by L. H. Tide
“Sorry, but we’ve already verified. We’re sure it’s inside. When you find it…”
“Or when it finds me!” yelled the man, his breath becoming frenetic, as he continued to turn around. Professor Harding was concentrated on what was happening on the screen.
He thought he saw a movement.
“There, I saw a movement!” yelled one of the guards, pointing to a part of the screen with an index finger, confirming the scientist’s first impression.
“Where?” shouted the man inside, the intensity of his voice becoming deafening as it exploded out of the speakers. Harding observed too, the thing which had begun to move, but, not wanting to interact with the subject of the experience, he didn’t dare do anything else than say, “Fascinating…”
“What?” asked the man in armor, whose voice had attained a new peaking level in the high ranges, “What’s fascinating?” A guard couldn’t avoid murmuring, “My God…” Professor Harding smiled, while he watched a very thin silhouette stand up behind the subject of the experimentation.
The latter turned around just at that moment, understanding too late: what he and the others had thought to be a rolled carpet on the ground had been, in fact, a skeletal living dead, wearing an old bathrobe.
“Nooo!” yelled the man in armor, and he ran heavily toward the closed door, his back toward the thing, banging with his fists on its hard surface. These movements and noise clearly upset the zombie, which responded with the roar of a wild beast. It walked slowly and clumsily toward the man, stopping behind him. It put its skeletal hand on one of the blade-covered shoulders of the frightened man, and pulling briskly, made him turn around.
“No, open up!” yelled the man, goggling at the view of the skull with empty orbits, the shadows inside of these seeming to watch him in an odd way.
The creature roared again while opening a gaping mouth, making the man, eyes wide while watching it, speechless and paralyzed by fear.
Outside, the guards and the Professor continued to observe the skeleton-like undead. It and the man were standing in front of each other. The nightmarish thing suddenly stopped roaring. It had its dirty old white bathrobe opened. In the opening could be seen its rib cage, sternum, pelvis, and bony arms and legs. Only a very thin layer of muscles covered its body parts.
The zombie threw its claw-like hands toward the metallic chest of the man's armor. The scratching of the sharp fingertips of the phalanges on the metallic surface was phenomenal. Its shiny surface emitted screeching sounds, but wasn’t pierced through. Lowering his head and looking down toward his brisket through the visor of his helmet, the man sighed, surprised to be still alive. Much to his surprise, the creature seemed to react at this sigh by stopping its scratching and lowering its arms. Its ugly mouth tightly shut, it became immobile, its empty orbits seeming to watch him again, in total silence. It moved its ugly, bony skull towards the man’s head, who watched it with a mix of horror and fascination.
“What does it want?” asked one of Harding's guards, who were watching the scene with him. Suddenly the creature threw its claw-like hands around the armored man’s arms and shook him brutally, making him cry out.
Then it threw him briskly on the side, making him stagger while wailing again, thrown toward a nearby wall. Unbalanced, his back bounced hard against the concrete surface, and he fell on the dirty ground. On his hands and knees, he was now in a crawling position. “My God,” murmured the precedent guard, while watching the scene in awe.
The armored man’s face was sweating. The only view he could see, through the increasingly fogged visor, was the concrete ground, and the emaciated feet of the creature which was standing over him. The man heard his own heavy, deafening breath, inside the helmet, while his stress steeply escalated. He had never felt claustrophobic until then, but now, everything was different. Still in a crawling position, he moved his right metal-gloved hand, seeing that it had fallen on something. He turned it and discovered, half glued to its palm side by dried blood, the emptied-out skin of a rat. The animal had been butchered, and through the translucent skin illuminated by the lamp of his helmet, he could still guess the traces left by the vertebrae of the poor thing's missing backbone.
Suddenly he was lifted and, as his knees and feet remained on the ground, he saw its dirty surface disappear downwards. The skin fell from his hand, and he realized that he was now facing, again, the ugly skull of the living dead.
