by K Helms
Arlington felt, rather than heard, the faintest vibration in the air. He turned and looked behind him.
Standing there were two small, naked people that appeared to be without gender. He knew instantly what they were. They were Grays… aliens.
He felt a grin spread across his face and pumped a fist at his side. “I knew it!” he cried exuberantly.
The two Grays looked at each other, but didn’t seem to be surprised in the least. After all, they were notorious for abducting rednecks and hillbillies. This was probably not the first rebel yell they had witnessed.
“Man, do I have some questions for you guys,” he said, still grinning like an idiot. If he had had a mirror he would have seen that his teeth and eyes were no longer that unhealthy shade of yellow.
In talking to the Grays he saw that they didn’t exactly talk, but used a form of telepathy. They spoke directly into his brain. He thought this was probably more efficient than talking out loud, but at the same time it felt like someone was softly running a feather over his brain. It tickled to the point of itching, and he felt himself shivering from time to time.
They told him that they had inserted an implant into his head, which he thought explained the shaved head and of which they explained that it allowed him to accept the situation without being engulfed in panic. His felt around his scalp for a sutured incision, but found none. They explained that shaving his head was necessary as he had lice, not necessarily to implant the devise.
Arlington asked what the implant did and they explained that it was to relieve him of his habits: namely drinking and smoking. They also explained that the devise was also correcting an imbalance in his brain, which had triggered his downward spiral. They had in essence, turned him into the man he should have been.
He asked them if they were gods, like some of those conspiracy sites had said, the ones that claimed that God was an astronaut. They visibly recoiled from him both in stature and expression. Repulsed by such an accusation, YAH, they said, was the one true God. They were like humans, created beings, just far more advanced. Arlington nodded knowingly, even though he had not known at all.
“Yah, huh, is he German?” he said joking.
They said nothing but continued to stare at him in those overly large oval black eyes and Arlington thought that they had the look of a mantis; only their color was a metallic gray.
He raised his hand and new hook in front of him appeasing them, “Tough room,” said Arlington gently. He felt that light tickle on his brain again and shivered involuntarily. He knew they were reading him, allowed him to know what they were reading. They saw that he had lived a virtual hermit’s existence and lacked social graces, and they assured him that they would correct that. He didn’t like the sound of that, it sounded like mind control to him. They assured him that they would teach him, manners, they emphasized.
“So what do we do now?” he asked, eager to try out his new equipment.
Now, we teach.
“I was never good at school,” he said sheepishly, then added “Say, what should I call you guys anyway? I’m Arlington. Arlington Neff,” he said, holding out his hand before them.
The Grays looked at each other and then the taller of the two stepped forward and put his hand into the grasp of Arlington’s. The hand was light and, though it had looked like it would be slimy, it felt like a shark’s skin instead; scaly, but not rough. The long fingers wrapped around his hand and he noticed that the fingers had four joints in them as opposed to the three that human beings hands possessed. He heard in his head. You may call me Noah. This other is Shem, for he is my son.
“It’s a pleasure to meet you boys. Now about this teaching thing, how long is it gonna take?” he asked, letting go of Noah’s hand. He thought he heard a little laugh in his head and even though it sounded benign in its wordless response, it also sounded a lot like ‘A long freakin’ time’.
It will take as long as it takes, Arlington Neff, that and not a moment longer, said Noah.
Arlington felt a smile cross his lips. “Are you guys sure you’re not politicians, ‘cause you sure answer questions like one.” Again he heard that little laugh in his head, and to tell you the truth, he kind of liked that sound.
Part Two
Life in the Land of Death
Six Months after infection
Estimated Living U.S. Population…500,000
Estimated U.S. Zombie Population…220,000,000
Chapter 21 - The Long Count
Dayton, Ohio
Wright Patterson Air Force Base
Daniel Tyson had spent six long months providing slave labor for the military. The prisoners called Wright Pat the Long Count because the days never seemed to end. Hard labor in construction and demolition had been his area of expertise. It wasn’t that he had a lot of experience in those areas, only that it was the job that any unskilled laborer was assigned to, but Daniel had to admit that there had been some good come of it too. He had always been a little soft around the middle, but now he was ripped. His previous existence had consisted of going to work at the glass factory and watching bottles go past like in the intro of Laverne and Shirley, then going to the pub across the street , going home and maybe play some video games and eating pizza rolls heated in the microwave.
