The Tale of Tom Zombie (Book 2): Zombie Lies

by Timmons, H. D.

  “This guy on the cover doesn’t have flesh falling off of his face, but he is still a zombie,” Jemma explained. “The legend of Haitian zombies is that they are hypnotized to do someone’s bidding; usually they are slaves or some such.”

  Tom looked at Jemma dubiously.

  “How else can you explain it? Jemma continued. “A bloke says a word to you in the alley and for the next several hours you’re in my flat staring into space. You have fuzzy memories of killing someone who supposedly killed your daughter, but you don’t know why, how or even when.” Jemma reached for her phone.

  “What are you doing?” Tom asked.

  “This is too heavy for me. We need Mark Spencer. We became fast friends at C2E2. I think he can help.”

  “C2E2? The Chicago Comic and Entertainment Expo.” Tom confirmed. Jemma’s expression announced her surprise at his knowledge.

  “I used to be a cop, and I’d pull extra shifts working events at the convention center,” Tom revealed from his spotty memory.

  “Well, Tom. It seems like your memory is coming back,” Jemma noted. “Mark’s into sci-fi comics, but he also reads real books. Big ones, ya know? Like psychology stuff. He teaches it. Don’t worry. He can be trusted.”

  #

  Mark arrived at Jemma’s apartment just before 7:00 p.m. and listened intently to her recounting of the day’s events, all the while Mark’s eyes darted between Tom and Jemma’s gruesome faces.

  In contrast to Jemma’s hip clothing, Mark looked more conservative. An unlikely friendship, but their shared interest in the comic scene garnered each mutual respect.

  Tom was soon asked what he could remember of his life; highlights merely to test his memory. By this time his memories were coming into full focus. Although he spoke of various life events, there was no one that could corroborate any of it. No one to point out the gaps that were meant to be forgotten. There was no memory of Tom’s experience at Fort Sheridan. Nothing of his old partner Roger Norton taking his daughter Holly hostage because he thought Tom had stolen his money. Despite feeling confident in his memories, the only nuance that troubled him was that he knew his daughter was dead, but he had no real memory of it.

  “Sir,” Mark began.

  “Tom,” Tom corrected.

  “Tom, I believe you were given a post-hypnotic suggestion. A trigger word, if you will.”

  “That’s why you were zombied out all afternoon; and being in that state triggered your response to the news footage of the congressman.” Jemma added.

  “The word that the man said to you in the alley – do you want to know what it was?” Mark asked. The bookwormish young man had scooted forward in his chair almost in some sort of macabre excitement.

  “Do you want me to say it?” Jemma quipped.

  “No, no!” Tom spoke up, not wanting to tempt fate. “Better just write it down.”

  Jemma wrote the word phonetically on a piece of paper. OH-BEH-DEE-RAY. Upon seeing it Tom was glad that it didn’t seem like a word that could come up in casual conversation.

  Mark studied it and sounded it out in his head and recognized it to be the word OBEDIRE. “It’s Latin,” Mark informed them. “It means OBEY. I’ve read about this stuff. Theories abound about Lee Harvey Oswald, Sirhan Sirhan and countless others being brainwashed. It sounds like you are definitely a victim here.”

  “Blimey!” Jemma said out of sheer fascination.

  “Someone may have programmed you to kill yourself after killing the congressman, but since that didn’t go according to plan, they’re not done with you.”

  “What makes you say that?”

  “The man could have just killed you in the alley, but he didn’t. He said a word to you to make you follow his instructions.

  “So, now what?” Tom asked Mark. “You hypnotize me to remove the post-hypnotic suggestion or something?”

  “Oh, I don’t know how to hypnotize people,” Mark informed. “I really don’t think you have to worry about that word now.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “The word was planted in your subconscious; hidden somewhere deep in your brain so you couldn’t find it. Well, now you’ve found it. You know what the word is and what its intent was for you, so it’s no longer in your subconscious. It has no more power over you.”

  “That’s it? It’s that easy?” Tom asked in disbelief.

