Land of the Dead

by Robert Swartwood

  Philip pointed a decayed finger straight out into the air. At first Conrad wasn’t sure what he meant, where he was pointing—all that was out there were buildings—but then his gaze focused on the tallest building, that black monolith that outshone all the rest of the skyscrapers in Olympus.

  “That should be our headquarters, the fucking Herculean. It would represent everything that a Hunter is. Tall and strong and powerful.”

  Philip had been keeping his arm held up, pointing out at the Herculean this entire time. Now he lowered it and looked back at Conrad.

  “What do you think about that? Do you think it represents everything a Hunter is and should be?”

  “I think it’s time for me to leave.”

  He stepped around Philip, started to walk past him, but stopped when the First Lieutenant placed the vice of his hand on Conrad’s shoulder.

  “By the way, thanks again for your help last week. If it wasn’t for you, we probably never would have gotten that zombie child, and if we wouldn’t have gotten the zombie child, who knows how much Moss would have told us.”

  “Get your hand off me.”

  Philip lifted the hand off his shoulder.

  Conrad started walking again.

  “The Code is finished. Just remember that.” Philip paused, waiting for a reaction, but when Conrad kept walking, he shouted, “The world needs to know who we are and what it is we do for them. The world needs to know it. Can’t you see that, Conrad? Can’t you see?”

  20

  Distorted music was coming from the speakers inside the cell. It was the same kind of noise that had been there on Conrad’s past three visits, only this time it was different. This time there were voices added, though he wasn’t sure what the voices were saying or if they were even saying anything at all. He was here to ask questions—that was his deal with Albert—and since he had been sitting here now for five minutes without saying a word, he decided to speak.

  “What is that?”

  “What is what?”

  “That ... noise.”

  “It isn’t noise, Conrad. It’s music.”

  “That’s not music. Music is ...”

  “Yes?”

  Conrad shook his head. All he knew of music was what they played on the radio and TV, in the movies, in the restaurants and bars and dance clubs, the synthesized music created only by computers.

  Gabriel sat in the chair he had moved from his place by the bookshelves. As before, he had positioned the chair so that he faced Conrad on the other side of the bars. There was ten feet between them, maybe less, and it took everything Conrad had not to look away or stand up to leave the room.

  When it was apparent Conrad wasn’t going to answer, Gabriel said, “This ‘noise’ is an opera. It’s called Don Giovanni written by a composer named Mozart. And the reason you cannot understand what the singers are saying is that it is in another language.”

  “Another ...”

  But Conrad couldn’t finish the sentence. The realization had just hit him that he was having an actual dialogue with a zombie.

  “Yes,” Gabriel said, “I know that there is only one language in the world. But a long time ago—before the Zombie Wars—when the world was all living, there were many different languages.”

  Conrad remembered what he’d been told before, about how there had been different races and nationalities and skin colors.

  “Unfortunately, not everything from that time period was saved. After the Zombie Wars, when the World Government came into power, they decided to do away with everything that involved the living. Then again, they still kept around buildings and airplanes and cars and TV and the Internet ... but I suppose that is beside the point. Suffice it to say, they managed to propagandize the mistruth that imagination is what brought upon the living’s downfall, and that is why we are here today.”

  The zombie looked rather despondent sitting slouched in his chair. Conrad had been told Gabriel was forty-five, but he looked younger. He had short gray hair which apparently wasn’t gray at all. Albert had said the zombie’s true hair color was a light brown, streaked with some gray, his skin color a very pale white, his eyes green and speckled with some brown.

  These were all colors that meant nothing to Conrad.

  “Anyhow,” Gabriel said, standing and walking away to turn down the music, “the Government said they had destroyed everything. But they hadn’t. They knew that they should keep what they could to study the living. After all, the living were and continue to be their one and only enemy. But they couldn’t make any sense of the books or music or paintings. So they started to destroy all that was left. Fortunately, some pieces were not found until many years later, when Living Intelligence was started. Those items were scattered among the different facilities all over the world. It’s a shame, though, because so much beauty has been lost forever.”

  While the zombie spoke Conrad had focused his attention on the fish tank. Now staring at those living tropical fish, he said, “What makes you so special?”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  Conrad returned his gaze to the zombie. “Why are you here? Why am I forced to talk to you?”

  “First, Conrad, you are not forced. You are asked. That has always been the agreement. Otherwise, what good would come of it if you were forced to talk to me? You would sit there and say nothing like the last two times.”

  Evidently Gabriel hadn’t been told everything about Conrad’s visit today. It was Albert’s quid pro quo for allowing Conrad the extra few days off until Kyle’s animation day.

  “Questions, Conrad. You are here to ask questions. I am here to answer questions. You must have some. At least one or two. So now is the time to ask, and now is the time for me to try my best to explain, so that ...”

  “So that what?”

  “So that you can better understand your job.”

  “I’m surprised you and the other zombies even go through with this. After all, we’re digging up these Pandoras, taking away the only things that”—he looked down, looked back up—“create more of you.”

