The Dishonored Dead: A Zombie Novel

by Swartwood, Robert

  These were the things he was thinking about as they hurried through the corridors, Gabriel up front leading them, these were the questions that kept flitting through his dead mind so much that when they started to slow, when they stopped, when there was a sound farther ahead, a door being opened, and the line began moving again, he barely even knew it. He only became aware when the man in front of him ducked through the door, and in the faint glow of someone’s flashlight behind him his eyes caught something on the wall right beside the door and he stopped and stared at three words he thought he would never see again.

  CONRAD LOVES DENISE, those words said, carved there into the cinderblock wall by the tip of his own broadsword, words he had put there because they were true and because they were all he was able to express with his dead mind. Words that, like the Labyrinth itself, had become lost and forgotten but which now welcomed them into the subbasement of what was left of the original Hunter Headquarters.

  Five minutes, Harper said, Gabriel only had five minutes to speak his mind, and Gabriel went right to it, starting with the Government’s secret research, Living Intelligence, and Pandoras. Harper held up a hand, said he knew about all of this, and Gabriel, seeming very relieved, said, “Good. So then I’m sure you’re aware of the Ripple Effect.”

  The last time Conrad had been in this subbasement was when he was searching for boxes. He had then gone up to the basement, had collided with Eugene Moss, who he had questioned too briefly and because of that now over one hundred Hunters and pedestrians were expired. That’s where his thoughts had shifted to in the past few minutes, how in a way he was at fault for the loss of all those existences, but when Gabriel spoke those two words—ripple effect—he immediately looked up.

  The subbasement itself had somehow survived the explosion. Conrad guessed it was because, like the Labyrinth, it had been designed to withstand just about anything. Some of Harper’s men had already gone up the steps to explore the basement, and they had come back, saying that whatever crews had been at work had cleared much of the damage, and that they would be able to make it back to the surface from here. Harper had then called someone on his radio, told them the address, said that they would be out in ten minutes, and then he’d looked at Gabriel and told him five minutes and now those five minutes were nearly up.

  “Yes,” Harper said, nodding, “I’m aware of the Ripple Effect.”

  “Then you’re aware of the possibilities it may hold.”

  Harper just stood there, his arms crossed, staring back at Gabriel. Everyone else was quiet, the silence thick, the only light that of the few flashlights.

  Gabriel said, “If you know everything you say you do, then you know about the Warehouses. You know that the Government has been storing Pandoras since soon after the Zombie Wars. All over the world, huge buildings of Pandoras. And all it will take is the energy in one Pandora being released at the right time, at the right place.”

  Conrad found himself reaching into his pocket, gripping the handle of his pistol.

  “His son,” Gabriel said, pointing at Conrad, “is ten years old. He just tried turning. He even touched the Pandora, which means now only he can open it. They have him committed at Psyche, and all we need to do is get him, take him to his Pandora back at the Warehouse, and …”

  The zombie let it trail there, hoping everyone else could fill in the blank, and Conrad pulled the pistol from his pocket, placed it behind his back.

  Harper was shaking his head. “You must not have heard the latest. Philip is now aware of the Pandoras. He’s having them all destroyed.”

  “But he can’t. They’re indestructible.”

  “Maybe so. But he knows they’re a threat and right now as we speak he’s having every Warehouse unloaded of their Pandoras. He’s planning to take them to the South Pole, drop them all there, send a hydrogen bomb to wipe them out.”

  “But that’s crazy.”

  “No,” Harper said, and glanced at his watch, “what’s crazy is your theory. And that’s just what it is. The Ripple Effect has always been a theory. Yes, I’ve heard about the experiments, I know there is some truth to it, but that just isn’t the goal we’re playing for right now.”

  Conrad stood back in the corner, in the shadows, the gun behind his back well concealed. He had a good view of Gabriel, and he knew that he could take the zombie out without any trouble at all.

  “And what’s your goal?” Gabriel asked.

  “We’re going to attack Philip. Tonight, if we can. We’re going to raid the Herculean, expire him and the rest of his Hunters, and if it looks like we’re going to fail, then we’ll bomb it.”

  “You can’t fight violence with violence.”

  “Who says we can’t?”

  “If you expire Philip, someone else will just rise up in his place.”

  “Then we expire all of them.”

  “You sound just like Philip.”

  Harper smiled and shook his head. He pulled the radio from his belt, said, “We’re headed out,” and motioned for his men to go.

  “There are Pandoras at the Herculean,” Gabriel said quickly. “Do you know that? At the start they didn’t know where else to put them, so they locked them under all the city’s major buildings. We could—”

  “I’ve given you more than your five minutes,” Harper said. He was already moving through the subbasement, going past the cardboard boxes, the old desks and chairs, his men following him. “Good luck, Gabriel, and I’m sorry I can’t give you anymore help.”

  “But there’s another way.”

  Harper stopped at the foot of the stairs. “Not for us,” he said, and started up to the basement.

  Conrad pushed himself off the wall. He had flicked back on the safety, had put the pistol back in his pocket, and now headed toward the stairs.

