The 99%
Page 3
“No,” Jenny said. “No, Owen, you won’t feel a thing, now or later. You’ve probably already seen some of our K9-R – er, our canine reanimate units – patrolling our facility. We use the exact same process on them.”
Owen had seen the dogs, big German Shepherds. Glassy eyed, stiff-legged beasts, but their senses were sharp as hell. He’d been coached not to interact with them, and although they posed no threat to Richter-Rean staff, he had heard they were absolutely lethal to intruders.
“The nano-bots will gradually take over the neural processes in your limbic system. We’ll give them some time to establish, and then we’ll give you the final injection. This one will stop your heart and respiration.” Her voice caught a little, and she hurriedly continued. “At that point, you’ll be legally dead. The coroner will be on site to certify the death and complete the necessary paperwork. Approximately 90 minutes later, the nano-bots will have geometrically replicated and significantly expanded their range of functioning. You’ll be very closely monitored throughout this time, and within four to six hours the nano-bots will complete the reanimation process. You’ll be ready for your first shift tomorrow morning at 5:00 a.m.”
Owen looked into her eyes. “Can you call my wife after I’m gone?” he asked. “Would you tell her I loved her, and always will?” Jenny sighed and looked away.
“I can’t,” she said, “it’s against our policy concerning outside communication once the process is underway.”
“Please, please make the call for me. I can do this, I will do this, I’m not backing out, but I need to tell her one last time,” implored Owen.
Jenny leaned over and whispered in his ear, glancing surreptitiously at the tech across the room. “I’ll bring you paper and a pencil after Aaron leaves. You can write a note to her before I turn out the lights. Write her address on the back, I’ll see that she gets it.”
“Thank you,” Owen said, finally shaken, tears filling his eyes against his will. He blinked them away.
“Jenny?” he asked, as she started filling a series of syringes, “what will I be?” The pretty med tech turned to face the gurney where Owen lay, but remained silent.
“I’ll be a zombie,” Owen said, answering himself after a long moment.
“No, technically you’ll be a reanimate. You’ll be a line worker, Owen.” Jenny’s smile had dissipated, and a small frown creased her forehead. Her hair fell forward into her eyes as she shifted her gaze to the floor, and she allowed it to remain there.
“But Jenny, that’s a function, a role, not an identity.”
“I think it is now,” Jenny said, turning away and crossing the room to get the paper Owen had requested.
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About the Author:
Hope Sullivan McMickle is a horror fiction writer and a musician with a penchant for the things that lurk in the darkness, and of course, for the shambling, insatiable undead. She resides in Indianapolis, Indiana.