Zombie Leza
Vincent Berg
by
Zombie Leza
Copyright © 2016 Vincent Berg, all rights reserved.
Bookapy Edition
This is a work of fiction. All the characters and events portrayed in this book are fictional, and any resemblance to real people or incidents is purely coincidental. All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book or portions thereof in any form.
Product names, brands, and other trademarks referred to within this book are the property of their respective trademark holders. Unless otherwise specified, no association between the author and any trademark holder is expressed or implied. Nor does it express any endorsement by them, or of them. Use of a term in this book should not be regarded as affecting the validity of any trademark, registered trademark, or service mark.
As always, I’d like to thank all of those who’ve put up with me during the highs and lows of this story’s creation. It’s hard supporting temperamental authors, and the rewards aren’t always as clear cut as more time and attention.
I’ve got a long line of people who’ve helped with the story, but I’d like to thank:
• Edited by: Gary Bywater, Gary Davis, Bill Hopper, C.B. Martell, Michael Martin, Mike Omelanuk and Woody Innh.
• Cover design, “Group of zombie walking at night” by Leo Lintang (all images from adobestock.com).
• Graphic chapter headers and section breaks “Dark dividing lines” by Vladimir Zadvinskii.
• Fonts: Cover and chapter fonts by: “Shut'Em Down” by Imagex-fonts (cover and chapter titles), “PT-Serif” by ParaType Ltd (cover) and Debock Regular by Tama Putra (Author font).
Not-Quite Human
A group of misfits discover they have more in common with aliens than their families or the rest of humanity. They set out to learn who they are and search for their ancestral home, or at least someplace to call their own.
1) The Cuckoo’s Progeny
2) Lost with Nothing to Lose
3) Building a Nest of Our Own
A House in Disarray
Detective Em Rules investigates her boss, NYPD Police Commissioner Eddleson, even as her life is thrown into disarray by the arrival of her sister-in-law and niece, Becky.
Demonic Issues
When Phil Walker starts seeing the demons within, the world of those afflicted with mental illnesses radically changes, dragging Phil, the medical establishment and everyone else along as he combats demons, dragons and fairies.
1) The Demons Within
2) Speaking With Your Demons
The Zombie Leza
A woman shows up a decade after the zombie apocalypse began who lives, communicates with and controls thousands of undead. Whether she’s mankind’s last best hope or the source of their demise is anyone’s guess.
The Nature of the Game
The athletes at Windsor High are aiming for professional sports careers. They don’t make waves. But when Taylor meets the flamboyant Jacob there’s a distinct cultural clash. By casually meeting under the bleachers, Taylor risks millions in lost earnings.
Singularity
An experimental interstellar voyage goes horribly wrong, and the unlucky test pilot, who died, ends up back home unhurt. Eric Morgan battles through internal, personal and Congressional investigations as he struggles to perceive exactly what he’s become.
Stranded in a Foreign Land
Josh discovers an injured, shipwrecked alien, and not only cares for and shelters it, but seeks to rescue its companions, while being pursued by the American military and those of other nations.
Books can be found on my website at:
www.vincentbergauthor.com
The two riders thundered down the debris-littered road, a horde of vacant-eyed, moaning creatures closing in around them. As two drew too close, Phillip swung his machete—his weapon of choice—since there weren’t enough working guns to go around. He severed one’s head and it toppled backwards as the other lunged for the horse’s neck. Thunder, Phillip’s trusted steed—or rather, the Collective’s—hesitated and reared. Phillip knew Thunder had been bitten and infected by the zombie. His forward momentum halted, the other undead—surprisingly fast in quick bursts—rushed forward and attacked the wounded horse, tearing its flesh with their sharps nails and biting it with their teeth.
Thunder hung in mid-rear, before toppling over as the pressure on his one side increased, his hoofs knocking undead off their feet. Phillip, anticipating the inevitable conclusion, leapt from Thunder’s back, terrified of being pinned under him, helpless against the zombie onslaught. Phillip fell heavily as more undead rushed forward, but they were focused on the large wounded creature who was more appetizing, now that they could smell his blood. The horse whinnied, though the sound transitioned to a squeal, kicking with all his might. He and Phillip realized he’d perish in moments as more undead piled on, sucking his life from him.
Phillip, knowing Thunder’s end was inevitable, sprang to his feet. Clutching his machete, he struck another undead in the shoulder, spinning it around, blood splattering everywhere as its arm dislocated. The other zombies nearby lifted their heads, sniffing the blood of their own kind, and attacked their fellow, giving Phillip room to slip past those congregating on Thunder.
Kicking one in the head as he ran by and hearing the sickening crack of its spine, Phillip grinned as he sprinted. He kept his mouth tightly shut lest he inadvertently swallow infected contaminants.
Phillip was a thin man, with stringy, unruly hair and a skimpy goatee, but wore a heavy leather overcoat designed to protect cuts from infectious splatter.
Ahead of him, Taylor’s horse, 5-Spot, also faltered, falling as three zombies clutched his neck. Taylor managed to jump free but landed between two zombies, knocking all three to the ground. It was a bone-jarring fall, and he took a moment to recover, something the zombies didn’t suffer from. They clambered to their feet, barring their teeth, unafraid of their own contagion.
Closing the distance, Phillip swung his machete. The blade cracked one’s skull and as its head twisted, Phillip remembered the danger of such a weapon. The blade embedded in the creature’s cranium, pulling Phillip over as it fell, not quite killing the creature.
The secret to killing zombies, as every child in the collective understood, was to sever the head or snap the spine. Anything else might cost you your only weapon, leaving you defenseless. Yet Phillip held on, even as he and the zombie collapsed to the ground.
The second zombie—unable to decide which victim to attack—gave Taylor time to clamber to his feet, drawing his long-bladed knife in one hand and his short spear in the other. While neither was a decent severing tool, he could attack with either hand and still afford to lose one weapon. Kicking the zombie under Phillip—who died again—Taylor jammed his knife into the eye of the standing zombie—risky since the blade was likely to wedge in the bone.
Luckily, the lifeless zombie fell straight back as Taylor jerked the knife back. Phillip sprang to his feet, yanking his machete free, again sending contaminated blood flying. Both turned their heads to avoid it, but you never knew about contagions. That was why they both wore heavy coats, to protect as much exposed skin as possible, despite it being a balmy 87° day.
