Zach Carter, Zombie Killer

by Frank Giovinazzi

  “Alright, we’ll get back to philosophy another time, but I still think you’re asking a paramecium to explain its raison d’etre,” DeMaio said, and pressed a button that delivered an electrical stimulus to the zombie’s brain.

  “Must consume life … erase mistake … not-life is the standard … must douse flareup of error that is life … end nuisance that prevents reversion to mean,” said the head.

  “That was quite the entropic soliloquy. Makes Hamlet sound like a real estate agent,” DeMaio said.

  “Yeah, it’s always sunny on the south side of the property,” Schwartz said. “Shock it again.”

  “Aaargh. You make brain talk your filthy language. Thinking is pain, talking is making pain heard. You … all must die. Join us … go back to nothing where there is no pain no talk no think.”

  “Again,” Schwartz said. “Until it stops.”

  DeMaio shocked the head again.

  “Darkness is truth. Nothing … extinguishes pain. Silence is beauty. No mind to disturb ultimate truth. You will die … and know truth, then smile as you think no more.”

  “I get it. Zombies are Goth, Goth are zombies,” Schwartz said. “Let’s hold off a second. What do you think this thing is trying to say?”

  “Well, if indeed the remaining portion of the human brain is processing its new orientation verbally, then I would say it’s purpose is literally the extinguishing of consciousness first, then, it appears it also has a permanent grudge against basic life metabolism and ultimately, energy production,” DeMaio said.

  “Meaning, just as we — and all living creatures — seek more life, this dark virus seeks to undo any life it encounters,” Schwartz said.

  “From the sound of it, going back to my pithy comment, it appears to be an agent that actively promotes entropy, as its organizing goal,” DeMaio said.

  “My first thought is that that isn’t possible, but of course, we’re looking right at it. So going beyond my existential distaste, I would say we have to consider the possibility this is an engineered agent,” Schwartz said.

  DeMaio was quiet for a moment. “That’s a pretty big wagon you just unloaded.”

  “Right. It assumes there is an actor on the scene — somewhere — that seeks to destroy life in the universe as we know it,” Schwartz said.

  “In favor of its own destruction?” DeMaio said. “Hard to fathom.”

  “Perhaps. If not that, then it’s nothing more than an active entropic agent, as you just said. Sort of something that seeks to unravel creation.”

  “In one case we have an active enemy, in the other, a simple threat,” DeMaio said.

  “Either way, we have to fight it,” Schwartz said.

  “But in the former case, we have to worry about something beyond just these zombies,” DeMaio said.

  “Let’s ask it,” Schwartz said, as she powered on a microphone that fed into a speaker in the q-room.

  DeMaio delivered another shock to the severed head.

  “Are you the only threat to life on this planet?” Schwartz said.

  The head’s face curled into a grimace. “Thissss … is the beginning … of the end. There are others behind us.”

  To DeMaio, Schwartz said, “again,” clicking the mike, “when will they come?”

  “When … you are one with death. Then … the rain. Then … the fire.”

  Chapter 16

  “What do you make of it?” said Richard Sinclair, head of the Oregon lab.

  “One of two possibilities. Either the head was indulging in doomsday-speak, that is, uttering its pronouncements through its own altered view of reality, or we actually created a bridge between the human form and the virus — that told us this is only the first wave of destruction in stages of the planet,” Schwartz said.

  The two were seated alongside each other in chairs that faced a wall of video screens, most broadcasting an image of the work being done in various laboratories of the underground complex. DeMaio was pictured on one screen, alternately shocking the head, asking questions and recording the answers in a log book.

  “What do you think?”

  Schwartz didn’t hesitate. “We are dealing with an engineered agent. The delivery capsule was too perfect, and the destructive power of the virus is too — vindictive — to be just a garden variety cosmic super flu.”

  “Hmmm. Right. It certainly appears as if part of the effect is to punish life for having the temerity to exist,” Sinclair said.

  “If this were psychological warfare, let’s say, on a galactic level, the message would seem to be that surrender is the only logical option,” Schwartz said.

  “Again, I concur. Though us trying to figure out what the larger game looks like is like a dog having a glimmer of understanding that humans have a reason for existence beyond care of the mutt,” Sinclair said.

  “This sort of throws us into a god versus the devil situation. If they both exist, are they evenly matched, and if so, who’s going to get to us first,” Schwartz said.

  “And we don’t have Winston Churchill to consult,” Sinclair said, thrumming his fingers on the armrest of his chair.

  “We don’t have anyone else to consult. Sir,” Schwartz said.

