“I think you’ve sucked out a lot more things than stuff from a jar,” Clarice said. “How are numbers going to help?”
Dr. Forbes ignored the comment. “Well, you see, you can cram a whole lot of nothing into a jar,” he explained. “The more nothing we have, the more it’s likely that an improbable event will occur. That’s why I said it’s a lot like the Pet Rock clone project from before. But instead of watching as many rocks as possible, it’s watching as much nothing instead.”
Clarice gave up on the subject. “Whatever,” marked her final comment on the matter. “You said to Nick earlier you’re planning to blow the whole place up?”
“Well, that’s the layman’s way of putting it, yes.”
“What is the, uh, non-layman’s way?”
“I personally like the term scuttling, but all the boating enthusiasts around here throw a fit when I use it,” Dr. Forbes answered. “Why do you ask?”
“Seems a little drastic to me is all,” Clarice replied, taking another look around the lab they were in. “I mean, a lot of this stuff looks expensive, not to mention the actual construction costs. Seems like a waste to destroy it.”
“A waste?” he echoed. There was a pause before he continued. “No, I don’t think so. A waste would imply that what we’re getting rid of isn’t garbage. As you can see, this design didn’t perform up to our expectations since we’re in this predicament. We could spend years tracking down the potential flaw before rebuilding. And it’s not hard to dig in the ground or get people to do it. Let’s not forget that you guys are fetching something that will make all of this more than worth it.”
“What, the data?”
“No, my dear, the UCK!” Dr. Forbes corrected. “Who needs to salvage a broken and contaminated research lab when we can create an entire universe? When you compare an underground playpen to an entire creation event, it seems a little trivial, don’t you think?”
Clarice had to admit that the theory at least sounded good. Whether his idea would ever be conceived in reality or not was something else. She reminded herself that all that mattered to her at this point was that she and Nick got home alive and in one piece. She might even settle for alive at this point and mostly in one piece. “So can I grab the jar when we’re ready or what?” she asked.
“We’re still debating that,” Dr. Forbes replied. “We’ve never moved the jar after a certain point in our testing. It should be okay, but...”
“But what?” she asked, her body straightening.
“Well, let’s say pure nothing and the smallest anything do not mix well.”
“Which means what to me?”
“Don’t go sticking your hand in it,” he replied. “But first I need you to look at the device it’s sitting on. There should be a little display on the base. Can you read me the numbers please?”
Clarice stretched the cord as far as it would go in order to get a better look. “On the left are a bunch of zeros,” she said, squinting. “On the right side it has a dash and says four five nine point six three and a little f next to it.”
“Is that all?” Dr. Forbes asked.
“No,” she replied. “Next to the ‘f’ there is a flashing yellow light.”
“Hmmm.”
There was some background chatter that Clarice couldn’t pick up on.
“We’re going to have to get back to you on this,” Dr. Forbes said quickly. “We hadn’t anticipated that the project would still be running.”
“So?”
“So it means that the jar might not be safe to move anymore,” he answered. “But don’t worry, we’ll have a little meeting here and let you know.”
Chapter Seventeen
Martin, blue and shivering, came out from beneath piles of lettuce and cucumbers and eased out of the walk-in refrigerator. When the power had gone out and the people panicked, the old man headed for the one place he knew would be safe. Zombies were never known to eat their veggies.
The cafeteria was no longer the busy, aroma filled place it once was. The air was stale, and the only sound Martin could hear was a faucet that had been left on. The old man looked about, studying each and every shadow cast by the emergency lighting before deciding it was safe and taking a seat in the middle of the room.
Martin wasn’t quite sure where to go, but he knew who would, Ma. She always had good directional sense, even if she was blindfolded and spun around several times (though he did suspect she cheated when pinning tails onto two-dimensional donkeys).
