by Gerald Rice
PC
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* * *
Rebecca Besser
Dillon’s dad always said, “Political correctness is bullshit. Whatever happened to my right to have an opinion and piss people off?”
It seemed to Dillon that he was now living in his old man’s nightmare. If the old bastard were still alive—well, human—he would have gone completely insane. The current society didn’t just contain humans anymore . . . but Undead Americans as well and all the politics that went along with living side-by-side safely with one another.
The old man would have really hated Dillon’s job at the main medical facility that restored the Undead Americans to as close to human as possible. He was heading there now, wondering if today would be the day he was finally reunited with his old man.
Dillon didn’t know where his father was, if he was anywhere. For all he knew, the man had rotted away to nothing. There was really no way to know. He’d been halfway across the country at medical school when the plague had hit—he hadn’t gotten to say good-bye to the man who’d raised him alone. For all Dillon knew, he was really gone forever. He just couldn’t help hoping that maybe someday he’d help bring his father back.
The sun was just peeking over the horizon, casting warming rays of light on the dark city, bringing it to life. With the dawn, Dillon’s wariness eased slightly. The anti-undead terrorists were in rare form lately, constantly picketing and threatening his place of employment. He dreaded going to work, often afraid he wouldn’t make it home. The hope of finding his father was the only thing that kept him going day in and day out.
Dillon slowed as he came upon the first of five security checkpoints leading up to GenRest. Today there were twice as many armed personnel guarding the barricade than there normally were and there was a short line of cars in front of him. On most days, he just cruised right through, familiar to the guards who worked the checkpoints. Today was nothing like normal.
When it was his turn to pull up to the little shack beside the narrow area for vehicles to drive through, two men with guns stepped in front of his vehicle, preventing him from driving forward without going through them.
Dillon rolled down his window and an unfamiliar man in riot gear asked to see his ID.
“What’s going on?” Dillon asked, handing over his identification.
“We’re verifying who you are and your right to continue onward,” the man said gruffly, handing Dillon back his ID once he’d scanned the barcode on it, the security computer confirming Dillon’s identity.
“I understand that,” Dillon said. “I was wondering what was going on with the extra security—has something happened?”
The man waved his hand and the men in front of Dillon’s car moved out of the way.
“There’s nothing for you to concern yourself with, sir,” the guard said. “Please, proceed.” He waved the next car forward.
Dillon drove through the checkpoint, feeling like he’d been forced to leave. He moved along with more questions than answers. Obviously something had happened, be it an attack or a threat. They wouldn’t increase the security personnel for no reason.
He experienced the same treatment at all of the other checkpoints before heading across the compound to the main building where he worked: a towering six-story monolith covered with mirrored windows that glittered in the sunlight. The building looked impressive—it was one of the few places newly built after the plague. Medical advancements were the name of the game in this new society, since zombies were the majority of the population.
When Dillon arrived, he parked in the employee parking garage, more confused and wary than he normally was when he came to work. As he climbed out of his car, he took in his surroundings with a critical eye. There were a bunch of people coming and going—other employees. There were no zombies allowed in this part of the center, unless they had been previously restored; the company employed many of them as counselors for the newly processed.
“Undead Americans,” he corrected himself under his breath as he thought “zombies” yet again. He had to constantly remind himself not to be politically incorrect, a trait he attributed to his father, who’d never been politically correct a moment in his life. Dillon struggled to be PC in the new world, and for that reason he thought of his father every day he came in to work. His dad had always talked about political correctness like it was some kind of disease that ate at people’s brains to make them stupid. Nowadays, what had once been political correctness were the laws of life. If you stepped outside those laws, you, or someone else, got hurt. Tolerance of those who were different was the name of the game and, if you wanted to survive, you learned to play it well.
Dillon walked over to the elevator (where two armed men stood guard, who were another new addition), swiped his ID, pressed his palm against the scan panel beside the door, and stepped into the transport as soon as the door opened.
After a smooth ascension, the doors slid open again and he stepped off the elevator, directly into the restoration floor’s waiting room. He looked around at all the Undead Americans ready for their restoration appointments.
He continued on, past the desk where a receptionist was working on a computer, through the door to the back offices. As soon as he stepped into the hallway, his and Dr. Miller’s new assistant slammed into him.
“What’s the rush, Eddie?” Dillon asked, taking a step back to retain his balance.
“Oh, I’m glad I found you, Dr. Howell,” the younger man gushed. “I think Dr. Miller is hazing me . . . or flirting with me—I can’t tell!”
Dillon raised his eyebrows. Dr. Miller was one of the most serious people he’d ever met and he doubted she’d be hazing anyone or flirting with someone so young. She was in her late forties and was a no-nonsense type of woman.
“Why do you think she’s hazing or flirting with you?” he asked, curious.
“She told me to get a six-inch penile splint from the penis room,” Eddie said with a stricken look on his face. “I mean, really? The penis room?”
Dillon stared at Eddie for a moment and then doubled over, laughing.
