Blue

by Brandy Wehinger

  My first attempt was a failure. I drove up to a female that looked about my age. She was in pretty good shape, meaning nothing was missing and no organs were hanging out. No intestines allowed in my car!

  Her milky eyes shifted towards me and she sniffed the air. Okay, not very ladylike, but neither am I sometimes. Her mouth was already open, but then she poked out her thrush-covered tongue and pulled back her lips as if she were either tasting the air or about to vomit. Then I saw her teeth: furry, yellow and filled with nasties — hair, dirt, meat. I put my car in gear to pull away, but not quite quickly enough. She made this hideous cry and started to come towards me. Others were attracted and all of a sudden I was swarmed.

  The Zombies had smelled my bag of meaty treats and were hungry. Before I knew it, they were crawling onto my Mustang, denting it and covering it with their ooze and juices. ‘Stop!’ I yelled. ‘As Queen of the Zombies, I demand you remove yourselves from my vehicle!’ Then I threw the bag at them and drove off. Totally no respect. Didn’t they know how hard it was to find a running muscle car in good condition this long after the end of the world?

  My other attempts at forming relationships with my fellow Undead were just as unsuccessful. As much as we were alike, our differences created a chasm that could not be crossed. So, eventually, I just gave up. I resigned myself to a life (or existence is probably a better word) of being alone.

  MEMOIRS OF J. DING, 20 A. Z.

  THE ZOMBIE DISEASE has a variety of clinical manifestations that seem incompatible with life. The first and most obvious is the lack of blood circulation. The untrained and impatient hand feels for a pulse at the subject’s periphery and feels nothing. Perhaps the examiner dares come closer and reaches towards the neck of the Infected to feel the carotid artery, but he is afraid of its biting teeth and he palpates only briefly with naught to be felt. His analysis is that the patient must be dead despite its continued movement and hunger. In fact, these Zombies do indeed have a heartbeat, albeit a very slow one.

  My physical examination of a contained and restrained individual afflicted with the common manifestation of the disease showed a resting pulse of ten beats per minute. Blood pressure taken from the left arm of the subject was 54/35. Respiratory rate was nil; however, the subject sighed at intervals. Despite no normal ventilation, one might consider some sort of gas exchange is still occurring. Perhaps these sighs and moans are the episodic expiration of CO2?

  On discovering the Zombie heartbeat, I was overwhelmed with joy for two reasons: one, the Plague was indeed caused by an infectious agent and was not the punishment of a supernatural force; and two, having now established that the Zombies had some sort of metabolism, I could study them and possibly lead mankind to a better understanding or even (in my wildest dreams) a cure.

  The issue of blood coagulation in the vasculature and peripheral tissues, as well as the organs with high pressures of perfusion or small vasculature, has perplexed me. The lowered blood pressure would cause considerable haemostasis and blood clotting, allowing multiple emboli to lodge throughout the body, leading to infarction, tissue death and necrosis.

  On inspection of blood smears taken from an open wound on a subject, I saw evidence of coagulation and fibrin. Much like disseminated intravascular coagulation, a terrible disorder that can happen to unlucky individuals following sepsis or widespread endothelial tissue damage, the Zombie disease has a propensity both for clotting and for haemorrhage or active bleeding. This is because the coagulation factors that cause blood clotting are consumed, while at the same time widespread inflammation or tissue damage demands that clots be formed. In a non-Zombie patient, this complication is devastating and leads to death. In the Zombie, it seems to act in homeostasis, perhaps countering the slow cardiac output and low blood pressure.

  HELEN, late summer, 61 A. Z.

  ‘WHAT’S YOUR NAME?’ Helen asked him.

  ‘Lukas. Lukas Harcourt.’

  ‘In a few moments the guard is coming back. He’s going to see you’re infected and then kill you. I need to know right now if you’re still you and if you’re dangerous.’

  ‘What? Why? Am I a—’

  ‘A Zombie? I think yes, kind of. I slowed the disease process down when I cut off your arm, and your body had enough time to put up an immune response. I’m not sure. But you did get infected to a certain degree. Lukas, you’re a Blue.’

