Netherstream - Episode 1: Jane Doe (2 page)

Before I could assess my wound, Brad grabbed my other arm and bit into it. “Fuck!” I shook him off. Shot in one arm and bitten in the other, the night was quickly going to hell.

Brad was far worse for wear, though. His quirky smile had been ripped off; the rest of his face now hamburger meat. Instantly he realized his mistake and spit out the missing chunk of my forearm. It was the first time that I realized that zombies took exception to me. Besides, why bother with a slice of venison when you had a room full of prime rib? I was too tough anyways, and would certainly to give them an afterlife of gas. No kidding.

Abruptly he turned his attention back to his boss Adam, and the three hungry thieves took turns devouring each other’s flesh. The employee gnawed on the manager, who in turn gnawed on the customer, while the customer gnawed on them both.

Your typical day at the Black Diamond Regency.

I gazed at Marge, surprised that her body had not sustained a major injury since the outbreak. Although her skin was bruised in places, it was otherwise flawless, and her brownish-gray hair still had a healthy sheen to it and hadn’t begun to fall out in patches. Despite her ghostly shade, she looked as human as I did; and in an ironic twist, death had transformed her into a sweet, old maid. I reached over and hugged her, appreciating her company now more than ever. It felt good to hold someone, even a zombie. “Now how about that shower?”

We crossed the lobby and entered the lounge, a large room with high ceilings framed by two wraparound staircases leading up to the banquet halls. A brick fireplace was tucked in the far corner, dwarfed by a giant fountain that dominated the room. I’d always been an admirer of Brock Fleming’s work, and when I noticed his original sculpture of a defiant horse rising out of the water, I knew that I had to get a job here. It was just too cool.

As we made our way through, I caught a glimpse of the Diamond Café. I nodded at the infected server inside as he tried hopelessly to satisfy his ravenous patrons.

The macabre scene brought a smile to my face. The customer did not have a head, so if he had come for the Filet Mignon, he was shit out of luck. His two sons and daughter squirmed in their seats, no more than ten years old apiece. They snarled at their decapitated father, and squealed for ice cream. Not brains or booze or boobs like the typical male zombie, but for a scoop of the Regency’s award winning tiramisu ice cream.

Ooh…tiramisu ice cream…the very thought made me weak. Although most of the entrees were uninspired at best, the café absolutely rocked when it came to the dessert menu. From chocolate lava cakes to cream-filled cinnamon rolls to butterscotch waffle sundaes, the Diamond knew how to take care of a woman and her starving children. And if faced with the choice between sex and the dessert menu, the Diamond Café won every time. Perhaps one of these days I’d find a way to combine the two.

I didn’t have the heart to put a bullet in their heads—they were children after all. So I sealed them into the café, fed them a few scraps now and then, and let them play out the charade.

We passed by the glass windows, just in time to catch their hourly routine. The server approached the headless customer and moaned. Occasionally he puked on him—there was a lot of that going around these days. Restless from eating baskets of moldy bread and chipping their teeth on broken glasses, the children screamed at the server, “Kice kream! Kice kream!”

Their words were surprisingly clear, the benefit of their youthful nature and slower rate of decomposition. Confused, the server scratched his head and pondered. After a few moments, he reached into his apron and dumped a pile of dirty silverware on the table. Fortunately I’d removed all the knives; otherwise, the show would have been cut short a long time ago. Note: Never, ever give zombie children knives!

Realizing that their dessert was never coming, the children attacked the server, and chewed on his knees. The server shrugged, picked up the check, and then walked off with the kids still attached to his legs.

“Bravo!” I clapped. After awhile, the children returned to their seats and the entire show replayed itself over again.

I tapped the glass and waved. They were family now, and had begun to recognize me as their mother. “Lunch will be served in an hour,” I promised.

Unfortunately, I only had a small piece of meat for the four of them. No doubt it would be a Battle Royale, but the children always had a sneaky way of getting what they wanted. In the end, they were just too quick for their slower, plodding elders. Of course, they never got the ice cream, which kept them singing like a broken record.

