The Undying Apathy Of Imogen Shroud

by White, Ben

  Zack shook his head, still chewing through his sandwich.

  "Well hell, just bring it along, I ain't fussy. Sue, you ready to mosey on out?"

  "What about the barbecue?"

  "Hell, just leave it. It's a hunk of crap anyway, if I need another one I'll loot a barbecue shop."

  The truck was just as they'd left it the night before, and they drove out of the building with no problems. Zed ran over a couple of the zombies outside, but Imogen sensed that his heart wasn't in it—a feeling that was confirmed moments later.

  "Y'know, running these things over ain't as much fun as I expected. Kind of just feels, I dunno ... pointless."

  The roads were mostly clear and they saw nothing living on the way to the bridge—although Zack thought he spotted a moving car in the distance at one point, and Zed swore he spotted a helicopter high in the sky, and all of them heard the roaring of a powerful engine as they approached the bridge itself, although it stopped after a few seconds and the source never became apparent. There were zombies around, of course, mostly in big groups, easily avoided or, in one case, driven straight through. In the daylight, from the safety of Zed's truck, they seemed far less threatening, almost sad.

  The bridge itself was undamaged; wide and solid and old.

  "Heh, too big and ugly for any ol' wind to hurt," Zed commented, as they drove over it—there were more wrecks on the bridge than on the roads, but no zombies at all. "All right then, so I reckon we take a right after we get over this thing—we're heading for Spring Heights, that right?"

  "Yes," said Zack, after Imogen didn't reply. "Um. Thank you for ... for taking us there, Mr Killer."

  Zed chuckled. "Hell, Mr Killer was my daddy. You just go on and call me Zed, that'll do fine."

  "Your daddy? Oh! Your last name really is KILLER?"

  Zed chuckled again. "Nah, just fooling."

  "Oh. Um, so what IS your real name?"

  "Killer," said Zed, adopting an appalling Scottish accent. "Zed Killer." He concentrated as he steered the truck around the last few wrecks, then glanced at Zack again as he drove down off the bridge. "Hell, what do it matter? I been going by 'Killer' for years now, got given that handle by some real good friends of mine, kind of a group I was part of way back when. What with all this happening I figured, hell, figured I might as well take it on permanent-like. Heh, why don't you go on and pick a new name, too?"

  Zack's eyes were wide. "Could I?"

  "Sure, why the hell not? You tell me, who's gonna complain? Who's gonna tell you you're wrong? Go nuts, son!"

  Zack glanced shyly at Imogen, who rolled her eyes and looked out the window. "Um. Well, maybe just my real name is okay for now."

  "Your call, little man."

  It wasn't long before Imogen started recognising buildings and streets. She straightened in her seat, then pointed as they approached an intersection. "Right here."

  "You're the boss."

  Imogen stared as they drove through the empty streets. It looked as if her neighbourhood hadn't been badly damaged by the winds—in fact this entire side of the bridge seemed to have escaped the worst of it. Apart from broken glass and the occasional turned-over car—they'd been wrecked long before the winds had come—everything looked just as it had yesterday morning.

  "Go right," she heard herself say. "Then turn left and just go straight."

  Yesterday morning. Was it really only yesterday? It seemed unbelievable that so much could have happened in such a short space of time. Twenty-four hours. No, less than that, Imogen corrected herself, it wasn't until the afternoon that we left on the train, not even a full day and in that time I've done more than I did in the last two years.

  "Right here," someone said.

  Imogen stared unseeing out the window as the full impact of this realisation hit her. Can that really be true? But what have I done, really, in my life? Slept. Laid in bed. Read approximately two thousand books, most of them rubbish. Stared at the wallpaper. Ate an occasional muffin. That's it. What did I ever DO? What choices did I make? And what have I done since yesterday? Fought for my life. Saved my brother. Walked halfway across the city with my leg like this. Made an anti-zombie weapon, I never even LIKED metal shop! And I met ... I met ...

  Imogen wiped her eyes. "Left up here. Then stop."

  Zed's expression was dubious as the truck drew to a halt. "Here? This dump? Don't look like no apartment to me."

