by steve higgs
Zombie Granny
Blue Moon Investigations
Short Story
Steve Higgs
Text Copyright © 2017 Steven J Higgs
All rights Reserved
Rochester High Street. Saturday, 23rd October 1155hrs
I was on my way back to the office when my phone rang. The car system picked it up, the screen advised that the caller was James, my newly employed and very LGBT admin assistant.
‘Good afternoon, James.’
‘Tempest, I have a client at the office, will you be long?’
‘About another five minutes. What sort of case is it?’ I was asking if he considered it a real case i.e. there was a crime to investigate or mystery to solve, or was the case a questionable one. I got a lot of the latter. Just yesterday a rather well-spoken lady wanted me to help rid her of a plague of gnomes that were ruining her lawn. It’s definitely not moles she assured me. I didn’t take the case.
‘It is to do with the zombies.’ James continued, excitement in his voice. When I first met James, he was part of a vampire-wannabe cult and he considered anything supernatural to be real.
‘James, we have been through this several times now. Do you remember what we agreed?’
‘Erm.’ He started. ‘That there are no genuine cases, because there is no supernatural or paranormal and all the creatures like werewolves and vampires and pixies do not exist.’
‘That’s right, James. That is the entire premise of the business for which you work.’
‘But isn’t there some actual evidence to support the notion that the zombie legend, which was spawned by slaves in Haiti as they were worked to death by the French colonists, has some scientific grounding. Also, is it not true that the tetrodotoxin poison from the pufferfish can, in sub-lethal doses be used to create a state of suspended animation whereupon the person can be controlled?’
I said nothing for a few seconds ‘James, are you reading to me from Wikipedia?’
‘Little bit.’
‘Make some tea. I will be there soon.’ I was supposed to be a private investigator available for hire to solve crimes, but a young lady at the paper that ran my first advert had misread my business and I had been marketed as a paranormal investigator. The phone had been in a constant state of agitation ever since, so perhaps I should be grateful to her. The cases I was engaged to solve ranged “from my neighbour is a shape shifter” - it turned out he was a cross dresser and entitled to be left alone to “I have been cursed by my ex-wife and my todger no longer works” – I left that one alone. Occasionally there was a genuine crime beneath the strange circumstances but the more regular explanation was that the client was daft.
This would be my first zombie case, but I should have seen it coming. The first report of a zombie attack had occurred three days ago in Sevenoaks, a large village with a postcode price-tag high enough to warrant Ferrari opening a dealership there. The zombies had appeared just after lunchtime on a Thursday. They had attacked several shoppers in the village centre. The television and radio had gone crazy with various experts giving their thoughts on what had caused the outbreak.
The second and third incidents had occurred the following day, one in Gillingham and one in Canterbury, but not simultaneously. In all three cases, the number of zombies appearing was limited to a handful but they were still wreaking havoc. In each case, the ensuing panic appeared to have caused several local businesses to catch fire. I had watched the news last night where footage taken on a teenager’s phone had been played. In the clip, which lasted about thirty seconds, a little old lady with a perfectly set pastel-pink perm and matching coat had lunged directly at the phone. Her facial features were contorted, her eyes were utterly deranged and a deep, guttural sound emanated from the back of her throat.
The footage had gone viral within a few hours, so the world was now talking about zombie granny. She had lunged and bitten the arm of a pretty teenage girl. The girl screamed briefly, but then realised that nothing much was happening as the little old lady simply gnawed at the sleeve of her jacket. Another bystander, a boy, shoved the old lady away and she tripped, fell backwards and landed hard on the pavement behind her. The camera zoomed in on the girl’s arm where a top set of dentures were embedded. The chap holding the camera had been laughing uncontrollably as the girl screamed in disgust and shook her arm.
On the ground, the old lady was now beginning to cry in pain and was no longer making zombie noises. The news report claimed that she had broken her hip in the fall. The police had arrested her, I think mostly because they did not know what else to do and she had gone to hospital, restrained, and accompanied by several police officers. The report went on to show the police at the scene. A spokesperson was surrounded by continuous camera flashes which illuminated the early evening gloom. Reading from what I assumed was a hastily prepared statement, he advised the microphones positioned beneath his chin that a number of persons displaying as yet, unexplained violent behaviour had been detained for their own safety and that of the general populace. Also, several people had been bitten and admitted to hospital. He refused to engage on many of the rapidly fired questions, which all carried the same theme:
Is this a zombie plague?
I had watched the news with greater attention than I had ever given it. I was firmly in the camp that there was no paranormal explanation to anything. Zombies fell into this classification, but the footage was compelling and difficult to argue with. When the first attack had been reported, I had immediately labelled it as a hoax, perpetrated by actors.
What else could it be?
