Stephen Jones (ed)

by The Mammoth Book of Zombies (mobi)

  "Maurice, why has this man got a hand missing?"

  "Clapping, sir. The bleeder… beg pardon, the unit got carried away after methy, sir. Sort of came off in his 'and, sir."

  His Nibs frowned.

  "This is rank carelessness, Maurice. I have stressed time and time again, special attention must be paid to component parts at all times. Spare hands are hard to come by and it may become necessary to scrap this unit altogether. Don't let me have to mention this matter again."

  "Sir."

  His Nibs passed a few more units without comment, then stopped at the man whose ear still dangled by a single thread. He made a tut-tutting sound.

  "Look at this, Maurice. This unit is a disgrace. For heaven's sake get him patched up. What HQ would say if they saw this sort of thing, I dare not think."

  "Sir." Maurice turned his head and barked at Harry over one shoulder. "Take this unit and put his lughole back on with a strip of tape."

  When His Nibs reached the unit propped up on two brooms, he fairly exploded.

  "This is outrageous. Really, Maurice, words fail me. How you could allow a unit to come on parade in this condition, is beyond my comprehension."

  "Beg pardon, sir, it fell over, sir."

  "Look at it," His Nibs went on, ignoring the interruption. "The neck's broken." He touched the head and it wobbled most alarmingly. "The eyeballs are a disgrace, half an arm is missing, one leg is as about as useful as a woollen vest at a nudist picnic, and one foot is back to front."

  Maurice glared at the unfortunate unit who was doing his best to bubble-talk. His Nibs sighed deeply.

  "There is little point in berating the unit now, Maurice. The damage is done. We'll have to salvage what we can and the rest had better go into the scrap-bin."

  Having completed his inspection, His Nibs turned and almost by chance his gaze alighted on Mr Goldsmith.

  "Maurice, what is this unit doing tied up?"

  "Beg pardon, sir, but this ain't no unit, sir. It's a consumer that Charlie Unit brought in by error, sir."

  His Nibs took off his spectacles, wiped them carefully on a black edged handkerchief, then replaced them.

  "Let me get this clear, Maurice. Am I to understand that this is a live consumer? An actual, Mark one, flesh and blood citizen? In fact, not to mince words - a voter?"

  "Yes, sir. A proper old Sunday-dinner-eater, go-to-Churcher, and take-a-bath-every-dayer, sir."

  "And how, may I ask, did this unfortunate mistake occur?"

  "Sent Charlie Unit out with a resurrection party, sir. Wandered off on his own; sort of remembered a place where 'e used to live, found this geezer - beg pardon, sir - this consumer, and brought 'im back 'ere, sir."

  "Amazing!" His Nibs examined Mr Goldsmith with great care. "A bit of luck, really. I mean, he'll need no repairs and with care he'll be ready for a Mark IV MB in no time at all."

  "That's what I thought, sir." Maurice smirked and looked at Mr Goldsmith with great satisfaction. "Might start a new line, sir. Bring 'em back alive."

  "That's the next stage." His Nibs took his brief case from Harry. "In the meanwhile you had better untie him and I'll take him down to the office."

  The office was situated through the cubby hole and down twelve steps. It was surprisingly comfortable. A thick carpet covered the floor, orange wallpaper hid the walls and His Nibs seated himself behind a large, mahogany desk.

  "Take a seat, my dear fellow," he invited, "I expect you'd like a cup of tea after your ordeal."

  Mr Goldsmith collapsed into a chair and nodded. The power of speech would return later, of that he felt certain. His Nibs picked up a telephone receiver.

  "Tea for two," he ordered, "and not too strong. Yes, and some digestive biscuits. You'll find them filed under pending."

  He replaced the receiver and beamed at Mr Goldsmith.

  "Now, I expect you're wondering what this is all about. Probably got ideas that something nasty is taking place, eh?"

  Mr Goldsmith could only nod.

  "Then I am delighted to put your mind at rest. Nothing illegal is taking place here. This, my dear chap, is a government department."

  Mr Goldsmith gurgled.

  "Yes," His Nibs went on, "a properly constituted government department, sired by the Ministry of Health, and complete with staff, filing cabinets and teacups. When I tell you this project sprang from the brain of a certain occupier of a certain house, situated in a certain street, not far from the gasworks at Westminster, I am certain that whatever doubts you may have entertained will be instantly dispelled."