  “That’s it – in theory, anyway.”

  “In theory?!”

  “Well, I’m not an expert. I just know what I read.”

  You want to test it?” Jemma asked eagerly, but before anyone could answer Mark uttered the word clearly and directly to Tom. Jemma’s eyes widened. A hush filled the room.

  Tom broke the silence after a moment’s hesitation. “Well, that’s a relief.”

  The word had no effect on him whatsoever.

  Mark continued to flesh out more of his hypothesis. “If I may be so bold, Tom. The one thing that really sticks out to me is your lack of memory regarding how your daughter died. I would speculate that you may have been given an alternate reality to believe in order to carry out certain instructions while in your trance. Perhaps you were made to believe your daughter was killed, so seeking revenge for her death made sense to your subconscious. That’s why you felt you had to kill the congressman.”

  Tom’s eyes widened with hope. “So you’re saying Holly may actually still be alive?!”

  Part 4

  Since 2001, there has been a propensity for having much of U.S. policy originated by think tanks. One such think tank, comprised of civilian, political, and military personnel, dubbed Project for a Safe America (PSA) was tasked with creating new rationalizations and feasibility studies to counter threats to the American way of life.

  Within the confines of The Pentagon, the PSA once again convened to review the latest developments on a new strategic military counter-terrorism weapon. Political-Military Affairs Officer, Major Donald Fleming called the meeting to order.

  “As promised, I am pleased to present to you all today surveillance footage of what I hope will generate consensus among our group so that we may provide full disclosure to the Secretary of Defense for approval of further development of this tactical weapon.”

  Some grumbling at the table indicated eagerness, while others in attendance remained stone-faced.

  In subsequent meetings the major had laid out the plan to capitalize on the zombie epidemic at hand. While other agencies dealt with eradicating the zombie menace, as it had been referred to in the media, the Political-Military Affairs Officer was asked by the Department of Defense to delve into the feasibility of a possible way to utilize this mutated breed of human for achieving strategic U.S. political objectives.

  Major Fleming had quickly seen an opportunity to present the think tank with a new spin on the MK-Ultra program.

  MK-Ultra was developed decades ago by the CIA’s Office of Scientific Intelligence, and involved the use of various drugs to manipulate mental states and alter brain functions, effectively brainwashing people. Such persons were instructed to carry out assassinations and, subsequently, had no recollection of ever committing the act.

  “The drug of choice we have chosen to use in our latest experiments is Scopolamine. Appropriately, it was once referred to as the Zombie Drug because it worked best in the MK-Ultra program to turn subjects into automatons. But, we have improved upon the past,” the major had informed his group. “The old school methods we used to employ took months - often years - to fracture a subject’s psyche to influence the desired thought reform, compliance or persuasion, if you will. With new developments in this field we have discovered a method of speeding up this process to mere weeks.

  “There is a new agent that we’ve extracted from specimens.” A horrifying image of a severely decomposing man of indeterminable age appeared on the presentation screen. His eyes were devilish looking, his brow furrowed, teeth bared, and he was obviously straining against restraints that were just out of the came
ra’s view.

  “Looks like my driver’s license photo!” came a comment, followed by a smattering of chortles around the conference table.

  Fleming grinned, then continued. “By gathering samples from specimens such as these, our biologists were able to isolate the enzyme in the virus that attacks a person’s brain, ceasing normal brain activity, thereby creating what we know as a zombie state. In studying how this enzyme works, we’ve altered it to attack very specific parts of the brain.” A photo of a vile of green liquid appeared on the screen. “Used in conjunction with Scopolamine, we can more quickly fracture an individual’s psyche, which allows us to supplant contrived memories over existing ones, hone existing skills and traits, and use them to our advantage and train subjects to respond to verbal triggers planted in their subconscious.”

  Fleming paused momentarily to survey his audience’s expressions and gauge their acceptance or rejection of his presentation thus far. All visibly approved, and Fleming cued up a video for his next segment.

