One table over from him, a young woman with long blond hair erupted a plate of ratatouille and two glasses of chardonnay over the ivory white tablecloth. Vomit shot out of her mouth and nose with the force of a fire hose. Her date twisted his ankle and fell as he leaped to safety from his chair in his efforts to avoid the spewing emesis.
Reba smirked in victory, nodding her head I told you so to Hoyt as he cradled his face in his palms.
Chapter 1
Sixty miles away, a 2020 North American Motor’s Evergreen Sedan skirted the piney woods, headed toward Dallas.
"Of course the Non-Dead don't deserve the right to vote." Lisa glanced at Bob momentarily, and then returned her eyes to the road. "They don't have to pay taxes, or buy food. They live in free housing and get free health care. All of their needs are provided."
"But the Non-Dead do work, right? Their pay is only a fraction of minimum wage. If they don't work, well, you know what happens to those who aren't capable of working any longer? In-cin-er-ation," Bob said, emphasizing each syllable, his eyes glued on the dark road ahead while he drove.
"Yes the Non-Dead work. They have to work. Our way of life, as fucked up as it is now, would return to the 1800s if we didn't have them. Losing half the people on the planet during the Dark Times makes every human, Living human that is, a priceless commodity.
"I like electricity. I like cars, new clothes, shoes, makeup, and perfume. If the zombies or Undead or the Non-Dead or whatever PC term they come up with next, wait, what the fuck does that even mean, the Non-Dead?"
"Non-Living was rejected because it contained the word living. They were given the status of Non-Dead to indicate that they are technically dead," Bob interjected.
"How do you even know all of this crap? Anyway, if the Non-Dead are being kept alive, I mean functioning, or whatever in the hell they are, by us, then, they owe us. We should think of them more as a machine. You wouldn’t ever think about giving a tractor the right to vote, would you?" Lisa grabbed her Juicy Couture handbag from the floorboard and fumbled for her tube of lip balm.
Bob slowed the car as the road rose ahead and wound to the east. "I understand your point. Put things in perspective to be fair. You don't have to leave your comfortable home in the city and live out in the country where the food is grown because the Non-Dead are there to work in our place. Why is it that you can still buy fresh produce in a grocery store? Because of the Non-Dead, and their reward is to be treated like beasts of burden.
“Our roads are repaired, the trash is picked up, and most of the service industry is filled with the Non-Dead labor force, freeing up the Living from menial tasks to pursue more intellectual endeavors. You have noticed that some of the movie theaters have reopened, haven't you?"
Lisa chuckled. "Yeah, where you can watch a rerun or a new movie made on a camcorder and home computer."
"Hey, Hollywood is finally starting to turn out a product. The new movies focus more on content and dialogue, emphasizing the story, and contain fewer special effects. You should appreciate that over the flash and booms of the Hollywood of old.
"Lisa, you just have to become more progressive, or you'll be left behind as the world moves on without you.
"The Non-Dead are being granted more opportunities in the workforce in the northern states. Zombie Brew Company is one of the first to make full compliance with the EEOC's amendment to the Americans with Disabilities Act. That was a pretty bold move by Gill Gates, the billionaire. He put his money where his mouth is in starting a new company with the right to work initiative that integrates the Non-Dead, and allows them to share equal duties alongside the Living. He didn't do that just to piss off the conservatives. He wanted to avoid dealing with the blood-sucking Living Union, too.
"Plus, by naming it ‘Zombie,’ he's trying to defuse the power of the word's negativity. You remember how ‘bad’ came to mean something 'good?' He's going to do a similar thing with ‘zombie,’ and turn around the attitudes where the Non-Dead will be accepted as equals.”
Lisa shook her head. "The Non-Dead already have enough rights and benefits as it is. There's no need to let them vote, or for them to get an equal rights amendment. Half of them are so far gone in the head they wouldn't understand if it passed anyway."