He flipped open his cell phone, ignored the lack of signal strength, and dialed. “Ma?” he said, putting the phone to his ear. “I’m a little lost, I think. Do you know where I left the car? The garage? Well where is that? No, nothing too serious. Those scientist guys let their project out I reckon. Yes, I’ll pick up some rutabagas on the way home too.”
Martin slumped and pocketed the phone. He hated rutabaga night.
* * *
Jack stood remarkably still for someone on the brink of an audit (though it helped that he had only heard the term moments ago).
Ryan Conner, Tax Collector, approached Jack and calmly explained the auditing process and why it was important. Right in the middle of his explanation on the proper filing procedure for a place such as Tau Seven, Jack shrugged and walked off.
Jack had no idea what these things called taxes were, how to go about paying them, or even what it meant to pay. Ryan’s explanation didn’t help at all and left Jack with a headache. The closest thing Jack could relate taxes to were games, and games always gave the players points. They never took them away. All in all, Jack thought that taxes sounded like a stupid idea. He stated in no uncertain terms that he had no intentions of having anything to do with taxes, forms, or audits, and he shuffled to the door.
Ryan Conner squared himself in front of Jack once more, and when Jack tried to push past, the undead tax collector’s fist tightened around his rubber stamp. A moment later, he struck Jack on the head.
The blow was hard, causing Jack to stumble backward. A nearby mirror gave Jack an excellent view of the smiley face that now graced his forehead. It was a welcomed addition, as Jack liked the contrast of ink on scalp, but when Ryan Conner stamped him a second time in the chest, Jack became angry. And when Ryan tried to take Jack’s pen, Jack took action.
Ryan Conner, Tax Collector, was an exceptional tax collector, but Jack had been dead for a long time and was well familiar with the proper way of disposing of ornery zombies. As Ryan reached for Jack’s 1941, catalog product number 31A, green metallic shell, ballpoint pen, Jack stabbed him right between the eyes with it. It wasn’t one of the recommended uses, but use five hundred and twenty-two, Kraut killing, seemed to work on the undead as well.
Ryan shuddered and slumped to the floor.
Jack looked at the crumpled body and was pleased with his work. Zombicide was something that happened only on rare occasions, but it was never looked down upon by other members of the living dead. It was simply another thing that took place, and it usually occurred to settle score disputes. But then again, sometimes certain zombies needed a good whack in the head.
* * *
Most people have failed to appreciate that numbers, like people and places, have always had their spot in history. More importantly, they have failed to understand how significant and controversial the number zero has been.
For example, prior to the invention of zero, one could easily say, “I have one goat.” If a person was rich, or deceptive, he could also make the claim, “I have hundreds of goats.” However, before the birth of zero, if asked, “How many goats do you have?” and the person had none, the most honest reply was, “Would you like a cat?”
The Ancient Babylonians understood that not having zero caused problems. Some had attributed this realization to the lack of felines in the area. Regardless, spurred by the sales question, “How many reed styluses would you like to purchase?” the Babylonians created zero’s evolutionary ancestor.
They in
vented a place holder that could be squashed between numbers when nothing was there. Thus one hundred and two was written as, “1-2.” While it wasn’t the zero known today, it was sufficient enough to drive the Multi-Level Marketing Reed Stylus industry out of business. From that point, the zero precursor went through a few changes, and it wasn’t until several centuries later that zero was recorded as society knows it today.
Once zero mutated into its final form, all sorts of questions and statements were raised as to its existence. The Ancient Greeks properly asked, “How can nothing be something?” and the theologians argued, “How many zeros can one fit on the head of a pin?”
Clarice didn’t know about any of this, and even if she had, she wouldn’t have cared. Despite her stubbornness to address such things, she and zero were about to have a meeting and discuss chopping things into zero pieces.
The phone rang again right as Clarice put the last playing card in place. While Nick was reading, she had found the deck of cards Dr. Forbes had left and thought it would be fun to try her hand at creating, too. So she began to make miniature, abstract representations of various dwellings, from houses to castles. Clarice sat back, admiring her three-story design, and picked up the phone. “Yes?”
