Mobius

by Garon Whited

  But in the place where humans keep what I think of as the soul, they were empty. They looked like a color-blind artist used grey because he didn’t see red and green. Their vital energies were mostly there and correct, but the wrong parts were seriously wrong.

  In some respects, they reminded me of animals. Bipedal animals, yes, and human-shaped, but animals nevertheless. I could drain their vital essence to the point of death, but these things would never satisfy my deep-down hunger, my need for the final, essential spark. On the other hand, they were also curiosities. Their vital fields intersected and interacted instead of simply overlapping.

  Normally, two living things next to each other have their living auras overlap. They don’t really interact a whole lot, but occasionally there’s a ripple between the two. Some people might interpret it as an attraction, or chemistry, or some sort of electric tingle in the air. The zombies—I don’t know what else to call them—have a low-level interaction going on whenever they’re near each other. It’s most obvious around the ones with the tendency to scream, but each of them has at least a minor aura or emanation.

  As I stared, considering them in detail, it struck me they were all extremely similar. Humans, animals, even plants have individual auras, as unique as fingerprints. True, plants are hard to tell apart, but anything with a central nervous system is a distinct individual. These things, the zombies I suppose, were weirdly… generic? Homogenous, that’s the word I want. Their individual auras were so similar, so alike, they blended into each other indistinguishably. Almost—

  —almost like they were parts of a single organism.

  The shriekers did seem to be the bright spot, the focal point of the group. The huge, hulking brutes and the fast-moving, sprinter-class zombies were no different—at least on that level—from the basic, regular zombie.

  What effect does this have on the zombies? Coordination? Command and control? Or are they some sort of composite intelligence? In sufficient numbers, do they get smarter? Does a large enough cluster become capable of thought? That is, thoughts I would recognize as thinking? Or do these zombies lack the ability make use of the phenomenon? Early man had the ability to hear long before he developed language. This may be similar.

  I made sure the garage door was unlocked and unlatched. It was the swing-up sort, so Bronze could nudge it open reasonably quietly if she wanted to. I crept out through the back of the house and circled to get as close as possible to the zombies.

  What’s a group of zombies called, anyway? A herd? A horde? An infestation? A plague? I need a word for a group of ten to twenty. A squad, maybe? Too organized. A gang? That might work. A gang of zombies. Smaller than a mob, bigger than a squad.

  From all appearances, the zombies had vital energies. In short, they were—at least biologically—alive. I tested it by getting in range and lightly touching one with a tendril. Energy drained out of it slowly and I tasted it. It didn’t seem any different from vital energy drawn from any other organism. Definitely animal, from the intensity. I stopped after taking a taste to evaluate it, both for any effects on me and for any effect on the zombies.

  The zombie I touched didn’t notice. He shuffled around normally. I didn’t feel any different, either. It might be safe and reasonable to feed on them, at least for vital energy.

  I reached a bit farther, touching the one with the larger aura, the screamer. It tasted the same as the more regular zombie, but it also stopped shuffling aimlessly and cocked its head. From its posture, it might have been listening. I saw a ripple inside it, a reflexive response to my tendril-touch. It didn’t know what happened, but it knew something happened. It simply didn’t have anything in its experience to compare, so it didn’t know how to respond.

  Humans—the ones equipped to notice—usually have the same problem.

  I drew both swords and unrolled a cloud of dark, invisible tendrils. The fog was getting thicker, and it might be a problem. My tendrils would help me find anything nearby.

  “Ready?” I whispered.

  Boss, I’m always ready. You should know better.

  “Fair enough.”

  I started draining vitality, weakening them and strengthening me, and waited. Eventually, they would notice and move to stop it. Then it would be a simple matter to kill them all as they came to me.

  The high school gymnasium was an abattoir. The common zombies were neatly grouped, their pieces laid out as individual bodies. The fast-movers were next to them. The big guy lay unmoving, the upper half of his head placed next to the lower half.

