Zombies are the Craziest Thing

As bad as the day had been going, it really took a turn for the worse when the zombies started running.

In reality, zombies had been around for decades. Mindlessly roaming the earth, waiting for someone to kill them again. Some of them actually kick it the second time around; some just regenerate.

They do hunt us. It's just that nobody's worried anymore; a zombie, or cannie, as we call them sometimes, can't get into a house, they can't open car doors, and they are very slow. At least, all the cannies I've ever heard of are slow. At this point, people are more frightened by other humans than zombies. Regardless, everybody is recommended to carry a weapon with them.

They're also rare, zombies. I've only seen two in my lifetime; I've killed none.

The first time was when I was coming home from school with my sister. One creeped up by the road, like a deer but more steady. My sister almost stopped her car, because she thought it might be a person. She's very kind, it wasn't uncommon for us to drop off hitch-hikers where they needed to go.

However, when she saw that it was a zombie, she leaned backwards and took the crossbow in the backseat window. She quickly cocked it and opened the window a crack. She tried aiming it, but couldn't fit it through, so she unbuckled.

"Stay down," she said, as casually as she could. Even though the danger was slim, I could tell she didn't want to shoot the cannie.

She slowly got out, and rested the back of the crossbow on her shoulder. I heard the small zing of the arrow, and saw it hit the cannie's chest. He, or she, fell, and rolled off into the washouts of the road.

My sister got in, her pinky twitching as she laid the crossbow down in the back. She tapped the same finger against the wheel, and drove off.

I looked back; the cannie wasn't even moving. She'd shot him straight in the heart, I guess.

"Stop staring," she said, reprimanding me, "You should know what happened, you were there. We'll be home soon."

"You killed him right away," I said. She turned and glared at me.

"Killed? No, he was already dead," she said, "Anyways, you shouldn't be worried about that. Just - how was your day?"

The second time was after my father died. Nobody killed this one; we all just ran.

It was the first day of fall; the leaves were already turning reddish brown. A couple of friends and I were at the mouth of the river that runs through our town. Just fooling around with each other. It was the beginning of the school year, so we didn't quite hate our lives yet. We were even still able to splash each other without getting the flu.

When Fairness, the only freshman in our group, saw the cannie, none of us doubted her. We all tried not to scream; an official zombie siting was always a pain for our police department because of the paperwork. It'd just be easier to get an adult to kill it, and pretend it wasn't there.

We got Michael's mom out there, and with a quick throw of a knife, we never worried about it again.

Both times, I was shocked by the zombie's appearance. Everything that I knew about zombies, I knew from my father. He taught me that the eyes are what goes first; once someone becomes a zombie, their eye sockets hollow.

Then, it's their brains. Their brains don't fall out, for lack of better terms, but they do rapidly deteriorate in function. Soon, they only can think of eating; eating meat, specifically.

They kill whatever they can catch, so it's lucky for us and our ecosystem that they are so slow. But, according to the most depressed of scientists, eventually zombies will adapt to become faster and faster, until they conquer the world. So amazing.

My father was an optimist, but still a scientist. He always taught me that it was only because zombies would kill us if we didn't kill them. Always fight in self-defense.

He didn't die in some great, majestic way. I mean, he deserved to, but it's hardly worth putting on a gravestone that the person died after an amazing, gasp-worthy heart attack.

His study's untouched still, even though it's been two years.

I pass by it everyday, all the time, and I never have the courage to enter.

I passed by it today, to go eat lunch with my sister.

She's even quieter than she was before our father died. My sister was never one for words; shy, too. She had an aversion to sharing even a glimpse of what she was feeling, or thinking, with anybody besides my dad and I.

Dad's at work right now; he rarely stops working. When Father was around, you could tell he was here here. Like his mind couldn't possibly think of a better way to occupy itself than his husband and two daughters.

But now even his mind is always at work. Maybe something had happened, and he was needed more there. At the same time his husband died. The coincidence was miraculous, but there, I'm sure.

"Wash your hands," my sister said to me. She was looking tired, like always. She hadn't gotten a good night's sleep since she graduated last spring. Her internship better be going excellently, for all the work she's putting into it.

How did my father's death affect me? I got better grades. I studied more. I didn't care more; I finally needed school. Whatever I used to need to know, my father told me. He was one of the smartest men alive. I didn't have that anymore.

I suddenly heard the buzz of the television as it fizzled on. We didn't have a great set or signal, so anything besides the news was rare.

"The Hollywood sign has been taken," someone was saying into their microphone, in front of Mt. Lee (we'd gone there once for a research project of my dad's). She looked grim, her mouth set in a frown.

