Resurrection X

by Dane Hatchell

  Lisa supposed the media had always operated that way. The rich and powerful moguls teamed up with politicians to manipulate social agendas, with partial truths and intentional omissions, presenting stories with just enough credibility to influence the masses to do their ultimate bidding.

  The ATP patch on her shoulder itched terribly. There was no need to wear the expensive skin toned ATP makeup while sulking at home. She obtained a free supply of patches from a nearby Non-Dead rehabilitation center. Money was tight now that her paycheck from the state was a relic of the past.

  The financial system around the world had frozen soon after the dead reanimated. Anarchy ruled the land. What couldn’t be acquired by barter was taken by force. Fortunately, the military stayed intact, and was able to maintain some semblance of order. Moreover, through the incredible leadership of four-star General Frank Herbert, the military eventually stopped the onslaught of zombies. Holding on nearly to the breaking point, buying enough time for the Z-gas to be developed, and finally bringing the outbreak under control.

  The financial market eventually returned to order after a slow start. Once goods became readily available, Lisa bought whatever she could afford that caught her fancy. Life without new things had been a life without hope. Her addiction to the newest fashions and the finer things money could buy was born from the sacrifices made during The Dark Times. With the future so uncertain, she adopted a live for today attitude. If it all came crashing down again through another outbreak, she would have no regrets. If the world came to an end tomorrow she would meet it with wine on her breath, chocolate on her fingers, and dressed in the latest fashions.

  Her eyes focused on the television as a familiar face came into view. Former Vice President Joe Biden appeared on a small stage next to a member of the Non-Dead. Biden looked so old she first thought he was a Sub Z, withered from the loss of skin elasticity. She turned up the volume to hear him speak.

  “Ladies and gentleman, it is with great honor that I have the privilege to introduce my choice, the next Senator of the great state of Delaware, Martin J. Allen.” Tremendous applause rose from the background.

  “I mean, you got the first mainstream Non-Dead running for office who is articulate and bright and clean and never tasted human flesh.” He paused. “I mean, that’s a storybook, man. He has a desire to represent his state and serve his country. An ex-president of Electrical Union one-o-two, this man knows how to get the job done. Remember him as your write-in candidate on October fifth.”

  Someone booed in the background.

  Biden’s face contorted as if he smelled something bad, and he shook his finger toward the camera. “Hey, Sub Ys are people too.”

  More applause rose in the background. He continued. “Send a good man to Washington, a loving, caring member of the Non-Dead. It would be one big fucking deal.”

  An electronic beep blocked out the word fucking, but Lisa read his lips, and knew well of his reputation. This was national news, and it contrasted greatly to her local news. The liberal northeast appeared to be more progressive in the Non-Dead zeitgeist.

  Perhaps the answer to all her problems lay in starting a new life in a state with more liberal laws for the Non-Dead. But where would she go? What would she do? Some glorified manual labor job?

  The phone rang shattering thoughts of a new life. She picked it up; the caller ID listed a number, but no name.

  “Hello,” she answered, hesitantly.

  “Am I speaking to Miss Goudard? Lisa Goudard?”

  “Yes, and you are?

  “My name is Ted. I represent Hennington Biomedical Research Center.”

  “Never heard of it.”

  “Yes, well, it’s a private research lab. We’ve been in operation only for the last year.” Ted stopped and cleared his throat. “Because of your current condition, our medical team would like to study your digestive system, and your ATP absorption abilities. Sub Ys are unique in that they can still absorb nutrition from the stomach, although the virus in the body is more efficiently fueled by the ATP.”

  “Gee, you sure do know a lot of my personal history. I don’t remember signing any papers releasing my medical records to you. I don’t post personal information on the internet. How do you know of my, ‘condition?’ ”

  “Medical Records for the Non-Dead are not protected by the privacy act. It’s a carryover from the days when the virus was rampant and no way to prevent it. All stops were removed to expedite the sharing of information in the quest to discover a vaccine. Our findings lead us to believe that you would be an excellent candidate for a twelve-month program our research team is ready to implement.”