  Gabriel called after him. “What are you doing?”

  Still walking, he said, “You lied to me. You never wanted to save my son. You only wanted to use him.”

  “Conrad, please. You never would have understood.”

  The last of Harper’s men had already disappeared up the steps. Conrad, the three zombies behind him, followed without looking back.

  Chapter 43

  On the outside, 58 Orchid Lane looked just like every other house along the street. But as Conrad pulled into the driveway and parked, he knew it wasn’t. Without knowing it he had the same sense as his wife, that this was a stranger’s house now, a place which had been abandoned and left to rot. For eleven years he had called it home, had existed inside its walls, had played with his son, had loved his wife. But all those memories had been washed away, wiped clean, and the house would not welcome him as it had all those times before, because now he was the stranger.

  Conrad got out of the car Harper had provided him, Harper who had been sympathetic to Conrad’s plight and had mentioned something about fate. About how fate had brought them together twice already, and how the first time Harper had provided Conrad transportation so why not provide it again.

  He stood there quietly for a moment, listening to the neighborhood. He could hear a dog barking in the distant, children playing, a sprinkler shushing water in someone’s front lawn. He looked across the street at Thomas’s house, almost expected to see his old neighbor sitting out on the porch, a pipe between his lips. He would go over there soon, take Thomas up on his constant offer—

  anything you need, anything at all, don’t hesitate to ask

  —but first he had to go inside this house that was no longer his, the place he had last seen his wife and son.

  Up the walkway then, onto the porch, he reached for the doorknob but stopped when he realized he didn’t have his key. He knew Denise had hidden a spare somewhere close a long time ago, but she had never told him where. Maybe he could go around back, try the patio door, or if need be break a window.

  He placed his hand on the doorknob. Turned it.

  The door swung inward and he stepped inside, paused at once when he saw the
mess. The small table where they would keep their keys and mail and Denise always had fresh gray flowers waiting in a vase had not only been knocked over, it had been smashed into pieces. Just like Cynthia’s desk back at Living Intelligence, someone had been cruel to it for the simple fact that they could. The same was true of the hallway walls themselves, holes now all over the place, as if someone had taken a sledgehammer and just went crazy.

  Conrad withdrew the pistol from his pocket. He called, “Denise?” even though he knew she wasn’t here. He waited, five seconds, ten, and then he started farther into the house.

  The existing room shared the same kind of destruction. Holes spotting the walls, furniture destroyed. Even the couch and recliners had been gutted, their foam viscera all over the floor.

  “Denise?” he called again, as he wandered into the kitchen. He said her name not because he thought she would answer—he knew she wasn’t here after all, that she was long gone—but because he needed to hear his own voice. The house which was no longer his, which was now a stranger, had become much too silent. He had to say something to break that silence, even if his own voice was forced and awkward.

  He checked the entire first floor, then the second floor. Much was the same here, Kyle’s toys scattered around, crunched beneath unforgiving feet. In the master bedroom the bed had been sliced open, the vanity mirror smashed.

  When he was done with the second floor, he went down to the basement. All the rubber storage containers had been knocked over and opened, their contents sorted through.

  The black case was gone.

  Conrad stared, his mouth open, his legs starting to shake. He walked backward, step after unsteady step, until his legs bumped against the stairs. He sat down, leaned forward, dropped the pistol so he could place his head in his hands.

  First Kyle, then Denise, and now his broadsword—everything in this world that he had cared about and held dear had been taken away from him. And it even went back further. Back to his childhood, the time he spent with his mom, the nights they’d stayed up reading, and how after everything, after he’d attempted to turn, his memory had been taken away too.

  The doorbell rang.

  Conrad opened his eyes.

  The doorbell rang again.

  He reached down and grabbed the pistol.

  The doorbell rang a third time.

  He stood and started up the stairs, stepped into the kitchen, went down the hallway toward the front when the doorbell rang a fourth time and then the door itself opened and in came Thomas, his face small and his eyebrows bushy, Thomas staring first at the mess and then glancing up and raising his hands when he saw the gun pointed at him.

  Slowing his advance, Conrad lowered the pistol and said, “What are you doing here?”

  “I saw the car in the driveway.”

  Conrad walked past him, stepping over the chunks of plaster, and glanced out the door Thomas had left open. The street was deserted, the neighborhood still and quiet. He shut the door and turned back to his neighbor.

  “What’s going on?” Thomas asked. “The police and Hunters were here three hours ago. They said there’s a warrant out for your arrest.”

  “You talked to them?”

  “I came over to see what was wrong. I mean, after the other night, with Kyle being taken away …” Thomas closed his eyes, shook his head. “Is it true what they told me?”

  “What did they tell you?”

  “That you’re a traitor.”

  Conrad said, “The night Kyle was taken away, you knew we had a zombie with us. How?”

  “I was a Hunter myself back in the day. Once you’ve seen one, you’ve seen them all.”

  “But you didn’t seem surprised. Why is that?”

  “I don’t know. I figured it was something new the Government had instituted. Made sense to me—force the zombies to track down more of their kind.”

