What We Left Behind, page 3
part #1 of Z is for Zombie Series
“Hey,” a voice calls out from below us. “We’re in curfew. Time to go home.”
The guard is right. It’s only now I realize how dark it is. With no moon and no cloud cover, it’s pitch black among the trees. In our small clearing, we can still see in the starlight, but dark shadows hide the path home. The sound of a zombie moaning carries on the wind. Zee has heard the guard calling to us. Zee is always watching, waiting, hunting.
Chapter 02: Dad
I slip in the back door quietly.
A fire glows in the hearth, throwing out warmth and heat with the crackle of burning wood. One of the older women sees me and casts a disapproving glare. She’s assuming I’m like most of the other teens, sneaking off and making out under the cover of darkness, but that’s not why I’m late. We were all genuinely taken by Steve’s story. I don’t think any of us realized how late it was. She’ll tell my dad, but I don’t care.
My dad is arguing with someone. I can hear him through the walls of his office at the back of the first floor. Everyone’s listening. Twenty-seven people live in the main house and I think they’re all in the living room, but no one’s talking. It’s eerie seeing so many people sitting silently next to each other, everyone desperate to catch what’s being said in another room. As my dad is at the center of this, I find their attention unnerving and wonder if dad’s in trouble.
“You don’t have the right to make that call,” my dad says. I know him well enough to recognize it’s passion in his voice, not anger.
“I won’t stand by and let you jeopardize all we’ve built,” another voice yells from behind the closed door. It’s Ferguson, David’s father. He’s not known for his patience or his subtlety.
“We let the community decide,” a woman’s voice says. This is Marge. She’s the leader of the commune. Her voice is soft, barely carrying through the wall.
“You want to roll the freak show out there?” Ferguson asks.
Marge replies, “I have confidence in our collective wisdom.” It’s hard to hear her voice, so I’m guessing a little at her reply.
Ferguson storms out of the room, slamming the door behind him. A couple of the marauders are waiting for him like puppy dogs eager to please their master.
“Call everyone in,” Ferguson says. “Sentries on watch, but everyone else needs to be here.”
Like all the men, Ferguson keeps his hair shaved close to his head, only he looks particularly mean. It’s hard to tell how old he is as any gray hair is little more than stubble, and the sun weathers all the men before their time. I think he’s in his late fifties, perhaps his early sixties. He has thin lips and a perpetual scowl that always makes me feel like I’ve done something wrong just by breathing near him.
This is serious, I think. Dad’s got himself in trouble, but I don’t understand why Marge wants to call him in front of the commune as a whole.
“Haze, what’s going on?” Jane asks quietly as she comes up beside me.
“I’m not sure.”
David joins his father in spreading word between the huts. People are already assembling on the oval. Torches light up the night. Bats swoop down, catching moths and mosquitos brought in by the people and the lights.
“Your dad’s so weird,” Steve says, which sounds cruel but I know what he means. Steve isn’t being cruel or petty. My dad is weird in a geeky, nerdy kind of way. He’s normally quite shy and quiet, but like any dad, he can hold his own in an argument. If we weren’t in the middle of a zombie apocalypse, my dad would be dressing up like a zombie for Comic-Con and dragging me along with him as some zombie-killing teen queen. I can’t see myself doing cosplay. It takes a special kind of I-don’t-give-a-damn attitude to pull off cosplay with style, and I’m not sure I have that. Dad, though, he cares more about what’s right than what people think of him.
“I bet it’s one of his experiments,” Steve says.
There are no secrets in the commune. As much as my father tries to keep his work quiet, people know. In some ways, it would be better if he conducted his experiments with the zombies in the open. There would be fewer rumors, less speculation, less paranoia.
“Hasn’t he got heads in jars or something?” Jane asks.
I nod, a little embarrassed. Everyone assumes I see them all the time, but I don’t, as they’re normally kept in the workshop in the back of the house. Sometimes, if dad’s experimenting on them, I’ll see a few heads on the bookcase in his office, but he knows how creepy they are and quickly covers them with a cloth whenever I walk in. I’ve seen him scoop up body parts after the school yard “demonstrations.” Execution is a better word, not that anyone cares.
