Now

“…ster Stanley? Can you hear me?”

The woman’s voice intrudes on my fog. I’m enjoying my fog, it’s peaceful. It was quiet.

“Miisster Stanley?” She stretches it out. “Carl?”

“Yeah, I hear you. Now go away.” I go to turn over and find myself restrained. Ankles, wrists, chest, and head. All strapped down. Tight.

“Hey! What the…”

“Please be calm, Mr. Stanley. The restraints are for your safety as well as ours.”

“What? Safety? How is strapping me to a table making me safe?”

The Voice, as I begin to think of it, says, “Well, you wouldn’t want to get shot, now would you?”

I had to agree. I’ve been shot. No end to the trouble it causes. “OK, but couldn’t you just lock the door?”

“Oh, we did that, too.” The Voice sounds as if she is smiling.

I lay still, as if I have any choice in the matter. I really want to move. Movement helps me relax. Funny as it sounds, I get jittery when I can’t move. Which, of course, makes me want to move even more.

In the brief moment before she answers, I start trying to inventory myself. I don’t feel clothing on my arms or feet, but it feels as if the rest of me is covered in a sheet. I assume this is a hospital gown.

The crook of my right arm feels like it’s bandaged. Like I’ve had blood taken.

As I cannot move my head, I cannot see anything but the ceiling. I see a small round grill mounted there. The Voice seems to be coming from that grill.

“Alright.” She says. “I will have someone release you. However, if you attempt to escape or injure anyone, you’ll be shot immediately. Do you understand?”

“Shot. Right. Got it.” I roll my eyes. It’s the only thing I can do besides make rude gestures with my hands. I do that, too. Several different ones. There is no comment, so I assume that I am not on camera. Either that or they just don’t care.

After a full minute, I hear a bolt throw and a door open. A man dressed in military fatigues comes into my field of vision. He puts something hard against the top of my head.

He says to me, “Move. Please. I’m tired of fighting you people.”

Another military type comes into view and yanks on the straps around my right wrist, then leaves.

The rude man holding that hard something to my head says “Count to 60 out loud, slowly. Then you can undo the rest of the straps. If you start before 60, even on 59, I’ll be back.” He taps me hard on the head and adds, “With my friend here.”

The hard thing, I’m assuming it’s a gun, leaves my head. I hear the door close and the bolt throw.

I start counting. I count to 65 just to be sure, adding a nice seven letter expletive beginning with “F” in between the “60” and the one, two, three, four, and five.

The Voice comes back. “Now, Mr. Stanley. There is no need for sarcasm.”

I laugh as I undo the straps. “Oh, no. No need for that at all.”

Finally standing, I see a room no more that ten feet on a side. Grey. One door. One gurney. I am dressed in a hospital gown as I suspected. I start to pace around the room.

Ahhh. That feels much better.

“Can I have some clothes?”

“I’m sorry, but that would put our people in unnecessary danger. Nobody is to be in your presence unless you are restrained.”

“Ah.” I nod my head. “I see. So, I’m just gonna starve in here, then?”

“Are…you hungry?” The Voice asks slowly. Almost with apprehension.

“Actually, yes. I’m sure you’ve done your research. I like red meat, very…rare. After all, that is why you grabbed me, isn’t it? Because I’m a Zombie?”

Then

I’m not really a Zombie. I’m just, well, part Zombie. No, I don’t mean my mother was a Zombie and my Dad was a baker or anything.

I’m just immune to whatever virus created the Zombies.

What really pisses me off is that is was a nine year old girl who bit me. Tried to eat my face. I shoulda shot the little twerp when I first saw her.

I and some other people were trying to get to Goodfellow Air Force Base in San Angelo, the only Federal Safe Refuge in our immediate area.

The FSR’s had been set up all over. The Feds had selected some defensible locations and armed the snot out of them. Any live human, and the distinction was now very real, could come to any FSR. If there was room, they would be allowed inside.

If the FSR was full, the best you could hope for was to stay close to the barrier. The troops did all they could to keep the Zombies at bay, and you might get lucky.

Of course, you could get shot or blown up, too.

It was a chance you took gladly.

We were ten or fifteen miles from the Goodfellow FSR, coming in from the East on some Farm-to-Market Road. Look it up. It’s the Middle of Freaking Nowhere. We were cruisin’ right along in a beat up old Ford pick-up. A couple with their son rode in the cab. I and two other guys rode in the back.

We topped a rise and there they were. A bunch of Zombies, I don’t know how many, but a lot. Just walking up the road, heading the way we had come.