  Mr Goldsmith made a sound that resembled an expiring bicycle tyre.

  "I expect," His Nibs enquired, "you are asking yourself- why?"

  Mr Goldsmith groaned.

  "The answer to your intelligent question, can be summed up in two words. Industrial strife. Until recently there was a dire labour shortage, and the great man to whom I referred was bedevilled by wage claims, strikes and rude men in cloth caps who would never take no for an answer. Then one night over his bedtime cup of cocoa, the idea came to him. The idea! Nay, the mental earthquake."

  The door opened and a blonde vision came in, carrying a tea tray. The vision had long blonde hair and wore a neat tailored suit with brass buttons. Mr Goldsmith said: "Cor."

  "Ah, Myna and the cup that cheers," announced His Nibs with heavy joviality. "Put it down on the desk, my dear. Did you warm the pot?"

  "Yes, sir." Myna smiled and put her tray down.

  "Have the national intake figures come through yet?" His Nibs enquired.

  "Yes, sir."

  "And?"

  "Three thousand, nine hundred and thirty four."

  "Capital, capital." His Nibs rubbed his hands together in satisfaction, then aimed a slap at Myna's bottom which happened to be conveniently to hand. The after effect was alarming.

  Myna jerked, stiffened her fingers, opened her mouth and bubbled three words.

  "Oi… urn… dud…"

  "Excuse me," His Nibs apologized to Mr Goldsmith, "Merely a technical hitch."

  Rising quickly, he hurried round to Myna's front and twisted two brass buttons. The fingers relaxed, the eyes lit up and the mouth closed.

  "Anything else, sir?" she enquired.

  "No thank you, my dear," His Nibs smiled genially, "not for the time being."

  Myna went out and His Nibs returned to his desk.

  "Latest streamlined model," he confided, "fitted with the Mark IV computer brain, but one has to be jolly careful. Slightest pat in the wrong place and puff - the damn thing goes haywire. Now where was I? Oh, yes. The great idea."

  He leant forward and pointed a finger at Mr Goldsmith.

  "Do you know how many living people there are in Britain today?"

  "Ah - ah…" Mr Goldsmith began.

  "Precisely," His Nibs sat back, "Sixty-two million, take or lose a million. Sixty-two million actual or potential voters. Sixty-two million consumers, government destroyers and trade unionists. Now, what about the others?"

  "Others," echoed Mr Goldsmith.

  "Ah, you've got the point. The dead. The wastage, the unused. One person in two thousand dies every twenty-four hours. That makes 30,000 bucket kickers a day, 3,000,000 a year. One man, and one man only, saw the potential. Sitting there in his terrace house, drinking his cocoa and watching television, it came to him in a flash. Why not use the dead?"

  "Use the dead," Mr Goldsmith agreed.

  "Taking up valuable building space." His Nibs was becoming quite heated, "Rotting away at the state's expense, using up marble and stonemason's time, and not paying a penny in taxes. He knew what had to be done. How to get down to the 'bones' of the matter."

  For a while His Nibs appeared to be lost in thought. Mr Goldsmith stared at a slogan that had been painted in black letters on the opposite wall

  WASTE NOT - WANT NOT

  Presently the precise voice went on.

  "First we imported a few voodoo experts from the West Indies. After a
ll, they had been turning out zombies for centuries. But we had to improve on their technique of course. I mean to say, we couldn't have them dancing round a fire, dressed up in loincloths and slitting cockerels' throats. So our chaps finally came up with methy. Ministry Everlasting Topside Hardened Youth. No one knows what it means of course, but that is all to the good. If some of Them from the other side got hold of the formula, I shudder to think what might happen. The basis is methylated spirit - we found that pickled fairly well -then there's R245 and a small amount of E294 and most important, 25 per cent EH471 with 20 per cent HW741 to cancel it out. You do follow me?"

  Mr Goldsmith shook his head, then fearful of giving offence, nodded violently.

