by Jack Wallen
“Who are you?” the test subject demanded.
“As far as you are concerned, I’m God.”
Dr. Norton turned to one of his surgical assistants. “Is the DNA from the infant viable?”
“Yes, sir. We have confirmation it is ninety-nine percent compatible.” The assistant handed Norton a large hypodermic. Within the glass shaft of the hypo, a glistening clear liquid tilted and swirled.
“And the DNA from Subject 001?”
“Yes, sir. The DNA from Subject 001 is ready.” The assistant handed Norton a glass vial.
The doctor inserted the needle of the syringe into the vial and injected the liquid. Once the glass chamber of the hypo was empty, he shook the vial vigorously and once again inserted the needle to draw out the full contents into the syringe.
“What are you doing with that?”
Dr. Norton turned to the test subject. The look in his eyes twinkled a wicked light.
“This? Oh, you see, I call this ‘Deus ex Mortem’; or ‘God from Death.’ Not that it will make you God. No. This makes me God and it does so with a little help from you.” Norton looked to his assistant. “Check his restraints.”
“Please, just let me go. I won’t tell anyone, I swear.”
Norton offered a chuckle. “Why, of course you wouldn’t. Who in the world would you tell? And what would you say to them? ‘The Zero Day Collective is trying to experiment on me!’ That’s a laugh. We’re experimenting on everyone. You see, the world has become my Petri dish. I can do whatever the hell I want, with no repercussions.”
The assistant nodded to the doctor and stepped away from the bed.
The hypodermic refracted a rainbow of light across the room as it was held aloft over the subject. The man’s deep brown eyes went wide as he saw the point of the needle coming to bear on the flesh of his abdomen.
“This is going to hurt,” the doctor said calmly. “A lot.”
The needle plunged into the man’s flesh to the needle hub.
Just as the patient’s scream reached its peak, the doctor raised his hand as if to quiet the man.
“My good man, that’s not the painful part. This is.”
Without any more warning, the doctor depressed the plunger, sending the clear liquid into the subject’s system. After withdrawing it, he stood and placed the hypodermic on the surgical tray. When no flood of pain crashed through his system, the man strapped tight to the bed opened his eyes and relaxed slightly.
Silence, save for the breathing of the patient.
A burst of laughter took Norton by surprise.
“Is that the best you’ve got?” the man spat.
The doctor grinned wide. “Oh, no. Not at all.” Norton glanced at his watch. “Three, two…”
Before the patient could take a moment to bat an eyelash, every ounce of air was stolen from his lungs in a throat-ripping scream. Sinewy arms thrashed against the woven Kevlar bands around his wrists. Powerful legs kicked against the bonds at his ankles.
The scream continued to tear at his vocal cords.
“Doctor, shouldn’t we sedate the patient?” The assistant confronted the doctor.
“No need.”
“But he—”
“I said, no need.”
Again, Dr. Norton glanced at his watch.
“In three, two…”
The room fell silent again. The arms and legs of the patient dropped to the bed. Erratic and shallow breathing were the only signs of continued life.
“Please prep the subject for surgery. We need to get this completed immediately. Dr. Karem is ready in Sterile 02.”
“The plastic surgeon? Why him?”
“Do not ask questions. You’re my assistant and nothing more. If you stick your head too deep in these waters, you will drown. Certainly you understand that?”
The assistant shut her mouth and nodded. Not another word was exchanged before she unlocked the wheels of the bed and rolled the subject out of the room. Norton pulled out his mobile and tapped a button. On the other end of the line, the familiar voice picked up.
“Dr. Otte, the subject has left for the operating room. We’re almost ready for you and commander Faddig.”
*
By the time Faddig and the doctor reached the medical section of the mobile unit, the surgery was underway. Dr. Norton led them both to an adjacent room. With a flourish, Norton drew a curtain back to reveal a glass wall. “Welcome to the theatre of the damned.”
With a flip of a switch, the room was filled with the audio from the surgery. The clank of metal as instruments were dropped into trays of saline offered an off-kilter rhythm to the event.
