Mobius

by Garon Whited

  “Would it help to say I have no interest in harming any of you?” I suggested.

  “Fair enough.” I noted he was not comforted by my words. Well, can you trust the weirdo to be a nice weirdo simply because he says he is? Let’s not be unreasonable. “Can you tell me what your intentions with the zombies are?”

  “Mostly honorable,” I admitted, grinning, “although they don’t seem agree.”

  “Didn’t quite mean it like that. I wasn’t thinking you were taking them out on a date.”

  “I know. My sense of humor is a bit off. Sorry. No, I’ve been examining the zombies you have in this world. I’ve never seen a biological zombie before, much less mutating specialist castes. Reminds me of ants,” I realized, and tried unsuccessfully to not think about them.

  “’This world’?” the dour-faced guy with the red cross bag asked. “How many other worlds do you know?”

  “I’m not sure I could even hazard a guess,” I admitted, thinking. “I mean, I know several, but I know of a lot more.” I pondered the question for a moment. “No, I don’t have a definite answer for you. I used to have a catalog, but I lost it, sort of. A few billion or so. By the way, speaking of things I’ve lost, I don’t suppose you know where I can find a working FMRI machine, do you?”

  The non sequitur took them by surprise and changed the subject.

  “You a doctor? Biologist maybe?” asked Talbot.

  “Mr. T, remember, he’s like Payne.” I hadn’t heard from this one before. Up until now, he stood silently, staring at me over gunsights, but his aura flickered with strange glints and sparks, like static in the sheets in a dark bedroom.

  “When did being a human mean you were a minority?” Medic McFrowny asked.

  “Probably about the same time those flu shots rolled out,” the door-guard called across the gym. I was still looking at Mr. Spark-Shot Aura.

  “Well, that’s strange,” I murmured.

  He’s more than a little psychic, Boss.

  Is he?

  He keeps trying to listen to us, but he’s having a hard time with your mental bunker spells.

  No wonder he seems scared. He’s probably not used to total silence from anyone.

  Yeah, well, he’s happier now that we’re talking. I don’t know how much he can overhear, but when we chat we’re not completely blank to him.

  Ah. So that’s why he’s staring. Thanks.

  “Can we put the guns down now?” I asked, reasonably. “I’m not a fan of getting shot, we’re having a lovely conversation, and pointing guns at people is usually considered rude.”

  “Forgive my manners,” Talbot countered, “but apparently you’re a vampire who is rounding up zombies for what I must assume are nefarious—albeit ‘honorable’—reasons. For the moment, I feel better holding this weapon on you.”

  Interesting. He noticed. I wondered what gave me away. Could he see auras? I grinned at him and didn’t bother to hide my teeth. I hoped he took it as a friendly gesture rather than a predator display.

  “The zombies have they been getting smarter, yes?” I asked.

  “Is that observation supposed to stop me in my tracks? Anyone who has lived this long realizes that.”

  “I thought it a pretty decent deduction since I’ve only been here…” I trailed off and had a brief discussion with Firebrand and Bronze. “Eleven days? Weird. Time flies when you’re doing your due diligence.”

  “Is anyone else in there with you?” Talbot asked, gesturing toward the weight room

  “No, there’s no one in there.” Technically true, I reflected, if one didn’t count the zombie, and I didn’t. I felt Bronze’s amusement.

  “Who are you talking to, then?” he demanded. Did he hear us? Or simply sense something? He still caught on quickly, I realized. I was beginning to like him.

  “That’s a long story,” I cautioned. “It only makes sense in the long version and the short version makes me sound crazy.”

  The long version doesn’t do you any favors, either, Boss.

  Shut up.

  “Try me,” Talbot suggested.

  “Okay. I have a psychic sword and an empathic horse, although the horse is usually a statue.”

  “A horse. That’s a statue.”

  “Right now, she’s a pickup truck. Her name is Bronze.”

  “Bronze.” Ever seen someone’s face quite obviously shut down? I have. He dropped this line of questioning like a dead rat. “Fine, let’s forget that then. What are you doing with the zombies over there?”

