by Jack Wallen
I had no idea what to expect. As far I knew, this Jekyll’s Hyde could leap back into the picture the second it hears the device. Or the zombie could just lay there, in a happy, vegetative state. As I reached for the switch on the Obliterator, Phillipe grabbed for my hand to stop me. To the curbside reverend’s surprise, three guns were heard cocking behind him. He slowly, carefully released his grip on my wrist.
We all held our breath and I switched on the machine. At first it seemed there was going to be no reaction at all, but after a moment the zombie grew irritated and started squirming. So there was some of the beast still left inside.
“That is incredible,” Zander said with his jaw nearly on the ground. “Does this mean –”
“It means nothing at the moment,” Jean jumped in. “In this situation there is no room for anything less than one hundred percent. Either the cure works or it does not. As the Obliterator has shown us, it does not yet work one hundred percent.”
“What in God’s name are you doing here?” When Phillipe turned to speak to Jean and myself, his eyes were as wide as his mouth was agape. The man was utterly thunderstruck by what he was witnessing. I wasn’t exactly sure if he was having an internal battle with his personal theology, or if he was in shock from seeing one of the undead little more than a trained chimp.
“What we are doing is attempting to cure this plague. And, as you can see, we are making serious progress. What you see, strapped to that bed, was only yesterday a raging full-fledged screamer.”
The battle within Phillipe waged on. With his hands to his head, he sat down and breathed in deeply the air of confusion. Some small piece of me really felt for the man. He probably had a lifetime of faith and devotion unraveling inside of him. Within the span of mere minutes his beliefs became as fragile as spun glass. Tiny fragments of soul and heart shattering, piece by piece, until his resolution was totally broken.
Or so I would assume. Given the circumstances, it would be a challenge for anyone to continue on with a belief system that never included tragedy such as the theatre of the living dead.
Phillipe didn’t say much after that. In fact, he just stood there, staring on at the pseudo-screamer. Every once in a while the man would shake his head or whisper what sounded like a brief prayer. We all stood staring at Phillipe, unsure how to act. Michelle and Mikka looked as though they wanted to comfort the man, but never really made it to his side. Jean was content with being by Susan’s side. Susan was, after all, his primary concern. Gunther thought twice about remaining in the room, but ultimately wandered off to stand guard at the door, feeling that his only use was that of protection. Being a sort of guardian angel suited the very fatherly man. I, for one, was happy to allow it.
As for myself? I needed to get out of the room before tension got the best of me and I punched someone’s soul out of existence. I needed the solace only Zombie Radio could bring.
“I’ve been getting reports of power outages across the globe. Listeners have called in from Mexico, London, New york, and Canada all saying the same, frightening thing – the power’s going down. No one is sure if this is an international grid issue, or isolated localized issues. Whatever the case, Zombie Radio needs to know. The world needs to know who has power and who doesn’t. I will say this: If you have a generator, get it ready. You’re going to need plenty of fuel for this, because this blackout is sponsored by the end of the world. And with that, ladies and gents, I give you that shoe gazer band from the ‘90s R.E.M and…wait for it…It’s The End of The World As We Know It. Do you feel fine? I don’t feel fine. I am pant-shitting scared. What about you? Are your panties clean?”
The perky song bounced out of the PC speakers with a fragment of irony happily dancing about the air. Even though the song wasn’t so much about a literal end as it was a transition from one frame of mind to another, it still did a great job of reminding me of our current situation. What we have here is the real deal, the absolute, one hundred percent, grab your ankles, end of the world.
The DJ was right…I do not feel fine. I feel like shit.
As the song continued on I realized I hadn’t checked email in a few days. At least that was an easy fix. I fired up my email client and let the deluge pour in. I was shocked at the amount that funneled into my inbox – to the tune of some nine hundred and seventy-eight. Of course an easy twenty-five to thirty percent of that number would be SPAM, but that still left a hefty amount for me to plow through.
And plow through I did.