  Conrad didn’t say anything for a long moment, studying his neighbor closely.

  “Did you tell them that?” he asked. “About the zombie that was with us?”

  Thomas shook his head.

  “Why not?”

  “I just didn’t. I could tell something was wrong. And besides, I know you’re not a traitor. Right?”

  Conrad kept staring back at him, searching for any small, telling detail in his neighbor’s decaying face and eyes.

  “Right?”

  Conrad nodded. “Right.”

  “So why are they saying that about you? Why is there a warrant out for your arrest?”

  “I seem to have pissed off their boss.”

  “You mean—”

  Conrad nodded.

  His eyes wider now, Thomas said, “I saw him yesterday on the TV. He executed those three Hunters and … and that zombie.” He paused. “They were the same ones that were here the other night, weren’t they.”

  It was spoken as a statement, not as a question, so Conrad didn’t bother acknowledging it.

  Thomas said, “Just how much trouble are you in?”

  Before Conrad could respond, a phone started ringing. He turned around at once, trying to determine its location, before he realized it was coming from his pocket. He pulled out the mobile phone Gabriel had given him, stared down at it.

  “Who is that?” Thomas asked.

  Conrad shook his head, pressed TALK, and placed the phone to his ear.

  Gabriel said, “They’re already on their way.”

  “What?”

  “You’ve got two, maybe three minutes before they get there.”

  “Who?”

  “The Hunters and Special Police.”

  Conrad closed the phone. He turned and hurried back to the front door, opened it, peeked outside.

  “Who was that?” Thomas said.

  Again the street was empty, the day quiet. The dog that had been barking before had now stopped, but still Conrad could hear children off in the distant, he could hear the shushing of a water sprinkler.

  “Conrad, what’s wrong?”

  If the police were in fact coming for him, they wouldn’t use sirens. At least not until they were a mile away, and then they would speed in with their lights flashing, hope to catch him off-guard.

  “Please, son,” Thomas said, stepping forward, plaster crunching under his loafers, “will you answer me?”

  Gabriel had lied to him before, had manipulated him for his own means, and there was the possibility that the zombie was doing the same thing now. But Conrad didn’t think so. He had heard the urgency in the zombie’s voice, the seriousness.

  A hand fell on his shoulder, and for an instant he had the very strange notion that the hand belonged to the house itself, that 58 Orchid Lane had become an actual being with appendages—legs, arms, hands—and that one of those hands was now touching Conrad because it wanted to get his attention, ask Conrad what he thought he was doing trespassing here when he no longer had the right to step foot inside the front door.

  But when Conrad turned he found it was Thomas’s hand on his shoulder, his neighbor staring back at him with worried eyes.

  “Whatever trouble you’re in,” Thomas said, “I want to help.”

  Conrad stared down at the hand on his shoulder. His eyes focused on Thomas’s wedding band and he thought about how eventually Thomas would be gone but the ring would still be here, would forever be here, and it made no real sense because the ring had never done anything to deserve its immorality, it had never worked a day in its life, it had no emotions, it couldn’t think.

  “Thank you,” Conrad said. He took Thomas’s hand from off his shoulder, held it in his own hand, squeezed it tight. “Thank you, but I can’t bring you into this.”

  “I’m already in it.”

  “No you’re not.”

  Conrad let go of his neighbor’s hand, turned away, and hurried through the front door. He had just reached the car, had started to open the driver’s door, when he heard them. Not their sirens but their engines, the squeal of their tires as they too
k the hard turns, and just then one of them appeared down the street, its lights flashing.

  He got into the car and started it up, was about to put the gear in reverse when the passenger’s door opened and Thomas slipped into the seat.

  Conrad said, “What do you think you’re doing?”

  “I’m coming with you.”

  “Get out.”

  “No.”

  There was a screeching of tires as the police cruiser came to halt right in front of the house, blocking the driveway, its two occupants jumping out with their weapons drawn and aimed at the car.

  Thomas was looking at them over his shoulder. “Now what?”

  Conrad, his eyes on the rearview watching the two officers approaching, said, “Buckle up.”

  Thomas had just managed to clip in his seatbelt when Conrad revved the engine once, twice, three times, and then shoved the gearshift into reverse. The car jerked backward and its tires squealed and it started picking up speed, the two officers unloading a few rounds into the rear windshield, spider webbing it, before diving out of the way.

  Conrad closed his eyes and braced himself when they reached the end of the driveway, smashing right into the parked cruiser, a sudden pop of metal against metal. Then he shifted into drive, spinning the wheel, driving up over the curb and then back onto the street, one of the officers firing at him again, the rear windshield finally shattering completely, and when he reached the end of Orchid Lane and glanced back through where the windshield had been, he saw two other police cruisers farther down the street, their sirens now sounding, coming his way.

  Chapter 44

  Through one stop sign, through another, fishtailing around corners, gunning the engine on the straightaways, Conrad raced through Dead Oak Estates. The neighborhood was a blur around him, the houses whipping past, and no matter how fast he went, how hard he took the turns, the cops stayed with him.