Lesser Creatures

by Peter Giglio

  Eric Cooper leaned on his horn as a long procession of zombies shambled across the street. The last thing he wanted to deal with this morning were lazy throngs of the undead. But here they were, impossible to ignore.

  Second-lifers, the socially accepted term for zombies, made his blood boil. Although not cannibals like movies had predicted, they were far from harmless. Once a month, like some kind of planetary menstrual cycle, the earth spit up thousands of new mouths to feed and left taxpayers to shoulder the burden, straining an already struggling economy.

  “Get the fuck out of my way,” Eric shouted through the open window of his Lexus, but it was useless. They just gazed at him with pallid eyes, stopping in their tracks like stupid children, which only made the problem worse. Was it confusion, anger, or just plain stupidity that plagued their misfiring minds? He couldn’t tell.

  If eyes are windows to the soul, he thought, the undead are without.

  He often grappled with their motivations, out of occupational need rather than genuine curiosity, but those glassy expressions were impossible to penetrate. Their moans, groans, and shrieks all sounded feral to his ears, and there was nothing about them worth understanding; not as far as he was concerned. He wished everyone else would stop trying.

  He honked his horn again, the light turning red, then slapped his hands on the steering wheel as an irritating pop song ended on the radio. The image of Pastor Steven Lingk filled his dashboard screen, as if the morning could get any worse. He reached over to change the station but inexplicably stopped himself.

  The last big account Eric landed had been with Glory’s Children Church. The pastor had pulled the contract three months after the ink dried, citing creative differences. But Eric knew better.

  “Fucking zombie lover,” Eric muttered.

  He hadn’t always felt that way. Once upon a time he’d been sympathetic to the plight of second-lifers. But he was tired of watching the living—productive members of society—suffer as a result of a liability they’d never asked for. He was tired of science dollars spent trying to understand them while society’s infrastructure decayed.

  A burden humanity could do nothing about, even if people in power wanted to.

  “Every day,” the pastor said, “Glory’s Children face indignity.” Orchestral music played in the background. “Our parents, our grandparents, our loved ones…” A series of ersatz family photographs moved across the screen. “Someone’s son. Someone’s daughter. Reduced to nothing. Treated like cattle…” The music swelled as the image slowly tightened on Lingk. “Join me every Monday and Thursday at seven p.m., here at Glory’s Temple, or on this station for my broadcast of hope. Together, we can make a difference.”

  Eric hadn’t noticed the light turn green until the car behind him honked. He floored the accelerator, despite the short distance to the parking garage, then made a tire-screeching turn into the entrance, swiped his ID card, and tapped his fingers impatiently on the steering wheel while waiting for the slow gate to rise. Once inside the garage, he barreled the sedan into his space, then rather than rushing out of the car, as he normally would have, he let the engine idle. He gave the idea of not going into work serious consideration. Perhaps he’d never go in again. He’d lost his touch, and he doubted he’d ever get it back. All the firm’s young bucks ran circles around him, and it was only a matter of time before—

  Then the thought of his many bills, his car payment, his mortgage…

  He cut the engine and closed his eyes, remembering a time when everything made sense. A time when he’d been a young and effective ad-man on the rise, a sea of limitless possibilities spread before him. A time devoid of useless corpses that dominated the concerns of the living.

  These new burdens were things young men understood. Hell, they’d never known any differently.

  Eric snatched his briefcase and stepped out of the car, and again Steven Lingk’s voice assaulted him, this time coming from a video billboard next to the elevator.

  “Together, we can make a difference.”

  Eric scowled.

  “That’s quite a game he has going,” Frank Allen’s voice echoed through the garage. Eric turned and watched his boss’s approach. The guy, five years his junior and in the position Eric had always thought would be his by now, was all Texas swagger. “But you’ve got to hand it to him.”

  “Why’s that?” Eric asked. “He’s nothing more than a cult leader.”