  The psychic screamer was in the weight room, held down by enough rope and iron to anchor a battleship. She wore the football helmet I’d salvaged and enspelled. When I jammed it on her head, she was shrieking for help at the top of her mental range. It quit almost immediately, though. The spell on the helmet blocked psychic phenomena by reflecting it. She was screaming in a psychic echo chamber. Apparently, it didn’t enjoy the sound of its own screaming. Served it right.

  I took stock of my test subjects and my materials. There were no signs of magic, so that was to the good. I was probably dealing with straight-up biowarfare zombies, not some ancient curse loosed upon the world or the wrath of an apocalyptic god. I found this enormously comforting, considering the bloodless corpses. Where do you think all the blood went? Come morning, we’d see if my vampire transformation was sufficient to kill any biowarfare agents or zombie-apocalypse viruses.

  The common zombies were interesting, from a sliced-apart perspective. They were still messy on the fluid front, but I was careful of my footing on the slick gym floor. They were typical people, at least structurally. The major anatomical anomalies were in the digestive system. Their livers were larger than I expected, for one thing. For another, the stomach was missing and there seemed to be considerably more small intestine than was strictly necessary. Did this mean they had a better, more efficient digestive system? Or a more specialized one? Without a biochemist, how can I tell?

  The sprinters were slightly different, mostly around the legs. Their feet were slightly longer, their leg musculature more cable-like, and there were distinct ridges in the bones where the tendons anchored. In short, their legs were adapted to running.

  The big guy had similar modifications. Everything about it was adapted for power. His bones were heavier than a human’s and the mounting points for tendons were thickly ridged, almost serrated. The muscles were thick, dense, and heavy. Even the spine was thickened, especially around the upper back and into the neck. The skull was thicker, as well, with an additional cartilaginous layer to act as a sort of padding, I suppose. They could turn their heads, but not much. They might run in a lumbering sort of way, but they wouldn’t be too fast. Maybe about as fast a normal human. On the other hand, they could probably pull a small truck at the same time. During the day, they were definitely stronger than I. At night? No. They’re biological entities. I’m a supernatural one.

  They still hit like a wrecking ball, though. My guess is they went after obstacles either fists-first or headfirst, like semi-human battering rams.

  As for my screamer, it—she? Does gender identity matter to a zombie?—was far more interesting. Physically, she didn’t have any unusual features, at least for a zombie. I checked with tendrils, confirming without killing; I had more interest in a functional brain. Enlarged liver, super-long small intestine for a digestive tract, that sort of thing, yes, but she was otherwise unremarkable.

  On the other hand, she had psychic powers. She acted as some sort of connector, a hub for the vitality-auras of the other zombies. I didn’t have another live zombie to use in observing this—capturing the screamer took precedence. I observed this connection-hub ability while she was with her gang, though.

  The helmet contained her other power, the scream. I writhed tendrils in through her face and into her brain, watching and feeling around inside it. She felt this and tried to scream again.

  Interesting. Large chunks of her forebrain activated durin
g a scream. The reflected echo of the scream also activated some areas closer to the brainstem. From what I remembered, it was rather painful. She seemed to agree and silenced herself.

  So, what have we got? Psychic zombies gathering other zombies to travel in gangs, some mutant ogre-type zombies for the heavy hitters, and sprinter zombies to catch prey. It’s like they’re a composite creature, evolving into more efficient predators by working as groups. Individuals specialize, much as individual insects specialize to form a hive.

  What comes next? A dozen or a hundred psychic zombies get together and develop a true intelligence?

  “Firebrand?”

  Yo.

  “How smart is this thing? I mean, it knows enough not to scream with the helmet on its head, but is that because the pain makes it stop or because it wants to stop?”

  I’m not sure. Make it scream again.

  I poked it in the knee with my fingernail, making a small hole in the kneecap. It screamed obligingly, once, and shut up.

