Mikey Zapata

MIKEY ZAPATA

“Oh my God! He’s alive! Run!”

The terror in that voice made me look around. People were running away. There was screaming and yelling. No way I was going to stick around waiting for whatever to catch me, so I ran too.

“He’s after us!” More screaming. It was honestly like a mini stampede. I kicked it into overdrive. We all ran like a herd of startled elk. But they were much speedier than me. I tried, but I couldn’t make my legs move any faster.  I was the last one in the group, by a long margin. If this was survival of the fittest, then I was not going to survive for very long. Whatever was chasing us would catch me in no time.

They were already in their car, peeling away, a rooster tail of gravel hitting me in the chest by the time I caught up with them.  

How could they leave me? Just like that! Alone. At night. In the middle of nowhere.

I was terrified. I didn’t want to be zombie food. I liked my brain.  

I looked around, turning in circles, petrified that the zombie was going to sneak up behind me and attack. I backed against the biggest tree I could find, and kept my head on a swivel. If worse came to worse, I could climb the tree. Zombies don’t climb trees, do they?

I must have stood there for fifteen minutes. No dead guy. Just me and the nature. 

Maybe he followed the car instead? Best case scenario, right?

Slowly, cautiously, I moved away from the tree, and looked around. I had no idea where I was. It was dark. I was out in the country, somewhere. I could see a church steeple illuminated by the moon back the way we’d run. There was nothing else—trees, a parking lot, and that distant church. No houses, no gas station. Nothing. I turned and started walking back the way I came.

I have to admit, I was still uneasy. That car load of kids had seen something, and now I was alone.  Some where.

I must have run farther than I first thought, because I seemed to be walking forever. Finally, I arrived at the church. It was a country church, with a quaint little cemetery attached.

Walking up the front steps, I pulled the handle for the door. Locked.  

Of course it was.  

Sitting down on the front stoop of the church, I tried to figure out what was happening.  

I knew my name—Micheal Zapata. I was … thirty-four. Maybe? Why couldn’t I remember how old I was? Things were blurry, memory-wise.

Maybe I’d bonked my head.  I rubbed my hand all over my skull. Nope, bump-free.

Then why couldn’t I remember anything?

I sat there for a really long time—hours—until I realized that the sky around me was lightening. I heard the first Robin song—

Cheer-up, cheerily, cheer-up!

Sure, I thought, easy for you to say. You know who you are.

Sitting there, elbows on my knees, chin propped in my hands, I watched as the world around me brightened and came into focus. The sun rose low through the forest, illuminating everything around me—the small, white, clapboard church, the cemetery and the wrought iron fence surrounding it. I looked at the gate, imagining the screeching sound it would make opening or closing. It looked that old.

I sighed. I had to do something. I couldn’t sit there for the rest of my life.

“Can I help you?”

I turned towards the voice. A man, about the same age as me came out of the front door of the church, and walked down the stairs to where I sat. I hadn’t even heard him unlock the door.

First there was concern, then there was fright.

“M-M-Mikey?” he stammered.

So, this man knew me. Finally! I’d be able to get some answers.

“Yeah! That’s right!” I smiled. “You know me?” I asked, relief flooding through me.

But he took a step backwards, away from me. “I do, ” he said. Another step backwards. “But … but we buried you. Yesterday.” Another step. “You’re not supposed to be here. You’re dead,” he said, shaking his head, finally stopping.

Okay, my memory was a little wonky, but I think I would remember being dead. Wouldn’t I?

I tried to laugh. “Obviously not if I’m talking to you!”

“No, Mikey, you’re definitely dead,” he said. “I led the service. We buried you right over there.” He pointed towards the far side of the cemetery.

I stood, and looked where he was pointing.

“Maybe you should just sit down.” He made palms-down hand movements like he was calming a wild horse. He was afraid of me. 

So I sat back down, and looked at the man talking to me. He was considerably farther away than he had been. I tried to smile again. “So, I know you, right?”

“You don’t remember?” he asked, sadly.

I shook my head. “I’m sorry, I don’t.”

He took a couple of small steps towards me, then stopped. “You’re not going to eat me and turn me into a zombie are you?”

“No,” I said, shrugging, a small smile on my face. “But would I tell you if I was?”

His laugh was nervous, but it was a laugh. “Good old Zapata. Always with the joke.” Then his face fell. “I was sure I’d never hear your voice again.” He shook his head. “Mikey, you’re dead.” Another shake. “How can we be having this conversation?”

I shrugged. “I don’t know.” I looked down. I was wearing a dark suit, shirt and tie. Weirdly, no shoes, just socks. Funerary clothes. They don’t bury you with your shoes on. “I don’t feel dead.” I looked at the man, “but I’m not sure what ‘dead’ feels like.”  

The man had no response.

“What’s your name?” I asked.

He smiled. “You really don’t remember me?” I shook my head. He looked a bit sad. “I’m Zeke. We’ve been friends since … well, forever. Our families lived beside each other in town.” He nodded vaguely towards where the sun was now above the horizon. “We’ve been best friends since elementary school.” He paused. “Or we were until you died.” His eyes misted.

That hit a nerve—until I died. He was so sad. I shook my head. “How can I be dead if we’re sitting here talking?” I was getting frustrated. I couldn’t remember anything about dying, but would I? After all, I was dead.

He came over and sat down beside me. I guess he figured I wasn’t a danger. “I have no idea,” he conceded, looking out towards the cemetery. Then he turned towards me, confusion and sadness writ large on his face. “I’m the pastor at this church. I conducted your service, blessed your earthly remains, and watched your casket being lowered into the ground. You should be in that casket, six feet under, not sitting beside me on my church steps.” He paused for a long time. “My training does not cover this.” He looked at me. “I don’t know what I’m supposed to do,” he whispered.

I could understand his bewilderment. I was extremely bewildered, as well. “Are we sure I’m actually dead?” I asked. I cannot tell you how weird that question felt coming out of my mouth.

He reached out and gently touched my hand, then put his hand on my chest. “Yeah,” he said, “You’re cold as hell, and you don’t have a heartbeat. You’re definitely dead.”

“So, what do we do?” I asked.

“I have no idea,” he said, standing and brushing off his pants. “But let’s go inside and try to figure this out together.”

We got up and walked into the church, Zeke’s hand on my back, leading me forward.