Zed

Zed

By Stephen Herfst

Smashwords Edition

Copyright Stephen Herfst 2012

http://stephenherfst.blogspot.com

This book is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to persons living, dead or undead is entirely coincidental. All rights are reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner without the expressed permission of the author.

To my family, my friends and all those that supported me.

***

Prologue

The gun barrel points at me; no mention of surrender accompanies it.

Well that is just dandy.

He does not intend on taking me prisoner and who can blame him? I have given them many reasons for mercy to be an afterthought. It seems only fitting that I would be shown the same level of empathy.

I attempt to find peace as the barrel stares down at me. I feel like I have every right to exist, even if my existence contradicts their traditional view of life. It is funny that the gun also contradicts: from its meticulous clinical creation to its final purpose to mindlessly destroy. The gun involuntarily triggers flashbacks of earlier days ...

:

I remember the first time I was almost killed:

The buckshot pierces my shoulder, although the brunt of the shot hits my brother. He flies backwards with most of his face missing. I am unfazed by the loss - I have many brothers left to fill the void. I shrug off the shot and turn back to the bloods that look tired and vulnerable although their guns still have bite.

‘Ya cotton-pickin’ zees. We ain’t gonna let-’

We silence their noises and then we all fight for a share of the prize - it feels good to be back with my own kind. I remember the horrible food and tests they subjected me to. It is sheer luck that I am free, although my mind is now infected by demons that agitate to be unleashed. I attempt to quell their restlessness by claiming my share of the spoils.

My brain quivers.

A wave of nausea overcomes me as I lose control of my world. I am a captive to these proceedings - the demons rule my mind now. They scheme together as they massage new thoughts into being. I cannot help thinking why, as I look over the drama that unfolds. I wonder why just a few moments earlier I would have given anything to be among my own kind. Why was I so fixated on blood and brains just moments earlier? Why do I think?

The demons whisper and now I hunger for something else.

***

Chapter 1: Survive

Humans are the bane of my existence. They always turn out to be a thorn in my side when our paths cross. They want to capture me, study me or mount me as some form of trophy. As far as I am concerned, the less involvement I have with them the better my chances of survival.

Humanity can be categorised into four distinct groups: Yahoos, Government, Military and Activists. Yahoos are easily dealt with and easily identified by their calls, crass music and penchant for trophies. Government folk are just annoying, with minimal risk to my existence as far as I am concerned. The military are a dangerous bunch, but they have managed to avoid my attempts to provide them with my personal feedback … so far.

Activists are the worst of them all. Sure, they may mean well, but if I am the focus of their cause, I might just disagree with the way they go about helping me. These Activists stand for the Humane Treatment of Zombies because, as they like to preach, zombies are humans too but just a little less civilised. Mind you, they have been pretty successful over the years. They have government support and the public like the idea that they can improve their living standards while helping those less fortunate. They can even take a personal approach by sponsoring a Zombie, "For Less Than One Dollar-a-Day."

Once a healthy clutch of zombies have been rounded up, they are fitted with muzzles and then sent for processing and rehabilitation. The lucky ones are sent to a zombie sanctuary where each day they are fed on what is called RoBraine™: A delicate balance of tofu soaked in chicken blood and moulded into a porcelain skull, It’s Just like the Real Thing, as their advertisement states. And that was about the time I broke out.

The others are less fortunate as they are destined for rehabilitation back into society, which might not sound so bad until you realise that this usually involves de-fanging. Gumbies, as I have come to refer to them - No Bite, No Fright, as they like to market it to the general public. These Gumbies also become the proud owners of handy dandy electro-shock collars for when they choose to not follow orders.

As part of this rehabilitation, there is usually a bit of training involved which includes chewable Zombie Treetz™ to reinforce good behaviour and electro-shock for bad, which is usually more effective than trying to use carrot.

The Treetz™, though, have two functions: one is to reinforce good behaviour and the other is to administer a chemical to temporarily neutralise the virus contained in their saliva. It always amused me to see a trainer’s hesitation when treating a belligerent Gumbie.

