Zombie apocalypse time baby! So what’s the issue? Well you are a zombie and even sometimes you are kind of aware of that fact.

If I ignore the blood that had sprayed up the face when his head was cut from his body, and just look at his eyes, I’d guess this person is at the end of a long day.

But your long days are over, friend. Just a head now, you might not even reawaken as a zombie. Deep, eternal sleep for you.

I was not so lucky.

A void churns in me, compelling me to crack this grotesque nut on the tile and eat its contents. I hear a gurgling groan and think it’s coming from another zombie, but they’ve all moved further into the mall. I’m alone, sitting on the edge of the fountain surrounded by corpses in various degrees of wholeness. My stomach clenches. My grip on the head tightens.

Is there a word for simultaneous revulsion and hunger? I’m careful not to touch the slippery neck wound, and the ears and hair are sticky on my hands. Becoming a zombie doesn’t, as is commonly assumed, deaden sensory awareness.

But my attackers made such a mess of my nose and its inner workings that I can no longer smell nor taste anything. Does this make my innate desire to eat brains more palatable? Of course not. Who wants to eat something with the texture of a human brain?

Well, the answer is apparently: many of my cohorts. Some of them relish it. They scoop the stuff into their mouths with their broken hands, or pick at bits with exposed finger bones like chopsticks.

I assume their sense of taste is intact. Maybe it’s delicious.

Our “zombie groupthink,” as I term it, lets me hear the thoughts of others nearby, and I’ve noticed that when it comes to children’s brains there seems to be a universal initial disgust at the idea, followed by a line of reasoning that decides the child in question was probably the type to break things in stores or scream in airplanes, and therefore deserving of its fate.

Following this logic, police, politicians, and military personnel—corruptible authority figures of any kind, really—would make for Dionysian feasts.

None of my own interpersonal conflicts would drive me to do such a thing, not even the provost who denied my tenure and flippantly urged me to “try again next year.” Neither of us knew that in the meantime I would be granted a more macabre sort of tenure.

But I won’t seek her out to eat her brain.

Was this humankind’s destiny from the beginning? What was the point of striving, recording our triumphs, and filling our minds with knowledge only to have them gobbled up?

The edge of my vision glitters.

If the food court is empty, I could try to scavenge a slice of pizza or some chow mein—though chow mein might feel too “brainy”—or maybe some cookies or a pretzel.

I don’t know to which body this head belonged, so I find one without and carefully set the head down next to it. As if offended by my decision, the body jerks to life, struggles to its feet, and runs away.

I leave the head there bodiless.

Alas, poor Yorick, I knew him not at all.

*

I search the map for the food court.

I’d never visited this mall until today. I was first attacked by mechanics in the auto shop—they used a tool to remove my nose before I got away—and I ran across the street to the vast expanse of the mall parking lot, hoping to lose them in the rows of parked cars. But they were very fast. That is one thing movies eventually got right: as long as the necessary muscles are intact, zombies are strong and fast. The pain of their wounds only spurs them on.

Fingers clutched at my shirt all the way to the mall entrance, where the automatic door didn’t open in time and the thing behind me grabbed my wounded face and took a bite from my shoulder. I wrestled it off and entered the doors, dodged through awestruck shoppers and found refuge through an exit door into a dead-end concrete hallway.

Later, I emerged frightened, confused, and still in great pain. The mall was a chaos of shrieks, growls, and anatomy. I stepped carefully and hid when I could, but any zombies who saw me were uninterested, and then I realized why.

*

The food court is a mess, and deathly quiet.

I sit at a table of abandoned food, the first I see that’s still mostly clean. Before I get the burger into my mouth, my stomach pushes back.

But this is meat! Does it not qualify?

My children, zombies or not, would have no problem with this burger and fries. Oh, the children… And Cassandra. So far away, all visiting her mother for the weekend. I hope they are safe.

Perhaps after I’ve eaten I can try to call them, to warn them. I can explain my state and convince Cassandra that she needn’t worry, that I’m not a threat to them. Things don’t have to change. And we’ve no need for money now; the problem of my tenure is solved.

With fresh optimism I bite into the burger, and immediately push forth a spray of bright green bile.

I toss the burger to the floor. The fries are ruined as well.