Now though, I was not so sure. If it was actors, then they were really committed to the role. I had just taken on an additional investigator, Amanda Harper. She happened to be a police officer and was still working out her notice period before coming to the business full time. This meant I had someone who could tell me what the media would not, so I knew the police has set up several special holding areas where they were still keeping the zombies that had already been rounded up. She was able to confirm that they remained violently aggressive, and kept trying to bite anyone that came near them. They showed no interest in food or water or anything else. They had been able to take identification from a few of them. They had an eclectic mix of people - a primary school teacher, a lawyer, a truck driver a single mum etcetera. Amanda had appeared genuinely scared when I spoke to her.
I parked around the back of my office and ran up the stairs to find James and an elderly gentleman sat in the two seats, near the window that overlooks Rochester High Street. The client appeared at least seventy years old. He wore an ill-fitting grey suit, that hung on his shrunken frame, his face was a map of thin, red lines surrounding sad and tired eyes. I introduced myself to quickly learn that he was the husband of the zombie granny.
The conversation was swift. The poor chap had not been allowed to see his wife or speak with her since the incident. She was a key element though. This was understandable as she was the only person who had been acting like a zombie and had reverted to normal. He begged me to investigate what was going on and prove his wife was not a crazed creature, lusting after human flesh. I accepted the case.
The man had offered me his life savings, his house, whatever it took, but I had offered to do it for free. This was not something I had ever done before, but he looked like he had little money and I genuinely wanted to help.
The little old man departed, clearly putting on a brave face as I sat down to arrange my thoughts.
James was hovering behind me. ‘Do you have plans for the afternoon?’ I asked. He only worked part time hours,
six mornings a week.
‘Actually, yes. I am seeing a hypnotist.’ He paused waiting for me to show signs of interest. When I did not, he pressed on anyway. ‘I went to a show with some friends last week and I was hypnotised. Apparently, I have just the right type of mind for it…’
A bit weak and easily led then.
‘…and I have been invited along to a special event today.’ I continued to show no interest. ‘No one else got invited.’ His tone was pleading me to make a comment.
I gave in and asked a question, ‘Where is the event?’
He brightened instantly, ‘Oh, it’s just around the corner in The Casino Nightclub. I had better be off. I don’t want to be late.’ He grabbed his coat and scarf, bid me a pleasant weekend and headed off out the door without another word.
Amanda had emailed me a file last night which I had only found time to briefly inspect. The file listed the names of the zombies they had been able to identify thus far, provided interview notes from zombie granny, whose real name was Edna Goodbridge. It also contained other notes they had been able to compile about the attacks, such as time and location of sightings, number of zombies involved and lots of other facts that did not seem all that helpful yet.
Edna had been treated for the pain and for her broken hip. Her age was recorded as seventy-two. The interview notes revealed almost nothing worthwhile. She had no memory of how she came to be in Sevenoaks, she had gone out with friends the previous evening and had no memory beyond that. There was a line towards the end of the notes that caught my attention. The hospital reported that there were some traces of an unknown drug in her blood. They had sent it off for analysis. I had filed it away for future reference.
I started to make notes. An hour of intense Google searches later and I knew a lot more about zombies than I ever had and knew just about everything the police knew about the zombie appearances during the last few days. I stared at my notes, flicked a couple of pages and reluctantly admitted that it meant nothing.
I scratched my head and made a cup of tea. Ok. Let’s try this from a different angle. If the people acting as zombies are not actually zombies, but are also not consciously playing at being them, then what are they? How does a person arrive at a state where they believe they are a zombie when they are not?
I was stood next to the window idly stirring my tea when a possibility just popped into my head: hypnotism.
Could that work?
Galvanised into action I dumped the tea, grabbed my jacket and ran around the corner to the occult book shop owned by Frank Decaux. Frank was a connoisseur of all the weird stuff that I knew nothing about.
Bursting through his door, I startled him and he dropped an armful of gear he was carrying. It spilled over the carpet so I bent to help him pick it up. The first item I touched had its label towards me.
Zombie repellent.
I held it up, ‘Really?’
‘I can barely keep it on the shelf, Tempest. All the apocalypse protection gear is in high demand at the moment.’
‘Okay.’ I said to end that line of conversation. ‘I need to ask you about hypnotism and whether it could be used to transform an audience into a zombie army?’
He stared at me incredulously, I had his attention?
‘Well…’
‘The short version please.’ I pleaded. Frank had a habit of telling the listener the history, back story, origin story, alternate theories and how much he was selling books related to the subject for.
‘Well, a good hypnotist can make a person do anything. These are real zombies though, Tempest. You must see that.’
I ignored him. ‘How long would the hypnotic state last?’
‘Well, I believe it depends on the individual. Some people are very hard to hypnotise because they resist the commands, but others could be placed into a hypnotic state perpetually I suppose. It should also be possible to entrance them so they could be triggered to act in a certain way by use of a code word until they were given a different one to revert back to their normal selves.’