Eddie was twenty-one years of age and had just started working for them that day. The expression on his round, freshly shaved face was that of a frightened two-year-old who couldn’t find his mother in a crowded shopping area.
“It’s not funny.” Eddie crossed his arms, his face flushing.
Dillon stood and looked at Eddie with a grin still plastered on his face.
“Oh, it’s funny,” he said.
“She said there was a penis room—how is that funny?” Eddie asked, his face going from flushed to dark red.
“Because there is a penis room and you thought she was lying to you,” Dillon said. He turned and started down the hall. “Follow me, I’ll show you where it is . . . right next to the breast room, across from the restrooms.”
“Wha—?” Eddie said and followed Dillon.
“You’re probably wondering why there is a penis room and a breast room,” Dillon said as Eddie caught up with him. “But if you think about it you’ll understand. I mean, what would be the first things to rot off a dead human body?”
“Oh, my gawd!” Eddie exclaimed. “That’s disgusting.”
“Well, restoring a rotting human being back to a living human being is pretty disgusting. There are parts and pieces missing and they have to be regenerated by our equipment through cell growth. But sometimes . . . we need some help with implants of sorts to make sure things stay where they’re supposed to.”
Eddie didn’t reply, but stood dumbly by as Dillon opened the door to the penis room—the size of a walk-in janitor’s closet—and showed him where to find the different-sized splints and other implant pieces that might be needed to aid in the restoration of a male Undead American.
Even after the selection process and the explanation Eddie still looked confused.
“What?” Dillon asked.
Eddie looked at the six-inch splint in hi
s hand. He opened his mouth, shut it again, and then turned to Dillon with a frown.
“What?” Dillon asked again.
“I was just wondering how she decides what size to give them,” Eddie replied.
Dillon, never having given it much thought, shrugged.
“Maybe she’s seen enough naked men in her time to be able to guess by body size what would be a good proportion.”
Eddie looked down at the splint, then at his own crotch, then at the splint again.
“What now?” Dillon asked, starting to get exasperated while still being amused by the innocence/ignorance of the young man.
“Do you think she knows how big our penises are?”
Dillon laughed. “Does it really matter? It’s not like she has ever asked to see mine, so I don’t care what her guess would be. Stop worrying about her thinking about your penis and get back to your job before she wants to cut yours off because you’re late helping her restore another’s. Although, if she gets angry and you want to smooth things over, you could offer to be a penis donor and see what she says—see if she thinks your penis is suitable.” He winked at Eddie. “Hell, maybe she’ll even like the idea. . . . Maybe they’ll even commemorate your sacrifice on the wall downstairs for all to see: Edward Harris, generous with his penis, giving it to the first Undead American who would take it!”
He laughed again at the return of the stricken expression on Eddie’s face. He felt the same way when he thought about losing his penis: it wasn’t a pleasant thought for any male.
“Come on,” Dillon said. “Let’s get the splint to Dr. Miller so you can keep your penis—damn, you’re selfish.”
Dillon turned, left the room, and started walking again.
Eddie followed, glancing from his crotch to the splint every few feet.
They didn’t talk anymore until they reached Eddie’s office, which connected Dillon’s to Dr. Miller’s office. Eddie was hired to be their shared personal assistant; he would do anything and everything they needed to keep their operations running smoothly.
Dillon continued into his office and Eddie stopped at his desk to drop off the splint and grab his tablet before rejoining Dillon.
“What’s going on with the extra security today?” Dillon asked as Eddie entered.
Dillon tapped one of his computer screens and brought up the most recent news—something he did every day since the threats of terrorism had increased. Last month, one of the Undead Americans who was coming in to be restored had been set on fire by a masked man who had never been caught. They’d had to cancel the restoration because the zombie had then been too damaged to salvage. Because of the incident, Dillon had tried to be extra vigilant and aware of what was going on with the groups. They were pretty extreme in some cases, saying they needed to purge the human race, to cleanse it again. They were against humans having relationships with people who had been restored, even though after restoration a zombie was once again a living, thriving human down to every cell of their being. Their minds didn’t work as fast and often they had to relearn things, but they were still capable of thinking. The research showed that brain function was almost returned to normal about two years after restoration: that is, from minimal brain function. There was no proof that zombies thought in their undead state, but there was some brain activity that enabled them to move. Stabilizing medicine that Undead Americans were required by law to take helped as well, even though they weren’t sure how; it definitely kept them from rotting and trying to kill living humans.
Nothing popped out at Dillon from the news headlines.
“I’m not sure,” Eddie said. “Is there extra security today?”
“Sorry,” Dillon said. “I know it’s your first day and you wouldn’t realize the extra security wasn’t normal, but I thought you might have heard something.”
Eddie shrugged. “I haven’t heard anything. Is there something in the news?”
Dillon shook his head and sighed. “What’s the schedule look like today?”
“Three before lunch,” Eddie said, checking the schedule on his touchscreen tablet.
“Genders?” Dillon asked as he started working on his second touchscreen computer, making sure all the rooms and machinery they would need to do the restorations was ready.
