by Mark Tufo
“I believe the shriekers can link telepathically with their horde, enabling the growth of a cohesive group. If it is not already in play, I suspect the next step will be their ability to link among themselves, which will form a collective consciousness that is much smarter than any individual zombie. Unlike normal evolution, these beings can learn unendingly from the deaths of their fellows, and thus adapt to threats without the need for a generation of weeding-out. It’s difficult to guess what they might come up with once their intelligence is at its apex; indeed, humans may not live to see it.” He shrugged his heavy shoulders. “Once the shriekers stop turning up food in large quantities, they’ll have to adapt again.”
I looked to BT. It had been our fear all along that as the zombies got smarter it was very likely they would begin to use tools and weapons, making them much more efficient killing machines. But a telepathic hive-mind?
“I also think…that they may be on the cusp of becoming self-aware,” Eric continued. “This, I’m sorry to say, might be the worst thing possible. If they become smart enough to consciously direct their own evolution, there’s no telling what specialized monsters they may become. Flying, bat-like things for bombing, multi-armed monsters with claws and carapace armor…or perhaps telepaths powerful enough to directly influence the actions of others. Your brains,” he added, nodding at BT and Winter, “are capable of much more than you use them for. Intelligent shriekers would evolve them into much more potent weapons.”
He sighed and sat down again, shaking his head.
“Sometimes I wonder how humans survived any of the zombie scenarios. In this case, though, there’s a clear strategy in play. The shriekers are the brains, and that makes them the key. Neutralize them and you slow down the evolution of their entire species, prevent it from becoming purposefully developed. It won’t stop the mindless hordes, of course, but it buys you time.”
“Tommy, what do you think?”
“I think I wish we had a breatine,” he replied.
“What’s a breatine?” Eric asked.
“Small bug. It detects truth.”
“Sweet! I could use one of those.”
“Yeah, let’s make everything even freakier,” BT snapped. “A lot of weirdness going on Talbot; what are we supposed to do? I kind of just want to shoot him and go home.”
“Yeah, I heard my sister was working on some seafood dishes; I can’t imagine how she could screw those up.” I could hear BT cringing. “So, Eric. Is all of this hypothesis, or do you have a plan to stop them?”
“Wait. You aren’t buying into all this, are you?” BT asked.
“I don’t know what I’m buying here, BT. I don’t know what to do. Tommy says he’s a vampire, he’s a vampire. That doesn’t mean he’s inherently evil. Do we kill him to cover our asses? And I’ve never liked that–killing proactively, I mean. I’m definitely not bringing him back to the base. That’s like bringing a bouquet of lit sparklers into a fireworks warehouse. So where does that leave us?”
“Tactical withdrawal, I hope,” Winters responded.
“Look, I understand you’re concerned,” Eric offered. “I like to think I’m generally trustworthy.”
“Generally?” I asked.
“Well, I’ve lied, stolen, cheated, killed, and occasionally been unkind, but I rarely do these things without some sort of justification. I prefer to consider them last resorts under exceptional circumstances. Of course, I may be biased.”
“Is this one of those ‘generally’ times?” I was lowering my rifle.
“Mike, yeah, man. I would say this isn’t one of those circumstances he was discussing, though.” BT was not so ready to drop his rifle down.
“I’m listening, guys. If anyone has a viable option, speak up. Otherwise we hear him out. I’d feel more comfortable, Eric, if you put those swords you have over there.”
“Firebrand? You want me to put Firebrand in a corner? Nobody puts Firebrand in a corner.”
“Did he just kind of quote Dirty Dancing?” BT asked. Eric’s face split in a grin.
“What?” I took my eyes completely off Eric to look at BT.
“Nobody puts Baby in a corner. Dirty Dancing, you know what I’m talking about, right?” BT was looking flustered.
“Drink down that gin and kerosene!” Gary started singing from across the gymnasium.
“Light a match and leave me be!” Eric sang back. Neither of them could carry a tune.