  “What kind of research?”

  “Our team believes if we can find ways for the Living to use ATP as a nutrition supplement, hunger around the world could be cured.”

  “Sounds noble, but what’s the other part?”

  “The other part? What do you mean?”

  “The part where you guys make a shit-load of money after sticking me with a needle a thousand times a day.”

  “ATP is the basic nutrient that fuels the cells in the human body. There is no excessive weight gain associated with its production and absorption. The cells absorb only what’s needed to carry out natural functions. The fat cells in the body cease the need to store energy for reserve, so they’ll shrink. Thus, we hope our findings will lead to a product to aid in weight reduction in the developed countries.”

  “Got it. Get rich off fat people trying to lose weight. That sounds like a pretty good scam. It’s been working for years.”

  “So, you’re interested in joining us then?”

  “Details?”

  “My, you are quick to the point.”

  “I shave with Occam’s razor.”

  The silence that followed meant her last comment flew right over Ted’s head.

  “You’ll live at the Dallas facility for the entire twelve months. All your basic needs and limited luxuries are included. A monthly deposit of five thousand dollars will be made in your account for your participation.”

  Five thousand a month was more than she had been earning as a health inspector for the state. The proposition sounded too good to be true.

  “All you need to do is get your personal affairs in order. We’ll send a van from the Center to pick you up when you’re ready, preferably by the end of this week. You won’t be allowed to leave the facility once you’re admitted. Your environment must be totally controlled. You can sign the paperwork when you arrive.”

  “I’ll have to think about it. What’s the phone number so I can reach you again if I have any more questions?”

  “Miss Goudard, we have signed five other test subjects, and the team was hoping to start immediately. I’m sure you’re aware how competitive the pharmaceutical business is. We need only one more person to begin the process. Is there a problem with the compensation? I am prepared to make you an offer of seven thousand dollars a month to help you with your decision.”

  Lisa’s suspicions strengthened by the exorbitant offer. “Nah, I was thinking more like ten thousand.”

  “Miss Goudard! Seven thousand dollars is more than the other participants receive. This is a business risk on our part, and there’s no guarantee we will recoup any of our investment.”

  “That’s my final. Take it or leave it.”

  A few seconds passed. “Very well, in the interest of the success of this project, we will agree to your terms. Can you be ready for departure in front of your apartment building, say, tomorrow afternoon at five p.m.?”

  “I don’t think so, Ted.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “Okay, buddy, I don’t know who you are or what you really want, but this story stinks to high heaven. What’s this really all about?”

  The phone went dead in her ear. She scrolled through the previous calls on her phone and pushed redial. A recorded voice answered, stating that number was disconnected, and no longer in service.

  Her conv
oluted life became more confusing. Perhaps her outburst at the rally hadn’t gone as unnoticed as she had believed. Perhaps supporters of Spencer’s or Hatfield’s church were trying to pull a fast one and get her out of the way. That would make sense. A van picks me up in front of my apartment, takes me for a ride, and I’m never seen or heard from again. Lisa wasn’t one to entertain conspiracies, but felt she was becoming the focus of one.

  A knock on the door startled her to her feet. The cold touch of fear crept up her spine. The knock came again, soft, and unthreatening.

  Calming herself, she walked slowly to the door, hoping the unwanted visitor would go away. The knocking continued. Lisa peered through the tiny peephole of her apartment door and saw a young woman who looked to be in her early twenties.

  She unlatched the deadbolt and opened the door until the safety chain fully extended—determined to take control of her life and not hide in fear of others.

  “It’s late. Who are you, and why are you here?”

  “Hi, Miss Goudard. I represent the N double A-N-D—”

  Lisa shook her head. “I gave at the office. Isn’t there a law that prevents door-to-door solicitations?” She was about to slam the door shut, then hesitated. “How do you know my name?”

