The Village of Dead Souls: A Zombie Novel Page 4

  Brown stopped in front of the man. "The what sickness?"

  "The Zombie Sickness."

  "Who the hell is calling it the Zombie Sickness?"

  The journalist gave a proud smile. "Actually, I'm the one who came up with the name. I'm hoping it starts to catch-"

  The General cut him off and continued his walk to his car. "They really need to make it legal to shoot the media. It would be such a great service to the country." One of his aides opened the backdoor to his waiting black sedan. Just as he put his briefcase on the seat, he heard a familiar voice from the crowd.

  "Are you really going to ignore me, Chris?"

  With a sense of dread, he turned and saw a woman in her late thirties, long sandy colored dreadlocks, leather sandals and a t-shirt which read, "ZOOM."

  "Hellion, damn it! I really hoped to get through this without you turning it into one of your movements du jour."

  "It's nice to see you too." Hellion squeezed through the crowd to reach the front. One of the armed soldiers put his hand up to keep her from going any further. "This is bigger than you and me. It's the next step up the ladder of human evolution."

  "This has nothing to do with evolution and in what bizarre hippie world of yours, do you think there's ever been any you and me?" He glanced at her shirt. "What the hell is ZOOM?"

  "It stands for Zombies and Others On the Move."

  The General moved back toward his car. "Go back to the Arctic and try and save those… what were you trying to save there?"

  "Caribou."

  "They're not even endangered! There's more caribou, than people in the Arctic. Why do I waste my time talking to you?" He looked at one of his aides and pointed to the protester. "Shoot her and I'll promote you to Major."

  Hellion smiled and reached back into the crowd. "Don't be so army with me, Chris. Look who I brought."

  She pulled her friend to the front of the crowd. The General's eyes widened, his shoulders dropped, and his mouth opened slightly agape, which turned into a non-characteristic huge smile. He scanned up and down the woman with the darkish red hair and natural classic beauty. "How've you been, Pink? I didn't think it was possible, but you get even better looking each time I see you."

  Pink replied, "Wow, you used my actual name, instead of making up some cardboard cutout biblical moniker. I'm flattered."

  Hellion cut in, "Sorry to break up the lovefest, but the military really needs to leave these people alone. You are messing with the greatest event in human history since we stood upright. We need to let nature takes it's course."

  The General covered her face with his large hand and pushed her back, while still gazing at Pink. "Why do you insist on hanging out with her? She's going to get you into trouble, real trouble. The types of trouble, where I can't come rescue you."

  "This time, I agree with her." Pink replied, with a slight flirtatious glance and smile. "These people have been given a second chance at life by God or nature or whatever living force, you want to assign. A big machine has been set in motion and we should step aside to let it do its job."

  Brown stepped towards his car. "The flaw in your theory is that these people are not dead. It's a more potent strain of the African Sleeping Sickness." He placed one foot in the doorway of the sedan. "I would be open to hearing your whole theory over dinner, if you promise to leave Hellion on a leash."

  Before Pink could answer, the waiting journalists pushed and crowed their way in front of her and called out questions, which all blurred together. The General closed the door and tried to get one more glimpse of the only protester who could turn his knees into jelly as his driver pulled away.

  Chapter 4

  Prometheus stood in the warehouse at the front of the empty wall, where Jennifer had drawn a large timeline of events spanning from ancient Greece to the modern day. To see thousands of years into the future made him feel overwhelmed and fulfilled at the same time. Other living dead walked through the building extinguishing the candles. Behind him, random beams of light from the just rising sun streamed down from the broken windows, illuminating the scattered small groups of zombies, who discussed what they learned in the history class, taught by Jennifer. Their voices echoed around the open space, reminding the Athenian of spending a day at the forum. A raven flying from rafter to rafter echoed in the background as Titus approached. He stared at the timeline, along with the Greek man. "Having my eyes see this far into the future, provides some aid to overcome the fact that I am dead." He pointed to a section of the line labeled, "Fall of the Roman Empire." "We lasted one thousand years. Given the time span of all other great societies," he paused in thought, "what is the vernacular the good Jennifer spoke… oh yes; I hope I use this in the correct form. The Roman Empire rocked."

