Dead Science: A Zombie Anthology

by Anthology

  Andrew struggled with the still-smouldering undead soldier. The burnt soldier bit deep into his forearm. The pain was a mix of the searing and tearing of the flesh and muscle. Andrew slammed into his opponent, pushing him back against the trench wall. The undead soldier wouldn't release Andrew's forearm from his mouth and continued to gnaw at it.

  Andrew stifled a cry and tried to focus beyond the agonizing pain in his forearm. With his other hand, he fumbled around and found the knife at his side. In one remarkably smooth motion, he unsheathed it and drove the knife up under the undead soldier's ear and into his brain.

  The soldier immediately ceased any movement and his jaw finally released the terrible hold it had on his arm. Andrew withdrew from him and patted his smouldering jacket sleeve. The wound in his forearm continued to scream, burning, throbbing.

  The other undead soldiers had stopped thrashing about as the flames consumed the last of their flesh. The still-living soldiers hadn't been that fortunate. They were screaming and rolling on the ground in agony.

  The flamethrower's oil had run out and its nozzle lay there impotently. Andrew took off the flamethrower's harness and dropped its empty can with a hollow thud.

  He knew he needed to keep moving to stay alive. There was no telling how many other undead soldiers roamed the trenches. Only one of the soldiers had survived the accident with minor burns and followed him; the others, he begrudgingly left behind.

  Then, a shower of shrapnel from an explosive artillery shell rained down on them. They threw themselves against the walls of the trench.The artillery bombardment was relentless and, as it got closer, the earth began to shake. The continuous stream of roaring explosions made Andrew's ears ring. The bunker was the safest place, but it was also a dead end that would trap them.

  He then realized that the bombardment was coming from their side. The Germans didn't have any heavy artillery on their side and proved that when they launched their morning raid.

  Somehow word must have reached command about the undead soldiers and their resistance to injury. It was the only logical thing to do: contain the threat by destroying the front lines and hope that nothing could get through.

  The carnage they had witnessed in the last few moments proved to be too much for the soldier who followed him. He refused to continue, staring at the trench wall, and let his rifle fall from his hands. Tears cut through the filth that was layered on his cheeks.

  Andrew grabbed his arm and pulled, hoping to get him to keep moving. He couldn't budge him. The soldier then slowly turned to look at him. Andrew saw through the young man's eyes that his mind was shattered.

  Andrew released him and left the soldier behind. He climbed the side of the trench. The burning pain was gone from the wound in his forearm and was replaced by a strange numbness.

  The landscape surrounding the trench system was desolate, ravaged by the bombardments. He looked back over his shoulder at the trenches that now seemed to be wounds cut deep into the Earth itself. He heard the odd rifle shot and saw the grey smoke that rose from the devastation caused by the flamethrower.

  He turned his back on the carnage, on his fellow soldiers, on the war, on man's insanity, and ran.

  Andrew ran until exhaustion overtook him in a small wooded area. Face down in a bed of leaves, he slept fitfully with nightmares of his dead school chums clawing at him, eating him while he watched helplessly.

  He awoke cold and wet and struggled with his heavy limbs to get to his feet. His dead eyes couldn't appreciate the lavish beauty of the sun that was setting on the horizon. The only thing that drove him now was his hunger.

  * * * *

  Mr. Hanson Goes to the Lab

  by

  Michael Cieslak

  The steel doors closed with a hiss. Representative George Hanson swallowed hard and looked at the others. Despite the fact that the elevator was a ten-by-ten cube, the five men stood close enough that their shoulders were almost brushing. They followed proper elevator etiquette: Each man stood silently, watching as the numbers descended.

  One man stood slightly apart from the others. The five huddled together all wore similar clothing---dark suits, white shirts, subdued ties. The sixth man wore tan chinos. A blue hospital scrub top covered a white T-shirt. A long lab coat completed his attire. Once white, it had faded to a dingy color closer to yellowed ivory. A Rorschach of stains dotted the front and sides.

  The elevator hummed to a stop. The number read SL12. The man in the lab coat roused himself with a shake.

  "Just a moment, gentlemen," he said as the doors slid open. He thumbed a button and the doors whispered closed again. He removed a key card from the pocket of the scrub top and slid it into a slot on the control panel beneath the buttons. He then leaned forward, staring at a flat black panel.

  "To access the lower levels of the facility," he said without turning, "requires two forms of identification. The first is our ID badge."

  He held the plastic card up for the men to see.

  "The chips are an integral part of the card, making duplication almost impossible. The lift also requires an optical scan."

  He tapped the glass square with the card.

  "If the eyeball does not match the identity on the card, lockdown. If the card's owner does not have correct clearance, lockdown. There are a number of other security measures in place as well."

  He nodded at the men. There was no need for them to know that he had also provided the security system with his thumbprint when he had closed the door. There was no need for the men to know all of their secrets.

  "What happens during lockdown?" asked Hanson. He immediately regretted having asked. The other men on the Lazarus Committee had been down to the research facility on a number of occasions. He was the most recent addition to the group. This was his first visit.

  Hanson turned to the wall to hide the flush that tinged his cheeks.