"You’re lumping the Sub Zs in with the Sub Ys. Why do you Conservatives insist on doing this? There would be a qualification test for the Sub Zs, to prove competency. You're painting a far worse picture than you need to." Bob breathed a sigh of relief as the curvy rural road straightened. Soon he would be merging onto the highway. He and Lisa had enjoyed a nice weekend together, a quiet intimate time in a rented cabin by the lake. It wasn't until the two headed back to the city that the world's problems once again became a barrier between them.
Lisa applied more lip balm in silence, returned the tube to her bag, and watched the trail of billboards leading to the city. Most were old and in disrepair, the illuminating lights dim or burned out.
Shining as brightly as a full moon in the distance, a new billboard with the smiling face of Reverend Will Hatfield, pastor of Streets of Gold Church, welcomed those traveling the highway to come and worship with him.
The Church had a long history of staunch right-wing conservative policies, having fought Godless liberal heathens on many fronts. First, it was racial equality. Then abortion, then gay marriage, and now the fight was against the granting of equal rights to the Non-Dead.
When City Services incorporated the first group of Non-Dead laborers, Reverend Hatfield led his flock to protest. A group of thirty of his most loyal followers brought signs, chants, and an assortment of verbal abuses. Police in riot gear eventually dispersed the crowd after one of the members hurled a plastic bottle filled with a mixture of dry ice and water. The solid dry ice ‘melted’ into the gas phase of carbon dioxide, building pressure in the bottle until it exploded, going off like a bomb. No one was injured, but the police made the decision to end the protest before the violence escalated.
After that, Hatfield refined his tactics to a peaceful, but determined, stance against the integration of the Non-Dead into society. The Streets of Gold Church thus openly supported political candidates who sought to prevent the Non-Dead from acquiring any additional rights.
More cars crowded the highway as the lights of the city grew larger. Bob turned up the volume on the radio to drown out the silence. Lisa picked at a loose cuticle on her thumb, her thoughts a million miles away.
Bob felt the steering wheel start to pull ever so slightly toward the curb. He wondered if it was the road, a tire, or his imagination. A mild vibration in the steering wheel started to swell the farther he drove.
"Lisa, the car feels like it's pulling to the right. Do you hear anything unusual?"
"I hear a thumping noise. I thought it was from the tires running over the grooves in the road.”
"Well, it might be, but I think I can feel the pull getting worse. I'm going to turn in at that convenience store and check it out." Bob flipped on the turn signal.
The tires bumped against the curb leading into the parking lot, causing Lisa's head to bounce about a bit. Bob parked in front, away from the door, and away from the gas pumps. Turning the engine off, he exited the vehicle and inspected each tire.
Lisa lowered her window when Bob bent down to check the front passenger tire. "See anything?" Aromatic fumes of gasoline drifted through the air, irritating her nostrils.
"This tire is sitting a little low," he said, giving it a few short kicks. "Open the glove box and get out the air gauge."
Lisa opened the compartment and immediately fought to suppress the compressed paraphernalia as it spilled out of the sides to the floor. "Why do you have so much crap in here? How do you expect me to find the tire gauge?"
"It's not crap if you find yourself in need of it one day," Bob said.
"It's crap. I know what crap is, and this is crap." Lisa slowly let the glove box door down, digging through the contents. "Here's a half-eaten granol
a bar."
"And if we were stranded in a blizzard, and that's all we had to eat for a week, it would be worth a million dollars to us."
"That's a huge load of, wait, I found it."
Bob smiled sheepishly as she handed him the gauge, knowing she was right, but refusing to admit it.
Squatting and balancing on the balls of his feet, he maneuvered into a comfortable position and adjusted the gauge to read it in the faint overhead light.
"It's over 10 pounds low. I guess I picked up a nail or something. I'm going to have to change it," he said, regretfully.
"Maybe you should move the car first. You parked right in front of the dumpster. The sign says 'No Parking.'"
"It's only going to take me about fifteen minutes. I don't think a truck will be coming tonight to dump it anyway. You need to get out because the jack goes right under where you're sitting. Go inside and get us something to drink. I’ll try to hurry."
