I’ve managed to collect a few scars in my life. Most of them are nothing more than small white lines; evidence of my inability to properly slice vegetables; testaments to my hack-and-slash approach to shaving. Nothing that tells a story of courage and daring-do. But there is one  – one that I prize above all the rest — that is more interesting: one that tells a tale of fortune and glory, of a battle hard-fought and won. It is on my left wrist, a nickel-sized patch of wrinkled skin, and this is its story.

I was 14 – a freshman in high school – and a friend offered me a one-day job walking around one of the northern suburbs going door-to-door to hand out flyers for some politician. It was a long, grueling day, but it paid the unheard-of sum of one hundred dollars. A hundred dollars? I’d never had a hundred dollars before.

Well, that money was burning a hole in my pocket. So two days later, after school, I walked over to the strip mall on Dempster & Dodge and strolled into the Sound Warehouse — you know, back when music stores still existed. I probably spent an hour in the store trying to figure out what to buy. I don’t remember what else I looked at but I can tell you exactly what I bought: Automatic by Jesus & Mary Chain and a poster from Iron Maiden’s single “The Trooper.” A strange juxtaposition, I know, but I was eclectic way before it was cool.

I left the store and headed back up the street towards home. I hadn’t gotten more than three blocks when I saw a large 2-door car — a Lincoln Continental or a Grand Marquis — driving the opposite way down the street. The driver called out to me:

“Hey man. You want to buy some weed? I’ve got dime bags.”

Now, I was 14, and I’d smoked some pot, but I hadn’t really found it to be all that interesting. But I had friends that were into it, and I was suddenly filled with what I would later realize was the desire to be the “playmaker.” The guy who gets the assist. So that when I was hanging out with friends and someone asked, “Does anybody have any weed?” I could casually say, “Oh, uh, hey, I’ve got some.” And everybody would remember me as the guy who, that one time, had some pot.

And I had money. And it was just burning a hole in my pocket.

I walked out into the street, approached the car, leaned down into the open window, the Iron Maiden poster rolled up tight and held securely between my legs. Automatic was in its jewel case in my left jean jacket pocket. “How much?” I asked. “Ten bucks?” I thought I remembered someone saying that that’s how much a dime bag cost.

“Yeah,” said the driver. “Sure. Ten bucks.”

This being my first drug deal, I didn’t know the best way to proceed; I didn’t know that asking to first “see the stuff” was a good idea. I pulled a ten from my pocket and handed it over. The driver took the bill, tucked it into the waistband of his shorts…. And started driving off.

But not fast enough that I couldn’t grab onto the door of the car and trot alongside, yelling, probably inappropriately loudly for the neighborhood we were in, and the illegal activity we had just been transacting, “Give me my fucking money!”

Unsurprisingly, the only effect this had on the driver was to make him speed up. Just a little. Just the slightest additional pressure applied by his foot onto the gas pedal. Just enough to turn my trot into a gallop. I was undeterred. “Give me my fucking money!”

The car went faster still, until my feet could no longer keep up. I felt my the toes of my shoes scrape along the pavement, and then my knees, and then my left hand. My right hand? Still locked tight on the door of the car. I was being dragged down the street.

I wish I could recall what thoughts were going through my head at that moment. God only knows why I didn’t let go. It was only ten dollars, it wasn’t worth being run over by a car. Most likely, there were no thoughts other than “Oh fuck oh fuck oh fuck” — the kind of running refrain that drowns out thought, makes it impossible to take any sort of action at all.

I’d also love to know what the guys in the car were thinking. It had started as a beautiful early spring day, just two buddies out for a drive, running their simple con: find some dumb kid who looks like he’s got a few extra bucks, get him to hand over the money and drive off. What could be easier? Then, suddenly, there’s someone hanging off the side of the damn car. Do you plan for this during your morning meeting? Like, “Okay, I know this sounds insane, but on the off chance that there’s someone hanging onto the car, here’s what we do….”

Here is something I learned that day: when you’re being dragged by a car, every second feels like a minute; every foot feels like a mile. I don’t know how far we’d gone. It was probably only a block at the most when I finally lost my grip on the car and fell to the pavement.

My thoughts then? Fuck. There goes my 10 dollars. Also, probably, Ouch.

But, instead of tearing off like I expected, the car stopped. I’d like to think that I leaped to my feet and brushed some dirt from my shoulders like, I do this shit all the time, now, sir, about my fucking money. But, more likely, it was me peeling myself off the pavement, dazed, confused. Staggering to my feet. What happens now?

