Zombie Girl

by Pippa Jay

  "What?" No way. How could this hospital be empty? Unless they'd come up with a vaccine that could not only cure every disease, but fix broken bones, prevent accidents, and eliminate the frailties of old age. "Where are all the patients?"

  "They are gone."

  "Gone? Where?"

  "Unknown."

  "Why don't you know?" Connor yelled. "Did they just walk out? Were they taken out? Are they dead?" Just what the hell happened?

  "All fatalities were dealt with by the automated care and cleaning systems. Those that left did so of their own accord and did not notify the hospital of their destination. We cannot treat patients who do not give their consent to treatment. Once outside the perimeters, I am unable to monitor them."

  A chill crept down his back. "How many fatalities?"

  "Please specify dates for statistics."

  Connor clenched his fists. "Okay, what day did the last patient leave this hospital?"

  "July 17th, 2114."

  And he'd been admitted in May. "All right, fatalities between May 8th and July 17th, 2114."

  "719."

  Connor gasped. That many in just over two months?

  "Cause of death?"

  "1% from drug overdose, 4% from organ failure, 7% from heart failure, 12% from blood loss, 35% percent from toxic shock—"

  "Stop!" Connor sucked in a breath. "Mentor, what's the normal capacity for this hospital?"

  "Five hundred patients and two hundred staff."

  "But you had over seven hundred fatalities in two months? What the hell happened?"

  "On July 15th, 2114 a biological weapon exploded in City Central. The weapon was an airborne virus so virulent the effects could be terminal within twenty-four hours of exposure. In one-fifth of cases, it proved fatal. In the remainder, the toxins produced by the virus blocked pain receptors and affected higher brain function. The victims lost the ability to reason, feel, and communicate. They reverted to a primitive, cannibalistic state."

  Connor gulped. "They started eating each other?"

  "Correct."

  "Oh, no." Connor sank into his bed. No way. No fucking way. "They're zombies?" This couldn't be happening. He must still be in a coma. This was some kind of delusion, right?

  The Mentor made a sound suspiciously like a sigh. Connor could imagine it rolling its virtual eyes.

  "According to old Haitian mythology, a zombie is an animated corpse, raised and maintained by magical means. While the cannibalistic nature and vegetative mental condition of the victims could be described as a zombie-like state, the reference is not wholly accurate. They are not undead or supernatural. They have not risen from the grave. They are simply lacking their higher cognitive functions due to the toxins produced by the virus."

  It didn't matter what kind of scientific spin the Mentor put on it. The only people in the city aside from himself were a bunch of mindless flesh-eating monsters or the other coma victims back on his ward.

  He was alone. Totally and utterly alone.

  "But...but, if it was a virus, there is a cure for it, right?" His voice cracked. This stuff just didn't happen. Only in books or in the movies...

  "The hospital can only treat those willing to give their consent to treatment, or if permission is given by next of kin."

  Connor shuddered. "You're kidding me. You...you couldn't cure them because they couldn't give you permission?"

  "This hospital has a legal requirement to gain consent of the patient directly, or via their next of kin when the patient is unable to answer for themselves."

  "So, there must have been someone around to give permission? Or someone to order you to..." Connor's mouth stumbled to a halt. No one was left to tell the Mentor to treat the others. No one to give permission. Only a machine following instructions that couldn't be bent or changed to fit a situation no one had anticipated.

  Connor slumped back into his bed, his thoughts a mess, as the robotic arms stripped him of the hospital gown and positioned his limbs ready for a frame. He couldn't even get himself together to complain about being naked or the Mentor's comment that he must go without a shred of underwear whilst in the frame. All he could think about was a city filled with shambling, half-decayed corpses chasing him night and day. What kind of life would that be?

  Robotic 3D printer nozzles moved over him. Black filigree crept across his skin, wrapping itself around his limbs and torso as the automated hoist and mechanical arms shifted his body to allow it. His skin twitched. It was like fine feathers being drawn slowly over his skin, only a fraction shy of sensuous. And yet there was nothing arousing in being manipulated by machines, however deft they might be.

