Zombies

by Otto Penzler

  When I had accomplished this, it was fully midnight, and I requested the gentlemen present to examine M. Valdemar’s condition. After a few experiments, they admitted him to be in an unusually perfect state of mesmeric trance. The curiosity of both the physicians was greatly excited. Dr. D—— resolved at once to remain with the patient all night, while Dr. F—— took leave with a promise to return at daybreak. Mr. L——l and the nurses remained.

  We left M. Valdemar entirely undisturbed until about three o’clock in the morning, when I approached him and found him in precisely the same condition as when Dr. F—— went away—that is to say, he lay in the same position; the pulse was imperceptible; the breathing was gentle (scarcely noticeable, unless through the application of a mirror to the lips); the eyes were closed naturally; and the limbs were as rigid and as cold as marble. Still, the general appearance was certainly not that of death.

  As I approached M. Valdemar I made a kind of half effort to influence his right arm into pursuit of my own, as I passed the latter gently to and fro above his person. In such experiments with this patient I had never perfectly succeeded before, and assuredly I had little thought of succeeding now; but to my astonishment, his arm very readily, although feebly, followed every direction I assigned it with mine. I determined to hazard a few words of conversation.

  “M. Valdemar,” I said, “are you asleep?” He made no answer, but I perceived a tremor about the lips, and was thus induced to repeat the question, again and again. At its third repetition, his whole frame was agitated by a very slight shivering; the eyelids unclosed themselves so far as to display a white line of the ball; the lips moved sluggishly, and from between them, in a barely audible whisper, issued the words:

  “Yes;—asleep now. Do not wake me!—let me die so!”

  I here felt the limbs and found them as rigid as ever. The right arm, as before, obeyed the direction of my hand. I questioned the sleep-waker again:

  “Do you still feel pain in the breast, M. Valdemar?”

  The answer now was immediate, but even less audible than before: “No pain—I am dying.”

  I did not think it advisable to disturb him farther just then, and nothing more was said or done until the arrival of Dr. F——, who came a little before sunrise, and expressed unbounded astonishment at finding the patient still alive. After feeling the pulse and applying a mirror to the lips, he requested me to speak to the sleep-waker again. I did so, saying:

  “M. Valdemar, do you still sleep?”

  As before, some minutes elapsed ere a reply was made; and during the interval the dying man seemed to be collecting his energies to speak. At my fourth repetition of the question, he said very faintly, almost inaudibly:

  “Yes; still asleep—dying.”

  It was now the opinion, or rather the wish, of the physicians, that M. Valdemar should be suffered to remain undisturbed in his present apparently tranquil condition, until death should supervene—and this, it was generally agreed, must now take place within a few minutes. I concluded, however, to speak to him once more, and merely repeated my previous question.

  While I spoke, there came a marked change over the countenance of the sleep-waker. The eyes rolled themselves slowly open, the pupils disappearing upwardly; the skin generally assumed a cadaverous hue, resembling not so much parchment as white paper; and the circular hectic spots which, hitherto, had been strongly defined in the centre of each cheek, went out at once. I use this expression, because the suddenness of their departure put me in mind of nothing so much as the extinguishment of a candle by a puff of the breath. The upper lip, at the same time, writhed itself away from the teeth, which it had previously covered completely; while the lower jaw fell with an audible jerk, leaving the mouth widely extended, and disclosing in full view the swollen and blackened tongue. I presume that no member of the party then present had been unaccustomed to deathbed horrors; but so hideous beyond conception was the appearance of M. Valdemar at this moment, that there was a general shrinking back from the region of the bed.

  I now feel that I have reached a point of this narrative at which every reader will be startled into positive disbelief. It is my business, however, simply to proceed.

  There was no longer the faintest sign of vitality in M. Valdemar; and concluding him to be dead, we were consigning him to the charge of the nurses, when a strong vibratory motion was observable in the tongue. This continued for perhaps a minute. At the expiration of this period, there issued from the distended and motionless jaws a voice—such as it would be madness in me to attempt describing. There are, indeed, two or three epithets which might be considered as applicable to it in part; I might say, for example, that the sound was harsh, and broken and hollow; but the hideous whole is indescribable, for the simple reason that no similar sounds have ever jarred upon the ear of humanity. There were two particulars, nevertheless, which I thought then, and still think, might fairly be stated as characteristic of the intonation—as well adapted to convey some idea of its unearthly peculiarity. In the first place, the voice seemed to reach our ears—at least mine—from a vast distance, or from some deep cavern within the earth. In the second place, it impressed me (I fear, indeed, that it will be impossible to make myself comprehended) as gelatinous or glutinous matters impress the sense of touch.

