The Dishonored Dead: A Zombie Novel

by Swartwood, Robert

  Passing parks, places where the ground was soft with grass and Pandoras were buried beneath, the Ripple gained even more strength. The more trapped energy it assumed, the stronger and faster it became, until after five seconds it had gone a quarter of a mile, after ten seconds it had gone a mile, after fifteen seconds two miles, and so on. Building and building, faster and faster, a sharp and heavy breeze passing through the city, through the streets, out into the suburbs.

  When the Ripple passed the Meadowland Inn, Jessica was making love to Tony. They learned earlier that Denise had left, stealing Tony’s keys and car. They couldn’t quite call the police about this—not when the police were no doubt looking for them—and Jessica finally convinced Tony it was okay, they would just wait it out and Denise would eventually return. Jessica didn’t know this for certain, of course, but really she didn’t care. Without Denise she now felt freer, an invisible weight off her shoulders. She had always felt that way about her older sister. So what if Denise was mad at her? Jessica didn’t care. Not even now, in bed with Tony, Jessica lying naked, Tony leaning over her, kissing her neck. Her eyes closed, Jessica said, “Tell me how beautiful I am,” because she knew it was true and she liked hearing it. “You’re beautiful,” Tony said, still kissing her neck, and Jessica said, “No, look at me and tell me.” Tony’s lips left her neck and Jessica kept her eyes closed, smiling, waiting for those wonderful words. But it was at that moment the Ripple passed, changing them from dead to living, and Tony, who had believed his entire existence that the living were monstrosities that should be killed, saw her as a zombie. He cried out, tried to stand, run away, but his body wouldn’t let him. He fell to the floor. Jessica opened her eyes, tried to sit up, but fell back down onto the bed. “What?” she said. “What’s wrong?” “You,” Tony yelled, still unable to get up, flaying around on the ground. “You—you—monster. You ugly, disgusting monster!”

  When the Ripple passed 58 Orchid Lane, Michael was leaning in to kiss Denise on the lips. And Denise, the steak knife in her hand, brought the weapon up out of the sink and thrust it toward Michael’s chest. But an instant before the blade penetrated his dead flesh, the Ripple passed. It was only an instant, but in that instant Denise witnessed his decayed and rotting flesh turn into living skin. His black eyes became green, his nostrils flared as he took his first true living breath. But then the steak knife was pushed into his chest, into his now beating heart, and his eyes widened, his mouth opened, as he felt pain for the first time. His body jerked, living blood began to ooze from the wound, and he fell to the ground. Denise fell to the ground too. Her body went weak and she hit the tiles hard and knocked her head against something and she felt pain—real actual pain—and cried out. She tried getting back to her feet but couldn’t, not at first. She couldn’t do anything. So she just lay there, staring up at the ceiling, noticing it looked different. The entire kitchen looked different. Quite suddenly she felt something she had never felt before, something besides the pain. It was the twins, kicking. She placed her hands on her stomach. She didn’t know why she took comfort in this, but she did. And with her hand there, she thought about Kyle, about Conrad, and about how much she loved them. Then she thought of something she hadn’t thought about in a long time, three words her husband had carved for her because he said it was true. She tried to get to her feet again. She managed to stand. She left the kitchen, stepping over Michael’s now dead body, hurrying out of the house back to the car. And there the puppy was, just as alive as her, yapping and wagging its tail and licking her with a cool wet tongue. “No,” she said, “no,” and she pushed the puppy away just long enough to start up the car, place it in reverse, and back down the driveway.

  The Ripple continued on. The part of the ripple headed east, out into the ocean, would eventually weaken and dissipate. But that didn’t matter. The other part, the one heading across this side of the earth, would pass more and more Pandoras, giving it enough steam so that once it reached the other ocean it would keep going and not slow down. It would reach the next continent and by then it would be more of the same. In three hours the Ripple would encompass the entire world, changing everything that was the animated dead into the living.