The guy driving did the only thing you can. He punched it. When he hit the group, bodies flew everywhere. He musta taken down half of them. Maybe even killed a few.

But, he also almost took us out, too. He lost control of the truck and we went sliding sideways down the road. God, or luck, or something, kept the wheels on the asphalt and we didn’t get tossed out on our heads.

The truck stopped when the two leading tires blew. It leaned up horribly, but settled back down. Steam billowed from under the hood. The radiator had been damaged. The truck wasn’t going anywhere.

The remaining Zombies had already turned and started toward us. They were moaning and growling hungrily.

We hadn’t slid very far, so we had just enough time to jump down and start shooting. The couple in the cab joined us, locking their young son inside.

“Way to go, Bob.” I told the driver. “Good job”.

His response was rather blue, if you know what I mean.

We were all armed. Shotguns mainly, but I had a pistol. Big ol’ .45 with six or seven clips.

We chewed through the front Zombies real quick, but the rest just kept coming. That little girl I mentioned came to the lead, and started running right at me, growling.

“Shoot her!” the guy next to me said. George? Jim? Something like that. He turned his gun on her, but just like in the movies, the damned thing just went ‘click’.

“She’s just a kid! I’m not shooting a kid!” I yelled.

By this time, the point was moot. She was on me. Jumped right at my face. I threw my right arm up and she chomped down.

I screamed like, well, like a little girl, and put the pistol to her forehead. Then, she was falling to the ground, that horrid, black, smelly crap they have for blood spraying all over me and George. Or Jim. Whichever, he got covered in it, too.

That was it for me. I turned and exercised the better part of valor. I booked it. Didn’t even bother to see what happened to the others. I knew that if they survived, I wouldn’t. They’d take me out just like they did the Zombies.

And if they didn’t survive, the Zombies would just add me to the menu.

I ran until I couldn’t breathe. Wasn’t far, I never was an athlete. Put me at a computer and I’m good. Running? Not so much.

When I had to slow to a walk, I was burning up. I figured it was that Zombie virus, and that I was going to join the “Hordes of the Walking Dead”.

I had dropped the pistol in my flight, so I couldn’t even do myself in.

I eventually fell and couldn’t rise. My arm was bleeding and hurt like hell. I was covered in stinky, black Zombie blood.

I was so hot, so tired. I just laid down and went to sleep, cradling my arm.

I woke up a few hours later, according to my watch. My arm wasn’t bleeding or hurting anymore. I was hungry as all get out, but not burning up.

And, I wasn’t a Zombie, either. I reckon that if I could tell I wasn’t, I wasn’t.

So, there I lay, in the middle of Texas somewhere near San Angelo, alive, hungry, and…twitching. That was new. Felt like I needed to get up and just move. So I did. Got up and started walking. The movement made be feel a lot better.

There appeared to be a farm or something like that a couple miles off. I could just see the house. As I started that way, I heard footsteps behind me.

Yep, you guessed it. I turned to find Zombies. Five of them, walking right at me.

Well, I turned tail and took off.. For about two steps. My twitchy legs betrayed me and I went down. Did a face plant right into some dumb little bush.

About the time I managed to frantically untangle myself, the Zombies had walked right past me.

Seriously. Went by like I wasn’t even there.

Except the last one. He must have been around 40 when he turned, but was all grey like they get. Vacant stare. You’ve seen them.

He stopped and look down at me.

And spoke.

Now

The Voice replies. “No, Mr. Stanley. We don’t think you’re a Zombie. We’re actually interested in why you aren’t.”

“Well, I’m immune, aren’t I?”

“And we want to find out why.” She says.

“From the bandage on my arm, I assume you’ve got enough blood to tell you plenty. You don’t need me any more, do you?”

“Oh, we’ve studied your blood. I would like to discuss the results with you.”

After just this few minutes of pacing, I feel much better. I hop up on the gurney. “So, what, I’m a doctor now? I don’t know anything about blood.”

“We found some similarities between your blood and that of a Zombie. We would like to know what behavior you have been exhibiting that could be considered, um, Zombie-like.”

I smile. If only she knew. Sarcastically, I say, “I prefer ‘Zombie-ish’. It’s more friendly.”

The Voice laughs. “OK, Mr. Stanley. Zombie-ish.”

“And, by ‘similarities’, I assume you mean those black streaks in my blood? And that god-awful stink?”

“Yes. But we’re having trouble isolating the immunity factor. If it’s in your blood, we can’t find it. We are having some problems with the methemoglobin. It’s interfering with our research.”

