Dead Science: A Zombie Anthology

by Anthology

  The second animate was fresher. In the right light it could have almost passed for one of the living. While Hanson watched, the younger zombie leaned down and bit a chunk out of the stomach of the one that was tied in place. The door was soundproof, but Hanson had no problem imagining the sound of dry flesh ripping. The zombie stood, a stream of blackish fluid drooling from its mouth. It worked its jaws a few times then stopped. It opened its mouth. The piece of flesh it had torn from its cellmate dropped to the ground.

  It looked around the room, head tilted. It shuffled a few steps towards the corner. Then it snapped its head around as if seeing the helpless zombie for the first time. It walked back and bent to take another bite.

  Hanson closed the door over the viewing window and ran to catch up to the group.

  "What is going on in there?" he asked as soon as he was close enough to be heard.

  The group stopped as one and turned to look at him. Dr. Gilbert frowned. He arched an eyebrow, then turned and continued walking.

  "He just finished explaining that," whispered one of the other congressmen. "They are working on a device that causes the shamblers to try to eat each other."

  "Really?"

  Up to this point, no one knew why the zombies did not attack each other. Even when they gathered at a "communal food source," new-speak for a human victim, they did little more than push each other aside.

  "There are a few problems," the statesman continued in a hushed tone. "The thing sends out some kind of electrical impulse, but the range is only a few feet. Whoever is wielding the thing has to be that close. At that point it is easier to just shoot the things."

  "And the other problems?"

  "The things only gnaw on each other. They don't go for the brain, like they would with a human. Consequently, they don't actually kill each other. Unless of course, they get lucky and bite through the spine."

  "So using the machine would not eliminate the animates, just impair them?" Hanson asked. "Still, it's better than nothing."

  "There is also the frequency problem. It causes some kind of brain hemorrhage in the user after only a few minutes."

  Hanson nodded. It sounded like promising research, but it was far from being useful.

  The group had stopped again. Dr. Gilbert waited for the stragglers to catch up before speaking.

  "The worst of the multiple strains of BSV, the one with which we are currently most concerned with is, of course, Bokor."

  The group nodded. Everyone had heard of Bokor. The government had tried to keep a lid on it, but the media had gotten word. Panic had resulted.

  "Every strain of the Baron Samedi Virus results in the death of the infected. How soon the victims die depends on the strain. Grand Bois is extremely virulent, but the infected can live for weeks after contracting it. Victims contracting the Loco strain hang on for so long that they are often thought to have avoided contracting BSV. On the other end of the spectrum Bacalou and Dinclinsin are very fast acting. Those contracting these strains die within hours. In the case of Dinclinsin, the death is horribly painful.

  "The one thing that all of these strains of BSV have in common, other than the ultimate resurrection of the deceased, is that they eventually result in the original death of the infected. It may be hours or weeks, but eventually, the individual is going to die of BSV."

  He paused for a moment. His gaze traveled over the group, seeking each man's eyes. Few held his gaze for longer than a few seconds. Hanson refused to back down. He looked into the doctor's pale blue eyes for what seemed like an eternity.

  Finally, Gilbert cleared his voice and continued.

  "Except for Bokor. The Bokor strain lives in the bloodstream, getting stronger and stronger, but it never kills the host. In this way, it is more like a parasite than a disease. When the victim dies---however the victim dies---the corpse reanimates like any other victim of BSV."

  He paused for a moment. The statesmen all wore varying looks of horror or dismay. Gilbert, on the other hand, was rapturous.

  "At this point, there is no definitive test to determine whether or not someone has contracted the Bokor virus. None of the various strains of BSV are detectable in the living. It is only upon death that the virus reveals itself. After contact with the post-mortem animated, the question becomes: has the person contracted BSV? If they are still alive after the normal incubation and death period, it is still possible that they have Bokor. Will they turn after death? The only way to know is to have them die.

