“Actually,” Brother Michael says, “it was the scientist who created the monster that was named Frankenstein, not the monster itself. It’s a common misconception.”
I frown, not really caring very much for his condescending tone or the subject he’s chosen to bring up. Not caring, in fact, about much of anything at all. Just wanting to get to where we’re going. Glad knowing we won’t be going back today. I’m too tired.
“Frankenstein: the Modern Prometheus was the full title of Missus Shelley’s work.” He pronounces it frahn-kun-shteen. “Do you know who Prometheus was?”
I shake my head, now regretting not staying back behind Micah. I turn my head and give him a baleful look, but his face is graven in effort, dripping with sweat like molten wax, yet otherwise unreadable.
“Prometheus,” Matthew continues, “was a Greek god—a Titan, actually—the creator of man from clay. Against Zeus’s wishes, he gave man fire, thus allowing us to become stronger and more civilized.”
I wipe the sweat from my cheek and try not to think about water. I wonder how much further we have left to go and whether we should stop for a break. Behind me, in his shaded carrier, Shinji pants with his tongue hanging out of his mouth. His water bowl is dry.
“For punishment,” Matthew continues, “Zeus bound Prometheus to the side of a mountain, there to suffer for all eternity by having an eagle peck out his liver each and every day, only to have it grow back again overnight.”
I shiver. “That’s a lovely tale.”
He grimaces at me. It’s not quite a smile. Perhaps it’s twisted a bit by the heat and the exertion of riding. Or maybe he finds my sarcasm not to his liking. Frankly, I don’t care about that, either.
“It’s not just a tale,” he finally says, “it’s a metaphor for the human condition.”
I think about this for a moment and think I’m beginning to understand why he’s telling me this. Is he saying that we are like Prometheus? That we created zombies and now we’re being punished for it? I suppose mankind has had its back strapped to the allegorical wall. I suppose the Undead are like the eagle feeding upon the liver of humanity.
“Why do you call them Elders?”
He sighs and doesn’t reply. Instead, he ducks his face down into his side to wipe the sweat off on his arm. He goes back to riding without answering right away. I’m beginning to think this conversation is over when he says, “We made the Elders. Then we gave them fire.”
I don’t know what he means by this. Does he mean the CUs with their implants? Is he talking about our giving them the power to think, even if only by proxy?
He looks at me and struggles for a moment as he tries to put his thoughts into words. “The Deceivers,” he says, confirming my suspicions.
“What about them?”
“They are an abomination.”
Abomination?
“Aren’t they all?”
“No,” he firmly answers.
“Look,” I say, “Reanimation isn’t exactly something natural.” If anyone is aware of this, it’s me. My own family is responsible for creating the process that brought them all into being. I say, “Nature would never have come up with something like this on its own.”
“Perhaps not, but now that it’s out there, nature will determine whether it survives or goes extinct. Nature, not technology.”
“It’ll go extinct when we do,” I muse.
“I don’t think we will.”
“How can you be so sure? Just because we managed to control a few small outbreaks?”
“In the book,” Brother Matthew says, stubbornly returning to the tale of Frankenstein, “the monster commands his creator to make for it a mate. Doctor Frankenstein agrees and begins work on it immediately—under duress, of course. But in the end he fears that it will lead to a race of such monsters and so he destroys it.”
“Thank God the Undead can’t mate.”
“No? But they can make more of themselves, can’t they?”
“Infection isn’t reproduction.”
He chuffs at me, shaking his head. “I was beginning to think that you and Father Heall would get along nicely.”
“Why would you think that?”
“I thought you were a lot like him. But now I see I’m wrong.”
“I just want to help my friend. I’m not interested in philosophical discussions or a place in his cult.”
“We’re not a cult. There are those who believe in what he stands for…to varying degrees. There are those who disagree with other aspects. But we are all brethren.”
“And what exactly does he stand for?”
“You can ask Will yourself.”
“Who’s Will?
“Sorry, Father Heall.”
He points ahead of us at a faded road sign. COUNTY ROAD, it tells us. MEDFORD. Half a mile. “Almost there,” he says. He sounds just as relieved as I feel.
He shields his eyes and peers at the sun. “Almost three o’clock. Father Heall will be in his chapel.”
“Praying for miracles?”
It’s a stupid thing to say, and I immediately regret it.
“I’ll take you in and get you situated for the evening. You can get washed up and have something to eat and drink. You’ll have about an hour or so to rest before—”
“I don’t want to get washed up or eat,” I protest. “I want to meet with him right away.”
“That won’t be possible.”
I scowl at him, but it fails to elicit any kind of reaction at all.
We take the long circular exit and descend without another word onto another highway. SILLS ROAD the sign says. There are a lot fewer buildings here than I’d expected, fewer, if the blackened, burnt stubs of foundations are any indication, than there once used to be. The forest has grown back, lush and green. We take a left onto DUNTON, the street sign nearly covered in vines, and ride through the trees. The air is much cooler here in the shade, much more pleasant. Everything’s so peaceful. I feel my spirits lifting once again.
