House of Lazarus

by T. L. Bodine

  “Do you feel that ‘Undead’ is a misnomer?”

  Olivia shifts in her seat, adjusting her weight carefully so as not to cut off any of the cameras poised on her. “I mean, what you’re seeing with these individuals is an immune response unlike anything we even have a name for. We have patients who are clinically dead by every metric — heart rate, brain wave activity — for hours, sometimes even days, before resuming some limited bodily function. Now, would I call that a resurrection, or a return to life? I guess that depends on how you define ‘life’ and ‘death,’ and that gets into a philosophical or religious place. I can’t speak to that. But from a clinical perspective, what we’re really talking about is a prolonged period of apparent death followed by a chronic state of immune suppression and some unique symptoms.”

  “By symptoms, you mean things like their apparent lack of pain and super strength?”

  “I think calling it ‘super strength’ is a bit of a stretch, but yes.” Olivia reaches for the glass of water on the table and takes a drink in three small, measured sips, like she’s buying herself time to think of the next thing to say. “What I think is important to understand, to really contextualize this, is that none of the things we’re seeing with this so-called Reanimation Syndrome are really all that unusual in the natural world. There is a species of frog that can have its body literally frozen for several weeks, then resume normal functioning. There are reports of people who have endured suppression of various body systems due to cold temperatures or poisons who are apparently dead but do manage to resume a normal life afterward.”

  “Haitian zombie powder, for example,”

  “Sure.” Olivia looks annoyed. I see her take another sip of water and wonder if this interview is veering away from what they’d rehearsed.

  Suzie tilts her head, expression one of polite skepticism. “But — from a clinical perspective — the people we know of as Undead have, in fact, died. The Supreme Court ruled that the Undead, as non-living persons, have the rights of corpses rather than citizens. You’re not suggesting otherwise?”

  Olivia’s lip twitches. “I would say that science and politics are not always in agreement. Science, for one, draws its conclusions from a body of evidence, and scientists continually revise our understanding based upon new analysis of that evidence.”

  I like this Olivia Nez, I decide. I glance over at Zoe, who’s watching with rapt attention, her phone lying forgotten in her lap. I cross over from the kitchen and settle down on the other end of the couch. I’m not usually one to get sucked into the news shows like she is, but I’ve also never heard anyone on television ever talk about the Undead like this.

  “Hey Zoe, what do you know —”

  “Shhh!” She flaps a hand in my direction, silencing me, and then pointedly turns up the volume.

  Suzie’s talking again. “Speaking of research,” she says, a clumsy attempt to steer the discussion back on track. “We’re here today to answer the question that I know has been on everyone’s minds since the event first began: What actually causes this Reanimation Syndrome?”

  “Well, Suzie, we’ve known from the beginning that there was a viral component. I think the media latched on very early with calling it the Reanimation Virus. In samples taken from patients, we did find the presence of a certain previously unidentified retrovirus.”

  “For the viewers at home —”

  “A retrovirus,” Olivia continues, cutting off the question, “is one that rewrites the DNA of the host. The best-known of these of course is the human-immunodeficiency virus, or HIV. When one of these viruses invades the host, its genetic material interacts with the host’s cells in such a way that the host might experience a permanent state of infection or lifelong symptoms of some kind. What we’re discovering is that many of these retroviruses affect the immune system. HIV of course can lead to acquired immune deficiency syndrome, or AIDs. But it’s theorized that retroviruses could also be to blame for other degenerative diseases like ALS. And that’s what we’re seeing with the Reanimation Syndrome.”

  “So — just to be sure we’re understanding this correctly — you’re saying that a virus is responsible for the resurrection?”

  “That seems to be the case. Our current working hypothesis is that, at one point, this novel retrovirus began to spread through the population, and a certain percentage of people who were infected developed a specific immune response that would explain the posthumous symptoms.”

  “But the virus itself is not the cause of death? It seems like we’re seeing Undead dying predominantly of trauma.”