  Back at the Herculean, through the shattered doors, through the chaos that was the lobby, down the elevator shaft to the subbasement, down the corridor, all the way back to the base of the Ripple, the very first domino that was tipped over, the tiny pebble dropped in the water of the world—here Conrad sat leaning against the wall. He was still dead. Those around him were not. He was not aware that the Ripple had and would continue on, that he had inadvertently changed the world. He only knew that he needed to stop Philip, and that changing Philip into the only thing he detested would be the only way.

  Now the Hunter General’s heart was beating, his lungs working, his blood flowing. He had feelings. He had imagination. He had life. And right at this moment, he was dying. All the bullets he had taken tonight had left holes in his body, holes which immediately began running with blood. The rest of his Hunters had either killed each other or bled out. The corridor was completely silent. Staring down at Conrad, his eyes suddenly glassy and blank, Philip fell to his knees. He raised a hand to his chest, touched the blood, held it up to his face. He squinted. Then he looked at Conrad, opened his mouth … and died.

  Conrad continued sitting there without moving. He didn’t move because he couldn’t. His body had finally worn down enough, taken enough abuse, where it would never move again. But that was okay. His time was coming. He could feel it, at least as much as a dead like him could feel. So he sat there, leaning against the wall, listening to the silence of the corridor.

  His thoughts turned to Denise. He hoped his wife was safe, wherever she was, just as he hoped Kyle was making his way without any trouble. He hoped Gabriel would be able to lead his son out of the dark and into the light.

  He closed his eyes and tried to imagine what it might be like, but all he saw was darkness. So he reopened his eyes. He saw first Philip’s expired body, then Eugene’s. He saw what was left of his leg. And he saw his own broadsword, the one given to him by his father years ago, handed to him in front of the entire world and told to make sure it always tasted blood. And right now Conrad saw that the broadsword hadn’t tasted any blood tonight. He saw that it was clean. And with this in mind, he closed his eyes, leaned his head back against the wall, and smiled.

  Coda:

  In the Land of the Living

  Somewhere along the way Gabriel said he had to stop. He said he couldn’t go on any longer. He said it was time now for him to die.

  He leaned back against the wall of the corridor and lowered himself to the ground. Once seated, holding the flashlight toward the ceiling, it was impossible not to notice just how much blood was soaked into his shirt and pants.

  “I am sorry … Kyle,” he said, his voice stunted and weak. “But I can’t … go on.”

  He coughed, a long, hacking cough, bringing blood up from somewhere deep inside, running through his lips and down his chin.

  “You felt it … earlier … didn’t you? I think … he did it. Your father … really did it.”

  Kyle said nothing. He didn’t have anything to say. He thought about how far they’d walked, how long, and he assumed it had to be miles, hours. He was still getting used to his new body, to all the different functions, and while before his body would have gotten tired and worn out from all the walking, he was feeling a burn now in his legs, a soreness in his bare feet, a kind of numbness from the cold concrete. And yes, he supposed he had felt something as they had hurried through the corridor—and hurrying at a slow speed at that, because Gabriel couldn’t go very fast with his limp—he had felt a kind of breeze come through, sweeping past them, and as it passed Kyle had found a new sense of place, a kind of recharge, which made him want to keep going forward even more.

  Gabriel coughed again, bringing up even more blood. He motioned Kyle forward.

  When Kyle approached
the dying man, he was handed the flashlight. Then Gabriel pointed at something, his finger shaking, and Kyle slowly moved the beam down the corridor, then the wall, then over a metal door that wasn’t closed as all the rest had been.

  “I can’t believe … it’s the same one. I was just here … yesterday.”

  Kyle looked at him, the flashlight beam moving back to follow his own gaze, but Gabriel was still pointing toward something, his thin finger shaking even more. Kyle swung the beam again, moved it around the metal door, the wall … until he paused and moved the beam back, to the three words that had been carved there: CONRAD LOVES DENISE.

  “Always remember that … your father … loved you. They always said … the dead couldn’t love. But I refuse … to believe it. Conrad loved you … very much.”