  I have spoken both of “sound” and of “voice.” I mean to say that the sound was one of distinct—of even wonderfully, thrillingly distinct—syllabification. M. Valdemar spoke—obviously in reply to the question I had propounded to him a few minutes before. I had asked him, it will be remembered, if he still slept. He now said:

  “Yes;—no;—I have been sleeping—and now—now—I am dead.”

  No person present even affected to deny, or attempted to repress, the unutterable, shuddering horror which these few words, thus uttered, were so well calculated to convey. Mr. L——l (the student) swooned. The nurses immediately left the chamber, and could not be induced to return. My own impressions I would not pretend to render intelligible to the reader. For nearly an hour, we busied ourselves, silently—without the utterance of a word—in endeavors to revive Mr. L——l. When he came to himself, we addressed ourselves again to an investigation of M. Valdemar’s condition.

  It remained in all respects as I have last described it, with the exception that the mirror no longer afforded evidence of respiration. An attempt to draw blood from the arm failed. I should mention, too, that this limb was no farther subject to my will. I endeavored in vain to make it follow the direction of my hand. The only real indication, indeed, of the mesmeric influence, was now found in the vibratory movement of the tongue, whenever I addressed M. Valdemar a question. He seemed to be making an effort to reply, but had no longer sufficient volition. To queries put to him by any other person than myself he seemed utterly insensible—although I endeavored to place each member of the company in mesmeric rapport with him. I believe that I have now related all that is necessary to an understanding of the sleep-waker’s state at this epoch. Other nurses were procured; and at ten o’clock I left the house in company with the two physicians and Mr. L——l.

  In the afternoon we all called again to see the patient. His condition remained precisely the same. We had now some discussion as to the propriety and feasibility of awakening him; but we had little difficulty in agreeing that no good purpose would be served by so doing. It was evident that, so far, death (or what is usually termed death) had been arrested by the mesmeric process. It seemed clear to us all that to awaken M. Valdemar would be merely to insure his instant, or at least his speedy dissolution.

  From this period until the close of last week—an interval of nearly seven months—we continued to make daily calls at M. Valdemar’s house, accompanied, now and then, by medical and other friends. All this time the sleeper-walker remained exactly as I have last described him. The nurses’ attentions were continual.

  It was on Friday last that we finally resolved to make the experiment of awakening or attempting
to awaken him; and it is the (perhaps) unfortunate result of this latter experiment which has given rise to so much discussion in private circles—to so much of what I cannot help thinking unwarranted popular feeling.

  For the purpose of relieving M. Valdemar from the mesmeric trance, I made use of the customary passes. These, for a time, were unsuccessful. The first indication of revival was afforded by a partial descent of the iris. It was observed, as especially remarkable, that this lowering of the pupil was accompanied by the profuse out-flowing of a yellowish ichor (from beneath the lids) of a pungent and highly offensive odor.

  It was now suggested that I should attempt to influence the patient’s arm, as heretofore. I made the attempt and failed. Dr. F—— then intimated a desire to have me put a question. I did so, as follows:

  “M. Valdemar, can you explain to us what are your feelings or wishes now?”

  There was an instant return of the hectic circles on the cheeks; the tongue quivered, or rather rolled violently in the mouth (although the jaws and lips remained rigid as before;) and at length the same hideous voice which I have already described, broke forth:

  “For God’s sake!—quick!—quick!—put me to sleep—or, quick!—waken me!—quick!—I say to you that I am dead!”

  I was thoroughly unnerved, and for an instant remained undecided what to do. At first I made an endeavor to re-compose the patient; but, failing in this through total abeyance of the will, I retraced my steps and as earnestly struggled to awaken him. In this attempt I soon saw that I should be successful—or at least I soon fancied that my success would be complete—and I am sure that all in the room were prepared to see the patient awaken.