  "Now that the worst of the outbreak is under control, we have turned to looking for ways to predict post-death animation. Lacking detectable physical markers, we have been forced to look for socio-psychological clues. These include specific reactions to certain stimuli."

  He pressed a button on the wall and a portion of it slid down to reveal a Plexiglas window. Gilbert rapped the window.

  "One-way glass, just like in the televised police dramas," he said. "We have been working on various visual cues. While not every cue is appropriate for every individual, there are certain behaviors that are recognized as indicative of a high probability of post-mortem reanimation.

  "These cues are identical across gender, race and age lines."

  Hanson turned his attention to the glass. On the other side was a small, brightly lit room. He was appalled to see the sole resident of the room.

  A small child, perhaps nine or ten months old, sat in the middle of a small carpet. The baby wore only a diaper. A small patch of thin blonde hair stood up from its head. There was a plastic doll in the baby's hands.

  "The test subject seen here is a member of a family which was attacked outside the secure perimeter ten days ago. The other members of the family all succumbed to BSV. Up to this point, the current subject has shown no evidence of infection. No physical evidence, that is." The doctor smiled.

  Hanson felt his stomach lurch.

  As they watched, the baby raised the doll to its mouth and bit down. It gnawed on the doll's head for a moment then seemed to lose interest. A few seconds later, the baby lurched forward and chomped down on the doll's head again. A stream of spittle connected the doll and the baby's mouth.

  "That, gentleman, is a cranial strike. The subject is obviously attempting to eat the brains of the doll."

  He pushed another button and a red light came on. A door on the far side of the room opened. Someone dressed in the familiar black combat gear of the Reanimate Termination Squad entered. The sound of the black combat boots caused the baby to turn. It stared up at the soldier, the black flak jacket, black jumpsuit and black helmet. The baby looked up at the gas mask that hid the intruder's face and began to cry.

  The wails were thin and pitiful. The small speaker below the window did not transmit the screams of a baby who was scared. They were the cries of an exhausted child.

  A black-gloved hand undid the Velcro strap on a leg holster. In one smooth movement, the soldier drew a squarish firearm, chambered a round, and pointed it at the baby's head.

  "No!" Hanson yelled as he ran towards the glass. He raised his hand to pound on the window. The baby's cries were cut short, replaced by the deafening boom of the handgun.

  He jumped back as blood and brain matter splattered against the glass.

  The soldier looked down at was left of the baby. The small corpse twitched once. The head was almost completely gone. The tiny body ended at the neck. The small hand still clutched the doll.

  The trooper nudged the body with a boot. A gloved hand sliced the air in front of the armored neck in an unnecessary gesture indicating that the baby was dead. The gun was holstered and the soldier turned and left the room. As the sliding wall obscured the window, the door opened again to admit two of the space-suited scientists.

  Hanson spun on the doctor.

  "What's the matter with you?"

  "Whatever do you mean?" Gilbert asked, seemingly unfazed.

  "What do you mean, what do I mean? That was a baby!"

  "It was a baby who was
most likely carrying the Bokor strain of the Baron Samedi Virus."

  "Most likely? You mean you don't even know?"

  "How would we know? I told you that the only way to determine infection was after death. The best that we can do with the living is to attempt to determine potential infectees via the exact physical responses which you just witnessed."

  "So no one has ever verified whether or not these people have the virus?"

  "How would we verify this? Kill them and see if they turn?" Gilbert stared back at Hanson. "Because that is the only way to know for sure. Perhaps you would like us to allow them to live out their natural lives in seclusion. Is that any more humane?"

  "Why not just let them live their lives and take care of them if they turn?"

  "Or we could just let them go about their merry lives, possibly infecting hundreds of thousands of people until one day, through accident or natural cause, they die. Perhaps in a hospital full of helpless patients. Perhaps in an airplane full of passengers. Perhaps in the middle of a church or a school or even a government building. Then, if" ---he sneered at Hanson--- "pretty big or not, they are infected, then they come back. Then they start attacking. Then they kill and consume and infect even more people."