  "It's not. It's a retirement home." Imogen opened her door, then looked straight at Zed. "We're rescuing Grandpa."

  The front doors of the retirement home were barricaded, covered over with wide, long planks of wood. Zed fetched a crowbar from his truck and started prying at them, while Imogen stood by and smoked and watched.

  "Might not be bad," Zed said, as he pulled at the board. "Being barricaded, I mean. Means someone was alive to do that. Good sign."

  "Even when the barricades are on the outside?" Imogen asked. Zed stopped and stepped back.

  "Huh," he said. He glanced at Imogen. "How attached are you to this grandpa of yours?"

  Imogen's response was a calm, measured exhalation of smoke, up and to the side. Zed got back to work prying off the board.

  "I tell you," he said, as the board squeaked loose. "If I weren't itchin' to take out some deadheads with ol' Trusty here ..."

  "Imogen?"

  Imogen turned to see Zack standing behind her, HopeKiller held reverently in his hands.

  "You need this, right?"

  "I will." Imogen flicked her cigarette away, then took the weapon from her brother. "Thanks."

  Zack beamed.

  "But don't touch it again."

  Zack nodded seriously. "I just thought—"

  "Do me a favour and shut up. And go back to the truck, you're supposed to be waiting there."

  "But I thought—"

  "Could be better for him to come with us," Zed said. He grunted as he pulled at the board. "Reckon it'd be safer than staying out here."

  Imogen looked around theatrically. There was no one around, living or dead.

  "Yeah, yeah, I hear ya, but my point is—"

  "I ... if I can choose," Zack said, "I want to ... I mean, I don't want to—"

  "Zack, you are staying in the truck," Imogen said. "Get in there, LOCK the doors, and wait for us to come back out."

  "But—"

  "And keep quiet."

  Zack went to argue, then shut his mouth. He looked appealingly at Zed, who glanced back with an apologetic shrug, then scowled and stomped towards the truck.

  "Lock the doors!" Imogen called after him. Zack's response was an angry shake of his head—but he got into the truck and he locked the doors.

  "Think that might've been a bit harsh?" Zed said. "Leaving the kid alone—"

  "Alone in a truck with the doors locked, or together with us in a retirement home filled with zombies?"

  "... okay, maybe you got a point. Plain to see the kid's scared, though—"

  "Scared and alive."

  Zed chuckled as he worked at the board. "You ain't one for compromise, are ya?"

  Imogen didn't reply. Zed chuckled again, and for a minute there was silence between them.

  "Reckon it was worse near the water." Zed nearly had the board worked loose now. Imogen realised he was talking about the effects of the wind. "Between here and the ocean there's about a mile of big solid buildings, could've maybe acted like a shield? Dunno, just ... ugh ... thinking out loud here. Lucky break for your neighborhood anyway, huh?"

  "I wouldn't say 'lucky'," said Imogen. "The force of the wind around the city centre meant a lot of people were damaged too badly to reanimate. Here, only a few people would have been killed, which means the spread of the virus—"

  "Okay, okay, you don't gotta go and make me feel dumb or nothing. Let's just, I dunno, let's just head in and kill us some zombies, huh?"

  The doors were locked, but Zed's crowbar soon got them open. Inside was the reception area, looking much as it always did. Th
ere was a single zombie behind the desk, standing there as if it had been waiting for them to arrive. It had no hair and much of the flesh had been torn from its face, and it purred as Zed walked closer.

  "Guess this here's the welcome party," he said, raising his rifle. "Yo, puke-features!"

  The report of Zed's rifle was loud in the small space, the effect of the bullet gruesome; the back half of the zombie's head exploded and what remained of its face crumpled inwards. Imogen winced and looked away ... then forced herself to look back again, watching as Zed sent two more bullets into the zombie, one in each shoulder.

  "Well would you look the hell at that," Zed murmured, awe in his voice. "Still standing. How's that, huh?"

  The zombie was doing more than just standing; it was still walking forward, the loss of both arms and its head apparently not a hindrance.