  Connor closed his eyes, and imagined what it might be to have someone caress him in this way instead. That was never going to happen now. Had he ever had a girlfriend or even boyfriend? Someone close? A tear squeezed from the corner of his eye. Damn, that a clinical process left him wishing for the touch of another human being, even if only to do this same medical procedure. And this would be his life from now on.

  "Body frame complete," Mentor announced. Connor opened his eyes, and shuddered. His body, pasty white and still wasted from the months spent comatose, had been encased in black mesh, like giant spider webs. Only his fingers, toes, his head above the neck from the feel of it and his genitalia had been left clear. He felt the pressure of it like threads tied firm, but not tight over his skin. "How the hell will this stuff help me walk?"

  "The suit will provide full support. Sensors and electronic nerves are woven into the carbon fiber structure, along with minute synthetic muscles. The suit will move with you, sense any imbalances, and help to correct them while allowing natural muscle development to continue. The sensors will allow me to monitor and adjust for your progress as necessary."

  Connor flexed his left arm and hand. The mesh suit compressed like foam rubber, regaining its form as he released it. Too soft.

  The printer arms moved away and the hoist lowered. The bed tilted until his feet almost touched the floor, and he clutched the bed in panic as it halted a fraction short of being completely vertical.

  "You will attempt your first walk."

  Connor froze. "Now?"

  "Now."

  "But..." He licked his lips, trying to phrase a reasonable complaint in his head. "I'm not ready"

  "You are ready."

  "But I don't..." He stopped. He would sound like a four year old wailing about having to eat his greens. "I'm afraid of falling."

  "You will not fall. You will walk, and progress to the next stage of your rehabilitation."

  Whether you want to or not. Well, he'd fall flat on his face and prove that torturing lump of a heartless machine wrong. Maybe he'd smack his head on the floor and put himself back into a coma. That would solve all his problems right now.

  Connor grabbed the hoist with both hands, wishing he could wrench it out of the ceiling or crush it in his bare hands. Anger fueling his burst of strength, he hauled himself upright. His feet pressed into the floor and his legs shook at the sudden pressure on them. He sucked in a deep breath, gasping. A few weeks ago, he'd been afraid he'd be stuck in a bed forever. Now he was on his own two feet. Well, two feet, a carbon fiber body frame, and a hoist. Connor stared at his toes, watching them flex and twitch as they kept his balance. Despite its flimsy appearance, the frame did its job.

  "Perfect." The Mentor sounded like it was praising a five-year-old, but Connor ignored the patronizing tone. "I will now move back the bed. The hoist will remain and move with you as you walk if you feel you need it."

  Still clasping it with one hand, he lurched forward. It felt awkward, but it felt good. He'd taken his first step.

  Connor laughed and took another, swaying but keeping his balance. His legs carried on shaking and every step took an effort, but he kept going. At some point, he let go of the hoist and didn't miss it.

  "This way please." A doorway opened ahead of him, leading into a new section. Connor hesitated, looking back. He'd
already left his companions behind in terms of progress, if not actual distance. It still gave him a slight pang to leave them, though

  But the future lay through that door. A return to reality. To people. To a life outside the hospital.

  No, not people. Zombies. His brief burst of elation at being back on his feet died. If he was going to stay alive out there, he was going to have to learn how to run again.

  ****

  Connor panted, the ache in his legs intensifying as he pounded out each step on the treadmill. The console counted down the time remaining far too slow for his liking. Without the body frame, he'd be a quivering heap on the floor. Without the Mentor, he wouldn't have been running at all.

  The red numbers ticked into seconds instead of minutes, and the treadmill slowed. Connor sagged in relief. Soon he was walking, and then stopped. He leaned on the support rails, sweat dripping from his forehead to leave wet, shiny patterns on the black tread. His chest burned and the thumping of his heart was deafening.

