“Jesus Died for Zombies.” I left
the last slide up for a moment and let the message sink in. “If you get
anything from what I’ve presented tonight, remember this,” I said as I pointed
at the screen. I turned off the projector.
“Any questions?” I asked, but I
never had to ask. There were always questions.
“Excuse me,” an angry man began
without waiting for me to call on him, “how can you make the outrageous claim
that my Lord Jesus Christ died for zombies when they are flesh-eating undead?
They have no souls, sir!”
“Thank you for that question,” I
began. “I personally think they do have souls, and that’s why I-”
“They eat human brains!” he
yelled.
“I’m aware of that. Give me a
minute to answer your question. First of all, let’s go back to a question I
asked in my presentation: what makes zombies? If you’ll recall, I mentioned
that there are several proposed explanations; everything from global warming to
alien spores. To be honest, I personally don’t know the answer, but I do know
that something changed them. They were, all of them, created in the image of
God. They were beings just like you and I with an immortal soul. If that’s
true, then Jesus died for them.”
A dozen hands shot up. I called
on a forty something woman in a navy blue sweater in the second row.
“Doesn’t the Bible say that it’s
appointed for man to die once and after that comes judgment?”
“You are so right about that.
Hebrews 9:27 is the verse you’re referring to. But I don’t think that’s really the
issue here, because I don’t think zombies died. Certainly something is
affecting their brain function, which is affecting their appetites, but they
are undead, not dead. Does that help?”
“Thank you.”
I called on a hipster looking guy
in black-rimmed glasses.
“Don’t take this the wrong way,
but what kind of experience have you had with zombies, you know, on a first
hand basis?”
It always came to this question.
Some people honestly wanted to know if they were listening to a theorist or a
practitioner, but others just wanted to hear zombie stories. Zombies were on
everybody’s minds these days. As of this morning there had been about twelve
thousand confirmed zombie encounters or sightings, or “Zeos” as they were
popularly called. But these were clustered in three main areas: Bakersfield,
California, Boise, Idaho and Bozeman, Montana. No one knew why the zombie
population was centered in these areas, but the fact that all three city names
started with the letter B was the source of untold speculation. Even more,
every city within five hundred miles that started with the same letter was on
Red Alert. To make matters worse, doomsday prophets and zombie “experts” from
all around the world were creating a culture of fear by telling anyone who’d
listen that the dreaded Zombie Apocalypse, or Zombie Armageddon, or Zombie Whatever
was right around the corner.
I looked at the young man and
decided he just wanted to know if I knew what I was talking about.
“Yes, I do have first-hand
experience with zombies, and I’d love to tell you my story, but why don’t we do
it this way? I think there are some people who need to get up early tomorrow
for work and such. Let’s end the meeting here, take five, and anyone who’d like
to hear more can meet me back here.”
I hit the men’s room, grabbed a
Dr. Pepper from the machine, and when I got back to the auditorium it looked
like about half the crowd had left. I grabbed a chair and sat on the stage next
to the microphone. I pulled it down closer to my face and recounted a story I’d
told more times than I could remember.
“Five years ago,” I began “I
didn’t believe in zombies. I classified them with Bigfoot, alien abductions and
the Illuminati. Then slowly but surely, as the number of Zeos increased, I was
forced to accept the existence of zombies. Two years ago I saw my first zombie.
I was travelling north on Interstate Fifteen out of Idaho Falls. I saw a woman cross
the freeway a quarter mile in front of me. I thought she might be in distress,
because she walked funny, so I slowed down to see if she needed help. She
crossed my side of the freeway and the median and then she just seemed to leap
in front of a southbound semi. He hit the brakes but she was too close. His
front fender caught her and knocked her back onto the median. I pulled over, so
did the trucker and we ran to see how bad it was.
“It’s hard to describe what we
saw. I expected to see a dead person, but this heap lying at my feet had
suffered from much more than what I’d just seen. Her body was twisted and
mangled from the accident, certainly, but, how can I put this gently, there
were parts missing. I don’t mean missing fingers or limbs; she had chunks of
flesh missing from several places on her arms and legs. Some were scabbed over,
and others were still oozing some awful looking fluid. I didn’t know what to
make of it then, and the whole scene made me sick. I know now that if zombies
can’t find a food source, they start eating themselves.
“From that day forward zombies
became a part of my life. The day I saw the woman on the freeway, I was
actually moving to Bozeman, Montana for a new job as an associate pastor of a
local church. As you certainly know by now, there are more zombies in Bozeman
than anywhere in the world. That’s not more zombies per capita, more zombies
period. No one knows why, but the outbreak there has been intense and
consistent over time. When I moved there it wasn’t as bad as it is now, but
Zeos stories were everywhere. I had barely gotten unpacked when I saw my second
zombie. I was just leaving the grocery store and suddenly I saw people running
and yelling in the parking lot. Then I saw him…stumbling around by a dumpster.
Then I watched as four men went to their pickups, got their guns and fired shots
at the zombie until he quit moving. Then one of the men took a pistol and put a
bullet right between his eyes to make sure. It wasn’t long after that that
everyone started carrying a gun with them, including me. A month after I bought
the gun, I killed my first zombie.
