The Infects

by Sean Beaudoin

  “But we can’t just run for it,” Sad Girl said. “We’ll never make the edge of the clearing, let alone the path. And even if we do —”

  Petal turned and hugged Sad Girl roughly, then rubbed her arms. She slid her lips across Sad Girl’s neck, ran her hands up and down her legs.

  Whoa. The Rock likey. The Rock likey mucho.

  “What are you doing?”

  Petal leaned over and did the same thing to Estrada.

  “Hey!”

  She slid over to Nero and licked him next. His scalp and chin. She ran her wrists up and down his sides and legs, ran her tongue along his arms, kissed his palm, kissed his lips deeply.

  “What’s going on?” he asked, breathless.

  “You don’t stink enough. Yet.”

  “Huh?”

  The kitchen behind them was now full of Infects moaning and trying to climb up the icebox. Arms poked through the vent, scratching and gripping the exterior wall.

  “Go,” Petal said.

  Sad Girl and Estrada held hands and jumped, rolling in the snow. Estrada quickly found a rusty hammer. Sad Girl picked up a length of pipe.

  Nero took a deep breath, looking down at all the mouths.

  At all the bloody teeth.

  “Trust me,” Petal said.

  ZOMBRULE #22: Things to Trust: Your gun. A dead bolt. A wrench. A strong piece of rope. The flammability of a can of diesel. The edibility of a can of tuna. Brass knuckles. A survival knife. Things Not to Trust: Everything and everyone else.

  “I can’t.”

  “Why not?”

  “I’m scared.”

  Petal grabbed Nero with two hands and tossed him off the roof. He landed with a thud. She followed a second later as the Infects against the lodge began to turn around. Some shuffled; some hobbled on one leg. Others crawled.

  All of them roaring with hunger.

  “I can’t believe you threw me off,” Nero whispered, getting up.

  “I can’t believe I had to, Nick.”

  Me neither.

  “Nick?” Estrada said, raising an eyebrow.

  “No clue who she’s talking to,” Nero said.

  “Walk,” Petal said as Infects came from all directions. She turned and aimed for the cliff edge. “Calmly. Don’t make eye contact.”

  They moved together, making as small a target as possible, flanked on both sides by slaver and teeth, rotted hands reaching out, swiping the air like groupies trying to get an autograph.

  “Why aren’t they closing in?” Estrada whispered.

  “They’re confused by me,” Petal whispered back. “My smell. And the smell I put on you.”

  Wait, she wasn’t licking you just for the hell of it?

  Infects began to mob them, cutting off the path. Estrada gripped his hammer. Sad Girl held the pipe up, ready to bring it down on the closest forehead.

  “Drop those weapons,” Petal hissed.

  “What? Why?”

  “Do it.”

  The hammer clanged to the ground. The pipe followed, rolling past a pair of sneakers that Nero recognized.

  He shut his eyes and kept moving.

  Do not look.

  Absolutely. Do. Not. Look. Up.

  Nero looked up.

  And found himself staring into Yeltsin’s face.

  Yeltsin foamed and spit, 160 pounds of stubble and teeth and the desire for flesh. The right side of his jaw was visible through the skin, two rows of yellowed teeth broken off at the roots, jagged peaks ripping through blood-caked gums.

  There was nothing in his eyes.

  No recognition.

  “Is anything human in there?” Nero whispered. “Yeltsin? Nod if you can hear me.”

  Yeltsin did not nod. He stepped closer.

  “You don’t have to bite. You don’t have to follow a script. You’re not a zombie, Yeltsin. You’re human. Fight it.”

  Yeltsin did not appear to be fighting it.

  He seemed even hungrier.

  The other Infects sniffed and drooled behind him.

  “We’re not going to make the ledge,” Sad Girl whined.

  Honestly? You guys are screwed.

  Two feet.

  It’s been fun kicking around in your head, dude.

  A foot.

  I’m gonna miss this shit.

  Six inches.

  “Will they eat you?” Nero asked Petal, holding her hand. “I mean, can they?”

  “I don’t know,” she said.