  I think it knows, Boss. It screamed because it was in pain—it does recognize pain, by the way—and the scream, while potentially an attack, was also a scream for help. Then it chose to stop screaming. It didn’t stop because it hurt, necessarily, but because it decided it wasn’t worth screaming if it was going to be so painful.

  “I do not like this,” I decided. “What do you think?”

  Eh. They burn, Boss.

  “They burn, yes. But how many of them are there?”

  She doesn’t know. She doesn’t have a lot of memory. I think that’s a major weakness of these things. It might be able to learn from experience, but not rationally. Hurt it every time it screams and it may learn not to do it.

  “She can develop a conditioned reflex, but not a true memory?”

  I guess?

  “Interesting. What if a dozen or so screamers get together, though? If their psychic impressions interact, can they form a gestalt consciousness? One greater than the sum of its parts?”

  Maybe.

  “Maybe?”

  What do you want from me? I haven’t been looking at this thing any longer than you have.

  “Sorry.” I cocked my head, listening. “Did you hear something?”

  Firebrand was silent, listening in its own way.

  Company?

  “I think so.”

  Someone opened the door to the gymnasium. I sidled up to the door of the weight room and peeked out. Someone was looking in the door, playing a flashlight over the zombie corpses. From the glowing auras, I guessed there might be as many as half a dozen people around the door.

  Do zombies use flashlights, Boss?

  Nope! I replied, cheerfully. I checked behind me for my shadow, but it was invisible in my shadowless darkvision. Nevertheless, I tried to caution it to behave around flashlights. I debated whether I should step out of the weight room or not and decided on not. Startling them might get me suddenly shot, which annoys me to no end. On the other hand, a grenade lobbed through the doorway would be even worse. I stood in the doorway, wrapped in my cloak, just in case. They—clearly soldiers of some sort—entered the gymnasium, whispering quietly, looking over the mess on the floor. One of them called out to someone named “Payne,” mentioning fresh blood. Interesting. They obviously thought I was someone else.

  “Good evening,” I said, loud enough to echo slightly. “Can I help you gentlemen with something?”

  Four rifles swung around like needles pointing north, except I was north and they were loaded. I silently applauded their fire discipline when I remained unshot. Admittedly, my armor wouldn’t mind, but I would. I leaned on the door to the weight room to appear less threatening. Their flashlights bathed me in blue-white radiance.

  “That’s not Payne.”

  “No pain here,” I agreed. “Well, none of any consequence. And no one by that name, either, in case you were wondering.”

  “Who am I speaking with?” asked the leader.

  His name is Lieutenant, Firebrand supplied.

  His rank is Lieutenant, I corrected.

  Then his name must be Mike Talbot. It’s all jumbled together in the others’ heads.

  Thanks.

  “Do you use the magic word in this world?” I asked, addressing the officer. His inner lights were those of a vampire of some sort. I couldn’t tell what species, though. I probably never encountered his sort before. Interesting. Biological zombies and supernatural vampires. Not bad for a magic-poor world like this. All they need are genetically-engineered werewolves and we’ve got the trifecta.

  “How about ‘come the fuck out?’ That magic enough?” he replied, clearly not in the mood for games. I noted with some interest he had a heartbeat, even at night.

  “Strangely enough, the word ‘fuck,’ or its linguistic equivalent, is used as an intensifier in most of the languages I know.” I stepped forward a bit, out of the doorway, to give myself room to move and to let them see me better. My cloak fell back to hang behind me. I kept my hands in plain view, thumbs hooked in my belts rather than over my head. Raising my hands might have been interpreted as “making a sudden move.” They looked tense. Not panicked, not precisely worried, but definitely tense.

  The leader—Talbot—didn’t let his mouth fall open, but it was a near thing. He kept his composure rather well, considering. He didn’t hesitate for more than a second before asking his squad to confirm what he saw. They did, albeit with somewhat less aplomb.

  “Do you think he raided an armor museum?” another one asked, quietly, still holding me in his sights. He was clearly having a hard time believing his own eyes, even with corroboration. Someone wearing high-tech plate armor is probably not what anyone expects in a zombie apocalypse, but I would think more people would wear swords, just in case.