“Glad to have you back among the living,” Taylor gasped. “I was afraid I’d lost you.”
“You wouldn’t be so lucky.” Phillip severed another head, which slid off the zombie’s shoulder before it could collapse, leaving a bloody trail in its wake.
As more zombies rushed forward, they focused on the exposed blood of their companions, giving the two living men an avenue to escape. Both horses’ screams were cut short, reminding the men what would happen if they dawdled.
They realized the loss would cost the Collective dearly. Fully grown draft horses were worth ten men. Humans could be replaced, whereas draft animals, especially fast ones, would severely impact the Collective as a whole. Men also couldn’t do the work the horses did. If their mounts died, they’d have to account for those losses, but that wasn’t either man’s priority at the moment.
The men had a free run for several seconds as the sounds of the horses’ thrashing and kicking hooves diminished, before their footsteps attracted the zombie’s attention and they began their attack anew.
Their destination in sight, they grit their teeth behind closed lips and poured on the steam, hoping to make the gate before being overwhelmed.
“Hello the hold!” Taylor screamed, pausing to stab another undead in the face. Only this time, his spear was ripped from his hands. His knife was only good for close combat, something he wasn’t eager for, the risk of being cut and splashed with spittle or blood was too high.
As the undead swarmed in an almost unending stream, the two men fought them off as best they could. It was simpler—and safer—to kick or shove them away, rather than chance losing their sole weapons. At the speed they were running, a momentary distraction was enough to buy their escape, but the undead were easily replaced by more. They realized they didn’t have much time.
BANG!
The sound of a gunshot echoed over the open space, bouncing off the stone walls and bare trees surrounding them. Those features helped the outnumbered Collective survive as long as it had, but they’d never faced the odds they did now—making their survival so essential.
Every zombie’s head snapped up at the gunfire, as if they were capable of recognizing the sound for what it was. Still, the distraction increased the odds of the two men’s survival significantly for every second it bought them. The sound was more effective than any slain, since shells were so dear and those killed had little effect on the distressed humans. They worried—as always—that early warning shots might cost them later essential killing shots their lives might depend on.
Swinging the flat of his machete, the blade struck the side of another zombie’s head, sending him reeling. While the action didn’t risk Phillip’s weapon, the blade vibrated in his hand almost causing him to drop it. His hand stung, even as he drew it back for another attack.
Taylor faltered, missing two steps. Phillip hooked his arm around his friend, pulling him along until he could regain his footing, leaving both men unable to fight off the attacking horde.
Clutching fingers tore at their bodies, protected—for now—by their heavy coats, but there was no telling when such protection would fail. Like everything in this post-apocalyptic existence, your life hung in a delicate balance on the thin thread of luck and timing. A single momentary breeze in the wrong direction, and your life might be over.
Phillip, now in the lead, hit one undead with his shoulder, bowling it over into those behind it. As they fell, those near them stopped to consider a new potential victim, unable to differentiate between friend and foe given the overwhelming draw of fresh blood. As long as neither man bled, it was a toss-up which they’d attack, though given time, the undead could smell the fresh blood within their veins. But at the speed they ran, the odds were slightly in their favor.
Taylor elbowed another and again faltered. Phillip feared he’d been injured, implying he might already be contaminated, still neither had time to worry. If it came to it, Phillip could kill his friend once they were both safe. They both realized, once infected, you were no longer human and your life no longer mattered.
Another shot rang out, louder this time, and a zombie before them lurched forward, stale blood splashing behind it and ahead of the two men. The other zombies surrounding it were distracted long enough to scent its spilled blood, turning on their still mobile companion. They focused their hunger on his flesh, buying the two a few more seconds.
A door opened in the tight Collective citadel, and two men bearing their own weapons stepped forward. One wielded an antique sword, glistening in the fading sunlight, while the man behind him carried one of the few remaining shotguns.
“Hurry, it’s not much further!” the lead man yelled, brandishing his sword. The light glinted, focusing the attention of the undead, again causing a momentary hesitation. Phillip hacked off an arm while Taylor stabbed another in the face, while shoving a third away with his open gloved hand.
Between the various distractions, the two men broke free and ran even harder, their breaths as labored as their two dead mounts had been. As they neared the two men awaiting them, the one blasted another zombie with a partial load of buckshot—all they could afford to use. The blast—one final distraction—bought Phillip and Taylor their freedom as the two ran past the men into the safety of the Collective’s refuge. The guardians backed in, shutting and locking the metal-encased door with a heavy, heartening click. They were safe—for now!
“I’m glad you made it,” Thomas Gilford said, surveying the two while holding a pistol on them. “We’ll talk about the loss of your mounts later. Strip out of those clothes, we need to ensure neither of you was wounded.”
“I’m okay,” Phillip said, struggling out of his heavy overcoat. “I’m not sure about Taylor, though. His leg seems hurt.”
“Hey!” Taylor protested, holding his hands up, delaying his own disrobing. “I sprained it stepping in a hole.”
Like most survivors, the men had endured many hard years. The ‘pretty boys’ had been winnowed out over the years. Now only the hard-hearted warriors remained, those willing to sacrifice whatever it took to continue.
Thomas was a congenial fellow, his winning personality allowing him to survive multiple power struggles over the years. He wore a thin beard, as neatly trimmed as he could manage, sharp clear eyes and a disarming smile—which often disguised his brutal decisions.
Jefferson and Phillip made an odd-match as their appearance made those addressing them unsure of their state of mind, though when it came down to life and death matters, each had proven themselves time and again. Phillip, his beard grown out and untrimmed, offered a disarming face since his cross eyes kept everyone trying to position themselves in his line of vision, often sidelining their primary aims. Jefferson kept his hair short for his frequent forays into combat with the undead.
Phillip had the look of a Wildman, which described his fighting style. He was a mass of fast actions, quick hands and unpredictable behaviors. Unlike Taylor, his hair was longer and scruffy, bearing a short goatee, his face wrinkled from years spent guarding hideouts under the glare of the hot sun.
“Good to see you’re still rational, but that doesn’t prove you’re not infected.” Thomas waved his pistol as the other two men surrounded them, weapons ready. “Keep going.”
Understanding the expectations; both stripped, removing every bit of clothing, dropping them in a pile. They’d be scanned, hung up to dry and scraped clean afterwards. A lengthy process, but safer than handling the contaminated gear.
