by White, Ben
And once again Imogen was lost, utterly and completely, as the doctor launched into a series of technical terms and phrases and rapidfire posit-deduction-conclusions. Zed had finished humming the theme to Rawhide now and had moved onto a tune Imogen didn't know—except maybe she did, maybe she knew and had just forgotten—
"First stage!" Doctor Angerness said, with a certainty and confidence that brought Imogen's attention back to his words—she noticed then that he'd finished with her brace and was now pacing up and down in front of the ping pong table. "The zombie will 'hunt'—that is, actively seek out sustenance. Living flesh for preference, but no doubt you've seen them snacking on all sorts of things!"
Imogen and Zed glanced at each other, then looked back at the doctor and shook their heads.
"Oh? Hm. Really? Well ... well, in any case, zombies will not target other zombies, still not sure how they tell, possibly something to do with this noise they make, this 'thrumming', perhaps better described as 'vibratory' than 'vocal'? Not sure, no dictionary handy, going by imperfect memory—moving on, another theory, pheromones—and yet how? No air, no sense of smell, or could it be possible ... never mind, perhaps not relevant—interesting also, they will target non-infested over infested, although, aha, of course, as you both well know, they have no qualms over attacking either!"
"Infested?" Imogen said. The doctor nodded happily.
"Yes, those harbouring the parasitic infestation carried by the wind—I thought I'd explained this, perhaps I should go over it again—"
"No!" said Imogen and Zed, in unison. Imogen continued—"I mean, I understand." She swallowed hard as an unwelcome memory rose in her. "The wind carried the parasites. They infested us. But our immune systems are too strong for them to overcome."
"Yes, exactly—top, ah, top marks for comprehension! By now you should be free of them, they die off rather quickly without, er, 'dead flesh' to consume. You see—well, you know, certainly you must know that the human immune system is, ah, a 'hardy beast', able to handle a lot of what nature throws at it, but in certain individuals—most of those here, for, er, for example—it is weakened enough for the parasites to gain a 'foothold', as it were. I have to admit, once I realised what was going on it was rather a hectic race to scurry around all of my, er, my friends here, administering bolstering shots and prescribing apples and steamed broccoli." Doctor Angerness went quiet, the enthusiasm fading from his eyes. "Not, er, not quite quickly enough, in many cases. Once the parasite gains that foothold, well ... well, there's not much one can do. Er. Moving on, then! Ah—Imogen, you could, er, test that brace, if you so desired, you should find moving much more comfortable now."
The brace pushed against Imogen's calf in a dozen uncomfortable places, it was tight around her leg below her knee and pushed oddly against her foot—but she could put her full weight on it without feeling so much as a trace of pain. Doctor Angerness laughed at the look of surprised wonder on her face.
"Another, er, another 'satisfied customer'! I'd advise you to be careful, you certainly shouldn't go jogging or anything similar, a 'run' is out of the question, but, er, well ... yes, there you go, you're seeing for yourself, my words are, er, well. Unnecessary."
Imogen was walking slowly around, testing the brace—down from her foot eight little round balls pressed against the floor, so that the sole of her boot never quite touched the ground. She felt a little unbalanced, but compared to before—
"Thank you," she said, quietly, and she looked up at the doctor. "This is ... this is good."
Doctor Angerness smiled benevolently at Imogen, then clapped his hands together sharply. "Now! As I was saying—second stage! You must have noticed the heat generated by the hosts. This is caused by the chemical reactions taking place in the muscles, rather inefficient by any standard, but then that's what you get when you move away from good old fashioned aerobic respiration, eh? There's always a trade-off, that's what people seem so insistent on refusing to understand, you cannot, er, 'have everything', so to speak. Efficiency is 'traded' for flexibility and a certain robustness. Ahem. The second stage is 'dormancy'. Moving takes energy, a supply your average zombie has in strictly limited quantities. As you remember me saying most of the organs are converted into fatty 'energy' blocks, while the digestive system is massively repurposed. If the zombie cannot feed to replenish its energy then the danger of 'burning out' is introduced—and so they stop, and they wait, and they watch. Well, er, not literally 'watch', of course, as you've noticed and as I've explained they're quite, quite blind, but, er, well, you understand my meaning, I'm sure. Ah, which reminds me—an intriguing phenomenon that you may be able to confirm for me, on a, er, a wider scale, would be that of 'grouping', zombies nearing the dormant stage will seek out other zombies—"
"Yeah, we seen that," Zed said, grasping at this recognisable concept. "Dang ol' things'll clump right up, you got that right."
"Ah, good, good, that's excellent—well, perhaps not, but you understand."
"What about them puking dudes, what's their deal?"
"Ah, well, there you have the result of 'burning out'. After the fatty organs are consumed the parasites turn on other things—muscle, bones, even the rotted and infected blood that serves as their carrier. These are less 'pure' than the fatty organs and not everything can be consumed. What's left over is thin yellow bile that must be spat up—they have no other, er, 'exit', you see."
Zed frowned in non-comprehension. "Huh?"
