The Undead Zed Read online

  And my head hurts and sometimes my hands hurt, and my eyes sting, and I wait for it to go away, and go back to sleep or chasing things or listening to Marcy, until the noises come back again.

  Sometimes it isn't yelling or screaming, but nice noises, noises that I know but I don't really.

  Den, I'm home.

  And even though they're nice noises, they make me even more sad. But I don't hear them very much. Just every now and then.

  And sometimes my head will be quiet, and I like that the most, because then it doesn't hurt, and I know I am me, and nothing else tells me that I'm not. And that's all I want to be.

  Me.

  Chapter 2

  Jump.

  Roll.

  Jump again.

  Good place here. For seeing and smelling. Lots of smells. Smoke, blood, sick…

  High up. High up is good.

  Smelly sick ones are wandering around. Down low. Very stupid. Run at prey. Get killed by prey.

  Killed with smoke-things.

  Wait. Wait up high. Smell prey. Watch prey. Wait. For when prey isn't looking. Don't get killed by prey.

  I kill the prey.

  Some coming now. 3 of them. Smelly-stupids run and yell at them. Prey hits them with the smoke things.

  One is away from the others. Being pulled by rope-thing from Sick-Smoke one. Other prey is being run at by Stupid-Smelly-Ones. Can't help the other one.

  Growl.

  Now.

  Jump.

  Scream.

  Air making rush-noise when I pounce. Makes my face cold. Claws out.

  Land.

  Cracking sound when I hit prey. Rope-thing isn't dragging anymore.

  Mine.

  Rip.

  Tear.

  Claw.

  Bite.

  Oh God! Getitoffgetitoffgetitoff

  KILL

  I wake up.

  All of me feels cold. Sweating, but I'm not hot. I shake.

  I can still hear the screams.

  I can still remember the smells…

  Breathe. Hard. My chest goes thunk-thunk-thunk, like it does when I run or jump for a long time, but I wasn't running or jumping.

  Well, I don't think I was.

  I roll off the bed.

  It's dark, but I can see. Marcy is sleeping, and I don't want to wake her up.

  I go outside. The air is cold, and dark. Veryverydark. Lots of little dots stars in the sky. Marcy says it's because there isn't any light to block them out. There were lots of them at The Cabin, too, but they looked different.

  Jump. The I'm on the roof.

  Noises. Little noises. The ones that are always in my head. Too quiet for me to hear. Some of them are louder than others, and they are the ones that make me sick.

  Breathe deep again. Lay back. The roof feels cold. Stop the noises. Make my chest quiet down, make the sick go away.

  I watch the stars, and sometimes I think I see them move, very, very slowly.

  I hear the door slam open and shut. Then a tk-tk-tk-tk on the wall, since Marcy needs a ladder, and she sits down next to me.

  "You really need to quit havin' the midnight terrors, man. It ain't healthy for a body to be up this damn early."

  She says it like she's mad, but she isn't. I know she's worried. I can hear it and smell it a little, too, under the sleepiness.

  "What was it this time?"

  I shrug. "Same things. Screams. All the smells. Stuff I don't want to remember."

  "Your head doesn't seem to be getting the memo."

  "Hm."

  "Anything... useful?"

  I shake my head. "No. "

  "Damn." she says, quietly. She turns over and looks at me. "Ya wanna talk it out, or anythin' ?"

  I shrug. "Nah."

  I know I'm lying, because after we sit and look at the stars and all the desert and the base for a while, I start to ask what I've been thinking for a long time.

  "Am I-"

  "No."

  I turn back to her. "You really think?"

  She sighs. "I can see it in your face. You're not a monster, if you want full reassurances."

  "Really?"

  She looks at me, a little annoyed. "Would I lie to you about this sorta shit?"

  I think for a little. "Maybe."

  She punches me in the arm, hard, and it makes my breath go oof, but she doesn't smell mad.

  "Wrong in one."

  "Why?" I ask, my head and my arm burning together, now.

  "Why what?"

  " I've killed people, Marcy. " I say, looking straight at her. Her face doesn't change, but I can smell the sad off of her. "I know I did. You said I had blood on me when you found me. I don't think it was all mine. I remember…" Ripping, screaming, taste of blood, the hunt… "I remember it. And I almost..."

