Play Dead: How to care for your Zombie

by landau, marc

  PLAY DEAD

  by Marc Landau

  An old woman sits in a barren coffee shop. Her withered, liver spotted hand shakes as she lifts the cup. She carefully sips, then licks her chapped thin lips.

  “I’m just glad I’m too old to see what’s next. I’ve had enough. I hope they find a cure soon. My grandchildren deserve a better world.”

  Daytime in the Big Apple. Not that it matters in the city that never sleeps, rests, or stops to smell anything. It’s safer to avoid the aroma. A cocktail of coffee, urine, money, and whatever pheromones are excreted by human dreams, and sex. Not to mention the rats woven into the city’s DNA. Blend them together and drink until you either make it to the top, or quit and go back to wherever you came from. Unless of course, you’ve got seven zeros in your portfolio. Billionaires, Politicians, Wall Streeters, Hollywood. The city is your sweet snotty oyster. Shuck it and suck it. Good luck to everyone else.

  Grey sidewalks layered in human grime support the masses as they march through the steel and glass corridors of the city.

  A stocky woman thumps to work while stuffing something akin to an EggMcSandwich down her esophagus.

  The man who made it works ninety hours a week to live two hours from the city. He can barely pay his bills and prays every night that at least one of his six children can do better. He also doesn’t refrigerate the eggs or the meat on his cart, and rarely remembers to wash his hands.

  Tens years from now the stocky woman’s feet will be hang-nailed and calloused from the years of pavement pounding. Her yellow toenails will make the women at the nail salon gag. With fake smiles plastered on, they’ll mock her in another language while shaving down her bunions with unsterilized scraping tools.

  She’s just one of the many in the horde rushing to their tedious jobs. Stuffing themselves into cubicles no bigger than cattle pens.

  A few in the herd wear surgical masks. Some do it to keep the viruses away. Some to block the stink of the homeless man who doesn’t shower but does enjoy publicly clipping toenails. Or his cousin, the obese woman eating day old Chinese food on the D train.

  A construction worker lifts his mask, takes a sip of bad coffee, and watches with jealousy as two teenagers grope one another. Lucky bastards, he thinks. At least he can beat off to the girl later.

  A gaggle of college students skateboard in Union Square Park. They casually weave in and out of the crowd. Rolling over toes and bumping commuters. Unconcerned with the daily plight of the working class. Parents trying to make money to send their kids to college so they can also skateboard obliviously in the park.

  No wonder America's in the crapper, a pudgy man in an off the rack suit thinks as he swerves to avoid a Millennial, or whatever demographic tag marketers are calling them. Lazy, spoiled A-holes, is what they should be called. He pulls out his phone and records a voice memo reminding him to tell his son that he’s cut off if he doesn’t get a job by summer.

  A shaggy blonde man wearing a dust mask does a kick flip and glides past a pretty young woman walking her goofy pitbull mix. He throws her an air kiss. Not a care in the world.

  On the side of a white brick building graffiti depicts the universal icon of a zombie. It’s the same style of graphic used on highway signs to depict gas, food, and lodging. The silhouette of the creature is surrounded by a red circle with an “X” through it. No zombies.

  In a corner of the park a grimy disheveled man with a badly ripped shirt and equally shredded trousers leans on a post. His head drifts down. He looks as if he’s going to fall. No one notices him except for a very tired nurse on her way home from a long shift. She feels compelled to help him, but is afraid to get too close. The man has the tell-tale signs.

  Luckily, the nurse finds a police officer close by and on duty. She brings him to the man and watches with concern. The officer puts on standard issue surgical gloves, covers his mouth with a sterile mask, and hopes he doesn’t vomit into it. He hates this part of the job. Things used to be so much easier.

  As the officer gets closer he’s able to see the man’s face clearly. He gags again. Feels some warm bile in his mouth. The man is not homeless. He’s sick. Very sick. At least he won’t put up a fight. The officer cautiously puts a department issued bag over the man’s head to keep the infection contained, then handcuffs him, and shoves him into a police vehicle.