The man shouted in fear, provoking the reaction of the creature which was half lifting him. It roared, opening a huge, gaping mouth showing ugly blood-tainted teeth, and threw its free hand around the lower part of the helmet. His head hopefully protected inside, the man heard terrible metallic sounds. He was surprised when he felt the stainless-steel chinstrap moving. Completely frightened, he shouted, feeling his chin seemingly being crushed on both sides by the enormous pressure of the thing’s fingers.
He heard shots and felt that he was released.
He fell hard on the ground, his hands cushioning the impact with difficulty.
Many other shots reverberated between the walls and through his metallic helmet, as he felt that he was dragged by his feet, continuing to wail.
Finally, he heard a big metallic sound and the shots ceased, as he felt that he was helped to stand up. It was difficult; he felt dizzy. He fell on his back, not without discerning the closed door of the cell passing by vertically, in the narrow point of view offered by his visor. He ended up lying on his back, watching vaguely, through his still-foggy visor, the dimly lit ceiling of the corridor. As he continued to breathe noisily, feeling his heart racing in his chest, he felt hands fidgeting on his visor.
Suddenly the visor was opened and fresh, delightful air entered inside the helmet. No more was his breathing the main sound he could hear, now, and he swallowed, feeling his throat and lips completely dry.
Feeling that he was trembling now, he saw the smiling face of Professor Harding appear in his point of view, and he heard him tell him, “So you see that you survived the challenge… you’re now a free man!”
The scientist and the guards were kneeling around the still-prone man who, remaining inside the armor, continued trembling. One of the men kneeling near him, who was the nearest, sniffed and, grimacing, said, “My God, what’s that odor? Jeez, he’s peed inside the protective suit, or something?” Harding shrugged while looking at him, and then lowering his head to smile at the prone man.
They helped the man to get on his feet, and then accompanied him toward the exit of the concrete corridor. As the man, still shaken, walked with difficulty, blissfully supported by them, they heard shouts, roars, and growls, coming from inside the dozens of cells, around them. Some of the metallic doors of those cells were hit from the inside, bumps forming on their outside surface. The group reached the end of the corridor, and after passing through a heavy metallic door, they slammed it behind them. They then found themselves inside a huge metallic hangar. It enclosed completely an inner concrete structure. It seemed able to avoid any escape of its surprisingly powerful "guests", but it was unable to diminish completely the bestial sounds they emitted.
Sighing, while continuing to tremble, the man in armor, still supported, followed the others toward the last door.
The door leading to his deserved freedom.
Professor Harding said, biting his lips, “Well, our trial of a protective armor to protect against zombies isn’t… hmmm… a real success.”
“Really fascinating,” he added, continuing his monologue, while he was looking at the now empty armor, that he and two aids had laid down on a big table. They looked at the helmet’s chin-cup, almost crushed, at the impressive claw marks on the iron chest, and at the iron-clad arms which had their metallic surfaces distorted.
“Don’t you find that impressive?” continued Harding, addressing the two men who seemed as fascinated by the scene as him. “Despite the fact that this living dead has almost no muscle remaining on its bones, it's able to distort metals
. The effect of the Virus of the Plague on human muscles will always be mind-boggling, for me… Imagine how much the living dead would be ever more dangerous, if their brains hadn’t been damaged. It makes their movements badly synchronized, and inefficient. We're fortunate that it's not the case, or they would be much faster… and actually invincible!”
The two men nodded silently, clearly impressed and thanking God that they were, indeed, so fortunate.
***
Arrival
“I’m arriving!” shouted Elmer Hoffnung, full of joy, while after another day and night of driving, he saw it: not very far away, the upper part of the Community’s dome was visible, its base hidden by the trees of the surrounding woodlands. He felt excited, after having driven the big track during the last few years. Fighting to find some fuel, sometimes repairing the motor of the old vehicle, luckily without being surprised by hungry zombies.
