Zombie Revolution

by K. Bartholomew

  Since I’m only truly interested in the brain matter at this stage, I tossed the rest of Toombs’ internal organs into the miscellaneous rubbish bin. I shall sew up the torso as soon as I’ve examined the brain so I can deliver the corpse in a semi-fit state for cremation, which kind of seems a little pointless if you want my opinion but just because the world has gone to hell, doesn’t mean we can’t retain at least a small semblance of our old human decency.

  It’s 2nd July 2017, the time is 15:27. My name’s Professor James Atkinson, I’m in my lab here in New London. The subject’s name is Doctor (long pause)…Well we’ll just go with Doctor Toombs for now. The subject has been deceased for a little under three days. The subject is laid out in front of me in a supine position. I am now taking the scalpel and am making an incision along the base of the forehead, just above the bridge of the nose. I am now neatly rolling the skin of the forehead up to the scalp. The frontal bone is now fully exposed. I am now reaching for my bone drill. The battery is fully charged and the drill end is clean. The equipment is in good working order. I am now carefully drilling a hole through the frontal bone, just enough to obtain a surface brain sample for analysis. I am now swabbing some brain tissue. The tissue is being smeared on a culture dish.

  I’m turning the music up because I’d really like to experience the beauty for this next part.

  Ok, where were we – I’m taking a look at the brain tissue sample right now. I can clearly make out Yersinia Pestis bacteria or bubonic plague. This seems to be dominant over all other bacteria in the brain although I can also see traces of syphilis and leprosy. There’s also something else hiding away in there right behind an inconveniently placed Yersinia Pestis molecule. Just let me refocus a minute…There we go. Now then…my God! It’s…It’s H3N17! There’s another one! And another! I am now spotting several H3N17 molecules which have succeeded in transporting to the brain. It has failed! Jasper 2 has failed in protecting the brain from the H3N17 virus. I am a failure! What the…oh no…please no…it can’t be…

  Toombs is sitting up on the slab!

  He is slowly trying to stand up. He’s on his feet and is turning toward me. His torso is fully opened and I can see his spinal column through the enormous cavity. My bone drill is still embedded in his frontal bone, dangling there uselessly, but worst of all, he’s standing between myself and my desk where I keep the loaded revolver.

  He possesses a forlorn look of emptiness in his eyes as he staggers toward me. I’m backed into a corner here. I can hear an awful gargling sound emanating from his throat, puncturing Giuseppe Tartini.

  He’s only six feet from me now and I’m under no illusions that this is my end, there’s nothing I can do to save myself. My final thoughts are of my dog Jasper and how I wish I’d called you something else.

  He reaches out for me…argh…he has my…he’s sinking his teeth into my cheek (loud screams and shouts follow which persist for 15 seconds, then the recording ends).

  Security Camera Still

  1

  The Lab

  “Sir, sir, please, you cannot keep us like this.” The prisoner pleaded from within his cage. “We not animal, we human.”

  Not for the first time the soldier laughed and dragged his cattle prod across the bars, the prisoner shrank away, hands covering his ears.

  Not content, the soldier stepped closer, smiled and spat into the man’s face. “What do I keep telling you…huh…B1478? When I’m around, you shut the fuck up.” He continued brandishing the dangerous device, waving it close to the man’s face, revelling in the orgasmic feeling of power while knowing there was nothing the scum could do about it.

  The prisoner wiped the green slime from his forehead with a naked arm. “Not B1478, I have name.”

  “You sure do, Mr B1478.”

  “Muhammed!” The prisoner grabbed the bars and glared defiance.

  The soldier held up the cattle prod and was about to jab it through the bars when…

  “Hey, Rodriguez, how many times have I told you about antagonising the subjects.” It was the doctor in white cloak who shouted across from a table filled with petri dishes.

  Rodriguez whipped around. “Subjects? They’re prisoners, Doc.”

  “They’re subjects, Private.” The doctor pushed back his chair and made his way around the laboratory equipment toward the cages. “Subjects.” He repeated, this time with more authority.

  The soldier did not back down, but took a moment to consider his next words. “This fuck killed two men from my unit…that’s two of your countrymen, Doc. Fucking IED.”

  “That may well be the case, but I can assure you, Private, that for number B1478, being one of my subjects is a fate worse than death itself. Isn’t that punishment enough? There’s no need to torment the man further.” The doctor spoke in a slightly lighter tone, hoping to pacify the soldier.

  Rodriguez nodded and almost smiled, displaying only a few of his broken teeth. “Very well. I’ll go play with some of these others then, there’s more than one murderer down here.”

  The doctor ground his teeth and glared into the soldier’s back as he strode off down the endless line of cages, the subjects within shrinking back against the sides. The doctor shouted after him. “Ten minutes you’ve been on shift, asshole. It’s not you who has to research shit down here after you’ve set them all off with their deranged howling. Private Morris treats people with more respect, you should learn from him.”

  The soldier laughed as he continued pacing past cage after cage, hundreds with barely enough space to take a piss, each containing one prisoner/subject apiece.

  Rodriguez glanced at each face with his usual fascination and taking no small amount of pleasure in the fear he inspired. That was, until he reached the cage containing subject B1654.

