Free Zombie, Illinois by Scott Kenemore Page A

instantly.
    Zombie.
    Those internet videos are real, and this is definitely a zombie. All I can think is: How do you do, Mr. Zombie? Get ready, because you’re going to be my first.

    First question: Fast or slow? (I have lots of other questions too, but you’ve got to start somewhere.)
    Never taking my eyes from the shambling dead man, I back to the rear of my vehicle. The squishy corpse clearly wants to follow me. His water-logged eyes roll in their sockets, watching my retreat. He struggles to raise one leg, and then carefully takes a sopping step forward. It doesn’t bring him far, but it’s still progress. He raises his other leg and tries to take another.
    Slow zombie it is.
    This is exhilarating. My heart is racing. I wonder how the hell it snuck up on me. How it got so close without me hearing it! Then I look down at its feet. The shoes have partially rotted away and the remaining leather has congealed into the foot—which has, itself, congealed into a blue mass. What’s left is a sort of fleshy, leathery matter acting as a natural dampener against the concrete floor. The zombie might as well be wearing slippers.
    I look around for more of them. (That’s the first thing you learn from watching zombie movies.. There’s always more than one...)
    I look left. I look right. Nothing. Nobody behind me on the loading dock, either. Nobody in the dark corners of the giant garage, at least as far as I can see.
    Well then . . . an early riser.
    I stand still and try to breathe quietly. The zombie takes another squishy step in my direction. In the distance, I begin to make out human voices. Are they from people in another part of the parking complex—perhaps on another level—or are they voices from another section of the building entirely, piped down to me through ductwork and vents?
    â€œHello!!!” I scream. “Can anyone hear me???”
    The zombie doesn’t even start.
    â€œI could use some help over here!!!” I try again. “Young woman needs help!!! Hello???”
    My voice echoes and fades away. After a moment, I can still hear people in the distance. They do not respond or return my cries. The zombie takes another step forward.
    I’m going to have to do this my damn self. (I could run, sure, but I realized a long time ago that if you run once, you’ll be running forever. Whatever I’m up against, I prefer to stand and fight.) But what to use?? I’ve got to get to the brain. Everybody knows that’s how you kill zombies. I immediately start looking around for weapons.
    The back of my car is full of drum gear that looks like crazy metal spider arms on stands. They’d appear intimidating in a fight against a human, but they might just annoy a zombie. They certainly aren’t going to get to his brain. I also have heavy drum cases full of drums. I could throw one of those and knock the zombie over, yes, but that would only stop him for a moment.
    Nope. We’re going with sticks.
    I reach inside the backseat of the Jeep and find my backpack. I grab a stick in each hand and strike a stance like I’m a martial artist fighting with Sai. The zombie regards me intensely, water softly dripping from its soaked clothing. Though it may be wet and slow, it is still filled with dangerous intent. It gnashes its teeth. It looks at me longingly. It wants.
    Timing my movements to the zombie’s plods, I lunge forward and jam the right stick into its eye as hard as I possibly can. There is a moment of resistance, and then something gives within the socket and I’m able to drive the stick further in. Unfortunately, the zombie jerks back before I can go quite as deep as I’d like. It cranes its neck, momentarily disoriented, with three-quarters of a drumstick extending from its face. In the same breath (mine, not his [obviously]), the zombie rights itself, and lunges forward once more.
    Fuck, I think. Only one socket left.
    Transferring the