“How’d the mission go?” Thomas asked. “Did anyone get through, or is everyone else dead?”
“No,” Phillip huffed, still regaining his breath as he tossed his shirt and undershirt to the side. “Anderson broke free, making good his escape. Since we didn’t have a clear passage, we retreated, splitting the active zombies between us. He was mounted like us, so I’m guessing he broke free.”
“Except no one knows whether the surrounding terrain is as densely infested with this newest horde,” Jefferson Peters reminded them, poking Taylor in the back, reminding him to continue undressing.
Jefferson looked the role of a preeminent fighter. A middle-aged Hispanic, he had hard features and intense eyes—effective at intimidating dissent in a crisis. Like Thomas, he kept his hair cut close to his head and his face clean, as his several nicks with a dull razor testified.
“It was the best we could do, and he had a free run ahead of him,” Phillip said, dropping his drawers and stepping out of them. Completely naked, he performed a slow turn, holding his hands over his head. “There’s a decent chance he made it, while we gain nothing being overly paranoid.”
“Except the zombies have never been this active, or this congregated before,” Thomas said. “We have no clue what’s attracting them, but it won’t be long until we’re overwhelmed and they start climbing the walls. If Anderson doesn’t make it, or it takes too long to mount a rescue, we may all be dead before help arrives.”
Taylor dropped his own pants, wincing as he did his own spin.
“Let me see under your arm,” Jefferson insisted, poking him again in his side. Taylor lifted his arm, holding it up until Jefferson nodded.
“You’re clean. Go wash up. Red will accompany you, in case either one turns. I’m eager to hear your summary, but I need to remain to watch how the zombies respond. They’re dangerous and unpredictable when aggravated like this.”
“We’re both healthy,” Phillip argued, heading off in his birthday suit. “I hate the idea of someone with an itchy trigger finger accidentally reacting if I sneeze.”
“You know the protocol,” Red said, following them. “We’ve lost enough people who thought they were healthy, but turned in the shower. One free undead inside the compound costs more lives than twenty outside. I won’t shoot unless it’s necessary, but I ain’t takin’ no chances either.”
Red, as his name implied, an Irish redhead, his beard disguised with flecks of white and dirt, hid his face when venturing outside. He was short in stature, a physically strong man but more willing to follow orders than leading a charge. He was often a better disciplinarian than an opinion seeker.
Both men nodded they accepted his logic. It’s what they’d do—and had done before. It was one of the many compromises the living made in this land of the undead.
“What do you think, Thomas?” Jefferson and Thomas surveyed the shambling hordes gathered below. It almost looked like a living brown soup bubbling from beneath, constantly in motion, the occasional spot of fresh blood peering out.
“I don’t know. We’re facing an unparalleled threat,” Thomas said, running his hand along his scalp. “Our small enclave is surrounded, making recon trips all but impossible. We’ve struggled to make our encampment invisible, but if these groups realize we have living here and attack, we may not be able to turn them away. There are more undead than we have weapons to fight them off with.”
“We don’t have a choice. As always, we battle with what we have and hope for the best.”
“Yeah, but without reinforcements, we don’t stand a chance.” Jefferson looked in each direction, scanning for gaps in the assembled zombies. “They’ll catch our scent sooner or later, despite our attempts to diminish their draw. Once they do, they’ll overwhelm us and we’ll be unable to hold them back. Without David’s group, or someone else riding to the rescue, we’re all dead.”
“Still, the work we do here is essential,” Thomas said, always looking for the positive. It was a trait which had helped him convince everyone in the collective to follow him on his insane idea of farming inside an enclosed compound which restricted their bounty. "Our biggest resources are our animal research and breeding program. Because we provide food for the surrounding holdouts, they can’t allow us to be cut off for long. If we’re hemmed in, they stand to starve, so it’s in their best interest to aid us.”
“That’s if they can break through, if they get the word, and if they can spare enough people to win the day. Those are all unlikely, given how thin our communities are.”
“What you say is true, but our survival is necessary to everyone else’s. If we die, so do the others. It would be better for each of the other groups to make a stand here, joining us, than standing on their own. Even if they don’t face the same numbers we do, they don’t have the resources to survive without us.”
“Still, packing up every man, woman and child, dragging whatever they can, and fighting their way here is a tall order. Given how sparsely populated we each are, it’s unlikely they’d survive.” Jefferson peered into the distance, observing the lone road crowded with the mingling undead hemming them in. “Even then, if anyone else abandons their home, we’re lost too. If we lose David’s, we lose their small gas refinery, meaning we lose the electricity we rely on. If Martin’s group goes, we lose their smithy, metalsmithing and pottery, which we need to maintain our ever dwindling weapons supplies. None of us can survive without the others. Even if we could, there’s no way we can feed and house so many additional people with our limited resources. Our best bet is if a small group can break through and help defend us until the horde moves on, before we all return to our own abodes. We’ve never seen these numbers before, there’s no way they can sustain these odds for long.”
“We’ve said the same thing before,” Thomas said. “Yet the undead continue to multiply while the living continually shrink. It’s been over a decade, and we continually lose ground. This may be the new normal and we all face similar odds. If we are, there’s no chance any of us can break out to seek a new home. Without our meager resources, there’s little chance we’d survive on the open road for long.”
“It’s looking like this is the final stretch,” someone else commented beside them. “Either we pull through, or it’s over for each of us.”
Thomas sighed, watching the hundreds of undead stretched before him. “Then let’s pray there’s a solution and we discover it before it’s too late. We’ve fought too long, at too great a cost, to surrender to the inevitable now.”
Experience: that most brutal of teachers.
But you learn, my God do you learn.
“We’re confronting a threat unlike any we’ve faced before,” the lead speaker, Thomas Gilford, said. The tightly-packed audience leaned forward, eager to hear the details and possible solutions. “While in the past we’d get surges of the undead, the latest seems unparalleled. There are not just hundreds of them, but thousands. What’s more, they seem particularly responsive, meaning they’re quicker to react, and likelier to attack. Faced with these numbers, given our limited resources, we’re facing a dire situation. We need suggestions folks.” He wiped his brow before continuing. The small enclosed meeting hall, like the rest of the compound, concentrated the sun’s heat. That feature made the compound ideal for raising crops and animals, while the building was used as a meeting hall because it contained few doors and windows exposing the participants to the fields fed with animal waste. “Anything anyone can think of which might—in the very least—buy us a little time.”
