Deadman's Switch & Sunder the Hollow Ones

by Saul Tanpepper

  It wasn’t that I shared my brother’s feelings about the creatures. I was two when Dad died and have almost no memories of the man—certainly no feelings of attachment—so the idea of hating the Undead was more hypothetical than personal. I grew up in a generation where they performed essential duties, things that nobody else wanted to perform, tasks that were too dangerous for the living. I was just as grateful as everyone else for them.

  And then came Arc. In just a few short years, they reclaimed parts of Long Island, petitioned the government to allow hunting and finally received the okay. The rich and privileged took up the sport in droves, but permits were limited, driving up the price and the demand. But there was such a huge public outcry—driven more by the inequity of it than the inhumanity—that Arc was forced to temporarily shut down the program.

  But the protests didn’t stop. Now the humanitarians saw an opportunity. There’d been protests in the past, petitioning the government to stop the Omegaman project and find a cure for Reanimation, to stop them using our dead to make the lives of the living easier. Thousands died during the riots; a schism formed in the country with the Southern States Coalition seceding in a bloody revolt. New Merica was formed from the remaining bits, and it isolated itself from the rest of the world.

  Arc eventually abandoned the whole idea of hunting, although, in truth, they had already started looking forward by then. They were secretly building Gameland, adapting the neuroleptic implants for use in something even more devious than civil and military applications: entertainment. Their scientists adjusted and tweaked the implants to get them to work better, become more reliable. Arc wanted to enhance responsiveness. They developed better VR and monitoring systems.

  The military was all for it, of course. The government was all for it. The new advancements might help return New Merica to a global power once again. All because of the Undead.

  And my brother wanted to understand them.

  “What do you hope to achieve by doing that?” Grandpa had challenged Eric. “I hope you don’t think you’re going to change anything from the inside. All you’ll end up doing is bringing the family more grief.”

  “You deserve the blame for our grief,” Eric had replied. Nobody talked to Grandpa that way. Nobody except my brother. “You brought this hell down on us. On our family. On New Merica. On the world.”

  If the family was fractured before that, if was hopelessly torn apart after Eric left. It was only then that I realized how much my brother had kept us together.

  I was twelve and my family was that only in name. I had no father. My mother was a drunken whore. My grandfather a bitter and overbearing, though completely ineffective, patriarch. And my brother had abandoned us to seek out some sort of spiritual enlightenment by communing with the Undead.

  Was it any wonder I didn’t have any friends?

  It was late January, I guess, and I was walking home from school, taking the long way to avoid the usual bullies who made it their life’s purpose to torment me. I’d discovered this trail through the woods behind the house, one that ran alongside a creek, and I was lost in the dazzling brightness of the sun shining off the snow. I had my eyes cast downward looking for animal tracks. The woods had been home to badgers and skunks, but other, larger, creatures had recently been frequenting the still half-wild place: deer, fox, wild dogs.

  I was following a set of large prints that I fantasized as belonging to a wolf—the creatures had supposedly gone extinct years earlier—when I stopped for a rest on a sunny stump. Earlier, the sun had melted the snow from the tops of the branches, but all was now layered in ice. The day had grown bitterly cold despite the clear sky. The air was so crisp and the sun so sharp that everything seemed to crackle. Even my breath coming out of me, freezing in an instant, felt crystalline. I had grown distracted playing with it, huffing balls of air from my lungs and watching them hover and dissipate, that I’d forgotten where I was.

  That’s when I noticed the shadow in the wood.

  It was low in profile, shimmery, almost ghostlike. But then it separated itself from the tree and stood out in the open, staring and panting. Not a wolf, I realized, but a dog. A very large and vicious-looking dog. And yet I wasn’t afraid of it.

  When I stood up, it slipped silently away.

