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.
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...
