No one knew when the first zombies appeared. Their records began after the Great Collapse, following the burning of cities and the silence of satellites. What we did know was that something had gone awry in the minds of those who remained outside. Some contagion of violence, rage, or decay.
But all that occurred before I was born. I never saw the zombies except in news clips. They always attacked at night. Every morning, the Safety Broadcast displayed horrifying clips of people taken at night on the courtyard screen in the public square, followed by admonishments to follow the path of The Ninefold Harmonies to avoid their fate.
This morning’s clip showed a man who was bitten by a zombie and then shot by the marksman at the order of the Council of Safety. The man was asymptomatic when the marksman shot him down. An angry crowd gathered at the weekly Safety Assembly to protest the man’s death.
“Zombies are contagious, and we must neutralize any vestige of the disease before it spreads to even one more of our citizens. Zombies do not think. They do not feel. They are death to us and our way of life.” said Counselor Dana.
“Compassion is our weakness. Once infected, that person is no longer the person you knew. They are the enemy. Do not be fooled. They will come for you, and you will die. Stay resolute. The Council of Safety and The Ninefold Harmonies are your only salvation. We do not apologize for defending our own.”
The crowd grumbled during her speech, and someone shouted, “These are our people. We can do better.” The Counselor showed clips of the grieving family. The younger daughter was sobbing, and the mother was consoling her. The older daughter shouted at the camera, “They took our father. I want them all to die.”
The protest subsided. The collective, including me, recited the pledge of the Ninth Harmony: “My mind is clear. My heart is one. My purpose is shared. I am the voice of the Council. I am the hand of survival.” The crowd dispersed and went home.
I secretly agreed with the angry voice. I wanted to help the stricken people, not give up on them. I believed compassion would be our strength, but the sixth harmony of the Containment Protocol forbade it: “Citizens shall not approach or acknowledge those Beyond the Wall. Doing so constitutes a breach of safety and self-contamination.”
I was 17 and training to be a medic. My father was a victim of a zombie attack. I hoped he was still alive out there, beyond the wall. I wanted to find him and cure him. Sometimes, I wanted to kill all the zombies for taking him, just like the enraged daughter of the stricken man who died in the night.
I believed in the Council. We were safe here in the Meristem Compound. Walled. Armed. Ordered. We had food, solar power, and the daily Safety Broadcast at 7 a.m. and 7 p.m. to remind us of what was out there.
Still, I studied and trained. I memorized the symptoms of infection: erratic speech, defiance, and fever. I recited the creed. I hoped for stronger protections and the long-awaited and promised cure being developed by the Council of Safety.
###
Before a zombie attacked my father, he gave me a book, The Giver, by Lois Lowry. He handed it to me and said, “Daughter, this is for your eyes only. Understand? Do not tell anyone about this.”
I was shocked. I pushed the book back to him and quoted the fifth harmony of Sanctioned Knowledge, “Learning is permitted only through Council-vetted sources. Legacy media, printed artifacts, or untagged content are classified as potential contagion.”
He declined the book and said, “Mara, keep it in a spot that only you know about. Don’t tell anyone, not even your mother. Books won’t turn you into a zombie, but not reading them will. You don’t understand right now, but I hope you will someday.”
As the story goes, he confronted Counselor Dana during the next assembly. He stood before the congregation and raised his voice, “Zombies aren’t what you say they are. They’re people. People you exiled or killed.” Gasps. Murmurs. Dana didn’t flinch.
Shortly after that, he was taken from our house in the middle of the night by the zombies. I was told he did not survive. Somehow, I slept through the entire ordeal.
The Council found unsanctioned books in our house and accused him of subversive behavior. They vilified him for his blatant disregard for The Ninefold Harmonies, labeled him a terrorist, and charged him with intentionally engaging with the zombies.
I was horrified that they would find the book my father had given me. I would have thrown it away, but I didn’t want to risk getting caught with it in my possession. So I left it in its hiding place.
I noted the titles of his books they incinerated: Ray Bradbury’s Fahrenheit 451, Animal Farm by George Orwell, Howl’s Moving Castle by Diana Wynne Jones, and The Dispossessed by Ursula K. Le Guin. I desperately wanted to understand what was so important in those books that he was willing to defy the Council of Safety and Nine Harmonies. I recited the Sanctioned Knowledge Harmony a dozen times to suppress those treasonous thoughts.
My parent’s supposed friends spoke out against him. My mother was devastated with shame. Her head hung low, and her eyes looked hollow. She hasn’t had guests over in years. She used to bounce around at gatherings and embarrass me with her unabashed pride, trying to use my minor accomplishments to one-up her friends. They accused my mother of violating the seventh Harmony of Community Witnessing, “All citizens are required to observe and report deviations in others. Silence is complicity. Complicity is infection.”
Now, on those rare occasions when she has to go outside, she dresses like the Invisible Man, hoping not to be recognized. I’ve reminded her of the first Harmony of Uniform Appearance, “Clothing shall conform to assigned colors and styles denoting role and rank. Personal adornments, hairstyles, or modifications are forbidden.” Hiding in her clothes made her stand out even more.