  “You don’t believe in magic?” I asked.

  “Not since I learned how David Blaine did the levitation thing on his shows.”

  “Not an unreasonable view,” I admitted. “Loved his shows, but I was always a Copperfield fan, myself. Let me take this another way. Some of these zombies aren’t too physical, but they do a psychic thing. They scream into your head, right?”

  “Shriekers. We call them shriekers.”

  “Aptly named. And the hulking things?”

  “Bulkers, then speeders; the slow ones, those that are left, anyway, we call them deaders. They were the first wave of zombies, corpses reanimated as the viral agent takes over. That quickly changed, and we got the speeders. They never truly died; their bodies were taken over before they went through the process of rigor mortis, thus keeping all their physical abilities, their speed. The bulkers were next; we figure they were adapting to their environment. Once the speeders started dragging down everything in sight, people began to barricade themselves in their homes.”

  “Interesting. And then bulkers started showing up, breaking in through the barricades, yes?”

  “About the way of it,” he agreed. “Then came the shriekers to flush out those still remaining. The signal seems to strike squarely in the flight response center of the brain. It’s almost impossible to ignore the spike without some training in the matter.”

  “It’s going to get worse,” I told him. “I can’t be completely sure without some more dissection, some equipment, and maybe a neurologist. What I think is happening is another evolution of these things, possibly the development of a hive-mind. I believe the shriekers can link psychically with the rest of the zombies, making larger groups of them more intelligent. What I suspect comes next is the ability to link among themselves, the shriekers, to form a collective consciousness smarter than any individual zombie. Unlike normal evolution, these things can, apparently, learn from the deaths of their fellows, adapting to threats without the need for a generation of weeding-out. It’s difficult to guess what they might come up with after they get smarter, but once the shriekers stop turning up food in large quantities, they’ll have to adapt again.”

  The lieutenant and BT traded glances, clearly frightened. I didn’t blame them one bit. Smart hordes of zombies? They would be worse than mobs of blissed-out pleasure-junkies, and those were bad enough. They might require the same solution, too.

  “I also think they may be on the cusp of becoming self-aware,” I added. “This, I’m sorry to say, may be the worst thing possible. If they become smart enough to consciously direct their evolution, there’s no telling what specialized monsters they may become. Flying, batlike things for bombing, multi-armed monsters with claws and carapace armor… or simply cooperative psychic efforts. Your brains,” I added, nodding at BT and the Sergeant Scowls, “are capable of much more than you use them for. Intelligent shriekers would evolve them into potent weapons.”

  I sighed pointlessly and sat down again, leaned back on the wall behind the bench.

  “Sometimes I wonder how humans survived any of the zombie scenarios. In this case, though, there’s a clear strategy. The shriekers are the brains, which makes them the key. Neutralize them and you slow down their evolution, prevent it from becoming consciously directed. It won’t stop the mindless zombie hordes, of course, but it buys you time.”

  “Tommy, what do you think?”

  “I think I wish we had a breatine,” Tommy, the psyc
hic one, replied.

  “What’s a breatine?” I asked.

  “Small bug. It detects truth.”

  “Sweet! I could use one of those.”

  What am I, chopped zombie? Firebrand demanded.

  I just want to see how one works. You’re irreplaceable.

  Oh.

  “Yeah, let’s make everything even freakier,” BT snapped. “A lot of weirdness going on here, Talbot. What are we supposed to do?” BT glared over a gunsight at me. It was a bigger gun than the others carried, but unless he had armor-piercing rounds in it—to be fair, even if he had armor-piercing rounds in it—it wasn’t a serious threat. “I kind of just want to shoot him and go home.”

  “Yeah, I heard my sister was working on some seafood dishes,” Talbot answered. “I can’t imagine she could screw those up.”

  I could hear BT cringe. Given his description of the cooking involved, I cringed a little, myself.

  “So, Eric, is all of this hypothesis? Or do you have a way to stop them?”

  “You aren’t buying into this, are you?” BT demanded.