A couple of the marauders help my dad with a wooden handcart. Normally, we use these when we harvest apples or pumpkins. There’s a dark blanket draped over the contents of the cart, hiding it from sight. Dad is admonishing the two men helping him, telling them to slow down, to be careful.
The oval is surrounded by a curved hillside. Concrete bleachers set into the hill once allowed spectators to watch Little League. Nobody plays anymore. There’s no time. Occasionally, we teens will have a hit on a Sunday afternoon, but you don’t want to hit a home run. You’ll never get your ball back. And the older folks seem to look down on us. I guess we’re not supposed to have fun in the apocalypse. I think that’s silly. What is life without relaxing a little and fooling around?
“All right,” Ferguson yells through an old-fashioned megaphone that’s little more than sheet metal rolled up into a cone. “Let’s get everyone seated.”
A couple of zombies moan in reply—they must be up against the fence.
Marge takes the megaphone.
“Thank you everyone, for coming along at short notice.”
I can’t help but think—Like what else were we going to do? Watch TV?
Most people were settling in for the night, so getting them together was easy. The unrest and noise subsides as Marge continues talking. I sit down on the edge of the crowd.
“I’ve called you together tonight because Abraham has discovered something that might have a profound impact on our lives.”
Hearing zombies respond to Marge sends a chill down my spine. Do we really need to shout into the night?
Marge is everyone’s grandmother. Like all of us girls, she keeps her hair pulled back in a ponytail. Silver strands have long since replaced her dark hair, but the odd black thread still peeks through the thick bundle hanging down her back. How she doesn’t get lice is beyond me, but I know she washes her hair weekly as I’ll often see her coming back from the recycle pond with dripping wet hair.
Marge is the most unlikely leader. She seems too kind. If the zombie apocalypse hadn’t taken hold, I imagine she’d spend her days tending to a rose garden and baking homemade apple pies for the neighbors.
The commune has factions. There are the marauders, the farmers, and the laborers, but the women tend not to think along factional lines. They band together and that makes them the most powerful group of all. Not that the men would openly admit that. Marge has a way of bringing all sides together. Even unpopular decisions seem popular when she puts them forward. I like the way she keeps Ferguson in line.
Ferguson looks angry. He’s clenching his teeth. I think he wants to get ahold of the megaphone and lay out his own opinion, but Marge clearly wants to keep control of the discussion. My dad is setting up to one side. He’s putting up a light stand running on solar-powered batteries to highlight the cart. Someone sets up a rickety old card table beside him, and he starts laying out items on the aging wood.
A couple of the marauders light a bonfire, providing some ambient light on the field, but for those of us in the bleachers, it’s a dark, cold night.
“It’s important to understand, there’s no agreement on Abraham’s findings at the leadership level,” Marge says. “But I know how easily rumors can spread. I wanted you all to have access to the same information we have. As with any new information, it’s going to take time to assess what you see tonight. I urge you not to jump to conclusions. We need to verify these findings. We need to be certain before we take any action.”
Dad pulls the blanket off the handcart. There are a number of dismembered Zee body parts mounted on frames and racks, heads in jars, arms pinned to wooden panels. Maybe it’s just me, but the temperature seems to drop a few degrees. Jane squeezes in beside me along with Steve. David’s sitting with the other marauders on the front bleachers.
“Abraham,” Marge says, handing my dad the megaphone. He signals he doesn’t need it and calls out.
“Zombies. The undead. They’re simple, right? Kill ’em by taking out the brain stem. They’re mindless. They’re a curse.”
There’s a murmur of agreement from the hundreds of people watching from the bleachers. It’s a beautiful, moonless night and the stars are radiant overhead.
“And our strategy is simple,” Dad says. “Outlast them. Wait for them to rot. And so we isolate ourselves. We raise crops, tend to animals, chop wood, make clothes. We try to ignore the plague as we go about our daily lives, but there’s always that thought in the back of our minds—What will happen when I die? Will I, too, join the ranks of the undead?”