  "Lockdown is just that: the doors to the lift lock, including the escape door in the ceiling. Then the car is pumped full of a lethal nerve agent."

  They rode the rest of the way in silence.

  When the doors opened, accompanied by a quiet ping, Hanson had to restrain himself from running into the hallway. He slowly filed out with the other politicians. They stepped into a small vestibule. A large door occupied the opposing wall.

  The man in the lab coat stepped around the knot of men. He went straight to a handset affixed to the right wall. He spoke in quick, hushed tones. A light above the door began to flash. There was a loud hiss. The door popped into the vestibule a few inches, then swung open.

  Hanson glanced at the door. It seemed comprised of layers of steel. Bolts like one would find in a bank vault were recessed into the three-inch door. At either edge was a rubber gasket that ran all the way around the door.

  This level of the facility was airtight. It was far enough underground to be impervious to most forms of attack and nearly impossible to break into.

  More importantly, it was almost impossible to break out.

  "Gentleman, welcome to zombie central."

  * * * *

  A thin, stooped man waited for them on the other side of the door. Unlike his colleague, his lab coat was pristine and buttoned to the neck. It all but glowed under the fluorescent lighting. The knot of a red tie sat in the precise center of the coat's opening.

  He smiled at them. The facial gesture twisted his lips upward but never touched his eyes. He ran a hand over what was left of his white hair.

  "Congressmen, how good of you to join us this afternoon. For those of you who have not met me, I am Dr. Winston Gilbert. I am the head of the research department."

  His voice held the slight tint of an accent. It was not so much a definition of his place of origin as a declaration of his status. Even while smiling and inviting the men further into the facility, he exuded disdain and displeasure.

  "I apologize in advance for those of you who have heard this particular 'spiel' before." He emphasized "spiel" as if tryin
g the word on his tongue for the first time. "I tend to be a little repetitive, but I am just so proud of all that we have done here."

  He led them down the hallway to a T-junction. They turned right. Behind them, the massive door slid shut with a loud thunk followed by the crash of the bolts sliding home. Hanson glanced back and was surprised to see a tiny alcove just inside the door. Sitting there was a man in a black jumpsuit and matching black cap. In his arms he cradled a very large machine gun.

  Hanson and the others had walked past him without even noticing him. The young statesman vowed to be more observant as the tour continued.

  The walls changed from eye-wrenching white to the pale bile green found only in government buildings and institutions for the mentally ill. Hanson hurried to catch up.

  Dr. Gilbert continued to speak as they walked. "These offices belong to the scientists, who you will see in a moment, who are still working to isolate the specifics of BSV. As you all know, the recent discovery of various strains of Samedi have much of the world's scientific community in an uproar."

  The elected officials nodded. Collectively, they comprised the Committee for Research and Prevention of Postmortem Animation. Although this was their official title, few people referred to them as such. Early in the uprising someone had jokingly referred to them as the Lazarus Committee and the name had stuck.

  They were the legislative body that made decisions that affected US policy regarding the animated deceased. As such, they were privy to information that was kept hidden from the public. One such tidbit of information was that there were different strains of the virus believed to cause zombification.

  "To date we have identified fifteen different strains of the Baron Samedi Virus. Researchers overseas claim to have identified as many as twenty-two, but much of this work is unsubstantiated."

  They passed through a set of double doors into an observation room. The tiled floor was replaced by lush carpeting. There were two rows of deep, cushioned theater-style seats. Some of the congressmen sank into them. Others joined Dr. Gilbert at the large Plexiglas window.

  Hanson stepped to the waist-high railing. It appeared to be mahogany with brass fittings. The windows were set at an angle, close at floor level, then slanted outward to provide a view of the rooms below. Gilbert flipped a switch and the observation room's lighting dimmed. Those at the window could now see into the area on the other side of the glass.

  The area had two dominant features. One was a long table, easily twenty feet from tip to tip. Its metal surface was scratched and dented. Two people stood at the table. Both wore baby blue biohazard containment suits. The table before them was covered with a fine layer of viscera.

  Acid rose in the back of Hanson's throat. He turned his gaze to the only other object in the room. Occupying the far wall of was a row of small cages. The cages were stacked five high and extended the length of the room. Hanson attempted to count them, but finally gave up. He estimated that there were one hundred cages. Most of them were occupied.

  "Pan paniscus."

  Hanson jumped. The voice was very close to his left ear. He had not realized Dr. Gilbert was standing so close.

  "Bonobo, or Pygmy Chimpanzee. Sometimes called Gracile Chimpanzee. Possibly our closest ancestors, genetically speaking. Close enough that many feel they, along with Pan troglodytes, the Common Chimp, belong on the human branch of the evolutionary tree."

  Hanson turned to look at the doctor. He did so not because he was fascinated by the information, but to avoid staring at the tiny human-like forms in their tiny cages.

  "Less than three percent difference between the bonobo and human genomes, yet neither they, nor any of their primate brethren, are susceptible to BSV."

  He raised his voice to address his entire audience.

  "Nor are any other mammals susceptible. Not pigs, horses, cows nor bears. Not even domesticated animals like dogs and cats that live with people who have contracted the disease. Certainly not reptiles, amphibians, fish, none of these."