Dr. Forbes’ voice came through on the other end with a clear, triumphant tone. “I have an answer for you. We’re in agreement that you can move the UCK.”
Clarice strained to hear what the others were saying in the background. “It doesn’t seem like you guys are unanimous. That doesn’t really build my confidence.”
“Well, we all agree you can move it,” he repeated. “It’s a matter of what’s going to happen when you do, and as important, how fast you’ll be able to move while carrying it. Gaston and I think you’ll be okay, but our two colleagues are arguing otherwise. They’re suggesting that our formula is inverted at a crucial place which will cause an illogical expression when it’s corrected—it’ll make a NaN.”
“English, please,” she said. “I don’t have any idea what you said, let alone what a nan is. I’m assuming we aren’t talking nannies.”
“You’ve taken mathematics in school, yes? Do you remember your basics?”
“Look, just because I’m a secretary—a damn good one—doesn’t mean I didn’t go to or do well in school.” She threw a pen-missile at her card house. “So since we’re doing you the favor, be nice and explain it to me so I don’t end up getting killed.”
“I meant nothing by it,” the doctor apologized. “I only meant, do you remember that in mathematics, you aren’t allowed to divide by zero? Well, you can, but what you get is not a number—a NaN.”
“Yeah, I remember something like that,” she replied. She felt Nick’s hands start massaging her neck and shoulders. “Oh, that feels good.”
“What does?” Dr. Forbes asked.
“Never mind,” Clarice said, smiling. “Dividing by zero means what for us?”
“Well, as I said before, Gaston and I think that the nothing—the jar’s contents, aka zero—should be the numerator in part of our equations,” Dr. Forbes replied. There was a bit of shuffling of paper before he continued. “And then everything else, our universe, winds up in the denominator, the bottom. So in short, we are saying that what will happen is zero divided by a bunch of numbers, which is zero. Or in short, nothing will happen.”
“And the other guys flipped that, right? They said the zero should be on the bottom, or something like that?” Clarice asked as she sank back in both the chair and the deep tissue massage she was getting. As her fiancé’s fingers worked, her muscles gave him unceasing praise.
“I knew you were a clever girl,” Dr. Forbes replied with sincerity. “Yes, they say we have it flipped erroneously. So if you move the jar and something comes in contact with the nothing, we’ll get an illogical expression.”
“Which means?”
“We don’t know,” he conceded. “But it probably won’t be good. We may be erudite scientists, but none of us are literary men. Therefore, if we can’t describe something in a formula, we might as well not even try.”
Clarice kicked the bottom of the desk. “You guys are incredibly unhelpful,” she said. “Why don’t we leave the damn thing and be on the safe side?”
“You can still pick it up. But if you value the space-time continuum of your immediate area, don’t open the lid, and for God’s sake, don’t break the jar. So don’t run around recklessly in the dark.”
“I’ll keep that in mind.”
“There’s something else you should know,” he added.
“Oh?” Clarice sighed. There was always something else. It came in limitless quantities and Life had the hose pointed directly at her, spigot on full blast.
“I believe we’ve found your boss.”
Clarice sat up from her slouched position, halting Nick’s neck rub. “You have? Where is he?”
“He’s definitely one of them now,” the doctor said. His voice seemed awkward and uncomfortable. “I’m sorry to have to tell you that, but I suspect you knew it would be coming.”
Clarice bit her lip. “I did,” she said. “Still...”
“There’s more,” he added, not losing a beat. “It seems that not only did he turn into a zombie, but he ended up fighting with one, too.”
“Why?”
“I don’t have the foggiest,” Dr. Forbes admitted. “But we watched one on camera stab your employer with a pen. Hit your boss right between the eyes and down he went. I think he’s down for good.”
“Thanks for telling me, I guess.”
“One other thing,” he added. “Our variable watt phased plasma pulse device got turned on in the lab he’s in.”