Dad picks up a large, heavy jar containing a zombie head. Wisps of hair float in whatever fluid he’s preserved the slowly decaying skull. Green slime covers the skin. The jaw moves slowly. Most of the flesh on the cheeks has fallen off, leaving the face gaunt. Dead eyes stare out into the night. I feel a shudder run through me.
Dad places the jar on the card table in the center of the oval.
“Only there’s a problem with our theory. They’re not rotting. They’re not growing weaker. Almost a decade has passed and they show no signs of weakening. And that’s not the only problem.”
He retrieves a section of zombie skin from the cart. The sickly green skin has been stretched out across a frame. There’s a belly button, giving me an anatomical point of reference I’d rather not have known. Dad places the frame on the ground, leaning it against the table as he talks.
“We’re not making any progress. For all our efforts at being self-sufficient, we still rely on raids into the cities, but this strategy isn’t sustainable.”
Ferguson looks pissed. Marge is standing beside him. She’s got a warm smile on her face. She always smiles. It’s her way of dealing with pressure. She puts on an act. I know it’s a lie, as I can see her hand hanging by her side. She’s tacitly holding onto Ferguson’s forearm, gesturing for him to let my dad speak.
I don’t like what’s happening here. Once Ferguson takes the stage, he’ll turn everyone against my dad. Marge seems to know that as well, and she’s doing all she can to let my dad have an opportunity to present his thoughts.
“Supplies are hard to find. More and more, they’ve perished. They’ve deteriorated to the point we can’t use them. We cannot depend on this strategy any more. We need a new direction.”
Ferguson can’t contain himself.
“Quit stalling. Tell them what you really think!”
Marge pats his forearm.
“They’re not dead,” dad says.
The silence around me is overwhelming. Even the crickets have fallen quiet.
“Zombies,” dad continues. “We call them the undead, but they’re not dead. They’re alive.”
Someone yells from the back, “This is crazy.”
“I agree,” Ferguson yells in reply.
“Listen to me,” dad yells above the growing unrest. “I have proof.”
Those three words give my dad some breathing space.
“All life requires energy. All cellular life must metabolize something to survive. Death causes cellular life to break down in a chaotic manner. Cells unravel into their component parts. Death is like stripping a car. You might have all the pieces, but you’re never going to drive again.”
An older woman seated in the row in front of me calls out, “What’s your point?”
“Zombies don’t break down.”
“Of course they do,” someone else yells.
“Do they?” dad asks. “Think about it. It’s been eight years. The meat on those bones should have rotted away, but it hasn’t. Something is sustaining them. Something is keeping them alive.”
“They’re dead,” another faceless, nameless critic replies, hidden in the crowd. People are so brave when heckling from the masses. I’m so angry. I want to shout at them, to expose them as the cowards they are, but I know it wouldn’t go down well. Everyone would say, “Oh, that’s just Hazel protecting her dad.” But this isn’t about my dad. This is about what’s right. It’s always easier to criticize than to be part of change. Small minds delight in bringing down those that think big.
I want to yell at the heckler, “So what have you done? What are you doing to unravel this mess?” but I bite my tongue.
Everyone around me is whispering something, some agreeing, others disagreeing. I can’t hear what my dad’s saying over the noise. Marge calls for quiet with the megaphone.
“I have proof,” my dad says. “This is a UV light.”
He’s holding up what looks like a flashlight.
“A couple of the marauders salvaged this about two months ago. I’ve been conducting experiments using this UV lamp and I can prove zombies are alive. I can prove they’re consuming energy, converting sunlight into metabolic energy.”
One of the men next to Ferguson calls out, “He’s goddamn Frankenstein.”
Such an original, witty observation, I think sarcastically. That guy is sucking up to Ferguson, and Ferguson relishes the obeisance. Ferguson has a slight smile. Damn, I hope I’m not the only one seeing through this bullshit.
Several other people in the crowd agree with Ferguson’s lackey, but my dad keeps talking, undeterred.