  I almost killed you.

  She nods. "I'm well aware."

  "But doesn't it mean that-"

  "What did I tell you earlier?"

  Her voice is hard, and so are her eyes. "I don't particularly like to repeat myself."

  The she sighs, and some of the hardness goes away. "Look, angstin' over it ain't gonna change what happened. You can only change what you do in the future."

  "Yeah?"

  "Yep."

  "Right." I say. "I'm never killing, ever again." I won't make the same mistakes, cause the same pain-

  "Bad idea."

  "Huh?"

  She shakes her head, and smells a little confused. "What's the quote Whit told me- 'Only the devil deals in absolutes.' Yeah, somethin' like that. Point is, going hard the other way ain't gonna fix anythin', either. You never know what's gonna happen, who you'll have to defend… sometimes, you gotta do what you gotta do."

  I stay quiet, thinking. Like the bear, but what if I lose control? What if I do something stupid?

  She glances over to me. "Y'know, I killed a guy before I met ya?"

  "Yeah?"

  She sighs. "Just an infected. Came stumblin' at me, arm just bit, turned not three minutes later." She looks off at the sky, and I don't know what she's thinking.

  "His name was Max."

  Then she turns back to me. "I was thinking bright n' clear, Denver. I did what I had to do. He could've been an asshole, he could've had a family. I don't know.." She shrugs. "I bet his corpse is rotting away in the gas station I shot him in. People shouldn't have to die that way," she says, shaking her head. "Shot through the head in a goddamn gas station…

  "But it's what happened. I couldn't have prevented it, not without killin' someone else, me included. It is how it is, and I don't let it keep me up at night." She smirks. "Well, unless there's someone else doing the favor."

  "Sorry."

  " 's OK." She says. "You've been through some shit. I reckon you get a free pass."

  "Yeah..." I clench my teeth. "But you don't think it makes me... dangerous? Uncontrollable?"

  "A man is defined by his own decisions. " she says. "Your intentions don't mean shit, it all boils down to what you do of your own volition. Er, free will." She says when she sees my face.

  "What I mean to say is, you're only a monster if you decide to be one. The Green Flu… it took that out of your hands. You weren't thinking straight, and it isn't your fault that you got infected. All you can do now is move forward."

  "And not kill people?"

  "Just…" she stops and thinks. "Use your common sense. I know you have some bangin' around in your head somewhere."

  "You think?"

  "Yeah." she says, nodding. "I do,"

  I unclench my jaw. The noises are screaming at me, still, but they're a little quieter.

  "Thanks."

  "No problem." she says, swinging her feet off the roof.

  "Just try and get some damn sleep, hey?"

  Marcy

  The whitecoats seemed… agitated the next day.

  They were always around the base during the day, it being a research lab, but they didn't really interact with Denver or me that m
uch. Most of the time, their attitude seemed to veer from general disinterest to fascinated terror, like we were some sort of horribly deadly, incredibly rare, recently-discovered species of pit scorpion.

  This was fairly close to the truth, so this suited me just fine. Any day when the whitecoats leave us be is a good day in my book.

  They were pretty damn annoying, I'll tell ya, never answering any questions. On any other given day they'd either give some science-shit explanation that I couldn't follow, or just drop a dismissive comment. Today, however, they seemed to be deliberately avoiding us, which was a fairly nice break from them taking blood samples all the time, if a little disconcerting.

  And suspicious.

  "There's somethin' going on." I muttered, watching them skitter around from our spot on the roof.

  Besides being a good place for angst-pep-talk time, it made a convenient vantage spot for watching people.

  Denver shrugged. "They keep whispering at each other. I can't get close enough to hear, but they smell… scared. Confused."

  "That ain't good." I said, mostly to myself. "I'm in good mind to throw a tomato at 'em."

  "I could jump one of them." Denver offered, grinning evilly. I smirked.

  "Temping, but you know what happened last time you did that."

  "It was fun to hear them scream."

  "Y'know, for all the regret n' crap you claim to have, I could swear you still a streak of zombie in ya."