The Collective was a small community, totaling twenty-three individuals—though that made it one of the largest functional communities in the region. The fact they focused on farm work, augmented by research into perfecting plant species which produced well in restricted areas, allowed them to supply many groups with the goods needed to survive. The compound was a walled village, though most of the area was composed of fields, animal enclosures, pastures and communal facilities like medical and blacksmithing operations. That made the buildings and human habitations incredibly crowded—and the farm smells ever present—especially since they relied on human and animal waste as their primary fertilizer.
The compound was so crowded that the residents, including men, women and children, regularly volunteered to engage in dangerous combat missions just to escape the monotony of life within its walls.
“We’ve each faced the same dire consequences before,” a woman in the back said, “and each time we’ve won out. The zombies might be unrelenting, but they’re as bright as turnips. Once they get bored, they’ll move on.”
“It’s decidedly different this time,” Thomas warned. “They’ve been congregated in one group, shifting and pulsing, but they’re not heading anywhere. They migrate from one area to another, only to have others take their place. As far as we’ve been able to tell, none are leaving the vicinity.”
“What about the other groups nearby? Surely they’ll provide assistance.”
“We’ve sent someone to David’s Pump Brigade to the north,” Thomas offered. “The other groups are too difficult to reach, but it’s possible David’s group could include them. With luck, they’ll launch an attack, drawing the undead away, allowing us to initiate a counterattack. Between us, we may whittle the zombie masses down.”
“Whittling doesn’t sound like much of a solution,” someone else argued.
“It doesn’t, but we’re hop—”
The door was flung open and a panting man entered, holding his hand up while he regained his breath.
“We … have a … situation. We need you to … return to the front gate and … evaluate it.”
“Damn!” Thomas swore. “I figured this would happen soon, but hoped we’d have more time.” Heading towards the door, he turned, walking backwards, issuing instructions as he went. “Prepare your weapons. If we need you, we’ll sound the bell. If this is what I’m expecting, forget about saving the children. If the adults die, they’re unlikely to escape. Frankly, we need everyone we can defending us in order for anyone to survive.”
Exiting the meeting hall, both men took off at a trot, the cool breeze blowing across Thomas’ perspiration a brief relief from the heat—which wouldn’t last long. “What’s the situation?” Thomas inquired.
“Sorry sir, but I can’t do it justice. You need to see this to comprehend what we’re confronting. It’s … frightening.”
“Worse than what we were facing earlier? You’re right, this I’ve got to see!”
Climbing the steep ladder to the compound’s front overlook, the two men hurried to the edge.
“Damn! This is bad.”
Below them, the numbers of undead had dramatically increased from the previously overwhelming multitudes. Instead of hundreds meandering aimlessly, they were now packed shoulder to shoulder, moving together as a force, their voices united in a consistent moan.
“When did these new additions arrive?” Thomas demanded, wiping his brow.
“They just marched in, just as you see them. As they did, the ones already here fell in with them, joining the others and adopting their behaviors.”
“Shit! This is terrible. They’re acting in unison, something they’ve never done before. If one rushes the front gate, the rest will follow. There’s nothing which would keep it standing.” He turned. “Someone get Fredrick. We need to discover what’s happening. I’ve never seen zombies so organized. We’re facing something unprecedented. We need to comprehend what’s controlling their behavior.”
“We’ve called him. He should arrive soon,” Jefferson, the Collective’s second in command and military leader, said.
“I can answer a few questions for you,” Red said, stepping forward and raising a rifle. While guns and ammo were in short supply, they kept at least one rifle at the main gate, in case someone approached needing refuge. While they couldn’t fire many shots, they could slow those pursuing to give them time to enter.
Red braced the gun’s butt to his shoulder, resting his elbows on the wall’s rim. “I’ll take one down and we’ll see whether they respond in unison, or scatter. I’m guessing they’ll trample each other once they start moving. Such behavior isn’t natural for them.”
“They might also surge, en masse, towards our front door,” Jefferson cautioned. “You might be opening a can of worms we can’t close and which might kill us all.
“Relax,” Red said, closing one eye as he sighted. “I’ll target one along the fringe. If they rush him, they’ll move away. If they charge forward, they’ll crush each other.”
“Or, they may rush the sound,” Fredrick cautioned, stepping off the ladder to stand beside the others on the barricade. “If you fire you mig—”
The shot rang out. Everyone jumped and Fredrick winced. “Jeez, Red, what the hell are you doing?”
“We’ll see in a second,” he said, lowering his rifle. Everyone turned to observe the massed zombies. As usual, they’d all perked up, alerted by the sound, but so far, they hadn’t responded. As the humans waited, not daring to breathe, the wall of undead began to surge towards the compound’s walls before a lone voice shouted from below.
“Stop!”
It was clearly a human voice, a woman’s. As the people along the barricade pushed forward, searching for the source, the zombies packed shoulder to shoulder parted, creating an opening. Into that clearing, leading towards the Collective’s citadel entrance, strode a woman with long blond hair. Most striking of all, she wore a bright white dress with large red, green and blue dots—the last thing you’d expect if you wanted to remain camouflaged. Yet the zombie’s didn’t respond to the visual provocation. Instead, they turned as one, awaiting her arrival as if part of a royal coronation. Not a one moved other than to shuffle aside to make room for her.
Without pausing, the woman advanced, waving her arms.
“Don’t shoot! They won’t hurt—” She began coughing, stopping to clear her throat while both the quick and the dead awaited her next words. “Excuse me, it’s been years since I’ve spoken, but they won’t harm you.”
Glancing around, expecting pandemonium to erupt any second, Jefferson leaned over the railing, his eyebrow arching. “Who the hell are you? Who do you represent?”
Instead of answering, she continued forward. As she progressed, the zombie’s stepped aside, even turning to observe her passing. Rather than speaking, she began humming loudly enough for her voice to carry. As she did the zombies resumed their familiar moans, only this time they were all in unison.
“Holy …” Fredrick said. “They’re singing!”
As the woman neared the gate, she turned and still singing, waved the zombie horde back. They hesitated a moment, and then thousands of mindless undead turned and began an organized movement, heading away from the compound.
