All the Dead Are Here (16 page)

*click*

Officer Johnson: “Interview with Dan Hopper started ten forty-five a.m. Present: Officer Stuart Johnson and Officer Mike Reilly. So, Mr Hopper, why don’t you just start at the beginning and go from there?”

Dan
Hopper: “Look, I’ve already told the other officer what happened three times now. Why won’t you just fucking listen to what I’m saying?”

SJ: “Mr Hopper, I don’t want to have to tell you again to calm down, otherwise we’ll just have to stop the tape and start again.”

DH: “Ok, ok. I’m calm. I’m calm.”

SJ: “Dan, just take it easy and tell us what happened. You got up at seven forty-five as normal and then what?”

DH: “I got up at seven forty-five, got in the shower as normal, made myself some coffee as normal and got dressed into what I’m wearing, as normal, minus the blood, of course.”

SJ: “For the benefit of the tape Mr Hopper is referring to the large bloodstain on his suit that runs from neck to groin.”

DH: “You’ve still got to tell me who is gonna pay for the dry cleaning, provided there are any dry cleaners left.”

SJ:” Just stick to the point please Mr Hopper.”

DH: “Ok. I got dressed into this suit and put on the TV. I had some Cheerios, drank my coffee and made some comment to myself about what I was seeing on TV about Iraq.”

SJ: “So you live alone.”

DH: “Yup.”

SJ: “So then what happened?”

DH: “So then I danced a fucking fandango, I’ve fucking TOLD you what happened. The city is full of fucking Zombies and you guys care more about my fucking Cheerios than the fact that the city is being munched up by the bastard undead! Are you guys for fucking REAL?”

SJ: “Dan, you better just calm the fuck down right now. Otherwise I’ll put you back in the cell, and we’ll do this all over again in an hour’s time. Just like last time.”

DH: “Ok. Ok. I’m cool. Cool as fuck boss, cool as fuck.”

SJ: “Good. Right, so you left your house at?”

DH: “Eight thirty.”

SJ: “You sure?”

DH: “Same every day. Eight thirty on the dot. It takes me twenty minutes to get to work.”

SJ: “So what happened then?”

DH: “I walked down 5th then took a left by the subway, just the same as every day.”

SJ: “But it wasn’t the same, Dan, was it?”

DH: “Yeah, course it was. I see Zombies every day, you idiot.”

SJ: “Just stick to the facts Dan.”

DH: “I turned onto Main and there they were.”

SJ: “What are ‘They’ Dan?”

DH: “Zombies, the undead, voodoo people, dead people walking around. Can I say it any clearer than that?”

SJ: “How, erm, how did you know they were undead?”

DH: “Oh I don’t know, maybe the fact they were covered in blood, dressed in rags and going ‘ooooh’ a lot. Mind you, they could have been Police I suppose, about the same intelligence, I reckon.”

SJ: “Now Dan, we’re only trying to help, no need for sarcasm.”

DH: “How the fuck are you helping? Huh? The city is full of Zombies straight outta Day of the Dead or that World War Z and I’m sitting here describing what they look like. Why don’t you just wait a bit? You’ll soon see what they look like up close.”

SJ: “Is that a threat, Mr Hopper?”

DH: “No… just an observation.”

SJ: “So are you a fan?”

DH: “Huh?”

SJ: “Of Zombie films, books, games, that sorta thing.”

DH: “What’s that gotta do with anything?”

SJ: “Just answer the question.”

DH: “I suppose so. I like the George Romero stuff, saw the remake of Dawn of the Dead at the movies. No more than anyone else. I didn’t make this shit up, it fucking happened. You guys were there. You musta been to have picked me up?”

SJ: “Ok Dan, we were there. Just concentrate on what happened next.”

DH: “So I just stand there stunned for a second. There’s a few hundred just walking down the street, moaning and shuffling along. They got blood dripping from them, just like in the films. I just stood there. Then I see someone on the other side of the street, on the other side of the zombies, just as a load of these… these things leap on him. It's weird, you know, but this guy is just like laughing as they are ripping into him. There’s blood everywhere and this guy's just screaming like he’s being tickled. Fucking weird man. So I take stock a bit and I see like a crowbar just lying up against the
wall in this alley, so I grab it. I mean, I’m thinking I’m gonna help this guy or just defend myself. I don’t know what I was thinking to be honest… you got a smoke, officer?”