But then the first buildings come into view, low structures, once painted white, now surrounded by neglected landscaping. It’s so hard to imagine that people once lived here. That they live here now. It’s hard to imagine a place like this in Long Island. It might as well be the dark side of the moon.
Except, of course, for the Undead.
Chapter 16
A hot wind blows a smattering of leaves from years past across Patchogue Road, sounding like bones rattling and ghosts whispering. The overgrown grass ripples and the trees rustle, as if our passing agitates them. We turn onto a weedy drive and pass beneath the low-hanging canopy of older elms and maples, all choked by the newer vines of the strangler figs. A large white colonial mansion appears. The columns in front are peeling paint and half of the black shutters that once adorned its outer walls have come off or are in the process of coming off. Several rest against the base of the house; others are scattered about on the front lawn. The roof is green with moss, and grass grows from the gutters.
“Charming,” Micah says. He looks warily about, at the ramshackle shed off to one side and the delivery truck parked out in front. Not a single living person is in sight, just the handful of Undead standing like silent sentinels for the living.
I’m about to point out a light shining in one of the upper story windows when I realize it’s just the late afternoon sun reflecting off the glass.
“Jessie!” Micah hisses, swerving away from me. “Pay attention.”
Brother Matthew speeds up. He ignores the zombies standing further out in the fields, but he veers to the far side of the driveway to avoid the closer ones. As we pass, they turn and begin to moan and stumble toward us.
“Quickly now,” he says, throwing his leg over the seat and coasting to the front steps. He jumps off and lets the bike fall onto the grass to one side. “Be careful not to block the walkway,” he warns.
As soon as I reach the steps, Micah’s off his bike and over to the trailer behind me, u
nzipping the carrier the rest of the way. Shinji slips out and growls at the IUs, though not with the same sort of ferocity he’d had back in the parking lot where the Player attacked us. I wonder if he can tell the difference.
“Shinji,” I call. “Come!” We bound up the steps where Brother Matthew is already slipping a key into the door and opening it.
“Inside, quick now!”
“I have to get his rabbit!”
“Jessie, come back!”
I run down the steps and grab the toy out of the trailer as a hand slaps unfeelingly at my back. But I whirl around and slip beneath it and sprint up the steps. The IU is too slow to follow.
“That was stupid!” Micah exclaims.
He’s the first inside; I follow with Shinji’s collar in my hand. Matthew is last, and just as he’s shutting the door, the first IU hits the steps and tumbles over.
It takes several seconds for my eyes to grow accustomed to the darkness.
“Welcome to the dormitory,” Brother Matthew says. He pushes past us and into the vestibule. “Hello?” he calls. His voice booms through the house, making it seem that much more empty.
And, of course, there’s no answer.
“Everyone must still be in the chapel.”
Micah gives me a look. Even in the gloom I can read it: What have we gotten ourselves into?
“This way.”
Matthew leads us up a broad set of stairs. The carpeting is worn and dirty. A sharp tang of burning kerosene hangs in the air, but underneath it is the aroma of something cooking. My stomach growls long and noisily. Micah chuckles at the sound.
“There’s power,” Brother Matthew explains, “but we use it sparingly. As you can guess, light and sound attract the Elders.”
“Generator?”
“We have one, but we try not to use it. It’s loud and fuel is scarce and hard to transport. There are solar panels on the roof in back. They’re badly in need of maintenance. Unreliable.”
We top the steps and he turns left down a wide hallway. The walls are scuffed and there’s a dark splatter along one section. I don’t ask about it. Neither does Micah, though he turns his head and stares at it as we pass.
Matthew stops and knocks at a closed door. “Brother Walter? It’s Brother Matthew. I have…guests.”
There’s a faint sound of bed springs rising inside the room, followed by footsteps. The door is unlocked and cautiously opened. A pair of dark eyes peer out at us through the crack, belly-high, dark eyes in a pond of gray flesh surrounded by black hair. The door opens all the way and we’re treated to a full view of half a man. Brother Walter is short and pale with coal-black hair that falls well past his shoulders and over his chest. A thick carpet of hair covers a craggy, ashen face. But his eyes twinkle.
He looks us over for a moment and says, “Why would you bring Sinners here?”
Brother Matthew tenses beside us. “They aren’t Sinners, Brother Walter.”
“No? They look like Sinners.”
“They’re here for Father Heall. They need his…blessing.”
Brother Walter squints into the gloom and studies our faces, first Micah’s, then mine. “They don’t need his blessing.”
“Not for them, but their friends.”
Brother Walter sighs. “Where?”
“Inside the arcade.”
“Not possible.” He shakes his head emphatically. “No time.”
I step forward. “Please. Our friend is dying. He was bitten. Brother Matthew and Brother Nicholas said he has less than two days. By tomorrow night, he’ll be—”
“No time.”
“We rode bicycles to get here,” Matthew explains. “The car—”
“I said no time!”
“That’s not all,” Brother Matthew continues. “They have news of Enoch.”
Brother Walter’s eyes widen. He straightens himself, brushing his wrinkled shirt over his barrel chest. “Then they are Sinners.”
“No. I’ll explain, but first I’d like to get them situated.”
