Zombies: More Recent Dead

’Til Death Do Us Part Shaun Jeffrey

“It’s her, Dad, I swear it is. Over there, it’s Mum.”

I exhaled slowly and looked at my fourteen-year-old son, Tim, as he excitedly pointed across the street. Before he could say any more, I took hold of his shoulder and turned him toward me. “You know it isn’t her. She’s dead. We buried her. You know that.”

Tim twisted out of my hands. “I’m not making it up, she’s alive. I just saw her.”

Before I could stop him, Tim bolted across the road, a car horn blaring in response as the driver of a Honda Civic slammed his brakes on to avoid sending my son to see his mother in a more literal sense, which would have been an ironic twist of fate if he’d died in the same way.

“Come back,” I shouted before giving chase.

I couldn’t be too angry with him. His mother’s death had hit him hard. Probably harder than it had me if I’m honest, but saying he’d seen her in the street, well, it was sad and rather unnerving.

Sure I shed bucketsful of tears when Joanna died, spent days questioning why God was so cruel to take her away from us in the prime of her life, but Tim and his mother, they’d shared a special bond, one that only mothers and sons can share.

I dodged shoppers wandering along the high street and gulped deep breaths, my knees cracking. Although only in my mid-thirties, I was out of shape.

Tim was about forty feet ahead and running like a gazelle, his gangly frame almost as thin as the shadow that trailed in his wake. He got his willowy stature from his mum. Not that I was obese, but my trouser size had outgrown my age by a couple of numbers, giving me a paunch—much of which was a direct result of the alcohol I’d drowned myself in after the funeral. Tim had been my lifeline. When I realized how destructive my drinking had become, I stopped. Had to be strong.

I still hadn’t adjusted fully and had taken for granted all that Joanna did around the house. I didn’t have a clue how the washing machine worked, couldn’t iron to save my life, but I’d had to go on a steep learning curve, if not for my sake, then for Tim’s. The house had become a shit hole. I didn’t wash or clean for days at a time. Dishes piled up in the sink and once the cupboards were empty we’d relied on takeaway food. The local Chinese restaurant was on speed dial.

For a while Tim became the adult and me the child. But now I was back in control. I’d gone back to work at the bank and Tim had settled back in at school. He’d fallen behind on his work, but he was catching up and the teachers were understanding and weren’t on his back about it.

I realized that Tim had stopped running and he was standing in front of a disheveled-looking figure that from behind looked like a homeless person, one of the dispossessed as I liked to think of them.

As I caught him up I could feel a pain in my side and I stood wheezing for a couple of seconds. “Come on, Tim. Let’s go home.”

“I told you. I told you it was her,” Tim said, a smile on his face that I never thought I’d see again.

Confused, I shook my head. “Come on, stop being stupid.”

“Look. Look at her.” He pointed at the homeless person.

I glanced towards the figure, not really wanting to make eye contact in case I got drawn into conversation with them, but I felt that I should apologize. Instead I stared open-mouthed. Despite the gray skin with the sores and welts, the lopsided mouth and the dead, glassy eyes, there was no mistaking the face. Impossible as it seemed, it was Joanna.

“Mum, it’s me, Tim.”

I listened to my son as though he was speaking from the end of a tunnel; couldn’t take my eyes off Joanna. Her skin looked papery and dry, tendons protruding from the back of her hands where the skin had sunken in. Her fingernails were torn and there was dirt around them as though she had been clawing through the earth.

Joanna didn’t respond. She started walking, although it was more of a shuffle.

“Mum. Talk to me, mum.” Tim barred her path and Joanna bumped into him, rocking back on her heels.

She was wearing the dress we’d buried her in. Tim had chosen it, saying it was her favorite. I guess he knew her better than me as I didn’t have a clue what her favorite piece of clothing had been.

Sunlight glared from the shop window behind Joanna, making me squint. When I looked back it had given her a halo effect, like an angel.

I gulped, tongue a thick slug stuck to the roof of my mouth.

“Jo, is it really you?” I asked, the words coming out in a rush.

Joanna didn’t reply.

I cleared my throat and said, “How? I don’t understand. You . . . you were dead. They buried you.”