  "Whitecoats don't count. You said it yourself. They don't treat us like people, anyways."

  "True." I said. "They don't." I sighed. "Save it for Gatling, in any case."

  "He hasn't been around for awhile," Den said, eyeing the scientists warily.

  "Which is what worries me." I said, following his gaze.

  "I thought you didn't like him."

  "Still don't." I said. "But at least he was a constant, when he was still around. Something's going on if the leader of the joint just vanishes into thin air. 'Sides," I glanced over, "I thought you were the one that said he 'smelled trustworthy.'" I teased.

  "He didn't kill me. And the nose doesn't lie." Denver replied, simply.

  "He didn't kill you because you were an 'object of scientific interest'. Besides, who am I to trust the olfactory senses of someone who's medically brain-damaged?"

  "Hey!"

  "I'm kidding." I laughed. Denver hmphed and crossed his arms, grumpily.

  "Nose or not, I still don't trust him." I said, tone serious again. "Like Uncle Whit used to say, somethin' here is going catawampus."

  "You keep talking about your Uncle Whit." Denver said, cutting off my train of thought. "What happened to him? Were you close?"

  I sucked at my teeth, trying to word the answer. "Fairly." I said, to start. "He was my dad's older brother, really the only other relative I knew. Grew up and lived in Georgia, the both of them, and me, till Dad moved up North to live closer to the cabin. Even after we moved, they were still pretty close. We used to go to Savannah every Thanksgiving, talk about weaponry and all that. He'd let me handle the guns from his store, even shoot some of 'em." I smiled at the memory; my first sniper rifle, learning how to mount a laser sight, packing magazines on an M16 Carbine automatic...ah, good times. "I fired my first gun ever on his range. It was a .22 Browning A-Bolt. Manual. I managed to jam it the first time, but good ol' Whit helped me fix it."

  "What happened?" Denver asked, breaking my train of thought. "You said you used to go to Savannah."

  I sighed. "It was when I was, I dunno, 12." I shook my head, sadly. "Dad and Whitaker... got into an argument. Dad said lighting out to the North was a better idea during the nuclear apocalypse, but Whit said that stayin' home and holing up was the way to go. Told Dad that his obsession with the Cabin was 'unhealthy'… they were rantin' for hours." I shuddered at the memory, me waiting on the stairs next to the kitchen, while the two of them shouted…

  "Long story short, Dad broke off all ties, and never spoke to Whit again. After he died, I didn't really keep up contact, so who knows? I know the flu's hit Georgia, but Whit's tough enough, he mighta survived…"

  "Wait, wait." Denver cut in. "Your dad refused to talk your uncle for years over an argument on survival strategy?"

  I nodded. "Yep. Big issue for them. Really, Dad thought Whit was crazy for wanting to stay and wait it out. I dunno how he's doing after the Green Flu." I glanced out over the horizon, to the east. I almost fancied I heard a rocket launcher.

  "Good ol' Whit." I said. "I hope he's doin' OK."

  Later on, it was just us in our cots in the old barracks, and all the whitecoats had shut up and gone home for the day.

  "I hope Gatling gets back soon." I said, idly looking up at the ceiling, as I tried to fall asleep. "Longer he's gone, the longer we're here."

  "Do you think we'll be here forever?" I heard, from the next cot over.

  I shrugged. "Who knows? We stay here as long as Gatling wants us to." Which may damn well be forever, I added, if only in my head.

  "Maybe we should burn the place down, like you said." Denver mused. I let out a short laugh.

  "Maybe. I'm not sure if the place is flammable enough, in any case. I'd need an incendiary grenade, or a flamethrower and a hella lotta gas. In any case, they haven't dissected you or anything, so I suppose we can count our blessings."

  "Yeah, but they keep poking you with needles."

  "Needles ain't the worst of it. The fact they run you down with 'strength tests' or whatever the hell they call legal torture nowadays makes my blood boil"

  "It isn't needles."

  "It isn't right, either." I snapped, stopping short of shouting. "Let's let it rest, for now. We'll discuss escape plans tomorrow."

  "Alright. Good night."

  "G'nite." I said, flicking off the light.