Lisa lowered the visor, examining her makeup in the mirror after brushing her hair away from her left eye. She opened the door and planted both feet firmly on the ground before standing, careful not to scuff her shoes. Straightening her skirt, she placed her bag over her shoulder, and made her way out the door.
Even getting out of the car is a big production for her, Bob thought. He made his way to the trunk and opened it with the remote. Lifting the false floor revealed the spare tire compartment and tools. This shouldn't take long. He started unscrewing the tire clamp. Let's see, righty tighty, lefty loosey. While he was spinning the knob counter clockwise, something loomed from behind. The hairs on the back of his neck started to prickle.
Darting his head around, he saw nothing. The area was well lit, except by the far end of the dumpster. There was nothing to see there, as near as he could tell.
Bob was about to lift the tire from the well when something rustled nearby. What was that?
If someone wanted to rob him, or worse, he had better find out before Lisa returned. Taking the emergency flashlight in one hand and a tire tool in the other, he scanned the area by the dumpster.
Bob wasn't spoiling for a fight. He just didn't want to appear to be an easy target. Backing away from the car and moving closer to the dumpster, Bob kept a good twenty feet away from the dark corner. He glanced over and saw an older gentleman wearing an ancient Dallas Cowboy football cap. The man was more interested in what Bob was doing than pumping gas. Bob acknowledged him with a nod, and the old man nodded back.
I guess he's wondering what in the hell's wrong with me. Bob turned back to the dark corner, aiming the flashlight. The light went out. Greaaat, he thought. He took the tire tool and tapped it . . . nothing . . . tap tap . . . nothing . . . tap tap . . . flicker. Bob pointed the lens toward his eyes . . . nothing . . . tap tap . . . light! The beam returned to shine directly in his eyes.
He pointed the light away to the dark corner, but the burst of light left him seeing nothing but a bright yellow orb. In a ready for action pose with the tire tool firmly in hand, he kept blinking until able to see clearly. Fortunately, there was nothing waiting to attack him.
Bob turned around. The old man was still watching, so he gave him another nod. The man nodded back, giving him a half smile as the nozzle handle went limp as the pump shut off.
Bob made three steps toward the car before the smaller of the two doors on the dumpster sprang open with a clash. He turned in time to see a leaping Non-Dead land square on top of him.
A primal scream electrified the air. There was no way to tell if it came from Bob or the zombie that attacked him. It didn't matter. Everyone at the pumps frantically scurried into their vehicles. The old man pulled out his cell phone and dialed 811—Zombie Emergency.
Bob raised his left arm in defense and felt teeth sink deeply into his forearm. The tire tool fell from his hand, clanging loudly as it hit ground. A sickly crunching followed, as the jaws of the walking dead snapped an arm bone. Gnashing teeth gouged out tendons, muscle, and ligaments to satisfy its hunger.
Screaming and thrashing about, Bob attempted to roll off his back and make a getaway. The monster showed no quarter as it fed in a carnivorous rage.
Repeatedly, Bob beat it with the flashlight and cried for help. Blood pooled around him from his torn flesh, and dripped from the mouth of the ghoul. Bob's bowels loosened, and he soiled himself as fear controlled his body.
A dull ringing started in his head and grew louder as muscle was ripped from his arm. The flashlight dropped from his useless grasp. Bob's vision clouded from his peripheral. The ringing turned into silence as the jaws of death gripped his neck. The salvation of unconsciousness overtook him as the remaining blood pumped out from his torn jugular.
Once inside, Lisa first had gone to the bathroom before checking out the drinks. She was no fan of public restrooms, but as close as home was, it was too far away for her to hold it any longer. Taking a few minutes to pee, a few minutes to adjust her clothing, and a few minutes to check her makeup, seemed like enough time for Bob to change the tire.
Leaving the bathroom and walking to the fountain drink dispenser, she realized no one else was in the store. No cashier, no patrons, and the office door that had been open when she had entered, was now shut.
Lisa peered through the Plexiglas door toward the car. The tire hadn’t been changed. Bob was nowhere to be seen.
