The Zombie

Once upon a late evening time...

Brother and I were on our way home from my Nephew's baptism. It is a five hour drive, so not the most pleasant or exciting aspect of visiting Family in Faraway Place. But tonight was different. Not pleasant, perhaps, but exciting. Excuse me in advance for the use of capital letters and strange expletives to convey when I felt especially distressed.

Now to begin...

The long journey carried on quite as uneventfully as ever. I was in a car with Brother, and Mom and Dad were in a truck, following behind us. Tailed as we were by our parents, we settled into a very unexciting and law-abiding speed, traipsing our way home to the tune of a talk show on the radio that we only occasionally listened to.

Eventually, to keep our eyes from closing, Brother told me movie synopses. To be more accurate, this was to keep his eyes from closing, as he was driving. They did little for me. To be even more accurate, they were not synopses, either. They were more like play-by-plays of entire movies, complete with heavily paraphrased dialogue. I do not need to watch Morgan, Phoenix, or Shelter now. But this is not why I wrote this at 2:30 am.

This is not the exciting stuff.

The exciting stuff happened on the last stretch, within 20 miles from home.

Brother and I were putzing right along when we noticed a car in the ditch. The car's headlights were facing us as we approached it, but it was sitting in the ditch on our side of the highway.

The lights were on and it was running, but we slowed way down anyway, to see what was up. I was all for just driving off. We were in an area that had been host to questionable characters in the past, and I always enter into these scenarios by imagining the worst possible things happening.

And I did not want that thing to happen.

As we were drawing up to the car, I saw it pull forward a bit, so I again asserted my opinion that "Oh, they're fine! See? They moved. Come on, let's go. Drive."

I was sure I knew how this was going to go. We would stop, the punks in the car would feel threatened, then they would get out of their car and approach our car and kick it. Not that the car being kicked by some punks is the worst thing I can imagine. No. It's just the opening act to the three-part series of worst possible things that can happen. This is a series that plays out in my head. I have it for many occasions. Not much of the content ever occurs in reality, but enough to justify the anxious practice. And it always begins with a car being kicked...

Aaaaaanywaaay....

Brother did not listen.

Brother never listens.

We stopped.

Unsure of what exactly we were viewing, Brother pulled out a flashlight and shone it in the vehicle.

That is when it happened.

He emerged.

I think I may forever have the mental video of what I saw burned into my memory. It plays on a loop whenever I recall it...

I saw a zombie.

What emerged from the vehicle was indeed best described that way. He was quite tall, wearing plain jeans and a t-shirt, and was generally unkempt. By unkempt, I mainly mean that he was unshaven, and had hair down to his jawline; though he had no hair on the top of his head, only a shiny circle to humble Friar Tuck.

As he pulled himself from the wreckage, what emerged was the middle-aged man I described, but covered in gore and wearing a disturbingly vacant expression. A zombie, in other words. It was a zombie.

"HOLY GUACAMOLE! A FRICKETY-FRACKIN' ZOMBIE!!" That and many other thoughts rocketed through my head, not the least of which was the thought that I would like to roll my window back up now please, Brother.

But no.

Brother shouted out the window, inquiring after Zombie's health. If he responded, we did not hear him over the sound of the cars and the blood pounding in our ears.

Brother got out of the car, but stayed near the front of it. I would have liked him to stay in the car, but short of that, I would have liked him to not decide to stand so close to my still-open passenger window, since Zombie was trudging up towards him.

I had a major dilemma, then. Self-interested instinct told me to close the window, because THUNDERING SHAMROCKS!!! THERE WAS A FRIGGITY-FRACKIN' ZOMBIE COMING!! However I was torn by the combined desire to be a captive audience to this wreck, and also to ensure Brother's safety.

Those are not listed in order of importance, of course.

As Zombie approached, my eyes widened in direct proportion to his proximity. What I had seen from a distance only got drastically more frightening.

THERE WERE FRIDGE-PITTING ENTRAILS ON ZOMBIE, AND BLOOD AND GRIME ON EVERY FUDGE-KNUCKLING INCH OF HIM!!!

As a solution to my dilemma, I put my window up a few inches, then put it back down, then up again a little, then hovered my finger over the switch. I didn't want Zombie to see me doing this. I didn't want to provoke him into kicking the car. If you know what I mean.