  Lukas closed his eyes. ‘Am I a Dead then?’

  ‘No, not quite. You’re something else. In between a Dead and a human. It’s very rare, but I’ve heard of a few in my time. Now, I’m sorry if this sounds insensitive, but there’s no time to lose. I need to know if you’re dangerous.’

  ‘What? No! You’re the one who cuts off arms! What am I meant to do?’

  Helen contemplated her patient. Tree Sanctuary’s law dictated that anyone infected be killed and the body dropped to the ground for scavengers to take care of. But doing that to this man felt wrong. He was still a conscious, sentient being. Infected but apparently not dangerous. Regardless, when the guard came back, Lukas would be killed.

  She made her decision. She let out a long sigh, shook her head, and pulled the end of the rope holding Lukas to the platform, allowing the pulley system to start lowering him to the ground.

  ‘Wait! What are you doing? You can’t put me down there!’

  Helen looked across to the rope bridges to see if she was being watched.

  ‘Lukas, be quiet. Don’t make so much noise. I’m saving you.’

  BETH, autumn, 61 A. Z.

  Dear Mrs Santos,

  Please let me introduce myself. I am Beth Crummer, nanny and carer of the Grosvenor children.

  I hope all is well with you and your family. The purpose of this letter is to request that Xavier and Rose not communicate until they are fifteen years old. The agreement between Leader Grosvenor and yourself that the children begin correspondence in the fifth year of their primary education is not practical due to differences in maturity. The content of your son’s letters is not appropriate for Rose at this stage. I suspect boys are allowed a bit more liberty and are exposed to adult conversation in the Tree Sanctuary. Rose has been shielded from age-inappropriate material and coarse topics.

  My suggestion therefore is that the children resume writing to one another when they are fifteen. Please consider this as a way of helping keep Rose from experiencing undue stress. My hope is that she learns about the complex topics in our world with guidance of an adult first.

  Thank you,

  Beth Crummer

  HELEN, late autumn, 61 A. Z.

  Dear Beth,

  Thank you for your letter of concern. I understand your predicament. I have felt uncomfortable from the onset of the new rules around pre-arranged marriage. I understand the Leaders’ desire to prevent inbreeding and to unite our far-spread settlements, but it disheartens me to think that my children will not marry for love or enjoy the romance and courtship that comes with youth. Situations such as these were bound to happen.

  The original agreement between Leader Grosvenor and myself, when the future union of our children was decided, was that the children grow up knowing one another. Due to distance, this was not feasible. The letters were a way of acquainting them before their marriage at eighteen years of age.

  I feel that two more years of silence will not be a problem and the children may resume writing when they are fifteen. I hope this helps. You know your Rose better than anyone, and you are the best to predict what is most appropriate for her.

  Take care,

  Helen Santos

  MEMOIRS OF J. DING, 22 A. Z.

  CELLS TRANSFORMED BY carcinogens, certain viruses or other DNA-damaging events sometimes gain amazing abilities. These mutated cells require fewer stimuli to grow, they are not held to one location within the body and, most importantly, they can continue to renew. Most cells have a finite ability to divide, if they can at all. Transformed cells can divide and divide into infinity. Infinity is forever. F
orever is immortal.

  Certain known viruses, such as herpes virus-8, human papillomavirus and Epstein-Barr virus, have the ability to cause transformation, creating a variety of human suffering: leukaemias, lymphoma, cancer. But in these the virus, through its transformation, indirectly kills its host. Perhaps with the Zombie disease, an adaptation has occurred that allows the host to remain a vector or a carrier with an impossibly long lifespan?

  A synergism between virus and prion disease, or the coupling of two prion diseases? Cleverly overtaking the vessel, maintaining it and finally directing it to infect more and more humans? Absolutely ingenious.

