Holiday’s Hope: Introduction

They called it The Rot. At first, people got sick, wasted away, and died. But it didn’t end there. Those dead got up and started to devour the living. Zombies, zed heads, Z — call them what you will. The end of the world wasn’t like we ever imagined. It was so much worse.

I’m a Survivor. I lived through The Rot, The Panic, and more than a few questionable quickie-mart hot dogs. I credit my success in the zombie apocalypse to Rambo. Specifically, that poster where Rambo is stalking through the underbrush wearing a black tank top and carrying a Hoyt Spectra compound bow. You know that poster. Everyone knows that poster. Everyone wanted to be Rambo in that poster. That poster got me into archery, which I turned out to be phenomenal at. Then the zombies came, and they were attracted to noise. The spray-and-pray gunners got swarmed under by hordes, while I silently loosed arrows into Z’s brains over and over. So now I’m living my childhood dream of stalking around with a bow and killing endless waves of bad guys. Well, it’s not quite like I dreamed it; for example, in my dreams, I had the muscle definition to look good in a black tank top. But I digress.

In the months since the world fell apart, I’ve met others. It’s not common, because Survivors are almost by definition loners who were on the fringes of society. Usually, we just exchange names and news, then head our separate ways. Sometimes, if we’re heading the same direction, we travel together for a while and watch each other’s backs. It doesn’t matter who you were before The Rot — not your job, your politics, your religion, your favorite sports team, or even if you thought that Chicago-style pizza was real pizza. Now, the only thing that matters is that you are human. And even loners appreciate a good night’s sleep while someone else is scanning for Z.

About two months ago, I met Jan and we were heading in the same direction. Jan is a former cop and an expert marksman with her service pistol. Like most of us Survivors, she doesn’t talk a lot, but she carries her weight on the road and during our encounters with Z. I’ll be happy to travel with her as far as the road takes us. That’s the highest praise I can give anyone these days.

We met William three weeks ago. He contradicts every assumption I’ve ever made about the type of people who lived through The Rot and The Panic. He’s a former doctor turned hospital administrator. He has no marshal skills to speak of. In fact, he’s so bad a shot with his revolvers that Jan quipped she’d be safer standing in front of him than behind him during our target practice sessions. And yes, you read that correctly: revolvers, plural. He carries two of them — “In case I drop one again”, he explained. Excuse me, again? That’s a story I want to hear. But he’s a good doctor, and that more than makes up for his other shortcomings as a Survivor.

Speaking of stories, here’s another one I want to hear: why is William so sensitive about his name? Sensitive like he introduced himself with “Hello, my name is William. Don’t call me Will or Bill or anything else. My name is William.” Maybe I’ll find out, because William is a talker. He is incapable of sitting quietly during a meal, so he’ll jaw on about the inefficiency scavenging and the dwindling ROI it will provide over time. Apparently forecasting and logistics are things hospital administrators spend a lot of time thinking about.

One day I pretended to be interested in what William was saying, and he kept talking until he was laying out his ideas to rebuild civilization: set down roots, create a community, start schools and libraries, share knowledge and training, and restore infrastructure. When it dawned on me that he was serious, I laughed in his face. I continued to laugh at him every time he brought it up afterward. Except William never treated it like a joke. He always took my ridicule as legitimate criticism and spent time explaining how we would overcome the challenges I lobbed at him. That was annoying and I tried to tune him out, but William’s patient responses wore me down and I eventually started to really listen. When he brought it up again yesterday, I didn’t laugh — I asked how we get started.

Now Jan gives us both her trademark eye roll, but she’s sticking with us, so maybe the doctor’s words got to her, too.