  “I don’t know what I’m buying here, BT. I don’t know what to do. Tommy says he’s a vampire, he’s a vampire. That doesn’t mean he’s inherently evil. So, do we kill him to cover our asses? And, let me add, I’ve never liked that—killing proactively, I mean. And I’m definitely not bringing him back to the base! It would be like bringing a bouquet of lit sparklers into a fireworks warehouse. So where does that leave us?”

  “Tactical withdrawal?” Scowls suggested.

  “Look, I understand you’re concerned,” I offered. “I like to think I’m generally trustworthy.”

  “Generally?” Talbot repeated.

  “Well, I’ve lied, stolen, cheated, killed, and occasionally been unkind, but I rarely do these things without some sort of reason. I prefer to consider them last resorts under exceptional circumstances. Of course, I may be biased.”

  “Is this one of them?” he asked, lowering his rifle. Interesting. He was a vampire, so he was probably the best man for the job of testing my trustworthiness. I’m not sure the commanding officer of the unit should do it, but there are arguments for and against. I made no move besides an approving nod.

  “Mike!? Yeah, man! I would say this isn’t one of those circumstances he was discussing.” BT kept his weapon trained on me.

  “I’m listening, guys. If anyone has a viable option, speak up. Otherwise we hear him out. And I’d feel more comfortable… Eric?… If you put those swords down, over there, maybe?” He nodded toward the nearest corner of the gym.

  “You want me to put Firebrand in a corner? Nobody puts Firebrand in a corner.”

  “Did he just kind of quote Dirty Dancing?” BT asked. I grinned at him. How long has it been since anyone got one of my pop culture references? Talbot turned to stare at him.

  “What the hell are you talking about?”

  “Nobody puts Baby in a corner. Dirty Dancing, you know what I’m talking about, right?” BT looked flustered.

  “Drink down that gin and kerosene!” their rearguard sang from across the gymnasium.

  “Light a match and leave me be!” I sang back. Neither of us could carry a tune.

  “This is not happening,” Sergeant Scowls moaned, shaking his head.

  “Tell you what,” I said, still chuckling, “come with me. I’ll show you what I found out.” I moved next to the weight room door and gestured them in.

  “This a trap?” Talbot asked.

  “Talbot!” BT barked, before I could make an Admiral Ackbar reference. “I think you’ve finally snapped. Of course it’s a trap. You think he’s going to tell you?”

  “You want me to go in first?” I asked.

  “Not a chance.” BT gestured me back from the door and I stepped away. “I’ll take a look first.”

  He was in there for about fifteen seconds, shining his light around, before he said anything. Finally, he called back through the door to us.

  “Listen, I know you white folks are touched, especially the ones I end up with, but this is starting to border on the absurd.”

  “What’s going on?” Talbot called back, raising his rifle again.

  “He’s got a zombie in here with enough weights to sink the Titanic. Uh, and it’s wearing a football helmet.”

  “Go, please,” Talbot encouraged. Turns out he did know the magic word, after all. I moved next to the door and waited while he gave orders for the others to watch for exterior threats.

  Inside, BT and Talbot trained their lights on my shrieker. Nobody said anything for several seconds. I sat down on a weight bench and waited while they processed.

  “Why the helmet, Eric?” Talbot asked. Sharp guy.

  “It’s one of your shriekers.”

  “A football helmet stops the shrieking?” he asked, doubtfully.

  “Not exactly. The designs on the helmet are spells.”

  “Spells?” BT repeated, startled.

  “Okay, fine. It’s magic.”

  “Aaaaand we’re back to that,” BT said, disgusted.

  “All right, maybe the word ‘magic’ is, at least in this reality, more of the pooh-pooh variety. Will you have an easier time if I say it’s vampire powers?” I raised my gauntleted hands and wiggled my fingers menacingly.

  “Oh, yeah. Way better,” he said, dripping sarcasm.

  “Really?” Talbot asked. BT shrugged and they both turned their lights on me.

