Cinco De Zombie

by Albert Aykler

  “No. Yes, but no. Zey know about Kevin’s research. Zey know he’s doing something, but zey don’t comprehend how dangerous it is. And neizer does Kevin. Silvercrest did not want you in stasis, but once you were zere, I told zem you could not go out and back in again like hanging a coat in a closet.”

  “I can’t?”

  “I don’t know. No one has does zis before. I am surprised it worked even. I don’t zink going out and in would be good, but I knew zey would want to do it zree times a year or somezing. Besides, wizout you, zey became more careful. After anozer outbreak with ze tactical disaster teams and all zat, zey wrote ze whole zing off as a boondoggle. Zat’s when zey let Kevin go.”

  “Because I was on ice?”

  “Und because zey did not want any more tests on humans or accidents. Und ze government maybe backed out, too. But all ze same, zey wanted some research. Kevin’s research.”

  “The fucking rats.” I opened another pack of gummy worms. “It’s still confusing.”

  “I am not telling you everyzing right now.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because you are Singleton. Not— not ze ozer guy— ze guy you were— and somezing in ze ozer guy broke when he knew everyzing. I cannot afford to break you now.”

  “Well, fuck you very much.”

  Then we listened to Glenn Gould play the hell out of Bach.

  An hour later, we began speaking about coffee and kept at it until we saw the sign for El Coyote Campground & Resort.

  Zombie Ziggy quieted down as I prepared the salsa. I found a bottle of Mexican beer still reasonably cold in the blood-spattered glass-doored half-fridge behind the bar. Sipping beer and chopping vegetables, wondering what to do about Ziggy, it hit me that my time must be limited.

  Silvercrest would want to know what happened here. They would want to find Ziggy and me. And Corporate-Cutthroat-Karen. And Kevin. And his research. The precious research.

  Sort of out of nowhere, it occurred to me that cops in movies always wear watches. I went out to the restaurant and pulled an old beat up Timex off the useless wrist hanging from the mostly headless torso that used to be the Cowboy Cop Zombie.

  The watch must have belonged to his grandpa. It fit me, so I borrowed it. He seemed like the kind of guy who would prefer it went to use than stopped ticking on the arm of his zombie corpse.

  Five minutes before 1 AM. A good deal later than I thought.

  Four hours since the Pretty Good Soccer Dad fell out of his seat. At least twelve hours since Ziggy rolled me out of the Silvercrest facility.

  I felt chips and salsa hummingbirds trying to flutter away from my stomach. The tactical team could arrive any time.

  Then the self-bargaining began. They would need sixteen to twenty-four hours to get up here. Eight to realize exactly what Ziggy had done, and another eight to get here. They had no fast way into these mountains. Flying to the nearest airport, they would still have to drive two or more hours. Helicopters would draw unwanted attention. And as for the infection…depending on what they knew about the dad and who they had on hand to interpret the information from Karen and/or Ziggy, they might not have figured out there had been a full-blown, cross-species outbreak.

  Unless, of course, there was a call from Mr. & Mrs. Lindgren out at the campground, but I doubted they had the chance. Overrun and infected in fifteen to twenty minutes, they might have made one call to Loon-Boogie or whatever it was, but how would anyone on the other end make heads or tails of a chipmunk attack? And would Loon-Boogie know to coordinate with Silvercrest?

  Would the Lindgren’s even think to call the campground’s new owners late on a Tuesday night? I had not spotted video surveillance in the reception house or the rest of the campground, so without a call, no one in the outside world would know.

  I decided I could afford another hour at the El Gordo. Enough time to look over Kevin’s work to learn more about how this had all happened. Not the science so much, but the logistics. How did he get here? Both this place and this outcome. And maybe I would find out more about the why of the whole thing.

  I spread out the notes and papers from Kevin’s RV lab on one of the kitchen counters, separating it into several messy stacks. Rat notes, spreadsheets, research notes, drafts of reports or white papers, and some emails Kevin had printed and slipped into plastic sheet protectors. Reminders for some detailed lab work processes.

  There was also an email chain printed and slipped into protective sleeves. He had scrawled notes on the plastic using a felt-tip marker as though arguing with what the emails said, but also unwilling to change or discard them. This was his final email chain with Ziggy.

  I could not decipher much in Kevin’s multi-colored felt tip scrawls. There were arrows and stars. Underlines and circles.

  Written in the margin were words that looked like, “Why did I give in?”

  And “Collaborator!!”

  Or, “Liar!”

  I removed the printouts from the plastic page condoms. It was a sad end to things, leaving me with more big questions for Ziggy and Silvercrest.