Maybe you're wondering, how could anyone look like a zombie enough to freak someone out? My only encounter with zombies has been passing internet memes and about three episodes of The Walking Dead (my heart couldn't handle more than that). I'm not one of those people that plans for a zombie apocalypse, and to be honest, werewolves have always been more frightening to me than zombies. So why a zombie?

Because.

Rewind to Zombie stepping out of his car, and let me set the scene, because it's important to me that you understand this...

The light from the two cars was casting shadows in odd, conflicting angles. There was a near-full moon to add an eerie atmosphere, particularly when coupled with the wisps of mist swirling in and out of the shafts of light. The car was running, hissing faintly and emitting a rhythmic ticking noise, as though it rapidly counted down the seconds. Cue horror theme music as the driver's side door opens. That door is on the far side from us, so we cannot see the driver until he steps out.

The first thing we see is his head. His bald pate, shining even through the grime and darkness, makes it look as though he has misplaced the top of his head. Or it got chewed off.

Like a zombie.

Dark blood coats different areas of his head, most notably his ear. This makes it appear as though his flesh is rotting away.

Like a zombie.

His strange, straggly hair and unshaven visage make him look as though he hasn't taken a lot of care with personal appearances.

Like a zombie.

He gets out of he car and, even from a distance, looks dazed. As though he hasn't got control of all of his faculties.

Like a zombie.

When Brother shouted to ask if he was okay, he made an indistinguishable noise.

Like a zombie.

Now let's jump back to the part where Zombie is closer to our vehicle because Brother very inconsiderately led him close the the passenger window.

Before I go into the ensuing dialogue, I need to elaborate on his appearance. I know I've done this already, but I don't know if I've really driven home the zombie point yet. THERE WERE FRIDGE-PITTING ENTRAILS ON ZOMBIE, AND BLOOD AND GRIME ON EVERY FUDGE-KNUCKLING INCH OF HIM!!!

By grime, I mean like a green coat that covered him, accentuated by bits of larger, fibrous greens, like he had been weed-whacking without wearing protective gear. And also like he had a bath in wheat grass. Or like his skin was gangrenous and rotting away.

Like.

A.

Zombie.

And when I say he had entrails on him, I don't mean he had what looked like entrails on him. I MEAN HE REALLY HAD FRUITCAKING SCRAPS OF INTESTINE PLASTERED ON HIS SHIRT!

So there I was, in the passenger seat, trying to make sense of this strange scenario. My teeth chattered as some of the initial shock wore off and I tried to piece things together. Zombie sure looked a macabre spectacle, but he seemed to be operating pretty functionally. Despite all the gore that covered him, not a lot of it was blood, and I couldn't even see any sort of wounds. That was pretty strange.

I also found it pretty strange that not only Zombie was covered in grass clippings, but the two side windows of his car that I could see were also pasted with the stuff. I know that grass can get into a car in a rollover, but I couldn't think of a situation where the grass could be juiced as it was.

As the cogs in my head were slowly grinding to process this information, Zombie and Brother were having an equally unproductive conversation.

Brother was insisting that an ambulance should be called.

"Look," Brother said, using his best persuasive voice (though which I have never found to be particularly persuasive myself), "you could be seriously injured. You could have a fractured spine that could break any minute, and I don't even know how much of this blood is yours!"

"No, I'm fine," insisted Zombie, blearily, "don't call anyone. Just give me a ride to my friend's place."

This went back and forth briefly, then Brother came to my window and told me to call 911. Unfortunately, he went right back to talking with Zombie, then.

I had Brother's phone in hand, but found myself unwilling to call in the emergency when the victim insisted that he didn't need an ambulance.

Around this time, Dad had finally driven up and walked onto the scene to join the discussion. Brother was throwing me looks as all three of them now argued. My kin were wanting to call an ambulance, and Zombie was adamantly refusing.

I didn't know what Brother meant by the looks he was giving me. I couldn't tell if they were meant to convey, "I guess you shouldn't call the ambulance yet because this guy's agitated about it," or "I sure hope you called the ambulance already, because this guy's agitated."

