Best New Zombie Tales Trilogy (104 page)

There! That had ruined it! And she had been only three numbers away from completing the tail of the kite and winning five thousand dollars. The big tradeoff with zombies, she fumed, was that though they were a cinch to beat at bingo (or any game, for that matter), they possessed the manners of… wild pigs. They might slump in quiet, swaying rows for hours, uttering hardly a moan, or they might knock about like mummies, overturning tables and making a general racket without so much as an apology if they disrupted a game! It was enough to heat the collar of the most patient, God-fearing soul, especially a dyed-in-the-wool bingo fanatic like Edna.

After winning two more games––the “Round Robin” and “Crazy T”––in quick succession, Edna noticed twilight was stealing its way inside the huge hall. She immediately set down her dauber and reached below her chair.

This time the tote bag produced a large silver flashlight. The light had been scavenged from the blackened hulk of the bingo security guard’s station wagon, a Ford Taurus, which now rested upside down in the hall parking lot. The long-necked light held six fat, D-size batteries in its gut, and was heavy enough to use as a club if the need arose. Its beam was strong and steady, like a prison searchlight.

With shadows forming like fathomless pools inside the hall, Edna clicked it on and positioned it so she could read her cards and keep an eye on Joe. With nightfall the interior of the hall would quickly sink into an absolute blackness. Edna would need the light to continue playing and, at midnight, to make her way to an exit. Without its shepherding beam, she knew from experience, one might bump around for an eternity searching for the door.

In the first weeks after the dead had decided to walk again (and feast on live people and play bingo), Edna had found the hall too unsettling to remain in after sundown. Just the zoo-like sounds of zombies shuffling about like blind men had sent icy splinters of terror through her heart. But the light made a considerable difference and didn’t attract them.

Nothing
seemed to particularly gain their attention, not even Edna, who might be considered, through the dead orbs of a zombie, to be the biggest deluxe burrito around. Like everyone else Edna had kept her distance from them (and, more importantly, their
teeth
) after they had clawed their way out of the cold ground, but none had ever attacked her. This was, she was now certain, due to years of chemical cancer treatment she had suffered at the hands of young doctors who thought themselves little Gods. The zombies smelled her, yes, but the meat was… no good.

Edna found this situation immensely agreeable. The best part was that zombies wiping out civilization didn’t mean she had to quit the only activity that had ever brought her joy. In a way (and He definitely worked in mysterious ones––one look at the hundreds of zombies roaming the interior of the Riverside Avenue Bingo Hall confirmed that!), it was an enormous blessing, a miracle. Edna now enjoyed bingo each and every day, and never paid so much as a penny to play. The coins and bills choking the legion of abandoned cash registers in the city meant nothing. There were none of the worries, setbacks, and anxieties of her previous life. There was no Frank (she definitely had them to thank for that) to complain about bills and starchy meals. The troubles of that dead life had sloughed off as quick and easy as Joe’s face. Not even her ponderous weight mattered anymore. None of it mattered. There was only her love of the game.

And now, like never before, Edna was an undeniable winner, the unbeaten empress of all-day, all-night bingo.

Clasping an ink dauber in her plump right hand and hefting the flashlight in her left, she aimed the beam at the silhouetted figure on the dais. Joe, issuing gobbling sounds that might have been numbers, started a new game.

Worm-sacks and Dirt-backs

LEE CLARK ZUMPE

The sanitary world around Dr. Kenneth Sprague had rotted away revealing its rancid underbelly.

“Who are we kidding? Reconstituted disinterred entities? The formerly expired? The prematurely lamented?” Sprague had used his last euphemism. Frustration and fatigue finally stripped him of his last ounce of professional prudence as he bickered with the chief of staff at Arnesville Regional Hospital. Surrounding the two men, the dead huddled in a once spotless hallway, many clustered in familial groups, whimpering and trembling. They had spilled into the corridors from an overcrowded and understaffed emergency room. Outside, they shambled through the parking lot, gazed despondently at their reflections in car windows, and picked at their own putrescent flesh. “They’re walking corpses. How am I supposed to treat walking corpses?”