Once rehabilitated, the Gumbies are reinstated into roles where their skills are best suited; usually brain-dead (pardon the pun) tasks like trolley pushers, call operators, tech support, system administrators, quality assurance testers, fast food chain operators, placeholders in queues for the latest must-have gadget, fund managers … the list goes on. Heck, we might be zombies but that is inhumane.

But back to the Activists: it’s enough to rip someone’s head off.

:

My focus returns to the issues that rule my day: checking and setting traps while the daylight remains. My brethren are not known to share so I now do my hunting during daylight hours. Even though they are mindless, they instinctively know they will have more success under the cover of night if their prey cannot see them coming. I guess it could also be cultivated through positive reinforcement - especially if there is a hot meal to reward your troubles.

Today looks like it is going to be another day of checking traps, avoiding yahoos with guns and trudging the country side. Although having a stride over the customary stagger makes this journey far more enjoyable.

I arrive at the location of the first trap, hunching my addled frame to see what treats are in store for me: no doughnut. I think the only rabbits that remain nowadays are the smart ones.

It is a good thing it is such a nice day. It makes my lack of success a slightly less-bitter pill to swallow. Blue skies, birds chirping, slowly meandering clouds casting well-defined shadows against the landscape from a midday sun - I could do far worse than a day like this. In fact, I think it is too nice. Call me cynical, but no day is ever this nice without something coming along to rain on your parade. In a world of the post-apocalypse, I grow accustomed to things not going my way. Survival is not a given, even for a zombie. There are many things that can end my blue skies quicker than a thunderclap.

Right on cue, my cynicism is justified by the introduction of the call of the yokel heard off in the distance, followed shortly after by the infernal music of what sounds like John Mellencamp: Hurts so … bad. The living cliché is brought into full view with the approach of a pickup truck and men standing on the back with double-barreled shotguns – yee-haw, indeed. Typically, these folk are looking for a challenge, and by challenge this means shooting anything that moves (that is unable to shoot back).

Now, you would think that clichés of this magnitude would not exist in this world, but life has a way of proving you wrong time and time again. Heck, I am a regular Pinocchio: half-zombie/half-human (more zombie, though), but I bet you did not think a fairy tale could have parallels with reality. I never asked to be born with the curse of consciousness. I blame the Zombie Centre – it cannot be a coincidence that shortly after I escaped I reclaimed my consciousness. Did that fool Geppetto (or whoever it was) give me a choice when he brought me to life? If fairy tale lore were to be believed, I guess the next thing that would happen would be for a whale to swallow me, but I won’t be seen swimming in the ocean anytime soon – it will just have to wait.

I wonder what the difference between a zombie whale and a normal one would be. They cannot exactly stumble in the ocean and they don’t have teeth or the ability to call out brains, so how would I tell them apart? Could it be that they are the ones that beach themselves every now and then for no apparent reason? That theory might explain a few things …

Dang, my brain loves going off on tangents. If I tried to rationalise every time my brain goes from something like cliché to zombie beached whales I would go insane.

Now to focus back on the current issue: my friends in the pickup.

Fortunately, this kind is easily dealt with. Avoidance is simplest, although it does not leave me with that warm feeling where my heart used to be. The other way is trickier, more dangerous, but feels like I am doing something right, oh so right. The thing that clinches it for me today is the sight of a few zombie heads attached to the grill … and a delicious deer draped over the hood – those boys have been busy.

Outside of traps, my only weapons are my wits and knowing the lay of the land … oh, and immortality. I mentally affirm how the play is meant to go as I tighten my helmet strap and set about putting it into action. "Breaker-11, Hut-Hut" … or whatever other nonsensical words you use before running the play.

Those boys, although not high on the evolutionary scale, still have over two tonnes of metal at their disposal. Fortunately, this isn’t my first hoedown and I don’t just do rabbit traps. Playing off the expectation that zombies are mindless, I covertly move into the correct position of play while the vehicle sprays great waves of debris and dirt as it maniacally moves in my general direction.