  Rebecca Spencer closed one eye and winced like a blow might come her way. “I was at the rally on Saturday. I was with the protest group in the back. We heard what you said. That took a lot of guts.”

  Lisa was aware of the NAAND and had information on the organization in a pile of papers that had been shoved at her when she left the hospital. She had intentionally avoided any of the support groups, thinking she could make a case for herself with the Living on her own. That strategy had failed miserably. Lisa closed the door, removed the chain, and let Rebecca in.

  “Forgive me, I look a sight without makeup,” Lisa said, realizing she was barefoot, wearing pajamas and a robe, and no skin tone coloring.

  “Oh, don’t worry about that. It’s late, and I did show up here uninvited.” Rebecca looked relieved and then her lips formed a grin.

  “What?” Lisa asked, noticing the smile.

  “You sure looked a lot different at the rally.”

  “You mean a lot better. Gee thanks.” Lisa found herself immediately liking this girl. At least she seemed honest.

  “My name is Rebecca, and I have taken it upon myself to invite you to join the movement to fight for equal representation of the Non-Dead. I’m not trying to shake you down for money. The organization is seeking active participants. We feel the most effective way for change is through dedication. We hope to win the attention of others by being brave enough to take a stance and to encourage others to do the same. To move forward and do what is right for the Non-Dead.”

  “Yeah. I think I read most of that verbatim in a handout.”

  “Sorry. I memorized the lines. We’re taught to do that. How about this? Our Chapter has over a hundred members. We meet on a regular basis and discuss strategies how we can promote equal rights for the Non-Dead. Would you like to check out a meeting and see if our organization is right for you? We serve refreshments.”

  Lisa thought for a moment. “I was going to say no—but then you said refreshments.” She smiled for the first time since meeting her new guest. “I’ll be happy to attend a meeting and see if it’s something I want to be a part of. I’m not making much traction on my own. What have I got to lose?” Lisa crossed her arms. “One thing though, I’m not going out in public looking like I do now. No Full-Zombie for this girl.”

  “No problem. Full-Zombie is one way we try to get in the face of the opposition. I was in Full-Zombie at the rally. But I didn’t look anything like you do. You still are so pretty in your natural state. I looked like I was dressed up for a costume party.”

  “If I could blush, I would. You sure are a good salesperson.”

  “Oh, it’s not like that at all,” Rebecca said.

  “I’m teasing. Say, Rebecca, you look vaguely familiar. What’s your last name?”

  “Uh . . . Miller.”

  “That doesn’t ring a bell. Something about your face . . . you were younger. Your hair was brunet, not blonde.”

  “Miller is my mother’s maiden name. I go by Rebecca Miller at the N double A-N-D. My real name is Spencer.”

  Lisa frowned. “Spencer? As in Joel Spencer, slime bucket politician? Daughter of Margaret and Joel Spencer?”

  “Yes. He’s my Dad,” Rebecca softly said.

  Lisa threw her hands in the air. “I should have known! I recognized you from the files at the library. When I’m not job-hunting, I look for dirt on politicians.

  “First the phone call. Then you come knocking on my door. What is it that you people want from me?”

  “I don’t know about a phone call. Yes, I am Joel Spencer’s daughter, but I’m not here because of him. He and I couldn’t be further apart politically. He’d kill me if he knew I was part of the movement.”

  “Really, your own father would kill you?”

  “No, you know what I mean. I can’t stand that arrogant bastard and everything that he stands for. The Living party, Reverend Hatfield’s church, I was raised in that conservative philosophy. But now they represent everything I don’t want to be.”

  “You expect me to believe you?”