He remembered being arrested by what he called, ‘the Gestapo’. Daniel was ushered from his home where he had barricaded himself when he had become trapped by a mob of his dead neighbors. The soldiers hadn’t been gentle. After blasting the house with canisters of tear gas they had flung in a concussion grenade that had left him fumbling on the floor gagging on the gas and his own snot, which dripped like melted ice cream from his nose, and completely disoriented from the flash bang grenade. He remembered the soldiers busting down his front door in a pack. One of them had assumed it was necessary to club him in the back of the brain pan with the butt of his Mossberg and that was that. There had been no negotiations, no serving or protecting, it had been the way that his old buddy the Pirate had once told him. The Man had held a coup d’état. Evidently, that had been the government’s rendition of protecting ‘We the people’.
Daniel Tyson had awoken in a long barracks lined with bunk beds. He no longer had a name, just a number; 48. It had been tattooed on his forehead and the back of his neck in bold black numbers. Daniel found that everyone had numbers in the same locations of their own persons. He occupied the top bunk while his bunk-mate, the illustrious 47 called the bottom bunk home. Number 47 was a mountain of a man; easily six foot-five and weighing in at around two hundred and sixty pounds of tanned hide and blacksmith arms. He was shaved bald like everyone else, but sported a full beard and hula dancer tattoos on his forearms that gave him the appearance of a redneck Polynesian biker. Daniel had liked Bodie Barnes instantly. Where Barnes could have played the big, bad lifer and made his bunk-mate miserable, or even worse, his bitch, Barnes preferred to chat about his favorite Television show, the Simpsons. Daniel, no slouch at useless trivia, held his own.
Daniel’s first night had been another in a laundry list of learning experiences. He was approached by another well-tanned, yet wiry knucklehead that had watched too many episodes of OZ on HBO. The wiry man’s name was 21. He had been a prisoner for a few months and thought he ruled the roost. He had shoved Daniel backward. “I don’t like your face,” spat 21.
Daniel just blinked at him. Very original, he thought wryly. He had always been a pacifist. Aside from his recent violence at the funeral home he had never been in a physical altercation with another breathing human being. He held his hands up in front of him. “Hey, man, I don’t want any trouble,” Daniel/48 said to 21.
21 noticed Daniel’s hands shaking and grinned malignantly. “I don’t want any trouble,” he mimicked, in a whiny sing-song voice, and then looked around to make sure everyone was watching. His smile wilted when he saw 47 lift his large girth from the bottom bunk and stood to the right of Daniel. He didn’t say a word, but only stood and looked placidl
y at 21.
“Dang it 47, this isn’t about you. This is about me and him,” said 21, thrusting a finger at Daniel’s chest. Again Barnes didn’t say a word; he just continued to look directly at 21’s eyes. There was no sense of anger in that stare only one of matter of fact resolution.
Daniel turned to his bunkmate. “It’s alright, man there’s just been a misunderstanding,” he said to Barnes.
“It’s gonna hurt, Dannie,” whispered Barnes, then shook his head once with the ghost of a grin on his lips and sat back down on the edge of his bunk.
Daniel turned back to 21. “OK, it looks like we got off on the wrong foot, man. I’m Daniel Tyson,” he said and held out his hand to 21.
21 looked at the outstretched hand for a minute then started laughing. When he regained his composure he wiped his eyes and said, “I don’t care what your name is. I don’t like your face.”
“Well it’s the only one I’ve got, so it looks like you’re gonna have to get used to it, man,” said Daniel in typical smart ass fashion.