And here’s the part that people often find hard to believe. Hell, I find it hard to believe myself. The dude driving the car pulled my ten dollar bill from his waistband and held it out to me. “You’re fucking crazy!” I took the money; they drove off.

I was left standing in the street to take stock of my situation: my jeans and jacket were ripped, my knees were both scraped and bleeding, and my left wrist which apparently had taken the most damage was torn open. But, other than that, I was little worse for wear. Even with all the pain there was still a small smile on my face, a feeling of elation. They had tried to con me, but thanks to my complete and utter lack of foresight and rational thought, I had managed to come out on top; a little bloody maybe, but still on top.

So I limped back to find my poster lying in the middle of the street, picked it up, and headed home. Along the way, I tried to come up with a story to tell my family about what had caused my wounds. A story that didn’t include trying to buy weed or getting dragged by a car. I’m pretty sure I went with “I fell down.” or something along those lines.

But we knew the truth: the twisted, snarling, skeletal solider and me. And while that poster has long since been relegated to the trash bin,  I still have that scar: a permanent reminder that there’s a right way and a wrong way to buy weed; that my life is worth a bit more than ten bucks; but that sometimes, very occasionally, you need to be fucking crazy in order to win the day.

“Where are you going next, Tim Stimph?” I asked a photo of him that I had earlier hurled across the living room and into the kitchen. The glass in the frame had shattered, but the picture itself was undamaged. I peered deep into his beady, black, soulless eyes hoping for an answer, a sign, a clue. Nothing came to me.

“Brains.” Was there nothing else in his bomb room?

“Not that I could see. Bomb making stuff, the banner, and more bomb making stuff. No diagrams, blueprints, or maps.”

“Brains.” Where else are there libraries?

“Well, hell, Westy, I’ve been a bit out of touch, you know? Three years ago, most of the libraries had already closed. There were just a few left. But they’re probably all gone by now. And anyhow, how do we know he’s not just out on walkabout, seeing the sights?”

“Brains.” Well, I’m at a loss.

“Me too.” I opened the refrigerator again. “Sure wish I could have a beer, even if it is just Miller Lite. God, Westy, how I loved beer. So much flavor and complexity, it rivals wine for variety of flavor, body, and character. Not Miller Lite, of course, but other beers. Better beers. Actual beer beers, you know? Stimph had good taste in everything but books and beer, apparently.”

“Brains.” We have just now recalled something that might be pertinent.

“Oh yeah? And what was that? That Tim Stimph is an asshole?”

“Brains.” No, not that.

“Well,” I said, shutting the refrigerator door, “I’d say that’s about the most pertinent thing I can think of. What’cha got?”

“Brains.” That woman, the human –

“Polly,” I supplied.

“Brains.” Polly. She said something about Stimph promising to bring her a bottle of his favorite beer. With the amount of ‘Miller Lite’ in this refrigerator, would it not be a safe bet to assume that ‘Miller Lite’ is Tim Stimph’s favorite beer?

“Nobody has that much Miller Lite in their ‘fridge by accident,” I said. “Where are you going with this?”

“Brains.” Wouldn’t it stand to reason then that Tim Stimph is going, or has gone, to the location where this ‘Miller Lite’ is produced?

“He wouldn’t have to go to the Miller brewery just to bring her a bottle of Miller Lite. He could have just come to his refrigerator and grabbed one. He sure had plenty here.”

“Brains.” That is true. However, and please, correct us if we are wrong, but is it not somehow traditional for vacationing or travelling humans to often say that they will bring back one of (or some of) whatever it is that the place to which they are travelling is famous for? For instance, if one were to be going to Maryland, one might say, “I will bring you back some crabcakes.” Or if one were going to Detroit, one might say, “I will bring you back some crime, unemployment, and urban blight.” Therefore, if one were going to wherever it is that ‘Miller Lite’ is produced, one might say, “I will bring you back a bottle of Miller Lite.”

“Good God, Westy,” I marvelled. “You’re brilliant!”

“Brains.” We do what we can. Now, where is it that this ‘Miller Lite’ is produced?

“Miller Lite is made by MillerCoors, LLC which is located in Chicago,” I said.

“Brains.” So he has not travelled far.

“That’s just their corporate offices, I think.”

“Brains.” Then where is their production?

“Miller products are brewed in Miller Valley. Up in Cheesland. Home of the Brewers. Land of Sausage.”

“Brains.” Milwaukee?

“Yep,” I said. “Milwaukee.”

