The Undying Apathy Of Imogen Shroud

by White, Ben

  "Oh, no, no, not for many years now—and even then it was as nothing more than an advisor. I'm Doctor James Angerness." The doctor frowned as he noticed Imogen's state of distress. "Goodness me, are you all right, young lady?"

  Imogen was shaking her head, sobbing again.

  "Heavens, what's the matter?"

  "I ... got ... he ... got ... he ... all over ... my eyes ... my mouth ... I think ... I think I ... I think I swallowed—"

  "Oh my god," the doctor breathed. His glasses had cleared enough for him to see Imogen properly, and he stared in horror at the yellow slime sticking her hair to her skin, the redness of her eyes, the filth that covered her entire face. "Oh my god," he repeated, apparently unable to comprehend what had happened. "You poor girl. You poor, poor girl."

  Zed and Zack were both motionless, silent, each as lost as the other. Imogen let out another sob.

  "I'm dead," she moaned. "I'm dead, I couldn't ... I couldn't even ... I can feel it inside me ... it's ... doing something ... like it's ... eating me—"

  "Excuse me, it's doing what?"

  Imogen stared up at the doctor as he stared back at her.

  "Because ... it ... the puker, it killed me—"

  "Oh, no, no, no, of course it didn't. Don't be silly. Goodness me, 'eating you from inside', wherever did you get that kind of nonsense? I think that you, young lady, may have watched too many silly movies."

  Imogen was still staring. "What? But you ... you said 'oh my god', you looked—"

  "I certainly did, I was imagining how utterly horrible it must have been for you, what a revolting ordeal—you say you swallowed some? Urgh! It must have tasted disgusting!"

  "But ..." Zed sounded as confused as he looked. "But ain't they ... ain't them pukers the most dangerous kind?"

  The doctor laughed merrily. "Oh, no, quite the opposite. Quite the opposite. The 'pukers'—small example of convergent neologism there, haha—represent the hosts at their weakest point, the threat they present almost non-existent—except, aha, to one's personal hygiene. No, young lady, all you need is a decent scrub and you'll be as good as new. Uh, unless it managed to, er ..."

  Imogen shook her head, confused but cautiously relieved. "It didn't scratch me."

  "Well then, that's fine! I wouldn't have expected it to, once they've reached the 'puking' stage they tend to have little muscular strength, I imagine that even were its 'claws' against your bare skin it would not be able to penetrate—not a sturdy, er, sturdy young girl like yourself, no! Nor your, er, brother? Or your father—"

  "Hey, I ain't her daddy!"

  "He is NOT my father."

  "Ah, my mistake, I apologise, presumption is an untidy habit of mine, I do admit to it. I, well, I should probably be more upset at the three of you, you've really made a terrible mess, I suppose I should even be angry." The doctor blinked at them, then turned away. "Well, come along, then, let's get you cleaned up—it's not exactly safe here, you know!"

  Zack and Zed helped Imogen to her feet, and then Zack retrieved HopeKiller for her, and then all three of them followed the doctor through the corridors.

  "At least you could have knocked," he said, sounding more put out than angry. "Why didn't you come in through the proper entrance, around the back? Didn't you notice the barricades? Didn't you wonder why they were on the outside of the building?"

  "Some of us did," said Imogen. She coughed and then spat. Her mouth tasted horrible and she couldn't smell anything except for the zombie's vomit, a sharp, acidic, sour stench. She badly wanted a cigarette.

  "Well, I suppose it's too late to worry about that now. Hm. Too late, yes. Along here, not far to go—am I going too fast? I'll slow a little, I apologise."

  Imogen could feel Zack's eyes on her.

  "Imo—"

  "Zack, you're not exactly my favourite person right now."

  Zed cleared his throat. "Reckon your sister needs a little time to, uh ... just you walk beside me, little man, there's a boy."

  "Here we are!" The doctor gestured at a set of double doors at the end of the corridor. "Just through here to my lab, please—ah, if you please."

  Doctor Angerness led them through the doors into his 'lab', which looked suspiciously like one of the retirement home's recreation rooms. It was filled with threadbare old couches and understuffed easy chairs, ping pong tables with sadly sagging nets and a big old television set in the corner—it showed a serious-looking newscaster, although this soon changed to shaky footage of zombies shambling through deserted streets, the images marred by blocky digital artefacts. There were a few dozen residents sitting around, mostly clustered around the television, much as they had been before the winds had come, their lives and routines apparently unchanged by the events of the last day.

  "Over here, over here."

  Doctor Angerness led Imogen and the others over to the side of the room, where a ping pong table, a sideboard and a tea trolley had been set up against the wall, monitors and computers sitting atop them.