The next two seconds seemed to stretch out into minutes. He watched frozen, as 21’s expression changed. A huge vein emerged beneath 21’s tattoo on his forehead as Daniel stood there and watched the man’s hands ball into fists, his left foot moved forward as his right fist shot up and outward, he watched as the fist grew larger and larger as it raced toward his jaw. Daniel didn’t flinch, didn’t duck, didn’t roll with the punch, he didn’t even tuck his chin; he just stood there awash in his own amazement until the fist connected with his jaw. Daniel staggered backward against the bunk and fell, spinning in a half pirouette as he sprawled on the concrete floor with a smack of skin on cement. 47 had been right, it did hurt. It hurt bad, but it hadn’t hurt nearly as bad as he had always thought a shot to the face would. Blood and spit ran from his mouth and he spat a wad of it onto the floor. He heard laughing and was embarrassed. He felt his face flush; this had been his biggest fear all these years. It was the reason he had never gotten into a fight, even when pushed and bullied. It had never really been a fear of the physical pain; it was that fear of being made to look like a punk in front of people, it was a phobia Daniel had lived with since kindergarten.
Daniel heard Barnes from somewhere above him say, in a low voice, “Get up, Dannie. You gotta get up.”
Daniel moved into a push up position and eased himself slowly from the cold cement. He wobbled then stood up straight. He turned back to 21, who was enthusiastically receiving high fives from his fellow douche bags. One of them pointed over 21’s shoulder and 21 turned back to see Daniel on his feet.
“Your face looks better, but not quite good enough,” remarked 21. “Let’s see what we can do about that.”
Daniel spit a mouthful of blood on 21’s bare chest. The pink blood and spit mixture dripped down onto the waistband of his worn blue jean. His face became enraged again.
POW!
The punch came quicker this time and Daniel tucked his chin and took the shot on the left side of his forehead. The punch made him stagger backward again, but he remained on his feet. He looked up and saw 21 shaking his fist, as if that action would decrease the pain in it, then he began to rub it with his other hand. There was a look of pain etched onto his gaunt leathery face. “There, you look better now, boy. Maybe I’ll fix you up some more tomorrow.”
Daniel spat another shot of pink slime onto 21’s chest and smiled gravely. 21 didn’t get that enraged look on his face this time. This time he looked unnerved. To save face, and to save his broken hand another pounding by Daniel’s face he spun on his heel and pushed his way through the crowd behind him saying “I gotta clean this fag’s blood offa me before I get AIDS or some shit.” The crowd laughed, but it was sporadic and forced this time.
Daniel felt a large hand on his shoulder. “You did good, but next time you might want to use your hands to kick his ass instead of that hard-ass head of yours.”
Over the next couple of weeks Barnes had taught his friend how to throw a proper punch and how to avoid being hit. They sparred every night after chow and Daniel found that he might have made a pretty good bouncer himself, that is, if there had not been a zombie apocalypse.
Later, Daniel had used the knowledge he had learned on 21. It wasn’t personal, it was out of principle. 21 had suffered a broken nose, had lost four teeth and had been walking around looking much like a raccoon for about a month. Better still, 21 had apologized to Daniel, publicly. Daniel had accepted the apology and had in turn apologized himself. Everything was cool. It had to be. Daniel, Barnes and a skinny black fellow named John Walker (AKA Good Times AKA Ahmed bin Muhammad AKA 16) were planning their ‘Great Escape’. They didn’t know how long it would take; they weren’t going to rush it. They wanted to do it right the first time. They were well aware that there would be no do-over. The General had a reputation for executing anyone that was caught attempting to escape and the dirty bastard would even do it within eye shot of the barracks, so all the remaining prisoners could watch.
Chapter 22 - Don Quixote Seems Pretty Normal
Parkersburg, West Virginia
The knight awoke inside a strange chamber. He found that his armaments of war had been removed and he lay covered in soft white sheets. He groaned as he felt the bandages covering his forehead with his right hand. “Yah,” he whispered.
“How you feelin’ big guy?” asked a young, well-built black man, with long dreadlocks that fell past his shoulders. He wore a t-shirt with a red dragon screen printed on the front of it.
“Like a Baluchiterium kicked me in the face,” said the knight in a hushed voice.
“A what?” asked the black man.
“Baluch…it is the steed of the Nephilim,” Regeliel answered.
