by Mark Tufo
‘Zombies, you said.’ Jan looked exasperated and rolled her eyes. ‘Zombies will save our business, you said.’
‘We have seen an increase in sales,’ Dietrich justified.
‘Eight percent isn’t going to save us. Although we have seen a fifty percent increase in nut jobs. Him being one of them.’ Jan lowered her voice and pointed towards the water closet.
‘He sounds so serious.’
‘Delusional is more like it.’
‘Might as well hear him out; it’s not like we’re doing anything else.’ Dietrich said.
Jan thought about it for second and shrugged. ‘It beats looking at the books, I suppose.’
Kinzer came out of the bathroom. He was wringing his hands like he was trying to wipe away years of accumulated dirt.
‘I am an educated man,’ he said, sitting down across the table from the couple. ‘I’ll admit my interaction with people is not my strong suit. I’ve spent so much of my life within the confines of my laboratory—I barely have time for anything else. I never married. If not for my brother’s child, I’d hardly speak to anyone. I can gauge by your crossed arms, Jan, and that you’re sitting as far back as you can, Dietrich, that you are wondering why you agreed to this meeting in the first place. You’re probably also wondering if maybe you should even call the police. Alright, I may have used a small bit of subterfuge, but, otherwise you would not have indulged me thus far. Given the quickness with which you invited me to visit you and judging by the lack of customers here, I believe we both have something to gain from my proposal.’
‘And what is that?’ Jan asked, deliberately unfolding her arms.
‘Money, obviously.’
‘Isn’t that the truth! I mean, from our end anyway,’ Dietrich said, casting his eyes down at the table, as his wife glared at him.
‘I can assure you that it is the same on my end as well,’ Kinzer said. ‘I’m not saying this will be easy. There may be several hurdles to overcome, and well, we could have a few legal issues...but I may have a solution to our problems.’
‘We’re listening.’ Dietrich had now moved closer.
‘I can get you zombies.’
‘We have zombies,’ Jan frowned at him.
‘Real zombies,’ Kinzer clarified.
‘I appreciate your time Doctor,’ she scoffed. ‘We may not be overrun by customers, but we’re too busy to be listening to this.’ She rose.
‘Just...Mrs. Reynolds, please. Entertain me for just a moment. How much would a serious hunter pay to shoot a real zombie?’ Kinzer asked.
‘Dietrich escort him out, I’ve heard all I want to.’
‘Real zombies?’ Dietrich asked.
‘You can’t be serious?’ Jan asked her husband.
Dietrich took out his smart phone and typed in a few key words. When the web page loaded he handed the phone to his wife.
‘I thought you looked familiar,’ Dietrich said to the doctor.
Jan was quiet for a moment as she read through the page. She would occasionally look up from the phone at the man seated across from her.
‘So?’ she finally said. ‘You discovered a virus that creates a zombie-effect in people. What are we supposed to do with that?’
Kinzer knew he was walking a fine line here. His research and his subsequent testing were highly illegal; possibly immoral as well. Even if he switched to more mundane scientific work, he would not recover fast enough to stall the foreclosure proceedings that were threatening to take away his building, his equipment, even his home. Everything he had, everything he was, was tied up in this work. Without his lab, there would be nothing left in his life that meant much of anything. Going to jail would not be the worst of it. He decided to trust them. He had no other option.
‘Hunters come from all over the world to shoot big cats, zebras, giraffes, right?’ he started.
‘Exotic game,’ Dietrich said.
‘Yes, and they routinely pay thirty to fifty thousand euros per hunt, whether they bag a trophy or not. The money means nothing to them. They have more than they could possibly spend. They throw it at those game preserves as if they’d printed it themselves,’ Kinzer said.
Dietrich was rapt. Jan, if anything, was becoming even more irritated.
‘What does that have to do with our facility?’ Jan asked. She just wanted the strange little man to go away. She was wondering how her husband could be falling for this obvious bullshit.
‘You could charge double that for a real zombie hunt.’
‘A hundred grand...’ Dietrich said with a far off look in his eyes. ‘Just five hunts and we could be back in the black. All the land paid for. Back taxes—everything taken care of.’
‘So we’re just going to have clients come here and kill sick people? How’s that going to work? Both of you are insane.’
‘They’re not sick people, Madame, they are zombies.’ Kinzer was only willing to press his luck, and his trust, so far.
‘You can’t just round up sick people and shoot them, no matter what you call them. What’s next? We’ll get some cripples out here and gamble on them navigating a minefield?’ Jan was on the verge of anger. ‘You cannot gun down human beings, that’s murder!’
‘I can assure you, Mrs. Reynolds, that there is no humanity left in them whatsoever,’ Kinzer told her gently.
‘I don’t care. We’re not killing anything that used to be people either. That’s just sick.’
‘Honey, we could make millions in the first month.’ Dietrich was still off in fantasyland.
‘Don’t you dare even entertain this, Dietrich. How would we even get permission to run an operation like that? The government would never agree.’
‘Not our government,’ Dietrich said.
