In The Wake

It began with two hard thuds against the west wall. The entire house moaned, and popped. The scrabbling against the walls increased, scratching, thudding like they were punching the siding. It became more pronounced. Within five minutes zombies were on the roof, shuffling overhead. Then there were more thuds. These were different, like a slab of beef hitting the ground.

Thunk.

Thud.

Crunch.

Bok!

They walked over us for 97 minutes. I kept track.

I think I know what happened. I think the swarm cluttered up by the garage for whatever reason. They started piling onto each other. Being in a tightly bound crowd of undead, either in the middle of the swarm, or bringing up the rear, they had no choice but to walk over each other. Inevitably they stacked high enough to run over whatever is in their path.

Great. Now that I'm Mr. Observant let me just start screaming. So walls cannot keep them out? Will they inevitably run over all of us? I prayed incredibly hard, and for an intensely long time that the roof would hold.

All the time I spoke to God, I saw limbs, flailing from above, guttural growls, and snapping teeth falling on our heads - no thanks. It's bad enough coming face-to-face with Zed.

After another hour everything went silent. The sounds drifted North, some stragglers brought up the rear, creaking and moaning . . . and slithering. I can hardly write about it.

As soon as the swarm died down I let myself onto the first floor, checked out the boards on the windows - which were damaged - and then creeped over to the breakfast nook. I could still hear scratching, and dragging sounds from outside once I got there.

I was reluctant to peek through Dad's little door, and take a look outside. I put my hand on the little knob, licked my lips, and took a breath. I cracked that little door. It was late evening, soft sunlight outside, but it was still sharp on my retinas. I had to close my eyes to adjust to the brightness. When I opened them again  . . . . . my goodness.

I did not recognize the street. Several houses were destroyed. All vegetation dead, smashed, and scattered all over the ground. I could barely make out the blacktop. I saw something moving, just off to the right. A human hand on the ground. That dropped heart of mine jumped into my throat. I looked hard. I saw the fine-boned hand reach into my line of sight, down on the lawn. It grasped soil, dug in deep, and pulled. The bulk of the body came into view.

Zed. A woman. Half a woman. She was overtaken by half of another Zed, pulling himself along. Several more followed, dragging themselves down the damage path.

I know they are dead. Rotting corpses, the lot of them. But I found this discouraging. Even with half a body; heck, one of them had only a head and arm - they were still mobile, deadly, and hungry. No guts,  but still sporting for blood. I mean, at what point were they actually dead? Gone. Clay?

I fear for my dreams, witnessing this horrible spectacle. You can hear Zed, see them coming, if they walk.

But could you hear a slitherer? Or would she just grasp your ankle as you walked by, and pull you down into her gaping maw? I have learned to be even more cautious, now. I get the shivers thinking about the possibility, at any point in the last couple of months, and all the times I had been outside, that just a step away there may have been one or more of those creatures. The slitherer just waiting to grab me, trip me up, eat me.

I have never had such a strong urge to fly, just hover in the air, above all the madness, dropping down to either crap, or eat. That just brings up all sorts of different speculations, doesn't it? Do they actually eat? If so, do they crap? I tried to imagine what a zombie dump would look like, but just abandoned the attempt when my imagination gave me the answer too soon, and unexpectedly.

"That's fantastic."
Dad had climbed down the stairs. He was wedging the board over the window back from the frame. He was seeing what I had seen - the panes were cracked. A few had fallen out. Some were fractured into small pieces. Obviously his voice was soaked in sarcasm. The last thing I wanted to do was go outside and replace window panes. Sure we were hot inside the house, but the board was enough to insulate us from any cold that got down this far.
"You alright Dad?"
"Just grateful to be alive, son."
I turned to him, "I guess it's too late to make a run for it."
"Run where, Martin?" he asked, "Technically we are in a safe zone. I don't think anyplace else could be more secure. I don't think there is anywhere else worth going."
"I've been thinking about what environment would be worse for the undead. Desert, or tundra." I said, "I figure we are good here. Humans are mostly water, right?"
Dad nodded.
"So we shrivel without hydrating, right?"
"Right."
"Right. Zed should shrivel up, and fall over, laying there like a piece of jerky, withering away like a living mummy. Limbs stiff, muscles and sinew locked in place. Then you just step on their skulls, and go right on walking the desert."
"I wouldn't trust speculation, son. So far these Zacks have been solid, and wet in this climate. We're not desert, but we are not cold by any means. I don't pretend to understand what I have no desire to understand. What we can count on is that if they get cold enough, they will freeze solid. Freeze. Like a Zack-sicle."
"Yeah," I smiled, "But I don't like the cold, Dad."
"You don't like the cold . . ." Dad smiled, "Son, you don't know cold."
"I've been skiing up Brianhead." I answered.
"Yes. In ten feet of snow, but boy, your old man fished up in Alaska. Ice pack, freezing wind, moist air with temperatures averaging 40 below zero. And that's without wind chill. That's cold."
"When did you fish Alaska?" asked Mom, who had joined us on the first floor.
"The winter before I met you, my darling."
"Why didn't you ever tell me?"
"It wasn't any way to pay for a wedding, my love. But it was how we paid for our wedding. I guess I just didn't think anything of it."
Mom got close to him, and squeezed his bicep. She smiled up at him. And that's when I left.

I was tired, stress-tired, where your nerves are fried, and you have the suggestion of a headache in your neck and shoulders, and help me, just behind the eyes. I wanted to sleep while it was quiet. I don't know how long quiet will last. But this quiet enfolded me like a comforter.
I tripped up the ladder, trudged to my bedroom, and fell into the first solid sleep I had had for 72 hours. No dreams. No nightmares.

No.

No. Those would come soon enough. I just have a feeling.