There were a few things the hundreds of bad movies about zombies didn’t tell us. Actually there were dozens of things, but so be it. The big one is that you don’t die and turn into a Zombie. You die and you stay dead. None of that waking up all groaning and bleary eyed with a taste for brains. If a zombie kills you, you’re just dead. You don’t get to come back as a zombie. Not that I wanted to. Much.
I heard tell of a lot of folks met their maker ’cause they got bit and everybody freaked out. You know the drill. “Kill me, don’t let me turn into one of them.” And then the turned head, the pained expression, the raised pistol, and ‘BAM.’ Lot of really embarrassed people out there once they found out a bandage and bit of ointment worked better and wasn’t near as messy.
The truth is if you aren’t already a zombie, you’re immune, about twenty percent of us are, or were anyway. You turned about a week after exposure to the airborne virus, plus or minus a day. You go to sleep with your sweetheart, you wake up feeling really good by all accounts, none of the flu like symptoms crap, and then you get a headache, and then you get hungry. Lots of couples went that way. ‘What’s wrong honey?’ probably became the most common last words in America.
And then you were a Zombie. Not at all dead. Nope, Zombies are about alive as it gets; at least your body and a small chunk of brain about the size of a lemon. And I mean it lives like it is on steroids. We all figured it was a military virus gone bad. It made you healthy, vicious, stupid, and hard to kill. A perfect soldier, except for that lemon sized brain thing. And the sex drive? I’ve seen things now that six years in the navy couldn’t match. I’ll let the history books handle that little detail.
And the hard to kill part? That’s a no shitter. The head shot thing kind of works, but you damn near have to shoot them in the nose, that’s about where what’s left of the brain is. The rest has already turned to mush.
Also, forget the gaping wounds and rotting flesh. Oh yeah, for about a week, then it just kind of coats over. You cut off a zombie’s arm, it just heals over like a surgical amputation, except maybe a chunk of bone pokes out. Kind of gross, but it is what it is.
I figure scientists will figure out how it spread, but it is hard to say. Most likely super airborne. Breathe in clean air, breathe out the Zombie bug. By the time the air lines, busses, and truckers stopped moving, the Zombie bug was everywhere.
But back to our Zombie Apocalypse. We were very near set. Very near is the key point. We had one tanker of diesel and another of gasoline. We had big screen TVs, generators, guns, and beer. Did I mention beer? If you’re going to make a last stand, a brewery is a great place. We didn’t think of it as a last stand. We were planning on being survivors.
Even then we knew there were enclaves and there were pockets. Enclaves are what you called the big, government camps. Once they got established, they worked pretty well, if you could get there and if you could stay fed. I’m told zombie tastes like pork, but I don’t want to find out. It was mostly army bases, airports, stadiums, and other places already set up for security. I heard of some places where the jails were cleared and the local constabulary brought in their families.
The rest of us survived in what were called pockets. We were a pocket. A dozen people in a place the zombies couldn’t claw or hammer their way in. I heard the Space Needle was quite a pocket there for a while. At least until the gun nuts shot their way in and didn’t leave doors enough to close behind them. I saw the videos. Ouch.
As for us? The whole damned thing is still in the air. We live in the middle of the desert side of Washington State. The virus hit slow, we had about a two week day delay from the onset on the east coast and about a week from the west coast. We got to watch. Had time to make a few phone calls and make some decisions. A lot of folks went out to the old nuclear plants. The last we talked on the radio it was fine, those are some big tough buildings. But what point is surviving the zombie apocalypse if all your hair falls out.
Communications are good. Satellites are automated and the power comes mostly from wind and dams out here. Pretty hard for a zombie to scale a 150 foot windmill or bust into a concrete damn. Hear lots of folks are making a stand at the wind mills. Family gets inside and locks the door. Kind of a natural zombie proof thing it is.
I’m here at the Brewery with Angus because I like Pink Floyd. Actually I love Pink Floyd and say to those who don’t, go screw yourselves. That, and I got a trunk load of anti-terror gear, gadgets, and government comm gear along with two crates full of guns, and more bullets than we could ever hope to shoot. I may have abused my shiny gold Marshall Service badge a bit, but it is the Zombie Apocalypse you know.
I also have a band, or part of one anyway. A Pink Floyd cover band, as we were billed when we played the brewery. The stands and stage are still up out in the parking lot from the last gig. We’re pretty good. I’m 47 years old and that makes me younger than the actual Pink Floyd band, let alone the surviving members. Surviving members, now that’s a phrase that will gain new meaning. We do concerts at the brewery. I don’t say did, because we did a show last night. Kind of hard without the base player, but we got canned music when we needed it. Some of the zombies seemed to like the music. When the zombies are coming, there is a special appreciation for “Just Another Brick in the Wall.”
We had a concert set for exactly two weeks after the first news report about a fellow in Georgia getting eaten by his family. The next day it was dozens. The next day, Georgia shut down. It spread from there. We still did the concert. Attendance was light, but that was when Angus, me, and the band made the decision that this would our ground for the impending apocalypse. Angus rented a couple of generators. Like he’s ever going to pay that bill. We had a couple a guys that drove fuel trucks for Mr. H. R. Jones. The son of a bitch has, or had, a local monopoly on fuel. Before the zombies got him, he had the biggest house in town down on the river. I think all that’s left of him is a little bit of zombie shit. We got two of Mr. Jones trucks, one full of diesel and one full of unleaded gasoline parked inside our little pocket. Wish we had the drivers, they brought in the trucks. Supposed to be back the next day with family. They never made it. The shit was starting to hit.
So power is not a problem. Food is another matter. You can live on beer, but it loses its appeal. We made arrangements. Two truck loads of groceries headed for the local Safeway, with what was left of the families trailing, that was the deal. All the non-perishable food and shit paper we would need to last out the winter.
And right now? It is sitting across the street with the trucks still running.
We got the families in before the pack got wind and came after them. One of the drivers made it, the other? Thirty years of driving a truck and not much else means that you might not oughta try to outrun fifty or so zombies. Puts a bit more strain on a heart than climbing into the cab. We told his wife he was dead before he hit the ground, but he wasn’t. He was still thrashing when they dragged him off. They were more like wolves than people in this state.
So the trucks are there, still idling. Right under the big blue sign advertising Ainsworth’s Pool supply store. That brings you up to date.