  Prometheus responded, "It is interesting the class of slave no longer exists. I am glad to hear the teaching of the Greek philosophers has lasted to this day and the stories of Homer have been preserved in these written books."

  Constance approached and joined in the conversation. "I remember Father reading to my brothers and me about the adventures of Odysseus." She focused on the Greek. "I am so astonished to find the lost city of Atlantis not only existed, but also to meet a man who actually visited the metropolis."

  "When I paid them a visit it was not a lost city. As impressive as it appeared to my eyes, it stood as a simple village, compared to the magnificent city where we now stand." Prometheus glanced at another section of the timeline. "I hope to someday see a performance of a play written by the good William Shakespeare."

  Gunnar walked up and pointed to a spot on the timeline. "I would have liked to meet this Genghis Khan. I feel the two of us working together could have greatly angered the Romans." He held up and rotated his hands analyzing the rock star leather and metal studded wrist cuffs. "I wish, I could have also met the previous owner of this body. He appears to have been a brave warrior."

  Prometheus continued to stare at the wall and speak to his fellow undead. "So many events that I could never have imagined during my life. Two great wars, machines that can fly and the honorable Neil Armstrong setting foot on the moon. Our descendants have accomplished greatness and achieved heightened times of sorrow. My eyes are filled with joy in the knowledge of what our people have done with their time on this planet, which I am surprised to learn is in fact, round."

  A man wearing a t-shirt and jeans with streaks of dried blood down the back of his neck stepped up on a small crate, held up a magazine and spoke out to those close enough to hear his voice. "This magazine came out four weeks ago. I know this, because I recognize the picture on the cover and remember buying it at the grocery store while I was still alive. I know it's written in English, my native tongue, but I can't read any of the writing. It looks like some kind of scribble to me. We're in the city of Denver, where they also speak English, but I can't understand anything the citizens are saying. They sound like they speak gibberish. We need to find a way to communicate with the living, so they know we are here to help them." He pointed to various zombies. "This man speaks ancient Greek. This man speaks Norse. We all speak different languages, but can understand each other perfectly. There has to be a way for us to transform this universal translation ability to the living."

  Titus replied, "You have made a wise suggestion, my friend. What is your name, kind sir, and from where do you hail?"

  The man on the crate, with the medium build and light brown hair, which hung just above his shoulders, stepped down and answered, "I'm John and I lived in Vegas."

  Prometheus spoke up. "I agree with the good John of Vegas. Each of us should write a message on the streets and walls. We can scribe in the language of our birth. With the large population in this city, surely one of the fine citizens will recognize these messages. Apparently, the ability to read and write is quite common in this day."

  * * *

  Wendy paced across the short length of the examination room, anxious to hear the results of her latest test. The florescent
lights above hummed and slightly flickered, as they cast a dull yellow light. The sudden appearance of her doctor through the door startled her out of her trance-like state. She turned to him as he read through the lab results. "What's the news doc? She asked."

  The doctor closed the file and turned up to her with a lamentable expression. His face forewarned her of the approaching news. "I'm afraid there has not been any positive change to the tumors."

  The news hit her hard and sent a heavy feeling into her stomach. She focused on not getting sick all over the floor in front of the doctor. Putting on a false smile and façade, she replied, "No positive change. Does this mean there has been some negative change?"

  The doctor crossed his arms pressing the file against his chest. "Your white blood cell count has increased." He paused to clear his throat. "The cancer is showing no reaction to the treatment. We need to increase the chemo and change the type of radiation treatment. Instead of the pinpoint laser, we need to use a broader spectrum."

  "When do we make the change?"