  "Now, first things first, the toilets are—"

  "Imogen! Imogen, you're alive!"

  Imogen turned to see her grandpa scurrying towards her, and then his thin, bony arms were around her in a thin, bony hug—which he immediately cut short.

  "You smell worse than a week-old fart," he said, screwing up his face. "What have you been doing? Rolling around in dog crap? Ah! I know you, you're ... no, I ... Zachary! Yes, young Zachary, my grandson!"

  Doctor Angerness beamed as Frank knelt to embrace Zack tightly, Zack's eyes squeezed shut as tears ran down his cheeks.

  "Frank's grandchildren," the doctor said, as if solving a puzzle. "How, how wonderful. Family reunited even in these dark times, really ... really, it's enough to ... to ... well, yes."

  "And you ... you?" Frank squinted at Zed. "I know you? Do I have three grandchildren now?"

  "Hell, I ain't that fresh, but I thank you for the compliment, old man."

  Frank continued to squint at Zed, suspicious, as Imogen looked expectantly at Doctor Angerness.

  "Aha, yes, the toilets—just that door there. Help, er, help yourself."

  "I'll be back soon, Grandpa. I'm just going to get cleaned up."

  "You need it! Give yourself a good scrubbing, eh? Heh heh heh!"

  Imogen rolled her eyes, but as she turned to go into the bathroom her cheeks were wet with tears, and her mouth was tight in what was unmistakeably a smile.

  There was a mirror in the bathroom, but Imogen avoided this. Instead she busied herself with water and soap, eventually managing to clean most of the vomit off of herself—it hadn't dried, it was just as slimy and disgusting as ever, but at least that meant she could get it out of her hair without too much trouble.

  From outside she could hear talking, arguing—her grandfather, of course, but she couldn't tell who it was he was shouting at. At that moment, she didn't particularly care. Imogen reached for the still-running tap, then froze.

  She stared.

  Not at her hand, where it still rested on the tap, but past it, at something familiar, something ... something that could be used ...

  Outside, in the rec room/lab, Zed was sitting on one of the easy chairs, leaning forward to try to listen to the news as two old ladies pecked at him.

  "Oh he's lovely, isn't he? I always liked a cowboy! Always liked a cowboy!"

  "Smells a bit but I'm sure he has a heart of gold!"

  "Ehehehehehehehe!"

  "EheHEhehehehehe!"

  "Stop bothering him you bloody witches, shoo! Shoo!" Frank came stalking towards Zed and the old ladies like a vengeful scarecrow, chasing them off with long, thin arms and hard, mean eyes. They cackled as they moved away, and Frank took advantage of the couch they'd left. Zed looked back at him and tipped his hat.

  "Thanks, old man. Didn't want to be impolite, but they were testing me sorely, I tell you what."

  "Don't call me old man, whippersnapper. I ain't dead yet!"

  "Reckon I can see that. So what should
I call you?"

  "Call me 'sir', it's not less than I deserve." Frank regarded Zed for a long, appraising moment, his eyes narrow behind his thick, square glasses. "Young Zachary tells me you helped get him and his sister here. Don't think I'm going to thank you! Imogen's a capable girl, she could've done it by herself. If you did anything ..." Frank trailed off, eyes once again narrowed. "I know you."

  Zed chuckled. "Do you now?"

  "I do. I know you, I never forget a face, I ... who are you? And you, eh? Who are YOU, shortstick?"

  Zack had come up while Frank had talked, attracting the old man's attention.

  "Grandpa! It's me, Zack!"

  "Zack? Zack? I don't know any Zacks—and you!" Frank said, turning on Zed. "What's your name? Come on, out with it!"

  "You can call me Zed, sir. Just Zed's fine."

  "I'm not calling you that! You wouldn't catch me calling you that!"

  "His name's Zed KILLER," said Zack, with great pride. "Except he's never actually killed a zombie, because they're too hard to kill? But he's reaaaaally good at fighting them, at shooting them or hitting them with his bat or even kicking them! I saw him kick like twenty zombies!"

  Frank was squinting at Zed again. "Kicker, eh? I used to be a kicker. Then my bloody hips got up and left!" He cackled to himself, then fixed Zed with a steady gaze. "What's your poison, whippersnapper?"

  "Poison? Hell, I ain't touched a drop in over ten years. Wouldn't go near that stuff if you paid me."

  "Not that kind of poison, you nonce! Ah, nobody understands me, why do I try. Why do I try." A look of sudden fear crossed Frank's face. "Why do I try? Do you know, eh? Do you? Tell me! You know, I know you do, I know ..." Frank trailed off, the moment of panic gone as quickly as it had arrived. He sat back in his seat, his eyes still fixed on Zed. "I do know you. I've met you—no! No, I've seen you!"