  In the weeks that followed, as the snow grew deeper, then afterward as it began to melt away, I followed the tracks through the woods, thinking of it as some kind of game. I could tell the fresher tracks made during the night from the older ones, each carefully marked by spots of fresh yellow snow. At the end of each day, the dog would show itself to me, a little closer each time. One day, it was so close, that I reached out and touched it. And this time it didn’t shy or run away.

  Something passed between us that day, an understanding. And acceptance. I had a friend.

  I was a lonely child, as could be imagined given my family’s history, and this dog had somehow made me forget my loneliness.

  But though I considered the dog my friend, I was never its. We met in the woods and I would watch it do its half-wild doggy things and sometimes it would play and sometimes I would do my half-wild girly things or practice my hapkido moves. And it would watch me. It was waiting for something to happen.

  And the last day there was snow—it rained the whole next week and the ground was too mushy to walk on—was the last day I saw it.

  It was also the day I met Kelly.

  He’d later admitted that he had been secretly watching me too, from somewhere deeper in the woods. If I was any older, I might’ve been freaked out by the idea, but I wasn’t older, and I wasn’t afraid. I could tell that Kelly was a good person. The dog seemed to accept his presence there, too.

  So it was that on that day, the last dog day of that long and coldest winter, Kelly became my friend, replacing the only other friend I ever had.

  I never blamed him for making the dog go away. I knew he wasn’t responsible. Rather, it was almost like the dog had brought Kelly to me.

  But on that first and last day, I remember Kelly pointing to it as it rolled around in the newly exposed earth and running around as if it was the most wondrous thing that the snow had finally decided to leave after that horribly long and bitterly cold winter. He pointed and laughed and it was a wonderful sound to hear.

  He looked over at me on that first day of spring, that last day of snow and the last dog day, and he smiled warmly and asked, “What’s his name?”

  Chapter 28

  “Shinji,” I say, studying the dog’s collar. The chain is old and rusting, the chrome flaking off. The metal tag is nearly worn smooth. “Its name is Shinji.”

  Micah nods and rubs the knot on the back of his head while I rub the slobber off my neck.

  “I believe that means ‘faithful’ in Japanese,” he comments.

  I frown at him in amusement. He comes up with the randomest shit sometimes.

  “So I’ve been told anyway,” he adds.

  “How’s your head?”

  “Still hard. It’s my neck that hurts. Must’ve wrenched it when I landed.”

  “Yeah, well, you hit that tree trunk pretty hard.”

  “How long was I out?”

  “Couple of minutes only. Just long enough for this animal to rip my arm out of my shoulder in its eagerness to drown me in happy-slobber.”

  Micah smiles and reaches tentatively over at it, extending his fingers so the animal can smell them. The dog shows no hesitation, no fear. He licks Micah once, then quickly returns his attention to me. I don’t know why he’s chosen me. I guess I just have a way with dogs.

  As for the one in the woods, I’d never known its true name. It was a stray, as far as I could tell. I do remember that I had started calling it something—you have to give your friend a name, after all, even if it’s not a real one. I don’t remember what I’d told Kelly, that day we’d first met and he’d asked. Maybe I’d said something like “Doggy” or “Wolf.” I don’t recall. I do, however, remember going b
ack after the rains had finally stopped, when the ground was solid enough again to walk on without sinking six inches down into it. Every day I returned, and Kelly was there too, and we’d sit and wait, neither of us speaking. But the dog never came back.

  I never saw it again.

  “Well, it clearly likes you,” Micah says. He sounds almost jealous. “But sorry to break up this little love-fest. We need to go.”

  Strangely, the howl Shinji had let out, when he pounced to show me how excited he was to see me, hadn’t brought any zombies to us. I suppose the Undead become inured to non-human sounds like barks and crickets after a while, knowing they’re not going to get to eat. I can’t imagine dogs or crickets are very easy to catch.

  I chuckle to myself humorlessly. Here I go again, thinking of the Undead as being able to think.