I wrestled my foot from the door, an endeavor which took more time than I’d like to admit, and provided Westy with no end of amusement. Finally free, I shoved my hand through the hole I’d made and found the door knob on the other side.

“Brains.” Careful now.

“Nonsense. Just a simple twist of the wrist, et voila.”

“Brains.” Wait –

Westy’s warning was cut off as the door swung open on oiled hinges followed immediately by an explosion, which though it was, in terms of explosions, small and controlled, still rocked the apartment and slammed me against the wall behind me.

Had I been knocked out? Was it possible for a Z without a nervous system to be rendered unconscious? It was some moments, or minutes, or hours later that I opened my eyes again. I checked my head and limbs — habitual self-diagnostic — and found everything to be in the right place. The only thing amiss was the foot long piece of a Masonite Palazzo Series interior door sticking out of my chest.

“Holy fuck!” I exclaimed. “Would you get a load of that?”

“Brains.” The door exploded.

“Must have been booby trapped.”

“Brains.” Would someone go to such lengths to protect his porn collection?

“I don’t know — I might. Not that I have a porn collection. Really.”

“Brains.” Right.

I rose to my feet, yanked the splinter from my chest and tossed it aside. Why would Stimph booby trap a door in his own apartment? And how had it been rigged? And how was it possible to disable the defense system to allow for safe entry by authorized personnel. A quick examination of the wall to the right of the door revealed the remains of a keypad that had previously been hidden from view by a sliding panel.

“Crap. Should have thought of that first.”

“Brains.” We did.

“Well, you could have said something.”

“Brains.” We tried.

“I suppose you did,” I admitted. “Well, no matter. We’re still in one piece, I think.”

“Brains.” Your shoe is on fire.

I looked down to see that Westy was right — my shoelaces were smoldering. I stomped on one foot with the other, putting it out.

“Good looking out, Westy.”

“Brains.” No problem.

I peered through the smoke into the bedroom. Apparently the trap had been designed only to kill or maim someone breaking into the room, and not to destroy the contents of the room itself. I guess that spoke to Stimph’s confidence that the bomb would do its job, and a lack of foresight that a mostly indestructible member of the walking dead might be curious about what was behind that door. I supposed that had I been your every day run of the mill human being that I might be in worse shape. If the splinter through my chest hadn’t done me in, there were plenty of other dangers that would take care of an ordinary homo sapien: the shockwave of the explosion forcing al the air from my lungs; the resulting fire; or the smoke. Whoever had made this bomb knew what he was doing.

As the smoke cleared, I took stock of the bedroom. There was no bed — where one might have gone, there was a large table that had been covered with beakers, test tube and other lab equipment. The glass, of course, had all shattered, and anything sturdier had been thrown aside, but it was still clear that this was a work table of some sort.

“Was Stimph cooking meth?” I wondered aloud. But I immediately knew this wasn’t the case. I’d watched Breaking Bad and knew that even the smallest meth labs required more space, security, and ventilation than this room could offer. Still, it appeared as if he was making something that required chemicals; something that required the greatest secrecy.

Smoke still obscured much of the room, but I could make out a closet to my right. The doors had been thrown off their rails by the explosion, and they had absorbed some of the blast, but they were still mostly intact — the blast really was designed to blow out of the room. I pulled the doors down and threw them aside. Inside the closet were two large drums — one of ammonium nitrate, the other of some sort of sulfate. Bomb making stuff. It appeared as if Stimph had rigged the bomb himself.

“Son, maybe you haven’t been around much lately but  I can tell you ain’t stupid, so I hope you won’t get offended if I give you a piece of unsolicited advice.”

“Not at all,” I said.

“You gotta always be on your guard these days. I ain’t sure how you lived before Westphail fever swept the nation, but you can’t be livin’ any other way but this. You traipse about like you’re still in the good ol’ days, you won’t last long. Just strollin’ along, mindin’ your own business and then bam! –” he shouted this; I didn’t flinch “– zombie got yer kitten.”

“‘Zombie got yer kitten?’” I asked.

“Yep,” he said, as if no further explanation was needed, and I suppose one wasn’t. “Zombie got yer kitten.”

Awkward silence extended into a full-fledged cessation of conversation. I guessed that Westy finally listened to me.

Which was all well and good, and what I had wanted, obviously, but I had to admit Westy had given good advice on getting me into the building, and probably would have an idea or two about how to get us into Stimph’s apartment. Also, I was never happy when I knew someone was mad at me, or giving me the silent treatment. I’d do whatever I could — assuming I gave a shit about the person’s opinion — to make amends, to keep the peace. Besides, even though Westphail had turned me into whatever it was that I currently am, I’d grown accustomed to Westy’s voice. While I valued moments of silence, this one was different: intentional, weighty.

