Zach Carter, Zombie Killer Page 8

  “Pretty much the outline we have.”

  “Yeah well, think the worst, take some acid, read some Lovecraft and then stare at a Hieronymous Bosch painting until your brain slides off its axis.”

  “Melodramatic, but not very helpful. Let me guess, you haven’t seen the sun in almost two years.”

  “That wouldn’t be so bad if I hadn’t been string into the abyss,” DeMaio snorted. “And the abyss has proved to be very talkative, my friend.”

  “What’s the short version?”

  “First, there’s no cure, and there’s no vaccine. The only way to fight Zeke is to kill every last one of them.”

  “That’s not a revolutionary concept.”

  “No, but we did the science, and couldn’t find any way to either prevent or reverse the infection. If you got it, you got it.”

  “The whole world already got the bad news, what else?”

  “Two things. First, for our part, our very own homegrown Doctor Mengele came up with a variation that kills the host but preserves brain function.”

  “You’re talking about a thinking zombie.”

  “Oh yes, and so much more. Thinking, talking, planning — and just as dead and just as nasty as your standard zombie.”

  “Why would they do such a thing?”

  “Immunity. Zekes don’t eat dead meat, and our super-Zs are dead. So they can go into a room full of Zekes and act like it’s a cocktail party of the Undead High School Reunion. Apparently, they might also be immortal, or virtually so, since Zeke bodies don’t seem to degrade.”

  “Why is that?”

  “It’s akin to embalming. They’re not going to get any prettier, but they’re preserved.”

  “It still doesn’t make sense.”

  “No more than assisted suicide, but in case you hadn’t noticed we don’t have a branch of the Bioethics Society down here. So, in the absence of what we learned, yeah, it doesn’t really make sense to turn your self undead just so you can socialize with the natives.”

  “Why do it, then?”

  “I was working on getting information from some standard Zekes when we stumbled on it.”

  “What?”

  DeMaio hesitated. “I want to get out of here. You guys are here for intel, and I’m sure there’s some plan to knock this place on its ass, and if my finger was on the button, I’d do it right this minute. But there’s a couple folks here who don’t like what’s going on, don’t want to take the next step and would love a chance to rejoin the living. I take it you’re not a suicide squad.”

  “Not our first option.”

  “Can you take a half dozen with you?”

  “Yes.”

  “Okay, I’m going to bring you a DVD of the Final Solution, Zombie Style. That’ll give you more than enough reason to nuke this place hot. Tomorrow morning, they’re scheduled to administer the serum to those of us who haven’t already bought the farm either by experiment or their own hand.”

  “Scientists are committing suicide here?”

  “Dude, we may not be tight with god, but the devil don’t scan.”

  “Okay, get the DVD — what about telling your comrades?”

  “If I don’t tell them, a couple may off themselves between tonight and tomorrow, if I do tell them, they might blow it.”

  “Exactly. It’s your call.”

  “Let me think about it. I’ll be back in five.”

  Again, we retreated to the back of the break room, and waited.

  “This is a lot of risk to save half a dozen people,” Roy said.

  “You one of those guys used to walk out before the movie’s over?” Jimmy said.

  “One thing we’ve learned guys, is that everyone needs a little bit of hope. I think that’s pretty much the business we been in since this thing started,” I said.

  “Fair enough,” Roy said.

  DeMaio came back, with a portable DVD player that was more government than Disney-issue. “I’ve decided to tell everyone tonight, but we have to wait before mess to bail. Everyone’s working right now, and security would just shoot us as talk us out of resigning. We can all leave safely in the am. They’re busy with their end of the world sonata.”

  “Agreed,” I said. “Good luck.”

  Chapter 22

  “Do we bunk here or back down in our hole,” Jimmy said.

  “Here. We’ll barricade the door, take turns on watch,” I said.

  “Don’t give up ground that’s hard won,” Roy said.

  “Hard dug,” Jimmy said.

  “Both,” I said.

  “You going to call in this mess, to Breem,” Jimmy said.

  “You may be surprised at this, but I am going to wait. Most of the damage is done, and in this situation, bad guys usually come up with a way to foil their own plans.”

  “Spoken as only an eight-year man could say it,” Roy said.

  “What does that mean,” Jimmy said.