“This is not happening.” Winters was shaking his head.
“Tell you what,” Eric said, still chuckling, “come with me. I’ll show you what I found out.” Eric stepped to one side of the door he’d emerged from and swept his arm as if inviting us to go on.
“This a trap?” I asked.
“Talbot, I think you’ve finally snapped. Of course, it’s a trap. You think he’s going to tell you that?” BT said.
“Shall I go in first?” Eric asked.
“Not a chance.” BT shouldered past all of us. “I’ll take a look first.” He was in there for about fifteen seconds, didn’t hear any sounds of a struggle, then his voice came out of the room clear enough. “Listen, I know white people are touched, especially the ones I end up with but this is starting to border on the absurd.”
“What’s going on?” I lifted my rifle on Eric.
“He’s got a zombie in here trapped by enough weights to sink the Titanic, plus it’s wearing a football helmet.”
“Go, please.” I motioned for Eric to go in so I could follow. “Tommy, Winters, stay close to the door. Anything happens in there, shoot everything that’s not a confirmed friendly.”
I had my flashlight trained on the zombie, who looked, for lack of a better word, pathetic. Like maybe it was in massive amounts of pain, though as of yet I had never seen one display that emotion. Suddenly, I was struck with a profound new thought; not that I cared for its welfare, but I realized just to have that emotion meant it had to have feelings, and feelings came with higher intelligence. “Why the helmet, Eric?”
“It’s one of your shriekers,” he replied as way of an explanation.
“The helmet stops the shrieking?” I didn’t believe that, but the thing wasn’t calling out for help, so there had to be some explanation.
“Not exactly. The designs on the helmet are spells.”
“Spells?” BT repeated.
“Okay, fine. It’s magic.”
“We’re back to that?” BT looked about ready to kick puppies and shoo away rainbows.
“Alright, maybe the word ‘magic’ in this realm is more of the poo-poo variety. How about vampire powers?” He lifted his hands and wiggled his fingers.
“Better,” BT said.
“Really?” I asked. He shrugged.
“I have a spell,” Eric began, then caught himself. “…erm, I mean I have mystically…hmm.” He held up a finger to beg a moment’s wait while he thought. “Right, I think I’ve got it. Through technology so advanced as to seem magical, I have applied certain forces to the helmet. This causes her shriek to enter a feedback loop within her own head, with results as painful as you might imagine. She doesn’t like it all that much.” He shrugged. “Maybe she can learn some empathy; but all she’s managed so far is anger.”
“That’s why she looks like her mom grounded her from going over to Suzie’s party,” I said absently as I looked down upon the zee.
“Yeah, Mike. I’m sure that’s exactly what happened. Just want everyone to know that’s my commanding officer right there. I wonder if they still do section eights? And you won’t even need to wear a dress.”
“What?” I looked away and to him.
“Bullshit! You don’t know who Klinger is?” BT asked.
Eric answered with, “Corporal Max Klinger.”
“Why are you talking about MASH at a time like this?” I asked.
“I give up.” BT put his hand to his face and slowly shook his head from side to side.
“What’s up with him?” I asked Eric.
“Beats me. None of your references make much sense; it is like listening to whales underwater when you speak to each other.” Eric replied.
“Alright, Eric, I need for you to explain this in a way that I can understand and relay to others,” I said.
“Sure. How basic do you need it?” Eric asked.
“Pretend you’re talking to a first grader that somehow got his Kool-Aid mixed up with beer and got so drunk he threw up all over his Minion pajamas and married his favorite teddy bear, that basic,” BT said. “Or a third grader that likes to pretend his paste is milk, that kind.”
Eric was looking from BT to me, a confused expression upon his face.
“Really man?” I asked.
BT shrugged. “If the pointy cap fits, you wear it proudly.”
Eric took that as his cue to interrupt before things got out of hand.