  “That’s right. And I think that probably we’ll be seeing more cases in the future. What I think is most likely is that the actual viral agent responsible for the disease causes a very minor illness during a patient’s lifetime. The initial infection occurs with little or no symptoms, or perhaps the symptoms are easily written off as being a mild cold or flu. Regardless, patients get sick, and then they seem to get better, and they have no idea that their DNA has been altered. When a patient dies after experiencing this infection, the immune response is triggered, or the viral DNA is activated in some way — we’re still not entirely sure of the mechanisms here — and the Reanimation Syndrome symptoms become apparent.”

  Suzie looks directly at the television screen, smiling in that wide, dead-eyed way that the talking heads always seem to, like a mannequin that someone put in front of a teleprompter.

  “We’ll be right back with more questions for Dr. Nez after this commercial break!”

  Zoe reaches for the remote, fiddling around to find the fast-forward button.

  “Hey Zoe,” I try again. “What do you know about this Olivia Nez person?”

  She shrugs. “I’ve seen her name come up a few times on some scholarly stuff. I honestly haven’t been following the science side of things as much as the politics. I think I like her, though.”

  “Me, too. She seems pretty sharp.”

  I hadn’t really given a lot of thought to the type of research that must still be going on with the Undead. In my mind, I always sort of assumed that as soon as they came up with Lazarus that all the scientists just packed up and went home. But then again, with Lazarus not really working the way everyone said it would, maybe they’re still researching like crazy.

  If I were the one on that sound stage, I’d be asking Olivia a different set of questions. Why did I see somebody rip someone’s guts open with their teeth after taking Lazarus, would probably be the first one.

  But I guess they probably didn’t have any Undead in the writer’s room coming up with the programming for the night.

  Zoe hits play again, now that she’s passed the commercials.

  Suzie jumps right back in with the questions: “The internet is alive and well with conspiracy theories regarding this issue. Would you be able to speak to the veracity of some of these claims?”

  “Conspiracy theories are more a matter of social science than immunology,” Olivia says. “I am not qualified to speak to how these ideas spread. My understanding is that these theories are a response to the unknown, as a way to tie up the loose ends of what we cannot reliably explain. I think it’s best to avoid giving them too much consideration and focus instead on the hard science. Once we have answers, the conspiracies will die off or be relegated to the trash heap of history with Flat Earthers and Holocaust deniers.”

  I think it’s pretty bold of her to assume that those ideas have been so fully discredited, but I guess even scientists are prone to some wish fulfillment fantasies. I know from experience that getting someone to stop believing in some crazy bullshit is harder than just showing them why they’re wrong. But maybe it works better if the person is sober.

  “What about the idea that the Reanimation Event is tied to some sort of bio-weapon?” Suzie presses.

  “There is no credible evidence to suggest that the virus is man-made.” Olivia hesitates, frowning, and it’s the first time she seems to lose her total confidence. “W
hat I would ask anyone entertaining that thought is, to what end? The purpose of biological warfare is to control a population through genocide. I would say that ensuring that people do not die is the opposite of genocide. What possible political reason could exist to create a population who were harder to kill? These patients do not require food. They have a limited capacity for pain. They have shown an amazing resilience and physical strength. I don’t think those are qualities anyone would want to foster in their political opponents.”

  Suze’s eyebrows have gone so high they threaten to disappear into her hairline. “What about the super soldier theory?”

  Olivia makes an irritated noise, setting her water down heavily. “Look. This is not some kind of comic book story or blockbuster movie. These are real people who are suffering the long-term debilitating effects of an illness that science is only barely beginning to understand. Any conversation speculating about anything other than giving them the treatment they need and preventing undue suffering is a distraction. You brought me here to discuss science, Suzie. If you want to talk about these other issues, I suggest you interview a science fiction writer.”

  “All right. So perhaps the biggest question for many of our viewers: Is there any evidence that these patients are contagious?”