Still no response.

Afraid that I may have been caught up in Tim’s delusion, I reached out and touched Jo’s hand. She was real but her skin was cold and leathery to the touch and I recoiled slightly.

After a moment I realized there was an aroma in the air that originated from Joanna. It was cloying, like spoiled meat that had gone past its sell by date.

“Dad, why isn’t she answering?”

I looked at Tim and shook my head. “I don’t know.” Truth was I didn’t know anything anymore. Joanna was dead, and yet here she was, walking.

It just wasn’t possible.

“We need to get her home,” Tim said.

I watched Joanna keep trying to walk forwards, but Tim kept holding her back. She was like an insistent fly butting into a window and seemed to have no concept of what was happening.

Swallowing to moisten my throat, I tried to think what to do. I noticed a few people staring at us as they walked past and knew that I had to get us off the street to somewhere that we could work this out.

“Okay, give me hand to help her,” I said as I grabbed her arm. Tim took hold of her on the other side and we walked her towards the car park where I’d left the car.

Once we arrived I opened the door and bent her joints to allow us to sit her on the front seat. Then I fastened the seat belt, more to secure her in position than for any form of safety, as deep in my heart I knew she was dead.

With us all inside the car the smell was more pungent and it clung to the back of my throat, making me feel a little sick so I lowered the window to let some fresh air in then started the engine.

Joanna sat there, rocking backwards and forwards like a nodding car novelty.

I glanced in the rear view mirror. Tim was still smiling.

Before going home I drove to the cemetery.

“What are we doing here?” Tim asked.

“I need to check that it’s really her.”

“Of course it’s her.”

I exhaled slowly. “Well, I just need to check.” I exited the vehicle and Tim followed. He grabbed the door handle to help his mother out, but I said, “She’ll be better off staying in the car.” Tim looked at me for a moment and then nodded.

We followed the path among the gravestones. I tried to swallow as I walked, but couldn’t produce any saliva. Dappled sunlight flickered through the surrounding trees. I was hoping to see the grave was undisturbed so that I could say it wasn’t Joanna, but even from a distance I noticed a mound of earth like a giant mole had burrowed its way out.

I stood before the mound and stared down into the hole, trying to imagine Joanna clawing at the coffin lid, scraping away for weeks on end until she scratched her way through.

I parked in the driveway and then made sure the coast was clear before leading Joanna out of the car. I didn’t want to explain what was going on to the neighbors as I didn’t have a clue myself and wouldn’t know where to begin. All I knew was that, impossible as it seemed, my wife had returned from the grave.

Tim and I ushered her into the house and I closed the door. Joanna hadn’t said a word all the way home. I wondered whether she recognized us. Wondered whether she was cognizant.

“We need to get her cleaned up and then get some fresh clothes on her,” Tim said.

I nodded dumbly, happy to let Tim take control of the situation while I tried to think about what the hell was going on. We led Joanna upstairs to the bathroom and I started to undress her while Tim went to fetch some fresh clothes from the ones we hadn’t yet been able to throw away. Joanna stood stockstill as I unbuttoned her dress at the back, letting it drop to the floor and I saw she was staring at her reflection in the mirror. Did she recognize herself?

There were signs on her body where the car had struck, deep lesions that had been sewn shut. I tried not to look at them as I removed her bra, her once full breasts now flaps of skin that made me feel a little repulsed to look at.

Tim hurried into the bathroom as I was removing her underwear and I felt a little embarrassed both for Jo and me, but Tim seemed unfazed and was taking it all perfectly in his stride. He got his practicality from his mother.

“I’ve got her another dress,” he said. “It’ll be easier to get on and off. I didn’t bother with underwear. Do you think she’ll need any?”

I shook my head. “I guess not.”

Tim had selected a pale blue knee-length dress with large white flowers that he put on the edge of the bath. “She needs a shower,” he said.

I ushered her into the shower stall and switched on the spray. Hot steaming water shot out and I tested the temperature before remembering she was dead so probably wouldn’t know how hot it was anyway. Once she was underneath the spray she kept walking forwards into the wall, water bouncing off her head. Tim leaned in and grabbed a bottle of shampoo.