“Look, in a shrieker, large chunks of her brain activate during a scream,” Eric stated as if I was supposed to know what that meant.
“I thought you said you needed an MRI machine?” I asked.
“To make more progress, yes.”
“Then how do you know about chunks of brain activating?”
“I can’t explain that without using words like ‘psychic,’ ‘vampire,’ and ‘magic.’”
“Fine, we’re listening. Winters, you make sure you recall everything he says,” I said.
“Why me?”
“Because you have medical training.”
“Yeah, as a medic, not a neurosurgeon.”
“You’ll be fine,” I told him.
“Shall I continue?” Eric asked.
I motioned for him to do that. I wasn’t completely convinced he didn’t mean us harm, but it was easy enough to see at this moment he was much more interested in telling us what he had discovered rather than discovering how we tasted. I took note that Tommy made sure to stay in a corner of the room the farthest away, keeping a vigilant gaze upon him.
“Because of the…uh, the science-laden helmet I have applied to her head, I can tell the front of her brain performs tasks, while the echo of her scream activates areas closer to her brainstem. It seems to cause quite a bit of pain.”
“Amen to that brother.” Gary had come closer.
“This isn’t a revival tent. Get back to your post,” I told him.
I could hear him mumbling as he left. “I’m the older brother…who does he think he’s bossing around? Wish I could tell dad.”
Me too, I thought.
“I’ve only had experimental subjects for a couple of hours, but you seem to have psychic zombies. They can gather other zombies to them, can call out for help if needed, and obviously force people from safe hiding places by triggering the flight response. There are mutant ogre-types—sorry, I mean ‘bulkers’—and your sprinters, er, speeders. It’s almost like a hive with specialized workers, soldiers, and the like. It’s worse, though, since they seem to be linking psychically to form a composite creature. Individual zombies die, but the creature learns and evolves.”
“Preaching to the choir!” Gary shouted from across the gym.
“Gary! Do you want to lose a stripe?” I shouted back.
“Little bit of power and he lets it go straight to his head.”
“The acoustics in this place are pretty incredible, Private!” I replied.
“It’s Serg…forget it. I get it.”
“What’s next?” BT was done with the distraction as he looked to Eric.
“I can’t tell for sure, not without studying them more or with some advanced machinery. I’m still thinking total consciousness isn’t too far away for them.”
I was happy when he didn’t say “advanced spells” or something along those lines. It seemed strange in the times we lived in that I would be so anti-magic. I did not think I would ever get over that, not anytime soon.
Eric continued. “I think at some point, it will be safe to assume these screamers will get together, maybe a dozen at first, or a hundred, whatever the critical threshold is, and you’ll have a group of zombies capable of thinking.”
“Once that happens, we will find ourselves licking the stinky-pudding end of the stick,” I said.
“Stinky-pudding? That mean what I think it does?” BT asked. “Forget I asked. Of course it does. Great, another visual.” BT flipped me off. “Just fuck you, man. I love my pudding.”
“These shriekers are the real problem,” Eric went on. “They already possess a fair amount of intelligence…more than any of the others, anyway. It can register pain, for one thing, which implies it has a sense of identity. ‘I’ feel pain, but there has to be an ‘I’ to feel it, if that makes sense. This one stopped screaming because it hurts to do so. I’m not sure if she realizes the screams aren’t going to summon help, but she knows screaming hurts.”
“The group intelligence you’re talking about…any idea the limitations?” Winters asked.
“Depends on how many there are. At first, you wouldn’t have anything too bright, but once they realize they could get smarter by adding more members, they might also start evolving big zombie brains to act as central processors. The zombie horde could become more intelligent than any human simply because it would evolve faster than humans.”
