My Zombie My (I Zombie)

by Jack Wallen

  “Echo Bravo,” I said into the radio in my hand.

  I held my breath, wondering if the disembodied voice on the other end of this connection had given up.

  Static.

  “Continue mission, out.”

  There was another sharp crack of static and then all was silent.

  “Bethany, say something. Tell him where we are, that we need help…something,” Jean was pleading nervously, sweat beading his forehead.

  “No, I can’t. It could be government and I don’t trust them,” I said, much more harshly than I intended. I had to soften the tone a bit. “What we do, we do alone until we have the cure.”

  Jean protested sharply, insisting we couldn’t pull off a cure for a super-virus by ourselves. I didn’t want to believe him, so I backed up my initial protest with another, sharper “No”. I knew the government would have resources we would never have access to, but ever since Jacob and I uncovered the truth about the nature of the virus, I knew not to trust any government agency.

  “Jean, the government is the reason this virus exists.” I dropped the biggest bomb I had in my arsenal, which Jean countered.

  “Bethany, we are in a government-run hospital.” And with that single sentence, the whole circus tent came crashing down. “Val de-Grace is a military hospital,” Jean re-iterated the same point that already had my jaw on the floor. “But Bethany, the military is gone. Everything is gone. What is there to worry about?”

  “Jean, you should have told me this was a government hospital.” How in the Hell would this man have known to tell me, a stranger, that Val de-Grace was military? What would have given him any indication to believe that it was information important to a mission he had no idea he was on?

  The argument silenced itself as quickly as it heated up. I felt like an idiot. In retrospect I should have known this place was government issue. Now that I look around it is, quite literally, written all over the walls. That was a big failure on my part.

  Jacob never would have missed that one.

  Jean put his hand on my shoulder, a gesture of peace I sorely needed. Of course I fell for it and genuinely apologized.

  “Bethany, even if that file contains an exact chemical model for the cure, how are we to recreate it? I’m not a chemist. I can diagnose and administer; I cannot create.” Jean’s eyes were filled with what I could only describe as tragedy. His brow was furrowed and the corners of his lips were being pulled down by a gravity I couldn’t feel.

  I spent way too much time reminding Jean we had to keep our numbers small, in order to avoid an onslaught of the zombie crush. I tried to convey the horror we went through in Munich, but I don’t think it registered quite as deeply as it would have had he been there. I do know that Jean was right. Even if the Mengele file contained the precise formula for the cure, the chances of a hacker and a doctor of medicine having any success with the formulation were slim. And the idea of using Susan as a chemical playground made me want to weep.

  Jean was right, we needed a chemical engineer. I assume that would be yet another task to fall into my hands, but when Jean volunteered I was glad to be relieved of the burden. Besides, he needed a task outside of watching a comatose girl. I gave Jean a login on to one of the nurses’ station computers so he could expand his search beyond the antiquated phone book. We immediately started to walk out of the room when we both heard the distant dinging of the elevator. Jean and I both stopped, frozen in our tracks. My brain was desperately trying to register with my feet that it was just Sally and Gunther returning with a haul of food, but I had a survivalist streak in me wide enough to allow thoughts quite the opposite of the obvious to constantly bubble to the top.

  Maybe it was the revelation that Val de-Grace was yet another government installation that had me panicking, but I grabbed a gun and pulled Jean into the safety of a corner behind the door. We stood in silence and listened for the deathly announcement of a moaner or screamer. When none came I relaxed and eased my white-knuckle grip on Jean. Eventually the sounds of Gunther’s voice nearly had me celebrating.

  Said celebration was short-lived, however. As soon as I saw the faces of our explorers, I knew something was fucked; hopefully, said “something” was not our chances of survival.

  “Paris isn’t empty,” Sally’s voice trembled with residual fear. “Screamers, lots of them.”

  “And with the noise they are making it won’t be long before they start attracting more,” Gunther added when Sally’s voice seemed to lock up with fear.