Dr. Otte looked between Faddig and Norton. “So what is the endgame here?”
Faddig didn’t even offer a glance toward Dr. Otte. “Absolute victory.”
“I don’t understand.”
Faddig turned sharply to Otte, his eyes narrowed to slits, his nostrils flaring in time with his angry breath. “She has eluded us at every turn. We even stole her child and she hasn’t appeared. What is happening in that room assures us that Bethany Nitshimi will find her way back into our waiting arms. This is our insurance policy.”
“This makes us God…” Norton chimed in.
Faddig glared at the doctor until beads of sweat appeared at the doctor’s hairline.
“…makes you God. I’m sorry, commander.”
A spray of blood fountained toward the ceiling of the room.
“Clamp that.” Dr. Karem shouted in time with another stream of blood that shot nearly seven feet into the air. “You fucking idiot. Can you not handle a simple clamp job?”
Dr. Karem looked toward the window of the room and shook his head. Commander Faddig knew exactly how he felt. His entire career with the Zero Day Collective had been an exercise in patience and frustration. The young soldiers couldn’t fight, his biological crew had the aptitude of two children playing doctor, and now the surgical staff couldn’t clamp off a gushing artery.
“How long will this surgery take?”
“I’m sorry, commander, it’s hard to say. My best guess would be six to eight hours. This is a very delicate and consuming operation. We’re talking about reconstructing an entire face.”
Faddig turned to Dr. Norton. “I don’t care if Dr. Karem were completely reconstructing the genitals of Bigfoot while blindfolded on stilts. This needs to be done yesterday. We are running out of time here.”
“Sir,” Otte stepped in before the moment could shift. “I understand your impatience; but you have to know we are doing our best. It took months to locate the perfect specimen and an equally long period was given to—”
Faddig pressed himself nose-to-nose with Dr. Otte.
“I only truly care about one thing at the moment—getting Nitshimi back into my hands. Until that happens, I am holding you personally accountable for every mistake made. If that surgery fails, everything we have worked for is a wash. Should that be the case, you will take the full brunt of the blame.”
“Yes, sir.”
Faddig slammed the door as he exited. Otte and Norton stood in silence, staring at one another, while the sounds in the surgery suite continued in the background.
chapter 7 | the road to hell and back
“…that was ‘Sentry the Defiant,’ by Coheed and Cambria. It’s amazing how a simple song can carry you away from your circumstance to help you forget the surrounding nightmare. But when I listen to that song, my mind immediately drifts away to our own Sentry, mankind’s Obi Wan—Bethany Nitshimi…”
Everyone in the Hummer went apeshit at the mention of my name. Echo’s arms wrapped tight around my neck, Jamal’s toothy grin consumed my vision, and nearly everyone shouted my name. It took me a moment to quiet them down so I could hear the DJ continue.
“…hope. It’s a rare occasion the hope of man rests squarely on the shoulders of one person. That type of drama is generally reserved for comic books. When Superman saves the planet from Lex Luthor or Bat
man prevents Bane from tearing Gotham City to shreds you knew that one hero could save the day. But Superman had strength on his side and Batman had, well, a bunch of gadgets and an almost impenetrable suit to protect him…not to mention the soothing voice of Morgan Freeman. What about Bethany? What keeps the Zero Day Collective from taking her down and dissolving the hope of man? Is it truth? Is it righteousness? Faith? What gives Bethany Nitshimi the will to rip through the veil of lies and horror is a MacGyver-like ingenuity and a Stephen Hawking-level intellect. She’s brilliant, she gets things done, and she’s dead sexy. That’s right, ladies and gentlemen of the Zombie Radio Nation, I’ve seen pictures of Miss Bethany. I know how to use Google. She’s hot. Okay, I shouldn’t have said that. Now all you fanboys are going to be creeping on her and chasing her across this bloody nation in an attempt to score a date. Forget I said it. Bethany is twelve flavors of nasty. She’s built like a dude with too much crack, tiny feet, and an oversized gut. She’s a plumber’s plumber with the attitude of a construction worker. Walk by her and she’ll be grabbing crotch and dropping f-bombs at your feet.”
