Land of the Dead

by Robert Swartwood

Norman answered, “We call it the Warehouse.”

  Another building appeared out of the thinning trees. This building wasn’t as big as the one they’d just passed. In fact, it was barely a quarter of the size. It too was white and had no windows. But in its parking lot there were at least three times the number of vehicles that had been in the previous lot.

  Norman parked and they got out. Though Conrad had been in the country and woods a few times throughout the course of his existence, he had never grown accustomed to the silent stillness of nature.

  “This is it?” Conrad asked.

  “Do you think you’ll remember how to get here on your own?”

  They walked to the entrance, a simple glass door. It had no handle and Norman had to wave up to a security camera before there was a buzz and the door opened.

  Just inside the door was a small corridor that led to a very large but simple desk. Behind this was an older woman wearing glasses.

  “Hello, Norman,” she said. “Is this the new transfer?”

  “That’s right.”

  The women stood up, smiled at Conrad, and extended her hand. “Pleased to meet you. My name’s Cynthia”

  Conrad shook her hand, smiled back.

  “Now,” Cynthia said, pulling something from her desk, “if you would just look into this.”

  She held a thin device up to his face, right in front of his left eye. Suddenly there was a flash, a brilliant light, and Conrad started blinking. When he could see properly again, Cynthia was back behind the desk.

  “Have fun,” she said.

  The next thing Conrad knew Norman was taking his arm and leading him past the desk, down the corridor to an elevator. The old captain took a key from his pocket—not one of the keys on his usual keyring—and placed it in a slot. He turned it, and the two metal doors slid apart.

  “After you,” Norman said.

  Conrad stepped inside. He immediately looked at the panel for how many floors this elevator serviced. There was none. Just another key slot like the one Norman had already used.

  “I guess we’re going to the basement?”

  “You could say that.” He slid the key into the slot. “Only this basement is about a quarter of a mile deep.”

  Norman turned the key, the doors slid shut, and they started their descent into the earth.

  7

  A man was waiting for them when the elevator doors opened. He looked to be about Norman’s age, his head bald, his face stiff, and he was confined to an electric wheelchair.

  “Gentlemen,” he said, smiling. “Welcome.”

  “Conrad,” Norman said, “this is Dr. Albert Hennessey. He’s the Director of Living Intelligence.”

  Albert extended his hand to Conrad. “It’s very nice to meet you, Conrad. Norman has told me a lot about you, and I’ve read your file. You’re quite the Hunter.”

  They were in a white, brightly lit corridor. Farther down a few people wearing long white coats walked back and forth.

  “I know you have a lot of questions,” Albert said, moving his wheelchair so it was headed down the corridor, “and trust me, your questions will be answered. But please, just bear with me for now.”

  The wheelchair’s motor emitted a soft humming as the scientist led them down the corridor. They came to a T-junction and turned right, continued on and passed a number of closed doors. Conrad noticed that some of the doors were locked by keypads.

  A half dozen people walked past them, men and women wearing those long white coats, all of which said hello to Albert, who smiled and nodded at Norman and Conrad.

  Eventually they came to Albert’s office. The door was closed but Albert pushed something on his wheelchair and the door swung open just like the entrance door on the surface. The lights were off, but once they entered motion sensors caused the fluorescents in the ceiling to come on, each humming as quietly as Albert’s wheelchair.

  The office was small and sparse. There was a desk, two chairs, a row of filing cabinets, a small coffee machine, and a fish tank against the wall. Inside the tank a number of tropical dead fish swam lazily from one end to the other.

  Albert moved behind his desk. Conrad and Norman each took a seat.

  “Would either of you two gentlemen care for something to drink?”

  Both men shook their heads.

  “Please, Conrad, I insist you have some coffee.”

  Albert turned away from his desk and glided over to the coffee machine. He poured two cups and brought them back to the desk, placed one on the desktop and motioned at it.

  “Please, Conrad, humor me and take a sip.”

  Glancing warily at Norman, Conrad leaned forward, grabbed the cup, and took a sip.

  “How does it taste?”

  “Bitter.”

  “So it could use some cream and sugar?”

  Conrad nodded and set the cup back down on the desk.

  Albert said nothing but smiled approvingly at Norman.

  Conrad said, “What’s this all about? What is Living Intelligence?”

  “A very good question,” Albert said, his smile widening to show off his gray and rotting teeth. “But if you don’t mind, I would first like to ask a question of my own. What do you know about the living?”

  “You mean zombies?”

  Albert smiled again. “I prefer to call them the living, but yes, okay, what do you know about zombies?”

  “They’re monstrosities that don’t deserve to live. They carry parasites that threaten the safety of our world. They have imagination which perverts their minds.”

  “And why must they be killed?”

  “Because they’re monstrosities. They carry parasites that—”

  “Yes, yes, I know all about the Hunter Code. But forget all of that. Just tell me this. Why must the living be killed?”

  “Because”—glancing at Norman for help—“they’re evil?”

  This time Albert’s smile wasn’t so wide. He took a sip of the coffee from the holder on his wheelchair, placed it on the desk, and folded his hands again.

