Matt Rowan<\/p>\n
The loud noise of the snow blower affects them. They don\u2019t like it. It\u2019s true, too, that I might be tempting fate a little. I might be losing it a little. Moving snow from my patio serves no useful purpose. Especially if it upsets them and gets them banging around out there on the other side of the fence, knocking over trash cans and whatnot.<\/p>\n
The fence is almost too good at its appointed task: keeping things out. It\u2019s keeping them<\/i> out. I hear them groan for me — not explicitly by name, but it\u2019s clear it\u2019s me they\u2019re after. They groan for me and, like you probably know from popular culture, specifically for brains. They do groan for brains by name.<\/p>\n
Zombies.<\/p>\n
Yep.<\/p>\n
A lot\u2019s been written about zombies, and most of what\u2019s been written is true. There was a time I never thought terribly hard about zombies. But I did think long and hard about building a fence. So I built a fence that, as it happens, also keeps zombies off of my property. The fence wasn\u2019t for the zombies per se. I mean, the thought might have fleetingly crossed my mind while I was building it. Something like, \u201cThis fence is sturdy enough to keep even a hoard of zombies at bay, probably. It\u2019s a sturdy fence.\u201d I can\u2019t recall.<\/p>\n
But the zombies are<\/i> held at bay.<\/p>\n
Of course I still keep the doors locked. Even if they get through the fence there\u2019d be the issue of the locked doors for them to contend with.<\/p>\n
A thing people don\u2019t know about zombie invasions is that you will meet the occasional ghost. It\u2019s true.<\/p>\n
I met the ghost of my brother, who for the most part \u201clives\u201d with me now. That\u2019s whenever he decides to materialize in his spectral form. It\u2019s nice because otherwise I wouldn\u2019t have much for company. I would have my goldfish and my bowling ball.<\/p>\n
Never-ending droves of zombies are a tiring sight, day in and day out. Nobody ever comments on the smell. They have horrible bugs crawling in and out of their faces, and not just through obvious openings like eye sockets and receded nostrils. I\u2019ve seen this through my binoculars.<\/p>\n
I wish it wasn\u2019t something I\u2019ve seen, but I have.<\/p>\n
My brother was seated beside me one morning recently. In life he used to seat himself beside me often. His sitting next to me makes me feel a special kind of nostalgia. Or something more complex than nostalgia. A word I can\u2019t think of, possibly because it doesn\u2019t exist. Just like people had once assumed of zombies and ghosts and werewolves. The werewolves I sometimes hear howling at the moon amid zombies and ghosts, all of which really seem to push the supernatural envelope by their co-existing. But they do. It\u2019s a dangerous world out there.<\/p>\n
My brother reminded me. He said I wouldn\u2019t be so sad if it weren\u2019t for one loss in particular. Out there amid the ruins of society.<\/p>\n
Our beloved sister.<\/p>\n
She\u2019d become a vampire.<\/p>\n
As such she was not welcome in my home. And yet, I longed for days of our past, memories of my sister lounging with our beloved family pet, a brown-gray tabby we called Tabachka, so named because it sounded pleasantly foreign. Our parents loved things that sounded pleasantly foreign. They called our home Das Wunderhaus.<\/p>\n
My brother has been less nostalgic, or less whatever indefinable term. He reminded me of the pain she\u2019d inflicted. How, that one Christmas, she\u2019d returned home only to ransack our mother\u2019s jewelry box, all the while pretending to have missed us. She\u2019d even brought gifts. But by the time we realized what she\u2019d really intended, she\u2019d already made off with Mother\u2019s best jewelry.<\/p>\n
The wrapped boxes of her gifts contained old stones that reminded me of coal. I doubt very much that this was intentional. My guess is she filled the gift boxes with whatever random available thing she could find.<\/p>\n
When my brother wants to communicate with me he writes on the mirrors in the house. He leaves all his messages there, appearing before me in his muted, ethereal form, then upping the heat and humidity by like a thousand percent so he can write his messages in the fog. He wants me to know what he\u2019s \u201cthinking.\u201d He says it isn\u2019t quite like thinking, as we few living understand it, what ghosts do.<\/p>\n
He told me that there weren\u2019t too many things my sister could keep warm anymore, and that if Tabachka were still with us, still living, he wouldn\u2019t want anything to do with her.<\/p>\n
The zombies cram themselves restlessly against the fence, but it deters and repels all comers, showing not the smallest sign of collapse. It\u2019s pretty great.<\/p>\n
My sister had been coming around more. At night, of course. The zombies are still out there at night. She climbed through the crowd of them. Sometimes I\u2019d watch her through my binoculars, just barely discerning her lithe body. She\u2019d at times, reflexively, lunge toward a random zombie, sink in her fangs and take a pull. Nothing came out.<\/p>\n
It was sad. It was funny, too.<\/p>\n
My brother urged me not to feel sympathy for her, for the fact that she must be starving, or dying of thirst, or whatever happens to vampires. But I couldn\u2019t help it, even as winter had set in and everything out there was so cold and desolate. I\u2019d been tempted to give up and give in and let my sister make a vampire of me, invite her back inside. Like a Christmas present.<\/p>\n
Being a vampire would probably be better than life as a zombie, I sometimes think.<\/p>\n
I can\u2019t hold off the zombie invasion forever. No matter how strong the fence is, or my locked door after that is. I\u2019ve gotten good at traversing the network of wooden planks and platforms I\u2019ve set up along the rooftops of the abandoned homes of my neighbors. Effectively \u201cisland hopping\u201d from my own home to the others, foraging and evading capture. I mean, I should be able to resupply by my network of planks for a while longer yet, but how much longer? How much time do I have?<\/p>\n
My sister had come back for a reason, knowing full well I could help her. That maybe she could help me?<\/p>\n
Despite my brother\u2019s fog-written protests I let her in. On Christmas Eve I opened my door and gestured for my sister to come inside. She levitated over the fence in that way vampires do.<\/p>\n
I waited for her in my den, on a leather divan, a fire going in the sturdy old stone fireplace. I was drinking brandy. I had Christmas music playing. I heard her creeping down the foyer; she slowly called for me. It was blood curdling. I nearly lost my nerve.<\/p>\n
\u201cBrother,\u201d she said. \u201cBrother, I\u2019m so glad you\u2019ve finally invited me home.\u201d<\/p>\n
She entered the den. She smiled viciously. She didn\u2019t see the figure emerge from obscurity behind her, knew nothing until the wooden spike penetrated her heart through her back.<\/p>\n
I hated to do it.<\/p>\n
I offered the leather seat to St. Nick, handed over a plate of cookies foraged, not too stale. Stashed them for this special occasion.<\/p>\n
I\u2019d gotten all I needed, all I could want. In those ways, it was over. I was happy.<\/p>\n
MATT ROWAN<\/b> is a writer and editor living in Chicago, IL. He\u2019s the author of Why God Why<\/i> (Love Symbol Press 2013). He co-edits Untoward Magazine <\/i>and assists with The Anthology of Chicago<\/i>. His work can be found in Jersey Devil Press<\/i>, SmokeLong Quarterly<\/i>, Alice Blue Review<\/i> and Cloud Rodeo<\/i>, among others.<\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"
Matt Rowan The loud noise of the snow blower affects them. They don\u2019t like it. It\u2019s true, too, that I might be tempting fate a little. I might be losing it a little. Moving snow from my patio serves no … Continue reading