The lab-grown brains provided just enough sustenance to sustain a zombie and ensured they stayed hungry enough to eat the drugged brains. It took training to teach the zombies not to eat humans. Mark hadn't learned this yet and he rushed at the dummy. Ella wanted to yell at him to stop, but it was just a memory, and would do no good. As soon as he touched the figure, a course of electricity shot through him. He let go and fell to the ground in convulsions.
She had to find him and free him.
She searched Bell's memory, but she couldn’t find his location. She pulled herself together, determined to seek him out. She scanned the guard's badge and opened the door to the training field, hoping that he might be inside. As soon as the door opened, he was there, as if he'd known she was coming. He reached out and took Ella's mangled hand. She couldn't feel pain, only love. If Bell had experimented on him chemically, those memories were lost to the bullet. Ella chose to believe that he knew she was there because they were connected.
Physically, Mark was hardly the person she had left. His cheeks sunk in, his skin was pale, and he breathed, if in fact he was breathing, through his open mouth. Still, she loved him, and couldn't have been happier to see him.
She pulled the vial from her pocket.
"Might as well do this now," she said.
She titled Mark's head backwards. His mouth still hung open. She took the cap from the vial and carefully poured it into his mouth. He gagged, but drank it.
Ella led him through the automated training field. There were other zombies loose in the field, but they paid them no attention. They found an exit on the back wall. Ella tried to scan the guard's badge, but fumbled with it. She was feeling stiff and tired. She tried again. This time it worked. By time she left the CZC, she felt like she was sleepwalking. They continued, shuffling toward the city square. She felt dazed. So much so that she hardly heard a voice coming from behind her.
"Ella?" Mark asked, coming out of his own fog.
She turned to see him looking into her eyes. He was really back. She wanted to express her joy, cry, hug him, but she couldn't. She felt trapped inside her own body.
"Ella?" he tried again.
He took her by the shoulders and shook her gently. When she didn't respond, he looked her over, and saw the bite on her arm. Tears streamed down his face.
"No, Ella. How?" he asked.
He hugged her tightly. Ella wanted to return the embrace, but her arms remained limply at her side. He pulled back, pointed her face towards his, and sobbing, kissed her. She wanted to yell at him. He could have reinfected himself after she had gone through so much to save him. She felt an anger rise inside. The world was coming back into focus. She could feel herself breathing and she felt as though she might burst.
"Idiot!" she screamed.
"Ella?"
She realized the words had come out. She began to weep tears of happiness and held Mark tight.
She felt drunk again, but this time, it was with hope and love.
Hand in hand, they ran to the city center. They had just arrived when Ella heard a boom behind them. She looked back to see that an explosion had destroyed the CZC.
CHAPTER EIGHT
Ella parted ways with Mark, instructing him to quietly cure as many zombies as he could.
She found the boss in the city center. His boys had over taken the soldiers.
"Where is Bell?" he asked.
"Bell is dead. She took her own life."
The boss seemed to ease at this.
"I didn't think she'd have it in her. Well, what's done is done."
"I thought you'd be more upset. You did want her for the cure, didn't you?"
"Of course. But what can you do? Bell is dead. And I assume that the boys destroyed the building?"
"Yeah. Thanks for the heads up on that."
Bell laughed and flashed his crooked, yellow grin.
"A man has to keep some secrets."
"You're no man. And I doubt that was your only secret."
"Skepticism. That's good. I warned you about being naive."
Ella put her hand behind her back and gripped the gun, but waited to pull it.
"You used me," she said.
"Yes. And you did a wonderful job. The cure, and all knowledge of it, has been destroyed. And as a bonus, we control the city. All these humans, perfect for farming."
"You might control the city for now, but not all knowledge of the cure is gone. It was quite an ingenious cure you created, Jeffery. A benign virus that was stronger than the Necrovirus. The competing viruses fight for the cells, and the Necrovirus loses, which restores the cells to their former active, splitting selves. To put it another way, it makes the zombies human again. But of course, you knew that."
The boss looked surprised.
"You ate her? And I thought you kept a strict diet."
"I cheated."
"But if you ate her," he said, piecing things together, "you should be turned. You found the cure."
He began to back away from her.
"I only ever wanted immortality," he said.
"Don't worry, Jeffery, I wouldn't cure you."
She pulled the gun from her belt, raised it, and shot him square in the forehead.
The recoil hurt her arm and she had to drop the gun. She looked at the limb, and saw that her wound had begun to bleed for the first time. She put pressure on her arm and smiled.
She was human again.
A Word from Angela Cavanaugh
This story was one that challenged me. I didn’t want to write the typical zombie horror story. I love those stories, but I wanted to push myself and try to create something that I hadn’t seen before. I wanted to explore what happens to the world after the zombie apocalypse. What happens when the remaining humans come back together and rebuild?
My answer to this was a technologically advanced, dystopian city with dark secrets. They’ve managed to neutralize the zombie threat, and even domesticate them. But their lifestyle comes at a cost, and the most powerful, and dangerous, people have hidden agendas. I don’t always write happy endings, but I was pleased that this story had one. But in some ways, I think their ending was really just the beginning. I’d like to think that Ella and Mark, as well as others from the city, will find happiness outside of the wall since they no longer need to fear the zombies and have the freedom to explore.