  “What the fuck?” Rodriguez felt something stir in his belly and called back to the doc. “You mean, your little project down here’s working?”

  This time the doctor ran across the laboratory floor, reaching the loud imbecile within seconds. “You idiot, why always you? Keep your fucking voice down!”

  Rodriguez barely comprehended the warning, because he was still gaping at the subject. “What the fuck did you do to this raghead?”

  The doctor squeezed his eyes shut and rubbed his forehead. “This Iraqi, you ignorant fuck! And you know very well what happened to him. You’re here on patrol every day. You seem to spend all your time taunting them. You know my work and…”

  “…Yeah…I do…sort of…but I never actually thought you’d succeed down here. I always just assumed top brass were either humoring you or were too stupid to see when something was a dead end. I mean, you’ve turned him into some kind of a freaking zombie…” he continued gaping at the subject who, in fact, was far from a zombie, yet.

  B1654 had thus far only lost half his IQ, experienced minimal discoloring of the skin and up to this moment, hadn’t yet asked for any human meat. Most of all, the subject remained in a state of lethargy. And that meant he was far from ready to be used against the enemy.

  The doctor exhaled. “Since you were in the process of taking a leisurely walk around this United States military laboratory without my permission, let me give you a not-so-friendly warning, not for your benefit, you understand, but to save you from crapping your pants as you reach the B1800’s and setting the whole damn three thousand of them off.” He pointed to the far end of the vast underground laboratory. “If you have a weak stomach or have just eaten dinner then you’d best stop here and not continue further.”

  There was no way in hell Rodriguez would not turn to look in the direction the doctor was pointing, it was human nature after all. He laughed, “you mean, the whole damned lot of ‘em are zombies?”

  The doctor tried pulling him away but it was like trying to move a tank. “We don’t call them that silly Hollywood word. At this stage, they’re simply subjects, but yes…down there…they’re the subjects who’ve been here the longest and are further along the
transitional process.”

  Rodriguez grimaced. “Transitional process, huh?” He grimaced as his head jutted forward, his feet having seemingly taken the advice, if his face did not. Then his eyes bulged and a spray of orange and green burst from his mouth.

  The doctor jumped back. “Great, just great. I’ll have to request they replace you, the useless swine that you are. Really, why did they send you to me? And now look, you’ve set them all off with that infernal noises.”

  r From subject B1800 all the way to the far wall, hundreds of withered hands appeared suddenly on the bars. They shook the cages, they stamped their feet, they made pre-human noises, hundreds of them so that it sounded like the devil’s symphony.

  Rodriguez straightened from where he’d been on his hands and knees, evacuating the contents of his belly and wiped his mouth with his uniform sleeve. “And you keep the still living subjects in the same room as these…these zombies?” He wiped his forehead and glanced hopelessly at his cattle prod, useless as it now seemed. “And I thought I was cruel. Wouldn’t it be better to keep the still living in their own building? That would be the decent thing, so they don’t see what you have comin’ for ‘em.”

  The doctor kicked at something on the floor. “They’re…um…there’re resource issues…not enough space, you see.”

  Rodriguez shook his head and tutted, all moral high ground suddenly. “Now I understand what you meant by these poor fuckers experiencing a fate worse than death.” He threw the cattle prod carelessly over his shoulder. “Looks like I won’t be needing this no more. Nope, Doc, when it comes to cruelty, I ought to be learning from you.” He shook his head in wonder. “And there was me and the men all hoping on giving them a good kicking after what they did, planting bombs under roads and shit. All we wanted was a quick electrifying, a few black eyes, maybe a few boots to the nuts, but not this…this is some real sick shit you’re doing down here, Doc.” He began walking back in the direction of subject B1478 and the doctor called out to his back.

  “What we’re doing down here…we’ll save many more lives than what we take.” He shook, unsure whether he even convinced himself. “And these men…they’re the enemy remember. They were taken prisoners by you…you said so yourself.”

  Rodriguez whistled as he continued on his patrol. “Keep telling yourself that doc.”

  2

  Top Brass

  “Please, Doctor, take a seat.” The general stood and gestured to the chair over at the other side of the desk. “Your reports indicate the virus is behind schedule…care for some cake? We don’t have brownies but there’s chocolate cake to go with your coffee if you’d care for a slice?”

  The doctor scrunched up his face as he sat, his eyes flicking twice over the other man in the room.

  “Oh, my apologies, allow me to introduce Rudy Barton…not his real name of course.” The general coughed into his hand, took a bite of cake followed by a long pull from his coffee cup. “He’s from…well he’s from higher up, Doctor.”

  Barton held out his hand which the doctor took.

  A typical Washington suit and all round prick, is what he was. Too smooth with greased back brown hair and not a mark upon him. Probably never done a days work in his life. Trust fund probably. Yet here he was at Forward Air Base Sykes being given the royal treatment. “And your name, Doctor?” Oh, and he sounded like a typical prig too.

  The general quickly butted in. “I’m sorry, Mr Barton, but the doctor’s name is known only by three people on this base, you’re looking at one of ‘em, and I’m not telling.”