  “No, and thank the god we don’t know exists for that decision. It’s been only six months, and life as we know it has pretty much been obliterated, topside. Going dark was the smartest thing I could have done. That’ll be all, Melissa. Good work and keep pursuing the line of inquiry. If your current specimen burns out, let me know, I’ve got a more where that came from,” Sinclair said, nodding his head at the screen showing a battened down break room where twenty or so zombies milled around, with nothing to eat.

  “Sir,” Schwartz said, getting up from her chair and leaving the office.

  Sinclair pressed a series of buttons on a remote, bringing one of the dark screens to life and opening a communications channel.

  “Wolfie, how are you proceeding with the latest vaccine trials?” Sinclair said.

  A gaunt man wearing thick glasses turned and looked up to face the ceiling mounted camera. “We’re about to test the third variation, Dick.”

  Sinclair grimaced. Amazing how people who are truly indispensable will push your buttons. Jaime Wolfberg was the only scientist still alive who was capable of altering vaccines based on the zombie infection. And he hated being called Wolfie, hence, Dick.

  “Are these subjects the ones we harvested from topside?” Sinclair said.

  “Yeah, poor bastards. Thought they were getting rescued — ‘we’re from the government and we’re here to help,’” he said, and laughed his best mad scientist cackle. “They’re sedated. I told them we were putting them through a series of tests, so no matter how they wake up, as zombies or inoculated humans, they won’t know any better.”

  “Rather humane of you,” Sinclair said.

  “Not really. I can’t stand all that wailing and gnashing of teeth. No reason to have the human skin lampshade right out in the open, now is there?”

  “Now I’d say you’re being morbid, but things are rather past that, now aren’t they?” Sinclair said.

  “There’s no getting around it. This mutation has overrun the human race. We either find a way to inoculate ourselves and live alongside them, or get extinguished. Either way, we’re done,” Wolfberg said.

  “Like Neanderthals and Cro-Magnon man,” Sinclair said.

  “Mmmm. This is a rather more distinct leap, into an unknown genus, but roughly correct.”

  “And you still think an inoculation will render us … uh, unpalatable to our zombie cousins.”

  “They don’t attack each other, we know that. At what strength will a vaccine repel their appetite? I’m not sure. Maybe none. Science never did create the foolproof mosquito repellent, the claims of Avon salesladies notwithstanding,” Wolfberg said.

  “And the Cro-mags finally did get tired of their lesser cousins,” Sinclair said.

  “And in the ocean, everything gets eaten
,” Wolfberg said. “If we’re done trading vapid observations, I will get back to work.”

  “Very well. Oh, one last thing, and I know you won’t like the disruption in your careful progression, but do you think you could use one subject to test the X variation?” Sinclair said.

  “Cut to the chase, eh? What’s the matter, Dick, you don’t think we can eke out even a minor victory? If the Internet was still available I’d look up Quisling’s first name. Yes, I’ll do it, now let me get back to work.”

  Chapter 17

  Sinclair muted the sound to Wolfberg’s lab, and then, killed the video. The guy was a royal pain in the ass, and necessary only as far as this line of inquiry. What if they just gave up the ghost and stopped trying to find a cure? What was the point, they were all dead anyway.

  He spent a few minutes, more than usual, ruminating on this possibility, and dragging himself down more and more into a funk.

  “Oh, bosh!” he said to the dark room. “Scientists don’t give up, we keep searching, that is the basis of our lives. And if we make mistakes, so be it.”

  He stood and retrieved a satellite phone stored in the locked desk drawer and powered it on. There was always someone on the other end.

  “Hello, is he available at the moment? Yes I can wait,” Sinclair said, mildly burned that even at the end of the world he found himself taking orders.

  “Whadyayouwant,” came the brusque voice, and Sinclair realized for the first time he could hear the hushed rushing sound of a jet in flight. Wouldn’t it be nice to be able to keep flying above all the problems of a dying world.

  “If you can still tap into satellite information, you may want to use the space telescope to check for long range ah, UFOs.”

  “That’s your conclusion? That Zeke is an ET, hunh? Interesting. Makes sense, sooner or later we should have expected a visit. What do you suspect their goal is, slavery, mining or destruction?”

  “The latter, I’m afraid.”

  “Yes you are, you fucking pussy. What is it with you scientists? You can figure out ways to destroy the world ten times over then you can’t decide what you want for lunch. Myopic weasels is what you are.”

  “If you insist.”

  “If what you think is true, it comes down to the age old question in matters of force — beat ‘em or join ‘em.”

  “I have come to the same conclusion.”

  “Right. After I showed up and explained the big picture to you, you fucking mutt. Where are you with the vaccine?”

  “No success to report.”

  “What about the catastrophic option?”

