Sacred Cows: An Irreverent Zombie Novel Read online

  “If you get bitten,” said Declan, “Nina could patch you up. She’s a great nurse, or at least—she was.”

  A brooding silence filled the kitchen as a storm cloud formed over Declan’s head. A single fat tear slipped from the corner of his eye. Omar changed the subject: “We should scope the store out carefully first. We’ll enter through the back doors.”

  “Why’s that?” asked Declan, suddenly recovering his composure.

  “Sylvia and I heard a car on Hopmeadow Street a few nights ago.”

  “More survivors?” asked Declan, green eyes bright with sudden glee. “Great! Shouldn’t we try to meet up with them?”

  “Absolutely not!” Omar answered sharply. “The Dead are one thing, but humans are far more dangerous.”

  Declan knitted his brow. “What are you talking about? We could all help each other. Why do you always assume that people are out to get you?”

  Omar exhaled through his nostrils like a bull about to charge. “Listen up, man. We have food, wood stoves for cooking and heat, a well with a manual pump, even a bathtub. Survivors are going house-to-house, just Jonesing for what we have. Sure—we could take in one or two—but we’re hoping that Mia and Nina will come home. That’d be five of us living here on limited resources. The food we’ve got stored won’t last forever!”

  Declan implored, “But you can’t just pretend that folks aren’t suffering out there! Whatever happened to altruism? People helping other people?” He sat erect and folded his fleshy arms across his chest.

  “It’s not that,” said Omar. “You need to understand that not everyone in this world is Mahatma Gandhi. People could outgun us, and then we’d be the ones left out in the cold. No food, no water! They’d take our weapons, and who knows what they’d do to Sylvia. You were stuck in that store for so long that I’m afraid you missed some of these lessons.”

  “Well, what about your Wing Chun?” Declan retorted, simulating a karate chop. “You were a real pro back in college.”

  “I’m no ‘Ip Man.’” Omar shifted in his chair. “And you? Have you kept up your wrestling skills?”

  “Maybe fifty pounds ago.” Declan patted the rolls of fat beneath his sweater. At length he sighed, “Sometimes I’m not sure I want to live on this polluted planet anymore. Not without Nina.”

  This was my cue; he needed busywork. I squirted a dollop of EcoSmart detergent into the sink basin and handed him a dishrag. “This tub’s for suds, and this one is for rinse water. How about if you wash and we’ll dry?”

  “Sure,” Declan nodded, taking the rag and rolling up his sleeves.

  Omar set a pot of water on the wood stove to boil. “Anybody want some green tea?”

  All hands went up.

  Declan was so tall and ungainly that he had to lean over the sink to wash the dishes. “You know—I feel pretty clueless about how this whole apocalypse thing went down. What happened, exactly?”

  I asked, “Didn’t you catch the news?”

  He shook his head. “No. I was too busy working in the liquor store.”

  Omar joked, “Working…you mean getting sloshed?”

  “No—I mean working. After the divorce, I set myself up in back of the shop. It was grand. I had a bed, a kitchenette, and a very decent sound system. Then all of a sudden the electricity went out and the customers started acting weird, so I locked the doors and did a backlog of paperwork. What the hell happened?”

  I answered, “In a nutshell, people started changing. They were confused, inarticulate, as if their brain cells were clogged with peanut butter.”

  “What did the newspapers say?” Declan handed me a glass to dry.

  “They blamed it on the economy. They said that the high rate of unemployment was causing a national malaise, or some crap like that.”

  Omar chimed in, “They couldn’t really explain it. The hospital emergency rooms were full to capacity. No high fevers or elevated white cell counts, but the patients had a bizarre set of symptoms: dementia, unexplained hostility, a shuffling gait, and ravenous cravings for meat.”

  “Maybe they were anemic,” said Declan. “Whew—I can't believe I missed all that. When did it start?”

  I stowed a tumbler in the cabinet. “Around Halloween, I guess. It was mostly weird tabloid-type stuff: a waitress got torn apart in Baltimore, a male nurse was dismembered in a nursing home, a teenager in Brooklyn disappeared on the way to school one morning...”