  I stand up and Shinji jumps and puts his paws on my shirt. He’s big and heavy, even as skinny as he is. And old. The fur on his muzzle is thin and gray. But he’s acting just like a puppy, snuffling against my side and into the space between my back and the pack. He must think I have food in there. Smart dog.

  “Later, boy,” I say. “I’ll get you something to eat later. Right now it’s time to be quiet.”

  Micah leads this time, shining his Link ahead of him. It affords only a few feet of light, but pretty soon we won’t need it anyway. The first tendrils of light are beginning to reach into the wood. In a few minutes, it’ll be light enough to see without the Link.

  Another half mile and a new light shines through the trees ahead of us, too bright to be pre-dawn. It’s a spot light. Micah turns and points and I signal that I see it, too. I pull out my Link and try to ping Kelly again, but there’s no response this time. I feel a flutter of panic inside of my chest, and this time I don’t bother to push it away. I pray that he and the others are all right.

  Including Jake.

  I hope he’s not in very much pain. I know it’s wishful thinking. There is no halfway when it comes to bites; he’s either infected or he’s not, and I know what I saw, so I know which way the pendulum has swung on that one. And it suddenly crosses my mind that he might not even still be alive. But I can’t think that way. He’s alive. He has to be.

  I know I’m being hypocritical. I’ve already written him off, even though I still hold out hope for Kelly. Kelly wasn’t bitten, but he was injected with the virus. What’s the difference? Why should I think of Kelly’s infection as curable while assuming Jake’s is terminal?

  I don’t know.

  Am I that shallow?

  Shinji nudges me forward. I hadn’t realized I’d stopped. Micah’s already pushed on ahead without me.

  “Thanks, boy,” I say, reaching down. He seems even more eager than I am to reunite with my friends.

  His fur is greasy, dusty. And yet I want to dig my fingers deep into it. Maybe after we’ve found the others and can go home again. Maybe then.

  “Stay close,” I add, and begin walking again.

  We reach a place where the trees suddenly thin out. A clearing, though it’s overgrown with low bushes and grass, most of it dried out by the withering autumn heat. The only thing that seems to tolerate the humidity is the hanging moss dangling thickly from the branches above. I don’t think it’s native.

  There are several clearly marked trails leading from different parts of the surrounding wood, a couple of animal trails worn down to bare dirt. The rest are new, as evidenced by the freshly trampled grass and broken brush. The grass on our path is undisturbed. Lucky for us. The IUs that arrived here earlier didn’t come this way. And since they appear to have returned back to their holes, I assume it was by the same route they took in.

  Chalk that up to yet another puzzling behavior.

  Either that or they’re still inside the complex.

  “Think the fence is down?” Micah whispers.

  I shake my head. I don’t know.

  “The tree they climbed must be around the other side.”

  “Well, it’s not on this side.”

  He steps out from the cloak of the wood and I follow. Shinji trails along behind, keeping pace. He seems content to just tag along. After thirteen years, I bet he’s glad to have a little human companionship.

  Living companionship.

  “No IUs,” Micah breathes. “Fence looks intact. Electricity’s still on.” He stops and listens. Just above the whisper of the morning breeze, comes the electrical buzz, warning us. “So, how did those IUs get inside?”

  We make our way around the perimeter, looking for any sign of our friends, the tree they climbed, or the IUs. It’s Shinji who makes the first discovery: a body of a zombie lying half-hidden in the grass. Its neck is broken. At least it looks like it’s broken; hard to tell with these things. And other than the usual wear-and-tear, there are no other marks on this particular zombie, no stab marks or bites or bullet holes. Its skull is entirely intact. Whatever killed this one did it quickly and without weapons.

  “When you talked to Kel, did he say they killed any before they went in?”

  “No,” I answer. “I mean, they didn’t.”

  “So…?” He frowns, looking puzzled.

