SCHIZOMEGA: Zombies Made in the U.S.A. (Ian McDermott Paranormal Investigator series Book 3)

by David Aslin

  E, grinned slightly as he replied, “If I were here to kill you, you’d be dead already!”

  Ian took a deep breath and then slowly exhaled unconsciously letting out a slight sigh of relief as he thought to himself; This seems like it is right out of a movie, a ‘B’ movie, at that. But then again, doesn’t everything in my life seem like that anymore. Especially when it involves Clayton Collins.

  E decided it was time to take control of the conversation. “Ian shut up and listen to me and listen good, because what I’m about to tell you, I am only gonna say it once and don’t ask me to repeat it.” Ian scooted his chair closer to the table so he could better hear what E was about to tell him. Though Ian didn’t know the man in front of himself from Adam, he’d already surmised this man was extremely serious, and one who demands to be taken that way. Ian knew he had to listen closely as instructed. The man seated across from him, likely among other more ominously nefarious attributes, had already demonstrated to Ian, a singularly unequaled gift regarding the frugal expenditure of words.

  “I’m all ears.” Ian tried to match the tone of his voice to the seriousness expressed by the man Ian only knew as E.

  “Clayton contacted me informing me that you were coming to town to poke your nose around about voodoo and” E glanced around the room before completing his sentence, “Zombies.” E then took a deep breath and continued, “I told Clayton about some things that I’d recently caught wind of regarding some of the same things you’re wanting to investigate. But, what my informants tell me, and what I’ve dug up…”

  Ian tried as hard as he could, but couldn’t manage to hold back a small chuckle as he interrupted, “Dug up, zombies, priceless.”

  E, cleared his throat and uncharacteristically smiled for a brief moment before continuing, “That was almost funny, Ian.” E motioned slowly with his right hand for Ian to come towards him just a bit closer, which Ian did. Without ever seeing it coming but definitely feeling its effect; Ian painfully became the recipient of a moderate slap across the left side of his face.

  Before Ian could utter a word of protest, or even move, E spoke razor sharply, “NEVER interrupt me again; UNDERSTOOD?!” Ian very slowly nodded his head yes while he rubbed and massaged his cheek, and began working his jaw. Ian looked all around the room at people seated at tables relatively near them; as well as at the people standing fairly close to their table. Either like himself nobody spotted E strike him, or just as likely in a place like this, they saw but couldn’t care less.

  “You hit me. Why’d you do that? ” Ian sheepishly muttered.

  E took a very large deep breath of air, and exhaled with equal intensity. “If I’d hit you, we wouldn’t be continuing with our conversation. I just got your attention. I have it now, right?” Once again Ian nodded yes.

  “Good, don’t make me have to get your attention again.” E said in an exaggerated overly calm voice. He then continued, “Like I was saying before you so rudely interrupted was… is that I can help you see and understand things about zoms that would turn a black cat white. That is if you really want to know. In turn you might be worth something if what my informants are telling me turns out to hold an ounce of truth.”

  Ian was afraid to ask, but his curiosity, like always, got the best of him.

  “Zoms, like zombies. A phrase I coined in my dissertation. Meaning not literally zombies, but people who express at least most of the commonly held symptoms.

  So you’ve read my paper?” Ian asked enthusiastically.

  E shook his head no, then replied, “Clayton filled me in on its highlights as it were.”

  Ian continued, “I’m probably going to regret this but, what… where are, I mean exactly are you going with all this that I could possibly help you with. I haven’t hardly even begun to poke around. How can any of what you’re talking about possibly involve, or be connected in any way to my simple investigation; more like inquiries really, into like you said, zoms. The superstitions involving the zombie phenomena, you know, fact versus fiction.”

  E didn’t say anything. Ian took a deep breath and continued, “Okay, listen, I’ll admit that what I do, Paranormal Investigations, most people deem to be a field occupied by often overzealous fools and crazies even. That said, I might come across to you as being south of normal. But just because I tread a path less traveled, don’t think for an instant that I’m stupid. Who exactly are you and what exactly, do you want with me?”