  “What happened?” I placed a comforting hand on Sally. She closed her eyes and continued to shudder. I wrapped my arms around her and we rocked back and forth in silence.

  It wasn’t long before Jean returned to us with a blanket and gently placed it around Sally’s shoulders. She seemed to contract into herself as if she wanted nothing more than to disappear.

  “Gunther, what happened?” I remained glued to Sally’s side, but looked to the elder gentleman for answers.

  “We were inside a grocer’s market stuffing our bags with supplies. Everything had been so quiet to that point. Something in the air changed, like a pressure in the air and then a popping sound. As soon as the pressure went away the screams began, from all around. It was as if the city came back to life, all at once; but it was alive with…with rage. We panicked and started running towards the hospital. One of them spotted us when we turned off the street. They aren’t the same as they were in Munich, Bethany. Something about them is different.”

  “Those are screamers –” I started to explain the difference to Gunther, but he cut me off.

  “I know the difference. I saw the screamers in Munich, but I’ll tell you, something has changed; they aren’t bigger, or faster, they’re just–”

  “Raging,” Sally’s frightened voice interrupted in a near-whisper. “It’s like they are in a panic to kill; as if they were about to self-destruct.”

  “I knew it wasn’t the smartest thing to do,’ Gunther said, “but I pulled out my gun and shot at the monster following us. It took six direct hits to take it down. I know one shot was between the eyes and it didn’t even flinch, at least not immediately.”

  The implications of the last sentence didn’t take any time to sink deep inside of me. In Munich we at least had the comfort of knowing that these things would go down with a single shot into the brain matter. But it seems as if Doctor Godwin’s little prank on Mother Nature had plenty of backfire left.

  Two thoughts instantly bubbled up. One: The zombie population of Munich primarily consisted of moaners, and Two: What caused the screamers to suddenly wake up and go ape shit? Dealing with a pack of moaners was entirely different than dealing with screamers.

  There was one possible hope to ensure our safety in the hospital. I could re-create the Obliterator. The sound created by the machine certainly repelled the zombies we encountered in Munich, but I wasn’t sure what kind of effect it would have if evolution had already worked its magic on these monsters.

  “What are we going to do? We need food.” Again, Sally’s shaken whisper of a voice broke the silence.

  I gave Sally’s hand a squeeze. “I have a plan.” I left out the fact I had zero idea if the plan would actually work. In fact, I already know of one very large hurdle preventing me from following through with said plan. When I created the original Obliterator I had Jacob to test the pitch and oscillation. Since Jacob’s infection was mid-amplification he could tell me the exact sound needed in order for the device to be effective. Jacob is dead and, as ashamed as I am to admit this, I took no notes.

  All of a sudden I felt like I was back in Munich again, fearing my life would be taken at any moment by Homosapien 2.0. I stopped us in Paris because it seemed the safest bet, only it turns out safety is a privilege no longer afforded this corrupt planet. Our species’ entropy is gaining momentum and collapsing inward.

  I closed my eyes and pulled in a gasp of what seemed like hopelessness. When my eyes opened everyone was st
aring at me, hope dwindling in their faces. It was time I let go of my fear so this ragtag crew could carry on. We had a cure to find, a young girl to heal, and a planet to save.

  Blog Entry 12/6/2015 6:15 PM

  Status of Mengele File: Uncracked

  Shit. I really had hopes for that last attempt at cracking the encryption. This file is going to undo me as a hacker and a human. There is always the “throw everything you have at it” approach. That method usually returns something, so that’s what I did. I pulled down every crack I could find and planned on running through the entire library of tools. Currently the file is running through a zipcrack tool that treats the file as if it were an encrypted, compressed archive. When that attempt fails I’ll fire up the next in line and keep trying until something, besides me, breaks.