Many of the missives were of the “Thank you for helping us” type. Some of those actually referenced the Obliterator and a select few were heartfelt thank yous for the attempt at the cure.
There were, among the “thank yous”, a handful of hate mails, cursing us for trying to interfere with God’s work (ala Phillipe.) I can’t seem to wrap my mind around that train of thought. But, regardless of my beliefs, morals, or values, who am I to condemn the faith of others? Personally, my God is the God of Science. What everyone else chooses to help them through this mortal coil is theirs to hold on to tightly. But I would never come between a person and their faith. So, I read the hate mail and agree to simply disagree.
Just as I was about to close out the email client, another letter slipped into my inbox. The subject was simply “Susan”. No one had bothered to ask about or reference my little zombie, so my curiosity was certainly piqued.
When I opened the email, the first sentenced punched me in the gut.
I am Susan’s real mother.
I read and re-read the sentence, waiting for my brain to realize my eyes had played a trick on me. After I closed my eyes, and rubbed what was certainly a lingering fog away, I peered again at the line, only to find it saying the very same thing.
I am Susan’s real mother.
Both brain and heart froze. It was only then that I realized Susan had become much more than a promise to a man I loved and profoundly missed. Susan represented family to me. She was the only person left on this Earth I had a passion to protect. That feeling, to me, was probably the closest I would ever come to being a mother. Any semblance of biological clock died in me many years ago when I realized the majority of men on the planet were not worth procreating with, so naturally I spent much of my sexual promiscuity on birth control. But when planet Earth was given the apocalyptic wedgie, the last thing on my mind was birth control. So now, I’m pregnant and every possible emotion I have was at war with one another.
Once my heart returned to its normal rhythm, I continued reading the email.
Miss Nitshimi, I am elated to have stumbled upon your blog to find out my only child is in your care. Susan was lost when the virus hit. I had assumed she was a casualty of whatever has happened, but it turns out she is safe. If you can only imagine how happy I was to read this, you will understand my request that you please keep her under your care until the time comes that we are able to meet and I can once again wrap my arms around my baby girl. Bless you for caring for my Susan. There is no way to ever thank you enough, but I will do everything I can to do so.
Thank you very kindly,
Senator Mary Beth Slaton.
Senator. Holy fuck, a senator’s daughter. This of course, begs the question why Susan never mentioned that her mother was still alive. In fact, Susan made a special point to say her real parents had died. Did Godwin lie to Susan when he told Susan her parents were dead? Or is there something much deeper in this twisted scenario that is built upon lie after lie after lie? But whose story are we talking about? Susan’s? Godwin’s? Mary Beth Slaton’s?
Until Susan is in better condition, the question of truth will have to remain unasked and unanswered. There are, after all, far more important issues at hand.
I was about to close out the email client when that familiar roaring threatened to vibrate my eardrums out of their canals.
“Oh fuck!” I took off running, back to Susan’s room.
“Jean, what…”
“I don’t know. All of a s
udden our subject reverted back to its previous behavior. Everything was looking so promising,” Jean screamed above the din of the screamer.
“God, make it stop!” Michelle stood in the middle of the chaos, holding her hands to her ears.
“Mikka, take Michelle out of the room!” I screamed over the noise.
“Do you see? Do you see!!! You are mocking God’s work and he will tear you blasphemers down. Praise be to you God, the almighty, God the all-powerful. Let me raise my hands and spirit to your everlasting domain!” Phillipe decided now would be a good time to start his proselytizing again.
I couldn’t think. With all of the noise, my brain begged to be escorted out of the nightmare and into the solitary confinement of peace and quiet. Instead, I opted to have Gunther escort Phillipe out of the room. Without our street preacher damning us and begging his Lord and Savior to condemn every act we have committed I could at least focus on helping Jean. Before Gunther could lay a hand on Phillipe the street-preacher sped off on his own, declaring war on all that is unholy and unclean. I have a feeling that is not the last we will see of the man, but I have neither the time nor the inclination to concern myself with his intentions.