“Soon have you looking like your old self,” he said as he washed her hair.

I lowered the toilet seat and sat down to watch as Tim lovingly washed his mother like it was the most natural thing in the world. Bits of skin and hair came away in his hands but he didn’t seem concerned.

Once he had finished we guided her out of the shower, toweled her dry and then I sprayed her with some of my antiperspirant to mask the smell that still emanated from her. I raised her arms to allow Tim to pull the dress over them and over her head. Tim then combed her tresses, ignoring the fact he was pulling more out than he was straightening.

While he did this I stared into her eyes. They had once been bright blue. Now they looked dead and lifeless. Could she still see? If she did, could she recognize anything?

I felt myself choking up so I swallowed and rubbed my eyes. Steam drifted around the room and I felt hot but didn’t know if it was due to the temperature or the circumstances.

“Now what are we going to do?” I asked as I wiped perspiration from my brow.

Tim looked at me. “Well me and Mum are going to go watch telly,” he said before leading Joanna away. As he reached the door, Tim turned and looked at me. “I love you, Dad.” Then he left the room. A tear rolled down my cheek and I wiped it away. Seconds later I heard the television downstairs and the sound of Tim laughing at something.

I knew I had to find out how she had returned from the grave, so I walked through to the spare bedroom where the computer was and switched it on. If more people had come back to life, surely there would be news of it. After ten minutes of searching I came up with nothing. Perhaps if it had happened to other people, whoever found them wouldn’t say anything. Perhaps they were just glad to have their loved ones back. Or perhaps they were afraid someone would come and take their nearest and dearest away to experiment on them to find out how it had occurred and what was making them tick.

Unable to find out whether it had happened elsewhere, my next course of action was to see if I could discern why or how it happened.

After an hour’s searching I discovered that zombification, for want of a better word, can supposedly result from parasitic bites like one from a single cell organism called toxoplasmosa gondii that infects rats but can only breed inside a cat’s intestines. So it takes over the rat’s brain and basically programs itself to get eaten by a cat. Then there were neurotoxins, or certain kinds of poisons that slow your bodily functions to the point that you’ll be considered dead even though you’re not. Or perhaps a virus of some kind. Finally there was neurogenesis, or the method by which scientists can re-grow dead brain tissue.

None of them helped me discover how Joanna had come back, just that it wasn’t outside the realms of possibility that she could have done so. And the woman downstairs was proof enough, if any were ever needed, that it certainly was possible.

I switched the computer off and then went downstairs to join my family.

The knock at the door made me jump. I stared across at Tim as he sat reading to his mum. She paid no attention as she staggered around the room. Despite having had her in the house for a couple of days, I still hadn’t gotten used to having my wife back.

The knock came again, more insistent, joined by the ringing of the doorbell. I jumped up and walked to see who was there. “Keep quiet,” I said as I shut the living room door behind me.

I opened the front door and my jaw dropped when I saw the acne-scarred police officer standing there.

“Mr. White?”

I nodded dumbly, my pulse racing.

“I’m afraid I have some disturbing news for you. There’s no easy way to say this, but your wife’s grave has been desecrated and her body removed.”

I swallowed the lump in my throat. “Desecrated?”

“Don’t worry, sir, we’re going to do our best to find her body.”

I glanced along the hallway before turning back. “Who would do something like that?”

The police officer shrugged and stared at his feet. “I don’t know sir. I really don’t.”

The next few days were spent in a kind of haze as I learned to accept that Joanna was back in our lives. We didn’t tell anybody. She was our secret. When I went to work and Tim went to school, we locked her in the cupboard under the stairs.

Tim seemed to believe that everything was back to normal, and that we should just carry on as though nothing had happened. He even expected me to accept her back into my bed, but certainly for now, that wasn’t going to happen and I wrapped her in a sleeping bag at night, pulling the toggle on it tight enough to cocoon her inside. Not that she slept and I could hear her bumping around, shuffling like a giant caterpillar. Even though she was my wife, I still didn’t know exactly how I felt about having a dead woman in the house, never mind in my bed. Necrophilia wasn’t something I wanted any part of. Not that Joanna would be in the least bit able to reciprocate. She ambled around the house like a robot, bumping into walls and falling over things as though she couldn’t see too well. Perhaps that’s why she walked along with her arms raised most of the time, sort of like feelers.

