Zombies in Paradise (Love in the Age of Zombies Book 2) Page 10

  Seeing zombies on the beach—defiling what Kevin thought of as The Beach—was horrific and repugnant, and instantly a line from a poem by W.D. Snodgrass crawled through his mind:

  I stopped there cold,

  Like a man raking piles of dead leaves in his yard

  Who has turned up a severed hand.

  He stared a few seconds then looked away. He forced himself to concentrate on something else. Looking down, he could see his hands firmly grasping the railing of the overlook. His skin was pale from the lack of sun, but his hands looked strong. The wood of the railing was turning gray but was still firm and solid. He idly wondered how long this wood structure would stand without anyone to maintain it.

  The wind was pretty stiff—his jacket flapped around him, and with a burring sound, the wind blew over his ears. His feet were on solid, leaf-strewn wood, and his thighs and calves faintly ached from the exertion of climbing the stairs. With a sigh, he forced himself to think about the zombies. He couldn’t believe they were on the beach. Zombies in paradise.

  For months he had longed to see this view, daydreamed about what it would feel like to stand here again. But it was not the liberating experience he had envisioned. He pulled his hands away from the railing, filled with emotion. For the first time the eternal reality of this moment impacted him with force. All he had lost—his friends, co-workers, his family, a whole existence which already was a fading memory—filled his heart with despair.

  He looked north at the beach. He had always intended to walk the few miles from Arcadia to Lake Menekaunee. The tree-covered dunes blocked the view as they braced their shoulders against Lake Michigan. Seven miles from where he stood was the city of Frankfort. A couple of miles northeast lay the former lumber town, now resort, known as Lake Menekaunee. No place on earth meant more to him.

  He thought about his first visit here, just after college. The camaraderie of friends who’d invited him, the timeless rustic simplicity of the resort, the days spent hiking the woods, walking the beach looking for Petoskey stones and swimming. It was something he wanted to experience over and again, but those days came to an end. Friends quit coming, couples married and divorced, other friends faded away. Bit by bit his world moved on. Those days were lost forever like a Petoskey stone hurled into the surf, never to be found again.

  He stood up, straightened his shoulders, and looked at the lake with eyes a bit more resolute. It was not too late. The things he did now, good or bad, would become part of his fossilized past. He wanted to look back on this time knowing he’d done the right thing. He didn’t want to look back on this time with regret.

  He walked down the steps of the overlook with its seven odd-angle turns. When he reached the landing, he turned a corner and found himself facing a zombie. Rust-colored stains ran down the front of its shirt from a gaping wound in its throat. Below were blue jeans, also stained with blood, and what was left of tennis shoes, now falling apart and revealing feet mostly devoid of flesh. It was in bad shape. It shambled slowly toward Kevin, mouth opening and closing, revealing a desiccated and unmoving tongue. Seeing it brought back the intense feelings Kevin had earlier when he saw the zombies on the beach.

  Filled with sudden rage, he rushed the zombie and knocked it backwards against the railing. His fist sank into its chest as he pushed. It reminded him of an overripe pumpkin. It paused for a moment on the top edge of the rail, mouth opening and closing, then tipped over the edge. Kevin could hear it hitting treetops and branches as it fell down the steep slope, then all was quiet except for the wind. He walked, shaken, down the remaining steps to the Jeep. He poured a bottle of water over his foul-smelling fist, cleaning off the dead zombie guts—skin, and a fragment of dark cloth. He felt an urgency to move on, to get to Frankfort. He started the engine and pulled back onto M-22 North.

  Afternoon was waning into evening, and sunlight from the clearing sky dappled the pavement. The adrenalin surge from his encounter with the zombie began to wane and his pulse and breath returned to normal. The road was surrounded by second growth forest, the old growth trees having been decimated during the lumber boom following the great Chicago and Peshtigo fires in 1871. He rode on in silence, his thoughts from atop the overlook still resonating within.