  ***

  Downtown, below Wall Street, a windowless building nicknamed “The Cube” sits at the edge of the water.

  Inside the white square there are many rooms. Hundreds. Some say thousands. Cubes within the cube. No one knows for sure what goes on there, but the rumors are legion. None of them good.

  This room is sparse. Sterile. Four smooth clean pearl white walls. A hard white plastic table and two chairs. On the surface of the table sit two small cubes. One red. One green. Underneath it, sits a small rectangular cooler. That’s all there is. If there’s a door it’s impossible to see. The space was built to make sure whoever’s inside can’t just walk out. The cubicle could be used for interrogations, psych evaluations, or rehab. Then again, it could be a prison cell.

  A young woman sits limply in a dull blue hospital gown. She's beautiful, or was. Round eyes, full lips, angled cheeks. A slender build with just enough curves to make any man pay attention. She looks like a model with a bad case of something. Addiction. Cancer.

  Bald patches of scalp peek through black strands of hair that drape to the floor. It hasn’t been cut in years. If ever.

  Her skin is ashen and tissue paper thin. Brown eyes so dark it would be easy to mistake them for black. Sore red corpuscles cover the whites of her eyes. Pale green veins spider across her forehead and cheeks. Her teeth are so decayed even a crystal meth addict wouldn’t trade for them.

  In the chair across from the ill woman sits a healthy Charlotte Patterson. Ever since she was a gawky child everyone has called her Charlie. Her father started it when he saw a TV commercial for a brand of tuna that had a mascot named “Charlie the tuna.”

  All Charlie wanted was to be with his tuna friends inside the can. Sadly, the announcer would always tell him, “Sorry Charlie.” Which was exactly what her father started saying whenever she wanted to do something with him, “Sorry Charlie. I can’t today.”

  Charlie always thought the cartoon tuna was pretty stupid for wanting to be in the can with his buddies. He was the lucky one. No one wanted to eat him.

  Eventually, she grew into into her limbs. Sometimes she still feels gawky and gangly, but it was just a memory from childhood. She is now lean curve and muscle. Her short blonde bowl cut has evolved into thick blonde locks. Her face still youthfully innocent. Her smile is comforting. But it doesn’t hide the pain behind her clear blue eyes.

  Charlie pulls out a small recording device, turns it on, then pushes the colored cubes closer to the sick woman.

  “How are you feeling today Alice?”

  Alice tries to lift her thin, veiny arm, but can’t. It’s shackled to the table. Slowly, she lifts her unrestrained left arm and gently touches the green cube.

  “I'm glad you're feeling okay. Do you mind if we play a game?”

  Alice taps the green cube again.

  “Okay great.”

  Charlie draws a tic-tac-toe board, then pushes the pad and pen across the table. Alice slowly picks up the pen and makes an “X “ in one of the boxes.

  “That's awesome.” Charlie smiles, and draws an “O.” She jots something on an official document while Alice draws another “X.” Charlie responds with an “O.” Alice draws the final “X.” Alice wins, but doesn’t seem to care.

  “That's great Alice. You beat me again.”

 
Charlie makes another note, then picks up the rectangular cooler from under the table as Alice stares vacantly. Charlie opens it, pulls out an opaque plastic bag and puts it on the table. Whatever's inside, it sloshes. Alice’s eyes widen.

  “Okay Alice. I want you to try to stay calm. Do you remember when we talked about calm?”

  Alice touches the green cube.

  “Good. Let’s try to stay calm for three minutes.”

  Charlie takes out a timer, sets it for three minutes and puts it down in front of Alice. She slowly opens the plastic bag. Guts, meat, blood, pour into the container. Alice suddenly comes to life. The red in her eyes brightens. Her lips go tight. She’s trying to restrain herself. Charlie hits the timer, and the countdown begins.

  “Alice. Remember. Calm.”