Jamal’s eyes were shining bright in the darkened cab of the truck. His mouth dropped open and he shook his head.
“Enough about the hot-or-not factor of Bethany Nitshimi. It’s time for some music. We need to turn this bitch up to eleven. Besides, you probably need a little music to serve as motivation for zombie slaying. That’s right. Remember, the modus operandi of the new world order is the destruction of the undead. And what better tune to cull the tragic herd than Pantera’s ‘Revolution is My Name’? Channel that negative energy into something useful, my darling darklings, and help Bethany Nitshimi take down the Zero Day Collective.”
The music ripped out of the speakers and threatened to do damage to anything the sine waves touched. Morgan grabbed her walkie and called up Joshua to tune in. Apparently, the big teddy bear had a soft spot for Dimebag.
Life’s little surprises.
Jamal was still grinning wide.
“What?”
“What do you mean what? B, you are seriously famous. That DJ called you our Obi Wan. It doesn’t get more flattering than that.”
“For a nerd…ya nerd.” I doled out a slap and punch to Jamal’s shoulder. “I can think of much better ways to compliment a woman than to call her Obi Wan, or—before you even start—Princess Leia in that stupid slave bikini!” Another punch to Jamal’s shoulder as a less-than-innocent grin spread across his lips. “Why are men so predictable?”
Before anyone could reply, Josh’s voice squealed from the walkie.
“Morgan, we have a situation.”
Morgan picked up the radio and replied.
“I read you. What’s up?”
“Looks like a gang of Moaners surrounding a car. That could only mean one thing.”
Morgan glanced at me as she spoke into the radio. “Survivors.”
“Time for some action, Morgan. Are you ready?”
Again, Morgan looked my way. I offered no indication as to my state of readiness to take on another gang of Moaners. She answered Joshua anyway.
“To protect and sever.”
Morgan sped up the truck to fall in directly behind Joshua.
“Are you sure it’s wise to be getting sidetracked? We really need to get to Salt Lake.”
Morgan glanced at me by way of the rearview mirror. “I get it, Bethany, I really do. It’s clear we have a bigger mission to accomplish. But the Zombie Response Team has a duty to protect the citizens. So you’ll have to excuse a sidetrack now and then—especially when that sidetrack means we save another life. If you have a problem with that…”
I held up my hands in surrender. “I don’t. You’re right; we can’t just ignore the pleas of survivors. We go down that dark path and we’re no better than the fucksacks who spun up this nightmare.”
Respect flashed across Morgan’s eyes. If she only knew the truth, that all I really cared about at the moment was making it to Salt Lake and locating Jacob, she would have kicked my ass out of the Hummer and bade me farewell. I couldn’t deny my feelings; I also couldn’t keep them from weighing down my gut like I’d swallowed a brick. I’d spent so much time trying to save the planet from imploding that I failed to remind myself what was truly important. Now that it was gone, it was all I could think of or care for.
Fat lot of good that did me now.
The Hummer came to a slow, quiet stop. I was so lost in thought I’d failed to realize Morgan had killed the engine a few hundred feet back. Inertia carried us directly to the side of Josh’s vehicle. Morgan carefully opened the driver’s side door and stepped out of the truck. She met Josh at the tailgate of the lead Hummer and, from the looks of it, nailed out a plan of attack.
They left me out. I didn’t like that one bit. I wanted to think ego was a thing of the past, that surviving the Grand Guignol meant chucking the “self” out the window. Even as the thought was given the spark of life, I realized how utterly impossible it would be to survive this wretched nightmare without thinking the slightest bit selfishly. Besides, had we all bothered to think of others first all along, none of this would have happened. But then, the human creature is impossibly insane by nature. In the decade leading up to the spread of the Mengele Virus, we had devolved into creatures of such hedonistic focus it amazed me we’d survived at all. Humanity’s predilection for power made it nearly impossible for the selfless to survive.