  Rebecca stiffened. “I can’t help what you believe. I came to you because we need you, and I thought you might need us. Thinking that maybe we could help each other. I told you my real name. I can’t help who my father is. So, I hope to see you in a few days at our next meeting. Here’s a flier with all the information.” Rebecca handed Lisa a folded pink piece of paper and turned for the door. “I didn’t mean to upset you. I apologize for that. I hope you’ll be there. I would like nothing better than to introduce you to the others.”

  Rebecca walked out of the door with Lisa still holding the flier.

  Lisa locked the deadbolt and attached the chain as her only response. She let her robe drop to the floor as she headed to the bathroom and undressed once inside. She stepped into the shower, turned on the water, and let the water warm before flipping the handle. The soothing waters showered from above. Tears flowed uncontrollably. She hoped the water shooting from the showerhead was loud enough to drown her cries so her neighbors wouldn’t hear.

  Chapter 14

  The sun pushed against the darkness with a soft orange glow as it crowned above the horizon. Andy Wells wiped the sleep from his eyes while slowing the big yellow school bus and turned in to the North Dallas Non-Dead Institution. Once a correctional facility for wayward youths, it primarily served as a home for Sub Z class Non-Dead. Its secondary function was to supply the manual labor force for county and state jobs.

  Andy parked the bus in the usual spot, and fought back a wave of nausea when the stale air of the Institution hit his nostrils, just as he entered through the main door.

  Jack Higgins was the guard on duty. “Mornin’, Andy. Back for another fun-filled day crackin’ the whip?”

  “You know it, Jack. Gotta keep them slaves in line,” Andy said, stopping to stretch and yawn.

  “Massa Wells has a nice southern charm about it,” Jack chuckled.

  Andy raised his hands in the air. “I’m a bigger man than that. We’s keep it simple. Theys just call me Andy, those that can talk, that is.”

  “I just thought it was funny and all. Say, are you feelin’ okay? You’re lookin’ pale.”

  “Huh? Ah, stomach’s been giving me some fits lately. Been having problems since I left the Army. I might have an ulcer or sumpthin’,” Andy said, remembering the six shots of whiskey and four beers from the previous night.

  “You should go see the nurse. She’s a really cute Chinese girl. Tits are kinda small, but she’s got some nice lookin’, dick-suckin’ lips.”

  Andy giggled. “Well, I’ll think about it. I’ll be better after I drop my first deuce of the day. Let me get going. See you, Jack.”

  “Take care, Andy.�
��

  Andy headed down the hall past numerous displays of awards and photographs. Phil Smith, otherwise known as Z439810, was the recipient of the Laborer of the Month award.

  The bulletin board had a large calendar with special dates highlighted in yellow, along with various items for sale next to it. Hunting season was coming soon, and men were getting rid of last year’s equipment to have an excuse to buy something new.

  Joshua Hatfield’s annoying face was also there to greet Andy as it did every morning, on an 11” x 17” poster, listing Wednesday night at 7 p.m. as the time for worship service. Joshua was Reverend Will Hatfield’s nephew. The laws permitted ministries the privilege to visit once a week to spread the Good News.

  Joshua’s thick, sandy blond hair and plastic million-dollar smile agitated Andy every time he passed the poster. He figured Joshua to be in his early thirties and bet he had never put in a hard day’s work in his life. The Streets of Gold Church was paying him to dress in thousand-dollar suits and run his yap in front of a bunch of Non-Deads that didn’t know any better if he were talking about God or the man in the moon.

  I bet that boy gets all them old widders at the church to leave their fortunes to him when they die, after he charms the gray out of their hair, he thought.

  The scripture at the bottom of the poster chapped his ass too: ‘Blessed are the peacemakers, for they will be called the sons of God.’ Andy felt himself to be a peacemaker. The Army trained every recruit to be one. You brought peace by killing the enemy. He didn’t think himself worthy enough to be considered a son of God.

  He pushed Joshua out of his head and continued down the empty halls. Morning wakeup for the guests of the Institution was still twenty minutes away. Andy needed a shot of caffeine in the worst way to help clear the haze from his head.