She certainly didn’t cost much to look after. She didn’t eat and she didn’t go to the toilet and once you got used to her being around you could almost believe she wasn’t dead. I even started talking to her and although she didn’t reply, I found her presence comforting.

I will admit that for the first few days I was nervous, as zombies had a reputation for biting people and making them one of the undead, but Joanna didn’t seem to have any interest in biting, so I eventually accepted that she wasn’t going to eat us.

Tim doted on her. He took over all the chores involved with looking after his mum. Bathing, dressing, and generally taking care of her as though she was an invalid. I gradually accepted the situation.

My main fear—aside from being eaten—had been that Joanna would slowly rot away and we’d lose her all over again, but after a few days she stopped decomposing and reached a point of stasis.

Now I was no artist, but with the use of liberal amounts of makeup my wife could be made to look almost normal (this was the only thing Tim didn’t do for her as he accepted Joanna for what she looked like, but he was happy for me to apply foundation, blusher, and rouge as I saw fit). When all of her hair dropped out I bought her a wig and glued it in place. And even though she stopped smelling of decay, I sprayed Jo with her favorite perfume so I could smell her as she shuffled around the room, the scent conjuring a host of memories.

To all intents and purposes we were one big happy family.

Now I was still wondering how Joanna had come back to life, never mind how she’d escaped her coffin under the ground, and I did consider that perhaps she had been the result of some form of experiment. But if that was the case, how had she escaped?

On a regular basis, I sat her down and, for want of a better word, interrogated her with a barrage of questions about what had happened, but she never replied and her dead eyes grew more and more blank, the blue eyeballs now covered by a white film. All she wanted to do was wander around in an aimless daze.

But our secret couldn’t last forever and the next thing we knew, a neighbor spotted Joanna through the window. When he recovered from his faint he called the police. At that point he may as well have called the army, navy, and the air force because everyone and his mother descended on our detached house. Reporters set up camp outside and then scientists came. As I’d feared, they wanted to experiment on her to see how she had risen from the dead, even offering vast sums of money, but I declined. Although dead, she was still my wife. In sickness and in health and all that (I didn’t like to think about the ’til death do us part as that had already happened.)

Next came the zealots. The religious nutters who claimed that like Jesus, Joanna had risen from the grave, so she must be the new messiah. Well she didn’t die for anyone’s sins. She died in an accident when hit by a car, but they didn’t want to hear the truth. All they wanted was to see their messiah. To be touched by her as she obviously had special powers and could cure all their ailments.

As a result of all this attention we became prisoners in our own house.

I peered through a gap in the curtain. It was like a riot out there. People kept knocking at the door and I’d already taken the batteries out of the doorbell and unplugged the telephone.

Someone banged on the window, and I recoiled and backed away.

“What are we going to do?” Tim asked.

I collapsed onto the settee and cupped my face in my hands.

Tim sat next to me. “We can’t stay in here forever. We’ve already run out of food.”

Across the room, Joanna bumped into the wall. I stared at her.

Despite what Tim thought, the person opposite wasn’t his mother anymore. It was just an animated shell. We were holding on to a memory of who she once was. But I knew what I had to do. Tim would probably hate me for doing it, but I had no other choice.

“Tim, I want you to go upstairs and pack.”

My son looked at me and frowned. “Pack for what?”

“We’re leaving.”

Tim hesitated as though he sensed something in my words, but after a moment he turned and ran up the stairs. A moment later I heard drawers opening and cupboard doors banging.

With no time to lose I stood and ran into the kitchen and picked up a large kitchen knife with a serrated edge. Then I returned to the living room. I turned Joanna to face me and briefly kissed her on the lips. Words were not necessary, but I had to be strong, both physically and mentally.

I placed the serrated edge against her throat and a tear rolled down my cheek. Hopefully the other information I’d learned about zombies and decapitation were true.

If so, Joanna would live forever, at least in our memories.