  Regardless of his declaration, Ian felt with reasonable certainty that if E would honestly answer his questions, then the very nature of his questions would probably on some yet to be discovered level, involve him in things that could prove to be less than healthy for him. Ian had learned too well in light of what he’d seen and experienced over the last few months that direct questions like his, if answered with candor, seldom came with impunity. He almost wished he hadn’t asked, or rather demanded answers, as he silently mused, Here’s hoping curiosity doesn’t kill the, Ian.

  E spoke. “Now you listen to me. You’re in no position to make demands of me. But if you shut your pie hole for a bit even your puny intellect might grasp what I’m about to tell you.”

  Ian a little insulted, suddenly became quiet and set back in his chair.

  E continued, “I have reason to suspect that what I’ve been told by informants and other sources, sources that have always proven themselves to be reliable in the past, is the local Haitian mob, they call themselves the Zoe-Pound and the Jamaican Posse, another mafia-like organized crime syndicate …” The second Ian heard organized crime he was instantly frightened of where this might be going. “Those two usually warring factions have recently set aside their turf-war differences and have joined forces in a common venture. And, with their collective assets and connections they are attempting or, have already succeeded in creating through certain specific voodoo practices, blended with modern science, fully ambulatory zombie-like, killers. Your Zoms, Ian. Maybe, and this was Clayton’s idea and he quite literally signs our checks and generous ones wouldn’t you agree?” Ian nodded his head in agreement as he thought to himself. I’ve always known that Clayton’s generosity isn’t altruistic and it would come with consequences. Here comes the consequences.

  E cleared his throat and continued, “Due to your interest and theories on the subject, as well as your recent field experience dealing with let’s just say, unusual things; you could shed some useful insight and be useful even regarding all this.”

  E paused to let Ian absorb what he’d said so far before continuing, “It’s highly doubtful, but maybe, they’ve even succeeded creating full corporeal reanimations. I’m talking about the very really possibility of actual, zombies in the classic sense of the word. But, much more likely these, zoms could serve these organized crime factions as perfect hit-men.”

  E paused and looked around the place before continuing. “Imagine killers who feel no pain, have no fear, no remorse. Absolutely no emotions or fiendish intellect that might otherwise somehow conflict with them carrying out their masters bidding. I’m told these kamikaze-like zombie hit men, again if they really exist, are the result of decades of experimentation. Experimentations whose roots can be traced all the way back to World War II. Nazi doctors, who experimented on the poor retched Jews in concentration camps like, Auschwitz.” Once again E paused to read the expression on Ian’s face. To get a feel if Ian was grasping what he was telling him. “Only some of the experiments that began back then are in full swing here and now conducted at a place the Devil himself wouldn’t visit if he could avoid it. Ian, the place that I’m talking about is the black hole of the criminal justice system. When a man has been judged too violent, too insane to be treated by any known conventional methods, this place is the end of the line. No family visitors are allowed, ever! If a man gets himself sentenced to this place, for all intents and purposes, he no longer exists. Hell most Senators and Congressmen don’t even know about the places existence. The ones who do know, they don’t w
ant to. The place houses not just the criminally insane but monsters that make the fictional character, Hannibal Lector, seem like a pussy cat. The prison is on an island located miles off shore in the Gulf. It was once a French fortress constructed nearly three hundred years ago intent on guarding the mouth of the Mississippi.”

  Ian intrigued, half smiled as he interjected during another slight pause in E‘s dissertation. “Interesting. Sort of a hanger eighteen, area fifty-one, for the insane-ist of the criminally insane.”