A body in the seat next to me has its cranium cracked open, but somehow the brain is untouched. It sits in the skull like a Jell-O mold. I take a spoon from a cup of soupy ice cream on the next table, and I scoop. Pretend it’s ice cream. Or Jell-O. Or Cassandra’s favorite, panna cotta with raspberry coulis.

With my eyes closed, I can almost taste it. My stomach groans with satisfaction.

Nothing has to change. If my family accepts, I can ensure their safety. A little nibble here, a little nibble there, and we can stay together.

Panna cotta for everyone.

But there was your bracelet still looped around your wrist, so I knew it was you.

Your hair was full of ants and mites. Two abandoned bird nests. The gardener cleaned and clipped you into a pleasantly unobtrusive sphere, and I wept while staring at a photograph taken when your locks were last springy, golden, and smooth.

The gold is starting to show again, but in places it’s orange and red. Most likely layers of dye you used to keep us from finding you.

It’s been so long, now you are old enough to be called Susan. I use this grown-up name often to familiarize you with it. You took your backpack and disappeared one night, then spent six years in the wild without a name, and now you’re so far removed from the memory of even having a name that you only sometimes respond to Suzy—with a subtle rustle of your hair—and still never to Susan. You will learn with time.

You’ve grown too big to enter the house and sleep in your own bed, and you still refuse to dine with your father and myself. You prefer to sit silent in the yard and take only water and sunlight. I’m having the cook make your favorite Baked Alaska for your birthday this weekend, which I suspect will bring an end to this rebellious teenage hunger strike nonsense.

I’m pleased you conceded to wear the mauve dress tonight, after I made the proper adjustments, and the maid and your father helped me wrap and sew it onto your body—with no help from you. Despite constant washing up, your sap stuck and crusted through the dress in places. Your hardened skin ripped it at the collar as well as down the left side. But tonight I observe proudly that the extra seams are hardly noticeable from anywhere beyond the fifth row.

Despite your atrocious posture, you didn’t fit into the auditorium. All the money your father and I donated to have it built for the academy when you were little—if we’d only known the dimensions wouldn’t allow for our own daughter to stand onstage! It took much arm-twisting to get them to cut the ceiling and lower you through the roof, but money solves all problems, and it is our auditorium, after all. It even bears our name.

The rafters block the hole from view. The room is colder, but everyone has solved that problem for themselves by keeping their coats on.

The orchestra’s playing would help us forget the cold entirely, if it weren’t for the booming dissonance of your notes.

You refused to play your clarinet. I’m unsure whether it’s out of rebelliousness, or the fact that your current state makes holding the clarinet very difficult for you. The handyman drilled down through your trunk, split into several interconnected tunnels, and with the addition of some strategically-placed holes and a gust of wind, you can play again.

But there is an overdramatic, morose quality to your playing, Susan, that I hope will disappear over time. The rest of your classmates are currently attempting a sunny rendition of Tchaikovsky’s Russian Dance, muddied by your petulant bassooning in the background.

That ceaseless howling keeps the audience from knowing when one piece has ended and another begins.

And it’s much too loud. You still haven’t learned to blend, balance, and order yourself with everyone else. I see that six years in the woods only encouraged this ugly showboat behavior. Beyond the reach of civilization, everything is competition and chaos.

Your father and I have seen to it that you never have to compete, but you must learn to conduct yourself respectably if you are to go on to university and make something of yourself.

Your falling leaves litter the stage and distract the other players. Hold them from chattering, Susan, so desperate for applause that you have to provide it yourself throughout the performance.

Now swaying and creaking, such a restless child! I told your father not to unfasten you, but administration complained that the crane took too much space in the parking lot. Let people park in the street! Don’t they see how your unbridled fidgeting is ruining the performance? Keep her restrained, I told them, she’s still too wild, I told them.

Cracking and a boom, and the whole auditorium goes black.

Thumping of seats, shoving. No more music except for yours, Susan—ugly notes, groans, and that self-serving applause.

I put my hands on your father’s back and follow him out of our row and down the aisle, other feet stepping on my toes, screams in the dark.

In the whipping wind of the parking lot we see that the blackout covers the entire street, possibly beyond.

The top of your head sways against the moon, and you’re fingering a power line.

Headlights flash and swerve, horns honk, the whole parking lot is a jam of cars and milling, panicked people. Scrape of metal and crunch of plastic. Shouts.

Congratulations, Susan. You’ve thrown your biggest tantrum yet and ruined another evening. I hope you’re pleased with yourself.