  “It’s actually quite astute. In most jobs, after the learning and infatuation curve is over, you learn what’s worth doing and what’s worth watching it undo itself,” I said. “It’s applicable across many professions.”

  “Yeah, I know that from boxing. After you got a couple dozen under your belt you can tell how a guy’s gonna ask you to knock him out.”

  “Exactly,” I said. “Let’s watch Dr. Evil,” and turned on the DVD.

  “Christ, he looks like a Vulcan with cholera,” Jimmy said.

  The image on the screen was of a man whose skin was mottled so dark it looked green, with pure black eyes, magnified by coke bottle thick glasses, that he might have no longer needed. He was clearly dead, a Zeke. And still alive, after a fashion.

  “Hello, friends and colleagues. Well, let’s face it, I don’t have any friends in the lab, but indulge me. Those of you still with us were surely aware we were working along several lines of inquiry, searching for a vaccine to counteract the undead virus. We were unable to locate such a formula. The next best solution was to inject subjects with a near-full strength version of the virus, in an attempt to maintain brain function. I have chosen myself as the subject of this stage, and you can see the results. My tenure as a human being ended at eleven-thirty five pm, Wednesday, and I reanimated in this state some twelve hours later. I am no longer human. The virus, as we have previously theorized, is a life form that is literally connected to the dark matter of the universe. Thankfully, I shall be able to continue research along these lines, but I will tell you that, much as humans possess intuition and some mild psychic sensations connecting them to the weak life force present in the galaxy, I now have intimate knowledge of the force that is attempting to extinguish the rise of individual cognition, or self-awareness. The dark frequency, for lack of a better term, is as any basic scientist understands, the vast majority of what comprises the known physical existence. This dark frequency seeks to eradicate the life force, seeing it as an affront to what existed prior to the big bang. It’s quite fascinating, really — entropy as a self-reinforcing vector. For our immediate purposes, what you need to know is that the virus which humanity encountered was, for all intents and purposes, an engineered bioweapon designed to wreak the havoc we have witnessed. It is the first wave of destruction for our planet, that will soon be visited by a planet killing drone that will extinguish animal, plant and microbial life, then roast and crack the earth like a walnut. I am not the first, formerly sentient creature to sacrifice myself to the dark frequency. I believe that any of you who join me will be able to hitch a ride, so to speak, on the drone, which travels the universe, attracted to planets where the majority of sentient creatures have been destroyed by the advance bioweapon. Quite ingenious really, somewhat like a cosmic minefield that gleefully, yet impersonally, tears apart the living into so many little bits and pieces. The drone, apparently, is fitted with long-range sensors that can detect mass die-offs of life, in the same way we might have observed a loss of oceanic algae colonies. So the actors who are intentionally directing th
is campaign are both methodical and elegant in their design. I can offer no guarantee that we will be able to join these forces, but I can assure you that the drone is on its way to our little rock and there is no means to deflect its approach. After all, being a civilized planet, we outlawed space-based nuclear weapons several decades ago. And the means to launch ICBMs has been neutralized by our very own director’s outside patron. By the way, Mr. Sinclair is no longer in charge of this facility. He is still alive, but I have placed him inside a quarantine room that is populated by our compatriots who were turned into lower-level undead in the initial infection. In the time before the drone arrives we have much work to do, some scientific, some tactical. The scientists will work with me on questions of the dark frequency — namely, what is life, for lack of a better term, going to be like once our new sponsors work is done. I conjecture, at this early stage, that it will be much like what the mystics used to promise — conscious union with the all-that-is. But they were wrong by a matter of degree. The overwhelming force of the universe is not life, but the absence of life, and the true nature of reality is emptiness. I have already glimpsed, in small snippets, what this ultimate nothingness has to offer. Truly, it is the peace that passes all understanding. And given that the state I have converted myself to offers practicable immortality, those of you who are inoculated herein will be able to directly experience this eternal state. In the meantime, several of you will be put to the more mundane task of leading massed forces of the standard undead in attacks on remaining human survivors. It is my belief the drone is pulled in the direction of loss of life in direct proportion to the percentile destruction. Simply, the more we kill the faster comes our salvation. Our still human patron is interested in hastening the drone’s arrival and has already been conducting rather ingenious experiments of his own to direct the undead against human outposts. With our still intact cognitive abilities, we will be able to more efficiently destroy our former cousins. Your choice is simple. You can volunteer to be transformed into such as myself, an Alpha Zombie, or we will allow you to be infected by a standard undead where you will become a foot soldier against the remaining humans. This gesture of generosity is clearly a vestige of my former human condition. It is the last you will witness.”