  The metabolic change that occurs in infected individuals is a gruesome process: fever, rigours, increased heart rate. Following this, the patient might have seizures or even the disturbing muscle contractions of tetanus, joints arching at extreme angles, and possibly dislocations. Fine capillaries blow, resulting in the red-coloured sclera of the eyes. This stage is then followed by a short period of tachyarrhythmias, decreased perfusion and unconsciousness. The lay person will assume the subject dead at this point, as there are few signs of visible life.

  The time before the subject awakes is variable: minutes to hours. The ‘resurrection’, as members of the non-scientific community call it, is awkward and difficult to watch: growling and uncoordinated movements as the individual attempts to wake. A superstitious person might mistake these actions for some kind of internal battle. My thoughts are that they might be the manifestations of the brain re-establishing neuronal circuits, due to reperfusion of the brain, or perhaps evidence of a brain injury incurred during the transformation.

  VIRGIL, autumn, 61 A. Z.

  ‘HEY MAN, WHAT are you doing out there?’ Owen called. ‘Come on in and eat.’

  Virgil was leaning against the rusty tank house, his legs swinging out over the desert floor twenty metres below. His suntanned and wind-burned skin made him look older than his seventeen years, providing an unexpected contrast with the fuzzy white-blond hair that billowed out from below his black wide-brimmed hat. His leather pants and faded cotton shirt were baggy on his thin frame, and a crossbow lay at his side. He had spent his entire life as a Gunslinger. It had made him a nearly perfect shot — and a loner. Now he was looking out into the desert and thinking.

  Owen’s smiling red face poked through a roughly made window hacked into the metal of the tank house. ‘What are you doing?’ he asked again.

  Being a happy man, with a smirk always just under the surface, made Owen a rarity amongst the Gunslingers. Instead of becoming practical, efficient and quiet, Owen had grown to be the opposite from his years of Corpse killing. He had a viciously dark sense of humour and a mad man’s view of his own mortality. He was known to laugh when jobs got tricky. Once when he had been thrown from his horse, broken his leg and been left for dead, he rolled himself into a pond of stagnant water and mud, and lay there quietly while Corpses waded around looking for him, knowing he was there but unable to locate him. This went on for hours. Anyone else would have gone mad, panicked. Owen had brushed it off as nothing, and held no grudges for being left behind. He had said they looked like a nice bunch of Deads and if he’d had to join them, so be it, and then he’d laughed.

  ‘You see that Zombo, there by the pole?’ Virgil pointed, knowing that Owen would delight in the oddity of the sight and then probably leave him alone. ‘He hasn’t moved in two weeks. Not an inch. No joke.’

  Owen squinted into the light, and saw a tall, skinny Corpse poised as if to take a step forward but frozen mid-movement. His arms were at awkward angles, slightly out in front of him. Most of his clothes had rotted off — only a belt and waistband remained, and, strangely, the back pockets of what were once denim jeans.

  ‘You’ve got to get a better pastime,’ Owen laughed.

  There weren’t as many Deads this far out in the desert. The ones that came around were pretty ragged creatures, dehydrated like mummies, their tendons and veins ropes under their sun-baked skin. Sometimes they looked like shuffling dry meat — immortal pieces of beef jerky. They would eat you the same way any of the Infected would, but you had a better chance of outrunning them here.

  The Infected hunted anything with a pulse — deer, possums … humans — and devoured them, leaving only shredded carcasses as evidence of their meal. If an animal managed to escape the attack they’d be left with only wounds. A human, though, was doomed to join the Zombies. The Corpses in the forest were a bit quicker and tactical, sometimes even moving in packs. Maybe they weren’t so dry, or maybe they had more meals. Actually, Deads didn’t need much to survive on at all. Virgil had once seen one trapped in an old barn. It must have been around since the beginning, because all its clothing was old-style and in pretty good condition. The Zombie itself was almost a skeleton, with just a thin slip of skin covering it. He had thought about leaving it as a kind of experiment to see how long it could carry on without eating. But then his senses returned to him and he had bashed its head in.

  Virgil was getting up when he saw horses in the distance moving towards them.

  ‘Riders coming,’ Virgil called to Owen. ‘Get ready to roll the gate!’