  ———————————————

  From: Cyclops

  To: Spaceprog

  Sent: 8-28-2016 23:45

  Received: 8-28-2016 23:47

  Subject: The Problem Chyld

  Kevin,

  Based on what you have shared, you have enough. You have achieved what everyone thought was impossible.

  Go no further. The risks are too great.

  Come in from the cold. If I bring this to the higher ups, they will see the value. Or can be made to see the value.

  You will get your own lab. Staff. Everything.

  -Z

  ———————————————

  From: Spaceprog

  To: Cyclops

  Sent: 8-28-2016 23:52

  Received: 8-28-2016 23:55

  Subject: Re: The Problem Chyld

  Ziggy,

  Risks? I am addressing the biggest risks facing humanity.

  If you bring it to them, they won’t know what they have. They will do nothing. Sit on it. Waiting. “Until the timing is better.” Or “when sufficient return on investment can be demonstrated.” Or some other BS.

  They don’t get it.

  I used to think you did, but now I’m beginning to wonder. This is essential work. We have to do this NOW. Have you seen the state of the world? Of the space programs (public and private)?

  I am a month (or at most 6 weeks) away from achieving the next leap in biological evolution. We will be interplanetary beings, or at least better beings on this planet.

  I cannot work with virtual balls and chains clamped to my scientific mind. Out here, in my own lab, I can run three or possibly four generations of experiments on up to thousands of key variants of the strain that I have already designed in the virtualizer. With rats, this takes almost no time. Worst case one year, but I am almost certain I have identified the best two new variants.

  Your sudden fear and trepidation makes no sense. Are you jealous or something?

  Kevin

  ———————————————

  From: Cyclops

  To: Spaceprog

  Sent: 8-29-2016 00:03

  Received: 8-29-2016 00:05

  Subject: Re: Re: The Problem Chyld

  Don’t do this!

  It is WAY too risky. You do not have the proper equipment. You have risked enough. Do you realize what the potential effects are? Remember what happened in the lab. And all the other labs. This could be worse.

  I assure you, this has nothing to do with jealousy.

  -Z

  ———————————————

  From: Spaceprog

  To: Cyclops

  Sent: 8-29-2016 00:09

  Received: 8-29-2016 00:12

  Subject: Re: Re: Re: The Problem Chyld

  With all due respect, screw you, Ziggy.

  I see it now. I see why Singleton is o
n ice. I see how I got canned. I see how all these experiments got screwed up. There is one common element.

  YOU.

  You have divided us, but you have not conquered.

  I will come back in from the cold. Someday. And someday soon.

  When I do, I’ll be dosed myself. The first of the new humans. The better ones.

  And we’ll be done with second raters like you.

  Signed,

  Pretentious letter K!

  ———————————————

  From: Cyclops

  To: Spaceprog

  Sent: 8-29-2016 00:45

  Received: 8-29-2016 00:47

  Subject: Re: Re: The Problem Chyld

  Kevin,

  I don’t know what you are talking about. You are my colleague. My friend. Your success is my success.

  I have helped you every step of the way up until this.

  And you know more about Singleton than to accuse me of following through on anything more or less than Leo’s wishes. Of course, not to the letter, but I could not kill him, and neither could you.

  In the name of our friendship (or what might be left of it if you take just a few more minutes before firing off your next reply and remember movie nights in the labs and hanging out with Singleton in the cafeteria talking about whatever it was we all talked about for hours), please stop and think.

  Your friend,

  Ziggy

  ———————————————

  From: Spaceprog

  To: Cyclops

  Sent: 8-29-2016 00:49

  Received: 8-29-2016 00:51

  Subject: Re: Re: The Problem Chyld

  Ziggy,

  We were great colleagues doing great things. But we were boondoggled by Silvercrest. You need to see that. Hopefully, you will before it’s too late for you.

  The rats are already dosed. They were dosed before you sent your first email tonight.

  Don’t try emailing, calling, or texting me any more. To protect our friendship, I am blocking all communications until these latest experiments are complete.

  I sincerely hope you overcome your fear of the great things to come.

  Kevin

  12 Since You Asked

  I drove west through the El Coyote forest night. A black tunnel of ancient silent evergreens judging my failure to keep this awfulness from infecting their home.

  Nothing but the bloody clothes covering my ass. Aching from bouncing against zombies, floors, and pavement. Chipmunk bites stinging. I took out all my discomfort, pain, and frustration on a car I stole from a dead zombie. Screeching along a resentful mountain road whose curves did a bad job of ending me despite their best efforts.

  I needed to pee but refused to stop before I found some other sign of civilization.

  Ray had mentioned a town nearby. How far could it be? Thirty minutes or an hour. I could be there with two hours left before daylight. And maybe I could sleep.

  Coming over a ridge along a wide curve I saw lights in the distance. Scattered street or driveway lights and a row of businesses. I sped up.