  "Exercise complete," the Mentor intoned, with a hint of smugness. Connor swore silently, wishing each word was a hammer blow to the Mentor's CPU. Fucking machine.

  No. Fucking programmer. Connor promised himself he'd find out who that was and strap them to a treadmill for a few hours until they ran themselves down to bloodied stumps. Oh, wait... Whoever it was probably already reached that state as a zombie or made a meal for one. However grim, the thought kind of made him feel better.

  "Urgh." He pushed himself upright, chest still heaving. Sweat soaked him, and he was conscious of the body frame tight around him. No matter how supportive the frame was, he hated being wrapped in a string cat suit. "I need a shower."

  He turned and staggered off the treadmill. Connor couldn't gauge how well he was doing, since the frame compensated for every change. He'd begun every day with just a few minutes of walking that had left him gasping worse than he was now. Since the Mentor had made him run an additional five minutes every day since the start of the program, he must be making some progress.

  Connor took some satisfaction from that. A few weeks ago he couldn't even sit up in bed. Now he was probably fitter than he'd been before his coma.

  Warm water met him in the walk-in shower, set to the perfect temperature. He closed his eyes and buried his face in the stream. The heat eased his tired, aching muscles. He scrubbed at his hair, growing back nicely, and the auto-detergent in the water foamed into a body wash. Connor sniffed. Something citrusy. Not his favorite, but better than sweat and the antiseptic scent of the hospital. He rubbed a hand across his face. The faint prickle of stubble rewarded him. That was progress too, if more of an annoyance.

  "Hey, Mentor, I need a shave!"

  "Central dispenser nozzle to your left."

  He reached for the spout indicated, and rubbed the shaving gel over his lower jaw and under his nose. When he felt it grow warm, he washed it away, taking the unwanted hair with it. Smooth faced again, he went back to soaping his newly grown hair, wondering how quickly it would grow back. Who the hell was going to cut it for him now? Or should he just use the shaving gel on his scalp and keep it as bald as his face?

  Despite all his physical progress, his memory still hadn't come back. The Mentor had warned it might not, or only random bits and pieces that wouldn't make sense, and had urged him not to force it. No matter how much he poked at it, nothing came.

  To be honest, Connor was lucky the minimal brain damage didn't appear to affect his mental processes or physical recovery otherwise. His speech had returned. He could think clearly enough, perform the puzzles, math, and mental challenges the Mentor presented him with. He knew how to take care of himself, and had a basic knowledge of the world and history. But there it ended. Connor would wake with images in his head he was sure were parts of his life, but that slipped away within moments, as though he couldn't hold onto anything from his past. Vague memories of school and adults he took to be his parents. Fights with his two brothers, though he couldn't remember them as grown-ups. The glimpse of a dark-haired girl although he could never see her face or recall her name and her significance in his life.

  That was all he might ever have. No one came to see him, because the chances were, there was no one left alive to come. No one who might know him, or even know there were a handful of survivors hidden away in the coma unit.

  Survivors. What a joke. If any of the others ever woke up, they'd be alone, like him. Chances of him staying alive outside until that happened, and of the next riser tracking him down, were probably close to zero.

  He'd accepted that all now. The Mentor had given him digital news records of the attack. No TV recordings or audio messages showing the actual reality of the horror that had taken place while he lay unconscious. Just stark black words on a white background, spelling out the realities of the apocalypse. The effects of the bioweapon had taken hold so quickly that the government hadn't had time to do anything other than seal up the city. A sparse few news articles described the streets as turning into blood spattered charnel houses within hours of the attack, broadcasts telling those unaffected to lock themselves inside and wait for help that had never come. Even if there had been a few survivors at the start, Connor hadn't been able to find any of them still alive now.