  She leans in close to Alice. Too close. Charlie exposes her throat. Puts her throbbing jugular next to Alice's quivering lips. Alice's eyes turn into saucers. Pupils dilate to pinpricks. Drops of green saliva dribble from the corners of her mouth. She wants the blood pulsing through Charlie’s neck. Wants it badly. Still, somehow Alice maintains her composure.

  “Six seconds left. You’re doing great,” Charlie says.

  Five. Four. Three. Two.

  Beep. The alarm goes off.

  “Good girl Alice. Great job. Okay. Go ahead.”

  Alice dives face first into the box and begins devouring the stew of guts and intestines. While she “feasts” Charlie dials a number.

  “Phillip? It’s Charlie. I just wanted to be the first to let you know Alice passed with flying colors. I think she’ll be able to be back home with you very soon.”

  “I can’t tell you how grateful I am,” Phillip says. “I can’t wait to have her back home. Thank you so much for all the work you’ve done.”

  She can almost hear his tears coming through the other end of the line.

  “You're welcome. I know you’ll be a great caregiver.”

  She takes out the official document. The page reads: Is the subject a danger to herself or others? There's one big check box for YES and one for NO. Charlie checks NO, then pockets the paper. She smiles warmly, “Okay Alice, see you soon.”

  Alice doesn't notice as Charlie leaves. She's too busy finishing off a kidney.

  ***

  Charlie arrives at Union Square Park dressed in a simple blue short sleeve button down shirt and casual indigo pants. Her blond hair wraps behind her ears and falls just onto her shoulders. Her makeup is best described as camera ready. Professional but approachable.

  A crowd begins to form and Charlie takes questions as she films a segment for her show, “Working with the Virally Challenged.” She smiles big at the camera, and the cameraman sarcastically winks back at her. It’s irritating he doesn’t take her job as seriously as she does. Most don’t. At best, she’s viewed as a glorified dog trainer. At worst, she’s a danger to society for fighting for the rights of the infected. Charlie continues smiling, but her eyes say she’s going to make him clean the van at the end of the shoot. The cameraman can tell he’s in trouble again, but he can’t help busting her chops. She’s just so damn cute.

  “I'd like to welcome everyone. Thanks for being here. Let’s do our usual, and address your most pressing questions.”

  A cute young man, standing next to an equally cute young woman asks, “Are they contagious?” Always the same questions, she thinks.

  “Sort of,” she says, then furrows her brow and considers the rest of her answer carefully. “You can be infected if bitten but the odds of that are virtually zero.”

  “Virtually zero isn’t zero,” another voice in the crowd calls out.

  “True, but the odds of aliens attacking isn’t zero. It’s virtually zero.” Some of the crowd laughs as she continues.

  “The infected, or to be more accurate, our loved ones, aren’t dangerous. They’re sick. As long as they take their meds there’s nothing to be concerned about. This isn’t some zombie apocalypse.”

  “It was!” A woman screams out.

  “Yes it was. But it’s under control now. Just like many other diseases that used to cause panic. Smallpox, polio, AIDS. This is a long term illness that requires management. That’s why the infected are sequestered at home or care facilities until the cure is found.”

  A bald man in a serious business suit and angry eyes calls out.

  “Are they dangerous?”

  “All of the virally challenged have been tested. They are not a threat to themselves or others,” says Charlie matter-of-factly.“Those who show signs of aggression are immediately relocated to treatment facilities or, in severe cases, a euthanasia center.”

  Charlie hesitates hoping she didn’t freak out the always skittish crowd.

  “Very rarely do any of the virally challenged need to go to a euthanasia center. They’ve been set up as a precautionary measure.”

  “How do you euthanize them? They’re already dead.” A snarky male voice yells from far back. It makes the crowd chuckle.

  Charlie despises the small minded, fear mongering idiots, but keeps her calm.

  “No. They are not dead. The law considers them deceased since their cells are in a type of homeostasis. I think it’s a misunderstanding and possibly a prejudice. When a cure is found the infected will return to normal. So how can they be dead?”

  “Can they work?” Asks a young man who looks as if he just graduated college and is worried about whether he will be competing for a job with the infected.

