Zombies: The Recent Dead (10 page)

So what I mainly do now is head out back into the woods. From the back of the cabin there’s about three roads you can get to in an hour or so’s walking, in various directions. One used to be the main route down to Oregon, past Yakima and such. Wasn’t ever like it was a constant stream of traffic on it, but that was where I got lucky the last two times, and so you tend to get superstitious, and head back to the same place until you realize it’s just not working any more.

The first time was just a single, middle-aged guy, staggering down the middle of the road. I don’t even know where he’d come from, or where he thought he was going. This was not a man who knew how to forage or find stuff, and he was thin and half-delirious. Cheered right up when he met me. The last time was better. A young guy and girl, in a car. They hadn’t been an item before the thing, but they were now. He believed so, anyway. He was pretty on the button, or thought he was.

They had guns and a trunk full of cans and clothes, back seat packed with plastic containers of gasoline. I stopped them by standing in the middle of the road. He was wary as hell and kept his hand on his gun the whole time, but the girl was worn out and lonely and some folks have just not yet got out of the habit of wanting to see people, to mix with other humans once in a while.

I told them Noqualmi still had some houses worth holing up in, and that there’d been no trouble there in a while on account of it had been empty in months, and so the tide had drifted on. I know he thought I was going to ask to come in the car with them, but after I’d talked with them a while I just stepped back and wished them luck. I watched them drive on up the road, then walked off in a different direction.

Middle of that evening—in a marked diversion from the usual schedule, but I judged it worth it—I went down through the woods and came into Noqualmi via a back way. Didn’t take too long to find their car, parked up behind one of the houses. They weren’t ever going to last that long, I’m afraid. They had a candle burning, for heaven’s sake. You could see it from out in the back yard, and that is the one thing that you really can’t do. Three nights out of five I could have got there and been too late already. I got lucky, I guess. I waited until they put the light out, and then a little longer.

The guy looked like he’d have just enough wits about him to trick the doors, so I went in by one of the windows. They were asleep. Worse things could have happened to them, to be honest, much worse. There should have been one of them keeping watch. He should have known that. He could have done better by her, I think.

Getting them back to the cabin took most of the next day, one trip for each. I left the car right where it was. I don’t need a car, and they’re too conspicuous. He was kind of skinny, but she has a little bulk. Right now they’re the reason why the winter isn’t worrying me quite as much as it probably should. Them, plus a few others I’ve been lucky enough to come across—and yes, I do thank my luck. Sure, there’s method in what I’ve done, and most people wouldn’t have enjoyed the success rate I’ve had. But in the end, like my father used to say, any time you’re out looking for deer, it’s luck that’s driving the day. A string of chances and decisions that are out of your hands, that will put you in the right place at the right time, and brings what you’re looking for rambling your way.

If I don’t go out hunting in the afternoon, then either I’ll nap a while or go do a little more sculpting. It only occurred to me to start that project a few weeks ago, and I’d like to get some more done before it starts to snow.

At first, after the thing, it looked like everything just fell apart at once, that the change was done and dusted. Then it started to become clear it didn’t work that way, that there were waves. So, if you’d started to assume maybe something wasn’t going to happen, that wasn’t necessarily correct. Further precautions seemed like a good idea.

Either way, by 5:00
pm
the light’s starting to go and it’s time to close up the day. I’ll go out to the shed and cut a portion of something down for dinner, grab something of a plant or vegetable nature to go with it, or—every third day—open a can of corn. Got a whole lot of corn still, which figures, because I don’t really like it that much.

I’ll cook the meat over the day’s third fire, straight away, before it gets dark, next to a final can of water—I really need to find myself another of those vacuum flasks, because not having warm coffee in the evening is what gets me closest to feeling down—and have that whole process finished as quick as I can.

I’ve gotten used to the regime as a whole, but that portion of the day is where you can still find your heart beating, just a little. I grew up used to the idea that the dark wasn’t anything to fear, that nothing was going to come and do anything bad to you—from outside your house, anyway. Night meant quietness outside and nothing but forest sounds which—if you understood what was causing them—were no real cause for alarm. It’s not that way now, after the thing, and so that point in the schedule where you seal up the property and trust that your preparations, and the wires, are going to do their job, is where it all comes home. You recall the situation.

Otherwise, apart from a few things like the nature of the food I eat, it’s really not so different to the way life was before. I understand the food thing might seem like a big deal, but really it isn’t. Waste not, want that—and yes, he said that too. Plenty other animals do it, and now isn’t the time for beggars to be choosers. That’s what we’re become, bottom line—animals, doing what’s required to get by, and there isn’t any shame in that at all. It’s all we ever were, if we’d stopped to think about it. We believed we had the whole deal nailed out pretty good, were shooting up in some pre-ordained arc to the sky. Then someone, somewhere, fucked up. I never heard an explanation that made much sense to me. People talked a lot about a variety of things, but then people always talked a lot, didn’t they? Either way, you go past Noqualmi cemetery now, or the one in Elum, and the ground there looks like Swiss cheese. A lot of empty holes, though there are some sites yet to burst out, later waves in waiting.

Few of them didn’t get far past the gates, of course. I took down a handful myself, in the early days.