  Gabriel began another coughing fit. His hand moved to his mouth, to keep the blood in, but it did no good, the dark blood seeping through his fingers. When he finally stopped, pulled his hand away, his entire mouth was covered, and Kyle had to close his eyes, look away, do his best not to cry.

  “It’s time now … for us … to part ways.”

  “No,” Kyle said, already wiping at his eyes. “No, I can’t leave you. I won’t.”

  “Yes … you must.” Smiling then, even more blood dribbling down his chin, Gabriel said, “I still can’t … believe it. I’ve always … known it as … the land of … the dead. But now it’s … the land of … the living.”

  Gabriel’s hand—his clean hand, the one untouched by blood—moved out toward Kyle, touched him on the chest.

  “Take care … of that. You did so much … to get it. Do not take it … for granted. And do not … never … forget … your father. Never forget … what he did … for you.”

  “Please,” Kyle sobbed, taking Gabriel’s hand and trying to pull him to his feet, “please come with me.”

  “I … can’t.” Gabriel pulled his hand away, tried to smile. “This isn’t … my world … anymore. It’s … yours.”

  There was more pleading then, more begging, more sobbing on Kyle’s part, but in the end Gabriel wouldn’t budge. So Kyle did as the man said. He looked back once and then stepped through the metal door into a subbasement littered with debris.

  He worked his way toward the stairs. He worked his way up the stairs. Then he worked his way through the basement and up to the first floor.

  He came to a door, and beneath the door was light, enough that Kyle turned off the flashlight. The light coming from beneath the door wasn’t bright, and once more he was swallowed in darkness, but the darkness wasn’t as complete this time, wasn’t as scary.

  He thought he heard something on the other side of the door, a voice he faintly recognized calling his name. It couldn’t be, though, he knew it couldn’t be. His imagination was doing this to him, creating this familiar voice in his head, causing him to believe there really was a voice calling his name on the side of this door when there really wasn’t …

  Kyle placed his hand on the doorknob. He closed his eyes. And, like Mother Nature herself, he held his breath in anticipation for what would happen next.

  Afterword

  In 2003, I wrote a short story called “In the Land of the Blind.” It won the 10th Annual Chiaroscuro Short Story Contest and was published in ChiZine in 2004. It was reprinted six years later in The Best New Zombies Tales, vol. 1, edited by James Roy Daley. Most importantly, the story was the inspiration for The Dishonored Dead, which is why I’m presenting it here as a special bonus. Enjoy.

  IN THE LAND OF THE BLIND

  Like everyone else he knew, Steven’s heart did not beat. Instead it lay dead in his chest, as docile as his brain and his lungs and his soul. So when he first heard the faint beating sound coming from outside his bedroom window, he didn’t know what to think.

  He considered telling his parents. He’d been hearing the beating for almost a week now. Somewhere in the trees and bushes beyond their backyard. Its continuous thump-thumping sounded not outside of his head, but rather in.

  When his friend Jimmy came over to the house one day, Steven took him out back.

  “Do you hear that?”

  “Hear what?”

  “Nothing.”

  If Jimmy couldn’t hear the beating, Steven knew his parents wouldn’t either. They’d just stare down at him with dead eyes and say, Oh Steven, don’t make things up. You know what will happen if you do.

  He knew. It dealt with something only the zombies had, something called imagination. It was dangerous and evil and those who had it were hunted down and put out of their misery.

  But one night the beating became too much for Steven. He snuck outside with a shovel—why the shovel, he didn’t know, except that he would need it—and followed the sound until he came to a spot beneath a willow tree. He placed his hand on the dirt where the thump-thumping was the loudest and felt the earth vibrating. He began to dig.

  An hour later, his body wearing down, the shovel clinked against something solid. He glanced up and noticed an owl watching him from one of the willow tree’s branches. It stared back at him with lifeless eyes.