  “I have a spell,” I began, then caught myself. “What I mean is, I have mystically… hmm.” I held up a finger to beg a moment’s wait while I thought about how to phrase it. “Okay, I think I’ve got it. Through technology so advanced as to seem magical, I have applied certain forces to the helmet. This causes her shriek to enter a feedback loop into her own head, with results as painful as you may imagine. Apparently, she doesn’t like it much.” I shrugged. “Maybe it can learn some empathy, but all it’s managed so far is anger.”

  “That’s why she looks like her mom grounded her from going over to Suzie’s party,” Talbot observed, looking down at the zombie.

  “Yeah, Mike. I’m sure that’s exactly what happened. Just want everyone to know that’s my commanding officer right there. I wonder if they still do section eights? And you won’t even need to wear a dress.”

  “What are you talking about?” Talbot asked. “What dress?”

  “Bullshit. You don’t know who Klinger is?” BT asked, just as I said, “Corporal Max Klinger.”

  “Why are you talking about MASH at a time like this?” Talbot demanded.

  “I give up,” BT replied, rolling his eyes.

  “What’s up with him?” Talbot asked.

  “Beats me,” I protested. “He gets my references, but the ones you trade among yourselves make about as much sense to me as whalesong.”

  “All right, look, Eric,” Talbot told me, grimly. “I need you to explain this in a way I can understand and relay to others.”

  “Sure. How basic do you need it?”

  “Pretend you’re talking to a first grader,” BT suggested. “One who somehow got his Kool-Aid mixed up with beer and got so drunk he threw up all over his Minion pajamas and married his favorite teddy bear, that basic.” He added, “Or a third grader who likes to pretend his paste is milk, that kind.”

  “Really, man?” Talbot asked. BT shrugged.

  “If the pointy cap fits, you wear it.”

  I took it as my cue to interrupt before things got out of hand.

  “Look, in a shrieker, large chunks of the brain activate during a scream.”

  “I thought you said you needed an MRI machine?” Talbot asked.

  “To make more progress, yes.”

  “Then how do you know about chunks of brain activating?”

  “I can’t explain without using words like ‘psychic,’ ‘vampire,’ and ‘magic’.”

  “Fine, we’re listening. Winters!” he called. The scowly guy came in, an inquisitive expression on
his face for a change. Talbot pointed at me. “Make sure you recall everything he says.”

  “Why me?” McScowlyface—Winters—asked.

  “Because you have medical training.”

  “As a medic, not a neurosurgeon.”

  “You’ll be fine.” Talbot assured him. I waved a little at Winters. He smiled weakly back at me.

  “Shall I continue?”

  Talbot motioned me to go ahead. Tommy, Mr. Sparkly Aura, took station in a distant corner to cover the door into the weight room, but also to keep me in his line of fire. I don’t think he liked whatever he was hearing—or failing to hear.

  “Because of the… uh, the science-laden helmet I applied to its head, I can see the forebrain activates during a psychic incident, while the echo of the scream activates areas closer to the brainstem. It seems to cause quite a bit of pain.”

  “Amen to that, brother,” came from just outside. The guy from the gym’s outer door had come up to the weight-room door, although he was still out of direct sight.

  “This isn’t a tent revival,” Talbot snapped. “Get back to your post!”

  I heard him muttering as he left: “I’m the older brother, who does he think he’s bossing around, wish I could tell dad,” and so forth.

  “I’ve only had experimental subjects for a little while,” I continued, speaking louder so everyone could hear, “but you seem to have psychic zombies. They can gather other zombies to them, can call out for help if needed, and obviously force people from safe hiding places by triggering the flight response. There are mutant ogre-types—I mean ‘bulkers’—and your sprinters. It’s almost like a hive with specialized workers, soldiers, and the like. It’s worse, though, since they seem to be linking psychically to form a composite creature. Individual zombies die, but the creature learns and evolves.”

  “Preaching to the choir!” came a shout from across the gym.

  “Gary! Do you want to lose a stripe?” Talbot shouted back.

  “Little bit of power and he lets it go straight to his head,” echoed the response.

  “The acoustics in this place are pretty incredible, Private!” Talbot replied.

  “It’s Sergeant!… forget it. I get it.”