I Zombie I [Omnibus Edition]

by Jack Wallen

  “Jesus Christ people! You need a fix and I have just the thing…The Fixx and ‘Secret Separation’!”

  Cy Curnin’s voice came at me like an old friend shaking me out of a deep funk. This DJ seems to know my very soul. But isn’t that the way? Some disembodied spirit grabs you from a distance and makes you think they are speaking only to you.

  I let the lilting guitar riffs take me away to some other moment in time, back when I had only begun to put fingertips to keyboard, a romantic period when “hacking the planet” actually seemed like a righteous and worthy goal. Now? That righteous and worthy goal is real and immediate: a cure. Not only a cure but the cure, the cure of cures. The only thing between me and said cure was some seriously high-level crypto.

  I know I’ve said this before, but I’ve seen (and cracked) nearly every form of encryption on the planet, and the signature on this file is crazy!

  There will be no more isolation… I closed my eyes and sang along as the music came to a vibrant, echoing end. And then the idea hit me. I couldn’t believe it took this long. I clicked the “Call” button on the “Zombie Radio” site and the computer Skype client opened. I grabbed a headset and waited for an answer.

  “Hello caller. What’s your name and where are you calling from?”

  “My name is Bethany calling from Paris.”

  “Well, oui oui, Mademoiselle.”

  “Listen, I have something very important to tell everyone.”

  “I like your style. No bullshit. Sexy. We’re all ears, Miss Paris.”

  “I know why this happened. It was an attempted genocide by the hands of a Dr. Lindsey Godwin.”

  “You mean ‘all over the news’ Lindsey Godwin? As in Fusion Generator Godwin? No way, not buying it.”

  “I know it sounds crazy, but I have the entire account of what happened. It was written by a journalist, Jacob Plummer, who died documenting the tragedy.”

  “Wait, you’re serious aren’t you? This station usually just attracts crackpot conspiracy theorists.”

  “Yes, I’m serious. And there’s more. I very well might have the cure. Dr. Godwin left behind an encrypted file that I believe holds the cure for the virus.”

  “Fucking Christ!”

  “It’s very important that everyone read the document. I have it up on a server that anyone can reach if they still have internet access. Please everyone, download this document, print it out, read it, and give it to someone else. The truth needs to be known.”

  “What’s the name of that document Mrs. Paris?”

  “I Zombie I.”

  “Whoa, sounds like –”

  “It’s not. It’s real and it’s even more frightening when you know the full truth. Please everyone, read it.”

  “Thank you, Miss Paris. Well, you heard the lady, download that manuscript! Read my lovely children, read! And for all of you enjoying your library time, let’s play a little Vivaldi to set the mood.”

  I gave out the IP address of the server hosting the file. In the thrill of finally knowing Jacob’s journal would become the stuff of legend, I nearly forgot to give the address of my own attempt at documenting the apocalypse. I guess the apocalypse will not be televised this time around, but it will be blogged. Like Jacob, I want everyone to know what is happening, only I have the luxury of making it known in real time. So I slapped a link to my blog next to the link for Jacob’s journal.

  The people of the world deserve to know everything.

  The Vivaldi dancing out of the speakers faded away and the DJ pronounced his love for me, dug deep into the well of the ‘80’s, and dedicated The Psychedelic Furs’ The Ghost in You to me. The song was a subtle “thank you” and I got it. That little nod gave me everything I needed to dive back into my work with renewed energy.

  “How is it going?”

  I was so engrossed in my task that I didn’t even hear Jean approach.

  “Do you hear that?” I added a hint of gloat to my smile.

  “The song? 1980’s American pop, no?” I couldn’t help but notice Jean’s charm. My pre-disposition against the French was oh-so-slowly melting away, thanks to this man’s infectious charisma. Even though the man was wrong about the song being American pop, he was certainly genuine.

  “No, the server. The world is downloading the truth.” I didn’t bother sharing with Jean that the first to be downloading the file were a bunch of paranoid conspiracy theorists and nut jobs, but those very people were the perfect cross-section of society to ensure the “Book of Jacob” was spread.

  “I see. And what do you think the world will do with that truth once they own it?”

  “I don’t understand.” I really didn’t. Jean was probably driving at some grand-scheme picture; either that, or he was just trying to get under my skin.

  “Will the world act on that truth, or will they fear it?” Jean had pulled back on the attitude and dropped a very simple question that rang in my conscience and very briefly made me question my motives. After a bit of thought I arrived at the crux of the issue, at least for me.

  “How they react is up to them. The important thing is that they not be left in the dark. For too long the world powers have kept the people in the dark. Ignorance is the mightiest weapon of a government wanting to control its people. Knowledge is power and the people of the world need a little help arming themselves.”

  The last sentence hung in the air, doing a bit of a dance in the space between us. Jean stared at me and slowly smiled.

  “Brava, young lady. With your help the world just might live to see another day.” Jean started to walk away but abruptly turned back. “Susan is resting well. Her vitals are fine, there is no sign of amplification yet. The coma should buy us plenty of time.”

  I thanked the doctor and he continued on back to Susan’s room. It is time for me to begin working my own personal magic.