  Barton nodded and tried to make light of the situation. “So, neither of us are allowed to know about the other.” He crossed one leg over the other. “Well, I guess this is the way things are done in the military these days, kind of exciting though, don’t you think? Very cloak and dagger, like in those espionage movies.”

  The doctor leaned forward. “But I’m not military. I’m a scientist.”

  “Which is precisely why we’ve called you in, Doctor.” The general shuffled through a stack of papers the doctor recognized as his latest report, now containing several large coffee rings. “The point is, you’re behind schedule.”

  The doctor chewed on his lip for so long the general looked up from his papers. “I need more time to perfect the virus.”

  “Time? You need more time? I shouldn’t have to remind you there’s an insurgency…a little something called an Islamic Caliph…”

  Barton interjected “…ISIS will be stopped one way or another, but I’m here to determine whether it’s to be by bombs or by your little…shall we call it…virus. Because let me make one thing clear,” the little prick fresh out of college spoke down to the doctor, “Washington’s getting real worried about the budget you’re running through.” He pointed a manicured finger in the direction of the scientist’s chest. “And do you have any idea how hard it is keeping a lid on this whole thing? Imagine if this were to leak…that we have thousands of prisoners kept for experimental purposes.” He visibly shuddered at the thought.

  The generals’s deep voice sounded like granite in contrast to Barton’s. “There would be a real insurgency on our hands if this were to get out. If you think the Islamic State are a tricky bunch to deal with, then just wait until the local goat herders and peasantry discover their relatives they’d taken for dead were all this time, in fact, being probed and injected with experimental vaccines…oh go on, have some cake would you?”

  The doctor reached forward, taking a slice of chocolate cake and a large mouthful, which came as a relief because it meant he now had a few moments to decide how to reply. He couldn’t think up anything on the spot, but was saved from speaking anyway because the general butted in again.

  “Bombs or virus? And we all know how much good our bombs are doing. So little, they accuse us of intentionally missing. Tell me, what are the reasons for all the delays Doctor?”

  A temporary reprieve, but now he’d have to answer. He swallowed but took another bite whilst trying to refine the response in his head. The general’s jaw clenched with impatience, though Barton seemed amused.

  How could he tell his superior the reason for the delay was due to an idiotic private named Rodriguez, amongst other things. But no - He couldn’t pin the whole blame on him and they’d only laugh if he tried. The truth was that maybe the doctor wasn’t as brilliant a mind as he’d always thought of himself. It was a kick in the old ego for sure.

  Barton checked his watch. “Bombs it is then, Doctor.”

  The doctor’s dreams of retirement flew through his head; the townhouse, the ranch, the horses - Slipping away. “No!” He slammed a hand into the desk and spat mushed up brown cake over the papers. “I mean…sorry…no, the virus is ready…well almost.”

  “Almost?” The general wiped bits of chewed up brown sponge off the report with a napkin and jabbed a finger at a figure that was highlighted in bright yellow. “But it says here you require at least another six months to perfect it.”

  “Six months?” Barton asked with an opened mouth. “Listen here, Doctor, even if we had infinite money, which we don’t, but even if we did, we’d never keep this thing a secret from the prying press that long. And there’s the other matter…”

  The doctor cut in, “it’s, um, ready, Mr Barton…General.”

  The general slapped his thigh and Barton uncrossed his leg and then crossed the other one on top, he was excited.

  “That’s what we wanted to hear.” The general brought out a decanter and three small glasses before filling them with a dark liquid. He handed them out then spoke to Barton, “and the other matter in which you refer…”

  “…yes, who is he?”

  “I’m afraid there’s only one person on this entire base who knows the answer to that question…and I ain’t telling.” The general raised his glass in a gesture of cheers and downed the fluid straight. “But you shall refer to him simply as The VIP.”

  3

  The Man Under
The Hood

  The monitor displayed a guard of twelve soldiers as they escorted a central figure down the corridor. The screen cut to a new angle as they entered the camp’s medical block, then it cut again as they emerged onto what the doctor recognized as the long corridor before the one particular small room in which he now waited.

  Always they marched at the same pace, four soldiers to the rear, four in front, two each at either side, surrounding the man in the middle and each guard carrying an MK17 at the ready.

  The image enlarged as the camera above the door trained on the group, but the doctor couldn’t take his eyes off the central figure.

  He stood taller than any of his guards and wore boots and clothes unlike the base’s other prisoners, who for the most part were stripped of everything for testing purposes, but not this man. No, this man had been allowed to keep his boots, for whatever reason, and still donned the religious clothing in which he’d been found. The most striking detail about the prisoner, however, was the hood that covered his entire face, neck and even stretched half way down his chest. Somebody didn’t want this man’s identity discovering - By anyone.

  The door buzzed, the soldiers simultaneously saluted their commander, who was one of the twelve. The officer, one other soldier and the hooded man entered the small medical room.

  The door shut behind the trio who now stood before the doctor, who noted the increase in his heart rate.

  “Doctor,” the lieutenant stood to the left of the hood and turned inwards slightly, almost like he was being overprotective, or nervous, of his charge, “we’ve brought The VIP.”