suddenly available. I didn't have to meet Manuel's gaze, as I told him of Joshua's death, to know that a kind, gentle sadness was in his eyes. I didn't have to discuss anything with Liz to know that Manuel had told her all I'd said, and that her eyes would have the same expression his did. With plugs in my ears, I could have told you that Brett was loudly contemplating how many people would have to die before my small community would "dethrone" me. I didn't need to listen to his words to catch his meaning.

What I did need to do - more than almost anything else in the world -  was be alone. What I needed to do was cry. So I did.

To be continued...