  The drive filled him with anticipation as he neared the turn to Lake Menekaunee. But he wasn’t going to Lake Menekaunee this time; he would deliberately pass the turn-off for the first time. He saw movement to his left and glanced over, prepared to see a zombie. At first he saw nothing, but then another quick flash of movement drew his eye: a doe, head held high, stared at Kevin, ears framing her face. As he slowed the Jeep, she bounded away. Two fawns he hadn’t seen joined her in flight. Within seconds, they were gone. Kevin drove on, and as he passed the Blaine Township Cemetery he saw the Lake Menekaunee road sign. It passed him in a blur. He felt as if he was passing a part of himself. Maybe one day I’ll get to go back, he thought, but it will never be like it was.

  He noticed the lengthening shadows, then suddenly took his foot off the accelerator and coasted to a stop. Something ahead caught his eye. As he got closer, he saw zombies milling about. Quite a few zombies. And he saw another barricaded bridge. That must be the outlet the upper lake into Lower Menekaunee Lake, he thought. He’d never paid it any attention.

  Still several hundred feet from the zombies, he stopped and looked at the map. Yes, he could try to detour around the bridge, but even if the roads weren’t barricaded, he’d have to go several miles out of the way and drive east around the lake. Twilight was closing in and he didn’t know much longer he could drive without his headlights on. And again, he instinctively knew driving at night was asking for trouble.

  He decided to backtrack to the Lake Menekaunee resort. As he neared the Lake Menekaunee road sign, he slowed down and instinctively turned on his blinker then rolled his eyes. You know what they say about old habits, he thought as he made the turn. Like much of the trip, the road was partially filled with debris; leaves, fallen limbs, small pools of sand. A tree farm was on his left. He passed a few seasonal roads but saw no signs of recent travelers. As he rounded one long curve, he began to pass homes and cabins. Summer homes, artists’ residences, investment property . . . all was quiet. Just beyond the resort matriarch’s year-round home, he saw a modest light blue sign hanging askance from one broken chain. A white seagull floating above the text announced Lake Menekaunee Inn. His senses on full alert, Kevin pulled into the gravel driveway and coasted to a stop. It was a beautiful spring day even in the waning twilight; wildflowers and trilliums dotted the ground. The trees had already leafed out. A shade of green only seen, he thought, in springtime Michigan.

  Chapter Eleven

  Kevin did his best to avoid running over any sticks as he slowly pulled forward, but it was impossible. Leaves crunched and branches snapped beneath his tires. But the undisturbed leaves and twigs were evidence no one had traveled this way in quite a while. Kevin wasn’t sure why he found that comforting.

  To his right, cabins were closed for the winter—shutters were drawn or curtains blocked the windows. Leaf-strewn nets gave the only indication of the tennis courts. The pavement couldn’t be seen.

  Kevin thought back. When had the disease hit Michigan? Late September? October? And when did the place close for the winter? He wasn’t sure. He had never been to the resort that late in the year.

  Seeing no movement, he drove slowly down the gravel drive. It was eerie. He’d never seen the place without bicycles, cars, sailboats, and people. In his mind, he heard echoes of what he expected to hear: the sound of a tennis game, children laughing as they played on the small playground, lawnmowers on the grounds and motor boats on the lake. Instead all he heard were bird calls and the wind in the trees, sighing as it moved through the tender young leaves.

  He crested a small rise and Lake Menekaunee came into sight just beyond a small wooden veranda. The lake was as beautiful as ever, but there were no watercraft to be seen. Normally there’d be
fishing boats, and an sporting boats, at least in summer.

  He followed the gravel track as it curved past the empty parking spaces. He passed a line of cabins with colorful names: Wildflower, Irish Blessing, Calliope. They, too, were closed tight for the winter. As he approached the inn, the tallest building on the property, he slowed to a stop. Just up ahead was a parked car. It was nearly—but not quite—blocking his way. He rolled down the window and listened carefully. He heard spring peepers down by the lake and a few solitary crickets. No unwelcome sounds. He scanned the buildings, looking for any sign of movement or habitation. Nothing. There were no signs of anyone having been there for months. No signs of zombies either.