It wasn’t as bad for me. My friends were mostly sympathetic and unaware of the stigma that my mother faced. The sins of the father are not visited upon the daughter, but the same is not true for the wife.
My mother was bitten by that zombie in her own way, but it gave me purpose. I studied hard in school to become a medic.
I still had the book but haven’t read it.
###
I read the book.
It was like seeing a new color. The world remained the same, yet everything had a fresh appearance. The boy in the story was me. I lived in a highly controlled society where emotions, choices, and memories were suppressed. I longed to “receive” memories of what the world once was before it was ruled by The Council of Safety and The Ninefold Harmonies. I wanted to know what it was like to be free.
But I was seventeen. My only act of defiance was skipping a morning meeting.
My mentor, Renna, had trained medics for over a decade. She had served on the Council once before stepping down “for health reasons.” She reprimanded me for missing the morning meeting. She made me recite the second Harmony of The Synchronized Schedule a dozen times: “Daily activities shall be aligned with broadcast Council Time. Unauthorized deviation disrupts communal rhythm and is grounds for recalibration.” It was a slap on the wrist. She could have expelled me from the school.
I was glad I showed up for the next morning’s meeting. Someone hijacked the courtyard screen, displaying subversive citizens fed to captive zombies held in fully enclosed pens. The voiceover accused the Council of having defeated the zombie apocalypse long ago. Then the screen went black.
The speaker blared the fourth Harmony of Emotion Management: “Excessive emotional displays of grief, rage, or love introduce instability. Citizens must report irregular feelings for recalibration or adjustment.” The crowd’s murmurs drowned out the squawking voice of the speaker.
For the first time in years, Mother removed her sunglasses. She said nothing, but I could see the spark in her eye was the fury of betrayal.
Screams and shouting replaced the chaos of the crowd. Panic ensued, and people ran in all directions. I witnessed children being trampled in the frenzy. I saw zombies pursuing them. They didn’t act like the zombies in the film clip. One approached a fallen child and hovered over it, stopping to sniff the air. It helped the child to its feet.
A shot rang out, and its head exploded. More shots rang out, and more bodies collapsed under a splattering of blood and flesh. My training as a medic kicked in. I treated a dozen or more trampled people, bandaging their wounds with cloth and using belts as makeshift tourniquets. I didn’t see a single person with a bite mark. More medics arrived to treat the injured.
The evening broadcast debunked the morning’s video as a deepfake. The perpetrator was identified as Jonah Enright. The announcer erupted in apocalyptic rage at Jonah Enright, apologized for violating the second Harmony, and then forgave himself, claiming his anger was justified under the circumstances.
Someone yelled, “We want the truth.”
Couselor Dana spoke, “Remember the third Harmony of Filtered Language, ‘Speech must reflect dignity, optimism, and purpose. Questioning Council wisdom, using unverified terms, or engaging in speculative discourse is prohibited.’ Subversives allowed zombies into the Meristem Compound. The Council of Safety responded quickly and efficiently before the zombies could infect the population. Those responsible for this heinous act will be found and punished.”
More announcers praised the Council of Safety for its swift response and discussed the specifics of the investigation.
In a week, the hijacking of the film clip never happened.
###
I was there. My memory of it was as vivid as any I had. Nothing added up: the video, zombies appearing in the middle of the day at a convenient moment from out of nowhere, the less-than-aggressive behavior of the zombies, and the suspiciously quick response from the Council of Safety.
I understood—control, not truth. Truth is freedom, and freedom is dangerous—more dangerous than bullets, more dangerous than zombies, whether undead or wakeful and diseased either way.
I lived a lie. My outward demeanor did not reflect my thoughts, leaving me in constant angst. I struggled to concentrate on my studies.
Renna noticed right away and asked, “What’s wrong?”
I couldn’t explain, so I said, “I want to live the truth.”
She surprised me by saying, “Mara, you are about to become a zombie.”
I recoiled, “I’m too young to die.”
“You are dead already to the Council of Security. They know about the book. They will come for you one night, abduct you, and feed you to the zombies. You will make a fine morning telecast, and then be forgotten.”
I began to cry.
Renna said, “There are safe places to live outside the Wall.
I wiped a tear from my eye. “What are you saying?”
“Mara, I can take you to a safe place, but there’s a price to pay.”
“I don’t have any money.”
“The price isn’t money. You have to confront the Consul of Safety in a public setting. Once you do that, they will make you a zombie, both literally and figuratively—an object of hatred with no mind and no soul, existing only to kill good people indiscriminately. There is no turning back.”
“I don’t want to leave my mom.”
“We will make arrangements with her. She is ready.”
“What about my studies?”
“You will live with your father. Isn’t that why you studied so hard?”
To stop living like a zombie, I had to become one while the real zombies posed as our salvation.
“I will do it.”
Featured Image by ImageFX.