John pinched his lower lip. Ever since yesterday when the dead began rising, there had been one thing, one great big elephant in the room that nobody had yet dared mention. John spoke up again, “why do you keep referring to them as ‘the dead?’ Surely if they were dead, they should be buried in the ground. Why don’t you just call them what they really are?” He waited for the faces in front to turn around and look at him along with a camera to position itself. “They’re zombies!” This time John moved away from his wife to avoid the inevitable kick.
The murmur rose to a buzz which became shouts and John didn’t notice the mayor had stepped aside for the other guy until the man in the white coat began speaking.
“Actually sir, by zombies, you are for all intents and purposes correct.” The hall went silent. “My name’s Doctor Phillips and I’m from the Centers for Disease Control and Prevention.” The man had everybody’s attention as it was the first time the supposed expert opinion of someone in the medical field had been brought. “Let me first assure you that we are carrying out tests on the dead. But it’s clear from merely a cursory glance that they lack the capacity to breathe. They also don’t respond to any pain stimuli.”
What kind of pain stimuli was the government putting them through when surely the best option would be to put them out of their misery.
Doctor Phillips continued, “what we have found is that they do indeed have a craving for human flesh.” A collective gasp resounded around the large hall, which prompted the government scientist to speak fast in order to quell it, “but you can rest assured that, at least for the most part, they are able to control this craving, this urge, and they will indeed settle for brains or flesh of other animals, primarily other mammals.”
John shouted out again, “so zombies then!”
“Yes, sir, zombies.”
John’s hand involuntarily clenched into a fist – It was madness. “These zombies are dead! And potentially dangerous. And you’re keeping them alive at the taxpayers’ expense when they ought to be incinerated. It’s only been a couple of days and already there are what – hundreds, thousands of them in the country. Guess what doctor – People die. And if you’re keeping them alive then one day these zombies will outnumber the human population and what do you think will happen then?”
“That won’t be for a long time.” The woman from earlier screeched, as though that made everything alright. The lack of foresight in some people never failed to stupefy John. Thankfully, the woman, buried deep within the throng was shouted down by those around her.
The mayor moved back to the microphone. “Sir, I can assure you that we have no plans on releasing the dead into the general population – No sir, there is absolutely no chance of that ever happening, so your fears are completely unfounded.”
A camera moved in close as John nodded and the people near patted his back. He was satisfied, at least for now, and would trust the man in the white coat and his elected official. Sure, the government lied all the time, but surely not over a thing like this. They were after all talking about the future of the human race.
From Behind The Curtain
He ogled the screen on the wall of the Embassy suite in the Glen Cove Mansion Hotel & Conference Center. Some average American hot head, a Joe six-pack, some Goyim by the name of John Quinn, his name flashing upon the screen at the Boston City Hall meeting a few hours before. As could be seen, the man, whoever he was, had the people in agreement with him – That the rotting corpses should be put out of their misery.
Levi Goldstein’s head slicked on its axis as it scanned the conference table. There were banking moguls, financiers, media barons, diplomats and heirs to trillion dollar dynasties. “How can we benefit?” The words puked from his mouth.
Evilyn de Redshield straightened, waiting on the pitifully slow servant to finish refilling his brandy, “leave us,” he hissed to the man when he finished. They watched him leave. “The polls?”
Goldstein shuffled through some papers. “They are ninety eight percent in favor of killing them humanely and giving them a proper burial.” He watched as Redshield clenched his eyes shut and pinched the saggy flesh at the top of his nose.
“Where was this poll taken – Texas?” He asked snidely. It required no answer.
Ninety eight percent – A united country was not a country they could control. They needed division – They had work to do.
Goldstein lit a cigar and blew a large dirty plume of smoke which mingled with the swirling cloud that had already gathered above the table.
Somebody hacked from the corner, his head partially obscured in shadow. “Idiot.” It was Sumter Rothstein, head of one of the big six media conglomerates.
Goldstein knew what he was thinking, almost telepathically. It was after all a well-oiled machine. “Sumter, you and Rupert go with killing them.” He nodded to the other four, “and the rest of you go with releasing them into the general population and eventual citizenship.” Goldstein watched, offended, as many of them covered their eyes in embarrassment.
“Obviously.” Rothstein spat.
But after a few months of national debate, they’d release them on the Goyim regardless of public opinion. They’d be mostly in favor by then anyway, they always were – Goyim – Sheep. Plenty of other things to distract their simple little minds; ball games, video games, movies, alcohol and the rest. But of course, Goldstein would not mention the painfully obvious to his fellow tribe members.
He took a large swig from his brandy and savored the burning sensation as it glided down his gullet. He looked outside the window where several Goyim were swinging their golf clubs. He longed to get this damn meeting over with so he could clobber a few balls himself. “But will the Goyim accept them? These zombies are quite different to humans.” Goldstein asked, readjusting his yarmulke.
It was Redshield who spoke, commanding the attention of the whole room. “We will instil human guilt into the Goyim for past crimes against the dead.”