  He slowly pulled forward and noted the car had a few leaves plastered to it. Whoever had left it there had done so many months ago. As he pulled up to the driver’s side, he flinched back. There was somebody in the car! Or what remained of somebody. Kevin got out of the cab for a closer look. Peering into the window, it was difficult to see much – the glass was fogged. The gasses released during decomposition must have condensed on the windows.

  He found an unfogged spot and forced himself to peer through the glass. The body was in an advanced state of decay. Much of the flesh was gone, bones showing through dark fetid matter. Nearly every flat surface of the interior was covered with dead flies. Apparently the flies had laid eggs, and the maggots had done their work before they, too, turned into flies. He could see dead maggots clustered around the empty eye sockets. The flies ate and reproduced until they died with the first hard freeze.

  He saw no reason to keep looking. As he turned to go, he saw a hose sticking out of the tail pipe and into the slightly open trunk. Ah. That explained it. Maybe it was a former guest who chose to die in a place they loved. Or maybe it was one of the maintenance crew.

  He pulled his car forward and parked directly in front of the inn, blocking the road. It went against the grain to park there, like a guy using the girls’ bathroom. He walked down the sidewalk and up the steps onto the porch. Like the cabins, the inn was sealed for the winter. The windows had sheets hung on the inside and the door was securely locked. The porch looked strangely empty without the coffee tables, wicker chairs, and swings he was accustomed to. The bulletin board was empty as well. It looked naked without the day’s dinner menu, laminated wildflower prints and posted announcements.

  He retreated down the steps and glanced at the sky. The light would be waning in a couple of hours. He needed to figure out where to stay. He drove the car to the back of the inn and parked. He stood for a moment, deciding what to do. He was afraid to break into any of the cottages, worried someone could be inside. Some thing could be inside. He also didn’t want to damage the property by breaking in, it would feel immoral. His eyes rested on the washhouse. It was a small cinderblock building, with only one door and window. While it would be a tough place to be trapped, surrounded by zombies, it would make a secure place to hole up for the night.

  He approached the door and turned the knob. It was locked. He moved a few feet to his left, and tried the window. It was unlocked! He eased it open, hoisted himself onto the sill and very ungracefully dropped headfirst into the room, catching himself with outstretched arms as he knocked over a low shelf stacked with washcloths. He stood and brushed himself off—dust had accumulated on the floor over the past six months—and looked around. A series of industrial washing machines and dryers lined the northern wall, while a side room was filled with shelving. These wooden shelves were stacked with linens: sheets, pillowcases, towels, tablecloths and bedspreads. The room was twenty or thirty feet long and still smelled faintly of bleach. He thumbed through a few of the blankets and a couple of dryer sheets tumbled to the ground, placed between the sheets so the scent would discourage mice. Looking around, he saw a few mouse droppings on the floor, but no signs of nesting.

  He spread a thick layer of blankets on the floor, found a couple of pillows, then quietly retrieved his cooler and pack from the Jeep, softly closing the hatch before heading back to the washhouse. He ate quite a few crackers and peanut butter along with some jerky and dried apricots and washed it down with a bottle of water. He felt oddly comfortable and content, perhaps emotions lingering from his former vacations there. For a few minutes he indulged himself remembering the meals he’d eaten at the inn. He lay back, reminiscing, and soon fell asleep.

  It was nearly dark outside when he awoke. Looking out the window, he could see a few stars shining; apparently the sky was had cleared some. Now that it was dark, he felt ill at ease. He had no idea whether the area was heavily infested with zombies, lightly infested, or if there were zombies at all. He’d seen the group down by the barricaded bridge, but that was three miles or more from Lake Menekaunee. He didn’t think any of the zombies could have followed him this far.

  He couldn’t help but wonder what non-perishables were stored in the inn’s cellar pantry. He decided to check it out in the morning when he could see what he was doing. He had a flashlight, of course, but was wary of using it just as he was wary of driving with his lights on. A flashlight amidst the darkness was a sure way to attract attention. The canopy of trees above the washhouse prevented him from seeing many stars, but to the south the skies were clear. He could see a small patch of night sky beyond the large maple growing near the tennis courts.