  “Conrad, all your existence you’ve been taught the evilness of the living. But what if I were to tell you that the living wasn’t really so evil? That, for the most part, they are just like you and me. What would you say?”

  “Why am I here?”

  “You are here, Conrad, because you hesitated in killing a zombie. You are here because a number of your men can’t trust you anymore.” Albert paused. “But you are also here because you have proven yourself a great Hunter. Like your father, you live by the Hunter Code, you know how to keep a secret, and the reason you became a Hunter in the first place—at least from my understanding—is that you want to uphold the safety and protection of our humanity. Am I right?”

  All of that wasn’t quite true—Conrad had never really had a choice in the matter, it had just been his station in existence and that was what he had followed—but he nodded anyway.

  “You are here,” Albert said, “because we need more and more people we can trust. Despite what the Government says, our existence is in peril. Every year more and more people expire. Decades ago a dead lasted until they were about seventy. Now nobody passes beyond sixty, and it’s believed that in another year or so that number will be down to fifty-five. Do you see, Conrad? Do you see that something needs to be done to help keep us together?”

  Conrad didn’t see everything, but he saw enough. He shifted again in his seat, leaned forward, and said, “So you’re the Director of Living Intelligence, where you study zombies.”

  Albert gave Norman the same approving smile. “I think he’s getting it.”

  “You are committing treason against the Government.”

  The scientist’s smile faded.

  “You are spreading zombie propaganda like the rest of the crazy pro-living extremists all over this world.”

  Albert said, “Conrad, wait a minute.”

  Conrad rose to his feet. “You’re not trying to better this world.” He took a ste
p toward the scientist’s desk. “You’re trying to destroy it.”

  Albert’s black eyes were wide. He opened his mouth, tried to speak, looked at Norman for help.

  “You are what’s wrong with this world.” Conrad placed his hands on the desktop, leaned down close to the scientist’s face. “You scientists and your—”

  “That’s enough,” Norman said. He too had risen to his feet. “Conrad, sit down.”

  Conrad remained standing, glaring back down into the scientist’s wide black eyes.

  “That’s an order.”

  Conrad stood up straight, took a step back to his seat, sat down.

  “Albert,” Norman said, “would you please give us a moment? Afterward we’ll take him to meet Gabriel.”

  Once the scientist had left—ignoring Conrad’s glare as he maneuvered his wheelchair from behind his desk, past the two men, and out of his office—Norman turned to find Conrad glaring back at him, shaking his head.

  “What’s going on here?”

  “Conrad.”

  “Just what the fuck is all of this?”

  “Conrad, settle down.”

  “Are you a traitor just like him? Do you actually believe in the shit he was saying?”

  Norman stepped in even closer, pointed his finger right at Conrad’s face. “I am still your superior officer and I will not be talked to like this. Do you hear me?”

  Conrad only stared back at him, at the tip of the old captain’s finger. For a moment he was reminded of that man from the other day, the mechanic who thought he’d make some easy money.

  “Look at me. Look at me straight in the face. How long have you worked under me? How long have you known me? Come on, answer me. Tell me how long.”

  “Ever since I became a Hunter.”

  “That’s right. And once, in all that time, did you ever suspect me of being a traitor? Tell me truthfully.”

  “No.”

  “Okay. So now why are you acting like this? I thought you trusted me.”

  “I do, sir.”

  “Then start acting like it. I’m not going to lie to you, and neither is Albert. Albert is a brilliant man, maybe one of the most brilliant on this planet. He only has the existence of our humanity in mind. That’s all he cares about. So at least hear him out. Listen to what he has to say, think about it, and then speak. Don’t act like a jackass again. Understood?”

  • • •

  Albert led them down the corridor without a word. As before, they kept pace behind him, but now Conrad wanted to say something to the scientist, he wanted to apologize. But the opportunity never came, what with all the people in those long white coats walking past, until they turned another corner and a man wearing a black uniform walked past them but then stopped and said Conrad’s name.

  Conrad paused, turned back around.

  “No way, it really is you.”

  The man was about Conrad’s age, about Conrad’s height. His hair was buzzed, he had a short goatee, and it was clear just by looking at him—simply by the way the man stood, the hardness of his face, the blackness of his eyes—that he was a Hunter. Or had once been a Hunter. Suddenly it occurred to Conrad the reason why Thomas had been able to spot him so quickly, how when you became a Hunter you entered into a brotherhood that made it almost impossible for you not to identify others of your kind.

  The man was smiling, but the smile quickly faded when he realized Conrad didn’t recognize him.

  “It’s Scott, man. Don’t you remember? We graduated together.”

  And like that, Conrad’s years at Artemis came flooding back, and he remembered the hours he spent in class, the hours he spent training, the hours he spent with his classmates at the bars. Out of a class of three hundred only nine had graduated that summer day, and this man here had been among them, having accepted his broadsword from General Thaddeus, having watched in silence and no doubt resentment as Conrad accepted his broadsword from his father.

  “Scott,” he said, and stepped forward, extended his hand, “I can’t believe it’s you.”