I remember the first one I saw up here, too, a couple weeks after the thing. It came by itself, blundering slowly up the rise. It was night-time, of course, so I heard it coming rather than seeing anything. First I thought it was someone real, was even dumb enough to go outside, shine a light, try to see who it was. I soon realized my error, I can tell you that. It was warmer then, and the smell coming off up the hill was what gave it away. I went back indoors, got the gun. Only thing I use it for now, as shells are at a premium. Everything else, I use a knife.

Afterwards I had a good look, though I didn’t touch it. Poked it with a stick, turned it over. It really did smell awful bad, and they’re not, something you’re going to consider eating—even if there wasn’t a possibility you could catch something off the flesh. I don’t know if there’s some disease to be caught, if that’s how it even works, but it’s a risk I’m not taking now or likely ever. I wrapped the body up in a sheet and dragged it a long, long way from the property. Do the same with any others that make it up here from time to time. Dump them in different directions, too, just in case. I don’t know what level of intelligence is at work, but they’re going to have to try harder at it if they ever hope to get to me—especially since I put in the wires.

I have never seen any of them abroad during the day, but that doesn’t mean they aren’t, or won’t in the future. So wherever I go, I’m very careful. I don’t let smoke come out of my chimney, instead dispersing it out the doors and window—and only during the day. The wires go through to trips with bells inside the cabin. Not loud bells—no sense in broadcasting to one of them that they just shambled through something significant. The biggest danger is the shed, naturally—hence trying to make it air-tight. Unlike just about everything else, however, that problem’s going to get easier as it gets colder. There’s going to come a point where I’ll be chipping dinner off with a chisel, but at least the danger of smell leaking out the cracks will drop right down to nothing.

Once everything’s secured for the night, I eat my meal in the last of the daylight, with the last hot cup of coffee of the day. I set aside a little food for the morning. I do not stay up late.

The windows are all covered with blackout material, naturally, but I still don’t like to take the risk. So I sit there in the dark for a spell, thinking things over. I get some of my best ideas under those conditions, in fact-there’s something about the lack of distraction that makes it like a waking dream, lets you think laterally. My latest notion is a sign. I’m considering putting one up, somewhere along one of the roads, that just says
this way
, and points. I’m thinking if someone came along and saw a sign like that, they’d hope maybe there was a little group of people along there, some folks getting organized, safety in numbers and that, and so they’d go along to see what’s what.

And find me, waiting for them, a little way into the woods.

I’ll not catch all of them—the smart guy in the car would have driven straight by, for example, though his girl might have had something to say on the subject—but a few would find my web. I have to think the idea through properly—don’t know for sure that the others can’t read, for example, though at night they wouldn’t be able to see the sign anyway, if I carve it the right way—but I have hopes for it as a plan. We’ll see.

It’s hard not to listen out, when you’ve climbed in bed, but I’ve been doing that all my life. Listening for the wind, or for bears snuffling around, back when you saw them up here. Listening for the sound of footsteps coming slowly toward the door of the room I used to sleep in when I was a kid. I know the wires will warn me, though, and you can bet I’ve got my response to such a thing rigorously worked out.

I generally do not have much trouble getting off to sleep, and that’s on account of the schedule as much as anything. It keeps me active, so the body’s ready for some rest come the end of day. It also gives me a structure, stops me getting het up about the general situation.

Sure, it is not ideal. But, you know, it’s not that different on the day-to-day. I don’t miss the television because I never had one. Listening to the radio these days would only freak you out. Don’t hanker after company because there was never much of that after my father died. Might have been nice if the Ramona thing had worked out, but she didn’t understand the importance of the schedule, of thinking things through, of sticking to a set of rules that have been proven to work.

She was kind of husky and lasted a good long time, though, so it’s not like there wasn’t advantages to the way things panned out. I caught her halfway down the hill, making a big noise about what she found in the shed. She was not an athletic person. Wasn’t any real possibility she was going to get away, or that she would have lasted long out there without me to guide her. What happened was for the best, except I broke the vacuum flask on the back of her head, which I have since come to regret.

Otherwise I’m at peace with what occurred, and most other things. The real important thing is when you wake up, you know what’s what—that you’ve got something to do, a task to get you over the hump of remembering, yet again, what the world’s come to. I’m lucky that way.

The sculpting’s the one area I’d like to get ahead of. The central part is pretty much done—it’s coming up for three feet high, and I believe it would be hard to get up through that. But sometimes, when I’m lying in the dark waiting for sleep to come, I wonder if I shouldn’t extend that higher portion; just in case there’s a degree of tunneling possible, sideways and then up. I want to be sure there’s enough weight, and that it’s spread widely enough over the grave.

I owe my father a lot, when I think over it. In his way, through the things he said, he taught me a great deal of what it turned out I needed to know. I am grateful to him for that, I guess.

But I still don’t want to see him again.

About the Author

Michael Marshall Smith
is a novelist and screenwriter. Under this name he has published over seventy short stories and three novels—
Only Forward, Spares
, and
One of Us
—winning the Philip K. Dick, HWA, August Derleth and British Fantasy Awards, as well as the Prix Morane. Writing as Michael Marshall, he has published six internationally-bestselling thrillers, including
The Straw Men, The Intruders,
and
Bad Things
, and 2009 saw the publication of
The Servants
, under the name M.M. Smith. His new Michael Marshall novel
The Breakers
will be published in 2011. He lives in North London with his wife, son, and two cats. His Web site is: www.michaelmarshallsmith.com