  Another smile, only this time it was thin. “Yes, well, it is either that or be killed. And to be honest with you, I think there is still a possibility that someday the living and the dead can coexist. So that is why I’m here. I’m here to help the best I can.”

  “It will never happen.”

  “Perhaps.”

  “The living and the dead will never exist side by side.”

  “So you say.”

  “Besides, the living had its chance. It’s called evolution.”

  “Yes,” Gabriel said, “and I am sure it was one of the very first things they taught you in school. How one day every human and animal was living, and how the next day half the humans and half the animals were the animated dead. Complete chaos. Thus the beginning of the Zombie Wars. The dead defeated the living, drove the living into hiding, and here we are today. But tell me this, Conrad. Why then are there Pandoras? Why are the living still among the dead?”

  Conrad just stared back at the zombie. The “music” coming from the speakers—he had to remind himself it was called an opera—continued, two of the low voices sounding as if they were talking back and forth to each other.

  Gabriel took off his glasses. He held them close to his face, inspected them, blew onto one of the lenses, wiped it off. Then he stood up. He walked away from Conrad, back toward the shelves and shelves of books. The zombie selected three books, brought them back to the chair and sat down.

  “The last two times you were here—actually, the last three—I noticed you looking at the books. You’re fascinated by them, aren’t you? It’s okay. You can be truthful with me.”

  “I destroyed some once.”

  “Did you?”

  “When I was young, my father took me on a raid and we burned all the books and paintings that were there.”

  “Henry prepared you well, didn’t he?”

  Conrad said nothing, only stared back at the z
ombie, who now had all three books in his lap. He took the top book and raised it to his nose. He closed his eyes and took a deep breath. When he opened his eyes again, he looked sadly at Conrad.

  “It is a shame you cannot smell anything. Otherwise ...” He lowered his eyes, shook his head.

  “What does it smell like?”

  Gabriel opened his mouth but shut it. He sat thinking for a moment, then simply said, “It smells like a book.”

  The zombie opened the book, began paging through it slowly. It was clear the book was very old and might fall apart if improperly handled.

  “Here we are. I’m going to read something, and I want you to tell me if it means anything to you, if you have any reaction. Are you ready?” When Conrad didn’t respond, Gabriel read: “Sing to me of the man, Muse, the man of twists and turns, driven time and again off course, once he had plundered the hallowed heights of Troy.”

  Gabriel looked up at him. “Anything?”

  “What’s Muse?”

  The zombie smiled and closed the book, though he did it in an almost delicate, careful way that for some reason reminded Conrad of how Denise had handled Kyle when he had just been brought into the world.

  “If we’re being truthful here,” Gabriel said, “then let us just say it’s not worth getting into. But this story deals with the ancient Greeks. And yes, before you ask what the Greeks are, let us just ignore that too. The only reason I bring it up is that when the Government decided to rename all the cities of the world, they had no imagination to do it. So they turned to the texts left over from the living. Not only that, they had some living that they’d imprisoned and kept to help translate those texts, and so they turned to the only people who could understand them—us. So Olympus, Artemis, Troy ... why are you shaking your head?”

  “You’re saying that the greatest city on this planet, that Artemis University, that every major city in the world—were named by zombies?”

  “As well as a number of buildings and streets.”

  “You’re lying.”

  “Am I? Think about your movies, Conrad. Think about your television programs and video games. Who do you think helped create them? Who do you think are the ones that come up with new ideas? It all has to do with different forms of imagination. It’d be impossible for the Government to ban all imagination, so they pick and choose which to ban and which to let slide.”

  “These are all lies. Everything you say to me, you’re using your ... your ... imagination to make them up.”

  Conrad had inched forward to the edge of his chair. He was about to stand up but wasn’t sure what he would do once that happened, so he forced himself to stay seated. He glared back at the zombie through the bars. The zombie simply stared back at him.

  “Relax, Conrad.”

  “Don’t fucking tell me what to do.”

  “You are here because you are required to be here. I know that; you know that. So yes, I did lie earlier when I said you weren’t forced to come here. Albert wants me to understand something about you. So that’s why you’re here now.”

  Conrad sat back a little in his chair. “What does Albert want to know about me?”

  Gabriel set the first book aside. He picked up the second, placed it to his nose again and inhaled. Then he opened the cover and said, “Let’s try another one. Now listen:

  “It is a sin to write this. It is a sin to think words no others think and to put them down upon a paper no others are to see. It is base and evil. It is as if we were speaking alone to no ears but our own. And we know well that there is no transgression blacker than to do or think alone.”

  Gabriel paused again. He looked up from the book and asked, “Anything?”

  “What does Albert want to know about me?”

  Gabriel closed the second book delicately, carefully. He set it aside. He opened the third book, and as he did he said, “Tell me one thing, Conrad, and maybe this will answer all our questions. These bars between us right now. Do you see them as locking me in? Or do you see them as locking you out?”

  Conrad didn’t answer.

  Gabriel held his stare for a moment. Then he adjusted the glasses on his face, paged through the book—this one was much thinner than the first two—until he found the page he wanted.