  He turned and looked at each man in turn.

  "None of these, not even our closest ancestor" ---his open hand indicated the chimps below--- "ever becomes a zombie."

  He paused for a moment, letting the weight of the information sink in.

  "We are going to find out why."

  A few of the men leaned forward in their chairs. This was apparently new information.

  "We are currently working on altering the structure of the virus to see if it is possible to infect other animals. At this time we have evidence of BSV being carried by a host creature that shows no signs of the corresponding illness. The virus can be transmitted in this fashion, from human to chimp to another human, yet the chimp never actually contracts the illness. There are no signs of reanimation after the death of the animal."

  Hanson looked up sharply. "Is that wise?"

  "Pardon?" Gilbert seemed annoyed by the interruption. "Is what wise?"

  "You are altering the virus to make it more dangerous?"

  "Dangerous how?"

  "At the present time, BSV only affects humans. This is a large part of the reason that the initial outbreak was not as devastating as it could have been. We were able to isolate areas, evacuate people before they became infected. Imagine how much quicker the virus would have spread if animals were contagious as well."

  A murmur rose among the others in the room. Hanson heard the words "zombie dogs" spoken in low whispers.

  The specificity of the virus was one of the few rays of hope that the officials had to offer. Only humans contracted BSV. There were no swarms of reanimated rats, birds, dogs or cows. The virus was a blood-borne pathogen. It could only be spread by direct contact with someone already infected who had died and reanimated. Officials shunned the word "zombie," but it had taken hold in the popular lexicon. The official name of the virus did not help.

  The origin of the Baron Samedi Virus, named for the voodoo Loa of death and resurrection, was unknown. Even five years after the uprising there were still no definitive facts. No one could definitively say who had first referred to it as BSV. Since that time, each new strain of the virus discovered was named after some aspect of the vooduon pantheon.

  Funny how officials had embraced this categorization system, yet tried to deny what the victims were by providing them with pseudo-scientific names: Postmortem Animates, Fully-functioning Deceased, or derogatory names: shambler, brain-muncher; anything but the word "zombie." A scowl flashed across Dr. Gilbert's face. It was only there for an instant before it was replaced by a smile. That instant was enough to tell Hanson that the good doctor was not used to being questioned about his expertise, certainly not within his facility. The legislator suspected he had just fallen far from Gilbert's good graces.

  "The security measures you came through to get here pale in comparison to the safety precautions utilized in the research areas," Dr. Gilbert said, nodding to the scientists in their "space suits."

  "Our decontamination procedures are well above code for this sort of thing. There is no chance that the virus is going to make it outside of the facility."

  Hanson wondered who regulated the procedures for "this sort of thing" and exactly what other things might fall in that category.

  "As mentioned earlier, by determining why our nearest genetic relations are immune to BSV, we will be able to create vaccinations which produce that immunity in humans. The key to that is breaking down the chimp's immunity and modification of the virus." Gilbert was warming to his topic again. "Research into the development of the virus is only one of the many areas we are currently investigating. If you gentleman will follow me."

  He crossed to the other end of the room. The congressmen stood and followed. Hanson looked back in the research area one more time. His gaze went past all of the shiny equipment and expensive-looking machinery to the plain wire cages. He thought about the chimps he had seen in the ape habitat at a local zoo. When they weren't scampering around, swinging from artificial tree l
imb to artificial tree limb, they sat together, grooming and caring for each other. Even at rest, they were alert, animated, in a way these animals were not. They sat; each isolated in its own cage, and stared listlessly at nothing. Some faced the rear wall. Others watched the scientists apathetically. There was no curiosity, no spark.

  These chimps might not have been infected with BSV, but life in the cages had already turned them into zombies.

  * * * *

  The group filed out of the room. The floor had a gentle downward slope. After a few dozen feet, they were on the level of the research labs. They passed through another armed security door and into a narrow hallway. Heavy metal doors opened off the hall on both sides. Most of the doors were tightly shut. Each door had a slide plate at eye level. Dr. Gilbert stopped in front of one of the doors, slid the plate over, and peered inside.

  "It is, of course, necessary to keep a limited number of test subjects on hand. While most of the post-mortem animates are kept in the large holding facility, those who are the subjects of direct testing are kept here in isolation. They can be more closely monitored by the research team and there is no danger of cross-contamination."

  He stepped to one side to allow others to view the contents of the room. The first to step up, an elderly statesman from a southern state, glanced through the tiny window. She stepped away. The next, a younger representative from somewhere out east, spent considerably longer. When he finally stepped away his face was ashen. Despite this, he wore a tiny smile.

  Hanson was the last in line. By the time he made it to the door, Dr. Gilbert was already leading the group away. He looked quickly into the peephole and started to move away. Then he turned slowly and returned to the window.

  The room had two occupants. Both had the gray-green pallor of the undead. One of the animates seemed to have been dead for considerably longer than the other. In places the skin had rotted away completely, revealing bone and exposing viscera. It was strapped to a cot by leather straps across its forehead, chest, waist, and at each ankle and wrist.