“Westy, look. I’m sorry. I’m sorry about what I said up on the roof, and just now. I know it seems like I’m a solid, well-adjusted, mentally stable rock of a man –” If Westy had a face, I know he’d have a confused look on it, as if to say, “Brains.” Are you sure you’re talking about yourself? — “…or maybe not so much. But, you have to admit I’m taking this pretty well. I know this isn’t how you planned things. I know you expected to invade my body, shut down all my vital systems and carry me along on a mad kill-crazy rampage until I got decapitated, eviscerated, and incinerated, or until, I don’t know, whatever grand master scheme you had in mind was completed, and that having a still-sentient, thinking, somewhat-feeling thing who has yet to even try to sample the brains of a human being doesn’t really line up with your goals of the day. I know you must be frustrated, and yeah, I’m frustrated too. I mean, don’t think there isn’t a part of me who doesn’t wish that I was just a brainless automaton shambling around town, tearing into human flesh without a care in the world. Sure, that sounds like fun, like maybe a better way to spend my time than climbing buildings, jumping between rooftops, trying to kick down doors, all that. Really, I’d rather just be back in my apartment, waiting for the end to come. I’d gottten pretty good at that. But, hell, this is how it is. This is the new reality. This is what’s what. We’ve got to just make the best of it. Bickering back and forth, trying to hurt each other, what does that accomplish? I know, yeah, sometimes we’re going to get on each other’s nerves and say things that we might regret, but let’s not forget that we’re on the same team here. We’ve got to make the best of it.”

I took a deep breath. There were some moments of silence then, and I wondered if I’d said too much, or come across as weak, or just been completely wrong. Maybe all my reasoning had falled on deaf ears. Maybe Westy didn’t give a shit about peaceful cohabitation. As a matter of fact, I thought, why would he? He was just a virus. It was just a virus. Fine, if it wasn’t going to make the effort to make things tolerable for the both of us, then I wouldn’t either. See how it likes it when I don’t ever eat a single brain. When I go around just –

“Brains.”

I was too wrapped up in my thoughts to catch the nuances of the word. “What was that, Westy?” I asked.

“Brains.” You are right. We are sorry. You do not need to ‘grow a pair.’

“Well alright!” I shouted. “I wish we could high five. Or ‘hug it out.’”

“Brains.” That is not necessary.

“No, I suppose you’re right.”

“Brains.” So….

“So….”

“Brains.” The door.

“Yeah. Another door.” I tried the handle again. Still locked.

“Brains.” Perhaps there is a key.

“Dammit. Dammit dammit dammit!” It had been a long time since I’d thrown a temper tantrum — at least three years — so I was about due. “I’ve been having the worst luck ever since I turned into a zombie. This isn’t fucking fair!”

“Brains.” You are acting like a child. Pull yourself together. Grow a pair.

“Grow a pair?” I shrieked. “Grow a pair? Are you seriously telling me that I need to grow a pair of testicles? You know what? I had a perfectly good working pair of balls before you came into my life you sadistic sack of shit.”

“Brains.” We are not amused.

“Well neither are we…. am I…. Whatever. Neither am I. Amused. I haven’t been amused one bit since this whole thing started. Not one bit.”

“Br–.” We–

“Do you know, Westy, how much I absolutely love being amused? Oh wait, let me correct that. How much I loved being amused? I fucking adored it. Being amused was my favorite past time. And now I’m looking at a future where I have no more amusement. Ever. Ever. Do you know how that makes me feel?”

“Br–.” We–

“That’s right, you have no idea how it makes me feel. But you know what? Neither do I? Know why? Because I hardly feel shit anymore because, I don’t know, there’s a sentient fucking virus stuck in my head, taking over all the parts of my brain that feel shit. I’m not even sure that I’m angry right now, that’s how fucked up my head is.”

“Br–.” The–

“I don’t know why I’m yelling. I think it’s just something I enjoy — or enjoyed, thank you very much — doing back when I had feelings, and a life, and working fucking genitalia.”

“Br–” Wou–

“No, I won’t let you get a word in edgewise. I don’t care what you have to say right now.”

Dejectedly, I walked back to the stairway door, intending to look for some previously unseen weakness in its design, or, failing that, bang my head against it repeatedly for the sake of dramatic effect. I did end up banging my head on it from the start, but just because someone opened the door right into me.