Brother Walter considers this for a moment before reaching back inside the doorway and into the room. His hand returns with a set of keys in it, which he turns over to Brother Matthew. “Take them to the Remington Room. You know what to do. Standard procedure. I’ll be there in a sec.”
Brother Matthew nods grimly and turns, beckoning us to follow. I glance behind us as Walter slips back inside his room. He doesn’t close the door.
“What’s standard procedure?”
We pass six or seven doors, all closed, before stopping at one. It looks no different than the others. Brother Matthew inserts the key and turns the knob. The door opens with a creak and we’re engulfed in a puff of stale air, as if the room has sat unused for several months.
“There are matches and candles on the dresser,” he says. “A flashlight, too. Use them all sparingly. And keep the shutters closed after it gets dark. I’ll bring up some water for you to wash up in. You’ll find fresh clothes in the closet and drawers. Do your best to find something that fits.”
I turn, frowning. “Both of us?”
He nods. “For now. Leave your backpacks out here, along with anything in your pockets.”
Micah bristles at this and opens his mouth to protest, but then Brother Walter shows up with an EM gun in his hand. He points it directly at us, so there’s no question they mean business.
Nobody moves for a moment, then I ask, “What’s going on?”
Brother Matthew turns to me. “Standard procedure. Just a precaution. Please, just do what we’re asking you. It’s for your own good. And ours.”
“But we didn’t do—”
“You’ll get it all back,” Brother Walter says. “Minus any weapons you may be carrying.” He gestures at the packs with the pistol.
“Jess?” Micah says. I can see him weighing the options, considering whether to resist. But I shake my head once quickly and tell him no. “Do as they say.”
I unshoulder my pack and hand it over to Brother Matthew, along with the Link and the small pocketknife I’d been carrying. Even my inhaler, which I’d been seriously neglecting lately. It has to be running low by now, anyway. Micah watches me, but he doesn’t make any move to follow suit. He clutches his pack to his body and stands with his back against the wall. When he sees the bundle of photos in my hand, now waterlogged and all stuck together, he lashes out and grabs them. “Have some decency!”
Brother Walter nods. “You can keep those.”
“Gee, thanks.”
He takes everything else I’ve given him and sets it against the wall on the other side of the hallway. They wait for Micah to hand over his pack and empty his pockets.
“No.”
“Micah, please,” I whisper. “He said they’ll give it back.”
He shakes his head and backs away. “We didn’t do anything wrong.”
“Micah!”
He takes a step toward Brother Matthew and I yell at him to stop, but before the word comes out, the world suddenly tilts and fills with a whiteness so bright that for a moment it seems almost divine. But then the light expands, blinding my eyes, roaring like a hurricane in my ears. I close my eyes but it doesn’t block the glare, and I realize that they’re already shut and that the whiteness and the wind are inside of me, not without. I’m drowning in it. I try to swim out of it, but my arms are rubber. They stretch for miles and the white liquid I’m swept up in goes on and on, unending.
Then it all collapses—the light and the sound and the smell of burnt plastic and the metallic taste in my mouth—and all my mind registers is that I’m lying on my stomach on the bare, hard, wooden floor and there’s a flickering of light coming from somewhere, like a candle—I can see it reflected on the water-stained wall where the paper has peeled off—and that there’s also a flickering pain, just on the periphery of my consciousness.
I try to move and the pain flares, finding me, staying. It grows into a mountain, feeding on my consciousness. Then, just
as it seems to become unbearable, it shatters and becomes an avalanche of aches. I stop and rest for a moment, waiting for it all to settle.
Minutes and hours and years pass. The walls darken and I realize the flickering light isn’t from a candle but from the dying light of day leaking in from an opening in the wall behind me, a window, presumably. There’s a low moan, coming not from me but from somewhere I can’t see. My heart nearly stops. I dare not move. Not that I could, even if I wanted to. The moan comes again, and now I can hear it shuffling toward me across the floor, closer and closer. And my mind shrieks and yet I can’t move, not even when the wretched thing clamps itself onto my side and smacks its lips.
Chapter 17
“Are you okay?”
Micah moves in closer and his face blurs even more out of focus. I try to answer, but my lips and tongue won’t obey my wishes and all that comes out of my mouth is a whisper of air. He shakes me a second time. “Jessie, can you move?”
The whisper turns into a groan.
“Those cock suckers,” he says. He lets go of me and rocks back onto his heels. “I can’t believe they fucking zapped us!”
“…oor fuhl…”
Micah turns his head and frowns. “My fault? Why?” But he looks away before I can answer. He knows I’m right.
I raise a shaking hand to my head, amazed that I actually can. It takes all my strength and feels like a billion pounds. I watch it hover above me before it drops onto my forehead, sending shards of pain through me again. Apparently my fingers still don’t work.
“I think you caught the brunt of the blast,” he says.
No shit, I want to say, resenting how much quicker he’s recovered than I have. “Wuh tie…mmmm zit?”
He shakes his head. “Can’t tell. They took our Links, too. But judging from the sun, it’s probably close to five o’clock.”
S.W. Tanpepper's GAMELAND, Season One Omnibus Page 69