  What Steven pulled from the earth was a strange rock. It was shaped like a perfect cube, three inches wide, three inches long, and three inches thick. Something inside the rock pulsed, causing it to shake in his hands.

  A voice behind him asked, “Do you know what’s inside?”

  The rock fell to the ground. Steven, his small hands shaking, quickly turned.

  The thing standing there was a crime against nature. Menacingly tall, its hair dark, its eyes full of life, it was one of the zombies he’d learned to fear. A thing that shouldn’t exist. A thing that had imagination, a soul, life.

  “Don’t be afraid.” The zombie’s voice carried none of the roughness that Steven was accustomed to hearing. “I’m not going to hurt you.”

  Steven opened his mouth but could not speak.

  The zombie smiled. “Though even if I were to hurt you, you wouldn’t actually feel anything.”

  The owl in the trees hooted twice, flew away.

  “That was meant as a joke,” the zombie said, his smile fading. “A poor joke, I know, but a joke nonetheless. Please, say something. I’m risking my life talking to you, the least you could do is say hello.”

  Steven didn’t want to say hello. He wanted to run away. But he knew that if he did the zombie would chase after him and tear him apart limb by limb, so he stayed motionless.

  The zombie said, “You’re about ten years old, aren’t you.”

  Steven nodded.

  “You came out here because you heard it calling you.” The zombie motioned with his head at the rock cube on the ground just behind Steven. “Am I right?”

  Steven found his voice. “Please don’t hurt me.”

  “Didn’t you hear what I said before? I’m not going to hurt you.”

  “What do you want?” Steven said, and took a step back, looked around at all the trees, searching for the quickest escape.

  The zombie sighed. “I don’t even know what I want anymore. A long time ago I used to think it was possible for the living and the dead to exist side by side. But now …” He shrugged. “Now this is the land of the dead, and it will always be the land of the dead.”

  Steven took another step back, the heel of his sneaker bumping the rock. He looked down at it, looked back up at the zombie. Hesitantly he asked, “What’s inside there?”

  “What do you think? It’s your heart.”

  “My … heart? But that can’t be. My heart”—he pointed at his chest—“is right here.”

  “Okay,” the zombie said, smiling again, “it’s not really your heart. But inside that cube is life. The thing that will make you just like me.”

  “I don’t want to be just like you. You—you—you’re a monster. You don’t deserve to exist.”

  “You really have no idea, do you? Say, how many colors are there?”

  Steven hesitated again, looking every which wa
y, wishing his parents were here with him right now, wishing Hunters would come to his rescue.

  “Colors?” he said. “There are … three. Black, white, and gray.”

  The smile had faded completely from the zombie’s face, his expression now somber. “I really do pity your kind. You miss out on all the little things. Like actually feeling the sun when it’s shining down on you. Or the wind against your face. Smelling the honeysuckles in the spring and tasting even a pinch of sugar.” The zombie shook his head. “Do you realize the rest of the earth hasn’t moved on? It’s just mankind and all the animals. You’ve all moved on, decayed, become what you are. You’ve all become blind, and those like me, the living, are one-eyed men. We’re kings.”

  “Please,” Steven said, and this time his voice cracked even more. He wanted to cry but didn’t know how, and his lower lip trembled, his hands still shook, and without thinking he bent down and grabbed the cube-shaped rock, held it close to him as if it offered some form of protection. “Please, I just want to go home. I don’t … I don’t want to expire.”

  “If I were you,” the zombie said, “I wouldn’t want to expire either. Not until I experienced everything this world has to offer. Because to see the true color of the sky, and the shade it takes when the sun sets … to experience that for even a second is worth all the fear of being hunted down and destroyed.”

  “Please,” Steven said again, holding the pulsing cube in his hands, and it was at that moment the Hunters came out of the shadows.

  They wore black uniforms and masks and carried broadswords. The zombie heard them coming—their heavy boots striking the earth sounded like thunder—but he made no effort to escape. He simply stood there, staring back at Steven, and said, “Don’t accept your existence for what it is. Question it. Question everything.”