‘What’s that supposed to mean?’ she asked.
‘Botswana.’
‘What about it?’
‘They would welcome us. Money in the right hands and we could set up shop and do whatever the hell we wanted. I could call Yuland, he has a thousand acres there. We’ll pay to lease his land.’
‘This is madness. I will not be party to this insanity. Dietrich kindly escort him off our property and if he won’t go willingly toss him onto his head, maybe it will knock some sense into him.’ Dietrich did not move, he would not even glance over at his wife as she glared at him. ‘Right.’ Jan said as she walked out of the room and slammed the door behind her.
‘So,’ Dietrich said. ‘How many zombies can you get us?’
CHAPTER THREE
It had been nine months since that fateful first encounter. Botswana officials had been all too willing to turn their heads once the money was deposited into their accounts. And to make sure that it kept coming, they had opened their prisons to the enterprising South Africans. Things were going well; Kinzer and the Reynolds had just been discussing expanding their operation. They realized they already had a two year waiting list from sportsmen all over the world who wanted to hunt the most dangerous game of all. Much like the Botswana officials, Jan had finally come around when a hundred thousand euros was deposited into their account from their very first safari. They had raked in a half a million from five hunters at a hundred thousand each. After expenses, pay outs, bribes, transportation, security, and hiring some personnel, they’d still netted a hundred grand. In one weekend they’d made more than they had in three years from the paintball business.
Reading the files of the inmates being supplied had helped her come to peace with her decision. They were the worst that society had to offer. Getting rid of them, she rationalized, made the planet a better place. The fact that she could profit from it, and handily, only made it that much better. She truly felt as if she was providing the world a service. Add to that she was able to buy that red Mercedes coupe she’d been eyeing for years with cash.
For obvious reasons, the advertising had been kept low-key; most of their business came through word-of-mouth referrals. They’d not had any problems until Milton Lassiter posted that
picture of himself with his kill to his Facebook page. The image had gone viral, although the vast majority discounted it as a prank. That was until Molinda Featherspike had come forward claiming that the ‘kill’ in this picture was her brother Grender. He’d been falsely accused of drug trafficking and sent to prison only a month before. She wrote a passionate blog post about how prison officials had told her that Grender had died in a prisoner uprising. She hadn’t believed it then and certainly would not believe it now.
From that point forward, Z-Hunt did not allow cameras on their property, but the damage had been done. Word had gotten out about what kind of safaris they were running there, and, true to human nature, as public outcry against them increased, so also did their business.
CHAPTER FOUR
‘Ladies and gentlemen, this is your safety briefing,’ Zurgens said to the group. There were three men from the United States and a newlywed couple from Australia.
‘Can we get on with this? We just flew half way around the world to this shithole, it’s hot as balls, and I want to shoot some zombies.’
Zurgens looked down at a sheet he was holding, then at the loudmouthed man. ‘Jenkins? James Jenkins?’ The man nodded, took off his hat and wiped his brow. Zurgens stepped closer to him. ‘You interrupt my briefing one more time and I’ll kick your Yankee ass out of here.’
‘What? You can’t do that! You’re just a glorified babysitter.’
‘It’s always the Americans. I don’t know why you people think you are above the rest of the world’s inhabitants. This is the last time I say it. I have your deposit in my pocket. It is completely within my rights to hand it back to you, or not, and tell you to fuck off. Now I haven’t told YOU yet,’ Zurgens pointed aggressively and continued to do so, ‘to fuck off, but I’m this close. Do you wish to stay on this hunt?’
Jenkins sized up the German guide with an expression that was a cross between wanting to scream a string of obscenities and the fear that he would lose out on his life-long dream to survive a zombie apocalypse. Zurgens didn’t look like the type to back down, so he reluctantly nodded his capitulation.
‘I’ve got a feeling you’re not finished yet, but for now it looks like we understand one another. May I continue?’
‘Please do,’ Carla Weatherford said. She was of the renowned Weatherford family in Southern Australia where their vast estate lay. Her husband, Samuel, was a small man—at least in comparison to his robust wife. He looked like he was withering under the early morning sun and would have preferred to be anywhere but here. There was no doubt in Zurgens’ mind that Carla had dragged his reluctant ass the entire three thousand miles to get there.
‘Let’s start this again, shall we?’ Zurgens cleared his throat and tried to regain his enthusiasm. ‘Welcome to Z-Hunt, the most unique and challenging safari you will ever find yourselves on.’
Jenkins was still pissed but he could not help giving a small clap. ‘Not sarcasm—I swear. Just...excited.’
‘I have reviewed all of your applications. Each of you has hunted extensively across the entire globe. You can take everything you have learned from those previous expeditions and toss it all out the window. Every one of those animals you shot was doing its best to hide from you, in fact, to avoid you at all costs. The zombies at Z-Hunt will do the exact opposite. They actively seek people. They want to kill you, and not only kill, they want to feed. You are their prey, and make no mistake about it, if you are not cautious, you will end up on a dinner plate.’
There was some snickering among the Americans.