  Yeltsin ran his destroyed hand up and down Nero’s arm. His fingers were gone, a smear of syrupy red fat left behind.

  His mouth opened wider, jaw almost locked.

  About to bite.

  “Wake up, Yeltsin,” Nero whispered. “There’s still you inside you. I know you can hear —”

  There was a ripple through the crowd, a heavy stink that rose and descended at the same time.

  Flowers. Manure. Estrus. Beef.

  Dirt. Coffee. Rut. Marrow.

  Swann.

  She reached out, grabbed Yeltsin by the neck, and tore off his head.

  The body fell limply to the ground, where the Infects dove and hissed and cursed, fighting over it.

  Swann casually put her bloody hand on Nero and stroked his hair.

  Like a pet.

  Sad Girl moaned. A dark spot ran down the inseam of Estrada’s pants and immediately froze.

  Maybe it was time to stop fighting, Nero thought. Let Swann feed, give himself to the horde, give the others a chance to escape.

  ZOMBRULE #23: Self-sacrifice is for chaste vampires, widowed uncles, and grizzled detectives with only one week left until retirement. A wise man sacrifices someone else instead, scoops up their food and water, and runs.

  Petal stepped forward and hissed, long and low. Swann hissed violently in response, her shoulder blades arched, as if she were about to spread wings and take flight.

  They got in each other’s grills, although Swann was almost a foot taller.

  Cat fight! Cat fight! Oh, yeah!

  The other Infects went crazy, cooing with hunger and lust. They jabbered and spit, circling in frustration.

  Petal closed her eyes and extended her arms by her sides, like a preacher. Who was about to deliver a sermon. On the Infects Mount. Part the flesh sea and demand that Pharaoh let her uncorrupted people go.

  Swann wrapped her long fingers around Petal’s neck. The pack surged forward, pawing at Estrada and Sad Girl.

  But instead of fighting back, Petal began to hum.

  An insect noise, deep in her throat.

  A clicking.

  The sound of mantis wings.

  Bow and rosin.

  Gut and tension.

  Hairy legs being rubbed together.

  As it rose in volume, Infects in the back of the pack joined in. All across the clearing, they began to kneel and lend their voices. Petal’s soprano whine rose high above the chorus, darting in and out, playing with the tone, using the noise as backbeat, as support. The sound got louder, picking up intensity, falsetto highs and deep lows. It was like listening to a needle on a seismograph.

  Like gospel music on Mars.

  Even Swann let go of Petal, closed her eyes, and joined in.

  The hum picked up depth, vibrato clicks and breathy gasps, the crowd lending a deep bass, spreading through the frozen ground. It got louder, fuller, became a swelling chorus. Bus drivers, Indians, firemen, hunters, counselors, construction workers, and pom-pom girls raised their arms and gave in to the rhythm.

  The chorus swelled, a group expression of either pleasure or dissatisfaction, either want or despair. It reached a clucking, buzzing intensity and then broke at the high-water mark, falling away and reverberating toward the cliff’s edge.

  Infects stopped humming and opened their eyes.

  One by one, they began to stand and growl again.

  “Keep going,” Estrada said.

  Petal put her hands on her knees and gulped in air. “I can’t. They’re not l
istening anymore, anyway.”

  Your turn to do something, hero!

  Nero looked over to where Estrada had dropped the hammer.

  Fighting was pointless.

  And then at the cliff’s edge.

  Running was pointless.

  He reached into his pocket and felt something rectangular. Something solid.

  The Zippo.

  The one his mother had given him in a bar that wasn’t real, during a conversation that never happened.

  But it sure felt real.

  Solid, cold, rectangular.

  Rolling Stones, Altamont ’69.

  Maybe it had just been sitting on the bar, rusting away, left behind by some long-forgotten hunter.

  Who cares? Stop overanalyzing and get to it!

  Nero popped the top and thumbed the strike wheel.

  The flint sparked, lighting on the first try.

  Always pay extra for a name brand.

  A tall flame, blue and orange, rose two inches, burning purely.

  He held it up, like at a concert.

  As if a hundred other lighters were all around him, waving in unison as the crowd chanted, begging for an encore.

