by Jim Couper
"That's scary."
"Scary and getting scarier. Some wear sunglasses. They come out in daylight. Although many are brainless, some kind of thought process goes on somewhere with some of them. A few throw rocks and hit with sticks. What's with that? I don't know. It’s like apes using tools."
A waiter arrived and Jane ordered coffees and doughnuts. She commented on the activity in the restaurant and the waiter said zombie tourism was great for business. Media, and people wanting to view the creatures, had booked all the rooms. Even a campground with six security guards had reopened. It lost a tenter and two guards before the army closed it. Since visitors dared not walk the streets after dark they hung around the restaurant and left huge tips.
"Is that a hint?" Donald asked.
"No, you guys are locals. You're exempt. In fact coffee's on the house."
"I'm not local. I'm from Ottawa," Donald announced.
"You sure?"
"I should know."
"I swear I've seen you around town,” the waiter insisted. “Don't you work in the drug store?"
"Not that I know of."
"Maybe you’re in real estate. I've been looking for a house."
"No, I'm from Ottawa.”
“You at the open house in Summerland last month?”
“No, I was in Ottawa.”
“You sure? You’re a dead ringer for the condo salesman there.”
Jane butted in to put an end to the circular conversation. "Put the coffees on my tab. Police policy. No freebies allowed."
When the waiter walked away Jane asked about updates on aliens. Donald explained those ended shortly after he arrived in Peachland and saw what had happened to the dead. He kept up the crazy patter to get to Joey. They liked to joke although she thought he was serious when he extended his theory to fit local conditions.
After a pause Donald asked Jane what she knew about Vladimir’s Bar.
“Don’t know much about it. Name’s familiar. Where is it again?”
“Three blocks from your station.”
“OK, right, I know it, just forgot about it. Pretty tame. Hardly ever notice it, obviously. Never had a brawl; no dealers. Don’t think they even employ a bouncer. What’s your interest?”
“I’ve been into every business in town. Just snooping around. Vlad’s is the strangest bar I’ve ever seen. And I’ve frequented plenty. How does it stay in business? No clients. Not even druggies, hookers or bikers. Just an occasional drunk. And a bunch of weird customers who stand around watching TV but don’t do anything else and don’t order drinks or food. All perfectly groomed, all about age 30, all dressed in dark colors. What does that add up to?”
“A gay bar?”
“That’s what I thought at first. The females, good-looking and shapely, show no romantic interest in anyone: no emotions. They just stand around with the men watching a big TV and when some horrific zombie image comes on they mumble about it being dreadful.”
“I don’t think you’d be telling me this unless you had a theory. What is it?”
“Vampires. Before you laugh, let me remind you that a couple of weeks ago you would have laughed if I had said zombies had invaded your town.”
“Good point. And I’ve seen the remains of a gnome. I do think it’s funny, ironic, in the sense of this is the last straw. That type of funny. What more can happen? ”
“One more thing. They’ve got something going on in their basement. Maybe a lab or a work-shop. We need to go down there to find out.”
“Where the hell does it all end?” Jane asked with a sigh. “Vampires with a lab in the basement of a local pub? Are they building a Frankenstein? I’d rather have aliens.”
The waiter plunked coffee and a couple of doughnuts and informed Donald he had seen him in a play a year ago. Donald answered he had never acted, not here and not in Ottawa. The waiter shrugged and walked off, as if to say he could not understand why anyone would deny a stage career.
Jane explained she couldn’t get a warrant to search Vladimir’s basement because of the army. Judges respected army control and no longer recognized the RCMP. Donald should call Mayhew about the basement lab, she suggested. Soldiers would barge in without a warrant or anything else. They didn’t need just cause.
Donald countered that everything the Colonel did ended in disaster. Mayhew’s ineptitude caused soldier deaths every day. He conducted battles as if fighting rebels in Libya, not reanimated in Peachland.
“Bullets and shells keep going until they strike something and that something is often a house, car or civilian. He randomly lobs mortars and grenades as if he's fighting insurgents in the jungle. He should be toasting them, face to face with flamethrowers and he should have a moat or electric fence around the town: something they can't get past. Soldiers try to track them at night − zombie advantage − and then rest during the day when they should be launching a full-scale zombie hunt.”