  "Sure you have, sir. Probably on the TV, that where you seen me? Shooting up bad guys in a dusty little town?"

  "Oh," said Zack, as understanding came to him. "In a cowboy movie—"

  "I don't watch that garbage! Filth! Rubbish! Give me The Duke any day! My father told me, he told me ... he told me—"

  Frank was cut off by Zack gasping.

  "Imogen!" he cried. "What did you DO?"

  "Well how's that," Zed said, as he looked over at Imogen, where she stood near the toilet. "How is that."

  "Who are you?" Frank demanded, launching himself from the couch and scuttling over to Imogen. He pointed a long bony finger at her. "You tell me! You—ah!"

  Imogen had grabbed her grandfather's finger in her hand—not tight, but it allowed her to easily control him, guiding his hand firmly back to his side.

  "It's me, Grandpa. Imogen. Your granddaughter."

  "She always sends her!" Frank said, nursing his finger. "Never comes herself!"

  "Imogen, your hair!" Zack said, hurrying up beside Frank. "I ... I can see your face!"

  Imogen had cut her hair to her neck, the line of it jagged and uneven, and had snipped away her long fringe. Zed was behind Frank and Zack now, regarding her thoughtfully.

  "Gotta say, on you it ... it works." Zed frowned, then shook his head. "Yep, definitely works. Looking good, Sue."

  Imogen ignored the others and focused on Zack. "Go and clean up, your hands and face especially. You're taking a bath later, too."

  "Aww—" Zack stopped himself mid-complaint. Looking down at himself, he had to grin. "Um ... well ... okay. Just this time."

  Imogen watched Zack scurry off into the toilet.

  "Uh, um, Sue, was it?"

  "Imogen," said Imogen, turning to Doctor Angerness. "What do you want?"

  "I gotta ask something first," Zed said, "because this has just been itching at my damn mind—where the hell did you get that hazmat suit?"

  "Oh, this?" Doctor Angerness smiled rather shyly as he looked down at himself. "Just, er, just something I had lying around."

  The look on Zed's face almost made Imogen laugh out loud. "You had a god-damn hazardous materials suit just lying around?"

  "Well, er, I say 'lying around', what I mean is, of course, that it was properly stored—'packed', perhaps, would be a good word to use regarding its state prior to these, er, 'events'."

  "But why'd you even have it?"

  Doctor Angerness blinked at Zed. "Er ... not quite sure—ah? Oh! Well, you see, uh, when considering various hypotheticals—this in the past, you understand, past speculation—and weighing up—no, wrong term, when considering potential, er, 'events', the thing is, the important ... the important thing is that I, er, in every scenario, such as it were, I was always—I would always be very glad indeed to, er, to have one. Er, that is, to sum up ... it's better to have a hazmat suit and not need one, than to need a hazmat suit and not have one. Yes?"

  "Hell, and I thought I was crazy prepared. Feel like I just got schooled by the master over here."

  "Er, in any case, Sue—or Imogen, it was Imogen, wasn't it? I couldn't help but notice, your foot—that plastic thing seems hardly adequate. Could you, er, come along here? Perhaps 'hop up' onto this ping pong table?"

  Zed helped Imogen up, and Doctor Angerness flashed both of them a quick, shy smile before scurrying to a cabinet then bringing something back.

  "Tah-dah!"

  What the doctor held was a bulky metal contraption with rounded black joints.

  "It's a leg brace," he explained, at the dubious look on Imogen's face. "Senior citizen strength! Now, er, under normal circumstances I'd recommend you remove your boot, but given the need for 'protection' I think we can probably figure something out. Mr, er, Mr ...?"

  "Killer," said Zed. "Zed Killer."

  "Mr Killer, if you could? Help?"

  Doctor Angerness removed the plastic brace from Imogen's foot and discarded it casually. Imogen felt an odd, unexpected sting of regret as it disappeared into the rubbish bin; it had taken her through so much, she most likely owed it her life, to just throw it away ...

  "Hey now, reckon that little doohickey deserves more than just being trashed," said Zed, already going to retrieve it. He held it up and grinned. "Could make it into a toast holder or somethin'."

  Imogen was quietly pleased to see Zed putting the brace into his bag.

  "Could we, er, proceed? And perhaps I could explain a little while I, er, do so. It's rather fiddly to get these things on, but well worth the effort!"

  "Explain what, Doc?" Zed asked, as Doctor Angerness gestured him into position.