Seeing her plan successfully executed, the woman turned. Thomas stepped forward, opened his mouth, but the woman held her hand up, palm first, silencing him as she continued singing what sounded like a dirge. As the zombies began to withdraw, she glanced over her shoulder. Noting they were a suitable distance away, she turned to the barricade.
“Excuse me, but loud noises disturb them.” She spoke so softly, those above had trouble making her out. She adjusted her speech, speaking a little louder. “That’s why fast movements and gunfire are such a bad idea. They … sorry, I haven’t used English in years … it agitates them and provokes anger. I didn’t want to shout. It would defeat my … purpose.”
“The zombies are your friends?” Red asked, observing them slowly departing, moving farther apart the further they got from the woman.
“I’ve lived with them for years. Hell, it’s got to have been, what, five or ten years now. I was this tall,” she said, indicating about four feet with her hand.
“And they understand you?” Fredrick inquired, pushing the others aside to speak directly with the woman.
Fredrick was an unusual survivalist, wearing thick frame glasses, cleanly shaven, with long bangs hanging in his face. He seemed like a college professor, minus the elbow pads on his non-existent jacket. Now, his eyebrows were raised and his eyes opened wide, as if not believing what he observed before him.
She giggled, though she was too distant to determine what she looked like. “Not only do they understand; they speak too. Despite what everyone thinks, they’re fairly intelligent.” When the humans above her pulled back, she rushed to explain. “They’ve all suffered the same brain damage from their deaths, so they’re more akin to slow dogs. They comprehend my words, but prefer order to disorder. Since I give them directions and assist them, they follow my lead.”
“So they followed you?” Jeffery pressed. “You’re the reason they’re here?”
“Not all of them. My group is large, but we came here because we saw the others. As I said, they prefer order and structure, and recognize good ideas and results. Essentially, I’m eager to help as many as possible. We’ll all do better working in unison.”
“Excuse me, but who the hell are you?” Thomas demanded, pushing Red aside so he could join the conversation. “We’ve never heard a zombie speak, and they’ve never responded to voice commands.”
Instead of answering, the woman turned to gauge how far away her zombie friends had gotten. Raising her voice, she sang for some time, but the human’s couldn’t make out what she was saying. It sounded like a nonsensical tune, but the zombies turned, stopped and waited, taking a more relaxed posture, some even sitting or wandering around, checking out the objects surrounding them. As the humans stood agape, the woman turned back, speaking English again.
“My name is … Leza, and yes, they’re both my friends and my family. The reason they’ve never responded is because you shout, which angers them. You’ve got to speak in a low tone, and they respond better to music.”
Fredrick glanced between Leza and her … companions. “And that’s why you sing to them?”
“Exactly. Now you’re getting the idea.” She glanced back again, noticing the zombies were growing restless, wandering around. Turning, she began backing up. “Sorry, but I need to return. If I’m not there, they’ll get into trouble.”
Jeffrey motioned to her, indicating the safety of the compound. “You don’t want refuge, to join the human race again?”
Leza laughed. “Hell no! They’re my friends, and I can do more for them than you can for me. You’re locked in a concrete cage, without the freedom to move or breathe while I’m free and welcomed for who I am, not what I can do for others.”
She glanced back once again before speaking faster.
“A couple things: we can smell the animals. I assume you have a farm to support them. If you could, leave some raw vegetables outside the compound. If you’ve got some meat, we’d enjoy that as well, or at least I would. My friends would appreciate fresh blood, animal is preferable to human.” Glancing back, she waved. “I’ve got to go. I’ll stop back in a few days and we’ll talk again.” She turned and ran back, singing as she did, leaving the humans scratching their heads, staring at each other, wondering whether they were all dreaming.
Thomas and Fredrick entered the meeting hall, only to discover the building was packed. It seemed everyone was there. Not just the men in their off-hours, but nursing mothers, small children, as well as those normally tending crops or doing research. Hell, he saw several of the guards supposedly keeping watch. Since Leza removed her … people, the area surrounding the compound was clear. It went from thousands of the undead, packed shoulder to shoulder, to standing empty for the first time in years. As long as she didn’t change her mind, there was little to guard and little reason not to attend the vital meeting. The guards reported seeing an occasional zombie, but only in the distance, skirting the property as if searching for everyone else. If what Leza claimed was true, they might represent other zombies seeking her out, rather than hunting for food.
Almost as soon as they entered, the discussions halted. Everyone gathered in small groups, gossiping about what the others knew and what Leza’s arrival might imply. With Thomas there, they now focused on him. Fredrick only served a backup function, providing information regarding Leza’s claims.
“I’m glad you could all make it. I’m sure you know, this is a momentous event, which affects us all.”
“Get on with it. Some of us have work to get back to!”
Thomas cleared his throat, trying to get a feel for the room.
“We encountered someone who not only lives amongst zombies, but actually commun—”
“Yeah, yeah. We know the details. It’s all anyone can talk about. What we need to know is what we’re planning.”
“What are you offering to entice her to stay?”
Thomas took a moment to plan his approach. The room was actively confrontational, impatient, frustrated and wanting immediate solutions. They were prepared to pass judgment on anything he might propose. He needed to watch his step. “We’re still trying to determine what her motives are, what she wants. So far, all she’s requested are—”
“Rotten fruits and raw vegetables. We’re aware of the details, we’re hoping to hear specifics.”
“What’s she going to do with vegetables?” Red inquired. “I ain’t never seen no zombie eating nothing green. If she wants anything, they’ll want meat, bloody and preferably still breathing.”
“She’s given no indication that—”
“That’s why we need to figure out what she needs. If we wait for her to make demands, she’ll play us like schoolchildren.”
“She’s given no indication that’s her intent. Even if it was, frankly, I’d be glad to supply it. Hell, if she can provide even a few hours of undisturbed time outside, we could easily triple our output. Now, we’re feeding our livestock with rotting hay and they’re getting no exercise at all.”
“That’s how it starts,” Jefferson said, stepping forward. Like Leza, those gathered parted for him. Instead of demanding answers, they let him confront and challenge Thomas. He’d worked the crowd while Thomas checked facts, ensuring what Leza promised was legit.
“Once you start giving her live animals, she’ll keep asking for more. She’s got thousands of mouths to feed and they don’t need our refuse. We need the livestock for trade with the other groups. Without it, we won’t have access to weapons, electricity, gasoline or heat. What’s more, once she’s consumed everything we possess, she’ll leave, taking her undead to demand the same from our previous partners.”