I make a face. “The whatsits?”

“I’m sorry, Mr. Stanley. Methemoglobin is similar to hemoglobin, but is receptive to iron, not oxygen like hemoglobin. In normal humans, methemoglobin is found only in very small amounts, while hemoglobin carries oxygen to all the body. In Zombies, the two are reversed. They have almost no hemoglobin. Your blood, though, carries an equal amount of both. And, it appears to be, um, magnetic.”

“I’m sorry.” I shake my head. “Did you just say magnetic?”

“Yes. It appears to be a side effect of the high amounts of bio-electricity present in the bodies of Zombies, and somewhat present in your body. That is making it almost impossible to study your blood. I’m afraid that we are going to require, well, other samples from you.”

Well, this just day just keeps getting better, doesn’t it?

Then

Zombies don’t speak with their mouths. They think at each other. And, let me tell you, they ain’t great conversationalists.

The man who spoke to me simply said, “There food?”

My ears heard a slight growl, but the words were in my brain. My jaw dropped. All I could do was shake my head.

He must have retained enough brains to know what that meant. That, or the fact that my own brain had just gone completely blank did the trick. Either way, it was enough. He turned and resumed following the others.

Now, I’m not the most inquisitive guy, but, you gotta admit, this was weird enough to check out. So, believe it or not, I followed along, too. At a distance.

Zombies don’t normally move as fast as regular folks, but they do get along. It didn’t take us as long as you might think to get to the house. I stayed back quite a ways, figuring the Zombies would be cut down if there was anybody home.

I was right.

The first Zombie’s head exploded, the bullet going right on through and into the chest of the second Zombie in line. She flew back and didn’t get up.

Contrary to popular belief, you can take a Zombie down without a head shot. It’s just more difficult. Her spine must have been severed, because she twitched for a couple seconds, then lay still.

I heard her die. In my head, I heard her die.

There wasn’t any coherent thought, just a general feeling of, well, the only way to describe it is a feeling of ending. I know that doesn’t make much sense, but there it is.

The other three looked down at her, then at each other.

The same thought ran through all three not-quite-dead brains. I heard it plain as day, though not with my ears.

“Food!”

Seems they know that anyone who can shoot a gun can provide a little sustenance. They all three turned and started running toward the house. Even as far away as I was, I could hear the howls and growls they always make when close to meat.

They didn’t make it to the house, but it wasn’t for lack of trying. The last one to fall was just a few yards from the front door.

Oh, yeah, that’s something else. Zombies know about doors and windows. When’s the last time you saw one not try a door or window? They do remember things, know things. Not much, and not on any kind of intellectual level, but they know. They know.

I thought about approaching the house, but took off when they started taking shots at me. I guess traveling with Zombies while being covered in black Zombie blood isn’t the best way to win friends and influence people.

It took a while, but I finally found another house. I had managed to clean up somewhat. I convinced them I was alright, that the bite on my arm wasn’t from a Zombie, but from a pissed off girlfriend. I guess the fact that I could actually tell them that worked in my favor.

They gave me something to eat, but it almost made me sick. The vegetables smelled rancid to me, and the meat seemed burned to a crisp. I got it down to be polite, but only just.

They put me up in the living room. Late that night, I snuck over to the kitchen and found some thawed hamburger meat. Raw.

Man, was that good.

I had gone from meat-and-potatoes to steak tartar. I knew the bite had done it, but didn’t know why I hadn’t changed completely. As I ate, I found myself pacing around their living room.

It was late at night, or early morning, whichever you prefer. I hadn’t slept since waking up in the grass, and I wasn’t tired. Believe me, I shoulda been beat, the day I had.

I mean, gunning down Zombies, running for my life while bleeding, then walking no telling how far. Not to mention the fact that Zombies now talked to me! I should have been exhausted.

Nope. Just walking around somebody’s living room.

I walked, and thought, the rest of the night.

I didn’t remember ever seeing a Zombie stop moving, unless it was ‘killed’. And that meant they didn’t sleep.

The best I could figure was that I was almost a Zombie.

Great. Just what I needed.

Now

“Now,” I say, regaining my feet. “When you say ‘other’ samples, I’m hoping you just mean more blood. Right?”

The Voice hesitates. “Well, no. We are going to need several different samples. The easy ones are urine, semen, and stool. The others are a little more, um, invasive.”

