VII: The Doctor

I know what you're thinking: Kid! You're going out, into the open, at night?! You'll get yourself killed!

Believe me when I tell you that regardless of the condition of the environment - day, night, sunny, rainy, you name it - there is only one surefire, ultimate condition you need to worry about: whether or not there are zombies in the area, and whether or not they are close enough to change your status of vitality.

Okay, fine... two surefire, ultimate conditions you need to worry about. Technicalities aside, it really doesn’t matter what the sky looks like or what the sky is doing, when there are much nastier things to worry about on the ground level.

So when Singer and I heard the tell-tale shuffle of a member of the undead, coming from somewhere in front of us, I was none too concerned about whether the sun was out or if it was raining.

“It came from over there!” Singer managed to shout without truly raising his voice. He pointed in front of us, where an ice cream truck had been pushed over onto its side.

The sound had indeed come from over there: a nasty, shuffling sound that seemed to precede the revealing of the thing which made the sound. And true to fashion, the creature came around the side of the ice cream truck; as the light of the moon, playing peek-a-boo with the post-stormy clouds, set onto the undead thing, we were able to make out some more distinguishing details.

“Oh,” I muttered, “you have got to be kidding me…”

From the zombie’s slow gait, it occurred to me that it was fresh off the line; the more experienced of the undead, like those who came about on the Day Everything Changed, had a little more speed and much more pressing determination to acquire their next meal. As it was, the zombie in front of us came at a speed of step-drag-moan, step-drag-moan. Upon making the initial observation, I said a silent prayer for the recently-turned and proceeded to take in a little more of the thing’s appearance, thus eliciting the response.

Shambling toward us used to be a man in what looked to be his mid-fifties. His brown hair had been cut short, in a professional style; I could imagine what the overall effect was supposed to be, if a comb had been run through it and if the large chunk that was missing had been covered over. A pair of glasses hung from a metal chain around his neck, one of the lenses shattered while the other seemed to have popped out altogether. And covering the otherwise businesslike attire of button-up shirt, tie, and dress slacks, was a nearly pristine white lab coat.

If the lab coat hadn’t been a dead giveaway as to the creature’s previous life, the stethoscope around its neck, as well as the name tag pinned to the coat’s pocket were the deciding factors.

Reaching into the person I was before the Day Everything Changed, I shouted, “It’s the doctor!”

Singer unknowingly took the silent cue. “Doctor?” he said. “Doctor Who?!”

I grinned as I could imagine the guys back at Ye Olde Commik Shoppe laughing their heads off at such a simple joke. But in times like these, one needs a sense of humor; and even if Singer didn’t get the joke, I was set for the next few hours.

“Hold up,” I said, as I positioned my backpack around so I could get into it. “I got this.”

This was the pack that had the list, assorted items I’ve been carrying since the Day Everything Changed, and my half of the items from Murray’s Mart. I had what was needed to take out this shuffling zombie physician, and after a few blind grabs, I was rewarded with something round. I grabbed it, pulled it out without looking at it, and threw it as hard as I could at the creature.

The object collided with the zombie’s head with a satisfyingly loud thud. It bounced off, in Singer’s direction, where it landed on the ground and rolled toward his foot.

Singer looked down at the object resting peacefully next to his foot, shook his head after a moment, then looked back up at me. I may have been mistaken, but there was a bit of incredulity attached to that expression.

“An apple?!” he said.

I shrugged, in a very nonchalant fashion. “Well,” I looked at him, “It was worth a shot. You know what they say…”

It took him a moment, one where he was looking at me as if I had lost my mind, but he finally managed to get the joke. He snorted, reached over his shoulder for his trusty crossbow; in a few fluid motions, he loaded the bow, aimed, and fired a direct hit through the zombie doc’s cranium.

The thing swayed for a moment before finally crumpling to the ground.

He looked at me, replacing the crossbow behind his back, and smirked.

“What?” I said, feigning offense. “I said it was worth a shot.”

Singer proceeded to collect the spent arrow, strutting toward the zombie and pulling out the arrow with all of the yummy gore that went with it. After cleaning the arrow, he marched back in my direction, sheathing the arrow as if it was by now an everyday habit.

Action hero, all the way.

“You know,” I said, getting the backpack situated, “you have to branch out more. We can’t keep using that crossbow as our effective go-to. At some point, it’s just going to get boring!”

We started walking again. Singer let out a light chuckle and said, “Until it loses its quality effectiveness, I’ll continue to use it. I prefer boring if it means I get to stay alive.”

I thought about it for a moment and shrugged. “Fair enough.”