“Just do your job, Dr. Sprague.” Dr. Zephram Ames responded to Sprague’s outburst with a cold stare and an unsympathetic tone. The 50-something physician ran the hospital with an iron fist in the best of times. The current crisis had transformed him into a fascist despot devoid of compassion for his colleagues. “I expect you to treat each one like any other patient: examine their symptoms, manage their pain and monitor their progress. It’s all we can do until a treatment or a cure is developed.”

“There won’t be a treatment or a cure,” Sprague said, his tone growing more insubordinate as his discontent and resentment mounted. Those who required and deserved legitimate health care were being turned away from the hospital because of the extraordinary circumstances. Sprague had not worked his way through medical school to spend the rest of his life dealing with an endless parade of moldering patients. “This isn’t a disease. It’s an aberration of nature.”

“We have our orders.” Ames referred to strict government directives outlined in a hastily drafted Presidential Executive Order shortly after the onset of the epidemic. “Our hands are tied. The law dictates our actions. I won’t risk my career over this.”

“And I won’t waste mine medicating things that by all rights should be destroyed.”

Sprague turned his back and walked down the grim corridor, navigating the ghastly tangle of fetid flesh and moaning cadavers. He longed for fresh air, untainted by the lurid stench of the dead. At the end of the hallway he hesitated in front of a service entrance, wishing he could leave it all behind him, wishing he could ignore his conscience, go home, and wait it out.

He could not help but feel beguiled by the bliss of seclusion, the promise of total tranquility as could only be achieved in complete isolation. At the same time, he feared what might become of the city––of the world––in his absence. What today manifested itself as a plague of the dead could tomorrow become a scourge of the living. He had an obligation to stay alert, to stay focused, to watch for signs of mutation.

After a moment’s deliberation he turned toward the stairwell and headed for the roof. Though he had no weather reports to notify him, he could tell a cold front was pushing through the mountains. He hoped the arctic winds would offer a temporary reprieve from the stomach-turning aroma saturating the hospital’s lower levels.

Down there, everything smelled like the grave.

He had examined dozens of reconstituted disinterred entities over the last few weeks, poked and prodded them, even gathered specimens to be forwarded to the USAMRIID task force facility located on the outskirts of the city. He continually questioned the military’s unprecedented utilization of civilian medical personnel to act as first responders in the outbreak, criticizing army scientists for distancing themselves from the hot zone.

Nothing about the epidemic made sense. The government’s initial reaction had been to quarantine the city––a feat made feasible thanks to the area’s rugged topography. Set in the Appalachian Mountains in far western North Carolina, Arnesville could be cut off from the rest of the region relatively easily with the closure of four state highways and a 20-mile stretch of the Interstate system. State police simply rerouted traffic through nearby Canton and Waynesville.

A media blackout quickly followed. All television, radio, and newspaper services were terminated with swift and shocking efficiency. The military apparently deployed some form of equipment that jammed external radio signals and made satellite dishes ineffective. All phones, both land-line and cellular, ceased to function. Postal deliveries were halted.

Not a single journalist entered the city after the implementation of the quarantine.

Then, instead of inserting troops to round up the infected corpses, the military positioned itself along the quarantine perimeter and set about patrolling the back country in Black Hawk choppers. No epidemiologists arrived to relieve the overtaxed medical community. No FEMA workers appeared to assess the conditions and provide logistical support. No government representatives visited to address the concerns of local residents, to offer reassurances or provide explanations and chart strategies.

Finally, word came down that the president had extended limited Constitutional rights to those affected––and that the “killing” of any such entity constituted a federal offense punishable by, ironically, death.