  I stared at the screen of the laptop containing the Mengele file. The hardware was fast, a hacker’s wet-dream. The silk-black screen taunted me, daring me to attempt an attack on one of its precious files. I smiled at the icons peeking back at me and gently ran the tip of my index finger over the keys. The laptop was not online. In fact, I even went so far as to disable the wireless card and would not let a Cat5 networking cable anywhere near the hardware. There was no way I would chance someone opening a back door and deleting the file.

  The file.

  The “Mengele File.” I made numerous copies, just in case it had a built-in self-destruct mechanism in the event of too many botched attempts at cracking the encryption. There are three copies on the laptop (each on a separate partition of the drive), one on a flash drive that hangs around my neck, and one I uploaded to a very special FTP server of my own. I am taking no chances.

  My usual approach to cracking encryption is to employ a few special tools designed for that very purpose. One of those tools is a pretty piece of code, designed by yours truly. A few years back a boyfriend decided to play a bit of a joke on me and encrypt my already-encrypted bank files. It was a real bitch to crack, which is why I created ex_boyfriend.sh, as much an homage to breaking up with the jerk as it was my go-to cracker. It rarely failed.

  This time, however, ex_boyfriend.sh did fail. I believe my mistake was assuming the encryption was standard 256-bit scheme. That also explained how quickly the hack reported back the failure. The logical conclusion was to up the ante, skip 512-bit and go straight for the big-guns. It didn’t take much searching, but I pulled down a beast of a cracker (from a members-only site) that could scale the walls of 1024-bit encryption in just a few short hours. The crack was a kludge, but it obviously could handle some pretty challenging encryption and, oddly enough, was named Fuzzy Box of Kittens. I downloaded the crack, copied it onto my flash drive, transferred it to my laptop, and fired it up. The crack was both brute-force and dictionary based, so I knew I had plenty of time to kill before it would spit back the results. Maybe a few hours.

  With that extra time I decided to take a stro
ll around to see if I could find any clue where our stalker was hiding. Before I wandered off, I tucked the laptop safely away where no one would be tempted to touch it.

  Trust no one.

  *****

  Out of curiosity I decided to take a look around on the floor above us. I had assumed it safe after Gunther gave it the once-over. Of course that was before I discovered another resident at Val de-Grace. I should have been frightened. Beyond all reason I should know to not venture outside any known safety perimeters, but my spine was made of curious stuff, so there was no telling me “no” when there was a mystery afoot. And so I carefully opened up the door to the stairwell and, one by one, took the stairs to the next floor up.

  I have no idea why it ever surprises me that all hospital floors seem to look alike, but they do. Same layout, same color schemes, same smells. And hospitals all have a way of giving people the creeps. There is, however, an added layer of “creep” when you are the only human being on an entire floor. No caregivers, no near-death patients, beeping monitors, or squeaking rubber-soled nurses’ shoes. Silence and stillness always have a way of making life a little bit more unnerving.

  I stopped to take in the surroundings and the sound of static drifted from one of the rooms. The sound made its way up my back, sending electric fear shooting across the synapses of my spine.

  Ever so slowly I made my way down the hall to an open waiting room for the family and friends of the sick and dying. In the room I found the standard issue hospital-comfort chairs, sofas, and a television that presented itself out of service.

  The static tickled the air again, only much louder. The noise was coming from the room I was currently occupying. I did a quick scan of the room and, tucked between a cushion and armrest was a radio – a walkie talkie-type radio, to be exact. The antenna gave away its position, like a house cat’s tail giving away its intention of pouncing on your foot as you walk into a room.

  Greedily I grabbed up the radio.

  Echo Bravo, repeat.

  The voice coming from the walkie talkie pulled my heart through my chest and out on the cold tile floor. My pulsed jumped from zero to sixty faster than a Ferrari.

  Echo Bravo, repeat.

  My finger hovered over the talk button, hesitating from the fear of the unknown. Who is on the other end? Who are they attempting to communicate with? And what does Echo Bravo, repeat mean? I gathered up my nerve and slowly depressed the talk button.

  “Hello?” My nerves had dried up my mouth so my voice was rough and scratchy.

  Before I could think of another, more intelligent call for help, footsteps echoed through the halls. I had to get out of there. The footsteps and the radio probably belonged to the creeper, and I wasn’t at all ready to confront whoever it was. I had to get out.

  When I stepped out of the waiting room the shadow stalker was there at the end of the hall. He must have realized what I had been doing as he took off after me. Fortunately I had the jump on him (and had fear propelling me forward), so I made it to the safety of the elevator before he could reach me. My fingers nervously tapped at the button for my destination floor. My heart was still running a race my feet were not aware of.

  When the elevator door chimed open, my feet joined the race again. I sprinted down the hall to Susan’s room and threw open the door.

  “Jean, there’s someone else in the hospital!”