  "Don't reckon there's much it can do to us now but damn if that ain't disturbin'," said Zed. Brown ooze bubbled from the stump of the zombie's neck and ran down its front—and down its sides, from what remained of its shoulders. Still it came forward, until Zed raised his rifle once more and squeezed off two more shots; the first missed but the second blew off its leg at the knee. The zombie fell against the desk then slumped to the floor, still moving but in no way a threat.

  "Are you quite—"

  One final, loud shot rang out, accompanied by an oddly satisfying 'ping!', and the zombie jerked as its foot was blown apart. Zed glanced at Imogen.

  "Just so's I can reload," he said, pushing a new clip into his rifle, "no need to give me that look."

  The zombie was howling now, or trying to, the sound gurgling and weak.

  "It's better not to attack them," Imogen murmured, as she looked down at the pitiful, twitching remains. "Better not to cripple them, because it increases the chances of them howling to attract others."

  "Reckon that wussy little gurgle ain't gonna attract jack," said Zed, as he led the way forward. "And by the way, you're starting to sound like little Null."

  "I regret not talking to her when I had the chance. I hope ... she could still be safe."

  "Yeah. Could be." Zed sniffed as they made their way down a long, narrow corridor, then grimaced. "Damn, man, it reeks in here. Cooped-up zombie do have a tendency to get ripe, don't it?"

  "This is how it always smells in here."

  "Damn."

  There was movement behind some of the closed doors, shuffling, thumping and scratching.

  "Just like a damn movie!" Zed said, clearly delighted. He banged on a door then let out a whoop as the zombie inside purred and scratched harder. "Hot damn, ain't that a pip! Hey, you wanna come out and eat us? Too bad, deadhead! Not until you learn how to use those damn freaky bone fingers of yours to work a door knob!"

  "Zed."

  "Hell, I'm just having—oh, okay." Zed raised his rifle to aim at the zombie that had lurched around the corner—even as they watched it bent over and vomited, yellow ichor splattering the wall and floor. "Damn, I hate these pukers. Dunno if I should even shoot this one, might explode or something."

  "Explode?"

  "Hell, I don't know! That stuff could be flammable or anything, could be there's a damn chemical factory inside those things!"

  "How would a bullet cause an explosion? It's just a lump of lead."

  "Well, sure, but ... I mean ... it could spark or—"

  "Spark against what? Bone? Dead flesh?"

  "Look, Little Miss Smartypants, I'm just saying we don't know what could happen with these things, we gotta be careful—"

  "Yes. I agree. So shoot that thing so it doesn't vomit on us."

  Zed raised his eyebrows at Imogen. She rolled her eyes.

  "Please."

  "Well now that's all you had to say," Zed muttered, raising his rifle again. "Didn't your mama never teach you the magic word?"

  "I just said it, didn't I."

  "That you did." Zed squeezed off a shot—it missed, as did the second, but the third was right on target, blowing apart the zombie's right knee. "That you surely did."

  "Legs are hard to hit," Imogen murmured.

  "Hell yes they are. There's a good god-damn reason 'aim for center mass' gets drilled into army men."

  "I thought you weren't a soldier."

  "I ain't. That don't mean I don't know a thing or two." Zed winced as he fired again—another miss, but he breathed calmly with the second shot and the zombie's head exploded against the wall in a splatter of yellow slime and brown muck. He glanced at Imogen then emptied the rest of the clip into the still-moving corpse, and then another, blowing off both its arms, its other leg, and tearing open its side for good measure. It was still moving as they passed it, but just barely.

  "Not dead yet," Imogen murmured.

  "Reckon you could probably kill one, given time and motivation," said Zed. "Doubt it's worth the effort, though."

  "Mm," said Imogen, as she looked back at the pitiful remains of the zombie. "Grandpa's room is close."

  The door was open and the inside of the room was just as Imogen remembered it—cramped and messy. The only thing missing was her grandfather.

  "Nice collection," Zed remarked, as Imogen set HopeKiller down beside the door and limped in past him. He was looking at the dusty toy soldiers on the dresser. "Used to have some myself."

  "What happened?" Imogen asked, the irritation in her voice masking the fear she felt. "Did you grow up?"

  "Nope. Just, dunno ... left 'em behind. What you doing down there?"