“What happened?” A young coed
asked.
“Yeah, well, it wasn’t pretty, or
noble, or heroic. I was in my car and had just pulled up to a four way stop
north of town. As soon as I stopped a zombie slammed into the side of my car,
his face and hands plastered against my driver’s side window. He reared back
and slammed against the window again. That’s when I panicked. I fumbled for the
gun I kept in the console between the seats. I shot at him right through the
window. I blew off part of his left cheek and ear, but he wasn’t dead. He stumbled
back and fell down. I leaned out of the car and shot at him again. I hit him
somewhere center mass, but he still wasn’t dead. He just thrashed back and
forth on the ground making some sloppy, moist, guttural sounds. It was awful. I
got out of the car and put two in his head. Then I threw up. Then I called the
police and sat in my car with the shakes until they arrived.
“Before I go on, let me tell you
what we’ve learned about killing zombies. It takes a head shot to bring them
down for good, but even then the shot has to be, how shall I say, thorough. By
that I mean it has to do a lot of damage or the zombie will reanimate. All I
can say is that the human body has an amazing resilience. That’s why people
started burning the corpses to ashes. That is also why some whack jobs want to
nuke Bozeman. I mean, when we were only seeing one here and one there we could
deal effectively with them, but when they started joining together, well, it’s
really hard to burn a horde. Trust me on that.
“The first zombie horde I saw
terrified me beyond words. One evening I was driving home after visiting a
family that lived way out. I saw what I thought was a herd of deer moving out
of the trees maybe a hundred yards from the highway. I stopped to watch them
for a few minutes. As soon as my car stopped they picked up their pace and
tuned in my direction. That’s when I realized it wasn’t a herd of deer; it was
a frenzied mob of zombies. I started the car, but they were moving much faster
than I had dreamed possible. As I spun out in the gravel and back on to the
pavement two were actually able to grab hold of my bumper. I found a hand still
attached when I got home. I remember looking in my rearview mirror and seeing
this mass of ghastly faces. When it became obvious they weren’t going to catch
me, they turned on each other in a horrific paroxysm of rage. First chance I
had I spent half my savings on guns and ammunition. That encounter helped me understand
the significance of the phrase “plague monster” to describe zombies.
I mentioned a minute ago that
it’s hard to burn a horde. Let me relate one story that illustrates this point.
After my encounter with the horde I told the sheriff what had happened. That
prompted a town hall meeting. At the meeting we came up with a plan. There was
an old warehouse not far from where I saw the horde. We would lure them inside,
seal the doors, and burn the building to the ground. Well, that sounded good at
the meeting. It didn’t turn out so good in the end. Someone spotted the horde
and we “made contact.” There were over two hundred of them. They followed just
like we’d planned and we led them right into our trap. We closed the doors. We
had gas cans lined all around the inside of the warehouse wired up and ready to
ignite. We threw the switch and it seemed like all hell broke loose. We waited
and watched…and listened. The screams were beyond description. We thought we’d
defeated them, but we were so wrong. Burning zombies climbed up into the
rafters and leaped out of the upper windows. We hadn’t even considered them.
Try to imagine a burning zombie throwing himself into a crowd of onlookers. Now
try to imagine five or six or twenty. We managed to kill most of them, that
night, but thirteen citizens were burned horribly that night, eight of them
died. Four trucks were destroyed and a hundred acres were burned along with the
warehouse. My worst memory from that night was seeing a burning zombie child
running through the field toward the trees and four men chasing her with their
guns firing in a mad panic. They finally brought her down, but what can I say?
That’s a sight no one should ever see.
“After that the term Zeos became
passé. Zombie encounters were no longer isolated incidences; they were a way of
life. I think after the warehouse incident people thought maybe the problem was
under control. Far from it. As a result people were moving out in droves.
Entire neighborhoods were void of residents. The government placed troops in
the area. The sound of helicopters could be heard at any time of day. The church
I was working for finally had to close their doors. The last thing I did as an
employee was help put plywood over all the windows. I made the rounds and said
goodbye to the few people who were left. Then I packed and made plans to return
to Oregon. By my last night in town things had gone from horrible to
staggering. I probably should have spent the night at the high school like
almost everyone else, but I didn’t want to leave my car outside unattended. All
my worldly possessions were in it, including my guns. As it turned out, I
believe God wanted me to stay in my house that night.
“About two o’clock in the morning
I woke with a start. I heard a sound outside and I feared the worst. I grabbed
a pistol and the big flashlight I kept by the bed and went out to the living
room. I heard the sound again. It was at the front door, only it was a voice I
recognized. I opened the door a crack and saw my next door neighbor, Andy,
sitting on the doormat and leaning against the wall. Blood was everywhere and
Andy was a mess. “Help me, Tim,” he gasped. ‘They got me.’ I started to drag
him inside when I saw that he wasn’t alone. Right there at the foot of the
steps were two zombies coming toward me. I fired without thinking. I emptied
the clip, and thankfully they both went down. I shone my flashlight out onto
the lawn, but didn’t see anything. Andy startled me when he grabbed my pants
leg. I looked down at him and he motioned with his hand. I knelt beside him.