  He opened his mouth to read but closed it. Shook his head slowly and said, “This is a waste of both of our times.” He shut the book and went to set it aside along with the two others, but paused. Slowly he looked up at Conrad.

  “Would you like to touch it?”

  Conrad stared at the thin book in the zombie’s hand.

  “Go ahead. Take it.”

  The zombie stood up and approached the bars. Conrad found himself doing the same. They reached the bars at the same time.

  Gabriel extended the book through the bars. Conrad went to take the book—his hand inches away—when the zombie pulled it back.

  “I’m sorry, that was wrong of me. I don’t mean to play games with you. But Albert wants me to ask you this particular question, he wants to get a sense of you, and if I don’t try to find that out ... well, will you answer just one more question?”

  Conrad only stared at the book—a sibling of those he’d once destroyed, something he’d thought no longer existed, and something he’d never once touched—now so very close.

  “Conrad?”

  He shifted his gaze to Gabriel, to the zombie’s living eyes.

  “Why are you afraid?”

  “What?”

  Gabriel sighed. He extended the book again, held it there until Conrad decided it wasn’t some kind of trick and grabbed it.

  Then he had it, he had the book, and he was turning away when Gabriel asked the second half of his question—“Why are you afraid to question everything?”—and before Conrad knew it his hands opened and there was a heavy moment of silence as the book dropped to the floor.

  21

  “Really, Dad, you don’t have to.”

  “But I want to.”

  “Yeah, I know, and that’s great, but ... I mean, I’m almost ten now, and ...”

  Standing in the kitchen doorway that Wednesday morning, his backpack already hanging off one shoulder, Kyle looked toward his mother for help. Denise didn’t turn from the sink where she was busy rinsing dishes.

  “You’re right,” Conrad said, suddenly getting it. “I don’t know what I was thinking.”

  Kyle started nodding his head, smiling now, but when he noticed his father’s expression, he said, “Hey, no, it’s not like that.”

  “Sure.”

  “No, really. I”—he looked down at his sneakers, looked back up—“I want you to walk me. It’ll be ... fun.”

  Conrad smiled. “Kyle, get your butt out of this house right now, or else I will walk you to your bus stop. And I’ll hug you and kiss you in front of all your friends too.”

  This was enough for Kyle. He shouted goodbye to his mom, goodbye to his dad, then turned and hurried toward the front door.

  Conrad glanced back at Denise, who had just finished rinsing the dishes and was now drying her hands. She gave him an amused look, shaking her head and smiling. He smiled back. Then he started down the hallway, following his son, realizing that yes, he had missed that time in his son’s existence where he could walk him to the bus, what a normal father would do. Now, being the father he had become, he just wanted to make sure his son made it through the front door okay.

  He was dressed except for his shoes, but he opened the front door and stepped outside anyway. Kyle was already halfway down the block, hurrying to catch the bus three blocks away. Conrad noticed a car parked a little ways down along Orchid Lane, a black sedan, and he wanted to raise his hand, nod, make some kind of acknowledgement to the men inside.

  Instead he turned back and went inside, where he found Denise, her jacket draped over her arm.

  “Get your shoes on,” she said, handing him his wallet and keys.

  “Where are we going?”

  “The docto
r’s.”

  • • •

  The waiting room was full but they didn’t have to wait long after signing in. The doctors and nurses knew who and what Conrad was—or at least what he had been—and so they were given the white carpet treatment. He was led back to a room, asked to strip to his underwear, and then waited there on the paper-covered table for a few minutes before the doctor entered. He carried a clipboard and wore glasses.

  “How have you been feeling, Conrad?”

  Conrad, who had never once felt a thing in his life, said he was feeling fine.

  “Have you been applying the lotion regularly?”

  He said he had.

  “Has there been any improvement?”

  He hesitated.

  The doctor set the clipboard aside. He rolled a stool out from under the table and sat on it. Taking out a penlight, he held it up to Conrad’s mouth. “Open wide.”

  Conrad came out of the room ten minutes later. He could see the hopeful, expectant look in Denise’s eyes. He tried to force a smile but couldn’t.

  “How bad?” she asked after they’d gotten into the elevator and the doors had slid shut.

  “Not bad at all.”

  “You’re lying. I can always tell when you’re lying to me.”

  They went to the grocery store next, slowly walked the brightly lit aisles.

  In the produce section they passed a young woman pushing a baby stroller. Denise gasped as she bent over the stroller. Conrad stayed where he was behind the cart, looking away in embarrassment.

  “Oh what a cute little thing,” Denise said to the baby, its black eyes squinted up at her, its little decayed hands opening and closing. “What’s her name?”

  “Abby,” the woman answered.

  “Hello there, Abby. How are you?”

  The dead baby cooed.

  Denise smiled at Conrad, then at the woman. “What a precious baby you have.”

  “Thank you.”

  Turning back to the baby, Denise said, “Aren’t you just the most precious thing? Yes you are. Yes you are, Abby.”