Curse of the Druids (10 page)
Read Curse of the Druids Online
Authors: Aiden James
“No, obviously… I’m still here.”
“Do you think they heard what you just said?”
“Right now, with all the confusion, I don’t care if they do.”
Against my wishes, Zindra followed me to my room and pushed me against the wall. Before I could stop her she stuck her tongue hard into my mouth.
“Get away from me. What the hell is wrong with you?” I demanded.
“Just having some fun. Hell, I need it. If you want, I’ll introduce you to Lion Brand He’s the wildest zombie in rehab.”
“Why?”
“Cause he’s ultra boz… more fun than boring old Blake.”
“How old were you?” I asked.
“Twenty-two, but I had a regressive transformation last year; I needed to look sixteen.”
Zombie death had left her looking young after the surgeries, but more than sixteen. I didn’t want to be the one to burst her bubble. Instead, I nodded and smiled like a puppet.
“Why did you lie to me about being a breather when you’re obviously not?”
“Shoot,” she remarked, holding out her wrist. “My discipline band is blinking… I’m outta here before the assholes come looking for me,” she said ignoring my comment.
“I hear you have to do something real bad to get a band?”
“A captor reported me after I offered him sex. I found out later the bastard couldn’t get it up anymore. Haha… no better than an impotent zombie male!”
“A stupid move, why did you do it?”
“For the thrill. His face was a picture.”
“It was still a dumb thing to do.”
Finally, Zindra gave up on me and left. I didn’t need any more friends, especially ones who irritated me with tall stories and stuck their dead tongues down my throat. I settled down in my room and checked my wrists. All signs of the deep self-inflicted cuts had disappeared with the laser repair. I
still
couldn’t help obsessing over whether I looked like a monster or human, and the thought often made me paranoid. If I ever reached level seven rehab, I’d graduate fit to work in some low capacity. Then I would find out just how I appeared to breathers.
I sat myself down in the one chair provided to punish myself with thoughts on dying without knowing the origins of my birth mother or test tube father. The woman who gave life to me was nothing more than a baby-houser who gave up the use of her womb in exchange for privilege. These elite women and girls lived in the best zones, along with sperm donors, midwives, and lots of praise. They had the luxury of food implants three times a day, and complimentary trips to exclusive clubs on Mars.
Within the hour of my birth, I had been handed to a “deserving” family who didn’t like children, only the advantages attached to having one. The result for me was a cold and unhappy childhood with a weak mother and a bully of father. Just thinking about them brought on my zombie-stress, which resulted in the habit of scratching my arms for hours, mostly until they bled. Decomposition may have been halted and reversed, but there were side effects. Anxiety, and skin irritation being two of them.
“Blake 187, stop scratching!”
I had forgotten to stay out of range of the circuit camera tucked away in the ceiling of my room, transmitting clear images back to the lower rank captors who hated their jobs and made sure we knew it. Within seconds, they were before me in their foreboding black uniforms. “We have one who needs removal to transit house for disobedience,” the captor barked loudly into his pod, making sure I heard his command.
“No…
Please
… I’ll be good. I promise not to scratch, or even blow my nose. Don’t send me to transit!” I begged, attempting to weasel myself out of my predicament.
“Resistance carries penalties, compliance brings rewards. You should know the rules by now, Blake 187. Scratching and drawing blood from yourself is forbidden. You have violated decree WD38496501.”
“For scratching, are you serious?”
“Another violation of decree WD 89003213. Displays of sarcasm are reserved for breathers. Recorded and noted.”
I held back, knowing I was damned with every word I used to try and defend myself. I didn’t want to be a robot existing only in Pye’s pocket, but I had to play part of their game in order to slow my progress in rehab. I had to think of ways to escape or be enslaved forever.
Despite my macho self-talk, I had to think of my chances out there amongst the lawless gangs from the outer perimeters whose sport was to catch and torture zombies. The moment I was out of rehab, I’d be at the mercy of breathers who would spit where I walked. Outlawed witches who were still at loose would come out of their shadowy hiding places and curse me with spells of misfortune. Then I’d be faced with the danger of escaped zombies, my father’s greatest paranoia. His high-powered laser gun was always charged in the guise of protecting the family. My mother tried endlessly to discourage him from blowing them to pieces.
“Once they were breathers, human… like us,” she would tell me.
She was unpredictable and never stood up for herself when my father jumped on her for every little thing. He suspected she was having an affair with a handsome breather down the road, and he was right. He did the unthinkable and reported her for disloyalty and betrayal. It resulted in her arrest. As they took her away, kicking and screaming, I wanted to kill the man who thought he had rational explanation.
“You’re only fifteen, one day you’ll understand why us men can’t be screwed around by women. I know I complain about Severance, but it has its advantages. This is one of them.”
Months later, we received word she’d succumbed to the virus which was probably rampant in a filth ridden prison. Her death had no effect on my father. He went about his daily task of searching for a new woman. Even though I never held much love for my mother, I hated him for what he did.
There was nothing to entice me to risk going back where I wouldn’t be welcome. The minute my father set eyes on me and saw what I’d become, he’d drag me to the edge of the zone and hand me to the nearest murdering gang without remorse. His cruel words still haunted my nightmares.
No family of mine will ever walk the earth as a zombie… I will make sure the monster is torn limb from limb before my very eyes.
Now I was off to transit for being mouthy and over confident. I had become accustomed to being shifted from place to place. This time I was transported in a fast vehicle to unfamiliar territory, a low slung high security building with black windows.
“What
is
this place? Are we still in the zone?” I dared to ask.
“Instead of charging you with violating another decree, I’m telling you to shut up.”
“Violation for what? I thought I’d been charged with just about everything on your list?”
My captor looked at me with hatred and disgust, curling his upper lip into a sneer
“This is your last chance.” He warned.
“Okay, I’m quiet now. Satisfied?”
“Violation of decree 001069… insubordination,” he declared proudly.
“I did say I’d be quiet.
“In here!”
I had been hustled along what felt like miles of corridors until I was pushed roughly into a windowless room containing nothing more than a mat, chair, and a wall screen. I was then locked in and left alone.
I kept thinking about Zindra warning me they could hear every thought in my head. Hard as I tried, I
couldn’t
stop myself from thinking
about how stupid I’d been.
“Watch out, we hear you!” a disembodied voice spoke firmly.
I spotted a tiny dot on the ceiling.
The bastards were tuning in.
Everything in my limited zombie brain could be tracked in certain areas of the zone. It wasn't looking good. The odds of being demoted from a once intellectual breather to dumbass zombie was becoming likely. If I didn’t get my act together in time, then what would I be?
A ‘nobody’ cleaning sex rooms on Mars, wishing I was obliterated.
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Blake 187: A Zombie Revolution
, click on the link for your preferred ereader device below:
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About the Author
Aiden James
has spent time as a real life paranormal investigator in Tennessee. In love with the legends and history of the Deep South, he and his wife, Fiona, share an old antebellum home with several ghosts. Please visit his website at:
www.aidenjamesfiction.com
. Or look for him on Facebook (Aiden James, Paranormal Author) and on Twitter (@AidenJames3).