The screamer was obviously worse than he was before we gave him the vaccine. Not only were his piercing screams louder, he thrashed harder under the restraints, threatening to break free any moment. I called Zander back into the room with a gun trained on the screamer. Should the thing succeed in breaking free, a single bullet shot at point-blank range would keep the thing from tearing into either mine or Jean’s tasty brain-snacks.
Just before I could ask Jean if he had any brilliant ideas, I heard a soft crying. In the tumult I had completely forgotten about Susan – at least until she raced up to my side and wrapped her arms around my waist.
“I’m scared.” The look in her eyes displayed fear, confusion, and desperate need.
The beast let out another Hell-born scream which sent Susan back to her bed and under her covers. I wasn’t quite sure what to do with her, so I opted to let her find refuge under the sheets.
“Jean, maybe you could…”
Before I finish my sentence he began unlocking the wheels of the bed. “I’m going to roll this bed into the other room. Would you please help me, Bethany?”
It was the only good idea we could come up with at the moment. At least getting the zombie out of our living quarters would allow us to get some peace.
“I’m going to increase the dosage of the vaccine. We are so close, Bethany, so close,” Jean said as the bed came to a stop in the next room. He locked the wheels down and instructed me to go ahead and care for the others. I didn’t disagree.
My immediate concern was Susan. The last thing we need is for that girl to snap before the cure is worked out. As soon as I entered the room Susan jumped out from under the bedclothes and ran to me.
“It’s okay Susan, the thing is gone.” I knew it was really a lie, but it was the best I had at the moment. Susan looked up at me, her eyes letting me know she appreciated the lie, but the fear of the beast still had a fierce grip on her heart and mind.
I grabbed some cotton and rolled two pieces into tight balls, putting one ball into each of Susan’s ears to try to block out the worst of the sound. It was a trick I used in college to help keep the sounds of my roommate’s constant midnight booty calls from reaching my consciousness. The cotton seemed to do the trick and Susan’s fear seemed to ease up just a bit. I helped her back into the added comfort and safety of her bed.
“Rest tight, Peanut.” The nickname slipped out from my lips before I could stop it. It was one of the nicknames Jacob used for Susan. My heart sank a little further down.
As if it had anywhere else to sink.
When I was sure Susan was comforted, I stepped out of the room and into the ‘Zombie Room’. Jean had finally managed to quiet the monster.
“Another dose of the vaccine combined with a tranquilizer will give our nerves a much needed break.” I could hear the stress in Jean’s voice. Everything is getting worse. He knows it, I know it. Our nerves are stretched to near breaking, we are hungry, and we are scared shitless. Something has to be done. We need a fucking break…something to lift our morale. The first thing that came to mind was some peace, a good meal, and rest.
A plan began to bubble up.
“Michelle, Mikka…” I called out to the pair who were huddled in a corner of the room, “I need you to do me a huge favor. It’s dangerous, but the rewards are great.”
“Anything –”
“No, not anything, Michelle,” Mikka interrupted.
The two siblings began to argue in French. Although I couldn’t understand the words, the meaning was too, too clear. Michelle came out on top of the argument, so her original proclamation stood.
My idea, on the surface, was simple. The execution of the idea, however, was quite dangerous. I wanted us to enjoy a meal; a real meal with salad, bread, and a dish to die for. We were, after all, in France and what else was France known for, if not its amazing dishes? And a good meal would do so much to lift the spirits of my troops.
Unfortunately my idea seemed to drive a wedge between Michelle and Mikka. After they had another discussion in their native tongue, Mikka stormed off, leaving Michelle and I to commiserate the child-like behavior so often displayed by men.
“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to cause any trouble,” I apologized sincerely.
“No, it’s okay. Mikka is just a…a coward. We won’t have any trouble finding what you want. We belong to a group that regularly cooks together. Many members of the group are chefs, so we have access to everything for a beautiful meal.”