Donald went on to explain that the Colonel rarely ventures from his hiding place at the winery where he samples expensive vintages. “I don’t think he even understands that blowing off an arm or causing a concussion does nothing to an undead. You know, these things that we assume are brain-dead may actually have a strategy. They let soldiers surround them and the soldiers can’t fire because their bullets hit their buddies. As soon as a soldier stumbles, loses focus or turns the wrong way the zombies are on him.”
Donald's rant ended when Jane cut in, “I guess we should go to Vlad’s and have a drink. At least I’ll have a drink. You can have water.” Jane changed the subject as she didn’t want to diss Mayhew, a fellow law enforcer, any more than necessary. The delicacy and difficulty of his situation she understood.
“We should take Jesse. Sometimes he sees things I don’t. He could use a drink. Mayhew’s men blew up his house. I think the whole thing burned. Two of my squad cars might have gone with it.”
Donald gulped down some coffee to clear his throat then resumed talking. “Before we go, here’s something to know. There is no Vlad: no Vladimir. A numbered company made up of 18 people owns the place. They’ve owned it for 10 years. And for 10 years before that it was owned by some guy named Valiant. And for 10 years before that a woman named Victoria owned it. And a decade before that a dude by the name of Velletto had ownership. It goes back to 1923 when Alexander Vladimir de Vladivostok bought an abandoned building and turned it into a bar. Every 10 years it changes hands.”
Jane sipped coffee and as she pushed a chocolate doughnut towards her mouth she vividly recalled the outpouring of floating islands from Joey’s torn stomach. The circular snack dropped back to her plate.
“So what’s the deal with vampires?” she asked, trying to extinguish the image. “Do we wear garlic and put wooden stakes through their hearts?”
“Beats me,” Donald replied. “The myth says a bullet through the brain kills zombs but that doesn’t work. Some don’t have brains. And those that do don’t use them− except for stuff like sunglasses and simple strategy. Why a wooden stake? Does it have to be ash or maple or oak? Why wouldn’t a steel pole work? Or aluminum: to give them aluminum poisoning. Or lead for lead poisoning. Or a cobalt pole to radiate them to death. I don’t have a clue. Maybe silver bullets kill vampires. Does Wal-Mart stock them? But why kill vampires? They don’t seem to do any harm. They’ve been running a bar for decades and no one has even noticed.”
After squeezing through a media mob to pick up Jesse at the station they parked in front of Vladimir’s Bar and stared. The backlit sign above the windows − black script on white − hinted at nothing except a lack of creativity. No open or closed sign adorned the door nor did a posting of hours of operation. Many businesses featured an outside sandwich board advertising the day’s specials, but not Vladimir’s.
The three in the car agreed about Vlad’s lack of business sense and lack of desire to attract customers but no crime had been committed, no bylaw violated. Inside they plunked down on black bar stools with chrome trim and a barte
nder meandered their way showing neither pleasure nor displeasure at the appearance of three new customers. Jane ordered wine, Jesse a draught beer and after a pause Donald said he would have a bottle of Bud.
“Don’t do it,” Jane cautioned. “You said you’ve been good for a year. Don’t ruin it all now.”
“I had one before and I stopped. I can control it. I’ve proved I can have one and walk away.” Donald’s nod confirmed his order.
They scanned the dim interior. Stained oak trim provided a dark decorative adornment to walls painted flat-black. Recessed pod lights randomly threw illumination here and there with neither thought nor pattern. A wooden floor appeared original: untreated pine or fir with gaps between slats. Plastic flowers circa 1986 and an array of framed photos of jungle animals clipped from National Geographic constituted efforts at decoration. A dusty trout that might have talked if its batteries had not died constituted a token attempt at pop culture.
The lack of ambient music meant the bartender could hear every word of conversation so the trio talked about weather and compared Ottawa’s icy autumn winds to the Okanagan’s lasting summer. Indecipherable sounds rolled across the floor from the hushed conversation of a serious six seated at a big table in a distant corner. Two empty tumblers adorned that table, but not bottles or shot glasses. A man in a business suit, Vladimir’s only other patron, slept with face flat on a small table.