  "The sooner the better. I say we start tomorrow. We already had you scheduled for your next chemo treatment anyway. I'll set up the radiation therapy in two days, so we can give the next set of drugs a chance to do their job."

  The smile faded from her face and the sag of her shoulders showed the disappointment sinking into her body. "Do their job, therapy; you make it sound so happy when we are killing my immune system, so that radiation can devastate parts of my body."

  "If surgery were an option, I'd open you up right now, but this is our only chance to eliminate the tumors."

  Wendy nodded her head and gave a partially more relaxed smile. "I know, and thanks for putting up with my complaining. I know you're doing all you can to help me."

  Waiting in the hospital lobby for Daniel to pick her up, she watched news reports of the outbreak on the wall mounted television. The news anchor reported, "The outbreak, now named the re-animation virus, is reaching alarming numbers across the world." The story switched to video clips of zombies walking down city streets of various countries. "The number of people, who have been declared dead, only to appear to come back to life, has reached an estimated one hundred fifty thousand world-wide. The World Health Organization has issued this statement." The video changed to a man standing at a podium reading a statement at a press conference surrounded by reporters, microphones and cameras. He pushed his glasses far down on his nose and squinted at the printed announcement.

  "It has not yet been determined that the re-animation virus is in fact a virus. It may possibly be a new strain of bacteria, but a new form of virus has not been ruled out. Until we can conclude the exact cause, we cannot declare this outbreak to be a pandemic. What we can say is that, this disease is contagious, but only if one comes in contact with an infected body. People contaminated with the sickness have a propensity to bite those who are not infected. As a precaution and for the safety of the population, we advise cities and towns around the world to section off and quarantine areas where there is a high concentration of those suffering from the re-animation sickness. When we arrive at a remedy for this affliction, our contracted laboratories will work day and night to help bring this crisis to an end. "

  Two nurses, who stood in the lobby watching the report, referred to a local incident. "Did you hear one of these re-animation contaminations happened right here in our morgue last Monday night?"

  "No."

  "Yeah, Dr. Cole had just started an autopsy of a DOA brought into the emergency room, when the body sat up and walked out of the morgue."

  Wendy listened to the two women talk and processed what all of this would mean to her husband. Daniel had been assigned to find the cause and cure. As the outbreak builds, so would the pressure for him to find the remedy. He needed to stay focused on his work and not have any distractions at this time. If he knew her cancer had become worse, he might lose his concentration and possibly make mistakes. At that moment, Daniel came through the front door and smiled, as he walked across the marble floor towards her.

  "Hi sweetie. What did the doctor say?"

  With another forced smile, she replied, "He said everything is looking good. I might have more of a reaction to the treatment than originally thought, but I will be just fine. In fact, he wants me to come back tomorrow."

  "Tomorrow?" Daniel's smile diminished. "Why so soon? I thought he was going to postpone this week's second treatment. If the chemo is working, he should give it time to see more results before the next treatment. Maybe I should talk with him."

  Wendy patted her husband on the chest to calm him down. "He wants to try a new drug that has seen some positive results for someone in the stage I'm in right now. It's all about getting rid of the cancer as quickly as possible. If it works, we should be sunning ourselves in Mexico this summer, worrying about getting skin cancer."

  The smile returned to his face as he held her hand to escort her towards the front door. "Okay, but can you get your sister to drive you? I have some intense deadlines I have to meet with this outbreak. If I don't start showing results soon, the military is going to keep me in my lab day and night."

  * * *

  The early morning sun cast long shadows along the back alley of the downtown business district. Sounds of trucks backing into loading docks and the building of traffic for the morning rush hour filled the streets. Three Flickers hopped through a small puddle near a dumpster as Prometheus finished writing his chalk message on the red brick wall. He took a few steps back gazing at the large paragraph and felt proud of his well-crafted calligraphy. The usual stale and sour smells wafting through the back street smelled pleasant to the undead. John, who wrote his message with a black marker on a dumpster, walked up next to the Greek man and said, "Looks good. I can't read ancient Greek. What did you say?"