  Omar gesticulated with his dishtowel. “It was all over the web, of course, but for a long time the mainstream media wouldn’t touch it. Finally, when push came to shove, they had to stop censoring or lose all credibility. Pundits blamed poverty, class envy, racism, homophobia, religious fervor, misogyny, et cetera. But no matter who said what, the frequency of attacks kept mushrooming. As if on cue, the left and right jumped into the fray, accusing each other of ruining the country. Politicians attacked their opponents. They demanded impeachment hearings. Yada, yada, yada...”

  Declan chimed in, “But isn’t that a good thing? It shows how much they care.”

  “Are you kidding?” Omar scoffed. “The less the government does, the better off we are! People demanded action and, unfortunately, we got it. The hammer came down fast: SWAT teams, travel restrictions, gun control, and even martial law.”

  Declan exclaimed, “Bloody hell, I must’ve been so out of it!”

  “I guess so!” Omar smiled. “And then came that big worldwide press conference with that smooth-talking asshole from Tulane. What was his name, Sylvia?”

  “I don't remember,” I answered. “Dickhead? Dipshit? Dilbert? —something like that.”

  Omar was animated. “It was pure Hollywood, Declan! Dr. Dilbert was probably just some two-bit actor from the boonies, but he swaggered onto the stage in his starched white lab coat. The guy had ultra-white teeth, a spray-on tan, and a three hundred dollar haircut.”

  I said to Declan, “I remember that day. Omar kept throwing paper airplanes and yelling at the TV, saying Dilbert was a PR man and not a scientist at all!”

  Omar went on, “The crowd was mesmerized. Dilbert waved as he stepped up to the podium to stand next to President Smith. Here’s what he said:

  ‘Citizens of the globe, try not to overreact. Everything is under control. We’ve called in top scientists from sixty different countries. We’ve done a lot of research and determined that this outbreak is nothing more than a mass incidence of Cotard’s Syndrome.

  ‘Cotard’s makes people think they’re DEAD, and let me tell you, that’s not pretty. Sufferers have delusions of putrefaction. They feel like they’ve lost their own internal organs. Symptoms include social withdrawal, neglect of personal hygiene, and a break from reality.’”

  Declan asked, “But what about the meat-eating? Did he explain that?”

  “Nope,” said Omar. “But then something really strange happened. There was a disturbance in the audience. Some of the TV cameras panned to a heavy-set sandy haired guy wading through the crowd. He hopped up onstage with a megaphone and shouted in a Texas accent: ‘The pandemic threat was all a lie! Tell us about the chimeras! Tell us about the reeducation camps! What about the animal DNA in the Smartvac?’”

  Declan scratched his head. “Who was it?”

  “I have no idea.” Omar continued, “The overhead screens went blank for a few seconds and then flickered back on with a barrage of commercials. When the press conference resumed, the Texan had vanished.”

  “Where did he go?” asked Declan.

  Omar raised his eyebrows. “He was probably ushered out of the auditorium. But within five minutes, they’d already set up the teleprompter. The sheeple audience went wild with applause as the president stepped forward. He was wearing a baby blue necktie, a pink shirt, and a Yankees baseball cap—that boot-licking, brown-nosing bullshit artist! He even had the nerve to wipe a fake tear from his eye with his middle finger!”

  “Hey,” said Declan, “easy does it―I voted for him. What did the president
say?”

  Omar imitated Smith’s pandering tone of voice:

  “’Good morning, America! We sure are having a tough time these days—wouldn’t you agree? Well, I sure would. And believe me, I understand exactly what you're going through. But folks, we’re all in this together. When you suffer, I suffer!

  ‘Now, our country needs ALL of us to do our part, and SOME of you out there are refusing to leave your homes. Why? —because you're scared. Scared of what? Sick people? Well, don’t be afraid. These people are our fellow Americans, and they need our help.

  ‘I want ALL of you to ask yourselves one thing: is this any way to live your lives? Overcoming our fears is what made this country great! We need to get back to work and take this nation of ours to new heights!

  ‘And folks—if any of your loved ones come down with Cotard’s, try not to panic. They need treatment, and the American government will provide it FREE OF CHARGE. You heard me right—there’s no cost to you. We’ve put together the perfect blend of antidepressants, anti-anxiety pills, and mood stabilizers. Just call our hotline. We’ll come to your house, pick up your loved ones, and transport them to one of our brand-new specialized medical facilities for treatment. Remember—we care DEEPLY about each and every one of you. After all, haven’t we suffered enough?’”