‘I wonder if they’re into junk food.’ Henry Fields lightly threw an elbow into his friend, Darren Wheats’ample midsection.
‘I can tell you from personal experience, they do not care what, or whom they eat,’ Zurgens said, quickly shouting down the banter.
Samuel meekly raised his hand above his head.
‘Mr. Weatherford, you have a question?’
‘Get a load of this nimrod,’ Jenkins said to his friends. They all laughed.
‘Is there any truth to the, um...reports?’ Mr. Weatherford asked.
‘There are many reports on a vast array of topics. Could you be more specific please?’ Zurgens asked.
‘That these, ah, targets, are innocent men wrongly convicted of crimes then told that if they can survive these….err, hunts, they will be allowed to go free?’
‘First of all, these are not convicts. They are individuals from the Nabinzi tribe who have contracted a rare and incurable disease, most likely from a highly infectious fungus. We believe it to be the same microbe that’s responsible for the creation of zombie ants.’
‘Wait,’ Jenkins said. ‘I’ve seen that show...with those ants, I mean. Fungus gets in them ants, takes over. Makes the ant go back into the hill where this weird growth comes out of its head and eventually explodes, spraying millions of spores into the air, infecting the rest of the colony. Got to the point where the ants could recognize the symptoms and would drag an infected ant far away. Hold on...are we in any danger of catching this? I want to shoot zombies—not turn into one.’
There was some general murmurs of discomfort among the group at the prospect of breathing in infected spores.
‘I can assure you, that while there are some similarities, this virus does not spread through the air. Much like rabies, it can only be transferred through being bitten. Which leads me to one of my talking points. We will do all within our power to keep you safe during your visit here, but that can only be achieved if you cooperate and help us. It is imperative that you do as we say, without question or reservation. The zombies are dangerous. They will definitely kill you without remorse, if given the chance. The creature we are hunting looks very much like a person, especially from far away. And our statistics show that two out of the five of you, about forty percent of our guests, will hesitate before shooting, if they shoot at all.’
‘I’m not going to hesitate. Me or them—I’ll blow them all away,’ Jenkins boasted.
‘You really have a difficult time keeping your mouth shut,’ Zurgens said.
‘You have no idea,’ Henry said. ‘Been like this since the first damn grade.’
‘Same rules apply from your other hunts, folks. Completely identify beyond any doubt what you are shooting at. None of us want to kill someone’s family pet, or worse, a family member.’
‘You just got through telling us that forty percent of us will hesitate before killing a zombie, then you throw out that we might shoot a kid! What the hell?’
Zurgens rubbed his forehead. With the growing heat and this idiotic clientele, even his considerable salary was looking questionable. ‘What I am telling you, is to be cautious. This isn’t a game. There will be no doubt in your mind when you shoot a zombie, and there shouldn’t be any random people wandering about this range. But accidents happen. The extra second you take to positively identify your target could save you a lifetime of regret. Trust me, the zombie isn’t going to get away by hiding in the bush; he’ll keep coming your way.’
There was some nervous tittering.
‘You keep saying ‘he’ when you refer to the zombies. Aren’t there any chicks?’ Jenkins asked.
‘For a reason medical professionals have not been able to identify, the virus does not affect females or children; it’s as if they have some sort of natural immunity.’
‘Oh, that is good news,’ Carla said. ‘I feel safer already.’
‘I said women can’t get infected. That won’t stop the males from devouring you, Mrs. Weatherford.’
She blanched at the thought.
‘Crap. I really wanted to bag a matched set...maybe even a kid. A whole damn zombie family even.’
Zurgens looked at the man. He understood it was a special breed of person that came on these hunts, but this one was pushing an already over-extended envelope. ‘Perhaps if the virus mutates, you will get your wish and can return.’
‘Return? Hell no. By then, the world will have been overrun
and me and my friends will be sitting pretty at Bunker Hill,’ Jenkins said.
‘He named his basement,’ Darren informed everyone.
‘It’s not just a basement, dipshit. It’s our base. We’ll be rebuilding civilization from there.’
Oh God, I hope not, Zurgens thought. ‘I would imagine it will be difficult with three men,’ he said aloud. That got some hearty laughs from everyone except Jenkins.
‘I’m married.’ Jenkins said.
‘I’m sure she’s a beautiful woman, and probably didn’t even cost much, but I can assure you, there will be no cause to stage a civilization reboot from your cellar. That is part of the reason the government of Botswana has allowed you to be here. To make sure that does not become necessary.’
Jenkins’ face had turned red; he’d pushed the man as far as he wanted to, at least for now.
‘Come on everybody, get atop the vehicle.’ He led Mrs. Weatherford to the ladder and assisted her up, although her husband needed more of a hand than she did. Once they were all settled into the special hunting perch, Zurgens called up, ‘Everyone buckled in? I don’t want anybody to fall out, especially if we have to escape quickly. I will not be turning around.’ He heard four seat belt clicks.
‘I have a question,’ Jenkins said.
‘Of course you do.’ Zurgens’ head hung down for a moment.
‘Are these zombies slow or fast?’