White Trash Zombie Apocalypse

Brian escorted me to the door and pressed a button beside it. I figured surely there were surveillance cameras, but I still hadn’t located them by the time the lock on the door gave a click. Brian pulled the door open, and I followed him into a room as massively unexciting as the exterior. Dull tan walls and a tired looking couch. A coffee table with corners that were worn down to the particle-board beneath the veneer. A single door on the far wall. It looked and felt like the waiting room at the public health clinic, right down to a scattered pile of ancient magazines on the table and a faint smell of antiseptic.



I ruthlessly fought back increasing disappointment and crossed mental fingers that the lab itself wouldn’t be so crashingly mundane.



Brian took a seat on the couch, snagged a magazine off the table as if expecting a bit of a wait. I went ahead and sat at the other end of the couch and picked up a magazine as well. Golf Digest from seven years ago. And a quick scan of the table showed me I had the pick of the lot. What I wouldn’t give for some Highlights and some good ole Goofus and Gallant. Yeah, that was more my speed.



Fortunately it was only about ten minutes before the door opened and an unimposing man stepped through. His brown, shoulder-blade length hair was pulled back in a ponytail. A hint of grey at his temples added a sense of years to his unwrinkled face. In addition, my failure to smell an edible brain behind that face told me he was a zombie. He wasn’t wearing a lab coat, name badge, or anything like that, but I had no doubt at all that he was Dr. Nikas.



He confirmed it when he looked to me with a smile and said, “Hello, Angel. I’m Ariston Nikas.” He had an interesting accent, nothing I could identify for sure, but maybe a mix of various European influences.



I dropped the magazine back onto the table, stood and shook his hand. “Nice to meet you, sir.”



“A pleasure to meet you,” he replied with genuine warmth in his voice. “I’ve heard a lot about you.” He released my hand and turned to the door. “Come this way.”



I could only imagine all the stuff that had been said about me lately. I followed him into a short corridor painted in the same drab tan as the waiting room, while Brian fell in behind. Dr. Nikas paused at a door at the end of the corridor, punched in numbers on a keypad, then swiped his thumb on a sensor. A second later the door unlocked with a click.



We entered a barren cubicle of a room that did nothing to raise my hopes for anything beyond boring and mundane. Dr. Nikas gave a smile and wave to the mirrored window of the right wall, where I suspected a security guard or two watched from behind it. He crossed to the single broad door on the far wall and did the keypad-thumb swipe thing again. With a click and hiss, the door, at least three inches thick, slid quietly into the wall on the left.



To my relief and utter delight, we left drab tan behind and stepped into an area that totally looked like a super cool zombie research lab straight out of a science fiction movie. Or rather we weren’t actually in the lab yet—I could see that awesomeness through the double glass doors ahead—but it wasn’t kill-me-now tan anymore. Corridors led off left and right, painted in graduated shades of rich blue and gold, lit by recessed lighting, and several panels of lights with associated digital readouts twinkled beside the door ahead. And it smelled fresh. Not like fresh-scent dryer sheets or anything fake like that, but more like the air right after a lightning strike.



“I’ll meet up with you later, Angel,” Brian said. I gave him a smile and nod, and he turned down the corridor to the right while I continued after Dr. Nikas.



“You are interested in the people I have in stasis—John Kang in particular, yes?” he asked as we passed through the auto-sliding glass security doors. Thick glass that I had no doubt could stop a bullet.



I liked that Dr. Nikas referred to them as people and not simply heads. “That’s right,” I replied, looking around and taking it all in, utterly fascinated. “Thanks for taking the time to show me around. I really appreciate it.”



“Not a problem,” he said over his shoulder. “I don’t have many visitors. You’re a breath of fresh air.”



We passed into what felt like the central hub of the complex—and it was definitely a complex. This room was large and circular with a high domed ceiling. Several passageways and doors led out, lending to the hub effect, and all sorts of shiny equipment lined the counters and walls. A semicircular central island housed several fancy computer stations and more equipment I couldn’t begin to identify.



I wasn’t any sort of expert on labs, but it was pretty obvious no expense had been spared, not only on megacool equipment, but also on making it a comfortable workspace. Various screens and little flashy lights looked cool as hell, but the whirrs, ticks, and soft pings made the place feel alive. Dr. Nikas ran his hand lightly over a console as we passed it on our way toward a dark corridor on the far side, and I had the feeling he spent a lot of time here.