  “Menial labor possibly. It depends on the level of damage. Some may be able to perform simple tasks, like household chores,” she answers.

  The young man seems to sigh in relief.

  An old woman dressed in a lime green pantsuit rapidly waves her hand to ask a question. In her other hand, a tiny white dog rapidly wags it tail.

  “Can they be trained like my little Pixie Wixie?”

  ***

  It’s the time of the plague. The city is unrecognizable. There are more beasts than humans. Garbage is piled three stories high with no one to clean the streets anymore. So few people remain. And those who do are too terrified to come out of their hovels.

  A makeshift flaming torch stabs violently into the darkness. The man swinging the flames used to be a Wall Street Broker but tonight he's just a caveman trying to keep the cackling hyenas at bay with a fire stick. Except they're not hyenas. They’re the infected.

  The terrified man, aka "dinner,” swings the torch wildly and screams, “Stay the hell back!

  Unfazed by human emotion the infected move forward together. Mouths drool green ooze. Eyes alert. Wolves ready for the kill.

  “I told you to stay — the — hell back,” he yells.

  One of the infected lurches forward, and the man stabs it in the stomach with the torch. It’s a deadly mistake. The flame sputters, fizzles, like a cigarette being extinguished in a bowl of wet noodles. Except, it's not noodles. It’s intestines. The fire flickers, then dies.

  “Shit,” the man mutters hopelessly. He no longer feels the deprivation of food. The growling in his stomach he’s had for weeks as he searched for scraps in the garbage is gone. He doesn’t feel the urine dripping down his legs onto what’s left of his sneakers. His mind is almost blank. His only thought, I wish I had a gun with just one bullet.

  The infected circle. The man’s survival instinct struggles back to life and he searches for an escape route. Please don’t let them tear me apart, he prays to God. But, there’s nowhere to go, and he’s quickly backed against a wall. God isn’t listening. He hasn’t for a long time. This is it, he thinks, then breathes a sigh of acceptance. He’s tired of fighting. If there's a heaven, he’ll soon get to see his children again.

  The pack attacks.

  Blam. A bullet spark slices through the darkness, and one of the infected falls.

  Blam, Blam, Blam.

  Three more of the infected drop like wet sacks. The man opens his eyes, shocked to still be alive, then crumples against
the wall.

  Three figures wearing respirators, step from darkness — Alcot Patterson, fifty something, strong jawed and weathered. Michael Patterson, all American teen, in typical teen gear. And his big sister Charlie. Her dad’s favorite though he would never admit to it out loud. Charlie looks so much like her mother. Even a dimple in the same place on the right cheek as her mom.

  They don’t need to check closely to see the claw marks on the man’s thigh. One of the infected took its pound of flesh. It's too late for him.

  Alcot’s eyes go stern as he looks to his daughter and whispers, “Charlie?”

  “He's already gone. I’ll deal with it,” Michael interrupts. But Alcot signals that’s it’s Charlie’s job.

  The head of the family leans down and greets the man with warm eyes, “I’m Alcot Patterson.” He extends a gloved hand. They shake. “This is my son Michael. And my girl Charlotte.”

  “I'm William. Will.” The man smiles.

  Michael nods a greeting, but Charlie can't — or won’t — look him in the eyes.

  “It’s good to see a family. You're lucky,” the man says.

  “We are,” Alcot replies.

  One of the infected in the pile squirms but they don’t notice.

  “Is there anyone we can reach out to for you?” Alcot asks.

  “There’s no one left,” Will replies.

  “Sorry, Will,” Alcot says as he reaches into a bag. Will knows he’s been infected. He already feels the virus coursing through his veins. He expects to see a gun or blade, but instead Alcot pulls out a bottle.

  “…Gin?” Alcot asks.

  Will shakes “no” and looks to the sky. He takes a few deep breaths, relieved. At least the horde didn’t eat him alive. He’s going to die the way he wanted to. He’s getting what he prayed for. A bullet. Maybe God did listen. Will smiles and thinks, I’ll see my kids soon. Then closes his eyes and quietly mutters a prayer.