I took note that Eric did not seem to include himself within that equation and the more I looked at him, the harder it was to believe he had ever originated from humanity like myself or Tommy. What exactly was he and where was he from? For all I knew, he could be the vanguard of an invading force. He had direct knowledge of the zombies, maybe he was even now manipulating them so that they would be a more powerful adversary to us. So many questions. Good thing I had a shit ton of bullets on me. A significant part of me knew the safe play was to shoot him, but what if he couldn’t die that way? I wouldn’t want to piss him off. I’m sure we would find ourselves in a sinking vat of stinky-pudding in a hurry.
“The main thing in humanity’s favor is this brainiac here,” he nudged the shrieker with the toe of his boot, “doesn’t appear to have a lot of memory. Firebrand has been listening; she doesn’t seem to remember anything beyond the simple Pavlovian response level.”
“Fire…your weapon? Your sword told you this?”
“My psychic sword,” he reminded me. “You want me to go into it?” Eric asked, giving me a look.
“No, just continue,” I sighed.
“Good idea. She knows enough that if she attacks, say, a red thing—”
“What kind of red thing?” Gary asked from across the room.
I put my palm to my head.
“It’s just an example,” Eric replied, nodding at me in sympathy. “How about we say it’s a tank?”
“A red tank?” Gary asked.
“This isn’t happening. Gary, you say one more thing while you’re supposed to be watching our back and I’m going to call in to have you evac’d. Clear enough?”
“I’ve just never seen a red tank is all.”
“Please go on.” I turned back to Eric.
“Okay, so our shrieker attacks, for this argument and this argument only, a red tank.” He nodded over my shoulder to Gary whom, I would imagine, was beaming. “If this tank wiped out the entire group and this one were to survive, she might recruit another gang of zombies to attack. It’s possible she could retain the memory—develop the conditioned response—that to attack a red tank only results in too many zombie deaths. She would be conditioned to avoid red tanks rather than attack them.”
“That could be huge. We saw something like this early on, but if we could make them see humanity in its entirety as too difficult to attack, that could be the turning point.”
“We’re—that is, I’m not sure quite yet if it would be a true memory or a conditioned response. If enough get together to form a sentient entity, it won’t matter. But yes, both could be quite useful.”
He paused for a moment, as though listening again. I tried not to wonder about psychic swords and pickup-truc
k horses.
“Speaking of useful,” he went on, eyeing me, “I can see you keep wondering what to do with me, Michael Talbot. Let me suggest that while you are uncertain about whether or not I am more valuable as an ally than I am dangerous as a potential enemy, what I am is a powerful unknown. As you suspected, I also dislike being shot. It annoys me dreadfully, and the only thing it will kill is any chance of me leaning toward ally.”
“That’s a lot of words to say not to fuck with you,” I said.
“I thought I should share my viewpoint.”
“I cannot bring you back to our base; there are too many unknown variables here. You say you’re from another realm; do you mean harm here?”
“Nope. Just passing through, really, and wondered why the place seemed abandoned. Then I got curious about your zombies.”
“Are you empathetic enough to see how strange this is for us?”
“Oh, hell yes. This is unusual even for me. I’ve never encountered nonmagical zombies before.” BT bit his lip, but didn’t say anything.
“How long you planning on staying? I don’t want to be like the sheriff of every small town on a television show or movie who forces the outsider to the borders…”
“But,” Eric said, he seemed to be bemused at the notion.
“Not going to lie, you and your research concern me. Like you’re a giant hornet’s nest a half mile from a school. Everything is all fine and dandy until one of them kiddies gets it in his head to throw a rock, then a thousand little hells pop loose. That make sense?”
“The analogy is not without merit.”
“Umm…guys.” Gary was moving away from the door.
“What did I tell you?” I was about to physically place him back at his post.
“You’re going to want to see this,” he told me.
Didn’t need any magical scientific powers to know what was happening. “How many?” I asked before I got there.
“I don’t know, maybe all of them.”
“BT, Winters.” I motioned for them to come with me. Neither Eric nor Tommy moved; I wondered which of them might start pissing first. Alright, so that wasn’t so obvious, pissing contest, I mean. They looked like they were sizing each other up.