“One male, two females,” Eddie said. “Dr. Miller is taking care of the male, so you get the first female. Whoever finishes first will start on the second female.”
Dillon snickered. “I guess you’ll be getting acquainted with the breast room today too.”
Eddie’s lack of response made Dillon grin.
“Where’s Dr. Miller?”
“She’s in her office,” Eddie said.
“Taking a nap?” Dillon asked, looking up and across the office through his open door, at her door. The blinds were down over the window in the barrier. She often liked to rest before she did a restoration so she was mentally clear and calm.
“I don’t know,” Eddie said. “We got a DNA match on the male; he was previously in the military so he was in the database. I put in a request to see if he had any next of kin, but research is backed up—they said it would take about a week. His name is Gordon Howell and he’s scheduled to be restored in about an hour.”
Dillon froze, choking on the breath he’d just taken.
“What . . .” he said, and paused to cough. “What did you say the restore patient’s name was?”
Eddie looked up and frowned. “Gordon Howell. Are you okay?”
“Yeah, I’m okay,” Dillon choked out. “Drink, please!”
“Sure,” Eddie said, rushing out of the room to get his new boss a drink.
Dillon watched him go and was glad to be alone. His mind and heart were racing. He couldn’t believe what he’d just heard. Day after day he’d come to work, hoping and praying for this exact moment. Every day he’d given up a little of that hope, thinking it would never happen. Now he was facing the reality of his dream come true and he couldn’t breathe. He couldn’t think. He couldn’t do anything but cough and clutch the edge of his desk.
After what seemed like forever, Eddie was back with a bottle of water.
Dillon took it with a shaking hand, opened it, and drank half of the liquid in two large gulps.
“Are you okay?” Eddie asked, frowning. “Are you sick? Do you want me to get Dr. Miller?”
“No, I’m not sick,” Dillon croaked, and took a sip of the remaining water. “Yes, please get Dr. Miller.”
Eddie didn’t ask any more questions. He just turned, walked out, and knocked on Dr. Miller’s door before entering.
Dillon sipped at his water and focused on a spot on the wall. He needed to calm himself down; he didn’t want to be as shaken up when Dr. Miller came in. He needed her to swap patients with him and if he was visibly disturbed he knew she’d tell him to go home.
“Are you all right?” Dr. Miller asked as she rushed through the door, her slight facial wrinkles deeper than normal due to her frown of concern.
“I’m fine,” Dillon said, standing. “I’d like to talk to you for a moment, if you have time.”
Dr. Miller turned to Eddie, who was hovering just inside the doorway. She nodded and he left, shutting the door behind him.
“What’s going on, Dr. Howell?” she asked, stepping closer to Dillon’s desk.
He watched her blue eyes travel over him, studying him.
“Would you consider trading patients with me this morning?” Dillon asked, looking her straight in the eye when hers were again trained on his face.
Dr. Miller raised a ginger eyebrow. “Why?”
“Does it matter?”
She laughed. “No, I’m just curious. You’re acting strange. I’ve known you—worked with you—for years and you’ve never asked to trade patients before. I figure there has to be a reason; there always seems to be a reason with you. And besides, you don’t usually restore males unless I’m not here.” She ended her statement by crossing her slender arms across her chest.
Dillon sighed and sat back down in his chair. The consequences of what could happen if he told her ran through his mind and he decided it wouldn’t be too horrible if she knew the truth. The worst that could happen would be that she’d say no and she’d restore his father and he’d still get to see him . . . see if the man recognized his own son. He would get to see if his father was one of the lucky Undead Americans who, after restoration, retained memories of their former life; it was a slim chance, but it was part of his hopes.
“The man you’re going to restore is my father,” he said, studying her face.
“That’s . . . unexpected,” Dr. Miller said. “Are you sure you want to do your father’s restoration? Will you be able to focus?”
“Will I be able to concentrate on the other restoration when I know you’re restoring my dad?” Dillon asked, smirking. “I don’t know how I can’t do it.”
Dr. Miller watched Dillon for a few moments, studying him. Eventually she nodded, stood, and headed for the door.
Dillon stood and said, “Dr. Miller?”
She kept walking toward the door.
“Jill!” he exclaimed.
She stopped with her hand on the doorknob and sighed. “Yes, Dillon, I’ll trade with you,” she said before she opened the door and walked out.
Dillon collapsed back into his chair, shaking once again. Everything was really happening. He would be restoring his father in under an hour. He hadn’t seen or heard anything about the man in five years and here he was at Dillon’s fingertips; it was almost too good to be true.
Glancing at the time on his computer screen, he realized that he needed to get ready for the restoration. With a determined resolve, he stood and headed out the door into Eddie’s section of the office suite.
“I’ve traded patients with Dr. Miller,” he said.
Eddie smiled, but looked somewhat suspicious. “Dr. Miller told me, but she didn’t say why.”
Dillon didn’t offer an answer, but headed for the door to the hall.