We stepped through two sets of double doors and made a right. I took it nice and easy, patiently guiding Margaret along. The overhead lights illuminated the walls reasonably well, tossing a green cast over everything it touched. Marge fidgeted with her hands, becoming more and more uneasy. I had to be careful when she started biting her nails so that she didn’t chew right to the bone. “Come on, Marge. There’s nothing to be afraid of.” I pulled her fingers from her mouth and coaxed her into the employee locker room.

I led her to her locker, and watched her work her magic. “56-21-42,” I said. It amazed me that she could open her locker on her own accord. Although she typically screwed up the combination, after several tries she eventually got it right. “Try again. You can do it,” I encouraged her.

It had taken weeks before she was finally able to perform the precise movements necessary to operate a combination lock. Now she was on a roll, and it was taking fewer attempts before she finally broke through.

Suddenly the locker door popped open.

“Good job.” I could hardly believe my eyes. She got it on the second try, her personal best.

Marge peered into the locker, and went straight for the gum. Even now, the old brute couldn’t stand bad breath.

“Just one stick.” I wrestled the gum from her. If I let her, she’d devour the whole pack.

The zombie jawed at me, flailing her arms wildly.

“One stick,” I reiterated, and did not hand it over until she had completely calmed down.

She tossed the stick of gum in her mouth without removing the wrapper. Although she was smart enough to operate a combination lock, she struggled with the concept of unwrapping her food before she ate it. One thing at a time, I guess.

“Keep it up, Marge. You’ll be back to your old self in no time.” I opened the door to the women’s restroom and pushed her inside. I locked the door behind us, grabbed a fresh towel, and prodded her to the showers.

Every day I counted our blessings that we still had running water. For some reason I wasn’t as worried about losing power. It was still in the Elite’s best interests to supply energy to a few points on the grid to see what crawled out of the darkness. It was the only way to locate subjects possessing a natural immunity to the virus and develop an effective vaccine.

I turned the knob and waited. The water struggled at first, and then shot through the showerhead in a steady stream. I sampled the water every few seconds, but it was ice cold. At least it was fresh and clean and didn’t smell like the sewer. Warm water was intermittent, and unfortunately, I wasn’t handy enough to fix the hotel’s various heat pumps.

“Let’s get you out of that uniform. You smell like death.” I gestured to her.

When you’re off the menu, zombies are relatively calm and even trainable. Sure they’re temperamental, have no sense of hygiene, and snap at anything that moves, but they’re also entertaining and excellent watchdogs. Tell them to eat shit and they’ll literally eat shit. The innocent air about them makes them irresistible as long as you can forgive their quirky behavior.

Zombies are breeding grounds for diseases when they decompose, but not all of them were dead. A few like Margaret still had a pulse. Her brain had absorbed the brunt of the virus, but it had not succeeded in killing her off.

Still, it was academic. No one beat the virus once it entered the bloodstream, making my immunity all that more curious.

I had to keep moving, keep my mind busy at all times. I dare not give my imagination too much space to wander, lest invite decay at the somber hands of loneliness and depression. Perhaps I should have done more to prevent the spread of the virus, but I hid inside my tower while the world crumbled.

In light of everything, why did fate spare me? Clearly I’m not the chosen one. Not even close. I’m just…confused…about so many things…and the day of reckoning was fast approaching.

Marge tore off her dress and panty hose before fumbling with her bra. She tugged at it, and when that failed, began chewing on the fabric. Like the lock, I showed her that unhooking her bra required a different skill set.

Putting it back on would be more challenging, though. She abhorred things touching or clinging to her body, and would keep removing her clothes until she got tired of me or forgot they were on her. Even though bathing Marge was a royal pain in the ass, she deserved the dignity of fresh bath and set of clothes. She was still a member of the human race, and until that day, I would continue fighting for her.

“Let’s try this again.” I help up a bar of soap. She nipped at me, causing me to retract my hand. “No clawing or biting this time!” I scolded her.

I guided her to the shower and got her body and hair thoroughly wet. She did not seem to mind the frigid water, and stood still while I lathered up her body. I hid the bar of soap before she snatched it from me again, and pointed to the soapsuds on her body.

Once she saw the bubbles she was completely mesmerized. Marge leaned against the wall, popping them with glee before demanding that I lather her up again. She could do this for hours without complaint, but there was only so much water and patience.