  “What are we doing here?” Talbot sighed. I saw the back of his hand twitch a bit. Clearly, he didn’t like strangeness and his trigger finger was willing to make it go away. I don’t think he noticed.

  “You know,” I replied, “I’ve often asked myself that very question? When you think about it, Mike, what are any of us doing here?” I moved slowly to a bench and sat down. Sitting people are even less threatening and they were pointing guns at me. Keeping them calm—both the people and the guns—seemed a good idea.

  “Great, he’s existential,” said the talkative one. “Very specifically, what are you doing here, in this gym, with these zombies? Any funny answers and I might start shooting so I can get home and eat some shitty dinner this guy’s sister—the woman I love—prepared for me.”

  “TMI, Bee-Tee,” Talbot told him.

  “I’m a little frustrated, man,” BT shot back. “I like my dinner. You know how many times she’s stopped me from going to the Chow Hall to eat? The food there is like fine French Cuisine compared to the stuff she puts on plates. I’ve had to throw dishes away because whatever she tried to cook was permanently embedded in the ceramic or metal, depending. You’re like the gift that keeps on giving, man. I already have to deal with you, and now I have to deal with your sister. It’s more than any man should be exposed to. I fully expect sainthood when my time comes.”

  One of the others—the one with the obvious medic bag—leaned back so he could trade looks with his commander, eyebrows arched. I sat quietly, amused at the byplay. They were obviously good friends as well as a unit. I resolved not to kill anyone unless absolutely necessary.

  “Everything alright over there?” called their fourth member, from his post by the gymnasium door.

  Lieutenant Talbot didn’t get a chance to answer. The talkative guy with the big gun—“BT”—was still going off. Judging from his internal lights, he already had a bad day, possibly a bad week. It was a world full of zombie apocalypse. It would be unkind of me to make his week worse. I put my elbows on my knees, laced my fingers together, and put my chin on them to watch the tirade.

  “The chow hall eggs aren’t bad. The hash browns are pretty good too, and the meatloaf is really good,
and I missed that last time. Want to know what your sister made? She called it lasagna. Lasagna, Mike. It was green–and not because it was a vegetable lasagna, but because she boiled the noodles in green Jell-O water. Green Jell-O water, Mike! Why? What the fuck is that all about? I had to pretend that I thoroughly enjoyed a lime-flavored lasagna. Man, no one is that good of an actor! And then, instead of hamburger in the sauce, it was tofu. Said she was concerned about my cholesterol, even though I told her my last physical came back perfect. She said she was thinking ahead. Want to know what tofu tastes like? Gooey snots. That’s the best way to describe it. Man, look at me! I’m starving to death! I hoard candy bars when we go on these runs so I’ll have something to eat when I get back. It’s torture by Talbot!”

  “Umm, one problem at a time, BT.” Talbot turned his attention fully to me. “And how did you know my name?”

  “Someone said it,” I told him. BT did, but I wasn’t going to explain about psychic swords and telepathy while they were punchy. They all seemed more than a little on edge—more than I would expect from a bunch of zombie hunters.

  “Well, since we’re on a first name basis, what’s yours?”

  “Oh! Terrible manners on my part. I do apologize. I’ve been a bit distracted by events. My name is Eric,” I admitted, and rose, smoothly and carefully, hands well away from my body. “Pleased to meet you.” I extended one hand in case he wanted to shake it.

  “Whoa, whoa, hold on,” he replied, declining my offer by stepping back. “Don’t come any closer.” I stopped and waited, hand still out. He went on. “If we shoot you, I have to do a bunch of paperwork explaining why we did. More likely all of us here come to an agreement we didn’t come across anyone and then BT here can get to his raspberry eggs or whatever my sister cooks up.”

  “You’re an asshole,” BT observed at his lieutenant. I didn’t agree with his assessment, but the eggs comment might have been hitting close to home.