  I bite my lip and glance around nervously. That’s when I see the second IU. Then the third. And a fourth. All of their necks are broken, their heads wrenched nearly backwards. In one case, the flesh had become so inflexible due to the plastination that the muscle is shredded, and the only thing holding the head to the torso are the tattered remains of its ropy sinews.

  “I don’t think Kel and the others did this, Micah.”

  We continue walking, staring at the bodies strewn about the field as we go. It’s like they’re all sleeping. And they all lead to the tree.

  “Fig,” Micah says, answering my questioning look. “They never used to grow in these parts. They grow fast. And those?” He points. “Strangler vines.”

  The tree has a thick trunk, gnarled and overgrown by the vines. Climbing it would be a piece of cake for a living person, impossible for an IU.

  Most likely possible for a CU.

  “Those zombies that got inside?” I say. “They weren’t regular zombies. Not all of them, anyway.”

  Micah swallows and nods. His face fills with worry.

  Chapter 29

  “Stay here,” I say.

  Shinji whines when I reach for the vines to climb the tree. He nuzzles my back. I can’t decide if he’s trying to push me up or he wants to come with us. But I can’t bring him. There’s no way either Micah or I—or even the both of us together—could lift him up the tree and over the fence.

  “We’ll be back soon.”

  I hope.

  He barks, once, loudly, as if to say, “You damn well better.”

  “Shh! Sit!”

  Shinji wags his tail.

  “Why don’t you give him something to eat?” Micah suggests. He’s already over the fence and standing on the other side.

  I open my pack and fish around for something among the canned and packaged food. Now Shinji sits, his tail still wagging. He knows what’s coming. It amazes me that he knows. How can he remember?

  “Do you like tuna fish?”

  He tilts his head and grins at me.

  “I’ll take that as a yes. Well, doesn’t matter, since that’s the only thing I have with a pop-top lid, and I ain’t sticking around to use a regular can opener.”

  So I pull out two cans of tuna fish and open them and knock the contents out on a flat rock. Then I hurry back to the tree.

  Shinji slobbers up a mouthful, but then hurries back to my side before I have a chance to grab a handhold.

  “Sit, Shinji!”

  He sits.

  “Stay.”

  He wags his tail.

  “Well, at least he’s well behaved.”

  Micah shakes his head with impatience.

  “Okay, boy, I’ll be right back. You stay here.”

  “Would you hurry up already?” Micah says.

  I wag
my finger one last time at Shinji, but he follows me back to the tree. He just won’t leave me alone. I keep expecting him to bark or whine, but he’s quiet, not a sound from his mouth. He just sits there smiling his tuna-eating grin at me.

  “You’re not finished, Shin.” I grab him by the collar and pull him back over to the tins. He follows willingly enough. “Now, you need to stay here while I go. There’s someone inside there that I really need to see right now.”

  He nuzzles my backpack again.

  I sigh and kneel down, unslinging the pack and bringing it in front of me. “There’s nothing else in here for you,” I tell him. But he sticks his nose into the pocket and snuffles around for a moment before backing back out again. I gasp when I see what he’s grabbed.

  “What is that?” Micah asks, standing close to the fence. He looks over with a puzzled look on his face.

  Tears come to my eyes. It’s the rabbit, Cassie’s stuffy toy. I reach into my back pocket and pull out the stack of photos and sift through them until I find the one with Cassie at the beach. There, off to one side, is a dog, not quite fully grown yet. It’s got the same markings as Shinji.

  I look up and he’s gone. So is the rabbit.

  “It’s okay,” Micah whispers, seeing the tears streaming down my face. “It’s all right, Jessie.” He points, and I follow the line of his finger until I see a shadow beneath the tree. It’s Shinji, curled up to sleep. Beneath his chin is the toy.

  And I know, even if I’m not really his little girl, I know that he believes I am. It makes me hopeful for the reunion that awaits me just a few hundred feet away. It makes me hopeful that all will be okay and that I’ll be able to fix everything, even Jake.