  The Infects looked up too, caught in some dim memory.

  A momentary distraction from the need to gorge and purge and gorge again.

  The lighter began to burn Nero’s fingers, the metal housing glowing orange.

  “Run,” he said, gritting his teeth. Sad Girl and Estrada did, weaving through the flame-addled Z toward the cliff edge. Petal put her arms around Nero’s neck.

  “Go!”

  “I’m not going anywhere.”

  The smell of burnt skin filled the air, excruciating as it cauterized the gash in his palm. It was beyond hurt. It was beyond pain. It was pure Zen.

  Five seconds more. Give them a chance.

  Four.

  Three.

  Two.

  One.

  Nero cursed, gripped his wrist, and dropped the lighter. Melted fat from his palm spilled into the snow with a hiss, oily steam rising.

  The Infects roared and grabbed them.

  “Bye,” Petal said.

  “Bye,” Nero said, pressing his lips against hers.

  All around them mouths opened, teeth clicked, jaws distended.

  And then one by one, they began to fall.

  Gunshots recoiled across the clearing.

  Three Z dropped. Six. Nine. Rows fell over like they’d been shoved by an invisible hand.

  Or a bullet to the brain stem.

  Between collapsing Infects, Nero could see Sno-Cats pull up at the edge of the trail, soldiers in white camo pouring out of bay doors. Sad Girl and Estrada were on their stomachs, hands over their heads, being cuffed. There were roars, screams, the unmistakable sounds of hand-to-hand combat. The soldiers wore face masks and held machine guns that seemed to fire darts instead of bullets.

  They set up a skirmish line, some on one knee while others stood behind, shooting with precision.

  Almost as if they were trained for it.

  An officer in full military garb, and with no protective gear, swung a riding crop while yelling and giving orders. Soldiers began tagging and bagging downed Infects, securing their arms with steel cuffs, slipping leather harnesses with red gag balls over their heads and into their mouths, clamping padlocks into the loops. Others dragged the captured Infects back to the Sno-Cats for loading.

  A few Infects managed to rush through the line and pull away soldiers, who screamed as they were feasted on. Other soldiers, wearing all red, responded quickly, firing real bullets. Infect heads exploded. Another wave of men in black attended to the bitten soldiers, jabbing hypodermics into their necks and fitting them with head harnesses.

  Men in white coats picked through the bodies. A cleanup crew sprayed something from a huge hose. Doctors wearing biohazard suits took samples. Search dogs howled in volleys.

  And then a team of firefighters set fire to the lodge.

  Swann turned and charged. The remaining Infects followed. There was a crack of rifle reports.

  Swann took the first dart.

  And kept coming.

  She took six darts.

  And kept coming.

  She took nine darts.

  And kept coming.

  The tenth planted itself deep into her forehead.

  And she finally collapsed.

  Nero and Petal put their hands up as soldiers reached them. One, a major, stepped forward. Nero could see through her protective shielding. It was a woman.

  “That was smart. Signaling with the lighter,” she said.

  He looked down at the raw rectangular brand, the outline of lips and a tongue seared into the center of his palm, and nodded.

  The woman raised her rifle.

  “We’re not Infects,” Petal said. “We’re survivors.”

  “We know what you are,” the woman said, sighting Nero with a red laser. It focused on his heart.

  “All right, so we’re convicts. What are you going to do? Shoot us?”

  “Yes,” she said.

  And then fired.

  THE FACILITY WAS LARGE AND IMMACULATELY clean. Every room was full, all three wings, teeming with kids and adults in orange or pink hospital gowns and slippers.

  Nu-Clients.

  Children were kept in one section, teens in another. Adults stayed in a group living unit.

  The walls were gray and solid. There were long rectangular windows made of thick glass, close to the ceiling. All doors required a key card, which the counselors kept at the end of chains attached to their belts.