Unlike those in Washington D.C., Sprague had no misconceptions about the state of the “corporeal undead,” the term employed to describe the entities in the official document. The dead rarely spoke, exhibited no emotion other than chronic depression and appeared to have only limited fine motor skills. He saw no spark of intelligence in their eyes, no flicker of remembrance and no internal motivation to survive. Left to their own devices, they might well waste away into nothingness. They ate nothing, drank nothing, and, aside from wandering aimlessly and groaning unremittingly, they did nothing.

Admittedly, some of Ames’ closest associates had achieved some success with experimental therapy. His team worked in secrecy in the upper levels of the hospital, selecting trial candidates through a careful screening process. From the notes he had shared with other staff members, the things could be nourished intravenously, taught to perform simple skills, prompted into speech.

That Ames sanctioned such trials repulsed Sprague. Those responsible for the research argued that their work was a logical extension of their scientific background. They considered themselves medical revolutionaries exploring cutting-edge rehabilitation techniques.

Sprague likened them to grave-robbers bent on harvesting the dead for their own selfish professional purposes.

“Fed up with the working conditions down there, Dr. Sprague?” Arriving on the roof, the physician found a congregation of expatriated interns smoking and sharing a bottle of Jack Daniels beneath the ruddy evening skies. “Or have you come to collect us and usher us back down to our stations?” Randy Donne had apparently been elected as the group’s provisional spokesperson. The other greenhorns lacked the courage to voice their antipathy and aversion to dealing with the dead. “If that’s the case, I’m afraid that we’ll have to decline the invitation.”

“No,” Sprague said, “I’m here for some fresh air.”

“Not much to go around.” Donne flicked his cigarette butt over the side of the building, followed its descent with his gaze. The street in front of the hospital teemed with squirmy corpses. “There’s so many of them now you can smell ‘em all the way up here.”

“Damn worm-sacks and dirt-backs,” Freddie Julian said, downing a swig from the bottle. Sprague had heard both expressions in recent days, counted them among the more evocative inventions in an evolving lexicon.
Worm-sacks
referred to corpses over six months old, dug up by optimistic relatives and subsequently abandoned due to their advanced state of decomposition.
Dirt-backs
were the recent dead, in most cases spontaneously reawakened in the midst of their own burial. “Someone should be corralling them, herding them toward a crematorium or something.”

“That’s not the will of the government,” Sprague said with a hint of sarcasm. Black Hawks hovered over the distant horizon, combing the countryside. Occasionally, over the last few days, the firing of artillery had been heard, suggesting that some citizens had attempted escape. “For whatever reason, they want to keep them intact for the time being.”

“Probably want to register them for November’s general elections.” Donne glanced at the stars emerging in the twilight between wispy bands of clouds. To the west, a line of storms crawled along the Appalachian crest. “Why do you think they’ve all come here, to the hospital? Why not go to their homes, their families?”

“They’re suffering physical pain,” Sprague answered. “That much we know. Assuming they retain some memories of life, they associate the hospital with feeling better.”

“I guess we should be thankful they aren’t flesh-eating zombies.” Julian––not a particularly squeamish individual––visibly shuddered at the thought of how much worse things could be if the dead had awoken with a ravenous appetite. “I mean, that’s what you expect the undead to do, right? Feast on the living?”

“I don’t really know what to expect them to do, Freddie.” Sprague looked down upon the crowds, wondering how many had passed through the hospital doors previously on their way to the burial ground. How had the gardens of rest been transformed into the gardens of the restless? Julian’s gratitude that they did not more closely resemble their cinematic representation led Sprague down another disquieting avenue of thought: With so many variables at work, so many mysteries as yet unanswered, no one could really be certain that they might not all rise up and start gorging themselves on the living.

“Honestly, I don’t think that they know what is expected of them, either.”

~

The meat-wagons began arriving the following day just after sunrise.

Dr. Sprague had spent the night on the roof with Donne and several other interns, waiting for a squall line that regrettably stalled over the highlands. The first indication the day would be different came with the appearance of dozens of Chinooks sweeping in from the south, flying low over the Pisgah National Forest. Like impatient buzzards they circled the distant Arnesville International Airport, waiting for clearance.