Thomas leaned back, crossing his arms and meeting Jefferson’s challenging glare. “So what’s your proposal? Clearly you’ve already established a position, so why don’t we quit this pretense of wanting options. Is this a power play, an attempt to wrest control of the Collective? If so, what are you bringing to the table?”
Jefferson squared his shoulders, marching to the front, standing just before and slightly lower than Thomas. He turned, addressing the audience rather than Thomas. “I hold she’s playing one group off another, isolating them, getting them to trust her. She’ll then milk each with ever-increasing demands before descending on those left too weak to fight her hordes off. Our only chance is to stand firm and not cede control. She’s looking for our weaknesses so she can play on them. If we defy her, refusing to open our doors, she’ll grow bored and head for easier pickin’s.”
“That’s terrific logic,” Thomas said, stepping in before anyone could support Jefferson’s proposal. “Except she could overrun us now; there’s little reason to wait and little chance we could withstand either an outright attack or a blockade. Hell, if we can’t leave the compound, we’ll be losing people by the end of the week.”
“We can’t capitulate!” Jefferson argued, turning on his old and trusted friend.
“It won’t cost us anything, and we have everything to gain by playing along. While she gets to know us, we’ll get to know her. The odds are better we’ll find a mutual solution benefiting us both than we can successfully defend ourselves against her.”
“We don’t need to defend ourselves.” Jefferson insisted. “She’s a scam artist. She’s got a zombie army, but as any general can tell you, any army is only as strong as its supply lines. If you can’t feed your army, it collapses. If we refuse to play ball, she’s only got two options: attack and lose a significant amount of her army, gaining only enough to feed them for a short while, or leave to pick on an easier target.”
“And which target do you suggest? If your ploy succeeds—which seems unlikely—the other groups will either grow tremendously—without our assistance—or she’ll annihilate them leaving us without the necessary tools to survive. Either way, we’ll be worse off than if we work with her. Even if her terms work against us, at least we’ll know what we’re dealing with and learn her weaknesses. Hell, if she’s as bad as you claim; a single gunshot and her zombie army is leaderless. Without her, they’ll wander off after a few days like the zombie hordes always do.
“However, if we work together, we may become self-sufficient, strong enough to attract new members and build an efficient, independent community. At the least, we’ll learn more about how the dead function, allowing us to better control and anticipate their actions. I see little downside to giving her a few spare foodstuffs until we determine what she wants.”
Red leapt up, shaking his fist and advancing on the stage. “I’m telling you, nobody does nothin’ for nothin’. It takes a hell of a lot of grub to feed a damn army, and a starving army of zombies will be one mean, bloodthirsty bunch of savages.”
Thomas stepped from behind his podium, motioning with his arms for everyone to calm down. “Before we start getting into fights, let’s reflect on what we’ve been able to gather so far.”
“We already talked it to death,” someone from the back shouted.
“No, you’ve fed your assumptions, jumping to unsustainable conclusions.” Thomas turned and motioned his companion up. “Fredrick, can you step up and give everyone a rundown of what you’ve been able to make of Leza and her cohorts?”
Instead of climbing the stairs to the dais, Fredrick stopped between the other people, setting his cracked glasses on his face and smiling at everyone.
“Despite her outlandish claims, she appears to know what she speaks of. She understands which areas of the brain correspond to each area she labeled for the variations in her zombies’ abilities. Frankly, it’s the most fact-based explanation for their behavior I’ve heard. It’s the kind of research I’d love to do, but we’re too terrified of cutting open a zombie with a bone saw to discover for ourselves.”
“Stick to the facts,” Thomas reminded him.
“I still can’t figure out what she wants the fruits and veggies for. From her description, she’s not intending to feed her zombies with them. They must serve another purpose, though I can’t fathom what. All in all, her zombie pals seem to be in decent shape, healthier than those we normally encounter.”
“They’re better fed!” Red shouted. “Ask Leza who she’s fed them with.”
“No, no. I agree with Thomas,” Fredrick continued. “She’s given no indication she’s after food or supplies. Instead, she seems to have stumbled across us completely by accident.”
“That’s what she wants us to think, four-eyes!” Jefferson crowed. “Before the invasion, did you ever make it out of a lab?”
“Jefferson, please,” Thomas cautioned. “Let’s be civil about this! There’s no reason to make this personal. Your paranoia has aided us in the past, but now may be the time to consider all our options.”
“I’ve got a question,” Cynthia said, stepping forward. She was one of the younger women in the compound, and one of their best farm workers. She wore her long straight black hair in a thick ponytail, with wisps of hair sticking out around the edges of her face. “If she doesn’t need our help in feeding so many undead zombies, we need to ask why. If they can feed on something besides human flesh, maybe we can grow or raise it for them. If things don’t work out, we can always hunt it down and poison it. Either way, knowing what allows the enemy to multiply while we gradually dwindle might be worth any treasures we might collect from this.”
“See,” Thomas yelled, raising Cynthia’s hand over her head. “This is what I was trying to generate. Decent questions and suggestions to allow us to formulate an informed strategy, rather than hotheaded angst and bluster.” He threw his arm around her shoulder, guiding her up to the stage. “Do you have any other ideas which might be relevant to the discussion?”
“Bah! You people can’t see the writing on the wall,” Jefferson yelled before storming out with Red. About twelve people followed them out, taking much of their audience. A detail Thomas found reassuring.
The Collective’s warning bell clanged, and every head in the compound snapped alert. It was a behavior they’d learned years ago. Only this time, instead of ringing until everyone rallied, it only rang twice and was then muffled by someone holding the bell with their hands. The implications were clear to anyone listening.
Thomas, who’d been anxiously waiting for this moment, ran for the stairs, scaling the ladder. Once up, the guards blocked anyone else from ascending. Despite using it for years, no one ever thought to determine how much weight it could support. Even during a presumed all-out combat, they’d never envisioned everyone standing on the narrow ledge at once.
“Is it her?”
“It is,” Red answered, handing him the binoculars. Thomas glanced out, but the wall of undead, marching in a steady pace, was impossible to miss. “She’s wearing another sunny dress. This time it’s light green with yellow and red flowers. You couldn’t miss it if you tried.”