  “Alive? That’s great news, we have to—”

  “No, it’s not.” I interrupted him before he could begin to get his hopes up. I had to make Jean understand my paranoia. If someone where in the same building as us, with what has happened, that someone should be thrilled to know living, breathing, thinking humans were present. That is not the case here. Instead we have an unknown variable communicating to another unknown party with a walkie talkie, hiding in shadows and darkness. I wanted so badly for this to be nothing more than my overactive, paranoid imagination. Ever since self-preservation became the primary driving force in my brain, I simply can’t trust those I don’t know.

  At the very mention of the word “trust” I made a beeline back to the nurses’ station to retrieve the laptop. It was still plowing through the crack and had a long way to go. The machine would remain in Susan’s room, tucked inside a cabinet, so it could do its job in some semblance of safety. If our midnight creeper got his hands on that file…

  I finally spilled the beans to Jean about the other night. It was that little tidbit that pushed him over, into the land of conspiracy. He fought the idea that another living human could be a threat to us, but we couldn’t help but err on the side of caution. With what we had in our possession, we couldn’t afford a single mistake.

  “What is ‘Echo Bravo, repeat’?” Jean said, asking the same question that had been pinging around my skull since I first heard the words crackle out of that hidden radio. I had no idea what it meant, but when I produced the offending walkie talkie Jean and I both stared at it with as much fear as desire. I wanted so badly to hear those words again and I wanted those words to indicate that the military was on the other side ready to tear down the very walls of society and rebuild it, minus the shroud of death.

  The voice had not repeated itself since I made my presence known to whoever was on the other end. That, to me, was not a good sign. I fought the urge to pick up the radio from the table and demand to know who was on the other end. The urge was pulling hard at my will, taunting me, insisting I give in. I knew eventually that old bitch curiosity would get the best of me, so I gave in.

  “Echo Bravo,” I said into the radio in my hand.

  I held my breath, wondering if the disembodied voice on the other end of this connection had given up.

  Static.

  “Continue mission, out.”

  There was another sharp crack of static and then all was silent.

  “Bethany, say something. Tell him where we are, that we need help…something,” Jean was pleading nervously, sweat beading his forehead.

  “No, I can’t. It could be government and I don’t trust them,” I said, much more harshly than I intended. I had to soften the tone a bit. “What we do, we do alone until we have the cure.”

  Jean protested sharply, insisting we couldn’t pull off a cure for a super-virus by ourselves. I didn’t want to believe him, so I backed up my initial protest with another, sharper “No”. I knew the government would have resources we would never have access to, but ever since Jacob and I uncovered the truth about the nature of the virus, I knew not to trust any government agency.

  “Jean, the government is the reason this virus exists.” I dropped the biggest bomb I had in my arsenal, which Jean countered.

  “Bethany, we are in a government-run hospital.” And with that single sentence, the whole circus tent came crashing down. “Val de-Grace is a military hospital,” Jean re-iterated the same point that already had my jaw on the floor. “But Bethany, the military is gone. Everything is gone. What is there to worry about?”

  “Jean, you should have told me this was a government hospital.” How in the Hell would this man have known to tell me, a stranger, that Val de-Grace was military? What would have given him any indication to believe that it was information important to a mission he had no idea he was on?

  The argument silenced itself as quickly as it heated up. I felt like an idiot. In retrospect I should have known this place was government issue. Now that I look around it is, quite literally, written all over the walls. That was a big failure on my part.

  Jacob never would have missed that one.

  Jean put his hand on my shoulder, a gesture of peace I sorely needed. Of course I fell for it and genuinely apologized.

  “Bethany, even if that file contains an exact chemical model for the cure, how are we to recreate it? I’m not a chemist. I can diagnose and administer; I cannot create.” Jean’s eyes were filled with what I could only describe as tragedy. His brow was furrowed and the corners of his lips were being pulled down by a gravity I couldn’t fe
el.

  I spent way too much time reminding Jean we had to keep our numbers small, in order to avoid an onslaught of the zombie crush. I tried to convey the horror we went through in Munich, but I don’t think it registered quite as deeply as it would have had he been there. I do know that Jean was right. Even if the Mengele file contained the precise formula for the cure, the chances of a hacker and a doctor of medicine having any success with the formulation were slim. And the idea of using Susan as a chemical playground made me want to weep.

  Jean was right, we needed a chemical engineer. I assume that would be yet another task to fall into my hands, but when Jean volunteered I was glad to be relieved of the burden. Besides, he needed a task outside of watching a comatose girl. I gave Jean a login on to one of the nurses’ station computers so he could expand his search beyond the antiquated phone book. We immediately started to walk out of the room when we both heard the distant dinging of the elevator. Jean and I both stopped, frozen in our tracks. My brain was desperately trying to register with my feet that it was just Sally and Gunther returning with a haul of food, but I had a survivalist streak in me wide enough to allow thoughts quite the opposite of the obvious to constantly bubble to the top.

  Maybe it was the revelation that Val de-Grace was yet another government installation that had me panicking, but I grabbed a gun and pulled Jean into the safety of a corner behind the door. We stood in silence and listened for the deathly announcement of a moaner or screamer. When none came I relaxed and eased my white-knuckle grip on Jean. Eventually the sounds of Gunther’s voice nearly had me celebrating.