  Imogen was crouching down to reach under the dresser, grimacing as her hand closed around a hard, cold piece of metal.

  "Damn, man, nice piece. That a Ruger?"

  Imogen pushed the heavy revolver into Zed's hand.

  "Take it," she said. "If you like it."

  "Well thankee, ma'am." Zed sat down on the bed to examine his new toy. "Dang, no bullets. Would've liked to try this sucker out—hey, let's go lootin' after this, go find us a gun store!"

  Zed grinned at Imogen's cold glance, then frowned. "What you lookin' for now?"

  Imogen had the dresser open and was rummaging through a drawer. "Keys," she said. "Grandpa has a scooter, he's not supposed to ride it, but—"

  There was a small, sad clinking noise as Imogen pulled out a bunch of keys.

  "Well now that don't mean nothing, maybe—"

  "IMOGEN!"

  Imogen was out of the room in two hops, staring down the hall at her little brother—

  Crawler. From one of the rooms opposite; the door's open. Should've checked—too late now. Its claw is around his ankle; there's no way it can scratch through his jeans and the overalls he's wearing. HopeKiller was in Imogen's hand as she limped forward, Zack was yelling out but she raised her bat calmly and judged the strike—

  With a horrible belching noise yellow ichor exploded from the zombie's mouth, splattering over Zack's jeans and soaking in. He screamed as it puked again, trying to pull himself away—

  Sharp metal tore through dead flesh and scraped against bone, and then Zed was there, pulling Zack away, and Imogen was slashing out with HopeKiller, almost severing the zombie's other arm, and she looked down and clenched her teeth and with four short, brutal blows she smashed the zombie's face against the thinly carpeted floor, the back of its hairless skull cracked open.

  After a precious second spent making sure the zombie was no longer a threat, Imogen looked back down the corridor. Zed had his hunting knife out and had already cut away Zack's jeans, around where the zombie had puked—

  "Ain't gone through even to the overalls, reckon he's okay!"

  With a deep shuddering intake of air Imogen started breathing again, close to tears with relief; he's safe, he's fine—

  Imogen gasped and then cried out as her head was jerked back, struggled to stay standing but it was no use, HopeKiller dropped to the floor as she scrabbled at the claws tangled in her hair, as she fell back, something stopping her—the chest of the zombie that had grabbed her, and she star
ed up at its horrible face, its mouth was open and as she desperately tried to get away, to fall, to do anything, it retched—

  Though still in pained shock Imogen tried to close her eyes—too late. Hot, slimy filth splattered her face, her eyes, clogging her nostrils, splashing over her mouth, and the zombie was still retching, still vomiting, and she did not scream, she did not open her mouth even as she fell, as the zombie fell atop her, its claws clutching at her jacket, at her stomach, and suddenly there was a warmth there too, a terrible warmth—

  "Get, OFF HER!"

  Suddenly the pressure was gone and there was a crunching thud down the corridor, Imogen still had her eyes squeezed as tightly shut as she could get them but she could no longer keep her mouth closed, and she just managed to turn her head to the side before warm bile filled her mouth and she gagged and vomited, and once she'd started she couldn't stop, couldn't move, couldn't do anything but retch and retch and retch, even after she had nothing left to puke up she kept on vomiting, somehow she was on her hands and knees now, somehow there was something hard slamming against her back, and to her surprise she found that the gagging retch that was coming didn't—except then there it was—but another hard whack against her back stopped it, and she was sobbing now, over and over, I'm dead, I'm dead, I'm dead—

  "Just what in the world are you three doing?"

  Imogen was still sobbing but she looked around at this new voice, this strange voice, muted like it was coming from far away but there it was, this hulking figure dressed in ... in ...

  ... in a spacesuit.

  The shock of this was enough to bring Imogen out of her state of near-hysterics, and she stared at the figure as Zed spoke:

  "What in the hell are you supposed to be? You with the government?"

  There was cheerful laughter from the suited figure, and then it reached up and removed its bulky head, revealing another, smaller head beneath, this one with flushed cheeks and small steamed-up glasses and fluffy white hair—