The small door in the front gate opened and two women ran out carrying a canvas sack. They stopped to look—no doubt to guess how much time they possessed—but were so stunned by the sight they stood motionless until finally shaking their heads. They dumped their contents a short distance from the main gate into two distinct piles. One of raw vegetables: beets, carrots, squash and cucumbers, the other fruits just starting to turn: apples, pears and plums. When they finished, they hurried back inside, bolting the door behind them.
They deposited the items outside at first light the morning after her first appearance, but neither she nor any solitary zombie ever showed. By the end of the first day, people became frazzled. “Maybe she’s not coming?” “I’ll bet she’s made arrangements with someone else.” “Do you think the zombies finally killed her?” The next day, they reluctantly collected most, but not all the goods, taking out new supplies each morning. Still, no one appeared to collect them.
“It’s been two full days. Where do you think she’s been?” Red asked.
“She’s obviously been negotiating with the other groups,” Jefferson said, stepping off the ladder. As their defense strategist and captain of the guard, Thomas could hardly restrict his access to the fortifications, despite his views on Leza. “As I warned, she’s playing one group off the other.”
“No, you said she’d keep us separated, destroying one before moving to the next,” Thomas corrected him, passing him the binoculars.
“The details aren’t important. She’s working to keep us isolated. I’ll guarantee, even if we could reach them, the other groups will refuse to work together now. Everyone’s drooling over what she offers.”
“Her gang seems larger, if it’s even possible,” Red whispered.
“She’s obviously merged with the other group who were here before,” Thomas observed.
“Not only that, she’s got them as well trained as her regular bunch,” Jefferson added.
“Whatever you maintain, she’s a damn miracle worker.”
Seeing the produce was secure and their defenses in place, Leza raised an arm, pointing it out. A group of zombies broke into a trot, running ahead. There were about twelve, of both sexes, and ran surprisingly fast, but at a measured pace, as if maintaining their strength. It took them a short time, during which every pair of eyes in the compound tried to observe them through the various firing positions. The guards allowed individuals, one or two at a time, access to the defensive overview.
The advance zombie troop approached quickly. Rather than missing limbs—like the majority of the undead they’d battled for the past decade—these were in good shape. Some even wore fresh bandages, without bloodstains. They wore new clothing instead of gaping wounds revealing how they’d died. The clothes were wrinkled and unwashed, but was regularly replaced. “I wonder if she does their laundry, or they raid whatever homes they stumble across?” Red queried in a whisper.
The zombies wasted no time, not even glancing at the humans stationed above them. They gathered the goods, shoving the produce in their pockets: vegetables in the right, fruits in the left, before jogging back again. When they returned, Leza spread her arms and the whole amassed group halted, their consistent, unified moans echoing across the intervening distance. The first contingent passed out their newfound treasures and the others passed them along, some taking single items, the rest passing them on. Leza held both hands up, singing to them, and turned and advanced on the front gate. Not a single zombie moved as much as two steps after her.
She took her time, seemingly out for an afternoon stroll. The grass was richer, greener. Without the fear of zombie attacks, the Collective sent out their livestock to feed—an unknown occurrence—guarded by their best fighters and shepherded by young children. Neither ever imagined an excursion like it. The animals: sheep, lambs and pigs, hell, even the cows on the second day, reveled in their newfound freedom—though they kept the chickens in cages. No one wanted to risk chasing after skittish animals in the event of an unexpected attack.
Stopping a short distance before the gate, Leza glanced above her, shielding her eyes against the bright sun, and started singing. “Come down and …” She stopped, cleared her throat a couple times, and resumed in a normal but low-pitched voice. “Come down and we’ll talk.” When those above her surveyed the undead army behind her, she waved the thought away. “They’ll be fine. Send whoever you want, but keep your weapons sheathed. I’ll explain how to remain safe in the future.”
Thomas held a quick confab with the others, selecting a negotiating party. Despite his trepidations over her intent, Jefferson volunteered.
Minutes later, Thomas, Jefferson, Phillip, Red and Taylor exited the compound and approached Leza, who smiled brightly at their approach, glad to see them.
“Morning!” she sang before laughing. “Sorry, it’s a hard habit to break after so many years.”
“I’m curious,” Phillip asked. “What’s with the produce?”
“It’s simple, though the fruits and vegetables serve different purposes. Whenever the zombies encounter nuts or vegetables, they’ll grab one and carry it indefinitely. If they meet an animal in its den, defending a litter, rather than fighting, they’ll offer it the vegetable. That way they avoid a fight they’re unlikely to win, and slowly gain the trust of the dangerous animals who learn to leave them alone.”
“Wait, you’re saying zombies don’t attack animals in the wild?”
“It depends. If they encounter them in the clear, then they’re fair game. Yet they won’t pull animals from their dens or fight a particularly ferocious animal like a bear or wolf pack unless they can isolate a single weak individual.”
Jefferson shook his head. “Whoever came up with these rules, you or the zombies?”
“I observed their behavior over time, and as they learned to trust me, I organized their efforts. They’ll remember where each den is, steering clear of it. I trained them to report each den to me and we’ll drop food by each, allowing the animals to grow stronger. Many still get eaten, but as always, the strongest survive to multiple. It doesn’t help anyone to eliminate their food supply or to confront dangerous, weary, well-defended prey.”
“It’s never stopped them from attacking us,” Red mumbled, but Leza ignored the comment which wasn’t directed at her.
“So the zombies came up with this on their own?” Jefferson continued. “Just how intelligent are they?”
“Quite,” she replied. “How much depends on each individual. No one’s as intelligent as they were before they died, obviously, and the intelligence is different. But what you’re used to is due to the time it requires for them to think things through. Thinking doesn’t come naturally, especially during an emergency. They essentially have to remember how to think, which takes time.”
“So they can plot strategy?” Taylor said, running his hand over his sheathed knife handle.
Instead of answering, she merely nodded.
“That explains a lot,” Jefferson said. “We’ve been caught out, taken by surprise many times, and I’ve always wondered where they came from so suddenly.”
“What about the fruits?” Phillip asked, following up his original question.
“They’re a different matter. As you’ve no doubt guessed, the zombies require fresh blood to live. They’ll turn on each other if one begins bleeding profusely, but their blood is stale, lacking necessary nutrients. The fruits are a key you’d never uncover on your own. They bury them under leaves, again remembering their location, and go back after a couple of days. They’ll eat the worms and insects the rotting fruit attracts, feeding on the small traces of blood from each. They need to consume a lot this way, rather than a single meal which will keep them going for weeks from a fresh kill, but it keeps them going during lean periods. They then return the uneaten fruit to continue the process.”