  Declan drained his beer. “That sounds reasonable. I’m sure the president was just trying to do his best. Did it help?”

  “Not a whit,” Omar replied. “Within weeks of the press conference, the whole country was in chaos. It was absolute pandemonium. Word travels fast when humans are going crazy.”

  Declan winced, “Sylvia mentioned that some people use the word ‘tard.’ Where did that come from?”

  Omar answered, “Social media. Tard comes from Cotards. The ACLU organized protests against it, but it still spread like wildfire.”

  “Why’s that?”

  “Some people just liked it, I guess.”

  “But it’s so rude.”

  “Yep. Rude, rude, rude. I’m sure you’ve heard of libtards, conservatards, celebritards, freetards. This was the same kind of thing. Over time, tard morphed into tar―you know, the black gunk you see when bodily organs disintegrate. There were other names, too: biters, groaners, walkers, stragglers. Maybe it’s a regional thing, but most people in Connecticut call them cruds. I’m sure you can guess why.”

  “Wow. All these buzzwords—it’s like a whole new lexicon.”

  “Yep. But after a while, nobody cared. People were too busy trying to survive.”

  “It seems like such a leap,” said Declan. Finished washing the dishes, he plopped into a kitchen chair. “How did the rest of society break down?”

  Omar hung up his dishtowel and served the tea. “C’mon, Declan—were you living under a rock?”

  Stirring sugar into my cup, I sat down beside Declan. “It was exponential, really. Everything changed so fast. Nobody left home, so nobody went to work. Soon, all the phone and cable lines were dead. Electricity was sporadic, then nonexistent. Poof: no Internet, no wifi, no hair dryers. Thanksgiving dinner was whatever you could get: pickled pigs’ feet, jarred whatever, maybe some canned yams if you were lucky.”

  “Sounds brutal,” said Declan.

  “And the next thing we knew, it was December. People put up Christmas decorations everywhere. But by the time the winter solstice came, the survivors were outnumbered—it was sink or swim. There were so many suicides: hangings, poisonings, asphyxiations… Gunshots rang out every night. Once the radio transmissions stopped, the world as we’d known it was gone.”

  Yawning, my husband stretched his arms and legs. He asked, “So what’s the verdict?”

  “Guilty.” I poked his rib.

  He caught my finger and held it in a lock. “Are we going to Fitzgerald’s?”

  Declan’s answer was affirmative. “I’ll go. The change of scenery will do me good.”

  “I guess I’m outnumbered,” I sighed. “Can I have my finger back?”

  Omar released his grip. “It’s O. K., Sylvia, you can stay home. Fitzgerald’s is a no-brainer.”

  “Thanks, but no thanks,” I said. “I’m not about to sit here all alone in this empty house, worrying about the two of you.”

  Chapter 2: Fitzy’s

  Shortly after dawn, the streets were still shrouded in shadow. The early morning gloom muddied my vision, washing the world as gray as steel wool. It was the dead of winter, and the vacant homes on our block looked eerie in the semi-darkness. Every sound jarred my nerves: bare branches creaking in the wind, frosted blades of grass crunching underfoot, the swish of my snow pant legs rubbing together. My hands trembled. My stomach was in a knot. I was definitely out of my comfort zone, but I kept remembering that dreadful day―the last time Omar left home without me. The snowstorm, the shrieks, the blood...

  Me? Stay in our big, deserted house, all alone? ―Hell, no!

  “It’s time to flesh out the pantry,” said Omar, quietly locking the heavy front door behind us before leaping off the stoop like a grasshopper. His empty nylon backpack rippled as he landed squarely on both feet.

  Declan had been laconic all through breakfast, as usual. Noting Omar’s boundless energy, he groaned, “What’s up with you, man? I could sleep for another six hours.” He sat down heavily to tie his bootlaces on the cold concrete steps.

  But Declan wasn’t the only grumpy one. I was cranky, too. I said to him, “Well, Red, I guess it all comes down to my husband’s unwavering sense of adventure. Isn’t that right, Omar?”

  “Maybe,” Omar shrugged. “Or maybe I’m just hungry. After all, the way to a man’s heart is through his stomach.”