"At the site where the sign was previously located, scientists say that there was no evidence of human interaction leaving us to wonder; who, or what, is behind this?"

"Probably some genius directing ninjas under the control of a wealthy celebrity," my sister muttered, cutting up the carrots.

"What about cannies?" I asked, sitting at our island, but watching the TV.

"They can't do anything," she said sharply, handing me a piece of carrot, "They're too slow, anyways."

The front door opened with a bang. I jumped, swallowing hard. Dad wasn't supposed to be home yet.

"Dad, what are you - "

"Not now," he said, running upstairs. My eyes followed him, then snapped back to the open doorway. There was a cannie there.

"Dad?" My sister asked, holding the knife she was using close to her, watching the zombie stomp slowly into the house - into our living room, nearing the arch in between the kitchen and living room.

My dad came, almost flying, down the stairs. Somehow (they're as dense as a fruitcake), he tackled the cannie, panting heavily. He'd probably ran here from work, and the cannie had caught him near the end.

My dad fiddled with a syringe, as the zombie took ahold of hs arm. My dad placed the needle in his mouth, filling the syringe while collectively warding off the cannie. However, he was clearly losing.

"Don't look," my sister whispered, once again, before sliding into the living room. She aimed a precise kick at the zombie's hand, and he groaned as my dad wiggled free, rolling to the side.

The zombie moved with a surprising speed - that of a normal man's - as he reached for my dad again. My dad was oblivious, placing the cap in.

However, before he could do anything about it, my sister stabbed the zombie. I heard it before I saw it, almost; I won't be graphic, but it wasn't a pleasant sound. I winced, seeing the last look on the zombie's face.

He looked like he was almost horribly upset. I didn't recall ever seeing the face of a dead zombie, or if they all held the same expression in life that they did in death.

"Dad - what happened?" I asked, my breath hitched as he became almost crystalline - fragile, but transparent as well. He was visibly destroyed.

"Er, uh," he said, his voice miniscule, "That is, I believe, a zombie."

"Yeah, thanks, Dad," I said, growing angry, "Why were you about to stab it with a shot?"

"He was moving too fast," My dad said quickly, "Yes, yes, he was going too fast for a cannie, so I brought him back home. I thought you guys would be out, it's such a lovely day." His voice seemed to be racing against him.

"I heard a door open," I said, "Did you go into Father's study? Your room is always open."

"Yes, he was the only one in the house with first aid supplies," he said. My sister turned on her heel. She looked overwhelmed, and sat down on the couch.

Before I could question my dad further, I felt my stomach flip. The sound of the knife kept replaying in my mind, and my stomach couldn't encompass it anymore.

I ran into the bathroom.

Once I returned, my toothbrush in mouth scrubbing away, the cannie was already gone. Because they don't bleed, the only thing indicating that there was a cannie there was the slight stench. My sister stared at the floor.

"He took the cannie to the morgue," she said abruptly, standing up. At my questioning glance, she said, "Because for some reason, he wants to identify the person." People rarely did that - it was easier not to think of that the person had once lived. That you had actually killed someone.

I followed her to the sink, where I washed my mouth off and dried my face with a clean towel that read GAY CAN BE GRAY, a charity for the older LGBTQ+ generations.

"Why would he want to inject something in the cannie? Why not kill him?" I asked.

My sister stood against the island, her hips swaying slightly, unsteadily. "I don't know," she said, "But... Dad went into Father's study. We heard the door open. I think... I think we should look there." I swallowed, the back of my throat devouring itself.

"Just for clues," I said.

She took my hand. I wasn't used to that. We weren't an affectionate pair, even with how doting our fathers were. Physical contact was rare with us.

"It's just Father's study," she said, a mask of incredulousness over her terror. She was just as scared as I was.

We climbed the stairs, both reticent. Both clinging onto each other like a lifeboat.

Eventually we stepped up to the landing. Even though the floor was now laid flat, it was harder to walk. We trudged across, even our tendons and muscles screaming at us to retreat.

She eventually pushed open the door the rest of the way.

The walls were blue, his desk it's magnificent shade of oak. And it was messy, absurdly messy. I kneeled as my sister slid her fingers across the desk.

She pulled them up to reveal her fingers coated in dust. I giggled slightly, taking my father's old photo frame that had our last Christmas picture in it. Without our father.

"Dad's been in here," I said, showing her the frame. Her throat tightened.

"Yeah, well, it's been two years," she said quietly, hunching over an open drawer, "Dad got the syringe from here, I think."

"What does the outside of the drawer say?" I asked.