“Eeeyagh!” I said, out of shock and surprise.

“Holy fuck!” shouted the person on the other side of the door.

I took several steps back and the door flew open. An intensely nervous and frightened individual emerged from within and flew at me. The door swung closed — “Don’t let that….aw, hell!” — with a clang.

“Dammit!” I said. “That was my chance!”

Westy’s nerves — or whatever you wanted to call them; it was like “Spidey-sense” every time we got near something that excited or scared him: fire, dead bodies, other Zs — were on edge and it didn’t take a genius to figure out why: a living breathing human had just, quite literally, stumbled into our — my — arms. Her momentum had carried him right at me, taking us both down to the surface of the roof.

I lay there, looking up into the eyes of the most beautiful woman I had ever seen. They were blue — the purest blue of mountain streams, or deep oceans, or something — and piercing, intelligent, cold. Strands of her long strawberry-blonde hair fell into my face. I could smell her shampoo — she had somehow remained remarkably well-groomed in the midst of all the chaos; something I instantly admired — and it was intoxicating. I mean to say, to me, it smelled horrible, like the rotting food in the grocery store manager’s office should have smelled but didn’t. But, I figured that since it smelled bad, it must be good. It was intoxication inasmuch as it made me feel like I’d been on a three day bender, had finally crawled out of bed, and was paying reparations in the form of copious amount of vomit. That kind of intoxicating.

The moment lasted for but a moment, though it seemed as though I spent a lifetime just gazing into her eyes, seeking out her soul. Had my whole life brought me to this point? Could a zombie and a human find true love? I had to know.

“Hi there,” I said, using the sexiest voice I could muster. “How you doin’?”

“Are you kidding me?” she asked, disgusted. “At a time like this?” She rolled off me and leapt to her feet, keeping a watchful eye on the door while glancing about, looking for escape routes.

I was unfazed. “My name’s Zach Graves. What’s yours?”

“We need to barricade this door,” she replied.

I laughed. “Barricade it? Lady, I’ve been trying to get through it! That thing’s locked up tight. We don’t need to worry about it. Just you and me here.”

She cast a disgusted look in my direction. “You idiot. We need to barricade it on this side. There’s a pack of Re-Ans coming up the stairs. They’ll be out here any second.”

I sidled up next to this beautiful creature — Westy was pracitcally drooling with anticipation. I was too, but for different reasons — and placed a comforting hand on her back. She pulled away immediately.

“Sorry,” I said, thought I wasn’t particularly. Touching her, ever so briefly, awoke something in me that felt amazing. It was longing of the purest sort, passion of the most intense kind; desire, and need, and… hunger. “Oh. Shit.” I backed off.

“What is it?” she asked, turning towards the door, backing away from it, assuming I’d heard or seen something.

“Nothing. No. Nothing,” I said. I couldn’t make words very well. The voice was loud, distracting, all-consuming. “No.”

I continued backing away, and she, seemingly satisfied that the door was secure for the moment, and not at all unhappy about my sudden desire to increase the distance between us, resumed her search for something with which to bar the door.

“There’s nothing,” I managed.

She had come to the same conclusion, apparently, and gave up her search for anything to be used for defensive measures and started casting about for an escape, often looking over her shoulder at me, or at the door. The only way out (that I could see) was the way I had come, and she shortly came to that realization. She had just begun gauging the distance between the buildings, deciding whether or not she could make the leap when the door crashed open again.

There were three Zs immediately visible in the doorway. They looked pretty bad — clothes ragged, skin torn, mouths agape with hunger. They clearly hadn’t fed in a long time and — aside from a momentary glance in my direction — were desperately focused upon the tasty-looking morsel now standing at the edge of the roof with a mere 20 feet of unobstructed ground to cover. The trio burst from the doorway and made a beeline for the woman. Behind the Zs was a considerably larger pack that, due to its size and lack of coordination, was having one hell of a time trying to get through the door.

I tried to shout a warning. Something like “Look out!” or “Head’s up!” but nothing would come. Instead, I watched with a mix of horror and some sort of sick delight as the Zs leapt at her, their momentum carrying them all over the building’s edge and down to the ground below. They landed with a sickening crunch. I winced and sucked air over my teeth, as if I’d just seen a particularly brutal hit in a football game. I felt fleeting sadness at my lost opportunity for love, but more than that, there was disappointment and annoyance, not unlike how you would feel if you went to the office refirgerator and found that someone else had eaten your lunch.