  E continued, “Years later for a period it served as a confederate Civil War fortress. But for the last several decades it has served as a hospital penitentiary for those who rehabilitation or effective treatment isn’t even a consideration. The place’s very existence is a government embarrassment, a dirty little secret, a throwback to a different time. One that operates somewhat as an enigma, funded by black ops, a dirty little government held secret, much more the likes of places like the terrorist holding facility at Guantanamo Bay. A place where real monsters are kept until the day they die without any chance of parole hearings or due process of law for that matter. The men incarcerated there are absolute predators, animals that have been totally erased from society. For all practical purpose they have no rights of citizenship; as they no longer exist beyond the walls of Forteresse Jean-Baptiste Le Moyne - Penitentiary hospital for the Criminally Insane. A place that you can only get to by boat; and only at certain times, the tides make traveling there dicey even for the most experienced boat captains. Anyway, the inmates I’m told, some are being experimented on with the intent to create for lack of a better phrase, zombies. Experiments that are being carried out by unscrupulous doctors, and scientists in conjunction with the prison Warden. This sort of thing has been done in the past. How do you figure the Government comes up with cures to diseases way beyond the mere flu, or measles and whatever. You don’t think it’s all lab rats and volunteer test subjects do you?”

  Ian pondered that thought as he replied, “Well, I always figured it was from…”

  E interrupted, “I’ll tell you how. These inmates turned patients are invisible. As far as society goes they no longer exist. They live in that prison hospital totally off of the grid. And by that I mean, beyond those walls they don’t exist. All of their records including those held by the I.R.S. and department of Social Security have been expunged to all but the very highest levels of the F.B.I., C.I.A., N.S.A. and department of Homeland Security. The Warden and all the before mentioned are in league with the local syndicates regarding the creation of absolute plausibly deniable hit-men. But I think that, that’s just the tip of the iceberg. I believe a very organized cell of Nazi’s, are operating here and now and ultimately have much bigger plans than the local drug cartels could even Fathom.”

  E paused for effect as he realized that Ian was truly becoming intrigued.

  He then continued, “Anyway… I’ve heard this shit storm is linked with some doctor who I’m told either was or is still with the CDC in Atlanta, and may have, may be supplying the program some rather nasty bugs. But again, this is all yet to be confirmed. I certainly haven’t heard anything from any news agency or from my sources that can empirically substantiate a word of it. But if my instincts are correct and usually they are and some CDC doctor got his hands on and smuggled out some nasty bugs for those Nazi scientists to play with in their Frankenstein-ian experiments. Experiments on inmates long since discarded by society; who’s to stop them other than perhaps myself, Clayton, and you. Should, or more likely in my opinion, when, their experiments reach fruition. I’m told their undead killers will be scientifically engineered to die from their highly suggestible and programmable diseased state, before they can be interrogated. Ian, I’m talking about the perfect zombie killing machines.”

  Ian paused before replying. He was having trouble processing all of what E was telling him. Ian had developed a bad case of brain lock, like a deer in headlights, regarding E’s repeated utterance of the word, zombie and reference to the undead!

  Ian finally gained enough composure to speak. “Let me get this straight. These subjects are before even being subjected to psychotropic drugs and various biological disease vectors, would already be complete psychopaths. Likely, many of them schizophrenics. All of them completely void of any moral center. Absolute degenerates. Theoretically, that would make the zombification process somewhat easier I should think? But controlling them, that’s a whole other thing. It’s sort of like the concept behind the book and movie, Jurassic Park. Only the most supremely arrogant could ever have scientists believing they could completely control or contain them. But like you said if the scientists behind all of this, supposing for a moment that any of this is factual. No other group that I know of are more arrogant than Nazi’s in their beliefs that they can act like gods and get away with it. That being said, what about the very real possibility of their condition, these zombified psychopaths, what about their disease being communicable and likely highly contagious at some stage of their process, either by, well in any number of ways including …?”

  Before Ian could complete his thought, E interrupted, “By say, a bite? Or maybe, fluid exchange?” My sources tell me that the scientists involved supposedly took that into account and have designed their man-created disease or whatever you want to call it, to not be contagious. But, I’m no more certain of that, than I am of everything else that I’ve told you.” The two men paused as they were momentarily interrupted by the cocktail waitress, who had arrived with their second round of drinks.