  He rustled around in his pack for his journal and wrote in the dying light:

  May 20th

  I’m in the Lake Menekaunee washhouse. The sun set some time ago and I can barely see. This is my second day on the road; yesterday I drove about halfway here and, after escaping from some bad guys, I slept by a lake. I found a nice Petoskey stone in the shallows. I thought about Michelle a lot.

  This afternoon I bypassed Arcadia but walked up the scenic overlook. I saw zombies on the beach. It was a horrible experience.

  The last time I was alone was right after the Collapse, before Michelle moved in. Being alone has turned into loneliness. Especially here.

  It’s so strange to be here like this. Usually I’ve been with friends and surrounded by families who’ve vacationed here for generations. When I used to walk down the sidewalk at night, I might hear a guitar being strummed from a cottage porch, or hear kids playing freeze tag or even telling ghost stories on the veranda. One time I saw a canoe or rowboat in the lake, about fifty feet offshore, candles lit on both the bow and stern. It was too dark to see anyone but I heard low voices. Somebody was having a romantic interlude. Earlier in the day I might hear the kitchen staff chat as they prepared dinner. Tennis, volleyball, shuffleboard games . . . usually this place feels serene and peaceful, but alive with activity, even late at night.

  Now the resort feels like a zombie. It feels dead but undead. It’s dark, silent, and still. I haven’t seen any sign of humans, living or dead, and yet my imagination fills every cottage with zombies who are trapped, or survivors who are afraid of me. Were I a braver man, I’d go exploring, but to be honest I have a case of the willies. Seeing the dead person in the car in front of the inn didn’t help.

  I suspect most of the countryside is like this now. Empty and deserted. Zombies appear to migrate to populated areas. From what I’ve seen, survivors are few. I wouldn’t be surprised if most of the survivors are cruel and heartless; that’s how they survived. Might makes right. Hopefully that won’t be true in Frankfort.

  I shouldn’t have come here. I should have left my pleasant memories intact. I don’t like going to the viewing of a deceased friend; I prefer to remember them the way they were. Lake Menekaunee is now a deceased friend. Within a few years the buildings will start to decay and nature will overtake the gravel drive. Years from now nothing will be left but the lake and maybe the concrete foundations and sidewalk. Maybe at some point an alien, or a resurrected civilization, will find our computer hard drives and jump drives and will download my photos. Otherwise, all traces of the life I lived here will be gone for good. As if I never lived.

  Chapter Twelver />
  Back in Ann Arbor, was getting restless. Checking the grow room didn’t occupy much time, and he could only sit around reading and listening to music for so long before he started getting antsy. In the old days he would already have a garden planted.

  He and Michelle talked it over, and the next day Doc surveyed the backyards of many houses in the neighborhood, looking for signs of a garden. About a half-block away he found what he was looking for: behind a house was a plot of land with a few standing tomato cages where a garden used to be. There was a garden shed with everything Doc was looking for—spades, shovels, rakes, stakes, twine, good quality garden hoses, and some useless string-trimmers and a rototiller. Even if he had gas for the tiller, he knew the noise would draw zombies and enemies alike.

  Doc was particularly happy to come across a box of seeds: heirloom corn, tomato, squash, zucchini, peppers, and a few herbs. Most were out of date and perhaps were no longer viable, but with any luck, some seeds would germinate. Doc loaded the wheelbarrow with supplies and headed back home, dropping the tools into Michelle’s backyard, then making several more trips to get everything else he needed.

  Michelle’s backyard was level, had a southwest exposure, and had only one tree, a young maple toward the back that wouldn’t shade his garden. There was the fence between Michelle’s house and Kevin’s house, and on the other side was a bush-lined chain link fence between her house and the Ericksons’ house. There was also a clothesline that Michelle had looked forward to using but never had. Otherwise the yard was empty and open.

  He began to dig the dirt, loosening the sandy soil and turning it over. It wasn’t easy work, but was a good way to get his mind off Kevin and other intrusive thoughts. He began to whistle as he worked, a melody he remembered from his younger days called Shenandoah. He took stakes and twine and sectioned off the area to create four beds, then subdivided these into square-foot sections. He’d done square-foot gardening before and had been pleased with the results.