  "You have keen perception," His Nibs smiled. "It makes a nice change to talk to a consumer of the lower-middle class who does not confuse the issue by asking embarrassing questions. The latest stage is the Mark IV Mechanical Brain. After the unit has been repaired, decoked, and sealed with our all-purpose invisible varnish the nasty old, meddling brain is removed and Dr You-Know-Who inserts his M. IV M. B., which does what it's told and no nonsense. No trade unions, no wage claims - no wages, in fact - no holidays, no food. Give 'em a couple of cups of methy a day and they're good for years. Get the idea?"

  Mr Goldsmith found his voice.

  "Who employs them?"

  "Who doesn't?" His Nibs chuckled, then lowered his voice to a confidential whisper.

  "Keep this under your hat, but you may remember a certain very large house situated at the end of the Mall, which had rather a lot of problems over the housekeeping bills."

  Mr Goldsmith turned pale.

  "Not any more. All the lower servants were elevated from the churchyard, and some of the senior go out through one door and come back in through another, if you get my meaning. In fact there has been a suggestion… Well, never mind, that is still but a thought running round in a cabinet.

  "Now, what are we going to do about you?"

  Mr Goldsmith stared hopefully at his questioner. He dared to put forward a suggestion.

  "I could go home."

  His Nibs smilingly shook his head.

  "I fear not. You've seen too much and thanks to my flapping tongue, heard too much. No, I think we'd better give you the treatment. A nice little street accident should fill the bill. You wouldn't fancy walking under a moving bus, I suppose?"

  Mr Goldsmith displayed all the symptoms of extreme reluctance.

  "You're sure? Pity. Never mind, Harry can simulate these things rather well. A broken neck, compound fracture of both legs; nothing we can't fix later on, then a tip-top funeral at government expense and the certainty of life after death. How's that sound?'

  Mr Goldsmith gulped and started a passionate love affair with the door.

  "I can see you are moved," His Nibs chuckled. "You've gone quite pale with joy. I envy you, you know. It's not all of us who can serve our country. Remember: 'They also serve who only lie and rotticate.' Ha… ha… ha…"

  His Nibs roared with uncontrollable merriment and lifted the receiver of his desk telephone.

  "Myna, be a good girl and get Harry on the intercom. What! Tea break! We'll have none of that nonsense here. Tell him to get down here in two minutes flat, or I'll have him fitted with a M. IV MB before he can put water to teabag."

  He slammed the receiver down and glared at Mr Goldsmith.

  "Teabreak! I promise you, in five years time there'll be no more tea breaks or dinner breaks, or three weeks holiday with pay. We'll teach 'em."

  The door opened and Harry all but ran into the office.

  He stamped his feet, stood rigidly to attention and swung up a salute.

  "Resurrection Operator Harry Briggs reporting, sir."

  His Nibs calmed down, wiped his brow on the black-edged handkerchief and reverted to his normal, precise manner of speech.

  "Right, Harry, stand easy. This consumer is to be converted into a unit. I thought something in the line of a nice, tidy street accident. He won't be a missing person then, see. What are your suggestions?"

  "Permission to examine the consumer, sir?"

  His Nibs waved a languid hand.

  "Help yourself, Harry."

  Harry came over to Mr Goldsmith and tilted his head forward so that his neck was bared.

  "A couple of nifty chops should break his neck, sir, and I could rough his face up a bit - bash it against the wall. Then, with your permission, sir, run a ten-ton truck over his stomach - won't do 'is guts much good but 'e won't be needing 'em."

  "Methy," His Nibs explained to Mr Goldsmith, "works through the nervous system. The stomach is surplus to requirements."

  "Then I thought a couple of swipes with an iron bar about 'ere." Harry pointed to Mr Goldsmith's trembling thighs. "And 'ere." He indicated a spot above the ankles. "Won't do to touch the knee caps, seeing as 'ow they're 'ard to replace."

  "You'll have no trouble with repairs afterwards?" His Nibs enquired.

  "Gawd bless us, no, sir. A couple of rivets in the neck, a bit of patching up here and there. We'll have to replace the eyes. They gets a bit runny after a bit. Otherwise, 'e'll make a first class unit, such as you can be proud of, sir."

  "Very creditable." His Nibs beamed his approval. "You'd better fill in an LD142 and lay on transport to transfer the, eh… unit to the accident point. Let me see…" He consulted a desk diary. "Today's Wednesday - coroner's inquest on Friday - yes, we can fit the funeral in next Tuesday."

  "Tuesday, sir," Harry nodded.