“I’ve got an old analog multimeter here. It’s a simple device used for measuring voltage. It’s taken me months to fix, but I’ve got it working. Watch the needle as I turn on the light.”
Dad clips two wires to either side of the sickly green skin—one red, the other black.
“Some of you at the back won’t be able to see this, but those of you at the front—watch the needle.”
He holds the multimeter up and turns on the UV light. The light shines on the outstretched zombie skin and the needle twitches. There are gasps from the audience, but I’m pretty sure no one has any idea what this means. I certainly don’t.
“I’m getting a current from the skin. This might not mean anything to you, but it is a key point to understand when it comes to zombies.
“Everyone knows zombies rot, and yet they never rot away to nothing. Why?
“Someone turns, and within a week their skin grows sickly and yellow. Within two weeks, their skin looks rotten. But their skin doesn’t rot. Why?
“Leave a side of beef out and it will be rotten within days. It will fall off the bone within a week, but this doesn’t happen to zombies. Why?
“The answer is, they’re not rotting. They’re transforming.”
I blurt out, “Into what?” And immediately I regret saying what everyone was thinking as all eyes are suddenly upon me.
“Ah,” dad says. “Good question. Into what indeed?”
He doesn’t answer. I think dad knows how much of a stretch this is for us to accept. He’s trying to soften the blow.
“All zombies bite,” he continues. “But it’s the newly turned that are the worst. It’s the fresh zombies that are ravenous. We call them runners. The old zombies will attack if they get the chance, but they’re slower. Why?
“And why just us? Why are there no zombie dogs or zombie birds? Animals have been known to feed on zombie carcasses, why don’t they turn?”
“Damn it,” Ferguson yells. “If you won’t tell them your crazy theory then I will.”
“They’re autotrophs,” dad says.
For him, it’s a big point.
No one gets it.
I don’t.
Jane whispers in my ear, “What’s an autotroph?”
“Plants,” Ferguson yells. “Abe thinks they’re goddamn weeds!”
Throughout the crowd, people start laughing. My blood boils. I clench my teeth. I’m ready to scream. Again, I realize that’s not going to help my dad, but everyone’s so cruel. They don’t want to listen.
“Not plants,” dad yells, trying to gain control of the crowd. “But they use the same process for cellular energy. They’re using photosynthesis. Don’t you see? That’s why the skin is reacting to the light. That’s why they’re not rotting. And we’ve seen this before in nature—there are sea slugs that steal the genes from algae so they can harvest energy directly from the sun.”
No one’s listening. They’re all talking over the top of each other.
“You’re not a scientist, Abe,” someone yells over the commotion.
“You’re a damn high school teacher,” someone else adds.
“And a lousy one at that,” the loud-mouthed woman in front of me calls out.
I feel bad for dad. People are laughing at him, but he doesn’t see this as humiliation. He’s still trying to win them over.
“It’s not a virus,” he insists.
“Oh, this is good,” Ferguson says sarcastically, gesturing with his hands for the crowd to be quiet. It takes a few seconds, but they respond to his gesture.
“Then what is it?” someone asks.
“It’s complicated,” dad replies.
“Abe thinks it’s caused by a worm,” Ferguson says.
“A type of protozoa,” dad clarifies. “I think there’s a symbiotic relationship spanning several entirely different species, of which Homo sapiens is just one. Don’t you see? If we can upset that and break the chain of dependencies, we can defeat them.”
“He’s crazy,” someone says.
Dad ignores him, gesturing to the rest of the crowd as he says, “Okay. Then where did zombies come from?”
Ferguson says, “A failed CDC experiment.”
“You don’t know that,” dad counters.
He’s right. No one knows. There are lots of guesses, conspiracy theories abound about a secret US government bioweapons project, but no one really knows. The only thing that’s known for sure is that the infection originated in North America. I heard that once Zee made it to Asia, it was game over for humanity—too many people living in too close proximity to each other. The Chinese nuked Shanghai trying to contain the swarm, but that made more chaos. There are rumors of Ireland remaining free, but the Irish probably say the same of Cuba or any of the islands. It’s all guesswork.