Past crimes? For whatever reason, it was necrophilia which planted itself in the forefront of Goldstein’s mind. It was rich coming from Redshield. “Human guilt?” He asked. Would the Goyim be so stupid to fall for such a thing?
Redshield continued, “when enough human guilt is infused into the brains of the Goyim, then having them accept zombies as equals should be as easy as rigging the banking system.” The tribe members took their cue from Redshield and cackled with him, Rothstein almost choking in the corner. “We must realize that our people's most powerful weapon is inter-mort tension. By propounding into the consciousness of the dead, that for millennia have been oppressed by the living, we can mold them into our program. In the western world, we will aim for subtle victory.”
The cackling faded and Goldstein gazed again outside the window. There would be a drug fuelled orgy tonight. But for now, “golf anyone?”
*
John and Fergus stood atop the office block, looking down onto the street as dozens of zombies, under police guard, stumbled into the prison.
“It was on the news this morning,” John said, “you know what the Russians, Iranians, Chinese, Japanese and most of the rest of the world are doing?”
“Nope.” Fergus’ face twitched as he covered his nose, blocking out the gust that wafted up from below.
“They’re incinerating them!” It was by far the most humane thing to do.
Something bad was in the air, John knew, and he didn’t mean the stench of death that drifted on the breeze.
The Commander In Chief
It was five minutes away – The big presidential announcement the whole world had been waiting for. After six months of incarceration, public debate and media propaganda for both sides of the argument, they were about to discover just what in the hell would happen to the zombie hordes that continued to increase in number.
Kerry brought in some sodas while the family settled down for the big announcement, though in truth, John was way too nervous to enjoy it. He considered himself a patriot and o
nly wanted what was best for America. He had a nasty feeling the wrong decision would be made – It happened more often than not. He wiped his clammy hands over his jeans and looked at his wife and children. He’d keep them safe no matter what happened.
Then the President walked toward the podium and everything went silent. The anticipation had built and this was it. He looked straight at his teleprompter and spoke, “My fellow Americans – Tonight I’d like to talk to you about the dead, why they matter and where we go from here.”
And there it was – The President continued to inform the people that they were releasing millions of zombies onto the public. They would be granted equal rights as genuine citizens of the United States. The skin on John’s face tingled. The weird thing was that he wasn’t even surprised by the news.
“Hey – It’s the right thing to do.” The President smirked as John balled his hand into a fist. The cameras flashed all around him, then he walked back down the corridor away from the cameras without even bothering to answer any questions.
For the next few hours the news stations gave solid coverage to the event with numerous commentators from both sides of the debate letting their feelings known. As it turned out, the government would be spending billions of dollars on free homes for the zombies.
“I’m just glad we live in a nice area,” Finn said, “I don’t see how zombies could afford to live round here.”
John nodded. With a bit of luck at least his own family would escape having to live around them – God only knew what they were capable of, if the stereotypes were true.
Then the commentators continued to explain how they’d be initiating an affirmative action program aimed specifically at helping ‘morts’ find work so they could better contribute to society.
“Shit,” John said, “I hope this doesn’t affect me.” Avoiding them in the suburbs was all for the good, but he still may well be forced to work with them – And on a building site too – That would be insanity.
Then a long list of other free shit the zombies would be scoring ran up the screen, almost too fast for John to read and all at taxpayers’ expense. The list included mort food stamps, free phones, utilities, trainers, bus passes, healthcare; the list went on and on.
“I think I need something a little stronger than a soda,” John said, pulling his family closer.
It Begins
On the ninth floor of the future Titan building, men grafted; welding iron, banging nails, installing pipes, placing wires in walls. John took a step back and surveyed the scene, the task at hand, the fun, his workers. He loved everything about construction. He grabbed the plans and unrolled them on a table, weighing the edges down with coffee cups. Then the quick pattering of feet stole his attention. The entire team was rushing toward the edge of the ninth floor.
“What the heck?” He hastened to join them and found a spot next to Fergus. “What’s going on?” Ah, no answer required.
Several news crews waited by the prison gates. Small crowds had also gathered in clusters on the opposite side of the street in anticipation for midday.
Fergus checked his watch, “11:59.”
John could already see the zombies exiting from the inner gates of the prison and converging in a dense yet haphazard mass in the yard. More than one stumbled over the bench press before clawing themselves back to their feet. John squinted his eyes, concentrating on their clothing. They were all fashionably dressed, most in designer gear, even if many had already sustained rips and tears, and they hadn’t even left the prison yet. They were escorted closer to the outer gates by several guards. John divided them up into four even segments, then divided that segment by half again and counted them. Seventy five, which he multiplied by eight giving a good estimate of the total number of zombies which were about to be unleashed on Boston; just one city in one state in America. “Once they open those gates they’ll never leave voluntarily.” John muttered to himself.
John scanned across his employees for their reactions. They rubbed the backs of their necks, fiddled with cuffs and shook their heads. Nobody wanted this, nobody asked for this but they were getting it and not a single logical reason had been put forth as to why – All except for ‘it’s the right thing to do.’