  “I’m glad to hear that,” I said curtly, “because we don’t have to go to Fitzgerald’s. There’s already plenty of food, and it’s all around us: moles underground, crows in the air, and fish in the river. We could collect stuff: lichens, larvae, grubs. Just dump it all in a pot, add a little water, and you’ve got a damned tasty soup.”

  Omar and Declan exchanged glances. They knew better than to say another word, lest I concoct one of my legendary recipes for dinner that night.

  The Fitzgerald’s parking lot was no different from the others along Hopmeadow Street: it was an abomination, an asphalt graveyard littered with trash, abandoned vehicles, and decomposing body parts. The smell was so rank that I had to cover my nose with my sleeve as I stepped over the grisly remains. There were bones everywhere: half-chewed femurs, ulnae, ribs, metatarsals, and a tiny human skull that almost broke my heart. The very sight of it tore me to pieces, but what could I do? I couldn't close my eyes, or I'd trip and fall. I couldn't drop to my knees and weep right there in the open lot―it was too dangerous. I simply had to swallow my angst for the time being and keep going.

  We hid behind a tow truck to watch and listen for cruds. Fortunately, there were none in sight. As the pale winter sun rose above the tree line, I could see that the store’s half moon glass windows were still intact. Nothing moved. We heard not a peep from the adjacent businesses in the strip mall. Finally Omar gave a nod. We followed him in silence to the rear of the building.

  The concrete loading ramp led up to two heavy metal doors. Careful not to make a commotion, Declan climbed up the ramp. Using his weight to advantage, he repeatedly thrust himself against the doors in an effort to force them open. With each purpling thunk of shoulder on steel, I wondered how much those fresh bruises would hurt him the next day, and how much vodka we had left to assuage his pain. Did we still have any ibuprofen?

  After ten minutes of trying, Declan’s face was crimson with frustration. He threw up his hands. “Oh, feck! I give up!”

  Omar had been busy searching the parking lot for anything metal that might prove useful. He climbed the ramp with a crow bar in his hand and said to Declan, “Let’s pry the lock with this.” Together they wrestled with the doors, jabbering to each other in nerd-speak, all about keys, bolts, cylinders, tumblers, mortises, and blah, blah, blah.


  Half-listening, I hung back, scanning for cruds behind us. Frankly, I hoped that the doors would never open. Couldn’t we just abort the mission? There was no cover whatsoever in the loading area: no trees, no trucks, no overhangs. We were visible from twenty yards away, and I felt very exposed. What was I doing out there, anyway? How fast could I run? I wanted to sprint home and hide in my dark closet with a book and a flashlight. So what if there wasn’t much food left? Omar didn’t like my little dig about eating grubs, but it was actually true. And there were plenty of other things to eat, as well: the insects that hid in the tree bark, the owls that hooted in the night, the chipmunks that hibernated in the frozen flower beds, even the adorable gray squirrels that skittered over the snow.

  Eating, however, was a two-way street, and the cruds were hungry, too. I reached down to my side, feeling for my new knife. Ahh, there it was, snug in its leather holster, securely strapped to my belt. I was so nervous that my hands shook. My perspiration soaked right through two layers of winter clothing.

  Warm at last.

  Omar motioned for me, and I joined him and Declan atop the cement ramp that led to the doors. “We got them unlocked,” he whispered, “but the hinges are a little rusty.” Then he counted—“one, two, three,”—and sprang the doors wide open.

  Declan held the doors ajar with his massive body. The three of us stood motionless as our eyes adjusted to the dim light. I reached out and grabbed Omar’s shirttail, clutching it tightly, as if it were a lifeline or a lucky rabbit’s foot. He was a mere three inches away from me, so alert, so sweaty, and so close. Savoring the moment, I closed my eyes and recalled a memory from long ago.

  Bright sun sparkling off his dark brown ringlets, Omar had roped me into a game of Frisbee on the pier near Hammonasset Beach. I hated playing Frisbee, but he was SO incredibly handsome―how could I refuse? My problem, though, was that I was a klutz. I could never quite catch the stupid thing, no matter how hard I tried. So, after ten minutes of flubbing it, I deliberately tossed the Frisbee into the water. Hands on hips, I told him to swim for it.