  Chapter 23

  “Oh man, Dr. Evil is right — hey you think he’s got six fingers? He could be a stand-in for chi-hil-errr,” Jimmy said, waving his fingers in the air.

  “Really — anti-depressants — they’re what’s for breakfast,” Roy said.

  “What a chump,” I said.

  “You think that hocus-pocus is for real,” Jimmy said.

  “Oh yeah, absolutely. Especially what we learned from the Townsend testimony,” I said, “but this guy is making a classic mistake.”

  “What’s that,” Roy said.

  “Counting on honor among thieves,” I said, “add in the natural bias for hubris of a super-smart scientist —”

  “Especially one who thinks he just made a deal with the devil,” Jimmy said.

  “Yeah, can you see this guy as a kid, watching James Bond movies and rooting for the super-creepy megalo-nut job bad guy,” Roy said.

  “Too bad you won’t be around to see me rule the world, Mr. Bond,” Jimmy said.

  “Yeah, but guys, I’m glad you found his schtick so entertaining, listen up,” I said. “This guy’s making at least two mistakes, like I said — counting on honor among thieves, number one and number two, assuming his conspirator has the same goals he does.”

  “Do tell, copper,” Jimmy said.

  “Exactly, I’ve seen this scenario before, and Dr. Evil is getting played by a not necessarily smarter, but definitely more pathological bad guy. You heard him say their rich patron was still human, right? And you also heard him say the bit about no nuclear weapons in space? And we also know that said rich guy has assumed control of satellites? Well, you know what I think? I think said rich guy is using Dr. Evil and the rest of these scientists to give him the effective Zeke troops he needs to gain control of what’s left of the human race — and then he’s going to hang him out to dry.”

  “Damn. That’s cold,” Jimmy said.

  “So are you going to have this place cooked after we get out of here?” Roy said.

  “I have to ask Breem something first,” I said. “For now, let’s just content ourselves knowing we fought the good fight — these fuckers are sick.”

  Morning came quick. DeMaio showed up with four other scientist-types. One of them couldn’t take any more and took themselves out of the picture.

  Once we were through the tunnel, Roy blew the charges. It wouldn’t be long before they figured out that five of their number had flown the underground coop and they would search until they found the tunnel entrance behind the soda machines we pulled in front of the entrance.

  I got on the sat-phone and asked Breem the question that had to answered. The fucker actually hesitated, again with the government secrecy nonsense, until I explained the full concept to him. Then finally he admitted it and said, yes, it was possible for someone who had access to the satellites and the codes. I said it was amazing what money could buy.

  Breem agreed to let the super Zekes get evacuated from the Oregon lab. Let the bastards think they had gotten away with it. I prayed that Peters and his crew would be able to weather the storm that was likely to come his way.

  And hubris, apparently, was not restricted to undead scientists. Whoever was controlling the satellites allowed Breem’s people to get a peek through the space telescope. The dark frequency drone had already passed Mars, and would be within range in less than a week. Breem agreed to let Mr. Unknown do the heavy lifting for the human race.

  “The only problem we have now, Carter, is that we can’t get you out of there?” Breem said.

  “Why not?”

  “There’s about two million Zekes milling around over your head right now. We figure part of the plan is to march down the coast and push all the remaining people into a single locale.”

  “Whoever doesn’t get eaten you mean,” I said.

  “Well, there’s that,” Breem said.

  “After the drone gets taken out, see if you can come get us,” I said, “we’ll sit tight.”

  Everyone was watching and listening to the conversation by the end of it, but only a couple understood why I was grinning from ear to ear.

  “Breem’s going to let Mr. Rich Shithead take out the alien drone with space-based nuclear weapons. Once that’s done, they’re going to take him out with a tactical warhead from one of our very own, still fully operational nuclear submarines. We’ll still have plenty of Zekes to clean up, along with some of these super freaks, but at least the playing field will be back to cavemen versus the saber-toothed. And we won that one once before.”

  End

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