The zombies stood lopsided by the front gate, some swaying from side to side as the guard nearest spoke to someone through a walkie-talkie and checked his watch. It was midday.
The gates slowly opened outwards.
Nothing for a few seconds.
Then the first zombie emerged through the threshold and onto the street. The collective gasp and step backwards from below resounded even on the ninth floor.
They shuffled, slowly but with a kind of herd mentality as though they were all thinking the same thing – Humans.
The cameras rolled and one female reporter dared get close to the horde before thinking again and heading back to the safety of her crew. The crowd shifted back as one and then the lead zombie was shambling straight for the nearest trash can. He tried removing the lid, but it was padlocked, not that such a minor hindrance stopped his attempts.
More zombies stumbled through the gates as people below filmed on their cells. The zombies were of all ages and roughly a fifty/fifty gender split.
That damn breeze cut another path through the street before drifting upwards. John clenched his jaw tight as others clutched rags to their faces. Even Fergus held a hand over his nose.
Several zombies began chasing after pigeons, one with success as he grabbed a hold of it and crammed the bird in his mouth. Then another shifted towards a dog on its leash, the owner, along with the crowd, moving back as a collective.
Then the entire street swarmed with them, several entering the small deli on the corner, more following, some tripping over the one in front.
An old lady moved along the front of the crowd, shopping bags in hand, and three zombies went straight for her, pulling at the bags and snapping the cloth handles, groceries spilling out onto the street. Milk exploded on the asphalt, oranges rolled into the gutter, but it was the raw meat they went for, devouring several packs of ham straight from the plastic.
John ran a hand through his hair. “Fucking zombies.”
“Hey, you know you can’t call them the z word.” Fergus reproached him, “at least not unless you want to end up in prison, lose your business, your family, your entire livelihood.”
“Yeah, I know that, sorry.” It was frustrating and John had just needed to vent. How much thought had the government really put into this? It was only a few weeks ago the media was referring to them as risen again post expirations, until somebody pointed out the acronym. Doubtless some wise guy lost their job over that one. “Why morts anyway? Where did that word come from?”
Fergus chewed on his bottom lip. “I think it’s a state of being. Your mort status is either alive or dead. Mortem is Latin for death – Look man, as long as you don’t use the z word, you’ll be ok.” Fergus continued, “we’re a liberal town man and you need to start showing some love.” He explained, as though reading from a script, “It’s just their culture. It’s these cultural differences that’ll make our society so enriched.” He said, pointing down at a mort as it stole a child’s Twinkie.
“Well I guess I could take a little cultural enrichment. But these things’ll only multiply.” John rubbed his face, massaging the muscles beneath the skin. “Maybe you’ll feel different when they outnumber us.”
Fergus sniffed, “I think we’ll be dead by then, John, it’s really not our problem.”
“Yeah, I guess you’re right about that.” John thought about his children.
*
The family gathered around the TV to watch a documentary on the Discovery Channel. John’s eyes glazed over for a few minutes before he came out of his daydream and regained focus.
Kerry leant on John, ignoring the TV as she read a book, while Finn and Shannon sat over on the smaller couch to the side. It was these quiet moments with the family that John cheri
shed.
The documentary, entitled History of the Dead began playing the kind of music you’d expect to hear in a horror movie when the crazy guy in a mask was creeping up behind the damsel in distress. The images showed a funeral processions and coffins being lowered into the ground. It was as though they were subtly trying to send the message that humans mistreated the dead by giving proper burials. “For thousands of years, humans have discriminated against morts by plunging them deep into the ground in air-tight containers before covering them in earth. In some extreme cases, morts have even been incinerated and their ashes sprinkled in oceans and other places of so-called beauty.” The commentary then confirmed John’s suspicions.
The images cut to a dead body on a slab, a man in a white coat stood over it clutching a scalpel. “More recently, autopsies have been held, most commonly on victims of crime but also on those morts that died from causes unknown.” The scalpel sliced down the length of the corpse’s chest as the music intensified.
The next showed a reconstruction of a mortician unzipping a body bag, followed by his pants as the screen went dark, leaving what happened next to the viewer’s imagination.
Then it cut to a woman, her eyes puffy and red, “The way humans have treated the dead for so long is…is…is criminal, it’s nothing short of mortism by hate filled humans. This hate, this extremism, this mortism has to stop. Humans must atone for their past evils and usher in a new era of tolerance.”
John stood and turned off the TV. “Am I the only one who thinks this is insane?”
“Dad, turn it back on.” Shannon reached for the remote in John’s hand, which he duly gave over.
The heat washed over him. “I think I need to take a walk.”
Back To School
Today was the day – It was Finn’s first day at Wellesley High School, one of the top performing public schools in the entire country. Having failed to break into the football team in middle school, Finn aimed to make it this year. He’d packed on the pounds and spent much of the summer training hard in the local park.
Zombie Society - They Live Among Us Page 2