“Damn,” Jefferson swore. “I’ve noticed zombies with dirt and muck on their faces and hands. I’ve always assumed they’d been crawling after people in the mud, or been in fights. I never imagined they’d be so creative.”
“This is fascinating,” Thomas interrupted, “but we’re curious what you’re after. Surely you want something from us. What can we offer you?”
Leza turned, glancing back at her assembled masses, still maintaining their order, still moaning in unison in the distance without her lead. Satisfied, she turned back.
“I need three men, your best outdoorsmen. People good at moving undetected through the woods. Fighters are fine, since they’re usually more aware of what’s going on than others.”
All four men pulled back, curious. “And what do you want with these men?” Thomas asked.
“I’ll train them how to communicate with and earn the trust of the undead.” When they all shook their heads, she continued. “You can’t continue attacking and killing each other, otherwise everyone loses. Instead, if you learn to work together and coexist, you’ll each be able to thrive.” She waved at their produce deposit site. “Take your refuse offering. Even without me here, the zombies will remember, just like they remember each animals’ den. They’ll return, looking for more over time. If they don’t find it, that’s fine, but they’ll check back. If they find it often, they’ll always treat the humans there well, generally avoiding them and won’t be as likely to attack—unless provoked,” she cautioned.
“And what constitutes a provocation?” Jefferson said, glancing at the army arrayed behind her.
“This is essential for those who’ll accompany me into the woods. You can bring weapons, but the shine of reflected metal will occasionally set them off. Since you can’t guarantee when it’ll happen, it makes them unpredictable. The same goes for glasses, binoculars, engines, motors or anything loud.”
“So how do we disguise these tools so they don’t respond negatively?”
“You coat them,” she instructed. “It’s best if you coat them in aged oil and rub them in dirt. The dirt sticks to the oil and covers the shine. Dried blood works too—especially in a pinch—but often the weapons get scratched during combat, making them unreliable inciters again.”
“Really?” Jefferson asked, obviously skeptical. “That’s all it takes?”
“There’s much more to the process, but they need to understand this step to prepare.” She glanced back again, noting her companions increasing nervousness. “They prefer order and get skittish without me. They’re better behaved with me watching over them. I’ll be back tomorrow, early. Your people will be gone for most of the following day as well.”
With no more explanation, or even a good-bye, Leza turned, marching away, singing a happy dirge, her long skirt billowing in the breeze. The men glanced at each other, as if asking whether the entire encounter actually occurred, before turning and heading back to the compound. A series of silent hand signals from the guards opened the gates. Thomas and Jefferson paused, watching Leza organize her band, which began moving away even before she reached them, as if anticipating her desires.
“What do you think?” Thomas asked.
“I hate to admit it, but I’m intrigued,” Jefferson admitted. “More than anything else, I’d like to learn how these creatures think and what they’re capable of. Even if this ends horribly, such knowledge can go a long way in helping humanity’s ultimate survival.”
“And if it doesn’t end horribly?” Thomas prompted.
“Then we’ll figure out what she’s after and whether we can live with it,” he answered before turning and entering the compound. When they were both safely in, the door shut firmly, the bolt on the far side being thrown, securing everyone inside from anyone without.
Some women are
Some women are
built from it.
“It’s not looking good, Ed.” Rose arranged the spare shells, loading each weapon and arranging them within easy reach. She glanced around the house, worry lines etched along her forehead. “There are a lot of those … things out there. We can’t hope to fight them all off.”
“I know,” her husband acknowledged, glancing out the window at the shadowy figures banging on the sides of the house. “I’m trying to think of a way out, but I’m drawing a blank.”
“Maybe I can try something?” Lisa Maria offered. “I can run outside and start the truck so you can hurry out and jump in.”
“Honey, we’re not about to risk you venturing out. These things smell blood and will rip anything living apart. You got lucky before, but now it’s a … fight to the death.”
“Hopefully theirs,” Ed said, hefting his rifle as he peered out another crack in the boarded-up windows.
The family had been on the run for several years. Like everyone else, they initially joined another group to pool resources and support each other, but it didn’t work out. The others left them standing exposed in a field while they grabbed their vehicles and fled without a backward glance. After that, Lisa Marie’s father, Ed Robinson, swore he’d never trust another human again. “They’re little better than the undead. I wouldn’t be surprised to see them gnawing on someone’s leg. If so, I wouldn’t hesitate to put ‘em down like the soulless creatures they are! At least, with the zombies, you know what to expect. They’re consistent. Humans are treacherous!”
They’d discovered this homestead recently. It possessed solid walls, a working fireplace with plenty of aged firewood and food in the pantry. It was isolated, which pleased Ed. Yet the isolation which attracted them also drew the undead. They were inundated with zombies meandering past. It was almost a common thoroughfare for the recently departed. There was little chance of encounters with humans with guns and no one stopped them. Lisa often wondered where they were all going and what they were searching for.
Weeks ago, Lisa and her father were outside when her mother, Rose Marie Robinson, was attacked. Her father rushed to her defense, caving in a zombie’s skull with an axe. He escorted his wife inside. Instead of following, Lisa Marie stood watching as two other zombies ran after them, drawn by the violence and blood. However, they bypassed Lisa, never giving her a second glance.
She edged towards their truck and grabbed the crate of ammo and medical supplies they’d just located. The zombies pounded on the door her parents had slammed shut, so she slid out of the truck, quietly latched the door, and walked towards the house. They never noticed a thing. She realized she was stymied since they blocked her access. Putting her supplies down, she surveyed her immediate surroundings and found a large rock. Turning, she hurled it at the truck’s windshield, only it bounced off. The zombies turned, but returned to pounding on the door. She searched for another, moved closer and heaved it at the vehicle’s back window.
This time, the window shattered. Distracted, the undead turned and shambled towards the truck, walking right by her as she stood stock still, terrified of giving herself away. Once past, Lisa picked up the supplies and calmly returned to the house, surprising her family when she entered undisturbed.
Since then, Lisa Marie was the one to venture out. She never confronted the zombies, but they never seemed to notice her. She’d visit the well, pump water, pour it into water bottles and carry them inside. She did the same with firewood, never once drawing the ire of the zombies surrounding the house.