"Research," she read out, "Like Father's research?"

"It must be," I said, "We never did really know what science he was in."

"We didn't care," she corrected me, but then she shrugged. "I'll read more."

I looked around the room, deciding that she didn't need my help. There was still our old loveseat in here, where we'd curl up if we felt sick. Father would turn on his TV for us, but we'd turn it all the way down because we liked hearing his fingers clicking on his keyboard better than any old news report.

I sat down gently and searched for the remote. I found it by the windowsill.

"What in the  -" I said quickly, looking out the window. There were at least 5 zombies out there, twice as many as I'd ever seen before - all together.

And that wasn't all. They were chasing each other. Quicker than I’d ever seen any zombie go before. 

“By the works of Peter,” my sister said, squinting to ensure she’d seen it right, “How - Can they smell us?”

“They’re playing,” I said, scoffing, “Anyways, they can’t open doors.”

“Did Dad close the front door?” I asked quietly. We both ran downstairs, her with some of Father’s papers in hand. 

We scampered to the shoe room, where the wind was easily whipping the curtains up. The door was wide open. 

“Don’t go any closer,” my sister instructed me sharply. I looked at her funnily, and she elaborated quickly. “I just thought - if the cannies are fast, can they unlock things? Maybe they won’t smell us.”

We heard the soft crunch of footsteps on wet leaves, and I felt my heart rate spike. We creeped backwards, listening as the cannies got closer and closer. We should’ve just stayed upstairs. 

“I’m getting my gun,” my sister whispered, “I’ll be back.”

“Kay,” I whispered. She left quickly, stealing into the house. I sat near the window, dead-silent. The kind of quiet where your breathing always feels too loud, no matter how much you control it.

I dared myself to look out the window, and immediately wished I hadn’t. 

They were all staring at me. Well, not staring, because they don’t have eyes, but the pits almost seemed to glow when I looked at them. 

I felt like screaming, but if they hadn’t sensed my presence by now, they definitely would if I yelped. However, I felt my breathing become shallower and shallower, and when my dad showed up in the background, I almost didn’t see him. 

He was weaponless, staring at the zombies in horror. And it hit me; they’d come to collect their dead. They could sense when one of them had died, that was right. He stared at them, and then into the window to me. 

Then he began to run. Unfortunately, the cannies followed. They were gaining on him, which is saying something (my dad was a pretty big football player in high school and college. He still runs every Sunday). 

Dad finally got into the house. He’d had to run around and around it, at least twice, before he’d outran them. And even then, he had to rush to slam the door. He looked back at me, and wrapped his arms around me quickly and tightly. I coughed from the slight repugnant smell. 

“Dad what was that?” I asked, for the second time that day. 

“They’re getting faster,” he panted. 

“Dad, what was that?” I repeated. My sister came downstairs then, gun in hand. 

“I couldn’t find mine -” she started quietly, then saw my dad and froze up. She’d taken Father’s pistol. 

“They’re no longer a threat, as long as the door’s are locked,” my dad said, looking grim, “But the zombies are evolving. Soon, it’s not going to be safe.”

“So what do we do?” I asked him. He sighed. 

“I don’t know,” he said, laughing. “Your father would’ve, but I have no idea, none, about raising you guys, or protecting from zombies - I don’t even know how to make a grilled cheese sandwich!”

‘Dad,” I said, “Dad, it’s okay.” My sister looked between us silently. 

“What was in that syringe?” she asked him, “And who was the zombie?”

“Well,” my dad sighed, “I thought - I thought - that it was your father. And I was trying to inject 30 years worth of study into him.”

“The cure?” I asked, “That’s what Father worked on?” 

“The vaccine,” My dad said, “A little different.” I nodded. “That’s the only reason I took him to the morgue. I should’ve remembered that some clans of cannies come to collect their dead.”

“I shot Father?” my sister whispered. 

“No,” Dad said, “You shot a woman, actually. I don’t know who. But no, you didn’t shoot your father.” My sister exhaled for the first time in a few minutes. 

“So what do we do with the vaccine?” I asked, “It’s not going to be good, if zombies just start evolving. We couldn’t possibly save everyone.”

“I don’t know,” my dad said, “Your father researched it a lot.”

“You’re saying there’s a chance?” I asked. 

“Well, more so that if we give everyone a vaccine, then there will be no more zombies, and their reign of terror will be short lived.”

“Because they’ll all die out,” I said, “Right?”

“Right.”

“So let’s do it,” I nodded.

"Before they take Mt. Rushmore," he cracked. We all snickered, even my sister.