Holding my hands up in front of me, I say, “Hey, I’m all for scientific advance and defeating the ‘Zombie Menace’, but I got my limits. I’ll pee in a cup for you, and you can go mining in the toilet as much as you want, but that’s about it. I ain’t looking for a good time, and I ain’t really geared up for no surgeries.”

“We will be as careful as we can. We have a fully functional surgery here, so you should suffer no adverse affects. We aren’t taking any samples that aren’t taken from normal people. Just cell samples from most of your organs, some muscle cells, and bone marrow. That’s it.”

“Oh! ‘That’s it’?” I am very agitated. Hmm. Wonder why? “Not much, is it? Just samples of everything! Ya know, the freaking Zombies don’t treat people this way.”

The Zombies never imprisoned me. Never threatened me, at least not after that little girl bit me. Sometimes they are more humane than people. They don’t treat their own like this.

I don’t say this out loud.

She goes on as if I hadn’t said anything. “As you know, Zombies don’t decay while they, uh, live. Even though they are technically dead, their bodies don’t ever break down, don’t seem to age. Our tests of your tissues indicates the same kind of activity. That’s one of the things we want to investigate, and that requires tissue samples.”

“First of all, stop trying to sell me on this. It ain’t gonna happen. And, second, are you saying that I’m not gonna die unless somebody kills me?”

I can almost hear The Voice shake her head. “No, but you probably won’t age at the same rate as normal people. You could be a walking fountain of youth, as well as the way to end this war.”

Hmmm. Interesting.

The Voice comes from the grill again. “You said you like rare meat. Did you before the bite?”

”Hell, no. I’m a, well, was a well-done kinda guy. Didn’t want no E. Coli, ya know? Go figure.”

“But no cravings for humans?” The Voice asks.

I lie. “No. I ain’t no Zombie. I haven’t gone over to their side yet.”

The Voice is anxious. “Yet? Have you considered it? Are you saying you actually want to be a Zombie?”

Once more, I stop my continuous trip around the room. “I am not one of the walking dead! I am still me. Not that you care. If you thought I was human, I wouldn’t be here, would I?”

“We’ve investigated you thoroughly, Mr. Stanley. We have talked to everyone involved in the shooting incident at Goodfellow. We know of your preference for rare meat, your constant need to be in motion. We even understand how all of that works. What we want to learn about is how the Zombies seem to treat you like one of their own. If we could duplicate that, we could stop every future attack. It would give us an enormous advantage in our war against these unfortunate creatures.”

“I wasn’t aware,” I say. “that my getting shot was common knowledge.”

I took one in the leg. Some dumb guy thought I was a Zombie. I shoulda known not to be out walking the streets at three in the morning. Goodfellow’s a big place. Figured I’d just take a little walk.

The Voice seems to be smiling again. “Some things need to said to be understood. We know everything.”

Well, not quite, I say to myself. And smile.

“If you help us, we can end this problem and start returning to normal. These samples will allow us to do that.”

Suspicion creeps into my mind. “Are you are trying to end this, or control it?”

No response.

“So you are planning on using this immunity of mine for something else. How does that old saying go? ‘He who is silent is said to agree?’ Something like that?”

“I’m sure you appreciate our position in this, Mr. Stanley. Zombies are overrunning the world. Only in the United States and a very few European countries have we been able to reach a stalemate. We need something to turn the tide. Quite honestly, if we don’t get it, we’re going to lose. The Zombies are becoming more numerous. The only weapons which will kill enough of them would also kill too many of us. That leaves us with face-to-face fighting, and there are just too many of them. You could save all of us.”

I sigh. “I notice you still haven’t answered my question.”

“And I won’t. Decisions like the one you are asking about are not the ones I make. I just do what I am told.”

“Like a good little Nazi, huh? Isn’t that what they said at Nuremburg?”

The Voice is very upset now. “Mr. Stanely! How dare you compare me to a Nazi! I am trying to save lives!”

“Yeah.” I spit out. “And then, you just happen to have the means to make some unstoppable army. Zombies don’t feel pain. They don’t fear. Perfect army material. But, they also don’t use each other. They actually work together.”

An intake of breath from The Voice. “Are you saying that they are a cooperative force? That they organize?”

Oops. Almost let a cat out of the bag. “Of course not. I’m just saying that they don’t fight against each other. They don’t stab each other in the back. They are more like animals than people.”

“Yes, well, these animals just happen to want to eat us, so we would appreciate your help.” She’s a little snippy. Just like my ex-wife.

Whew. If they think the Zombies can be organized, and that I am the one that can do it, I’m either dead or, well, I’m just dead. Zombie-dom is looking better all the time.