  While the crack was running I began collecting the components I needed to recreate the Obliterator. This time around I’m not taking any chances with power. The hand-crank method of the first iteration worked okay, but I don’t want this weapon to require two men to operate. To avoid that I will add battery power. I wanted to go solar, but there is no way I can find the necessary components and I certainly don’t want to find myself surprised by a zombie in the middle of a rain storm. I’m all for solar power in the right applications. Zombie weapons? Not so much.

  “So, this is going to be our mightiest of weapons against the ghouls?” Jean sneaked up on me, nearly causing me to pee myself.

  “It worked once before, it will work again. If there’s a legion of screamers out there, this might be our only hope. This should get us safely to a food source.”

  “And back I hope?” Jean’s doubt was mostly of the good-natured ribbing sort, but it was enough to sprinkle a seed or two in my mind.

  “And back. I promise.” I know promises absolutely should not be made at this point, but what the hell? We need every ounce of hope we can get.

  I turned to focus back on the Obliterator when my stomach was twisted by the vice of cramps.

  “Bethany, what’s wrong?” Jean was instantly by my side.

  “My stomach.”

  “How long has it been since you’ve eaten?”

  “I don’t know…a few pretzels last night.” I hated to spill the beans on my nearly-failed food run last night, but the doctor had to know everything.

  “Do you have a history of stomach problems?” Jean was in full-blown diagnosis mode.

  “No. Aahhhhh!” I doubled over as an intense cramp hit me. “There is something you should probably know. I’m pregnant. Jacob and I had unprotected sex and I haven’t had my period since…Oh God!” The pain was focused in my gut, but radiating out to every extremity.

  “How long ago was this?”

  “It happened just a few days after the virus struck, the sex, that is. By my count, around three weeks.”

  Jean informed me it wasn’t too early for a miscarriage, but there would be no pain involved at this stage. The doctor was confident these pains were more than likely the pains of severe hunger. When the pain dropped me to my knees Jean yelled for Gunther.

  “There are vending machines in the intensive care waiting rooms. I will take Gunther to see if we can break into one.” With that, Jean hurriedly took off with a questioning Gunther in tow.

  There is a new zombie army amassing on the streets and I’m taken down by hunger pains. Jesus H. Christ!

  While Jean and Gunther were off in search of junk food to quell the consistent kicking of my gut, I decided the best thing I could do was distract myself by diving headfirst into working on the Obliterator. I have to confess, building the first version in Munich was easier. I had the tools and just about any piece of hardware I needed at my disposal. Here, all I can do is cannibalize monitors, computers, radios, and cell phones. Nevertheless, it did feel good to put my mind and my hands on a specific task.

  But a Radio Shack sure would be a welcome sight at the moment.

  I had to move my work over to the nurses’ station in order to look up a few registers that would serve to create the oscillations on the device. Thank you, Google. While online I decided to check my email. After presenting I Zombie I and my blog to the world, I assumed the fan and hate mail would start pouring in. I wasn’t let down. My inbox was filled with email, much of which fell into the category of “save me”.

  I’m trying. Believe me, I’m trying.

  I wanted to take the time to reply to each and every one of the emails, but time is not something I have in abundance. Please, everyone, keep the missives coming in. I will read them, and when possible, I will reply. Just try to understand that right now I’m a little busy trying to find a cure.

  There was one email that caught my eye. The subject was “Do you ever worry…” The body of the email had only one sentence, in the form of a question:

  Do you ever worry the wrong people will read your words, find out where you are, and end your silly game?

  Some part of my brain wanted nothing more than to take this as a serious threat. The rest (and majority) of my mind said to ignore it as nothing more than a troll trying to bait me into a juvenile debate over which is better, The Original Series or Next Generation.

  Or something like that.

  I was fortunately distracted by the laptop chiming, which could only mean one thing, the crack had finished and was either successful or a miserable failure. I’ll let you take a guess as to which answer was correct. If you guess miserable failure, you guessed correctly. With hardly a thought on the matter, I loaded a different cracking tool, aptly named The Full Monty and fired it up. This cracker was going to take quite a chunk of time, so I tucked the laptop safely inside a cabinet of the nurses’ station.