I hope that you enjoyed this story. If you’d like more stories, including free ones and opportunities to review free advanced copies, please join my newsletter: Angela’s Newsletter
For weekly content, please follow my blog: www.angelacavanaugh.com
And check out my other works on Amazon: Otherworlders, Dauntless, Human Network, The A.I. Chronicles, and 22 Short Scifi Stories.
Lastly, I’d like to invite you to post honest reviews, as they are always appreciated. Thank you for reading.
Curing Khang Yeo
by Deirdre Gould
KHANG'S NOSE WAS BADLY BROKEN. But judging from the strength of the rancid meat smell that still reached him, he considered it a small mercy. What distressed him was the fact that he had finally realized it was broken. It meant he was either better or dead. He kept his eyes tightly closed so that he wouldn't have to find out which. He didn't remember dying. All around him he could hear other people weeping or screaming in misery. What did he remember? He remembered being hungry. He was still hungry. Hollow even. There had been a boy. A boy in the woods. The boy had shot him and Khang had chased him, not caring. Just hungry. He'd chased the boy to a field and Khang had fallen, still reaching out for the boy's thick leg. He'd been so close that Khang had blacked out imagining the salty sweat of the boy's skin, the stringy toughness of his calf muscle between Khang's broken teeth.
It made him want to retch now, remembering that. He almost did, but he remembered he'd have to sit up and look around if he did. He clenched his mouth shut and willed his empty stomach to relax. The people around him were fading away, leaving. He lay there still. Before
the boy... before the boy was a jumble. A long, hot streak of rage. How long had he been that way? Days? Weeks? His skin was stiff with filth and his mouth tasted rotten. He probed at a tooth with his tongue. It was jagged where it had been broken and a sliver crumbled away as he touched it. He shuddered. He could hear the wind in the grass now, rustling around him. The smell was almost gone. If this was hell, it wasn't as terrible as he'd expected. He tried not to dredge up any more memories. He had a feeling they'd be even worse.
"Think we’ve got another one, Doctor," said a voice above him. Khang felt a heavy jab to his side and groaned involuntarily. He opened his eyes at last. A man with a gun towered over him, but Khang had frightened him. He jumped back. "Christ," he swore, "Are you alive or not?" He pointed the gun at Khang's chest. "Are you still Infected?"
"I don't know," croaked Khang, his voice weak and uneven, as if he'd been shouting for a long time.
The man shook his head. "You're Cured. And you aren't dead. C'mon, get up if you can." The man nudged Khang again with his boot. He sat up and looked around himself at last. He was in the field where he had chased the boy. A massive tent rippled and flapped above him. Around him, the long grass was pressed down where dozens—maybe hundreds of bodies had lain. The crushed hollow bowls reminded Khang of empty graves. He got slowly to his feet.
"Go on," said the man, waving toward another mass of white tents on the horizon, "go get some chow and clean up. Christ knows you need it."
Khang looked back at the man. He could see now that he was a soldier. Uniformed. Normal. "Well?" said the soldier, "I can't babysit you all day, I got bodies still to move. Not everyone was as lucky as you. The Cure doesn't work on all of you."
Khang walked slowly toward the tents. He could see other soldiers now, all in the same dark uniform, dragging bodies past him toward a large truck. He shut his eyes for a moment to try to erase the image. A hand on his arm made him open them again. It was a small woman in light green doctor's clothes.
"I'll lead you," she offered, "You don't have to look if you don't want to."
"Where am I? Who are you people?"
The woman began pulling his arm gently. He followed her without resistance. "You’re in a Cure camp. I don't know how much you remember, probably not much yet. That's how it seems to go. But you were sick. So were a lot of other people. The soldiers, doctors and nurses who are here are spreading the Cure as best we can."
"So the bodies..."
"The Cure takes a few days. Some of the Infected are in very bad shape. They haven't eaten in a long time or they have secondary infections. We do all we can, but sometimes they don't make it. You would have seen the nurses working and the dozens of IV stands, but you were a late riser." She gave him a smile.
Khang raised his hand and stared at the plastic tube taped to his hand.
"We'll take the needle out and get you cleaned up and fed in a few minutes."
He nodded but he didn't really register what she was saying. He kept staring at the large ovals of crushed grass where people had lain. There were so many. How many people had been sick?
The sound of people talking and weeping grew into a soft roar as they approached the edge of the other tents. He could see shadows of dozens of people sitting or walking and the smell of warm bread thickened the air. The smell of rot was gone, except for on Khang himself. He realized how filthy he was and was ashamed to walk into a place with so many other people.
"Is there somewhere to clean up?" he asked, forgetting she had just said that there was.
She didn't remind him or scold him. "There is a shower room, just ahead. We need to do a short interview first."
"Interview?"
"We just need to find out who you are so we can see if you have relatives looking for you."
"Yes! My daughter and son—" but he trailed off, something in his mind strobed a warning not to look for them just yet.
