None of us was wearing seatbelts. The glove compartment was stuffed with intestines and tendons and I had bite-sized bits of brain stored in my professor pockets. A McDonald’s wrapper crunched under my feet; a copy of The Zombie Survival Guide was on the dash. In the back, Saint Joan stitched everyone up.

“She a doctor?” Pete asked.

No one answered.

I opened a book I’d found back in the subdivision, ’ Salem ’s Lot, Stephen King’s vampire novel. As an academic, I had always thought King was beneath me. A typist, not a writer, to paraphrase Capote on Kerouac. I hadn’t even felt it necessary to read him to form my opinion, though of course I’d seen the movies. I believed that anything with mass appeal was inherently bad, not only King, but Michael Jackson, Harry Potter, and the Dallas Cowboys cheerleaders. In my view, popularity proved inferiority, not worth.

But fifty million Elvis fans can’t be wrong. The book was solid pop fiction, a page-turner, proving there was no such thing as a guilty pleasure anymore. I was eating people just like everyone else; that made us equal. I had become mainstream, a plebeian, the lowest common denominator, and I didn’t care. In fact, it was liberating.

“Pete,” Ros called from the backseat, tapping on the driver’s headrest, “radio.”

Pete turned the dial. Squawks. The honk of the Emergency Broadcast System. Another preacher. The Violent Femmes’ “Blister in the Sun.”

“Love this song,” Ros said, bobbing his metal head.

“Who the hell is broadcasting this shit?” Pete asked.

“Why? What would you play?” Ros said.

“I’d give advice. Warnings. I’d try to help people. Tell ’em where to go. How to survive.”

“Yeah,” Ros gurgled, “get in a car with a bunch of zombies.”

Pete looked in the rearview mirror. “It’s a case of do as I say,” he began.

Ros snarled and barked and Pete leaned forward as far as he could, his chest pressed against the steering wheel; Ros and Guts high-fived.

We rolled into the city and slowed to a crawl. Zombies surrounded us, rocking the vehicle, trying to plunder our human. The van inched forward.

“Punch it,” Ros said. “Put the pedal to the metal.”

I shook my head, pointing at Ros and then at the crowd. I turned my hand into a puppet and mimed talking, the thumb acting as the lower lip and the rest of the fingers yammering away. It was the signal Lucy used to give me whenever she was on the phone with her mother, a woman who lived to complain.

“No way,” Ros said.

A zombie pressed her face against my window. She was chalk-white and covered with green and black bruises. She didn’t look real; she looked like someone dressed up for Halloween.

I took out my pad and pen, wrote a quick note, and handed it to Pete.

“‘Recruit them,’” Pete read. “‘And ask about Stein.’”

“Bad idea,” Ros said. “They’ll get Pete.”

“I agree,” Pete said. “We should leave. Immediately.”

I put my hands together in a pleading gesture. We couldn’t see the street anymore, couldn’t see Chicago ’s famed buildings or the sidewalks. All we could see were zombies, thicker than fog. But we had to try.

“‘Need more soldiers,’” I wrote and Pete read out loud. “‘That’s an order.’”

“Yes, sir,” Ros said, and slid open the van door. Arms groped inside like cilia.

“Annie?” Ros said, and Annie nailed a few in the head. Ros closed the door after him.

My window was stained with blood. I cracked it open but heard only the mob. Ros, if he was talking, was inaudible. Pete turned on the windshield wipers.

“I can’t hear anything,” he yelled, sticking his finger in his ear. “Those gunshots.”

I turned around. Joan made a clucking sound, covered her ears, and indicated to Annie that she should holster her guns. Guts was kneeling on the seat vacated by Ros, his face and hands against the glass, trying to keep an eye on our soldier. I tugged on his shirt and he looked at me. I smiled, but he didn’t smile back. He looked worried and angry, afraid that we’d lost Ros.

“I don’t like this,” Pete said. “Not one bit.”

The door opened and Ros fell into the van. Guts scrambled out of his way as zombies spilled in like lemmings. Joan, Guts, Ros, and Annie fought them off, kicking them, Annie hitting their heads with the butt of her rifle.

“Drive!” Ros said. He pushed the last one out the door with his combat boot.

Pete took off. There were so many zombies we had no choice but to plow right through them. Their bodies thudded against the bumper, the van bouncing along as if on a lunar landscape.

“Too many,” Ros said. “Crushed me.”

Zombies could survive on the moon, I thought. We don’t need oxygen or water. We could be happy there, lying on our backs in a crater, watching the earth spin in its lazy circle. Or better still, we could escape gravity and float through space for eternity, witnessing the births and deaths of galaxies and stars. Waltzing to the pulse of red dwarfs and quarks. Joining the tail of a comet and traveling to the beginning of time, we could meet God there.

Eat God there too.

“They didn’t understand,” Ros said. “Stupid zombies.”

I missed Lucy. And I missed being human. We were part of something larger now, something as timeless and inevitable as death. Or as death used to be. We had already changed the world.

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

WE DROVE NORTH on 41, following the shoreline, running away. It was Plan B, but I had to separate us from the throng in Chicago. I needed solitude to think.

Out the window was Lake Michigan, big as the ocean. The sky was battleship gray and cloudless, and the water was choppy, with whitecaps surfacing here and there like fierce fish. There weren’t any birds.

For miles and miles, there was nothing but zombies. At night, the thinner ones froze. During the day, what with the sun and global warming, they thawed and wandered around.

Our future as northerners was predictable: freeze in the winter; reanimate in the spring. Like tulips.

There’s resurrection in April, T. S. Eliot’s cruelest month, breeding lilacs and zombies out of the dead land.

But I worried about the long wasteland of winter. When frozen, would we be comatose or conscious? A patient etherized upon a table or a woman trapped in a man’s body, too poor for hormone therapy, making do with false eyelashes and size 13 heels? If we were locked in a vessel we couldn’t control, it would be torture.

It was safe and warm in the vehicle; with the heat blasting and the sun beaming, we had our own greenhouse effect.

When we stopped for gas, we had to protect Pete. Annie shot the ghouls, our brothers, encroaching slow as starfish, and every shot was dead-on, every time.

Forgive me for shooting the zombies; they were so stupid and so cold.

There were no humans or military convoys in sight. No authorities for us to confront. Outside of the car, it was anarchy. Survival of the fittest.

Next to me, Pete was eating Donut Gems, the white powder clinging to his beard, the crinkle of the plastic wrap insanely loud in the quiet of the car. I could hear his jaw pop and crack as he chewed; I listened to him swallow. In my lap, Stephen King’s vampires continued to suck blood.

Do not eat the human…do not eat the human…do not eat…

Suddenly a squeal followed by a low moan from the backseat. The mating call of a beluga whale. Guts lunged for Pete, wrapping his skinny arm around both the driver’s headrest and Pete’s neck. The car careened toward the median.

“Get him off me!” Pete yelled.

Saint Joan grabbed Guts by the shirttails and pulled him to her. Guts moaned and whimpered, the cry of a baby left on a doorstep, while Joan cuddled him, rubbing his back. Small comfort. Guts rested his head on her breasts, folding himself into her, his shoulders heaving as if he were sobbing.