‘You’re a pastor, right?’ he
whispered.
‘Yeah, I am.’
‘Tell me.’
‘Tell you what?’
‘I don’t want to die like this. I
don’t want to go to hell. Tell me how I can find God.’
‘Right now?’ I asked as I scanned
the yard for zombies.
‘I don’t have much time. Tell me.’
“I sat down with Andy, my feet
just inches from the zombie splayed out on the steps. I put another clip in my
gun and shared Jesus with a dying man.
‘Okay, Andy, here’s the short
version. All of us are sinners. We have no hope. But Jesus, the Son of God,
died on the cross to pay the price for our sin. If we accept him as our savior,
he forgives us, and when we die we will go to heaven.’ I paused. ‘Do you
understand what I’ve just said?’
‘Yes…I understand.’ Every
syllable was an effort.
‘Okay, Andy, pray after me…Dear
Jesus.’
‘Dear Jesus.’
‘Thank you for saving me.’
‘Thank you…thank you for saving
me.’
‘I believe in you.’
‘I believe in you.’
‘Please forgive me.’
‘Please forgive me.’
‘Amen.’
‘Amen.’ There was a long pause,
then ‘Thanks, Tim. I…I wanted to find you…I was afraid to, to wait.’
‘I’m glad you’re here, Andy.’
‘I’ll be with Jesus in a few
minutes.’
‘Yes you will. I don’t want you
to die, but I know you’ll go to be with him.’
‘Thanks, man.’
“Those were the last words he
spoke. We sat there in the dark for maybe five minutes. I listened to Andy’s
breathing. All of a sudden he made a choking sound and stopped breathing. I
didn’t try to revive him. I stood up. I was trying to figure out what to do
next when I saw the zombie on the steps move. I flipped the safety off my gun
and turned on my flashlight. He was looking at me. And then the most remarkable
thing happened. He spoke.
‘Help me,’ he croaked.
“I want to be perfectly clear
about this: no zombie has ever spoken. After all the studies, all the research,
it was definitively concluded that whatever the cause, whether viral or
otherwise, the damage to the person was located primarily in the cerebral
cortex of the brain. This explained both the jerky movements and the loss of
speech. In the early days many zombies had been captured and studied. Nothing
worked. No amount of therapy brought back any function. No drug, real or
anticipated, offered any hope. Granted, there were no long term studies. It was
impossible. Zombies require, how can I say, a certain diet. Deprived of that,
as I’ve said, they eat themselves. When they were restrained and hooked to
IV’s, they screamed so violently they often burst blood vessels and died that
way. So, up until that night on the porch, the only solution seemed to put them
out of their misery quickly and humanely.”
“What do you mean, ‘up until that
night?” a guy with a mohawk asked.
“When the zombie spoke I was
dumfounded. I wasn’t sure I’d heard what I heard, but he said it again.”
‘Help me. Plezz.’
“I kept a good grip on my pistol,
but I kneeled down next to him.
“Are you…are you one of them?” I
asked.
‘Zam.’
“How can you speak? What’s going
on?”
‘I don’t zoe.’ He said. ‘When zou
were…when zou were praying…I…zomezing happened…’
“I could barely understand him.
What can I, uh, how can I help you?” I asked.
‘Plezz…pray. Pray zith me
too…plezz.’
“Okay…after me…dear Jesus.” I
started out like with Andy.
‘Der Jezz.’
“Thank you for saving me.”
“Zankou fer zaving meh.’
“Please forgive me.”
‘Plezz fergive, plezz forgive…OH
GAW PLEZZ FERGIVE!’
“And that was it. He was dead.
Really dead this time, but so alive in another, brand new way.”
I looked around at my audience.
Nobody said anything.
“So, that’s how it started; what
I call The Zombie Gospel. Since that night I have become more and more convinced
of what Paul said in Romans: ‘the mind controlled by the Spirit is life and
peace.’ Don’t misunderstand what I’m saying. There is a huge price to pay. You
put your life on the line just for the opportunity to speak. But, it may be our
only hope. It certainly is theirs.”
I was getting tired and needed to
bring the meeting to a close.
“If you’re interested, I’m making
another trip to Bozeman this spring. Get on my mailing list and I’ll be in
contact. There’s a sign up at the door. Thanks for coming.”
Everyone left and I was packing
my computer away when I noticed someone still sitting in the back.
“You okay?” I called back. I
could see them shake their head. I couldn’t tell if it was a man or a woman.
“You want to talk?”
They nodded, got up and walked to
the front row. It was a young man. He was dressed in a long coat, dark jeans
and boots. He was wearing sunglasses. He had a stocking cap pulled down tight
and a scarf wrapped around the lower part of his face. He just stood there
saying nothing, hands in the pockets of his coat.
“How can I help you?” I asked as
I clipped the latch on my bag. He looked at me for a long time, then he pulled
the scarf away from his mouth and right then I knew.
“Zankou,” was all he said.