  “I have my man running that experiment now.”

  “Right. The question is, can you manage to formulate a serum that maintains higher brain function in an essentially dead corpse.”

  “For a non-scientist, you have a remarkable grasp of the issue.”

  “Of course I do you fucking moron, I’m rich because I understand problems and how to solve them. And now that the world took a dump I’m still here and trying to figure out how to sty alive, and, if possible, take over what remains of this fucking miserable race of upright monkeys.”

  “I’m curious, do people like you grow up thinking of how to take over the world, or is it an acquired trait?”

  “You fucking smartass. In my case it’s an acquired trait because it didn’t take me until third grade to realize the world was run for and by total fucking weaklings. If I’d had another decade I would have figured out how to buy Africa.”

  “Are you going to access the telescopes?”

  “Yeah, I can do that. Could you imagine if the world was still here, what a fucking panic that would cause? Jesus Christ All-Fucking Mighty, billions would be made overnight. Goddammit.”

  “Well, I will get back to you when I have test results.”

  “Don’t fucking bother me until you get something that I can use. In the meantime, I need a half dozen of your fresh ones.”

  “What do you want them for?” Sinclair asked, then immediately regretted it.

  “You motherfucker none of your fucking business, what did I tell you? A billionaire is nothing but an applied scientist. You know, with a pair of hairy fucking balls. I want to keep an eye on some activity I’m seeing, of you know, the humans that are out there fighting to stay alive, as opposed to the ones who curled up like a goddamned pillbug and sealed themselves off in a fucking concrete hole.”

  Sinclair really wanted to tell the man off, but he also believed that if anyone was going to come up with a viable plan to save at least some of the human race, it would be this uncouth cretin.

  “Very good, we have eight former staff members in one of our rooms. They’re originals, infected by the airborne contaminant, and have never been outside or fought live human being.”

  “You mean they haven’t torn anyone apart. Fought, my ass. In the beginning most people were to surprised by what was happening to even conceive of fighting back. Later on, any survivors were too terrified by what they thought they were to defend themselves. It takes a special man to get into a fistfight with a fucking zombie.”

  “You’ve seen that?”

  “Seen it? Hell, what the fuck do you think we do for entertainment? Seeing a man in a ring with a Zeke beats the hell out of MMA. Now I understand why the Romans loved gladiators, fuck, but if that ain’t about the most real thing I even seen. And the winners, they got it good, they come right on staff, most of the time as perimeter security. And the losers, well, after a couple minutes of screaming, they never know the difference.”

  Sinclair had to believe it, but wished he couldn’t. What he wanted to tell the man was that people became scientists because they hated other human beings.

  “Very well, we will have them in a transport topside when you say,” Sinclair finally answered. “We also want the usual — beer, wine, alcohol, steaks and fresh vegetables.”

  “What, no porno?”

  “Several of our staff members had apparently misappropriated some servers before the epidemic. We possess the world’s largest collection of porn.”

  “Really? Like how much?”

  “All of it.”

  “All of it? Hmm, I guess that’s possible, have one of your guys load up a spare hard drive for me, include it in your data package with the transport.”

  “Very well, sir.”

  “Maybe I misjudged you assholes.”

  Chapter 18

  I sat with Breem through the entire viewing of the Townsend testimony. Roy and Jimmy were off on their own, taking long showers and eating hot, fresh food. I had told him about the private jet, and the clean Zekes that seemed to possess some rudimentary form of intelligence — and saw that this was also information he already knew; the game now was how much he was going to share with a hired gun like me.

  “What is it you want from me,” Breem said.

  “We went in there and verified what you either knew or suspected — that Zeke is an off-world cause. What do you make of it?” I asked.

  “We don’t know, of course, which is the biggest problem. Did we just get tossed like the dinosaurs, or is something else going on?”

  “Like War of the Worlds going on?”

  “Right, only this time ET is using the microbe as a weapon, to kill us off in advance of the invasion,” Breem said.

  “Well if this is only the first round, we look kind of screwed,” I said.

  “We need to know what happened to the Oregon lab. If they’re still there or if they met the same fate as Arizona,” Breem said.

  “You have no contact with them?”

  “None. They went dark, after putting out a contaminated distress call, and we haven’t been able to get a team in there.”

  “Why not?”

  “The ground approach is overrun with Zekes. There are heavy concentrations in that area of over a million undead, that, for some reason, refuse to disperse. They’re not following the patterns of other infestations.”

  “You mea
n of killing everything, then wandering off.”

  “Right. It’s like they’re being fed fresh meat on a continual basis to keep them on site.”

  “Standard moat defense, only instead of deadly flesh-eating piranhas …”