Paradox Manifestation Department, what’s your emergency?

“Paradox Manifestation Department, what’s your emergency?”

“What? Hello? No, I need to call 911!”

“Technically, ma’am, you need to call the PMD, so here we are.”

“No, I took my phone specifically to call 911, and you started talking before I could even dial! I have an emergency! Who is this?”

“Ma’am, please remain calm. This is an emergency number. If you had dialed 911, you would have explained your situation, and they would have connected you with us. We are the service you need.”

“How could you know that before it even happened?”

“I didn’t. But since we are speaking now, you clearly need our services, so what is your emergency?”

“A crocodile has stolen my baby! My little Hailey! Can you help me?”

“That depends, ma’am.”

“It depends?! If you say you’re the person I need, why are you unsure whether you can help?”

“Did the crocodile say anything when it stole your child?”

“How did you know it said something? Crocodiles can’t talk!”

“Ma’am, if the crocodile spoke to you, then it must be true that crocodiles can speak.”

“But I’ve seen crocodiles at the zoo and on TV, and none of them said a word!”

“Yes, but if any one of those crocodiles ever spoke, then it would validate the idea that crocodiles do indeed speak.”

“My god, I must be going crazy. I hope I’m going crazy.”

“You would prefer going crazy to getting your child back from the crocodile?”

“No, if I were going crazy, there would be no crocodile and Hailey would still be safe at home!”

“Well, since neither of those are the case, then you must not be going crazy, which is a good thing. Now, tell me what the crocodile said.”

“I can’t belie— The crocodile said that in order to get Hailey back, I must guess what the crocodile will do next.”

“Ma’am, the crocodile will not return your child.”

“What?!”

“That is to say, you must tell the crocodile that its next act will be to keep your child.”

“Why on earth would I do that? What kind of emergency service is this?!”

“Ma’am, please remain calm. If you tell the crocodile it won’t return your child, then according to its own terms it cannot, in good conscience, keep the child, since that would result in your guess being correct, and it would therefore have to return the child to you.”

“But… if I say the crocodile won’t give her back, then I’m only correct if it actually doesn’t give her back!”

“Yes, but any other guess will be incorrect and the crocodile will keep your child.”

“This is absurd! Get me Animal Control!”

“I’m afraid they won’t be able to help you. Now please, ma’am, I am a trained professional. Tell the crocodile it will not return your child to you.”

“I can’t— My breathi—”

“Ma’am, please remain calm.”

“My chest is— tight… Every breath feels— like it’s only… half as much air as the… previous breath…”

“I’m glad to hear that, ma’am, rest assured it means you’ll never completely run out of air. Now, please, tell the—”

“Okay, okay… Cro—crocodile… your next act will be—oh, god… to not return my poor little Hailey to me…”

[silence]

“Ma’am? Ma’am, are you there?”

“Yes, I… The crocodile is clawing at its head. Its eyes are bleeding.”

“This is good, stay on the line. Keep talking.”

“There’s a box here, near the crocodile.”

“What does the box look like?”

“Just a wooden box. Oh, god, do you think Hailey is inside?”

“She very well could be.”

“But she might not be… Because if I guessed correctly that I wouldn’t get her back…”

“No, you guessed correctly that the crocodile wouldn’t return her to you. That box could quite possibly contain your child.”

“I don’t see how to open it. Oh, but lifting it, it weighs the same as Hailey. My poor little girl, oh, Hailey! Hailey, it’s mommy! Hailey, can you hear me? Oh, god, what if she’s dead? I’ve got to get this box open!”

“Ma’am, I strongly recommend against opening that box.”

“Don’t open it? But what if she’s alive and needs help?”

“It’s just as likely that she’s dead.”

“But why on earth wouldn’t I open the box to find out?!”

“Because as long as the box remains closed, your daughter is simultaneously dead and alive. Technically speaking, if left as-is, she’s guaranteed to outlive you.”

“She… she is?”

“Yes. And if you see to it that no one ever opens the box, your daughter will live until the Sun explodes and swallows the Earth. But if you find a way for her to escape even that fate, she will live quite literally forever.”

“Alive forever… in a box.”

“In a box, alive forever.”

“I don’t know what to think… I suppose I’ll have to buy her a whole new wardrobe; none of her clothes will fit around this thing!”