She burst through the door, shouting, "Bob! Bob! Where are you? Let's get out of here—something's wrong!" She ran past the rear of the car and saw one man straddling another on the parking lot.
The old man at the gas pump was still inside his car, and laid on the horn when he saw Lisa approach, waving frantically as if trying to shoo her away.
Instinctively, she yelled Bob's name and ran toward the scuffle. "Get off him! Get off him!"
The zombie was devouring Bob as a hungry wild animal. Lisa grabbed her purse by the straps and slammed it against it repeatedly.
"Get off, motherfucker! Help! Someone help!" A cell phone, a tube of lipstick, and tissue flew out of the purse, spilling onto the parking lot.
With the speed of a striking rattlesnake, the zombie turned its head and snapped, leaving teeth marks in Lisa's right forearm. She screamed and stumbled backward, crashing into the rear of the car before landing hard on her side. Her arm burned where she was bitten.
A wailing siren approached in the distance, growing louder by the second. A black van with Z.M.A.T. printed in large white letters and an ambulance following close behind roared into the parking lot. Every door of the van flew open and eight armed men in black poured out. Zombie Medical and Tactical, a non-politically-correct name surviving the infancy of the outbreak, had arrived.
A burly combatant with 'Lt. Banes' neatly sewn above his right breast gave the orders. "Code D! Code D! Get into position and wait for my call." The men hurriedly formed a circle around the zombie.
“That’s a well preserved specimen. Be careful with it. Go! Go! Go!" the lieutenant yelled.
Ballistic cannons shot nets toward the zombie, draping it from four different directions. The beast twisted to free itself from the web-like cage.
"All right, take it down!"
One of the team members with a telescoping aluminum pole hit the zombie behind the knees, sending it to the ground.
"Juice it!" Banes ordered.
Another member sprayed the writhing undead in liquid shrink. The nets slowly contracted, becoming tighter and tighter until the zombie could barely move even a finger.
"Medical! The area is secure! Code Green!" The lieutenant relaxed, and pulled out a cigarette. The local police were on the scene as was the jail bus. He watched his team load up the zombie and check the area for any more strays.
Only two times in the past year had a call gone out for the lieutenant's squad. Campers and hikers were the usual victims of rogue zombies.
Death of a Living always made the papers. The story though would be buried somewhere in the back of the Metro section. Headlines of an attack
were considered discriminatory. No media outlet wanted any trouble from the nation's Attorney General.
Lisa shivered as she lay on the hard asphalt, unresponsive, but with her eyes wide open. Two paramedics pushing a collapsible stretcher rushed to her side. One produced a large bright light to examine her body.
"She’s clean, except for the arm," the one holding the light said. The other focused a smaller light emitting a pale greenish beam. When her forearm was scanned, the alien virus glowed eerily within the teeth marks.
Putting the light away, the paramedic retrieved a foil pack, tore off the corner with his teeth, and removed a contraption resembling a sponge with a handle. He put it directly on the bite mark and applied pressure. It made a slight click, and liquid oozed through the sponge onto her skin. After swabbing the wound thoroughly, he discarded the sponge into a waste bag.
In unison, the two lifted Lisa onto the stretcher, and wheeled her to the ambulance. Once inside, three taps to the back window signaled the driver that it was time to move out.
One paramedic took a sample of her blood while the other readied an IV. A few drops of blood added into a graduated cylinder containing a clear liquid remained clear after a gentle shaking.
"We have the confirmation that the infection is still in the early stage. I can now legally give her RY."
The paramedic removed a vial from an ice chest big enough to hold two six-packs of drinks, and prepared a syringe. The IV went into the uninjured arm, and the syringe filled with the Resurrection Y treatment slowly injected.
With the drug dispensed, time was no longer of the essence, allowing the men to turn their attention toward the patient's comfort.
One paramedic moved Lisa's hair away from her face. "This is a crying shame. Looks like we lost a pretty one. I would have so hit this, but not now. Too bad her life will never be the same."
"Hey, quiet. She might still be able to hear you. Stop thinking with your dick," the other said.
Love Prevails: A Zombie Nightmare Page 4