(From either side of the theater, the sounds of men and women grunting, furniture creaking atop other furniture.)
Stage Manager: Hillary Schwabel, who used to manage the local True Value hardware, strung some wires all the way around what people already had christened the Wall and hooked them to several of her louder alarms; she also hung a dozen motion-detector lights from trees and houses next to the Wall. Things are so sensitive a cat’ll trip them, but it beats the alternative. As a rule, zombies travel in numbers; when you see one of them, you see ten, twenty, sometimes as many as fifty, a hundred. A significant percentage of that group is going to be limber enough to make a try at getting past the Wall—and all it takes is for one of them to succeed, grab someone and start biting, for you to want to know they’re moving in your direction while they’re still a safe distance away. It’s another myth that they only, or mostly, move at night. Their eyesight’s poor-to-nonexistent—apparently, the ravages death inflicts on the eyes are exacerbated by the process of reanimation. Although they never stop moving completely, if you should have the misfortune to come across them after dark, they’re likely to be shuffling their feet, practically standing in place. No, they prefer the light; the dawn pouring through the trees sets them going. A bright day is practically a guarantee you’re going to see some of them.
All of that said, a few of them have been known to travel by night, especially if the moon is full. And even inching forward a little bit at a time will bring you somewhere, eventually. Better safe than sorry, right?
Have you noticed how disasters bring out the clichés in droves? Why is that? Is the trite and overused that consoling? Or is it that, even though the brain is short-circuiting, it still wants to grasp what’s going on, so it reaches for whatever tools are at hand, no matter how worn and rusted? Or is the language breaking down along with everything else? I’ve never been what you’d call a poet, but I have always prided myself on my phrasing, on a knack for finding a fit and even memorable form for whatever sentiment I’m attempting to convey. Lately, though—lately, I swear I sound more and more like a parody of a Good Ole Boy, your folksy uncle with his bucket of country wisdom.
Nor is that the worst. Before everything went down the crapper, one of my—you might say duties; although I considered it more a responsibility, if that distinction means anything to you—anyway, one of the things I did was to help those who’d shuffled off their mortal coils come to grips with their new condition. Mostly, this meant talking with them, taking them for a last look at their loved ones, about what you’d expect. In a few cases, I let them have one of their days over again, which, knowing what they knew now, tended to be a more unhappy experience than they’d anticipated. Even after I’d spoken to them, showed them what I could, there were a few who refused to walk down the long dark hall to join the ranks of those who’d gone before, who insisted on remaining in their house, or at the spot they’d ceased breathing, which was a shame, but was allowed for.
Once the dead started to rise, though—for the one thing, death no longer separated what lasted from what didn’t; instead, the two remained bound together as the one began its new existence. For another thing, the destruction of that second life—or un-life—didn’t allow matters to proceed on their natural course. Instead… well, maybe you want to see for yourselves.
(The theater’s lights come on. Their harsh brightness reveals the center aisle, side aisles, front, and rear of the theater crowded with figures—with zombies, it appears, since the men, women, and children surrounding the audience bear the familiar signs of decay. Whatever shock and fear the appearance of so many of them in such proximity engenders, however, is gradually tempered by their complete lack of movement. Indeed, with the exception of one figure shuffling its way from the very back of the theater up the center aisle, the apparent zombies might as well be mannequins.)
Stage Manager: Being chained to that body as it stumbles along in the single-minded pursuit of flesh, as it finds and kills and consumes that flesh—it isn’t good for the other part, for what I call the spark—it twists it, warps it, so that when it’s cut loose, this is how it appears. Mostly. A few—I haven’t worked out the exact numbers, but it’s something on the order of one in a thousand, fifteen hundred—they show up hostile, violent, as if what they last were in life has followed them across its borders. There’s no talking to them, let alone reasoning with them. I’m not certain what they could do to me—there’ve been rumors through the grapevine, but you know how that it is—but I’m not inclined to find out.
(The Stage Manager rises to his feet, withdrawing his revolver from its shoulder holster on the way. In a continuous motion, he extends his arm, sights along the long barrel of the gun, and squeezes the trigger. The gun’s BOOM stuns the air; the young man in the brown three-piece suit who is approximately halfway to the stage jerks as the back of his head detonates in a surprisingly solid clump. The young man falls against one of the motionless forms in the aisle, an old woman wearing a blue dress and a knitted white pullover, who barely moves as he slides down her to the floor. The Stage Manager maintains his aim at the young man for five seconds, then levels the gun and sweeps it across the theater. It is difficult to ascertain whether his eye is on the figures in the aisle, the audience in their seats, or both. Unable to locate any further threats, he re-holsters the pistol. He remains standing.)
Stage Manager: That’s—there’s nothing else I can do. It means—I don’t like thinking about what it means. It’s a step up from what a fellow like that was, but—it’s not a part of the job I relish. Could be, it would be a service to the rest of these folks, but I haven’t got the stomach for it.
(The Stage Manager lowers himself to the ground. The lights dim but not all the way. The forms in the aisles remain where they are.)
Stage Manager: Once in a while—it’s less and less, but it still happens—a regular person finds their way here. That was how I had the chance to talk with Billy Joe Royale, he-of-the-famous-homemade-napalm. I’d witnessed his handiwork in action—must have been the day after the day after that truckload of zombies parked in the middle of Mary Phillips’s neighborhood. The number of zombies had increased exponentially; the cops had been overrun in most places; the National Guard who were supposed to be on their way remained an unfulfilled promise. Those who could had retreated to the parking lot of St. Pat’s, which, since the hill hadn’t yet been fortified, looked to be the most defensible position. I reckon it was, at that. There wasn’t time for much in the way of barriers or booby-traps, but those men and women—there were forty-six of them—did what they could.
(From the right and left of the theater comes a cacophony of gunfire; of voices shouting defiance, instructions, obscenity, encouragement; of screams. It is underscored by a frenzied, atonal sawing of the violins. It subsides as the Stage Manager continues to speak, but remains faintly audible.)
Stage Manager: In the end, though, no matter how much ammunition you have, if the zombies have sufficient numbers, there’s little you can hope for aside from escaping to fight another day. These folks couldn’t expect that much: they’d backed themselves against the church’s north wall, and the zombies were crowding the remaining three sides.