Zombie Wake by Storm J. Helicer

1
    What has transpired since I closed
the gates at sunset, since the light from the sun was replaced with the glow of
sodium lamps, is something I'm sure even the beady eyes of the bird to my side
knows as atrocity.
    In my career as a park ranger,
aside from a feral pig eradication project, I have only discharged my weapon at
the range. I've been a park ranger for almost ten years now, all of it at
California’s Gaviota coast. I was looking forward to
having a full career here—life and family too. I didn't know it would end
like this. How could I know, it's been three hours. Today seemed normal. Now I
stand at the end of the pier, my only witness a brown pelican.
    Earlier, as I patrolled the pier,
the familiar fish odor wafted in bursts. The pelican perched on the rail, as it
does now with tar smudged across its chest, eyed fishermen for handouts. I've
seen a thousand brown pelicans in this ocean park, but none with such a
prehistoric likeness. Its beak, on the shorter side of average, tells me it,
she, is female. Though, the tip looks like a curved tooth; like the tooth a
chick uses to emerge from its egg. This pelican, however, is fully mature.
    I first noticed her this morning
when she outstretched her wings gaining an ominous stature. Lifting off the
railing with one flap she propelled toward the ocean, circling to make her way
to a new station. Positioning herself next to a yellow vinyl rope tied around
the splintered wooden beam, the bird pointed her tooth toward the rope's
origin, a black mesh metal basket containing three fish.
    I stepped toward Makimo , who is nearly a resident here. Her hands, in yellow
rubber gloves, fed the rope one over the next, raising the dangling basket to
show me her catch. The fish gleamed blue and green along the top, silver on the
bottom. The largest lay motionless on its side, eyes bulging and glassy. The
two smaller fish flopped, arcing their spines like they were trying to keep
time with a high frequency wave.
    “These are for the cat. I keep them
fresh,” she gusted. The water below was unusually murky-brown. Small waves
sloshed and foamed around the pilings. “I saw your son yesterday playing on the
swings. He’s tall for a little guy. He’s gunna be big
like you?”
    “We'll see Makimo ,”
I said.
    *
    But at this moment in the cold, wet
night air I don't—can't—take time to contemplate. My training, my
muscle memory, at the instant when I make my way to the end of the pier, take over.
    The first one I shoot, I recognize.
Not his face or clothing, those are too drenched with blood, scabs and froth.
It's the thumb, the plum thumb as I had referred to it this morning that I
notice. Earl.
    I had come into contact with him
twice in the last month. The first was for illegal camping. He was under the
pier, sitting on the sand, stick in hand, leaning against a piling, poking into
a small fire.
    Four college-aged boys pointed him
out to me after a short conversation through my open truck window. They were
walking with fishing poles and chuckling. Their faces sobered as they noticed
my white truck. Three of them gave me what I call the straight smile, a slight
smile with a glance downward. I receive the look occasionally when off duty but
often while in uniform. I have a theory that it has to do with a primal male
dominance/subordinate behavior. Normally my height of six foot eight inches
attracts looks, questions and the like, but the vest adds a bulk, not intrinsic
to my body type, that must make me seem... intimidating. Since I generally make
a habit of telling goofy jokes and wild stories, rapport with the public has
never been a problem.
    “How's the fishing,” I asked
through my truck’s window.
    “Not so good today,” said the one
raising a green cooler to the tip of his index finger.
    “Then, it ain’t the fishing that's bad, it's the catching. Besides, someone’s gotta make sure the pelicans have fish left to eat.”
    And so it happened that the brief
conversation