Almost gave a lift to a hitchhiking zombie.
I am toolin’ on down the Yellowhead Highway, heading south towards Cache Creek, dodging potholes and jumpin’ an’ bumpin’ over the cracks an’ fissures in the pavement. John Denver croons “Some Days Are Diamond” on the CD player.
Pull into the Creek around noon. Coming up to the intersection where the Yellowhead and the TC 1 meet, right about where the driveway for the burned-out DQ gets neighbourly with the road, I see this feller standing on the shoulder, sign in one hand, stickin’ his thumb out.
Now, most times I wouldn’t even think of stopping. But I’m feeling pretty mellow still from a bit of Green I had last night. So I ease down on the brake and slow the Jimmy down.
Then I get me a better look at the hitchhiker. He is an it. As in Z for zombie.
Still mellow, though, and a bit curious, I do admit, I keep on slowing down until the Jimmy stops right across the road from this zombie hitchhiker. Close up, yup, definitely a zombie. Grey skin. Black, slack lips. Signs of decay everywhere. Got that “staring at infinity” look in the eyes.
The zombie’s hitching thumb is missing its tip. The battered piece of cardboard in one hand has the word RIDE scrawled across in faded black letters.
I look at the zombie. It looks back at me. I thumb the power window button, scrolling down just wide enough for talking. At the same time I slide the barrel of my sawed-off pump through the driver’s door gun port.
Feeling mellow’s one thing. Being stupid’s another.
“Where ya headed?”
The zombie lowers its sign. Eyes focus on me.
“Trrrraaaawnnnnaaaa!”
I shake my head. “Sorry, man. Vancouver-bound, me.”
Slow shrug of shoulders. Battered sign lifts back up. Infinity stare resumes.
I scroll the window up, and, still keeping the pump pointed out the gun port, steer one-handed while pressing down easy on the accelerator. After a couple car-lengths between me and the zombie, I holster the shotgun and roll on past the intersection.
Now I will confess here and now that I did give more than a moment’s thought at the time to pulling the trigger before I left. But I didn’t. I flip a coin in my head―heads, yes, tails, no. That imaginary loony lands on its side instead.
Quick, hit the brake. Slap the shift into reverse. Roar backwards, all the while looking over my shoulder. Slam on the brake just before the Jimmy hit the zombie.
I look at the zombie through the rear window. It looks back at me. I smile. Give a thumb’s up. Smack the gear back to forward. Stomp the gas pedal.
Tires squeal. Smoke billows. Stones fly. As the Jimmy peels away, I look back in the rearview mirror. The zombie staggers as the shrapnel storm hammers it bam bam bam bam bam!
I pop the Denver disc back in the player, hum along to the song.
That’s how it is out on the road.
Some days you’re diamond.
Some days you’re stoned.
END
by Gregg Chamberlain
Gregg Chamberlain is a community newspaper reporter, four decades in the trade, living in rural Ontario with his missus, Anne, and their clowder of cats, which are trained to attack zombies on sight and shred their legs to the bone, making it easier for Gregg and Anne to apply the double-tap headshot. He has other zombie fiction in Apex and Weirdbook magazines, and also non-zombie stories with Daily Science Fiction, Mythic, Pulp Literature and other magazines and various original anthologies.