The woman led him to a small desk in a corner of the tent. She pulled a curtain around them. He knew he must smell terrible to her, especially in that confined space, but he was grateful for the privacy. He sat down in a folding chair. The metal felt especially cold and hard. He looked down at himself. There was no fat to cushion him against the world anymore. Just bones that poked painfully out of his skin. He had no clothes except a few shreds of cloth that still clung to his wrist and collar. He was too confused to be embarrassed and the woman didn't even seem to notice. She sat down across from him and pulled out a folder from the desk.
"This won't take long," she said, "but if you need to stop, just let me know."
Khang nodded.
"Let's start with your name."
"Khang Yeo. What's yours?"
The woman looked up, startled. "Oh, sorry, I'm Nella Rider. I should have said that."
Khang nodded again. Dr. Rider wrote his name across the top of the folder.
"What's your age?"
Khang thought for a moment. "I don't know. I remember it being snowy. It's not snowy now. I don't know how long I was sick."
"How old were you when it was snowy?"
"Fifty-three."
"And do you remember hearing reports of the December Plague anywhere? On the news or radio maybe? Or the power going out? Military arriving in your neighborhood?"
Khang shook his head. "No, none of that. Dr. Rider, what's happened?"
She put the pen down and folded her hands on the desk. "Mr. Yeo, you've been ill for a long time. Perhaps as long as two years." She waited while the weight of the news plowed into him.
After a few seconds he said, "And those other things— the military in the street? The power being out? You don't even know where I'm from. Which must mean..." he trailed off.
"That they happened everywhere," she finished for him. "The Plague was very bad. I'm afraid it was worldwide. Things— aren't the same. I'm sorry to have to be the one to tell you. You can ask me anything you like, but I think it's for the best if you take your reentry into the world as slowly as possible. There will be time to absorb what has happened, and our staff will be here the whole time to help you if we can."
"I have to find my family," said Khang, half standing. Dr. Rider watched him as he realized he had no idea where he was. He sat back down.
"Maybe I can help," she said calmly, "We have lists of people looking for each other. Even if they haven't registered, they might be looking for you. Who would you like to start with? A spouse?"
Khang shook his head. "No, my wife passed away years ago. My children though— I have a daughter and a son."
"What are their names?"
"Jia and Lee."
She pulled a large pile of printed paper from a desk drawer and flipped to the back, scanning names as she went. When she reached the end, she wrote the names carefully in. She looked up at him. "And where was the last place you remember seeing them? It will help us know where to start looking."
Khang sat back on the cold chair and shut his eyes, trying to focus. That day had been a bad one. He had been off-balance. Not dizzy really, but slow, clumsy. He'd had a minor accident at work when his bus had hit a hydrant. Luckily no one had been hurt, but dispatch had made him take a few days off. He was supposed to have an appointment to check his inner ear. He remembered that. Jia had stopped by to check on him with food from the restaurant. He'd been asleep on the couch. He could still feel the cool cloth she pressed against his head to wake him.
"You have a fever, Dad," she said, "You should go to the doctor."
"This afternoon," he'd mumbled.
"I brought you some lunch." She set the styrofoam box on the coffee table with a plastic fork. She opened it for him and he watched little droplets of condensation slither down the inside of the box. "I'll heat up the soup," she said, grabbing a small plastic cup. She rattled around in the kitchen behind him as he slowly sat up and picked at the food.
"Lee's coming to check on you in a little bit. He said you had an accident at work?"
Khang scowled. "It was
nothing. Some idiot placed a fire hydrant too close to the curb on Winslow Street."
She came back to the living room carrying the hot cup carefully. "He's just worried about you."
Khang waved off his daughter's worry. She sat down beside him and handed him the cup. The cup wobbled when Khang took it and soup scalded his hand. He hissed with pain.
"Oh jeez, sorry Dad," said Jia, grabbing a towel from the nearby laundry basket and wiping off the soup.
"'Sokay. Forget it," he said grumpily, shaking his hand.
She turned back to the laundry basket and started folding the contents. He hated when she did that. She straightened the newspaper he'd left on the coffee table and then plugged in the vacuum.
"Don't Jia," he said.
"It's okay Dad, it'll only take a sec."
"Don't—" he said again, but she flipped the machine on anyway. She treated him like he belonged in a home. They both did. He was only in his fifties, for Christ's sake. He knew Lee would come over and try to convince him to stop working so much. Stop driving so much. Khang slammed down the cup, splattering soup everywhere. The vacuum was too loud for Jia to notice. Her back was to him. She never listened. He leapt onto the coffee table, scattering food and papers. He reached over and yanked on her long hair. Her silky straight hair. He could still feel it wrapped around his fingers two years later in the Cure camp. She'd shrieked and flung her slender arms up. He yanked harder, a deep rumbling roar rattling out of his chest and smothering her scream. They stood there like that, him roaring down at her as her eyes filled with tears, her head bent back, thirty seconds? A minute? And then he bent down and clamped his teeth around her soft throat. His lips vibrated with the scream that gurgled out of her torn throat and he twisted her head, once, with a hard yank on her hair, snapping her neck. She was gone.
The Z Chronicles Page 29