Michelle and I hugged and she left the room to grab a still-sullen Mikka. The two started off on their adventure, but not before I could offer them a gun for safety. I wasn’t surprised when they both refused the weapon, so I made sure they both had my cell number programmed into theirs. I wanted either of them to contact me should the situation turn to hell. Not that I (or anyone) could likely do anything if things did, in fact, go that far south.
The pair left with only Gunther questioning their motives. I sent them on and explained to Gunther what was happening. He barked about their not taking a weapon, but I was able to bring him down off that soap box after I explained their knowledge of the streets and buildings would give them an edge we didn’t have. So the need for a weapon would be lessened. Plus the idea of having a gourmet meal went a long way towards softening Gunther’s resolve.
“Bethany.” Jean snuck up behind me, spooking me to nearly jumping out of my skin. There was so much tension in my muscles I felt one good jump would send me skyrocketing to the moon. Jean apologized for the near peeing-the-pants moment.
“I just wanted to tell you that I should be able to start the treatment on Susan tomorrow,” Jean said without a hint of reservation.
This announcement came as a huge surprise. Jean had only recently informed me it would be a few days before Susan was stable enough for treatment. Why the sudden change? I voiced that question without hesitation or filter.
“The original dosage was clearly not enough for our screamer. That low dosage had no lasting or negative effect on the test specimen and, since Susan is a much smaller, younger, and has yet to show any signs of amplification, the lower dosage should work.”
“Should? Jean, this is Susan we’re talking about, not some random, infected stranger that none of us mind playing God with. Susan really matters to us.”
It was that last sentence that hung, awkwardly in the space between myself and Jean. I knew there was a bitter, wrong taste to it as it passed between my lips, but in the hearing of the phrase I realized just how significantly wrong it was. In a mere matter of seconds I boiled everything down to us and them. On the surface everything we are doing seems so altruistic, so we are the world. In truth, what we are doing is saving our own asses. Do we really care if we save any given stranger out on the street? Boil it all down, strip
away the veneer, and is what is left a truth with a far from self-serving core?
I let that idea make a few circuits around the synapses of my brain and finally came to the conclusion that what we were doing was not self-serving. Although it may look, on the surface, like we are trying to save our skins, ultimately we knew that was only but a stepping stone to a greater good. The collateral damage of what we were trying to achieve was the salvation of the planet.
I gave Jean the go-ahead with Susan. We had to move forward with the only plan that offered any favorable outcome for the human race. Susan was to be our genesis project.
I actually entertained the thought of mentioning Susan’s mother, United States Senator Mary Beth Slaton, contacting me, but thought it best to keep that info close to the chest. Hell, I didn’t even bother to drum up the courage to reply to the email. What did that say about my personal goals? Altruistic? Not so much. Of course I realized that Susan’s mother was reading my blog – how else would she have known about Susan? So truthfully, I had no reason to reply to the email. If the woman was still reading she knows Susan is alive. She also knows what we are about to do to her daughter, with the hopes of returning her to a long productive life. Unfortunately the realization of that productive life is predicated on our ability to create a vaccination for the virus the United States Government funded. Let that sink in deeply as the bitter irony swells the rage.
That’s right, we’ve known the truth for some time and that truth has been published for all to read. I wanted to now email the Senator back and tell her exactly how I felt about what they have done. I wanted to wish her a happy life without the daughter she would most likely never see again. The thoughts made me wonder, exactly what did Susan’s mother expect? Yes, we have your lovely daughter and we’ll send her back to Bar Harbor on the next first-class flight out of Paris, where she will enjoy a perfectly prepared feast, sparkling grape juice, and the Disney movie of her choice. I was ever so sorry to break it to the Senator that the scenario no longer worked. There are no flights, no juice, and no Disney films now. There is only survival and that is exactly what we are doing. While the higher-ups of the political food chain are probably tucked safely in some underground bunker, dining on steaks and wondering if their stocks will ever rebound, the rest of us mere mortals have to fight just to see another day.