His heart beating with emotion, he drove on a road which led to a nearby wood, and night falling, he switched on his headlights while entering it.
Hundreds of red spots appeared everywhere around him, in the bushes, behind the trees. They were all around him. He felt oppressed. “No, not them, not when I’m arriving!” He bit his lip and he jammed the gas pedal, just as he passed by awkward-walking silhouettes.
Johnny Jackson was on duty on the ramparts surrounding the Community's dome, and was pissed off after having seen his father. Bo, on duty too, was talking with him, while surveying the surrounding area out of the corners of his eyes.
“He's beginning to forget things, Bo, and there’s not only that…”
“What else?” asked the muscular blond man.
“His skin is becoming gray, and his eyes… you should see those reddish, glowing eyes, when he’s watching you, in the dark!”
“I heard that Harding’s treatment was a half success…”
“Half success, yes,” yelled Johnny, interrupting him. “His treatment slows down the process of transformation, but it doesn’t stop it: my father is his guinea pig, and he will slowly, but surely, become one of them, one of those fucking zombies!”
“Strange…”
“Strange? What do you mean?” shouted Johnny, visibly outraged. A few dozen meters away, he saw two other guards who glared at him, apparently disturbed by his shouting.
“Sorry, Johnny, I was talking about something else.”
“What else?”
“I thought I saw a light in the wood… yes!” Bo pointed an index finger toward a group of trees, a few hundred yards away, and his black colleague saw then, like him, two highlights. Bo reached down and looked through binoculars around his neck.
“A car, you think?” asked Johnny, happy to forget the dull subject of their earlier conversation.
“A van or a big truck, I think.”
"A truck?" said Johnny, a big smile appearing on his face. In his turn, he took the binoculars without removing the strap from his friend's neck, pulling him nearer to him.
"Hey!" yelled Bo, as the pull of the black teen almost made him fall. Stabilizing himself, he took a bothered look at the concrete ground below, glad to remain standing on the wall walk surrounding the dome.
"Sorry," answered Johnny, while smiling and observing the big truck pulling a trailer, rolling faster now toward the Community. Continuing to look with the binoculars, he asked, "Perhaps the driver is bringing some food with him? Something other than the never-depleting salads and tomatoes which are rammed down our throats?"
Johnny licked his lips and continued, "Imagine if he or she brings some chocolate, for example?"
"You're making me dream," Bo murmured, daydreaming.
"What the..." the thin black guy yelled, continuing to observe with the binoculars.
He had seen a bunch of zombies running as fast as their clumsy movements permitted them, behind the truck. He very well knew that they always had the instinct to try to catch any running object, like mad dogs. The vehicle was accelerating, while at the same time hundreds and hundreds of living dead were appearing everywhere. Opening gaping mouths, many of them were grabbing onto the vehicle when it passed by. Some even tried to restain the moving mass with their skinny, bony arms.
Elmer was stressed more than ever as he was driving toward the huge wall circling the Community's dome, banging the dashboard. The fuel gauge was near zero, and the female synthesized voice of the on-board computer echoed once again, "The tank is empty, you must refill!"
"Where can I refill, whore?" yelled the fat guy, sweat trickling down his forehead. The now shut off motor permitted him to hear, distinctly, coming from around him, the roars and growls of the avid flesh eaters.
Biting the bullet, he realized, while driving the massive and now silent vehicle, that the truck was beginning to roll downhill. Downhill toward the Community! He caught a glimpse at the speedometer.
Thirty-five miles per hour... thirty-six... thirty seven...
"Yeeees... momentum, momentum, momentum!" he laughed enthusiastically, while the truck was accelerating with the help of gravity, beginning to roll on a narrow road. And at the end of that road, he saw the giant, but closed double doors.
He wiped sweat from his forehead, before a drop stuck to one of his eyebrows, and began to daydream while he saw the huge dome beginning to completely fill his field of view, as he was approaching it.