  Nero sat on a comfortable white chair in an open rec room. Boblegum and Kim Fowley were talking quietly on the couch across from him. Bruce Leroy and Tripper were calmly playing cards by the faux fireplace. Tripper’s fourth round of tattoo removal had just finished, his skin pink and glossy and raw. The two children from the porta potty were jumping rope in the hallway. Lush and Exene gossiped on the floor over diet colas. Almost everyone was disfigured in some way. Mostly from bites. But also from skin tearing, deep fingernail gouges, flesh gobbling, organ rending, and other invasions. Some injuries were too gruesome, too far gone to repair despite the fact that the plastic surgery clinic ran twenty-four hours a day and skin grafts were as common as wiped noses. Almost everyone was in some stage of repair, from full reconstruction to minor spackling, like houses slapped together by a drunken carpenter.

  Or chiseled apart by a genius sculptor.

  Not all the Nu-Clients were capable of interacting. Some sat in corners, staring off into the middle distance. Others spoke only to themselves. A few had gone mute entirely. Mr. Bator refused to wear his prosthetic. Velma, seemingly unaware of her surroundings, drooled on herself in the corner. And not all of them had made it. Heavy D died of grievous injuries, Swann having eaten most of his vitals. Jack Oh was found with a steak knife in his orbital bone. Yeltsin’s head was never found. A larger group had been shot by soldiers.

  But those who had been rescued were eligible for Nu-Client housing and reeducation after being given an antidote.

  Made from Petal’s blood.

  It killed what the counselors called “the avian plague.”

  More than killed it.

  Her blood tracked down infected cells and took them apart, prying out junk DNA like delicate marrow from a spicy Szechuan sauce.

  And then ate it.

  It took a while for the balance of infection to turn, over an aggressive course of injections, but when it did, humanity tended to reassert itself. After weeks of sedation and round-the-clock transfusions, most Nu-Clients were lucid, if still badly scarred from their experiences.

  Or as the sign said, We are all Terranauts in Transition.

  For some, memory was mostly a random haze, but for others it was harrowingly clear.

  Grisly images. Dark thoughts in strobe. Bottomless guilt. PTSD.

  They all found their own way to cope.

  To heal. />
  To begin to heal.

  They saw psychoanalysts, listened to classical music, did primal-scream therapy, learned to meditate. Every night, there was a Getting Over Cannibalism group and a Violence Was roundtable. Nu-Clients in general seemed both relieved and ashamed by the idea that their having “gone Z” was simply a matter of infection and not the result of a dirty bomb or biblical injunction.

  A disease like any other.

  Diabetes or alcoholism.

  From which one could be cured.

  Even absolved from intent.

  At the Friday-night “Go Tell It on the Mountain” Community Meeting, Nu-Clients got up and apologized tearfully to those they’d hurt, to those they’d bitten, to those whose flesh they’d eaten.

  They confessed.

  And began to analyze their guilt.

  Lush (Annie Hsu) often spoke. So did Cupcake (Pam Nardo) and Tripper (Darby C. Rash). But Bruce Leroy (Marcellus Lee) was the most frequent speaker, endlessly taking the podium, racked with sobs, reliving his wrongs. He tore metaphorically at his brutalized chest, questioned his humanity, his essential goodness, until he was surrounded and given group hugs in front of the plaques memorializing Counselor Jack Oh (Jackson Ort) and Heavy D (Sammy Swester).

  Later, in hallways and corners, Nu-Clients discussed their dreams.

  What it meant to be an Infect.

  Whether the word zombie in itself was offensive.

  How desperately they missed being part of a hive mind.

  And then there were the theories.

  Mostly of the conspiracy variety.

  Corporate malfeasance.

  Government experiments.

  Military industrial.

  Fluoride in the water.

  Dick Cheney.

  General stupidity.

  And whether it was wrong to admit they sometimes wished they could have part of Z back.

  An identity. A purpose. A community.

  Being Z at least meant being something.

  Unreservedly.

  Without fear or analysis.

  ZOMBRULE #24: You have to have a brain to understand consequences. And you have to have a personality to believe in them. In either case, undead or in bed, rules are stupid. Break them.

  Nero tried hard to assimilate with the rehabbers. He followed instructions, kept up appearances, gave out hugs or advice when needed.

  While Petal was locked in the IT basement.