Joshua opened the door to the back of the Hummer and pulled out an assault rifle. Chills raced up and down my flesh as the barrel of the gun came to bear on the zombies that surrounded the car. Josh opened up the supports on the rifle and set the business end down on the secondary Hummer’s hood.
“What’s he doing?” Jamal whispered.
I turned so that Jamal could witness the incredulity in my eyes.
“Seriously, Jamal?” My voice was louder than I anticipated. I dropped the tone to a whisper. “Have you ever fired a weapon near a crowd of zombies? You’ll get one shot off before the entire zombie bunch is all over you like hairspray on a beehive.”
Confusion lined Jamal’s face when he turned to me.
“The hairstyle, not an apiary.”
Jamal nodded with a newfound confidence.
“I’m going out,” I started. Echo grabbed my arm and held on for dear life.
“You can’t go, B. If you leave, what will happen to us?
I stroked Echo’s arm. “I’ll only be twenty feet away. If you need anything, I’ll be right beside you the whole time.”
Echo eased off her grip and I slipped out of the truck. Morgan spotted me creeping across the divide between us; her eyes went wide with fear, her hands shot up in a gesture to make me stop. This was all so confusing. She knew I’d taken out my fair share of the horde—many of which I’d done on my own.
Josh dropped his right eye to the scope and lined up his sights. He took his time. When he finally allowed his finger to drop, all bets were off. I could almost feel the rhythm of the sniper taking hold of Joshua. As soon as he carefully pulled the trigger of the gun, I expected uproar to follow. It didn’t. In fact, the gang of four ignored the shot and continued giving the car the beatdown of its life.
Morgan’s hand reached up and came to rest on Josh’s shoulder. He turned back to her, purest confusion lining his brow. With the slightest nod toward the car, Josh communicated to Morgan his next move. She gently nodded and stepped back, her arms spread wide to indicate anyone and everyone alive should stay clear of the area.
I didn’t hesitate to find out what the next move was. I backed up until the cool metal of the truck chilled the skin of my back.
“Hey,” Josh shouted. “Over here. Fresh brain all around.”
The zombies didn’t so much as turn toward the sound of life behind them.
“What’s in that car?” I whispered to Morgan, once she was within range. She shrugged.
Josh raised his gun and, without warning, dropped one of the
Moaners with a bullet through the head. The corpse fell with a wet thud, completely unnoticed by its fellow undead who continued the laying on of hands.
“Bethany,” Josh called back. “Humor me and fire up the Obliterator. I want to see if these bastards will react to anything.”
Morgan nodded, as if to give the idea a final stamp of approval.
Under normal circumstances, the apocalypse dictated a “shoot first, ask questions later” attitude—especially when dealing with the undead horde. A part of me wanted to yank the gun from Josh and lay waste to the gang of monsters surrounding the car. Something about the situation was odd, though. Zombies never ignored a fresh brain buffet. In that regard, they were one-trick ponies. But here we were, facing a gang breaking the one and only rule known to zombiekind.
Without letting my eyes drift from the scene for a second, I managed to get into the truck.
“Echo, hand me my laptop, please.”
I was shocked when the device found its way into my grasp with nary a question or complaint. Everyone in the Hummer was glued to the windows—hoping to get some glimmer of understanding of the scene unfolding in front of them.
The laptop booted quickly and I jacked it into the truck’s sound system.
“Give me a beat,” I said, as my right index finger came down on the Enter key to fire off the Obliterator command. At the Janet Jackson reference, Jamal looked at me and flashed a wide, wicked grin and said, “Miss Nitshimi, if I’m nasty.”
The high-pitched oscillating sound tore from the speakers mounted to the undercarriage of the Hummer. With the vehicle not moving, the vibrations from the sound traveled straight up, through steel and glass.
I slammed my palms against the passenger-side window to get a good look at the attack. To my shock, the zombies didn’t budge.
“Bethany.” Jamal’s voice broke through my fear. “This isn’t in any way good.”
“No, Jamal. No, it’s not.”
Echo reached from the back seat and grabbed my shoulder. “They aren’t reacting at all.”