The black man nodded uncertainly, having absolutely no idea what the giant of a man was talking about. “It sounds like an Italian motorcycle,” he said, then changed the subject to one less bizarre, “You’re lucky me and my friends found you, there’s been a sniper picking off survivors and that armor of yours just barely stopped that bullet,” said the young man. The man with the dreadlocks stooped and picked up Regeliel’s helm and showed him the huge dent in the side.
“My thanks, M’Lord; pray tell me what your name is so I can thank you properly.” The knight didn’t know what a sniper was, but he got the gist of it just the same; Regeliel began to sit up. The young man stood up quickly and put a hand on his chest keeping him from rising up. “Hey, easy… relax. My name is Malcolm…Malcolm Reynolds. Listen. You get some rest and I’ll bring you back something to eat, OK?”
“My thanks again, Sir Malcolm,” said the knight. He had never laid eyes on this young man before, but it occurred to him that if more people in this village were like this man, then he was in a safe place. “Where are your friends that I might thank them as well?”
Malcolm smiled “They’re out in the other room playing Yahtzee; you want me to go get them?”
“No, Lad. I think I had better rest some more before we get acquainted.”
Malcolm smiled, “Yeah, OK, just holler if you need anything; Mi Casa Su Casa.”
The knight regained his strength at an astonishing rate and within the next two days he had comfortably settled into the barricaded apartment building. He had quickly become friends with the young black man and his two other friends; one went by the name Ralph, who was almost as muscular as Malcolm, but about five inches shorter with long blonde hair and a patchy blonde beard and the other was Bobby, a man with a peculiarly smooth face and eyes that always looked sleepy, almost dreamy. Bobby was short and a little on the plump side and at first glance Regeliel had assumed him to be dim of wit, but upon talking to him found him to be a rather intelligent man with a fine heart. Malcolm was the tallest of them, though not as tall as Sir Regeliel, who stood at an even seven feet. The three friends were good people, they spent most of their free time playing a strange game where you used cards with numbers and faces and shapes that they called euchre. They tau
ght Regeliel how to play the game and he thoroughly enjoyed it. It was a great diversion that did not require a lot of materials to play. They regularly beat the knight, but Regeliel thought that he was starting to get the hang of it. Their apartment was strewn with thick tomes and a hundred skinny ones that had glossy photos of scantily clad women on the front; modesty had obviously not been en vogue in this world. In exchange for his new friends hospitality, Regeliel taught them swordsmanship, how to use a shield and how to put on armor. The three were enamored with Regeliel; especially Bobby, whose favorite game was something called Dungeons and Dragons, which he often coerced the others into playing. Regeliel especially liked this game as it tested his tactical knowledge. To Bobby it was as if one of his Dungeons and Dragons characters had come to life.
Regeliel asked them where they could find armor for the trio of friends and Bobby told them about the museum having an elaborate medieval display.
The Parkersburg Museum of Art and Science did have a display of arms and armor, but what really caught Regeliel’s eye were the skeletal remains of something he recognized, the Baluch. On a large cardboard cut-out, beside the massive skeleton was an artist’s rendition of what the creature had looked like, and Regeliel had agreed that it was a fairly accurate description. It stood over eight feet tall at the shoulder and had the shape of a long-legged rhinoceros, with a long, muscular tail. Regeliel explained to his young friends that, in his world, a long steel horn was set upon its armored forehead and the tail was fastened to a flail or morning star as an extra weapon. The three young men had looked at him as if he was insane but they said nothing. After looting the museum, Regeliel had shown them how to make adjustments to the armor to fit them. Even though Bobby’s armor had been fitted, there hadn’t been a helm that would fit his head so Malcolm had taken some of the pads from inside his old football helmet and given it to him. The four, young men absorbed everything he taught them and they wanted to practice incessantly. Regeliel wished that he had a few more of these squires where he came from, if only his memory could recall everything. His recollection was still a little blurry from the concussion he had suffered, all but Mariel, his queen that waited for his return. City of the Grays and Graylocke castle; they were only words, but they were important none the less, of that Regeliel was sure. Regeliel named Malcolm his Sergeant at Arms. He had grown to think of him as a son in so short a time and the depth of their bond surprised even Regeliel. It didn’t matter though, for Malcolm would make a fine heir.