  "Then your resurrection units can get cracking Tuesday night. No point in letting things rot, eh?"

  His Nibs roared again and Harry permitted himself a respectful titter.

  "Well, my dear chap," His Nibs said to Mr Goldsmith. "This time next week you should be doing something useful."

  "Where were you thinking of fitting 'im in, sir?" Harry enquired.

  "We'll start him off as a porter at Waterloo Station. The railway union have a wage claim in the pipeline and one more non-industrial action vote will do no harm. Right, Harry, take him away."

  Fear may make cowards; it can also transform a coward into a man of action. The sight of Harry's large hand descending on to his neck triggered off a series of reflexes in Mr Goldsmith which culminated in him leaping from his chair and racing for the door. His behaviour up to that moment had been co-operative, so both His Nibs and Harry were taken by surprise and for three precious moments could only stare after him with speechless astonishment. Meanwhile, Mr Goldsmith was through the door and passing Myna, who presumably had not been programmed for such an emergency, for she sat behind her desk, typing away serenely, ignoring Harry's bellows of rage. But they spurred the little man to greater efforts and he mounted the stairs with the determination of an Olympic hurdler chasing a gold medal. He burst into the cellar, by-passing the recumbent units and was on his way to the exit before a startled Maurice had been galvanized into action.

  He was like a rabbit chased by two blood-thirsty hounds, when he pounded up the ramp and came to the waste ground. A sickly moon played hide and seek from behind scudding clouds and a black cat screamed its fear and rage, as he went stumbling over mounds and potholes, discarded tins clattering before his blundering feet. They were about twenty feet behind, silent now, for the unmentionable was heading for the domain of the commonplace and their business must be done in shadows without sound or word.

  Mr Goldsmith crossed a cobbled road, galloped under a railway arch and stumbled into a narrow alley. A convenient hole in a fence presented itself; he squeezed through just before running footsteps rounded the nearest corner. They came to a halt only a few paces from his hiding place. Maurice's voice was that of a weasel deprived of a supper.

  "The little bleeder's got away."

  "Won't get far," Harry comforted.

  "Better get back," Maurice admitted reluctantly. "His Nibs will have to notify a DPC."

  The footsteps shuffled, then retreated and Mr Goldsmith dared to breathe
again. He emerged from his hole and began to trudge wearily down the alley. He wandered for a long time, completely lost, shying from shadows, running before a barking dog, adrift in a nightmare. He came out into a small square and there on the far side, its steeple reaching up towards the moon, was a church. The doors were tight shut, but the building evoked childhood memories, and he knelt on the steps, crying softly, like a child locked out by thoughtless parents.

  Heavy footsteps made him start and he rose quickly, before casting a terrified glance along the moonlit pavement. A tall, burly figure was moving towards him with all the majesty of a frigate under full sail. His silver buttons gleamed like stars in a velvet sky. His badge shone like a beacon of hope. Mr Goldsmith gave a cry of joy and ran towards his protector. He gripped the great, coarse hands; he thrust his face against the blue tunic and sobbed with pure relief.

  "Now, what's all this?" the officer enquired. "Not more dead men that talk?"

  "Hundreds of them." Mr Goldsmith stammered in his effort to be believed. "They are emptying the churchyards. You've got to stop them."

  "There, there. You leave it all to me, sir. Just come along to the station and we'll get it all down in a statement."

  "Yes… yes." Mr Goldsmith perceived the sanity in such an arrangement. "Yes, I… I will make a statement. Then you'll lock me up, won't you? So they can't reach me?"

  "Anything you say," the constable agreed. "We'll lock you up so well, no one will ever be able to reach you again. Come along now."

  They moved away from the locked church with Mr Goldsmith pouring out a torrent of words. The policeman was a good listener and encouraged him with an occasional: "Beyond belief, sir… You don't say so, sir… It only goes to show… Truth is stranger than fiction."

  Mr Goldsmith agreed that it was, but a disturbing factor had caused a cold shiver to mar his newly acquired sense of well-being.

  "Why are we going down this alley?"

  "A short cut, sir," the constable replied. "No sense in tiring ourselves with a long walk."

  "Oh." Mr Goldsmith snatched at this piece of logic like a condemned man at the rope which is to hang him. "Is the station far?"