“Yeah, so?”
“So it hit him in the head.”
Clarice rolled her eyes. “Let’s pretend I don’t know what a phased plasma pulse device is, and you just tell me what that means.”
“A phased plasma pulse device is a nifty little weapon of destruction,” Dr. Forbes said. “But we’ve also discovered that given certain frequencies, in theory at least, it can rearrange molecules into unique matrixes. We suspect that if we can get it right, not only could we make some incredibly lethal rifles and cannons, but we can use the process to harden armor, breathe life into electronics that are fried, and so forth.”
Clarice sighed. “So it’s another toy of yours.”
“Yes, a toy,” Dr. Forbes said with disdain. “It’s nothing you need to concern yourself with. But as for your boss, if the power over there is behaving as erratically as it is over here, it might start a fire and cook him.”
Clarice pushed the image out of her mind. “I really didn’t need to hear that.”
“I thought you should know. Knowledge is power. You had asked about him before, don’t forget.”
“Your computer is done,” Clarice said, relieved at the opportunity to change the subject.
“Ah, good,” Dr. Forbes replied. “You can grab what we need and then make your way over.”
“Our way over where, exactly?” Clarice snatched a notepad and pencil and waited for the instructions.
“Go back the way you came, and when you get to the stairwell, take it as far down as you can go. Once you’re on that floor, you’ll want the north stairwell, which is on the opposite side of where you’ll be. That wing is shaped like a cross, so run through to the other side and take the next set of stairs down three floors. On your first left there will be a keypad entry, punch in 2075 and then keep going straight until you come to the security station. That’s where we’ll be. Once we’re all together, we’ll make our final plans for escape. Got it?”
“Yup. We’ll be there in a few.” Clarice stood, her heartbeat already quickening.
“Please hurry,” he replied. “And like I said before, use extraordinary care with the UCK.”
* * *
Garages were down, never up. Martin knew that. He had always known that. When he was designing his home years ago back in Seraville, he ha
d tinkered with the idea of putting the garage on the second floor in order to be closer to the bedroom. This idea never came to fruition as Ma didn’t want oil leaks coming into the kitchen, and Martin knew not to argue with Ma when it came to her kitchen. Armed with the geographic knowledge of where garages were, Martin found and took an elevator to the lowest floor it would go to.
The elevator doors swung open to reveal a long hall bathed in red emergency lighting and partially filled with smoke. At the far end stood a figure holding a knapsack at its side. The figure slowly rocked in place, groaning occasionally, and stared at the broken screen of a wall-mounted plasma television set. Though the creature took no notice of him, Martin didn’t like the idea of having to get close to it. But ultimately, he had no choice in the matter. The only exit was on the other side and Ma wanted her rutabagas. And zombies or not, Ma was going to get them, or his name wasn’t Pa. And if his name wasn’t Pa, what the hell was it?
Martin, resolving to still be called Pa, cautiously advanced. One hand gripped his pocketknife, and the other covered his mouth and nose in an effort to shield himself from the smoke. He knew that if he was sneaky enough, he could slip by and be out of sight without the zombie even knowing he was there. But as careful as he was, a few feet from the creature, Martin sucked in too much smoke and his lungs revolted.
Martin’s coughing fit was interrupted when the zombie spun around, snarled and grabbed hold of the old man. Long, broken fingernails sank into his skin and ripped at his clothing. Teeth, the likes of which would floor any dental hygienist, snapped at his neck, and it was all Martin could do to keep from being bitten.
“You critters won’t be getting me none,” he yelled, shoving as hard as he could. The zombie stumbled back, and Martin used that momentary bit of free time to go on the offensive. He lunged forward and tried to drive his pocketknife deep into the zombie’s skull. The blade, however, hadn’t been aimed as well as it should have. So instead of sinking into zombie brain and stopping the attack, it skipped off the corpse’s skull, only leaving a gash of skin in its wake.
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