Zombie Rock

Bittersweet Symphony

When we learned about the Red Plague in science class, the teacher talked about how the virus slowly changed the infected person, zapping their strength and energy along with their mental capacities. It sounded nice, neat, and scientific, as if there were a pretty little timeline that showed exactly how a normal person changed after infection. The truth is it wasn’t like that at all. For the first few weeks, I'd been able to keep the cravings at bay. I was lethargic but able to function. Since moving to Osborne, my deterioration had quickened. The raw meat didn’t tide me over like it used to and the longer I went without brains, the weaker I became.

Three days had passed since Jimmy hanged himself. I still didn’t feel like eating, but I was starving at the same time. This wasn’t like the early days, when I was hungry but could still force myself to pay attention in class. I felt feverish, complete with chills, and my stomach was cramping so badly I could barely walk. I knew if I told Mom I was sick again, she’d make me go to the doctor. So, when she woke me up, I summoned the last of my energy and got dressed. It took me longer than usual, since I couldn’t seem to remember how a zipper worked.  After I pretended to eat breakfast, we left at the same time. I shuffled along until she’d driven past me and turned the corner. Then, once she was out of sight, I turned and headed back to the trailer.

I'd seen Mom bring home several packages of fresh meat and I intended to eat at least one of them. It wouldn’t be brains, but maybe it would ease the hunger clawing at my insides.

I looked in the refrigerator, but the only thing in there besides beverages was leftover cheese ravioli. She'd made enough for two, but I hadn’t been able to choke it down. I remembered loving it once, but now, the thought of eating anything that wasn't raw meat sickened me.

I opened the freezer. Bingo… a package of steak. Unfortunately, I couldn't eat it immediately. Steak Popsicle is more disgusting than you’d think. Don't ask me how I knew.

I put the steak on a plate and slid it into the microwave. At least I had the mental ability to still use a microwave. It would suck if I couldn’t figure out how to defrost a piece of meat.

It would take a few minutes to thaw the meat without cooking it, but I knew I couldn't just stand around and wait. Yesterday, I’d stood in front of the bathroom mirror for an hour before remembering I was supposed to be brushing my teeth. Fortunately, Mom was absorbed in her favorite reality show and didn't notice. That incident, however, let me know I had to be more careful. The last thing I needed was Mom finding me in the kitchen, staring at the microwave like an idiot. While my food defrosted, I decided to open some of the boxes Mom hadn't unpacked yet.

One was kitchenware that I didn't bother with. The next had some of Mom's favorite albums. When I say albums, I don’t mean CDs—I mean actual vinyl albums. She collected them because I think they transported her back to a care-free time when she’s toured with my dad. I took a couple and set them on the bookshelf. Then a different box caught my eye. It wasn't like the others. It was tall and thin, and I didn't remember seeing it before. I still had a few minutes before our feeble microwave finished thawing my breakfast—or was it lunch?—so I opened the box.

“Wow!” I said in surprise. Inside was a perfectly crafted Jackson guitar. It was deep red with elegant lines and curves…beautiful.

My hunger momentarily forgotten, I picked up the guitar and plugged the cord into the amp we'd been using as an end table. It had been a while since I'd played—it felt like a lifetime—but I held the guitar as if I'd never spent a day away. My fingers found a G-chord and I strummed across the strings.

As the sound resonated through the room, I gave a sigh of contentment. I'd forgotten how much I loved to make music. I wondered if I could still remember how to play an actual song. I tentatively strummed again and moved my fingers. To my surprise, they landed exactly where I wanted them. I began to play with more confidence. It wasn't anything complicated—just a few simple chords—but as the music flowed through and around me, it was as if a fog had lifted.