  With The Full Monty doing its thing, I went back to work on the Obliterator. I found a website that listed more information about transistors, registers, and capacitors than I would ever need. From that I was able to cobble together a list of every piece I would need for the Obliterator 3.0. There was only one small issue remaining. Without the ability to know the exact frequency and oscillation, I would have to create a device that could alter both on the fly. That might prove a challenge.

  “Bethany, we hit the jackpot!” Jean appeared at the nurses’ station with an actual cartload of junk food. “I can’t say I would ever recommend a diet of this trash, but in this case, it will tide that complaining belly over until we can find healthier sustenance.”

  There has never been a moment in my life when I was so happy to see a pile a junk food. Even being a hacker I have avoided the pizza-eating, Dew-drinking stereotype at all costs. Not that I don’t mind a good bit of chocolate to fight back the mighty mood swings brought about by Mother Nature every month; but usually it was all healthy all the time.

  I guess that credo was tossed out the window the minute the human race began the process of undoing itself.

  “Dig in!” Jean smiled and spread his arms to reveal the haul.

  “You don’t have to tell me twice.” I grabbed the few healthier snacks I could find from the cart and tore into them. Jean followed suit. It wasn’t long before Gunther and Sally had joined us in our little misfit family dinner.

  While wolfing down another bag of pretzels, I looked around at the faces of my newfound peers. An overwhelming sense of sorrow pulled at my heart. Jacob should be here. Right about now he’d be making some wise crack like “I wonder when vending machines will be selling bags of brain chips?” Somehow the thought made me laugh and cry at the same time. Everyone looked at me with that are you losing it kind of we’d-still-care-about-you stare. Fortunately no one asked. Why would they? We’re all on the verge of breaking down at any moment.

  Welcome to the new world order. Life sucks and then your brain is eaten by a moaner…and then you reanimate and continue the circle of unlife. What can you do but hope you live long enough to see a cure? And since I am the only one on the fucking planet who has any hope to access said cure, the world better damn well hope I last. If I don’t? Well, I
won’t be around to watch the end of the human race. Sorry about your luck.

  Honestly, did anyone ever think the human race would end this soon? Oh sure, most anyone with an IQ over 110 would know the human race had set a collision course with death in 1941, the day Oppenheimer wrestled the “Bomb Project” from the S-1 Uranium Committee. That project would eventually be renamed The Manhattan Project, and the rest is, as they say, history. For those who have lived their lives completely unaware, it was only a matter of happily following the inverse proportionality of ignorance is bliss before reality slapped you upside the head with the stank-filled maw of doom. At that point you would understand a new single-minded meaning of life.

  “What is our plan?” Gunther asked through a mouth full of corn chips. “There is a plan, yes?”

  The second I mentioned the Obliterator, Sally seemed instantly at ease, as if everything was a flick of the switch away from being just dandy. I don’t dare burst that bubble…not yet anyway.

  “As soon as Bethany has the device complete we are going to make another attempt at locating the supplies we need.” Jean took over for a brief period and I was glad for the break. I have been so busy taking care of everyone, I hadn’t realized there was no one taking care of me.

  “We should make a list of everything we need,” Sally chimed in, almost happily. She seems to finally be coming out of her shell of fear.

  “And then we can locate where to find everything on a map,” Gunther added, the excitement gaining steam.

  “…and plan out the most efficient route that will allow us to gather all supplies and return us here in the shortest amount of time,” Jean completed the thought.

  We not only had a plan, we had something to take our minds off of the ever-building chaos spreading around us. That focused distraction brought the slightest glimmer of hope to our group. Hope, a word easily forgotten in this nightmare made real, lost in the evolution of the human race. Thanks to Josef Mengele, evolution that should have taken centuries instead took only weeks. For a brief second my brain wanted to wrap itself around the “why” that would drive a man to even desire to create such a hideous virus. But then I remembered just who that man was.