After rinsing the shampoo from her hair, I took a deep breath and turned off the water. Like a child that did not want to leave the pool, Marge went berserk. She slapped my hand aside and turned the knobs. A moment later the water came back on, prompting her to turn and grin.

“Come on, Marge. It’s time to go. Wait…was that a smile?” I studied her closely.

Abruptly she pried the bar of soap from my hand and began lathering her arm. The suds brought fresh bubbles, which brought another smirk.

“There’s hope for you yet.” I smiled back.

When I finally ripped her away from the shower, Marge went for my neck. She’d bitten me before on the arms and legs, but never this. Each time she got increasingly more violent, and if this continued, I was going to have to handcuff her to a pipe and hose her down, or slip a sedative in her Chunky Beef Soup just to bathe that wretched zombie booty. Hopefully it wouldn’t come to that.

I dried her off, and then examined my neck. As I pulled my hand away, I came away with blood. “Fuck!” I blurted out, trying to locate the open wound.

“Funnckk…” Marge replied.

Oops. I had to be careful what I said around her; otherwise, she’d wind up with a potty mouth like me. “Yeah, funk. That’s what I meant to say.”

I looked in the mirror and gasped. “Where’s my earring?” I pressed closer. “Hell, where’s my earlobe?”

“Hhhelll…” Marge moaned, and then coughed up the diamond earring. It bounced off the floor and headed for the drain.

“No!” I shouted. Lightening quick, I sealed the drain with my foot and snagged the earring off the tile floor. “Bad!” I tried to keep the smile from my face. She didn’t understand, couldn’t understand. Not even if she pondered it for a thousand years.

I cursed under my breath, sprayed her with the house perfume, and wrapped towels around her head and body. As I led her to Laundry, I looked back, wondering why she was being so compliant. Out of the corner of my eye, I caught a glimpse of her stuffing the bar of soup in her mouth. Clever girl. Perhaps she was trying to tell me something.

Laundry and Kitchen were the first two departments that I cleared of zombies. It’s impossible to keep one’s sanity with someone puking on your clothes and fucking up your food all the time. I had to draw the line somewhere, and fresh panties and a bowl of Rice Krispies were worth killing for.

I’d seen zombie chefs before, and it’s not a pretty sight. Parts of them always wind up in the entrée. They also take after their human counterparts—they don’t last long. Oblivious to a wide range of pain, they don’t feel a damn thing when they’re scalded, seriously injured or set afire. They just continue cooking, because it’s the only thing that they know how to do. ‘Tis only a flesh wound, right chap?

But the worst thing in the world is watching a zombie cook french fries. They seem to have a handle on placing the frozen potatoes in the fryer and lowering them into the hot oil, but beyond that, all bets are off. They’re notoriously impatient, reaching in with their bare hands and scooping the fries out. Frequently they leave fingers behind. Gross!

Without a second thought, I shot all of the cooks in the head, regardless of whether or not they were zombies. They were all bastards anyways. (Right?) I did, however, keep a Room Service Server around to ferret things from one side of the hotel to the other. To my surprise, he was quite useful.

I punched in the five-digit pin, and opened the door. Rows of freshly pressed uniforms hung in racks to one side, while piles of dirty clothes cluttered the floor. I stepped away from Margaret briefly, grabbed a clean uniform, and rejoined her near the washers in the back of the room.

Laundry always made me cringe when I stepped through the doors. The smell of strangers that I did not know lingered on every shirt and pair of pants. I could tell their choice of perfume, the detergent they had used and other unique bodily odors. And when I surprised someone, I could usually tell within a nanosecond whether or not they had crapped their pants. Showers were not only born of necessity, they were essential to my survival.

Marge staggered over to an empty, yellow cart and stopped. She stared at a single drop of blood at the bottom, and then raised her head to the metal chute that fed it.

“What’s wrong, Marge?” I began putting on her uniform. Fresh pantyhose were becoming scarce, so she’d have to do without them for a week. The gift shop and vending machines were running dry, and it didn’t make sense for me to wash them by hand since she enjoyed tearing them off.