It's so hard to tell in the dark.

In any case, I hadn't called the ambulance, so I gave Brother a shruggy kind of a look in response that meant, "I haven't called them yet. Should I?" but which I suppose could have been taken for "well, it's too late now; I called them." In hindsight, we should have probably come up with a set of signals before hand.

Meanwhile, Dad was trying to make sure that all the gore on Zombie was not actually part of Zombie. Unable to contain himself any longer, Concerned Dad finally pointed out the entrails that were plastered to Zombie's shirt. Zombie picked it off and let it swing from his hand, mumbling something about the animal he hit. Momentarily satisfied, Dad stopped trying to lean back to subtly get a look all the way around Zombie to see if he had guts coming out of his back.

The two men-folk and the Zombie go down to the car then. They're going to look for his cell phone and also make sure no one else is in the car.

When they were at the back of the wrecked car, Zombie picked up some scraps of something that were on the trunk and dropped them at the feet of Disgusted Dad. It was flesh.

Now my head was starting to work. I had suspected for a while that Zombie had hit an animal, but only then did I piece together the mysterious wheat grass bath that he seemed to have taken inside his car.

It was the contents of a stomach.

But not a human stomach. Not even a monogastric stomach. A ruminant stomach. Zombie had hit a moose.

Now I need to go off on a tangent dedicated to monogastric vs. ruminant digestion. There is a picture below to help you understand, but basically, ruminants have four-chambered stomachs that allow them to have great digesting capabilities, whereas boring monogastrics, such as humans, have only one compartment. Lame. The important thing to know, however, is that ruminants have this chamber called the rumen or paunch. And it is massive. They chew their food and it goes into this chamber to ferment.

What I am trying to tell you is that moose, as ruminants, probably have a butt-load of fermenting grass in their rumen at any given time, but especially in the peak grazing season. It is rank. It is juicy. It comes in copious amounts.

That is what had painted the inside of the car, and what Zombie was now marinating in.

As this realization hit, I was filled with relief. It meant that the gore did indeed belong to an animal, and not to Zombie. My fear of Zombie was waning, too, to be replaced by incredulity at his survival. But I still hovered over the window switch as the three came back to our car to resume their contest of wills.

The argument went back and forth again, but Zombie wasn't giving an inch. Before long, he admits that he has been drinking and doesn't want to lose his license. This comes as no surprise; he is fairly skunked by all accounts. Sloshed. Hammered. Piddly-dissed. Brother and Dad berate him a little for his drunk driving, letting Zombie know that they are not about to take pity on him because he would get his license revoked for good reason.

“That could have been some kid out for a walk,” said Dad, gesturing up the road to where the moose presumably was.

“It could have been me!” exclaimed Brother, gesturing to his car. He really likes his car.

Perceiving that he was going to get no sympathy for self-inflicted impaired driving, he switched gears to appeal to our empathetic sides, pleading that he had just lost his wife and couldn't bear to lose his license now. Distressed as he was, it was doing no good to argue, and Dad was the first to relent. He asked Zombie if he would mind riding in the box of his truck. That may seem a little harsh, but besides the fact that this guy was covered with the fermented, partially digested contents of a moose's paunch, he could easily have been some psycho who would hijack a vehicle the first chance he got. Not gonna lie – he looked the part.

I think those are both equally valid reasons not to allow zombies into your vehicle.

We dropped Zombie off at his friend's place at around 12:30 am, waiting outside the house to make sure he got in safe. I gotta hand it to his drinking buddy, he let him in and closed the door behind him. Those are some friendship goals right there. Minus the part where he let his buddy drive drunk, of course.

After that, Mom and I went home while Dad and Brother took one vehicle back to clear the moose off the road. I strongly suspected they were going to bring the shredded carcass back for dog food, as Cheap Dad is wont to do, but I think their plans were foiled. When they got there, a few emergency vehicles had already arrived. The jig was up for Zombie, as Dad and Brother let them know about the whole incident.

Well, I have exhausted this story over the course of these many paragraphs, but am still unable to convey, without the use of pictures or video, just how surreal the moment was when Zombie came forth from that car.

So I am going to do something very vulnerable. I am going to hand-draw some pictures with pen and crayons...