  “That’s another thing that we don’t know for certain. Based on the sudden emergence of cases, it seems very likely to me that we’re looking at a novel mutation that occurred in nature and spread. There are certain trends that we are still trying to understand. For one, the virus seems to have overwhelmingly affected a younger population, teens and young adults, which might suggest a sexual mode of transmission. But we are also seeing it in children and the elderly, so…” Olivia shrugs, and reaches for her water again, looking momentarily dismayed at how little is left in the small cup. “But as the virus itself appears to transmit asymptomatically, there’s really no way of knowing for sure how widespread it is, or if everyone infected will reanimate. The only way to know for sure would be to conduct massively widespread testing, and there simply hasn’t been funding for that.”

  “Why is that, do you think?”

  Suzie has to know that this question is a trap, but she keeps her expression neutrally curious, perfectly calm.

  “It seems that the government has been minimally interested in a preventative response,” Olivia says, carefully, measuring her words. “The model has seemed to be entirely reactive, and generally hands-off, leaving the practical details up to healthcare providers and pharmaceutical companies. Due, I imagine, to the government’s assertion that these patients are not people.”

  “And that’s all the time we have today!” Suzie says quickly, clapping her hands together. “Thank you so much for your time. Olivia Nez, ladies and gentlemen! Stay tuned for this sponsor break. When we get back, Republican presidential candidate Ezra Lynch—”

  Zoe shuts off the sound and picks up her phone, rapidly tapping something into the screen.

  I crane my neck, trying to get a look, but she shifts her weight to angle away from me, frowning. I can’t tell if she’s trying to hide something or just deeply engrossed in whatever it is she’s looking up. I’m thinking back now to her apparently huge fanbase, how eager they are to send her money. I don’t think she’d be stupid enough to hand her phone number over to anybody like that, but then, a few hours ago I wouldn’t have thought she was making money on a donation site either.

  “Did you eat today?” I ask, instead.

  “I think so.”

  How can you think you ate? It seems like something you’d remember. I miss food, and I miss taking food for granted almost as much. “Want me to make a sandwich or something?”

  “No, that’s okay.” A moment’s pause. She glances up. Her phone screen reflects in her glasses, a tiny little postage-stamp-sized inverted reflection of a tan-skinned woman’s face. Because she’s looking up Olivia Nez — of course she is. “Grilled cheese?”

  “I make the sandwich, you take out the trash. Deal?”

  “Deal.”

  You’d think that waking up each day after your death would be a miracle. But honestly, the times when everything feels normal are the best.

  Chapter 4

  Sometimes social workers drop in unannounced.

  That’s how you know that you’re not doing so well in the eyes of the state. They stop by to catch you off-guard. They’ve got a quota of visits they have to make, and they’ve got to make it sound convincing that what they’re reporting back is the truth, unvarnished, without rehearsal or preparation. So they swing by, pretending they were in the neighborhood, pretending that the visit is a matter of convenience and not a trap to catch you at your worst.

  But our case worker’s not usually one to pull that shit.

  His name is Adrian, and he’s usually a pretty stand-up guy. We met him the first time not long after Dad died, and he’s always been pretty good to us, dropping as much of the bullshit as possible. One of the first times we met, after Dad resurrected, he pulled me aside and gave me the spiel — how I’d been under so much pressure taking care of my dad and my sister. How it wouldn’t be so bad if I couldn’t handle the strain, if I got a little help, if I let the state intervene. He laid it all out right there, without saying as much, that gentle warning if I fucked it up that Zoe would vanish into the foster care system.

  But that was the last time he made the offer. Ever since, he’s kept to his boundaries.

  So I’m surprised to see his car in the driveway when I get home from another day of dropping off job applications. I was in a pretty good mood until about two seconds ago. I’d gotten a call-back to go interview at a tire store, despite knowing essentially nothing about tires, and that seemed like a promising sign, but there’s just something about pulling up to your house and seeing a social worker parked there that makes a day go sour.