  As if he addressed a crowd in the forum, Prometheus read the message. "Attention, good citizens of this fine and such grand city. We who inhabit these bodies are your ancestors and friends who mean you no harm or ill will. The gods have sent us here on a quest to give you gifts, which will allow you to continue your evolution into a greater society. I, the author of this scribe, have for you the cure for an affliction known as cancer. Many other cures for diseases along with gifts of new abilities await you. If you join us, we can work together to eliminate many of the unwellnesses and troubles from which you suffer. For the gods would not have sent us if it were not for a more noble purpose and is therefore compulsory for your actions to be conjunctive with ours. I signed it, the most humble Prometheus of Athens." He turned to John and asked, "What message did you scribe on that sturdy garbage receptacle?"

  John pointed to his message on the dumpster and said, "People, you need to chill. All of us zombies carry antibodies to cure all the big diseases of our time. We just want to help you."

  With a perplexed expression, Prometheus replied, "My ears do not comprehend such a statement, but I must assume it is a condensed version of what I wrote."

  John shrugged his shoulders. "Yeah, sure."

  On the opposite side of the dumpster, Greg continued to paint his message in Japanese calligraphy. John noticed a pile of old clothes someone had set next to the wall. He picked through the apparel and said, "This is some good stuff and in pretty good shape. We should take it back to the warehouse so we can all have a change of clothes." He pulled out a blue satin dress and held it up to his body. "Sweet! I can't wait to try this one on."

  Greg stopped painting his message and gave John a quizzical stare. "Were you a woman when you were alive and the gods have placed you in a man's body?"

  "No." John said with a bit of surprise in his voice.

  Vic walked into the alley and saw John holding the dress against him. "Let me guess, you're a Nancy boy."

  Again, with surprise in his voice, John replied, "No, not even close. I'm straighter than any of you could imagine."

  "Then why do you like wearing dresses?"

  "Because, I really, really
love women. I love everything about them, including their clothes."

  Prometheus asked, "Are you an actor? In my time period, it is common for actors to own dresses. We did not allow women to appear on stage, so men had to perform all the female rolls."

  Vic interjected, "I think I'm going to call you GQ."

  "Because of the handsome good looks that came with this body?"

  "No, because your gender is questionable."

  A loud voice from one of the living, yelling untranslatable words, came from the end of the alley. The four undead turned to the source of the sound and saw two police officers cautiously walk toward them with their guns drawn. Prometheus said, "This will work to our advantage. We can show these men, who enforce the peace, our messages of goodwill and demonstrate we are only here for their aid."

  John picked up the pile of clothes and slowly walked backwards. "Those are weapons in their hands. They're not here to have a conversation; they see us as a threat."

  Greg dropped his brush, threw his suit jacket down, grabbed an old wooden broom handle from the ground and held it up like a Samurai sword. "They have no swords. I will make them understand we are a powerful village and they must listen to our demands."

  As the officers closed the distance to the zombies, they opened fire on Greg. The bullets passed through and shook his body, but did not harm him. Angered, he charged the police with his stick. Shots continued to hit their target until the chambers emptied, but did nothing to stop the oncoming assault. Using the broom handle as a sword, Greg attacked with the skill and moves, he knew as a samurai, beating the living men at will. One officer pulled out his nightstick and tried to fight back using it like a sword. His skills were no match for the veteran warrior. Greg knocked the nightstick out of his hand and hit one officer across the head, rendering him unconscious, as his partner pulled out a taser and tried to shock his attacker. The electricity caused Greg to jump back, but he continued his attack, swinging the stick with precision. With a blow to the head, the officer fell backward, but he reached out to break his fall and grabbed Greg's arm. Almost instantly, Greg bit into the living man's hand. The officer screamed out in pain as the zombie dropped his stick and took another bite out further down the man's arm.