“Look, I’m just not keen on giving you the means to take over the world, just to save the world from being taken over. Um, well, you know what I mean.”

“Are you saying that you aren’t going to cooperate with us?”

“I am saying that I won’t be a guinea pig. I am willing to prove my loyalty, but not by letting you dissect me. If you can’t use the samples you have, you’re just S.O.L.”

“We could force you to cooperate.”

“You can force me to choose sides, and I don’t really want to side with the living dead! Not much of a future there, huh? We help each other, we can both be happy. I don’t want to live in a world of Zombies, I can tell you that.”

Well…

Silence for a moment. Then, “If we have to compromise with you, we will, but we will have your help, Mr. Stanley. You owe this to your country.”

“Right.”

Then

The next morning, I learned that humans smell really good.

When the family came downstairs, I found myself almost salivating. Take the best food smell you can think of and imagine yourself starving, but not being able to eat. It’s that good. Or bad, depending on your point of view.

I thanked them for their hospitality, and asked for directions to Goodfellow.

As I walked, I thought some more about Zombies. Didn’t have much choice, I kept coming up on small groups. They would just look at me, ask “Food?”, then go on.

I noticed two things.

The first one is something we all should have noticed earlier. Zombies never travel in packs of less than three. Ever. If a pack gets diminished, they stop hunting for food and start hunting for other Zombies to travel with. They search mentally, sending out a kind of ‘help’ message. The closest group not eating will come to them, meet them half-way. The new, larger group will then start off looking for food.

The second thing I noticed is that they have a very distinctive smell. Animals must be able to pick it up. That’s why you don’t see many animals getting eaten. At least, not animals free to run.

I could smell them a long way off, and apparently they could smell me, too. Every time I picked up the scent, I got the “Food?” thought. Usually long before I actually saw them. Wind definitely affected the range of the smell, but I guess that’s normal.

When I got to the FSR, they let me in, but only after some serious questions about the bite.

Then, it almost went south. Inside the FSR was George. Or Jim. Whatever. He had survived and made it. Probably had told the story of how I had been bitten and run off to change.

He pulled me aside. Started threatening to turn me in as a Zombie if I didn’t tell him the cure I had found.

I had been wondering what would happen if I bit someone. Would they become a full Zombie? Or just almost, like me?

I found out.

Now

So, I think they are going to take me apart to find out what makes me not a Zombie. Then, use that to make controllable Zombies. Or Zombie warriors. Or whatever.

Not this boy.

The Voice seems a little too eager to find out about me. That’s why I ain’t gonna tell her that I can talk to the Zombies.

“So, Mr. Stanley, you apparently don’t sleep anymore. Is that true?”

I nod my head.

“Mr. Stanley?”

“Yes, that’s true.” Good. No camera.

“Other than the appetite, the need to constantly move, and not sleeping, are there any other Zombie-li…uh…ish behaviors you’ve exhibited?”

Shaking my head, I say “No, that’s pretty much it.”

Except, I add inside to myself, that I can call for help, too.

You see, I think I’ve found a way out of here.

And, with that very thought, an alarm starts blaring.

“What’s that?” I ask.

“Um,” The Voice hesitates. “It appears that a rather large force of Zombies is attacking the facility.”

Trying to keep the smile out of my voice, I ask “Are you going to be able to hold them off?”

“We don’t know. This isn’t a large building, and we don’t have many troops. And there are a lot of Zombies.”

“Well, for crying out loud, let me outta here! I can fight them better than anybody else. And, if they eat all you guys up, I’ll starve in here! Let me out! I can help!”

The Voice is quiet for a moment. “Alright. We’ll let you out. Lord knows we need every able body we can get.”

“And clothes. I ain’t fighting Zombies in the buff!”

There is no response, but the bolt throws on the door in a minute or so. The door opens and a rather attractive woman enters. When she speaks, I recognize her.

The Voice.

Handing me a duffel, she says, “Here are your clothes. I’ll be waiting outside. When you are dressed, I’ll take you to the Lieutenant. He’ll put you to use.”

She backed out and closed the door. It didn’t lock.

Ah! I hear that Jeff is leading the pack. Turned out his name wasn’t George. Or Jim. He tells me they will take the building soon.

I dress quickly, then open the door. There is a soldier standing with her.

“Uh, ma’am, could I speak to you? Private?”

“Certainly, Mr. Stanley.” She enters and closes the door.

She smells so good.

And, the meat is very rare.