I opened my mouth to ask a question but it died on my lips as a scream from outside pierced the peaceful Saturday lunchtime. Frank and I froze and stared at each other for a brief moment, then sprang into action. We dropped the goods we were holding and rushed to the window. The street below ought to be a scene of people sitting peacefully in cafes while others with places to go passed by and tourists or visitors poked around in shops. Instead there was a scene where almost everyone was now stationary. In the cafés below, the faces were all looking out through the windows rather than across the table at a companion. A base dread was forming a tight ball in my stomach. As I watched, I saw a man in the café get up from his seat and move towards the window to gain a better view. His seat tipped over backwards, but too distracted he failed to even react as it slammed against the floor.
Then, like a switch being flipped everyone started moving again. In utter panic.
I threw myself away from the window, across the bookstore and out into the street. The bookstore opened into a narrow side street so the main route through Rochester was to my left. In the aperture ahead of me, people were running by, all heading in the same direction. I reached the High Street and turned against the flow.
Frank skidded to a halt behind me. I wanted to ask what he thought he was doing, but he had every right to be in the street with me. Despite the terror that gripped his face, I knew from recent experience that he had the heart of a lion. I asked, ‘Ready?’
In answer, he showed me a back pack full of anti-zombie gear. The cans of zombie repellent surrounded several tubes of zombie bite relief cream, zombie armour, which was nothing more than shoulder pads, knee pads, and shin guards but spray painted black, some duct tape, heavy duty gloves and one item which I just had to inspect. It was a small, black club with a handle, but it had a name written down the side in neon letters that had caught my attention
Zombie Twatting Stick.
I went to put it back, then changed my mind. I hefted it and swung it a couple of times. If I needed it, I assured myself. Only if I needed it.
Less than a minute had passed since we had heard the first scream and people were still charging down the street towards us.
‘Get outta here.’ A chap yelled to us as he went by. I turned to see him go but we were already forgotten. Various screams, cries and variations of Where is mummy? or Where is X? Were audible over the general din.
I was angry. People were scared. This was my town, where I lived. It was no longer some report on television. I intended to find who was at the bottom of this mess and punch them. Hard.
‘Come on, Frank. Let’s go introduce ourselves.’
Approaching down the street towards me were two people. I mentally reclassified them zombies because I did not know what else I could call them. They were all classic-movie, shuffling feet, arms stretched out in front of them uttering a groaning, growling noise. One was a middle-aged man in a suit and tie, his slightly greying hair a little mussed and he had blood on his face. I could not tell if it was his or someone else’s.
He locked his eyes on us and drawled, ’Braiiinnns.’
His companion was a petite lady in her very early twenties or maybe younger. She wore no jacket against the cool October air and her stretchy top had been ripped so that her right, bra-clad boob poked out through the gap in the fabric.
She made a grab for a woman rushing past her and managed to snag her pony tail. Then she was all about trying to bite the poor woman.
Dashing forward I used my zombie twatting stick to break the hot zombie chick’s grip. Pony tail now free, the woman fled screaming and was gone. Frank meanwhile had pulled a can of anti-zombie spray from his backpack, fumbled to get the lid off and sprayed it at the zombie business guy in front of him.
It was silly string.
Hot zombie chick had turned her attention to me. However, she weighed less than I can bicep curl so I was keeping her at bay with one arm while dragging
her towards Frank and the pack of gear. I was going to have to deal with zombie business guy first though.
‘Behave.’ I instructed hot zombie chick as she tried again to bend her neck enough to bite my arm. Zombie business guy lunged at Frank, but there was now so much silly string on his face it was obscuring his vision. If it bothered him, he showed no sign and made no attempt to remove it. Frank side stepped him neatly and extended a foot to trip him up.
Zombie business guy pitched forward, arms flailing and crashed down in a heap next to the bag of gear. Frank pounced on his back, pulling a wicked looking blade from his belt.
‘Woah!’ I yelled, still struggling with hot zombie chick. Frank was lifting his arms, preparing to drive the knife into the back of the man’s head.
‘Cut off the head, or destroy the brain. It is the only way to kill them.’ His voice a panicked shout.
His arms reached the apex of the swing and plunged downwards. I shoved hot zombie chick away and kicked Frank directly to the rib-cage. The blade missed its intended target and struck the pavement where it lodged between two cobblestones. I snatched it from his grip.
‘Frank, they may look like zombies, they are behaving like zombies, but they are just plain, vanilla people under some kind of hypnotic spell.’
He stared at me, shocked that I had hit him and his gaze incredulous that I had prevented his first zombie kill. ‘Look,’ I said, grabbing hot zombie chick again before she could resume trying to bite me. ‘Do zombies have a pulse? Check his pulse.’
It was a simple instruction and Frank placed his left hand on zombie business dude’s neck. His face flushed with shock as his fingers felt the steady pump of blood through the veins, beneath warm skin.
He nodded at me, confirming he understood. ‘Duct tape.’ I said simply and scooped two rolls from the discarded backpack. A few moments later, our two zombies had their hands taped securely behind their backs, their ankles bound and several laps of tape had been wound around their heads and across their mouths. We manoeuvred them into a recessed shop doorway and left them. They both continued shaking their heads and wriggling to get free.