Road Zombie

I almost didn't see the old coot standing there by the side of the road, and now I wish that I hadn't. Coming out of a sharp curve, my headlights gleamed against the metal rim of his glasses, and I caught a flash of his full figure: overalls, straw hat, something long and thin in his left hand, and, unbelievably, what looked like a corn-cab pipe dangling from his mouth. He was also moving his craggy right hand above his head in a slow and swooning "Hey, Jude" wave that seemed to indicate he was looking for help.


Normally, I don't pick up hitchhikers, not only because the risk is large, but also because they're generally boring and smelly. People with interesting lives don't usually leave them behind to thumb a ride, and a long stretch on the road doesn't do much for personal hygiene. The sight of this guy, though, took me back to my childhood in rural Indiana, where farmers spent long days building up the dirt on their bodies but always seemed clean somehow. They were gruff in their manner and harsh with their words, but they had hearts of gold, and they fed the world and their communities. How many summer meals of fresh corn on the cob and beef roast and soft, warm rolls had I eaten as a kid, either at a farmer's table or thanks to a farmer's generosity? My stomach suddenly rumbled as I remembered all the help that these salt-of-the-earth types had given my family so many years ago. In other words, the old man in front of me was getting a ride.

---

Jackson was his name, he said, Jackson Todd, and he'd driven out to Stiper early in the morning to buy another old tractor to help with some of the basic chores around the farm. He'd decided to come home through the country because his loaded trailer was precarious, and, armed with an ancient army compass in lieu of a map, he'd gotten lost. As the daylight started to wane, his old truck started to shimmy and then something popped under the hood and steam rolled out as Jackson jerked it over to the berm. He poked around the engine for awhile and decided that he'd likely blown a head gasket. Not fixable from the side of the road, in other words.

Now, Mr. Todd didn't know exactly where he was, but he did know that this part of northwestern Kansas was sparsely traveled on a Sunday evening and that he didn't have a cell phone. These circumstances meant that he would have to hoof it home, and I certainly wouldn't have bet against him, because he was fit for his age and had that hard-as-nails look that I remember so well from my youth. He didn't want to leave himself completely susceptible to varmints or "muggers," as he called them, so he grabbed his rusty wrench for protection and hit the road.

By the time I came around that bend and stopped to pick him up, Jackson estimated that he'd been walking for more than four hours and didn't really know how far he'd come. Amazingly, mine was the first vehicle to cross his path in that whole time, so he decided to wave me down, against his better judgement. He, apparently, was wary of the whole hitching scene, as well.

As we sat talking in the bucket seats of my stylish little sportster, heading in the direction of his hometown, I began to grow uneasy. Looking at the wrench clutched tightly in Mr. Todd's hand, smelling the stench of the day on his body, and listening to his unlikely story of endurance, I began to feel queasy. I'm not sure why -- maybe my blood sugar was crashing, maybe the desolation of the road was goading my imagination -- my mood darkened, and I knew that I had to end this ride before something bad happened. I didn't act fast enough.

---

Not everyone believes in zombies. Those that do have varying opinions about how the undead behave and what they look like. Some say that zombies come out at night and "sleep" in graves during the day. Some say that they eat human brains and walk slowly with their super-strong arms extended straight ahead of them. The stories go on forever.

As for me, I know that zombies exist, but they're not as easy to identify as Hollywood would have you believe. Sometimes, they are your next-door neighbors, the same ones who blow their leaves onto your lawn in the fall. Sometimes, they are people who run those convenience stores that you occasionally visit in the middle of the night to get some milk or diapers when the baby won't stop crying. Sometimes, they are the little old men who hitch along the side of the road. And there is always a transformation.

Tonight, when Mr. Todd looked up from the floor mat in front of his seat, with its simple Mercedes emblem which he seemed to be studying intently, that transformation was abrupt: eyes glazing over, a pallor coming over the skin, muscles first tensing and then spasming. His wild gaze was surely matched by my own as a terrible rumble grew into an animal growl. And then it was over.

---

I'm pretty sure that Jackson Todd believes in zombies, too. Or, I should say that I'm sure he didbelieve in zombies for those last few fleeting seconds of his life. In fact, he could have had no doubt. As for me, I'm still driving along this lonely road, wiping the last bits of brain from the corners of my mouth. My gut is already starting to cramp and now, too late, I remember that grain-fed animals always give me diarrhea.

I really wish I'd never seen that old man at the side of the road tonight.