SJ: “I don’t, no. I gave up.”

Mike Reilly: “I got one. There you go. You got the shakes there Dan.”

DH; “Thanks man. (pfft) Yeah, I don’t feel too good now.”

SJ: “I know it’s difficult, Dan, but you are going into shock. Just tell us what happened and we’ll get you some food and a coffee, yeah?”

DH: “Ok, thanks… So one of these things sees me and comes shuffling towards me followed by a few more, and in his hand he’s got something. I dunno, it looked like a liver or a bag with something in it, I dunno.”

SJ: “A bag? What? With blood in it?”

DH: “I’m not sure, it looked like a liver or something but it coulda just been blood, yeah.”

SJ: “So this guy, erm, this thing's walking toward you and then what happened.”

DH: “I just hit it over the head with the crowbar, just caved it in, man, and it just dropped so to be sure I just hit it again and there’s blood and some other stuff, white stuff, all over the floor, and he’s just twitching like in the films, y'know? So they come running at me and I can hear screaming and shouting and I figure they got someone else and my legs are jelly so I just hit out again and drop another one and they are grabbing at me and I’m screaming and I can hear sirens and people screaming and I manage to wriggle free and smash another one and it falls over clutching its eye which is hanging out its socket, and there blood everywhere and they are trying to hold me down and I think ‘this is it’ and I drop the crowbar and then I see a policeman and realise he’s pointing a taser at me… and I think I’m dead… I’m gonna be sick.”

MR: “Whoa there Dan! Aim for the bin! The bin! Oh shit.”

SJ: “You ok now Dan?”

DH: “Yeah… no… ”

MR: “Aw man, at least try to get it in the bin Danny.”

DH: “Sorry man, I’ll clean it up.”

SJ: “Dan it’s ok. We got people to do that. Mike, give him another cigarette.”

MR: “Here you go.”

DH: “Thanks man, it's appreciated. (pffft)”

SJ: “So the next thing you know you wake up in a cell here?”

DH: “Yeah man, but they’re out there, fucking hundreds of them. You got to do something officer. You gotta stop them. Someone’s gotta stop them.”

SJ: “You see Dan, that’s where we got a problem. For the tape, I am showing Mr Hopper the flyers for this morning’s ‘Zombie Walk’.”

DH: “What? What the fuck's this? Zombie Walk? What the fuck's a Zombie Walk? For charity? Oh… Oh shit man… Oh no… I think I’m gonna throw up again!”

MR: “Use the bin Dan for fuck’s………oh never mind.”

*click*

I used to be a metrosexual, one of those men who took too much pride in their appearance. I used moisturiser to prevent wrinkles and aftershave balm; I had back, crack and sacks, and a cupboard full of expensive treatments to stave of my fledgling wrinkles at the grand old age of twenty nine. I used to have a bathroom cabinet filled will colognes and aftershaves from all the top designers, and a regular appointment at the salon. That was before.

The fresh smell of cheap lemon soap fills the room as I towel dry my hair. The first full bath I have had in six months, and the water stone cold by the time I finished scrubbing my fingernails and every other part of my body until I could see the pink flesh for the first time in weeks. Metrosexuality seems so pointless now, so vain. I smile at the memory. I turn to drop the towel on the bunk and catch sight of myself in the mirror.

“
Jesus!” I say to myself, stunned. The figure staring at me in the mirror is not the guy I remember. My hair is lighter, changed by the sunlight and stress to a greyer shade. It’s been nine months since I frantically begged my stylist for an appointment to cover up that stray grey hair that made my mortality real. Now my hair hangs damp below shoulder length, longer than I have ever had it, brown with grey streaks running through it like an old hippy.