  For what really occurred, however, it is quite impossible that any human being could have been prepared.

  As I rapidly made the mesmeric passes, amid ejaculations of “dead! dead!” absolutely bursting from the tongue and not from the lips of the sufferer, his whole frame at once—within the space of a single minute, or even less, shrunk—crumbled—absolutely rotted away beneath my hands. Upon the bed, before that whole company, there lay a nearly liquid mass of loathsome—of detestable putridity.

  YVONNE NAVARRO (1957– ) was born in Chicago but now lives in Arizona. She has written more than a hundred short stories and twenty novels in the genres of horror, fantasy, science fiction, and thriller. Although several of her novels are original, including AfterAge (1993), Deadrush (1995), Final Impact (1997), Red Shadows (1998), DeadTimes (2000), That’s Not My Name (2000), Mirror Me (2004), and Highborn (2010), she has established a following for her seven works in the Buffyverse series. These books are based on the universe in which the characters in the Buffy the Vampire Slayer and Angel television series reside, with its own set of rules. Created by Joss Whedon, this is a world in which supernatural phenomena are accepted as part of normal life, and in which supernatural evil may be fought and defeated by humans willing to wage the battle. There are scores of novels in this young adult series, written by nearly thirty authors, including numerous novelizations of episodes from the television programs, as well as original stories using many familiar characters. Navarro’s contributions to the canon are The Darkening, Shattered Twilight, Broken Sunrise, Paleo, Tempted Champions, and The Willow Files, volumes 1 and 2, all published between 1999 and 2004. Other movie tie-ins include Species (1995), Music of the Spears (1996), and Hellboy (2004). Among other honors, she frequently has been nominated for Bram Stoker Awards for Short Story, as well as First Novel, Novel, and Work for Young Readers.

  “Feeding the Dead Inside” was originally published in Mondo Zombie, edited by John Skipp and Craig Spector (Baltimore: Cemetery Dance, 2006).

  “GOTCHA!”

  Metal sweeps the air as the silver handcuffs arc down and around the woman’s thin wrists. There is a quiet thunk as the steel lodges against fragile bones, then a ratcheting as the circlet snaps closed next to several thousand dollars’ worth of gold Cartier watch. More than the actual noise, Carmen sees the sound reflected in the woman’s eyes.

  “What’s the meaning of this?” the woman demands. There is no fear in her voice, not yet. Outrage and puzzlement, but not fear.

  Not yet.

  Carmen Valensuela keeps her face bland, her smiling eyes hidden behind the mirrored shades that are so crucial to her image—dark blue uniform, sharply creased slacks, sky blue shirt, the heavy leather belt with its implements comfortably girdling her hips. All this would mean nothing had Carmen’s eyes been anything more than emotionless silver pools.

  “Come with me, ma’am.” Carmen’s voice is cool and controlled. Her existence, the whole world, her world, is built on control. In the microsecond before the woman can protest again, the hand holding the sister cuff pulls sharply to the left and binds the woman’s other wrist, that same harsh noise so much louder now that the imprisonment is complete.

  The woman, whose name Carmen will later learn is Susan McDunnah Atgeld, watches, stunned and helpless, as Officer Valensuela plucks her leather briefbag from the cart and ignores the intended purchase, the pink teddy puddled untidily on the counter. There is a sharp nudge in the small of her back, a poke just a shade short of pain, as the policewoman turns her and directs her forward, sweeping the briefbag along and pausing only to muscle the cart next to the counter and out of the aisle. Anger momentarily pocks Mrs. Atgeld’s vision with small yellow sparkles, then she finds her voice, that small but self-assured soprano that had retreated from the brazen sound of the locking police handcuffs. “I’m not going anywhere until you tell me what’s going on!” she snaps. Her knees lock and the policewoman nearly collides with her back; damn this cop and all her family, too, if she actually has any. She looks as if she is smiling. Not outright, but smiling just the same.

  “You are being detained on suspicion of shoplifting, ma’am.” Indignation spirals through Susan Atgeld’s clenched fists, then relief. “That’s ridiculous. Look in my bag—there’s no merchandise inside!”

  Carmen tips a finger to an arched eyebrow in a mock salute. “No ma’am. Your belongings will be searched by store personnel.”