My resolve solidifies as I realise I have no choice in this – they are too close to avoid now, but the deer beckons towards me seductively. My plan has to work and so I do what any typical zombie would do and break out the zombie shuffle to ensure they play their part in my master plan.

‘Brains,’ I gargle, hating myself as I do it.

‘Lookiee! Anutter ’un therr-yuh,’ one of them drawls incoherently.

The truck turns in my direction as it aims to add another ornament to its grill. Now that the truck and cohorts have taken the bait, it is just a matter of reeling them in. One of the men on the back fires off a shot that whizzes by just missing my ear. These guys are either lucky or pretty good. The fact that they already have a few trophies pushes my shuffle to a canter.

‘Thits wuz a cloo-ose’un, Jibidie-uh – jist keep firin’,’ the driver garbles.

I need to move.

‘Keep yer driving straight, Pa – this ain’t vee-ut-naym. We ain’t strafin’ them Vee-cees.’

I shudder at their English as I scurry around the trunk of an old tree, hearing further whooping noises and the accompanied musical cacophony while wood splinters around me from another near-miss.

‘Shoot! Almost bagged ’im – keep it comin’, Pa!’

The musical sounds corrupt my ear drums, tempting me to see how close the buck shot can go to stop that sound from registering.

Almost there.

I lurch over a fallen tree trunk and take my position in the brush. Waiting for the truck to inevitably come around the upturned tree, I hold my breath – old habits die hard.

My plan has to work.

Sure enough, they come around way too fast, with no time to react to the freshly-dug pit a short distance from the trunk. The truck tries to correct its path just before reaching the lip of the hole, which only results in dirt spraying in all directions as it begins its descent.

‘What in ’tarnation?’ one of them yells.

The truck lurches downwards as the two on the back go flying forwards, although their flight is short-lived by their introduction to a large boulder – Newton’s third law is in full effect. Meanwhile the truck begins its Swan dance: a cartwheel followed by a pirouette, eventually finishing on its side – the ending is always tragic. Thankfully, the music ceases its aural torture and no one gets up from the result of this carnage.

I love it when a plan comes together … now where is that cigar?

I find the deer sitting in the pit and go about hauling it over my shoulders while I leave the bloods for my brothers to finish. I am able to salvage the car battery which should give my generator and, by proxy, TV a bit more life. Waste not, want not - at least they are going to a good home. Now to take my quarry back to my lair.

:

Inside most of the rooms are empty, save for a few items in the living room such as an old chair, a bookshelf, a small TV and a fireplace. The fireplace is purely decorative now, so as not to draw unnecessary attention to my presence. Zombies have no need for luxuries anyway, although, I still don’t mind having a few creature comforts every now and then. A good book, a fresh pelt, a television are all nice but not exactly necessities, even if they do make the time pass that little bit easier.

I take up residence in my lair, hunched over a freshly cured pelt while gnawing on the deer’s thigh bone. Today was a good day.

Over the years I have really grown to like the taste of deer although I sometimes hunger for something different, something new. I am not sure what, but I know that there is something I am missing that I have yet to discover. Zombies have always lived on raw flesh. I might balk at the thought of human flesh, but the basic diet of a zombie should remain … shouldn’t it?

I usually finish the day reading one of my books - that and watching my favourite medical show about a brilliant grizzled doctor. I am almost able to recite the entire first season word-for-word. He would make a good zombie - it is just a matter of losing the cane and his shuffle would be perfect. That and his dead-pan stare … far more convincing than anything I could muster. Cold, dead eyes; it could be why I relate to him. But for today it is a book that I seek for my entertainment. I am learning about The Foundations of Physics. I have already covered Newton’s laws, as demonstrated so clearly by my friends in the pickup, although I have yet to cover the laws of friction or rotational inertia.

Being a zombie does have its perks: not needing to sleep and having heightened senses