  Scott’s smile returned as he shook Conrad’s hand.

  “How have you been?” Conrad asked. “Did you get assigned here right out of Artemis?”

  “No, I went down south, stayed there a few years, transferred around, until I was offered this job as a Tracker.”

  “A Tracker?”

  Scott frowned at Albert. “Doc, you keeping my man here in the dark?”

  “Actually we were just on our way to visit Gabriel.”

  “Oh,” Scott said, and with that simple word something changed in his voice. He looked at Conrad, shook his hand again, and said, “It was good seeing you, man. And hopefully we’ll be working together soon.”

  Conrad said he hoped so too. He wanted to ask Scott more questions, like just what exactly this place was, what was its purpose, what was so special about this Gabriel. But Scott had already turned away and was headed down the corridor, disappearing around a corner. The three men continued forward, Albert leading the way, until they came to a room and Albert pressed another button on his chair and the door slowly swung open.

  “Go ahead, Conrad,” Albert said. “After you.”

  The first thing he noticed after stepping inside was the set of bars running the width of the room, dividing the space in two sections. Unlike the corridor and Albert’s office, the place wasn’t brightly lit, and Conrad saw that there were no fluorescents in the ceiling. Instead there were floor lamps about six feet tall situated all around the room, both on the other side of the bars and on Conrad’s side. The only other thing on his side was a simple black chair, facing the bars.

  What was on the other side of the bars, though, was what captured his attention. The room was fairly large, the section behind the bars taking up three-fourths of the space, and there were shelves upon shelves of something Conrad thought he’d never see again in his existence.

  Books—actual books—lined the shelves. There were at least half a dozen cases in all, and there may have been more but Conrad could barely tell because his dead mind was racing. He took a step forward, having suddenly noticed the fish tank, much like the one in Albert’s office, and while there were tropical fish in this tank swimming lazily through the water there was something about these that just wasn’t right.

  “Are those fish,” Conrad said, touching his dry tongue to his dry lips, “are they ...”

  But before he could finish the question, before he got out any more words, there was movement behind the bars.

  In a chair that was faced away from them, a figure had stood up. Now it turned, peering through glasses at who had entered the room. Setting a book down on the table—and still Conrad couldn’t get over it, seeing that book and all the rest, things that had been destroyed, banned, illegal all over the world, things he had actually destroyed himself—the figure approached the bars slowly, a smooth, steady pace that just wasn’t natural.

  The figure said, “So is this the new recruit you were telling me about, Albert?”

  Conrad’s hand went instinctively to his broadsword. But he wasn’t wearing his broadsword; he wasn’t wearing a weapon of any kind.

  “Hello, Conrad. I’m Gabriel. It’s very nice to meet you.”

  And the zombie stuck its living hand through the space of the bars, a simple, common gesture, as if from one friend to another.

  8

  Back in Albert’s office, the fluorescents were humming, the fish tank was bubbling, and the three men were silent. They were in the same places as before—Conrad and Norman in the chairs, Albert behind his desk—and as before the mood was tense.

  Conrad sat slumped in his chair, his head bent, staring at his wedding band. He moved the gray ring around on his finger, all the while thinking about how when he finally expired—when all his hair fell out, his skin and bones decayed to nothing—this ring would still be the same, unchanging, the only testament to Conrad’s existence. He blinked, stopped moving his wedding band, instead moved
each of his fingers one at a time, as if testing their flexibility, before clearing his throat and looking up at Albert.

  “You have a zombie here.”

  The scientist sat back in his wheelchair, his elbows on the armrests, his hands clasped together in front of his face. Slowly he nodded.

  “Actually we have twelve, counting Gabriel. We did have thirteen until two days ago, but ... well, you know what happened.”

  Conrad frowned.

  “He was the zombie you hesitated in killing,” Albert said.

  “What do you mean he was the zombie I hesitated in killing?”

  Albert stared at Conrad for a long moment, his hands still clasped before his face. “I’ll answer your question, but first I want to tell you a story. It’s about a boy who many believed would expire before his tenth animation day. Even his parents believed this. He had contracted a parasite which was eating away at his feet, at his legs, working its way up to the rest of his body, and the boy and the boy’s parents and the boy’s doctors had to make a very important decision. In the end they decided to take the boy’s legs, to tear them from the rest of the boy’s body, to try to save what was left.”

  Albert moved his chair out from behind his desk, turned so he faced Conrad. He reached down and rapped both of his legs with his knuckles, the sound of hollow wood momentarily joining the humming and bubbling.

  “That boy was me, of course. I was the one everybody thought would not last until he was ten. In fact, if it had been up to my parents and doctors, that parasite would have continued eating away at my body until there was nothing left. It was my decision, and I actually had to fight for it, an eight-year-old boy arguing with adults not to expire. In the end they took my legs, managed to stop the parasite, and here I am today. I might not be much to look at, but at least I’m here, and I’ll tell you—right after it happened, that surgery, I had a new appreciation for this ... well, we call it existence, but I like to think of it as life. We are dead but somehow we continue living, even though almost all of our major organs have shut down.”