"The Community... a refuge, a safe haven asset for the living wanting to thrive separated from the dead..." That pretty kitsch slogan that he had heard numerous times, on the radio "Community's Birth”, which was the only radio station anyone could receive in the country, that slogan made him smile. But after all the things he had done to arrive here, he didn't dare to be difficult.
Suddenly the truck began to slow down, despite the fact that he was going down a steeper hill. Surprised, he opened wide eyes while seeing, through the left and right windows, clouds of dust appearing on both sides. They were vaguely illuminated by the powerful highlights, but clearly visible. While being careful to stay on the narrow road, he bent a bit while his face approached the half-opened left window, and observed, astonished, the dust whipped up as he drove along. "What the fu..."
He squeaked in surprise when a grimacing skull-like face appeared and roared at the upper opening of the window. This made him steer violently, and this deflected the trajectory of the vehicle, which quit the road.
"Noooooo, I was so cloooose!!!" he shouted, the truck emitting plaintive metallic sounds as he tried to control it, bumping on rocks and shaving the branches of nearby trees.
The creature clinging to the door growled and tried to crawl through the half-opened window near him, extending a white and bony arm toward him.
"What's happening? I was so close, it's a real nightmare!" yelled the man, moving as far away as possible to the right, to avoid being touched by the phalanges of the thing. Despite his efforts, it was clear that he would be seized by the zombie in a few seconds, his safety belt blocking his efforts to get out of reach.
"Aaaarrr!" cried the bald man, fighting uselessly with the belt buckle, in order to free himself.
He felt something sharp on the left of his prominent belly and looked down. The dirty index finger of the living dead was sinking into his fat flesh, through his T-shirt. Then two more bony and brownish decaying fingers touched the same zone. Alarmed, he had now the confirmation that the zombie was slowly, but surely, continuing to crawl inside the cabin through the opening of the window, and would soon be inside with him.
Suddenly he saw a big mass in front of him and steered the wheel, missing in extremis a big tree. Glancing to the left, he saw that, now, he could no longer approach the window, because the creature, half inside, was already over the side power button controlling it. The thing squeezed painlessly the fat of his belly through his T-shirt and his skin.
Elmer felt fear invade his mind, which was quickly followed by anger. Enough was enough!
He shouted and this completely freed his mind of fear.
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The man lifted the bag near him, the protruding blades visible at the bottom of it slicing through the passenger's seat in the process, making impressive ripping sounds while ruining it.
He threw it from his right to his left side and dodged his head back, a set of blades almost trimming his face, contrary to the upper part of the steering wheel. It was neatly cut by one of them, falling at his feet, and he banged it on the head of the zombie with its gaping mouth, just on his left.
Some of the protruding, glistening blades passed through the head of the zombie like through butter.
The creature kind of froze instantly, its mouth remaining immobile.
Elmer pressed the corpse against the driver's door, opening it. What remained of the creature slid along the door, as Elmer held back the bag, freeing the blades from the skull before the bag was carried out.
The immobile and now slack zombie fell on the dirty road like a ragged doll, amid the cloud of dust, and that's when the man understood where the clouds were coming from. He winced because of the rising dirt that he received in his face, and was finally able to see what was happening.
He squeaked when he saw dozens of zombies being dragged along with the truck. They were clinging to it while they raised dust with their body in the dirt of the path, thus creating the brown cloud.
Many had their attention concentrated on the underside of the vehicle and on the road, making efforts to remain hanging. Others were crawling on the backs of those clinging. They were climbing along the side of the truck, toward the cabin.
That's when they saw Elmer. They growled and showed their rotten teeth like animals, and leapt toward him.
Elmer shut the driver's door just in time to see two of the creatures hit the window, having pulled the door with all his strength. The two grimacing faces, distorted by the window against which they were pressing, impressed him: they were contemplating him with so much avidity…