I realise my face and head are well tanned from spending weeks running in the spring/summer sun from shambling death, encroaching and imminent cadavers. I have sunglasses marks from my trusty Ray Bans, one of my few remaining original possessions. Possessions, stuff, things. All meaningless now unless you could carry it and it could save your life. Somewhere in the Land of the Dead my flat lies rotting, with my hand built furniture and 50” plasma all waiting for me to return, I picture a Z standing in my flat admiring my small collection of art, maybe he’s trying on my bespoke Saville Row suit? Just stuff, I suppose. Just things.

The crow’s feet I moisturised daily now explode from my eyes like rays of moonlight, contrasted, deep and shadowed. I look into my own eyes, and my legs weaken and go numb. The doe-eyed financial controller I was doesn’t live in that reflection any more. There is darkness around them and I’m sure they are a different shape. They have the depth of a Holocaust survivor. I realise with shock, my cheeks are sunken and, even after brushing my teeth, flossing and using the mouthwash that they provide in this safe haven, my teeth still look dirty. Packets of sweets and crisps last well, fruit does not. The harsh reality of the apocalypse means I will probably never eat a curry or modern British cuisine again.

The scar is now red from the heat of the bath but its itchy scabs have fallen off to reveal the six inch red welt that runs from above my eye, vertically, to level with the corner of my mouth. On the second night I jumped a fence but dropped too close to it and what I presume was a loose bit of wire carved the rune in my face. Covered in blood, I was lucky not to lose an eye. I was even luckier to meet up with a running nurse who crudely stitched the sides together without anaesthetic in an abandoned people carrier before we were parted on the fifth night. Now it's finally clean I can see the nurse did a good job. It’s nearly straight and has healed well. Good God, a scar running right down my face. I trace the line down its full length, feeling every bump and contour. A year ago I would have been phoning the most expensive plastic surgeons I could find but now I don’t seem to mind any more. Priorities, I guess.

The act of shaving was unappreciated in the modern world, my chin feels smooth for the first time in weeks, but makes my facial tan look strange. Like a mountain man returning to society from a winter in the hills, I rub my face enjoying the fresh feeling. It stings and I want some expensive balm to calm the angry heat caused by the old razor.

Looking down I realise I don’t have moobs any more. This makes me smile again. I took care - ‘took care,’ what vanity! - of my appearance, I was never one for the gym and had a belly and moobs that made me look fatter than I probably was. This has changed, now the muscles on my shoulders are tanned and lean. For the first time since I was a kid I can see sinewy muscle beneath. I have been honed by the running, lifting, building and fighting that costs fat and builds muscle. I lift my arm and flex, surprised at the size of the bicep that grows from it and the definition of the pec that lifts the arm. The little kids that found me were skinny wraiths but after so many lifts over cars, railing and obstacles, after so many nights of rocking them to sleep in my lap, my upper torso is defined by toil, and now I know nursery rhymes.

Rubbing down my belly, there’s no six pack and my old self is disappointed at this, but there is no belly. My white stomach is flat, probably from lack of food and the stomach bug that caught me so badly after the first month. This showed me what to eat and what not to eat even if you are starving, and just how vulnerable you are when being chased by the living dead while you have crippling stomach cramps.

On my side, I trace my finger over the fresher gunshot wound, just a nick from someone who finally cracked and shot his fellow survivors before turning on himself. I was the only one to leave that basement alive and some of those I left I had travelled with for weeks. Some of them were closer friends than I had in the five years before. The scar feels bumpy and rough with drying flakes of skin rubbing off. It still stings sometimes but the muscular ache is gone.

It’s probably the first time I have seen my dick in weeks. It doesn’t look any different, just clean and doesn’t stink. It was never used much before and probably won’t get much use now, but after looking after the kids I decide I would like a child of my own. I grew close to them, probably too close, I took risks to rescue them, put myself in danger so that I didn’t leave one behind. Looking back, it wasn’t a conscious decision, it was just the right thing to do, but I think the kids knew what I had done and told others their story. Maybe that’s why, for the first time in my life, I get a respectful nod from men here who are older, wiser, harder and stronger than me.