"As I, er, as I said, the digestive system is repurposed and so, er, the 'waste disposal system' that, er, that you and I enjoy is simply not present within these zombies. To sum up, the mouth is the singular point of entry AND point of exit."
"I'll be damned," Zed said. "Zombies can't poop. That's what you're saying, ain't it?"
"Well, er, yes. They can't, er, 'pee', either."
"Good god-damn."
"As you've probably guessed, at this stage the zombie is weakened and near 'death', if it can be called that—"
"The immune system," Imogen interrupted, looking up at the doctor. "How weak does it have to be for the parasites to start 'winning'?"
"Not particularly weak, I'm afraid. It depends on the individual, I can't claim any kind of solid 'base' for this theory but it appears that some are more naturally 'resistant' to the parasites than others—and some are, unfortunately, not resistant at all. Of course, the usual factors apply when, er, when speaking of that complicated and wonderful system we call 'immune', nutrition, general fitness, alcohol, er, consumption has a negative effect upon it—"
"I have to go," Imogen said, suddenly and sharply. "I've ... I have to go."
"Ah. Ah, well ... I apologise. You have something you need to do?"
Imogen's mouth was thin. "You could say that."
"Then I—oh! Oh, yes, I have something for you! Yes, I've been so wanting to try this out—over here, over here, come come—"
Doctor Angerness led Imogen over to a tea trolley with a computer set up on it. The monitor was displaying a desktop with a photo of some kind of cactus as the background, a bright pink flower against deep, glistening green, and on top of this was a dark window with a blinking text cursor.
"Here," said Doctor Angerness, plucking a pink cellphone from a pile beside the computer. "Take this. It's a 'pre-pay', you can use it to communicate with me! Should, er, should the need arise. Oh, and vice-versa, of course."
Imogen looked down at the cellphone in her hand. "Could I have another colour?"
There were no black phones, so Imogen settled for a dark blue one. Zed chose yellow.
"What's with the computer?" he asked. "You done hacked into some government satellite or something?"
"Oh no, no, I got Dot to set all this up for me, she runs the SeniorNet group here, Dot! Dot—oh, she's sleeping. This is just a more agreeable interface for this." Doctor Angerness picked up a green cellphone that was attached to the computer by a thin cable. "I find inputting on these things to be rather a chor
e, you see, all that fiddling around with these tiny buttons, with this I can send a 'text' ..."
Doctor Angerness clattered away at the computer's keyboard, then a few seconds later Imogen's phone beeped. She looked down at the screen:
...in the blink of an eye!
"Uh, cute."
"This 'hub' is in the phone's address book," Doctor Angerness said. "We had quite a fun time setting them all up, everyone, er, 'pitched in'. I'm rather excited we get to test the system, I do hope I have cause to use it!"
"Where'd you get the phones?" Zed asked.
"Oh, Frank helped me loot them," Doctor Angerness said, happily. "We 'hit' a couple of corner stores shortly after the first of the hosts began reanimating, as well as the drug store down the road and the local grocer's, and there's an electronics store not too far away that was filled with treasure. He's been very useful, has your grandfather. Perhaps a case of 'hidden depths'? It seems that Frank may be more than he appears!"
"No," said Imogen. "He's less. Trust me on that."
Zed chuckled, then jerked a thumb at the bathroom. "Gotta go drain the lizard."
Doctor Angerness blinked at Zed's back, then let out a short laugh. "Oh, aha, yes. Colourful. Er, so, where was I? Ah, yes—well, this was after the staff left, of course—"
"What's that? What's that?"
Frank's head had appeared from over the back of the couch. He glared suspiciously at Imogen and Doctor Angerness.
"I can hear you, you know! Talking about me! Just you watch it, you dirty mingers!"
"Grandpa, have you—"
"Shut up! I'm trying to watch!"
The TV had been switched off the news to an old black and white movie—a handsome man with an animated face was getting worked up as he yelled at a pair of pleasant-looking old ladies.
"Twelve!" the man on the television cried. "TWELVE!"
Zack laughed—he was sitting beside Frank, watching with him.
"Grandpa," Imogen said, quietly enjoying not having to limp as she walked over. "Have you heard from Mum?"
"Mum? Whose Mum? Mine?"
"Your daughter. Margaret."
"Oh, that useless bitch," Frank muttered, turning back to the television. "Of course I haven't. She never comes to visit, just sends her daughter instead. She was around here before, go and ask her and leave me alone."
Imogen rubbed her cheek. She'd expected this. No—she'd known. But she'd had to ask.
"Don't know why I even bother," Frank was continuing, gesturing angrily at the television as he talked. "Life's nothing but misery, first the nurses all try to kill me then they bugger off without a word, now it's dirty bloody zombies wandering about the place without so much as a by-your-leave—you mark my words, Margo, it's only getting worse from here, it is only getting worse from here!"
Imogen didn't sigh. Instead she looked down at her brother.
"Zack. You're okay here. You're safe here. Stay with Grandpa and Doctor Angerness. Do what the doctor tells you, okay?"