  I pull the truck into the drive, parking half in gravel so his car won’t be hemmed in. I don’t want anything standing between him and getting out of here; I’d rather not give him any excuses to stay longer than necessary.

  How long has he been here, I wonder? What is he talking with Zoe about?

  I ease open the door, quiet, as if that’d make any difference — as if it’s possible to sneak into a house this small, when the door opens right into that shared space between kitchen and living room. Zoe and Adrian are at the kitchen table, cups of coffee in front of them. The house smells like a diner at 3AM, all acrid coffee and old grease. Adrian’s mug sits, mostly neglected, the coffee developing a shimmering oilslick film on top; Zoe’s cradling hers, looking down into it like she’s trying to read a fortune in tea leaves. It’s hard to gauge how long the two of them have been sitting here. There’s a little manilla folder on the table, and a small leather notebook, both closed and stacked neatly atop one another. I notice that nobody’s moved my bills-and-envelopes stack from the corner of the table, but at least that probably means nobody went pawing through them, either.

  “Oh. Hey,” I say, false-casual. “I wasn’t expecting you.”

  “It’s all right, I just was in the neighborhood and figured I’d drop in for an informal little visit.” Adrian leans back in his kitchen chair, tenting his fingers. He’s a clean-cut white guy, rust-colored hair and fair skin, bony hands and long fingers, prominent knots of sinew and blue-green veins working up the underside of both wrists. His chinos, I notice, have an ironed-in crease, a pleat down the center line. I imagine having the free time to be fussy about wrinkles. His gaze flickers to me only for a second before settling back on Zoe. “We won’t be seeing much of each other soon enough. You’re just about to turn 17, right?”

  Zoe meets his eyes, her glasses catching the light and flashing, drawing a momentary blankness over her expression. “Yeah.”

  “You’ve come a long way.” He looks down at his coffee cup, his expression unreadable. It’s hard to tell whether this statement is meant as praise or a leading question, something meant to invite comment
ary.

  If it’s the latter, Zoe isn’t taking the bait. She lifts her brows, an answering challenge, and waits for him to continue.

  I’m still lingering awkwardly in the threshold, not sure what to do with myself. I’m suddenly self-conscious of my appearance, the jagged scar of sewn-up tissue up one side of my face, a mark that won’t ever really heal. I’m hyper-aware of the way my permanently broken ribs create a concave divot in my chest, wonder if it’s visible under my t-shirt. I tug nervously at the hem, suddenly thinking of that scene in every action movie where they catch the bad guys and start torturing them for information. I’d be a hopeless villain, I think. I’d crack under pressure before the torture even started. I imagine myself in some small, dimly lit cell. Would I start screaming confessions the moment the door opened? Guilty conscience, the kind of urge toward honesty that would make me confess to wrong-doing to my dad even knowing the ass-beating that might follow. Confessing even to things that weren’t my fault, taking the blame onto myself, equal parts noble gesture and compulsive self-flagellation.

  I cross the threshold and pass the table, moving into the kitchen, and open the fridge. Act normal, I think. Food is normal. Food is a thing that normal people do, when their guts aren’t a tangle of shredded meat.

  “Well.” Adrian continues, losing the silence game. “You seem to be adjusting well. You said you’ve already gotten some college applications out?”

  “Yeah. A couple.”

  “Your brother must be very proud,” he says, gently, and I try hard not to listen for an edge in his words. “And your dad? What’s he think?”

  “We haven’t talked much lately,” Zoe admits.

  I stare harder into the fridge, feeling my grip tighten on the door handle.

  “Oh, that’s right,” Adrian says, as if there were any way he could have forgotten this little detail, as if Dad’s death and resurrection and Lazarus House incarceration were not the defining foundations of our family, were not the whole reason he was being paid to sit at our table and talk to us. “He’s at the Lazarus House now, isn’t he. How is that going?”