The bartender, a 30-year old male with greasy black hair, a dark blue sweater, black pants and black shoes, silently placed three glasses on their table then strode to the group-of-six and picked up two glasses. Jane, Jesse and Donald looked at each other and took turns saying, “weird,” “eerie” and “scary.”
“There’s no way this place makes money,” Jane whispered.
“It’s a front,” Jesse added. “It’s here to launder money or provide cover for something else. No wonder we’ve hardly noticed it. How dumb is that?”
“It’s designed not to be noticed,” Donald contributed. “If you search understated bar on the web a picture of this place won’t come up.”
After finishing her wine, Jane suggested they leave because they were not going to get to visit the basement. The washrooms had been explored and a door that could lead to a basement or to a closet was locked. The tab of less than $10 amazed Jesse who told the bartender he would return another day. A slight nod of his perfect head said that the bartender didn’t care one way or the other. Donald whispered he wanted stay longer and study the place more. Jane pleaded with him to leave, but he only walked half-way to the door with them. Jane told him to call her when he wanted to go back to his hotel, but Donald insisted he would find a ride or just sprint the distance.
As soon as Jane and Jesse exited Donald ordered a beer and when he emptied that glass he ordered another. A man in a black beret seated himself beside Donald and asked where he was from. Ottawa was home, he said and studying zombies constituted the sole reason for being in Peachland. The man in black bought Donald another beer and continued questioning him about friends, family and other connections. Donald told him he had bought a drink for the two strangers he came in with as thanks for driving him from his hotel. After one more beer and a trip to the toilet, the man invited Donald downstairs to sample rare imported ale on which he wanted an opinion. Donald enthusiastically said yes despite fears he may end up in a den of gay depravity.
The man wearing the beret lithely bounded down the steps and Donald wobbled after him, trying to adjust his eyes to the dim cellar. Another five men, similarly dressed, looking serious and sinister, waited at the bottom. Before Donald had taken two steps across the hard floor the man who led him turned and lunged at his neck eliminating all fear of a gay vampire gang bang. The attack did not catch Donald by surprise. His elbow landed between the attacker’s eyes and the vamp went down like a drunk who missed his stool. Others lunged at him. A foot to the knee knocked the next attacker aside and a swift chop to the neck dissuaded number two. Others swarmed while the first two recovered enough to pile on. Although the attackers had no appetite for a fight, the sheer weight of them in the claustrophobic quarters pinned Donald to the cement floor, but they couldn’t contain his elbows and fists. Every head that got near his neck received repeated blows until blood seeped from all noses except his.
Following a flurry of vengeful kicks to his torso they dragged Donald into a dark room that reeked of piss and vomit. The heavy door slammed shut and a lock slid closed. In the black silence Donald heard labored breathing, reached out and felt sleeping and unconscious bodies around him. His hand dug to where he kept his phone, but his pocket had been emptied. Only the miniature flashlight that had warded off a zombie remained. Its thin beam put a glow to a dozen bodies flat on the floor or slouched against walls. A woman with pants around her ankles moaned unattractively, "Get it while you can. Reduced prices if you come quickly." Her good grammar impressed Donald who directed his light to her neck and the necks of captives. All had puncture holes. Nothing on his own neck appeared amiss when he rubbed his hand over veins and arteries. He had put up too much of a fight: they would deal with him later when he was dead drunk. Through the heavy door a voice shouted, "Here’s the free beer we promised you. Let us know if you’re hungry." Donald could see from the trace of illumination surrounding a big keyhole that a tube jutted though. He put it in his mouth.
27
The situation at the Peachland lock-up exceeded ludicrous. Inside three cells 36 undead, double cuffed and bound in tape, compulsively paced using tiny steps that covered inches. If not packed sardine-like they would have fallen, except the ones taped and cuffed upright to bars. A bounty of adhesive prevented arms and heads from moving and made them look like harmless mummies. Both Smith constables worked at keeping tape tight and making the undead as immobile as possible. Even with mouths layered they mumbled: they might have been begging for grain, rain, brain or Jane.