  Frank shrugged and laughed. “Maybe. But he can afford five million a year in ad-buys.”

  Eric fell in step with Frank as they neared the elevator. “And what does he pay in taxes?”

  “Hey, amigo, I’m running an ad agency, not the I.R.S.”

  They entered the lift and Eric pressed the button for the thirty-ninth floor. “Hey, Frank?”

  “What?”

  “When are you gonna stop reminding me of what a fuckup I am?”

  “Easy, Cooper. When you stop fucking up.”

  Eric just nodded as Frank laughed, though what he really wanted to do was murder the bastard. They rode the rest of the way in silence. And when the doors finally opened, after what seemed an eternity in the slow-moving car, Eric started toward his office.

  “Hey, Cooper.” Eric stopped and turned. Frank said, “Look, uh, I’m sorry.”

  “Sorry for what?” Eric was pretty sure it wasn’t for being a prick. That was Frank’s hobby, and he was never apologetic for it.

  “Just don’t be late to the Friday Roundtable tomorrow, okay?”

  “When have I ever been late?”

  “Just don’t be late for this one.”

  “What’s happening, Frank? You letting me go?”

  “You think I’m going to fire you in front of your peers?”

  “I wouldn’t put it past you.”

  “Look, we’re making some changes. All positive. Our new approach will help you. Help all of us. You’ll see.”

  “Why do I find it so hard to trust you?”

  “Might as well ask why a bear shits in the woods. That’s just your nature. Ten a.m. Don’t be late.”

  Eric trudged to his office.

  * * *

  Ignoring emails and sales reports, Eric spent his morning researching anti-zombie groups online. There weren’t many surprises. The groups used poorly designed blogs to spread their message, maiming the English language at every turn. Each good point was overshadowed by ten ridiculous notions, and Eric hated himself for sharing feelings with such evident blights on humanity. He had enough humility not to think of himself as an enlightened man, despite his three years as a practicing Buddhist in college, which he thought back on as a pretentious lark. But he was an educated man, open-minded, and he pressed himself hard to understand why he couldn’t get with the program.

  He did, however, understand why it was so easy for society to fall in line.

  The Curse.

  That’s what the anti-zombie groups called it. Rational society didn’t have a name for what happened to those who terminated second-lifers. He wondered what the families of the four Horizon City cops who’d taken down the first batch of second-lifers called it. Those guys had only been doing their jobs and didn’t deserve such a terrible, tragic fate.

  Rotting alive. The agonizing pain…

  Just thinking about it made Eric shudder. The second victims of The Curse were members of a teen gang in Belgrade. Perhaps they hadn’t believed the stories from the States, or just didn’t want to. Regardless, the second event proved the first, making zombie termination a very rare criminal offense.

  The crazy situation created a powerful ricochet effect. The anti-zombie organizations couldn’t take their anger out on second-lifers. A criminal might be stupid enough to think they could evade the law, but supernatural curses were a whole new beast. And they couldn’t kill the living, the “zombie lovers,” because that would only produce a larger crop of what the dissenters hated most.

  “Hopeless,” Eric moaned. He shut the Web br
owser and began his listless scan of morning emails. He was about to send his first reply, a snarky little number aimed at Ted Mallory, when the phone rang.

  “Cooper,” he answered.

  “Where have you been for the last three days?”

  It was Melody, and her voice sounded like anything but.

  “Hey, hon.” He did his best to sound chipper, but it came out wrong, muddled and insincere.

  “Don’t hon me. You’ve been ignoring my calls for three days. I even came by your condo last night. Were you home? I bet you were!”

  “I was sleeping. I’ve had a lot on my mind lately. Cut me some—”

  “Coop! You’re supposed to talk to your fiancée about what’s on your mind. Your fiancée. Not your mother. Not an old friend from college. The girl you asked to marry you. Remember that?”

  “Of course I do. I’m sorry.”

  “Whatever.”