  And that was the last night either of us slept peacefully for a very long time.

  Chapter 3

  "TAAAAAAAAANK!"

  Prey is making loud noises. Big-thing hunting them. Throwing things at prey.

  Watch. From high-up. Don't hunt now. Wait. Don't get killed by big-thing.

  Big-things bad. Veryvery bad.

  "Shitbucket! get the molotov!"

  Big-thing smells different now. Like smoke. Burn. Making big noises. Chasing prey.

  Prey is shooting with fire-things…

  KILL IT

  There's a different smell in my nose.

  It's familiar…

  Are you awake?

  Like the hospital...

  Light. Cold feeling on my face. I'm not dreaming anymore.

  I feel… fuzzy. Tired. There's black in my head, and these little white things flying around in my eyes…

  Noises. There's noises going on. Why can't I see? It's too loud to be the barracks, the smells are all wrong…

  "D'ya think it was enough knock-out stuff we used?"

  "We gave it the normal amount. It's fuckin' horse tranquilizer, and it's been asleep the entire time."

  There's a chak-chak-chak-chak-chak noises, too. I've heard it before. At the base, but far away, and…

  This is Chopper 13-E, reporting from - - - - - -, heading to North Base CE-104

  "Good thing we knocked it out easy, right?"

  "Caldwell said to get 'em while they're sleeping. No fight, no mess, no clean up. Easy done."

  I can see a little bit more.

  It's a metal place. I've been here before. Or somewhere like it.

  I can't feel my arms. There's something holding them down...black things.

  I can see two shapes, all blurry and green-brown looking, close by, but I can't smell them, and I don't think they know I'm awake.

  Where's Marcy?

  I can't smell her, or hear her. I don't think she's close.

  I have to get out.

  There's more things on my chest. Straps. Holding me down.

  They're near my teeth.

  BITE

  Marcy

  You know what sucks ass? Waki
ng up and not knowing where the hell you are.

  Usually, you get there after you're drunk, (so I'm told) after moving to a new place, or just plain after a deep sleep.

  Though sometimes, it's because the government's kidnapped and transported you to a research facility in Canada. (Long story. If you ain't read it by now, shame on you.) So, needless to say, when I woke up in a white room with pointedly non-celestial lights shining down on me, (again) I was pretty damn pissed. This shit was getting old, real fast.

  I was awake in seconds, taking in my surroundings. First thing that hit me: It definitely wasn't a hospital. It was bright, glaringly white, and sterile-smelling, but it had no furnishings other than the cot I was lying on, and (weirdly enough) a large mirror taking up the entirety of one wall.

  There wasn't anyone else there, either, but I spoke what was on my mind, anyways.

  "Cut the shit, Gatling," I said, calling out to the emptiness. "Where the fuck d'ja stick us this time?

  Does my snot actually cure cancer? Or is it my earwax? Quit hidin', I know you're behind a corner somewhere, and any minutes you're gonna come out and dump some scientific explanation or whatever on me. I get it. So stop the mysterious crap and get your ass out here."

  "Your vulgarity is commendable, Miss Walker," a voice that was most certainly not Gatling's said, coming from nowhere and echoing around the room, "However, it is not within your ability, or position, to make such a request."

  It sounded like something Gatling would say, sure (which is to say, smug and instantly infuriating) but it was a more Midwestern accent than Californian. And...steelier, somehow. Calmer. Colder.

  I tried hefting myself off the cot, and nearly regretted it. My legs crumpled underneath me, and -too late- I realized that my lagging sense of tiredness was not from fatigue, but from knockout drugs.

  Shit.

  I turned, silently cursing, and directed my attention to the mirror.

  Mirrors are seldom there for no reason, and I had a feeling that I wasn't in an evil beauty salon.

  "Right, then, Mr. Whoever-The-Fuck-You-Are." I said, venomously. "Do me a favor and show me your pretty, pretty face. I know it's a one-way glass, so quit dicking around."

  My head was buzzing, though it didn't know if it was from the anger, or the drugs, or from the quickly-rising fear in my chest that I was trying to hide.

  The speaker didn't say anything, but I heard a faint click, and I could see through the glass of the mirror like a window.