  “By now you’ve all heard the reports that Al-Qaeda operative Alik Kuman was killed in Afghanistan.”

  “Yeah. Zombie attack, right? Damn things are everywhere,” Senator Wendell Rivers said.

  “This surveillance footage was taken of that attack.” The major pressed the play button.

  The absolute carnage shown was more horrific than any combat footage. It wasn’t warfare. It was like watching a pack of wild animals attack.

  Bio-technical consultant, Dr. Janine Ward squirmed uncomfortably in her seat at the intensity of the gory violence, as did Senator Rivers.

  Judging from their clothing, the zombies seemed to be an odd mix of American and Iraqi soldiers and civilians. When Senator Rivers began to question how such a mixture was rounded up and put into the supply truck, Major Fleming motioned with his finger to hold the thought.

  Heads began to tilt with interest when the driver of the truck emerged. He walked normally – not with the stiffness and dragging limbs of a living corpse – and passed the two zombies still outside without either of them acknowledging him.

  However, when he turned so the video camera could glimpse his complete face, he was as horrid as any of the monsters strewn about the dirt road.

  Fleming’s audience watched as the driver entered the now unguarded building without hesitation.

  Quizzical faces turned toward Major Fleming after the explosive scene that followed the driver’s return to the supply truck.

  The major ended the video and smugly addressed the group. “Inside that building is where Alik Kuman’s body was found and, as you have surmised by now, the zombies did not kill him, but our lone gunman – if you’ll pardon the clichéd expression.

  Every action he carried out is what he was programmed to do. Normally, we would have had him shoot himself after he killed his target – seemingly another casualty, but I thought that the grenade would be more dramatic for this presentation and show the depth of control we have over our subjects.”

  “Very impressive theatrics, Major, but if that man was not a true zombie why didn’t the other zombies try to attack him?” Dr. Ward asked.

  Fleming beamed with pride as he spoke. “Ah, that is the fortuitous by-product of using the zombie enzymes. Zombies don’t attack zombies because their decomposing bodies release a chemical that allows them to distinguish themselves from the living.”

  “Necromones.” Dr. Ward offered the medical term for the chemical.

  “Yes, Doctor. Necromones. With our new approach, we specifically select subjects with the simple flesh eating disease for these missions. With the enzyme we can not only alter their brain functions, but the resulting release of necromones allows us to use the zombie menace as a cover for our operation.

  The zombie-looking sleeper soldier goes about his mission and it looks like a random zombie attack with no ties back to our government. Not to mention that it does wonders to strike fear into superstitious villagers,” The major chuckled coarsely. “I’ve dubbed this Project Mortuus Vivens - Project Living Dead.”

  “A master stroke, Major,” Senator Rivers praised. “You’ll notice my colleague Congressman Dennis Price is noticeably absent from this presentation.

  It’s no secret that when you first approached us with the outline of this new counter-terrorism method, Congressman Price was adamantly opposed to it. But I have to say Major, I think the Secretary of Defense would be impressed by what we’ve seen here today.”

  “High praise indeed, Senator,” Fleming said modestly. “And with regard to the opinion of our esteemed Congressman Price from Chicago, I think we can all agree that it is best that he is no longer with us.”

  Part 5

  Fueled by the hope that his daughter Holly might still be alive, Tom Dexter shocked Jemma and Mark with his plan. It was unthinkable. While Jemma and Mark were planning ways to get Tom out of the building undetected, Tom decided that the best way to find out the truth about his daughter, and what happened to him, would be to let himself be found by his pursuer.

  “Are you mad?” Jemma demanded to know.

  “It’s the best chance I have.” Tom stated his logic. “The post-hypnotic suggestion doesn’t work anymore so I can use that to my advantage.”

  “It actually does sound like a good plan, Jem,” Mark agreed.

  Tom thanked Jemma and Mark for their help and set out on his way. He knew that the more distance he put between himself and his two young friends, the safer they would be.