  "Well, these hosts, of course. The two of you have clearly been 'in the wars', so to speak, I thought it might be jolly for you to learn a little about your, er, 'enemy'. Such as they are."

  "Hosts," Imogen repeated. "It's a parasite?"

  "Yes, a very clever one—or 'ones', I should say. Er, Mr Killer, if you could, er, 'raise' the young lady's leg—I should admit to you now, I am not actually a medical doctor, as such. But this 'procedure' is simple enough. There, slips right on, you see?"

  "What kind of doctor are you, then?" Zed asked, still holding Imogen's leg up.

  "Oh, er, botanist, actually. Yes. Cacti and succulents—always had an affinity for the noble fungi also. I just love the 'fat' ones." Doctor Angerness chuckled, then checked himself. "Er, but ... yes. I wrote a number of papers around the topic of mucilage, mucilaginous substances? Some of them were, er, rather well received, if I do say so myself, you haven't ...? No, of course not, I shouldn't be so silly. Ah. So, these hosts—or should I refer to them as 'zombies'? Would that be more comfortable?"

  "Hell, call 'em whatever you want, Doc. Don't make no difference to me."

  "Zombies, then. There is rather a thrilling quality to the term, isn't there? Well, to put it simply, and to start at the, er, at the very most basic 'point', I believe that the parasites share similar characteristics with Escherichia coli and Paracoccus denitrificans—even with Desulfuromonadales, would you believe! Now I know you must think me crazy, as you surely would have noticed that these aren't par
asites at all, but rather bacterium—aha, Proteobacteria!—but you must remember that I described them as 'clever', well, I think after you hear my theories you will surely agree that 'clever' is an understatement!"

  And Imogen was lost. The doctor burbled on as he tightened straps and buckled buckles, Imogen only understanding every other word, Zed clearly not managing even that, and the two of them exchanged glances as the doctor went on.

  "—anaerobic respiration!" he cried, minutes later, clearly both delighted and fascinated by the very existence of the concept. "Respiration without blood! Ingenious! Aha, but, of course, as you must now be thinking, 'if not blood, then what?'. And of course the answer—as you may very well have guessed—lies in TCA reduction, nitrate reduction—ah, yes, just up a bit further, well done—even sulphur respiration like our good friends the Desulfuromonadales!"

  And again the doctor went on, and again Imogen was lost—Zed wasn't even trying to follow now, instead quietly humming the theme song to Rawhide as he followed the doctor's instructions.

  "—hive community! Remarkable!" Imogen blinked and looked up at the doctor—he was focused on adjusting something on her brace, but he chattered on as he worked: "To be perfectly honest I don't have the experience or knowledge necessary to understand the complexities of the process, let alone the equipment for testing—but the basics, the 'outline' of the problem—er, not problem, not precisely, but in any case, the brain is gone! Except not gone, you see, you understand, but rather ... moved. Moved? There's a better word—distributed. Intertwined—" the doctor stopped fiddling with the brace to link his fingers together, peering over them at Imogen "—with the nervous system. How? HOW? Should be impossible. SHOULD be impossible, but clearly, er, clearly it ... isn't. Not impossible. Improbable. Improbable but existent." Doctor Angerness shook his head as he returned to the brace. "Odd. Odd things. Don't understand them, perhaps I cannot understand them. You're familiar with cloning, similar concept. Possibly. Not just once, many times. Over and over. Constantly? Possible. Very possible. Probable, even. Remade anew with every moment—and yet how inefficient, how bizarre! Nervous system in control? No, can't be. Cannot be. Copied, re-copied, imperfectly? But the evidence suggests—no, merely theorising now, not useful to you." Doctor Angerness was becoming agitated, talking faster and faster as he worked on Imogen's brace—she wondered if he was even doing anything, or just busying his hands as his mouth motored on: "Bones are weaker, you've noticed? Hair also—nails! You've seen, the fingers, the bones of the fingers? The parasites consume alpha-keratin—nails, hair, present in both, from there the flesh of the fingers ... deliberate? Would suggest artificial parasite, man-made, but why? For what purpose? Death, mutilation, horrors of the flesh, idealistically my mind rebels at the very notion but cynically I must accept the possibility—ah, you noticed, you must have noticed, bone 'claws', all the better to scratch you with, my dear, ahem—ah, muscles! Bones are weaker but muscles stronger—increase in tension, nervous system more closely bound to muscles—but perhaps I'm rambling now. Trying to understand, you see? Trying to work through the problem verbally, sometimes a fresh perspective—ah, which brings me to, er, that is to say ... well. Perhaps you'll have better luck—"