  “Here gents … enjoy!” Ian wasn’t quite finished with his first drink, but he quickly slugged it down so the waitress could take their empty glasses. After the waitress began heading back towards the bar; Ian looked directly at the mysterious gentlemen across the table from him as he spoke. “So, why not take all of this to the police? Or, if like you say, it involves the CDC in Atlanta that crosses state lines which I believe make this a Federal crime, an F.B.I. matter. Just who are you anyway? How is it you’ve got so much information on a place that you say yourself, is very hush, hush. Exactly what’s your connection with Clayton Collins? Tell me here and now what your interest in all of this is, or this conversation is over, and I’ll…”

  Ian momentarily forgot about not only the size of the man seated in front of him but the man’s eyes. Which initially let him know in no uncertain terms that he was more than just a large man. Likely much more.

  E slid his chair in closer to the table. He took a deep breath then exhaled before speaking. “Now listen to me, and listen close you little shite. Never ever threaten me, on any level, about anything! If you weren’t under Clayton’s protection. Why I’ve chewed people up and shat out their bones for less. But, Clayton was right about one thing, you’re a ballsy little spit-fuck. I’m going to let you off with just a warning, just this once.”

  Ian sat back into his chair. Although there was no rational reason for it, Ian was somehow no longer afraid of the man before him, if man was even the correct word. Ian realized with sudden empirical clarity, that if this guy wanted him dead, he’d be dead already.

  E continued, “These guys are way too smart, too well funded and connected for the local police, or the F.B.I., especially regarding the rules of law they must operate within. By the time they’d collect enough evidence to act, it would, it will be too late. Besides, cops have much less hazardous things to do rather than poke their noses into Zoe-Pound and Posse matters. Matters that if investigated too deeply; more than likely would only result in those officers involved and their entire family’s being permanently expunged themselves. If you grasp my meaning? Ian, you’ve no-doubt heard of a Columbian Necktie, right?”

  Without replying Ian slowly nodded his head. “Well, that’s not shite compared to what the Z’s and Posse do to their targets, mate.”

  Ian thought to himself, if you think that I’m going to get involved with any of this you’re fucking out of your mind.

  E continued, “A
ll right Ian, I’m going to play it straight with you. Show you all the cards I’m holding as it were. Without going into too many boring details, suffice it to say that I met Clayton a long time ago. But at that time he wasn’t calling himself, Clayton. As you already know, he has had and been called by many names. Coincidentally, if there is such a thing as coincidence, he was calling himself, Ian when we first met, or rather agent F-17 of the office of Naval Intelligence. We met in Germany during World War II when the war was nearing its end. I was part of an allied mission code named, Golden Eye. I’ll spare you the details; but at that time I was a deep cover operative, a naval commando of the 30AU and T-Force. As part of the Golden Eye operation, we were tasked among other things as counterintelligence operatives devised to disrupt Nazi withdrawals by code breaking and the like. In attempt to especially thwart their senior officers efforts to escape to non-extradition nations via a network the Nazis codenamed, Odessa. Of course, unless you’re a war historian, all this means nothing to you. But I was mortally wounded during said mission, and suffice it to say, I was snatched from the jaws of death by another set of jaws. Allow me to properly introduce you to my former self. My name is, or rather, it once was, Commander McBonder. Herbert J. McBonder. Agent E, formerly of the SIS, Secret Intelligence Service, section six, of the office of British Naval Intelligence. Later referred to as MI6, or more romantically, her majesties Secret Service. Back during the Second World War to end all wars the few who knew my name, and wanted to live, simply called me McBond; or by my middle name James. Herbert was my father’s name, and I believe he despised it as much as I do.”

  Ian gasped as he nearly shouted, “You’re, you were the inspiration for the character in all of those books and movies. You’re …” In a flash, E interrupted Ian by instantly pointing his index finger to his lips, and then in a rather threatening gesture pointed that same finger directly at Ian. But Ian just couldn’t let it alone as he continued, “You said, Clayton, he was or, rather was at the time you first met him, he was calling himself Ian?” Ian became flushed and excited as he realized he was spot on. “Clayton Collins, or rather, Ian, agent F-17 at the time you two met, was doing what he loves to do write. But at that time under the pseudonym, or more to the point, the assumed identity of Ian Fleming, I presume?” Ian shook his head hardly believing his own words.