  The rooftop was Tom’s destination when the man from the alley saw him, so Tom headed for the fire escape once more in hopes that eyes were watching his every move.

  After twenty minutes, Tom had navigated his way across the building tops and down the fire escape on the opposite end of the block. No sooner had his feet touched down on the concrete sidewalk did a voice, clear and firm, speak a single word from the shadows.

  “Obedire.”

  Tom stood motionless. He fixed his gaze forward to be convincing in his deception. As the man circled Tom, surveying him for a moment, there was no recognition in Tom’s memory at the sight of his old police partner, Roger Norton, who stood before him.

  To Tom this man with the black eye and the swollen nose, that looked busted all to hell, was a complete stranger. A stranger that may know the answer to what really happened to his daughter, and why someone had used him to kill a congressman.

  All Tom had to do was bide his time until he found out the truth.

  “Just look at you,” Norton spoke condescendingly to his one-time friend, “Tom the Zombie. You never seem to stop screwing things up for me do you? If you hadn’t tripped and knocked yourself out in that hotel room you’d have killed yourself and Fleming would have cut me loose.” Norton circled behind Tom once more. “Now, because of you the ol’ major wants to keep fucking with me!” Norton stepped to the curb and opened the rear door of a grey sedan. “Get in the damn car, Tom.”

  Tom obeyed.

  Though his eyes remained expressionless, Tom’s mind raced to make sense of all that was being said.

  “You know, Tom, I would love to just kill you myself for all the trouble you’ve caused me,” Norton said touching a finger to the bridge of his broken nose, “but oddly enough you’re my golden ticket. Yessir. I’m this close to separating myself from Major ass-wipe Fleming.” Norton looked at Tom in the rear view mirror. “How’s that, you ask?” mocking his one sided conversation. “In exchange for not locking me away on some trumped up charge of treason, Fleming is willing to give me another chance to earn my freedom with a shit load of cash to disappear with, and it’s all because of you, old buddy.

  “Now, I’ve got to babysit your ass to make sure you take care of some loose ends for the major. Slimy bastard is no fool, eh, Tom?” Checking the rear view again. “Fleming is using us both so he can keep his hands clean.”

  Roger Norton took Tom to a vacant building downtown. The zombie epidemic had forced many businesses and homeowners to vac
ate neighborhoods that had become known hot spots for zombie activity. The first neighborhoods affected were the areas typically identified to have high drug activity.

  As the zombies roamed, their territories slowly spread despite police and military efforts to contain them to the less populated areas.

  Tom maintained his trance-like state and responded appropriately to every command Norton spoke. Walk up the stairs. Stop. Go inside the room. Sit in the chair.

  Presently, Norton stood by a window of the empty insurance office which he had appropriated for his purposes, looked out onto the abandoned street below, and made a call on his cell phone while Tom strained to overhear from across the room.

  “Yeah. It’s Norton. I have him. We are in the building. [pause] Yes, yes… same as last time. After this is done I’ll get my money, right? No more jerking me around? [pause] Good.”

  After his phone call, Norton began speaking to Tom, who remained expressionless. “You really are lucky that you don’t have to deal with that sadistic Major Fleming. Well, he did shoot you in the gut right in front of your daughter, but you don’t remember any of that, now do ya?” He tousled Tom’s hair tauntingly.

  “Those government pricks sure know how to wipe out what they don’t want you to remember. Like me.” Norton feigned an exaggerated sad expression. “You don’t even remember your old partner Roger Norton. After all we’ve been through, and now we can’t even reminisce about the old days together.” Laughter rose up from Norton’s throat and seeped caustically from his lips.

  As Norton turned his back on Tom to reach into a satchel that he had brought from the car, Tom adroitly moved his hand from his lap and lifted the front of his shirt enough to sneak a peek at where Norton mentioned he had been shot. Sure enough there was a wound that looked like it had been healed for nearly a month. He poked at the spot but there was no tenderness or soreness. Tom quickly dropped his hand back into his lap and resumed his blank stare before Norton turned back around.