  He pointed at Hanson.

  "What would you rather have? Death and exponential infection or presumptive measures? Which is better? Wouldn't you rather err on the side of caution?"

  "I just don't see . . ." Hanson began. A blur of movement caught his eye. He turned and barely had time to register the black-suited Reanimate Termination Squad personnel standing there. Then lights exploded behind his eyes. His body convulsed and he fell to the floor. He looked at his arm. Two small barbs had embedded themselves there. Wires trailed back to one of the soldiers. Hanson wondered if one of them was the one who murdered the baby. He opened his mouth to ask, but did not get a chance.

  Another fifty thousand volts hit him and he lost consciousness.

  * * * *

  Hanson's tongue felt too thick for his mouth. He opened his eyes and sat up. The world spun around. He closed them again. Long minutes passed before the nausea abated.

  Finally he was able to open his eyes and look around.

  He was in a small room. A mirror occupied one wall. The walls were a flat institutional beige. He stood, ignoring the vertigo, and hollered in a raspy voice.

  "I am George Hanson. I am a member of the US House of Representatives. You are unlawfully holding a member of Congress!"

  Dr. Gilbert's voice sounded tinny over the speaker.

  "Actually, Mr. Hanson, our mandate supersedes all other laws of the country. We operate under the same freedoms afforded the Department of Homeland Security, only without any oversight."

  Hanson stared at the mirror. He only saw himself. His hair was disheveled. His jacket and tie were gone. His white shirt was rumpled.

  He knew that Gilbert was on the other side of the glass.

  "Now just sit back and relax, Mr. Hanson. We are going to administer some tests. We will be exposing you to a number of various visual, audio and sensory stimuli."

  "Why? Why did you lock me in here?"

  "We suspect that you may be carrying the Bokor strain of the Baron Samedi Virus." Gilbert's answer was cool and even.

  Hanson's voice rose in alarm. "That is preposterous. What makes you think that I am infected?"

  "Well, that is what we are going to attempt to determine. However, I must tell you that many of your recent statements appear to indicate the altered brain functioning which we associate with the infected."

  "What statements? What are you talking about?"

  "Your willingness to put the lives of the reanimated above the living, for starters. The sympathy that you showed for the reanimates."

  "Potential reanimates. You don't know if that baby was infected or not."

  "Of course, questioning the motives and the official policies of Postmortem Research Facility is a potential sign of infection. As is questioning the policies and motives of its director."

  * * * *

  Thanks for the Memories

  by

  Gustavo Bondoni

  "I think we're getting something," Claudia said, peering at the monitor. "He's gonna pay his rent after all."

  "Do we have an image?" Jack replied.

  "Not quite, but we're getting there."

  The thing inside the tank had been thawed out a few days before, and it had been a colossal struggle to get it to give even this much information. Now it was just a question of calibrating the image to get some valid data. The hardest part was done.

  Dr. Jack Amon sighed, half in satisfaction, half in frustration. What a way to make a living. "What kind of information do you think it'll give us?" He refused to think of it as a person: it had been established that all the bodies inside the tanks with the words amalgamated cryonics stenciled on the side were beyond recovery---the process that was supposed to conserve them for revival in a better future had killed them immediately. To Jack, they were simply massive memory disks with memories that were messy to retrieve and had to be treated with special care in order not to damage them before their usefulness wore out.

  It had cables running out of its nose, its ears and jammed into the base of its neck; it jerked when the tiny electric pulses being used to stimulate its frontal and parietal lobes sometimes missed their mark. The wires led into one side of a computer big enough to interpret the modifications in the pulses and transform these interpretations into images that the biologists had assured him were actually memories stored inside the corpse's brain.

  Ugh. "Claudia, what era did you say we might be able to extract from this one?" His teammate was one of the biologists. She had no compunctions about working with dead bodies.

