Theresa

A classic zombie tale

You can feel their presence before you see them. Thank god or we’d all be dead. It starts as an itch, behind the ears, up the back of the head. The closer they are, the more intense. The trick is not to meet their eyes. Cold, lifeless eyes. Like a doll’s. Drill right into you. They say that’s what it feels like, though how they know and can report it, I’m skeptical of that.

To be honest, I’m a bit disappointed. I’ve read plenty of books about zombies and apocalypses. Saw the movies, got hooked on the shows. Zombies were ubiquitous, and I suspect the zeitgeist may have willed them into existence. But these zombies aren’t anything like what was foretold. They aren’t rotting mobile corpses. They don’t have distorted features, greenish skin and torn clothing. They don’t screech and howl and reflexively gnash their teeth.

The ones we have are dead inside. On the outside, they look almost normal, wearing whatever they were when it happened. Suits and sweatpants. Sparkly short dresses and bathing suits. Those are the easy ones to spot. Always overdressed. Or drastically under.

They eat your soul. Soul Suckers. You get locked onto their eyes, like a tractor beam. They grab your head, put their mouth to yours and suck the life out of you. I’ve seen it a few times. It’s almost erotic, both parties wiggling and pulsing, some moaning happens, the original zombie pulls back, orgasmic, the new zombie spent. It’s crazy.

How it started is still a mystery. I blame the government, because why not? But a lot of people blame Steve Jobs. They say it began long before we all noticed. A slow decay of the human life force, sapped out by blue screens held in our hands. Early reports talked of eye strain, then the impact on our sleep patterns, then the addictions. Headlines facetiously called our kids the Zombie Generation. They lacked social skills, couldn’t communicate, couldn’t look you in the eye. I don’t buy it. The real zombies never use their phones. They have to look you in the eye or they cease to exist, or move, or whatever happens to the walking dead when they die.

The world has gone pretty quiet. I miss the chug of oversized SUV’s on city streets, the sweet scent of gas fumes as they roll by. It’s hard to find a date. You really can’t look a person in the eye without taking your life into your hands. I’ve left the city for the country side, just like in the movies. An old farm house and acres of fields of something that doesn’t grow near sidewalks. There’s ten of us here. Or there was. Three are left now.

I feel the itch. But it’s also breezy out, so maybe it’s just hair tickling my skin. To be safe, I don the Amber Visions- who knew that QVC’s worst selling sunglasses would be the best defense? I wonder who it is, who got turned and how. I wonder why I’m fighting it. Alive, I’m a loner, the end of a dying breed. The new kings of the hill are the zombies. They’re not afraid, they don’t worry about wood for winter, they’re part of a group, millions strong. That must be nice. I remember those days. Oh, how I took it for granted.

The itch grows more intense. Ok then. Just turn around, take off the glasses and look. How much easier could it be? If it’s Theresa, I’ll do it. I always liked her. She should be the one. I’m sure that would bond us together. Like the way they say a vampire’s family are the other vamps they create. And that’s what these zombies are—vampires of the soul. Theresa it is.

I turn, and she’s standing right behind me, waiting, as if understanding my internal debate. I do not make a move as she reaches for my glasses, already entranced just by the idea of it. Her slow movements suggest a heaviness I hadn’t ever noticed. What’s causing it? Dead tissue? Decaying bone? Ahhh—responsibility! The heavy burden of carrying on the master species. The same kind that stooped the shoulders of millions of commuters and laborers, doctors and moms and teachers. A heaviness I no longer felt. My brand of humanity wasn’t in charge any more. I was free. I raised the bat I carried for such purposes and bashed Theresa in the head. Let freedom ring.

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Theresa was published in the spring 2020 edition of Decimos (We say)