That Zack didn't even try to argue made Imogen's mouth tighten, but she controlled herself and began walking out—
"And just where the hell do you think you're going?"
Zed was standing by the bathroom door. Imogen's face was neutral as she looked back at him.
"Out."
"Oh, 'out', huh," said Zed, as he sauntered over towards Imogen. "That where you going?"
"My mother—"
"Yeah." Zed looked around, then shrugged. "All right, reckon I'll give you a lift."
"You really don't—"
"Hell, what else am I gonna do? Sit around here with these geezers, wincing every time I think of you walking along with that there leg?"
Imogen put her head to the side as she looked at Zed.
"You could just leave," she said. "You've got a cabin, right? In the hills?"
"Reckon I do."
"You could go there."
"Reckon I could."
"So why not?"
"Reckon I ... y'know, reckon I took you and your brother on. Reckon I got a responsibility to see whatever it is you gotta do through to the end. If that's going to get your ma, well, y'know ... let's go."
Imogen gazed at Zed for a long moment, her pale blue eyes unreadable, then she reached into her pocket and took out her cigarettes and lighter. Zed watched as she took one out and put it in her mouth.
"Mind if I smoke in your truck?"
Zed grinned.
*
There weren't any zombies around outside, and Zed spent a couple of minutes banging the barricade back into place before joining Imogen in the truck. Her cigarette was still in her mouth, as yet unlit.
"Figured I'd best leave as I found," he said. "Old bushman's law."
"Bushman?" Imogen said, as she took out her lighter. "I thought you were a cowboy."
"Bushman, cowboy, what's the difference, when you get right down to it?"
"Cows?"
"Heh. You ready to hit the road?"
Imogen was clicking away at her lighter. "How's your petrol?"
"Fine and dandy, filled her up just yesterday morning."
There was a faint hiss, and Imogen touched her lighter's high flame to the end of her cigarette. She clicked the lighter closed and dropped it back in her pocket, before taking the cigarette from her mouth and holding it out in front of herself, looking at it.
"We've got a full tank of gas, a pack of three cigarettes, it's the middle of the day and I'm not wearing my glasses."
"Hit it," said Zed, grinning. "That's my favorite damn movie."
"Mine too." Imogen brought her cigarette back to her lips and inhaled. "It was the only one we had when I was little. I can't even remember the first time I watched it."
"That the cut-down one or the full thing?"
"I don't know."
"It have the bit in the cheese whiz factory? 'I'm gonna be a priest'?"
"Yes."
"Full thing, or near as you can get. Damn. You're just full of surprises, ain't ya?"
"Could be."
Zed was still grinning as he pulled the truck around and drove them away from the retirement home. Imogen thought he might talk, but he drove silently, apparently concentrating on the road ahead. That was fine with her; she sat calmly smoking her cigarette and gazing out the window. She counted seventeen zombies along the way. She'd never seen her neighbourhood so crowded.
"Hey, you and your brother. You got the same daddy?"
Imogen looked back at Zed, her eyes cold. "Unfortunately."
"So he ain't adopted or nothin'?"
"What? Of course he isn't. Why—"
"Nuthin', nuthin'. Just thinking 'bout how different you two is—"
"So of course one of us had to be adopted."
"Come on now, I didn't mean nothing by it—just forget I said anything."
"With pleasure."
A somewhat chilly silence filled the truck as they neared the apartments.
"Hell, this brings back some memories."
Imogen glanced over at Zed, then wound down the window to flick the butt of her cigarette out.
"You've been here before?"
"Long time ago. Hell of a long time ago, if you wanna ask. Weren't for long, neither. Just passing through. Visiting a friend. They ain't around no longer. Heh, reckon ..."
Zed trailed off, apparently concentrating on driving. Imogen took out her pack and looked inside. Three left. The last three cigarettes in the entire world. Of course, that wasn't true. She had thousands in the bag back at the retirement home—but that was back at the retirement home. Right here, she thought, right now, these ARE the last three cigarettes in the world.
"Well, hello there. Looks like we found our missing deadheads."
Imogen shoved her cigarettes back in her pocket and looked out at a small, blurred horde. Glasses, she thought. I should've asked Doctor Angerness. There were probably some that would've fit my prescription there.
"Hm. Well. Hell."
Z
ed had driven closer to the apartments, and the horde of several dozen he'd first spotted had been eclipsed by the horde of several hundred behind them. The apartment buildings were set up around a huge, flat central concrete 'courtyard', a few hundred metres from side to side. There were zombies surrounding every building.
"There's so many," Imogen murmured. "Where did they all come from?"
"Hell, you'd know. How many people you reckon live in them things? Gotta be at least a thousand in each, and you've got, let's see, two on each side, four over there, hell, you're looking at eight thousand easy. Yeah, god-damn ... god-damn lot of people, no question about that."
Eight thousand, Imogen thought. I never even considered it. You never SAW anyone! You just passed them on the stairs on in the courtyard or ...
And now so many of them are dead.
Maybe all of them.
"Hell, you count up these deadheads on the ground, I mean ... what, maybe a thousand? So you gotta think most of the people in them there apartments got out."