Lights came on automatically as we entered a hallway with walls covered in a tile mosaic of colorful abstract patterns. Dr. Nikas turned and walked backward as he spoke. “While you are here, would you consider giving some blood?”



I almost jerked to a stop and, in fact, stumbled a half step before recovering. “Um. What?” I asked, suddenly verrrry wary. “Why?”



He stopped, apparently sensing my alarm. “In general, I try to keep samples of everyone’s blood on hand for research or unique individual needs,” he said. “And, specifically in your case, to determine the reason Saberton wanted samples so desperately.”



It made sense, but still. “Can I say no?”



He seemed surprised by the question, but he didn’t hesitate before answering, “Of course.”



Dr. Nikas sure seemed nice enough, but right now there was too much of a yikes-factor going on with me to be cool about giving my blood away. “Um, lemme think about it, okay?”



A brief flash of disappointment touched his face, though it didn’t seem to be “Crap, I’m not getting my way,” and was more like “Darn, it would’ve been really nice to have that.” But he smiled and gave me an understanding nod. “Certainly. Not a problem.” He moved to a side door and unlocked it. “Come on in and see Kang.”



I followed, relieved that he wasn’t pushing the issue.



The chilly temperature and small size of the room reminded me of walking into the morgue cooler, and it took a moment for my eyes to adjust to the dim light. A half dozen vats like oversized stainless steel crock pots lined a counter against the far wall, each with a white index card taped to the front.



Dr. Nikas twisted a knob on the wall near the door and increased the light level a bit. “They do best in low light,” he said, moving to the vat second from the left. “This is John Kang. You can look in through the glass lid, but remember that though he looks really bad, his brain is fully encapsulated by the parasite and is stable.” He paused, considering. “‘Hibernating’ might be a way of looking at it. Using minimal resources.”



Upon approach, I saw that the index card on the vat read “John Kang” in flowing handwriting that I had no doubt belonged to Dr. Nikas. Something about that personal touch gave me the feeling that he really cared about these heads as individuals and not simply as test subjects. Curiosity burning, I peered through the glass. Sure enough, it was Kang. Despite the head looking like a horror movie prop suspended in some sort of clear gel, I vaguely recognized his features. Like mummy wrappings, strips of cloth bound the stump of his neck, and his skin, though not falling apart in decay, was dark, ugly grey, and shriveled like a raisin.



“That is so gross. And cool,” I breathed.



Dr. Nikas smiled broadly. “Yes, I wholeheartedly agree on both counts,” he said. “I’m currently analyzing research data that may well solve my puzzle of the regrowth medium as well as boost our alternative brains research.”



I tore my gaze from the gruesome sight, looked over at him. “Alternative brains? You mean fake brains like Dr. Charish and Sofia were working on?”



“All of their data fed my research,” he said, nodding. A shadow of deep concern passed over his face. “I am close—so very close. But in light of some recent information, I am deeply troubled that Saberton may be near as well.”



I pushed away from Kang’s vat and moved to another. “Well what would be so bad about that?” I asked. “I mean, I know they’re assholes,” I paused, “serious major fucking assholes, but as long as someone develops an alternative, it’s all good, right?”



“Oh god, no,” Dr. Nikas replied, a hint of alarm in his voice. “Any non-zombie group developing them first would be bad. Saberton developing them first would be disastrous.” He shook his head. “A brains alternative is the holy grail for zombies—a salvation, the freedom to choose not to eat…people,” he continued. “In the hands of those who hold no love for our kind, it would be a means of control and manipulation.” He exhaled, ran a hand over his hair. “Saberton could use that to their advantage against us, and if they have a brains alternative, and we don’t, we’re, well, screwed.”



“But wouldn’t we still be able to get brains the old-fashioned way?” I asked. “I mean, the way we do now, at morgues and funeral homes?”



His eyes met mine. “Not if, or rather not when they go public with what we are—and who we are,” he said. “We manage to feed our people well with the network in place now. Enough people die to meet our needs.” His mouth pursed. “Yet do you think the public would allow any of us to work in the morgues and funeral homes, knowing that the brains of their loved ones would become our dinner? And that’s putting aside what the majority reaction would be to the knowledge that there are monsters in their midst.”



A shiver ran through me. I’d seen enough redneck prejudice to know exactly what the outcome would be. “Well, that sucks.”



“Yes, it does,” he agreed, then gave me a faint smile. “Come on,” he said, heading for the door. “It’s freezing in here, and the conversation topic doesn’t help.”