The police chief figured that six more cannibal cadavers could be added. With 14 in each cell they wouldn’t be able to move at all and thus would not be able to use their strong fingers to loosen each other’s tape. That, she thought, would be a significant improvement. She phoned the Colonel to see how many more zombie prisoners she should expect. As soon as she said the Z-word he started a rant that became a frenzied recitation. He shouted that both a judge and operational headquarters had ordered the monsters out of the town’s jail cells. They thought Mission Hill winery, with high walls, big gate and lots of space, would be a more humane place to pen them.
"Dog gamn it, excuse my language, but that means headquarters has to be moved. We can't operate with a bunch of reekin' freakin' flesh-eaters around. Cheesy crackers, excuse me, it's going to take a day for us to pack up and move. Where do we go? Quail's Gate’s a fine winery, but it doesn't have big walls, cellar access or as good a view. Summerhill’s been offered but it’s too difficult to get to. Anyway, that's none of your mucking, excuse me, business. A personnel transporter should be there within a half-hour to rid you of your stinking charges. Maybe we'll all get lucky and their heads will come off before our truck gets there. Have you been following the plucking, excuse me, judicial process?"
Jane admitted she had no time to follow any process, judicial or otherwise. Her wandering eyes glanced to a hockey stick attracting dust to a corner. Both Sedins had signed it and she realized she didn't know if her beloved Vancouver Canucks had won or lost recently or if they even played. Had the preseason finished?
“I thought you guys were in charge. I thought you were above the court system and civil law?” she asked, evading his question.
The Colonel replied, “That’s what I thought too.” Then he hesitated. The hesitation continued so Jane asked, “Are you there?” Silence indicated the dialogue had ended.
Jane turned on the office TV and it showed an aerial view of the town taken from a small plane. A gravely-voiced comedian, whose rating had plummeted because of rumors of drug dependency, said Peachland had little hope
of a future unless fenced off, trenched off and promoted as a tourist attraction – the world’s first Zombie Zoo. The performer continued:
“At Peachland’s Zombieland an affordable $30 covers parking and a one-hour walk atop our glass platform. You view real zombies living in their own town and dining on child molesters and repeat offenders. Guests are lowered in a zombie tank to the feeding zone for the experience of a lifetime. In our gift shop, pick up Zeddy, our cuddly zombie doll: a battery-operated biter the kids won’t forget. Our snack bar features ribs and red-eye steak with grave-ee. All at the world’s only zombie zoo where parking is included.”
Jane wondered how anyone dared spoof Peachland's horrible situation where so many families had been devastated by deaths. She picked up a newspaper and read that, unknown to her, a legal battle about zombie rights unfolded in the courtrooms of British Columbia's capital, Victoria. Liberals complained about zombies being wrongfully imprisoned as, individually, they may not have broken any laws.
"There are good undead and bad undead, just like people and dogs, and it is extremely prejudicial to lump them all together and convict without a trial." The quote came from the leader of a civil liberties group. Legislators searched the Bill of Rights for hints about zombies, undead, resurrected, reanimated and any other term they could think of and came up empty.
Church leaders pointed to the sins of mankind and retribution. Hindus argued that zombies represented the reincarnation of lost souls. Catholics related the risings to the resurrection of Jesus Christ and cited references to eternal damnation. Buddhists said life is suffering and zombie karma makes it worse. Jehovah's Witnesses said, "We warned you."Jews said, "This too will pass."
Newspaper and website headlines screamed the essential question: "Are the reanimated human?" All agreed they once were human, but beyond that no consensus seemed possible. New territory had opened up and waited to be explored.
If the deceased had been interred with pockets full of money, lawyers would have represented them and the matter would have been resolved by the courts. In one case a captured zomb's wallet reached the hands of an ambitious, publicity-seeking lawyer. The ambulance-chaser got pretty excited preparing injunctions and writs and demanding his client's freedom. A judge released the zombie into the lawyer’s custody, he took it home and it ate his mother. Enthusiasm diminished and then vanished entirely when it came time to process the credit card. As anyone of modest intelligence would have predicted, it didn’t go through as its holder had been dead for a week.