  ROSE, late autumn, 61 A. Z.

  Dear Xavier,

  Happy harvest festival! Beth said that it was okay to send you a card even though we’re not supposed to write to each other until we’re fifteen. Two more years! I think it’s ridiculous. I’m still mad at Beth for snooping through my stuff and finding the letters you sent me. Why are they trying to keep me from growing up? What can you tell me that I haven’t already heard?

  They control everything in my life: what I eat, wear, talk about, learn. I’m suffocating! I bet out in Tree Sanctuary people aren’t as fussy. It sounds like paradise: trees, mountains and gardens. Here everything is just metal, brick, concrete and covered in dust from the desert. When I’m grown up, I’m going to live at Tree Sanctuary, paint pictures and do what I want when I want.

  Don’t tell anyone, but Oscar and I have found the place we’re going to make our hang-out. It should be okay because these buildings have been boarded up for years. There’s nothing dangerous left in there, I’m sure. We’ve scoped it all out and are starting on it this week after the festival.

  Well, I hope you have a great time at the harvest festival. Have fun!

  Take care,

  Rose

  KATIE, winter, 61 A. Z.

  I had GONE for a bit of a hike and had found a lovely large rock to sit on. It was a perfect place in the afternoon sun to finish reading a terrifying book by one of my favourite authors — Mr King. This spot was also an ideal place to spy on the humans who lived in the canyon walls. Their little colony wasn’t close to my valley, but it was still near enough that I went and had a look at it every couple of years or when I was bored.

  I was on the last page of my book when I saw a young auburn-haired man walking along the ridge at the top of the canyon towards a shack the humans kept outside their colony for doing science of some sort. I didn’t pay him much mind, mainly just acknowledged his appearance as a point of difference atop the canyon’s jagged slate. I knew he couldn’t see me, or he wouldn’t be walking out there alone.

  Then I saw him stumble, roll and slide from view. I stood up and looked along the ridge to see if anyone was with him, maybe lagging behind. No one there.

  I waited a moment, hoping to see his red hair appear from behind the ledge as he climbed back up. But nothing. Stupid human! Why had he been so foolish as to go out to that silly shack by himself?

  Katie, just mind your own business, I thought. I picked up my novel and tried to keep reading. I couldn’t. I knew only too well what was likely to be down in the canyon that guy had fallen into — and they were probably a bit stinky, had bugs crawling on them, and were really hungry. Some of my fellow Zombies were particularly clumsy and had the tendency to fall into holes, where they would spend the rest of eternity moaning and walking into the walls. And I might just add this
little bit of Zombie trivia: they can’t climb. They can crawl on top of each other, piling up until they get to a second-storey window. They can press mindlessly into a fence and eventually push it down or cheese-grater themselves trying. But they can’t climb over it. Something about the one-arm-after-another motion requires too much coordination for them to get up anything.

  The exception, of course, is me.

  I knew the canyon would have a couple of unfortunate Deads bumping around in it. The red-headed man didn’t have long to live if he couldn’t get out quickly.

  Going against my better judgement, I moved from my sheltered spot to investigate.

  MEMOIRS OF J. DING, 35 A. Z.

  THE CIRCULATION OF these creatures still vexes me. How can a resting heart rate of ten beats per minute be adequate to sustain the needs of the body? Why doesn’t the blood of the Zombie clot from stagnation within its vessels? The dusky, oxygen-depleted tissues continue to survive, despite their deprivation.

  On observation of a slow-moving subject that was trapped for a week within a bush below my tree house, I noted that many superficial veins on its face and neck were grossly enlarged. Perhaps this was due to some compensatory mechanism caused by low oxygen levels. In normal, uninfected individuals, decreased O2 levels or increased metabolic need cause a flood of chemical vasodilators, such as adenosine, to be released into the vessels, giving them a greater diameter and increased blood flow. However, this one possible explanation does not answer the riddle of Zombie circulation. Truly it is a complex gathering of adaptations that has created this creature.