Ready by Suzanne Akerman, Woman's Voice
Code Boris
We call it a Code Boris, named after one of our four polar bears. Their exhibit is recessed into the ground from the keepers' perspective, with a broad window and viewing area below ground for visitors. The first time a Code Boris happened, it was entirely accidental. I was kneeling above the bears' exhibit, examining the hot wire and wondering whether we could turn it off to save energy without suffering any unfortunate consequences, for instance, loose polar bears. Distracted by the thought, I rose from my knees and took a step backward into the tall grass, to better envision the perimeter minus the hot wire.
My foot made something go squish.
I skillfully gasped and began to choke on my own spittle. Meanwhile, the previously obscured prostrate zombie, whose forearm I had just stepped on, snatched a hold on my shoe and I fell forward with my torso hanging over the edge of the polar bear exhibit. I could see the oldest of our four bears, Boris, flopped on a smooth rock, lazily observing this interaction. I grabbed my two-way radio from my belt, kicking wildly and managed to blurt deliriously, “Boris!” before my radio clattered down onto the ground next to Boris. He eyed me in an unconcerned manner, and sat up.
What saved me that day can be attributed only to what must be the happiest coincidence ever to grace the polar bear exhibit. Just as my distress call squawked over their radios, Adam and Ian, for no particular reason, were strolling past the arctic fox den, immediately adjacent to the bears.
Having heard my own voice repeated on their radios, I knew someone was close enough to hear me scream. “Open the door!” was all I could muster before my wrestling match with the zombie predictably rolled us both right over the edge and into the polar bear exhibit. Fortunately I landed on the zombie. All at once I tore free of the vice-grip hold and charged toward the keeper door, glancing behind to see the bear who was surely barreling down on me by now.
But he wasn't.
Boris had launched himself from his rock, but stopped abruptly when he saw me bolting across the exhibit. I do not flatter myself that Boris recognized me and decided to let me live. More likely, the sight of me on the same side of the barrier as he was puzzled him so thoroughly that it bought me time to reach the door.
Adam and Ian reacted perfectly. Upon hearing my distress call, Adam ran up the grassy slope to the hill where I had been attacked, while Ian burst into the keeper area behind the bears' dens. Adam radioed, “Now!” and Ian slid the door open just as I came within three feet of the door.
Safely behind the keeper door, I turned back around, half expecting to see Boris plowing through after me. But Ian had swiftly slammed the door, and regardless, Boris was busy. Eating the zombie.
Once I assured myself that my heart had not exploded and all of my limbs were intact, the three of us watched Boris is amazement. An idea was born.
A Code Boris works like this: if any survivor sees a zombie or carrier on zoo grounds, we radio “Code Boris” to signal everyone to their stations. I'm the bait. This means that I lead the intruder toward the grassy bluff above the polar bear exhibit, toeing the line between getting caught by the zombie and getting too far away, thereby discouraging the chase. If things get too hairy, one of our three snipers, Adam, Tom or Cory, strategically posted alongside the pathway, can intervene. When all goes well, I lead the unfortunate sack of zooplankton to the edge of the exhibit and just before I'm caught, I ensure that both of us plummet into the exhibit. Ian meets me at the door and the bears get a new chew toy.
Sure, it seems dangerous, but we've rehearsed and perfected the operation. I'm sure I'm not the only one who feels a surge of adrenaline when “Code Boris! Repeat: Code Boris!” squawks over my radio. Let's just call it “enrichment.” Plus, we're really saving on polar bear food.