  "They froze him in the late twentieth century. Says on his tag that it was in November of 1999. Not a mark on him, and he couldn't have been much older than forty-five. No cancer nodes or anything else I can see. Why would a perfectly healthy adult allow himself to be dipped in liquid nitrogen? Those people must have been sick."

  She said the words, but didn't seem to care about the human being that had died because of his ultimately misplaced faith. Her brown eyes held no sympathy at all.

  "Maybe he was afraid of the year 2000. Some people back then believed it would be the end of the world."

  "How can the possibility of the end of the world be worse than the certainty of dying because someone pours liquid nitrogen all over you and stores you in a very cold tank?"

  "That's the kind of question archaeologists hope to answer with these memories," he replied.

  "Well, you don't seem to be making much progress." She smiled as she said it, though---it was part of their routine.

  "That's because you whiz-kid biologists haven't been able to get me sound in my memories. It's a bit hard to interpret images with no context."

  "I'm a doctor. Biologists study frogs in landfills."

  "Same thing. Either way, the ball is being dropped on your side."

  "Typical of you soft-science types. You blame all your problems on the real scientists."

  "Archaeology has been a hard science for some time," he replied automatically. The science here was cutting-edge stuff and the banter was good-natured. No matter what they got from this particular body, everyone working on this project would go down in history, and both knew it. They were just arguing to pass the time while waiting for the computer scientist to return and help them calibrate the image. Experience said that they'd be recording valid visual memories of a century long gone within the next half hour, an exciting thought.

  Five minutes later, Oskar Hu returned from his break, clutching a carb bar and grinning at the monitor. "So, the guy cracked?"

  "Yup," Claudia replied. "He seems just about ready to spill his guts. All we need now is for you to clear up his eyesight."

  Jack sighed. He knew that their blatant disregard for the dignity of death was for his benefit entirely, and refused to
rise to the bait. He waited patiently while Oskar keyed in some commands and fiddled with a knob and a couple of cables.

  Before long, the image, which had been a fuzzy blue blob, began to clear up. Smaller blobs, not quite distinct enough to be called shapes, but definitely separate from the original overall splatter, began to coalesce. Soon, recognizable objects appeared---houses, archaic ground vehicles, trees. The technician stepped back from the screen, gave one last tiny twist to the knob and gazed at the image critically. "Nailed it," he said. "Sometimes I even surprise myself with how good I am at this."

  Jack and Claudia exchanged glances. He rolled his eyes and she giggled. "Thanks."

  "You're welcome. I guess you know the drill from here on out---ideally, we should allow the computer to download all the memories before Archaeology reviews them, to make sure that we get them in case the brain becomes damaged."

  "Do you really think I spent all day waiting for these memories to come online just so that I could have the privilege of watching them from a tape tomorrow? You've got to be kidding me," Jack replied.

  It was Oskar's turn to roll his eyes. "Why does that not surprise me? You scientists are all alike: you pretend to be serious, contemplative individuals but when crunch time comes you're like little kids on Christmas Eve. Okay, then" ---he pointed to the arrow buttons on the keyboard--- "forward, backward, still. The numbers on the bottom show the approximate time before death that each memory corresponds to. Have fun. I'll be back to check on you in an hour or so. I've got to power up a little old lady from the twenty-second century."

  Jack moved hungrily towards the monitor. While the bodies were being prepped, when power was first applied to each of them, and while the system was being calibrated, he was just an observer. But now, when data about what the late twentieth century had really been like became available---data that had survived the dictatorship's net and library-purges of the past two hundred years---he was the expert. He was the only one who could look at a concrete square and tell the world about the arcane things that went on inside, tell them whether the building was a government lab or an office or a Laundromat. Things that existed only in the minds of certain archaeologists, some dusty old tomes that had survived in time capsules buried for unknown reasons, and, most vividly, in the memories of a few hundred frozen corpses.