  “Look, uh, I have a lot of work to do—”

  “Sure you do.”

  He banged the phone’s receiver against his forehead and damned himself for not checking the call display before answering. Then he forced a smile and said, “How about dinner tonight? I’ll pick you up at seven.”

  “Make it six, and I want to go someplace nice.”

  “Where would you like to dine?”

  “Fuck, I don’t know. Can’t you do anything? You know what I like.”

  He absolutely did not. He’d tried to understand her taste, but she was fickle, and he was a terrible mind reader. He’d often been chastised for taking her to places she’d previously claimed to enjoy. But he wasn’t in the mood for games right now. “Sure, sure,” he said. “I’ll, uh, I’ll see you at six, okay?”

  “Don’t be late.”

  He cringed at her words, the second such warning of the day. Self-loathing aside, he prided his punctuality, and it grated on his nerves to have one of his legitimate virtues called into question. But he bit his tongue. “Six o’clock, my dear. Be there with bells on.”

  She laughed in an unkind manner.

  “What?” he said.

  “You’re a dork.”

  Before he could reply, she hung up.

  CHAPTER 2

  In central Horizon City, two blocks north of Lazarus Estates, sat Glory’s Children Church. A plain white structure, not large and not small, but with membership growing at a staggering rate, Pastor Steven Lingk couldn’t help but be proud.

  The night’s service was almost complete. Cameras and microphones were trained on the dais. Lingk beamed for them, and for the congregation, meeting every eye he could, waving like a politician running for high office.

  Tonight was special. Tonight was the night. The moment for truth to shine.

  “Thank you. Thank you,” Lingk said, using his hands to calm the thunderous applause. Once the roar died to an excited hush, he stepped toward the microphone and started into his great revelation: “Fifteen years ago…”

  * * *

  “Why tonight?” asked Julie Stewart, a junior reporter from Globe Cable News.

  Steve noticed how uncomfortable she looked, fidgeting in her seat. That’s not what he wanted. Nervous reporters were dangerous animals. Waving over his personal assistant, he said, “Meredith, can we get Ms. Stewart a more suitable chair?”

  “I’m fine,” the reporter said. “I’ll be honest with you, Mr. Lingk—”

  “Call me Steve,” he said, “and please, always be honest with me.”

  She chuckled nervously. “Of course. I just didn’t expect all this when you asked for an interview.”

  “Oh? What did you expect?”

  “I don’t know. I guess I expected a free publicity ploy. I’m still not sure that isn’t what this is.”

  “You must know I pay handsomely for advertising, Ms. Stewart. I don’t believe that anything is ever truly free.”

  “Just the same, you’ve thrown me off balance. I wasn’t prepared—”

  “What I’ve really done you is a favor.” Lingk steepled two fingers beneath his chin and smiled. “I’m sure reporters all over the world are dying to talk to me right now. Hordes of them are likely parked outside the church trying to get in. Should I let them in? Is that what you want?”

  She shook her head.

  “I didn’t think so.”

  “How do you intend to prove your claim?”

  He raised his eyebrows. “Prove?”

  “You must realize that you’re being called—”

  “Crazy? A liar?”

  “Well, yes, though I didn’t want to put so fine a point on it.”

  He laughed. “May I ask your religion?”

  “If I were to say no?”

  “Humor me.” He smiled. She didn’t.

  “I grew up Catholic, but—”

  “Lapsed, are we?”

  “I guess you could say that.”

  “Why?”

  “I don’t understand what that has to do with anything.” She squirmed again, beads of sweat breaking out on her forehead.

  “Are you sure you don’t want a more comfortable chair? Maybe something cool to drink?”

  “Again, I’m fine.”

  “Fair enough,” he said. “But you’ll have to excuse my curious nature. I wonder, could your lapse in faith have something to do with a lack of evidence? How does one prove, for instance, that Jesus walked on water? How does one prove he cured lepers and turned water into wine?”

  Her eyes narrowed.