  At that same moment, I felt something heavy fall through me. A wave of exhaustion. I looked at the blood in my fingernails. The cook’s blood. I had taken the keys to the El Coyote and figured I may as well take his car too. I thought it had to run better than Ziggy’s old beater. Not much better. A 2004 Subaru wagon in need of tune up and a vacuum cleaner.

  The curves down into this small mountain town reminded me of the smooth spirals of the gum ball machine in the entrance to the El Coyote. Nothing safe at the end of that run for the gum balls.

  What did people do out here for a living, anyway? How did they live if they didn’t work at the El Coyote or the campground? The mill, I guessed.

  I wanted to sneak in under the cover of night and park in the proximity of something resembling a normal life. Not my normal life. I had no idea what that was. Anyone else’s normal life. A life without zombies or infections or serums.

  I wanted to see some of the awful people Silvercrest believed were so in need of improving. To observe them in one of their natural habitats. I figured this dimly lit town would work as well as any.

  Back at the El Coyote, when I hit the bottom of the salsa bowl and my second beer, a few things became clear to me about Kevin’s campground boondoggle:

  Ease

  Kevin absconded with live viruses and establish a working mobile research lab with incredible ease. He took everything he needed after Silvercrest announced they were laying him off.

  Usually, a corporation in this scenario reveals the empty void that the public relations office had wrapped in stock photo images of gardens, families, and children’s handprints in hopes you will believe it holds a heart. Some functionary the employee in question has never met before greets them that morning in an office behind the security desk to deliver the terms of their dismissal, revoke their ID, and discreetly remove them from the premises while explaining the strict legal prohibitions against future access.

  However, Kevin was fired at his desk by his manager who used inflammatory language that could have found the company in a lawsuit. Kevin notes their use of hot button terms sure to anger him (‘intellectually-outmatched,’ ‘insufficiently informed,’ ‘overly narrow in focus’) and made unsupportable claims about his inability to conduct meaningful research without the supervision or support of senior lab personnel.

  Finally, they openly discussed moving the virus to a less protected lab environment, making this theft the only ethical choice for someone like Kevin.

  When it came time for him to execute his plan, doors to the facility were found unlocked, transport materials (insulated storage containers, dollies, etc.) made available, and a member of the security team even helped Kevin carry things to his car.

  It seemed that the last person to realize he was doing Silvercrest’s bidding was Kevin. How do you miss something right in front of you? Or maybe he knew?

  Either way, Kevin did not let on that he knew about Silvercrest’s complicity in his notes. Everything was about their stupidity and shortsightedness and his own incredibly powerful brain and undeniable charm.

  Money

  A severance package is not unusual in these circumstances, but Kevin received something more generous than the equivalent of time-served, six month's salary or the minimal two weeks’ pay. And given the poor performance and bad outcomes presented in the writeup and verbal riot act they gave him in front of several witnesses, including Ziggy, there seemed no legitimate reason for them to give him any money, much less eighteen months full salary, an equivalent amount in a retirement account, along with a lump sum buy-out that more than covered the purchase of a large used RV. But they gave Kevin all that cash and kept him on the company health insurance program for a year.

  Coincidences Are Not This Coincidental

  One of Kevin’s neighbors had a large used RV for sale, including maps with good campgrounds noted: remote locations, good services (plugins, etc.).

  The freedom to stay past the normal closing date at El Coyote Campground. Kevin arrived thinking he would need to check out on Labor Day. Mrs. Lindgren came to his site to inform him that the campground had changed hands, and the rules had changed. He could stay until first snowfall.

  Alternate campgrounds in warmer, but equally remote locations all sent him promotional emails. Conveniently, the three most generous offers would put Kevin much closer to the Silvercrest Meade Gorge facility where I was on ice, Ziggy worked, and from which, he had been dismissed. According to Kevin’s journal, he loved these offers and didn’t see the irony or smell anything like a rat (or a chipmunk) about them. He welcomed the opportunity to make headway on his so-called boondoggle right under Silvercrest’s corporate nose in New Mexico. And he counted on enlisting Ziggy’s help.

  The only pet store in the town nearest to the El Coyote Campground, stocked the breed of rat he preferred to work with. Apparently, experimental rat species pre
ference is a thing for some researchers.

  The Soccer Camping Family

  Not too long after Kevin had his falling out with Ziggy, Karen’s camping family showed up at the El Coyote Campground. And finally, Kevin, Idiot Kevin, began to get suspicious.

  He went over his own notes, particularly those with Ziggy’s involvement with a highlighter, piecing together the incredible convenience with which Ziggy seemed to haphazardly mention certain findings and lab procedures from other Silvercrest research. And then he began to wonder about the ease with which he obtained certain supplies besides the rats.