  The city had died, and only being on the isolated coma ward had saved him from joining the deceased or diseased. In all likelihood, all of his family were dead or deranged flesh eaters who were even less likely to remember him than Connor would them. The irony would have been funny, if not so tragic. He couldn't remember the world as it had been or the people he'd known. Now they wouldn't know him either. What the hell was he meant to do in a place where he'd be the only human being left alive and conscious?

  He tried not to think about that. Shut out the thought as he threw himself into his recovery program harder and faster than before, ignoring the Mentor's recommendations to slow down. Instead, he filled his days with everything he could think of that didn't involve wondering about the outside. He was safe in here, for now.

  ****

  The run was getting easier. Connor savored the burn as he watched the timer count down. He'd worked for longer this session, and though his legs ached and sweat trickled down his face, elation helped him pound out the last few seconds. Well, that, and the thought of a dozen starving zombies chasing after him, something that regularly happened in his nightmares.

  As the treadmill slowed, rather than hanging onto the supports as a shaking wreck, Connor turned and leaped from the track to do a victory punch to the air. "Oh, yeah!"

  "You are making excellent progress."

  Too damn right, I am. Even the patronizing tones of the AI couldn't rain on his parade.

  "Today we will dispense with the body frame."

  Oh. Maybe Mentor could ruin his day.

  "Yeah?" He stared at the black fibers over his hands. He'd become so used to them. "How do we do that?"

  "I've already instructed the nanites within the frame to dissolve in water. The substance will be reclaimed from the shower waste pipes and recycled."

  Awesome! No getting handled by the damn machines again then. He stripped off his disposable tunic and pants, and chucked them into the waste chute before heading for the shower. Warm scented water received him, and he dove into the jets with a satisfied groan.

  As promised, the fibers of the frame melted away into a dark fluid. He stretched, watching the black streaks trail down his torso to vanish down the drain. He might not have the body of an Olympic athlete, or even the one he remembered, but he was lean rather than skinny now, muscle filling out all the gaping hollows of his comatose self.

  I'll need it. Connor shook off the thought and dried himself under hot air jets before wandering back to his room. But instead of another set of disposable garments, something else lay on his bed.

  "What are these?" He lifted the fabric, soft bright red jersey under his fingertips. White lettering covered the front of the T-shirt.

 
"Civilian clothing for you. These are replicas made to match those you wore when you were first brought into us. The fit has been modified to accommodate your post coma physique."

  Post coma physique? He snorted. Someone really needed to reprogram the Mentor with some normal English.

  He shook out the shirt. "What is UVST?"

  "Union Vale Soccer Team. You were one of their star players."

  Again, there was that sharp pain at discovering something about himself that he couldn't remember. "I played soccer?"

  "Yes."

  Connor stared at the shirt, half tempted to chuck it and ask for something else. Yet another useless fact. So once up a time he'd played. No more soccer team now. Instead he sighed, and pulled it over his head. At least he didn't need to worry about getting ragged over letting his team down by his absence or anything.

  With the top came a pair of dark blue jeans, sneakers with a logo that looked oddly familiar, but that he couldn't place, boxers, and socks with some comic book superhero on them. Was I into that too? Or were they bought for me? He couldn't even name the character.

  Under the clothing was a thick black metal band, like a watch strap but wider with a silver disk where the watch-face would have been.

  "What's this?" He turned it this way and that, feeling the weight of it.

  "Your One-Dee."

  "One-Dee?"

  "Your all-in-one device. Your communication, entertainment, and information system."

  "Say what?" Again, another thing Connor couldn't remember. It must have been a relatively new gadget. Events closest to his collapse were the ones he couldn't recall, while the more distant memories were creeping back.

  "No matter where you are in the world, the One-Dee has you covered. Use it to contact anyone you need, access whatever information you need, pay for whatever you want with a wave of your hand. And while you wait for the required service to be delivered, you can listen to music, watch movies and TV shows, and play the latest video games—all from one device."

  Connor snorted. The words triggered nothing for him other than making him cringe. "Was that their sales pitch?"

  "That is the information I have regarding the One-Dee."