  Two scarlet circles appear on Mrs. Atgeld’s cheeks as she realizes this woman, this blue-collar, uneducated female cockroach, means to lead her through Lord & Taylor in handcuffs, parade her past the cosmetics counter where Ms. Loreen has set aside a jar of body sloughing cream for her to pick up on her way out, and even past the salon, where Jacob had tried to convince her with his pretty-boy smile to cut and perm those feathery blond locks.

  Carmen is not oblivious to the woman’s embarrassment; rather, she revels in it as she guides her detainee through the busy store, the woman’s slender form stepping beside her like a jerky wooden doll. The woman tenses and Carmen smiles without moving her mouth because she knows what is coming.

  “I’m an important person,” her prisoner hisses. “I’ve never been so embarrassed in my life, and I’ll have your job for this farce. I hope you like cruising the midnight shift at the Robert Taylor Homes, because that’s where you’ll be next week.” Her capped teeth form each word briskly, clipping the end of each S with scissor-like precision.

  Officer Valensuela acknowledges this prediction with a calm nod; she has no doubt whatsoever that this woman is important. In fact, the woman looks even more important in person than she has on the videotapes her brother-in-law has given Carmen to study over the past three months. On the tapes Susan Atgeld is a grainy black and white spectre; a two-dimensional smudge of shadowy grays without personality or vibrance, a non-person. In the flesh she is brittle and sharp and smooth all at once, like a long crystal knife; she smells of Chanel perfume and wears hundred-dollar designer jeans topped by a tee shirt that costs nearly as much and which moves across the woman’s taut flesh like lotion. “Don’t you have something better to do than harass me?” Carmen’s prisoner demands furiously. “There’s bound to be a Dead Thing for you to play with somewhere!” She yanks at her bonds, but it is a petulant, futile effort.


  Carmen’s unseen smile widens as the woman’s words flash ignorantly into a more personal arena and her stomach curls around itself in pleasurable anger as she gives her prisoner another bland nod. She has exquisite control, the same control which this scented and powdered woman feels sliding so swiftly away as Officer Valensuela steers her toward a door marked SECURITY/HOLDING in red block letters. Her trained grip around the woman’s elbow is strong and hard but stops short of physical pain. Carmen pulls open the door and hustles the woman inside.

  Her brother-in-law sits behind a sand-colored Steelcase desk, his expression unreadable above a sheaf of papers. He is blond and pale, like the woman Carmen has cuffed; his last name is Rodgers and there is no picture of his wife, Carmen’s sister, who is dark and Latino-looking like her, on the desk that he keeps professionally free of clutter. His eyes are small and blue and bright and they fix on Carmen’s charge with interest. “Yes, Officer?”

  “Shoplifter.” Carmen pushes the woman forward, just enough to make her stumble against the edge of the desk.

  “Take your hands off of me!” The woman jerks aside, hair flying into her face and sticking across the bridge of her nose. Her eyes, brown and rimmed carefully with expensive cosmetics, have metamorphosed into hard, dirty-looking stones. “I haven’t stolen anything,” she declares. “There’s been an . . .” she shoots a nasty glance at Carmen, “unfortunate error.”

  The store has given her brother-in-law a title and a tag which actually says Lt. Rodgers but Carmen mostly thinks of him as That Fucking Pervert, or at best just plain old Walter. Now Walter stands with a grunt—he is six-two and over the two-forty mark—and comes around the desk, his lungs making little wheezy squirts with each exhalation. Carmen wonders idly if he sounds like that when he is playing with one of the Dead Things she occasionally makes available to him in the lock-up of the sub-basement at 12th and State. Most of the Dead Things are destroyed on sight, but the CPD keeps a supply of the freshly dead for justice purposes. It’s still obscenely easy to find one, despite federal health regulations mandating decapitation. Carmen turns the thought over in her mind with lazy curiosity; Walter has his Dead Things muzzled and cuffed, then covers the head with a plastic bag to keep the smelly drool off of his face. It doesn’t bother her that he likes cold, dead cunt—lots of the guys were going for that since viruses died with the corpses—but it . . . annoys her to think that he might make the same sound over a molding, lifeless piece of fly food that he makes while he is poking her sister.