  “Isn’t that why they call it faith?” he asked. Not waiting for a response, he continued: “When you get done with me, are you going to call the pope and ask him to prove Dogmatic Law?” He laughed again. “I don’t wish to make you uncomfortable, so please don’t misunderstand. I knew people would have questions, and as one who respects your work, I thought you were the right person to ask them. Perhaps I was wrong.”

  “I’m flattered,” she said, “but it seems like I’m the one being interviewed.”

  “Point taken. Now I trust you’ve switched over to a live feed, so this is your moment. I’m inviting you to take charge, understanding, of course, the awkward position I’ve put you in.”

  She cleared her throat. “Why fifteen years? Why is this anniversary so important?”

  “I was fifteen when this started.”

  “When, according to what you said tonight, you started second-life. All because of the wish of a girl you were in love with.”

  “That’s right.”

  She laughed. “Forgive me, but that’s just…it’s preposterous.”

  “I can see why you would say that, but that doesn’t make it any less true.”

  “So what’s different now? What’s the significance of dropping this bombshell tonight? Why should people care what a—excuse me for saying this—what a glorified cult leader has to say?”

  Lingk shrugged, but his smile didn’t fade. “I didn’t switch your feed to live broadcast. I didn’t invite all the reporters outside to my door.”

  “Yes,” she said, “but one who screams fire in a crowded theater doesn’t have to light a match, and you didn’t answer my question. You stood in front of your congregation tonight and admitted that Glory, the namesake of the faith they’ve subscribed to, was a troubled young girl.”

  “Hypocrisy, if I may be so bold,” he said, “often requires answers to unasked questions.”

  “But why now?”

  “I realized on my thirtieth birthday, after a meditative period of reflection, that it’s been long enough. I knew then that this would be the year I’d make my secret known. Tonight, the fifteenth anniversary of the first rising. Now we must stop wasting time and treasure in the futile pursuit of why, when all we really need to do is concentrate on the next stage in evolution.”

  “How can you suggest that second-life is part of a natural process? The problem started overnight. By your own unsupported claim, it was started by you.”

  “What you call a problem, I call a blessing. The aspect that
’s gradual is the evolution of Glory’s Children themselves. Cognitive studies, conducted by leading scientists, have already proven they’re getting smarter.”

  “Slightly, and in only a few cases, but…”

  “But what? That sounds an awful lot like evolution to me.”

  “Or adaptation.”

  “What is evolution but adaptation? Indulge a digression, if you will. Flashpoints, you see, are magic. The Big Bang of second-life is all I really revealed tonight. God is in the magic. Science is in the ripples. One doesn’t prosper scrutinizing magic, which is what most religions do. Once we accept that, we can stop looking for cause, which is what I provided tonight, and start focusing on what really matters.”

  “Which is?”

  “Immortality. Isn’t that what every other religion promises? Glory’s Children is more than just a faith, Ms. Stewart. We can provide the promise others have failed to deliver.”

  * * *

  It was business as usual at Luigi’s Pizza & Pub—the clatter of dishes and glassware; the delicious scents of fresh baked breads and cheeses; the celebratory laughter and banter of patrons. But Eric didn’t notice these things any more than he noticed his girlfriend across the table as she stared daggers at him. His attention was held by a nearby video monitor.

  “Are you suggesting,” the reporter asked, “that you’re God?”

  “Coop,” Melody snapped.

  He held a finger up to her and said, “Wait, this is important.”

  “Not at all,” Lingk said. “To interpret my words that way is to miss the point. I’m only an instrument of God.”

  “You don’t expect people to believe a word of this, do you?” the reporter asked.

  “Why not? What more do they need? We’ve all seen what happens to those who terminate Glory’s Children. How can anyone view that as anything less than divine intervention?”

  “Some have gone so far as to call it a curse.”

  “Coop!” Melody repeated, this time louder.

  “One moment, hon. I promise.”