Zom-B Underground

 

The visitors are a doctor and a soldier.



The doctor is a thin, balding man with a carefully maintained pencil mustache. He squints a lot, like someone who needs glasses but refuses to admit it. He didn't tell me his name when he entered, or even acknowledge my presence. He just stood with his hands crossed in front of him until a table and chair were put in place, then sat and said stiffly, "I am Dr. Cerveris."



The soldier is friendlier. He brought in the table, set it down, then went out to fetch the chairs. He also brought through a mobile TV and DVD player. At first I thought he was a regular soldier, but when he sat down with the doctor and nodded to let him know it was time to begin, I realized he must be someone important.



"I'm Josh Massoglia," he introduced himself, smiling widely. "But you can stick with Josh. Everybody else does. No one can pronounce my surname. I even struggle with it myself sometimes."



Josh laughed and I smiled. He's a good-looking guy, in a rugged kind of way. Hard to tell what color his hair is, since it's shaved down to the roots. He wears a plain green sweater over his shirt and acts like he's just one of the guys, but he has an air of authority. Dr. Cerveris is snooty, like someone who thinks he's a VIP. Josh is more laid-back, so comfortable with his power that he doesn't feel like he needs to prove anything.



The doctor pulls on a pair of thick plastic gloves and asks if he can examine me. I stand still while he prods and probes my fingers and face. I hesitate when he asks me to take off my T-shirt. Josh grins and turns away. I still feel awkward - I never liked undressing in front of doctors or nurses - but I disrobe as requested.



"Remarkable," Dr. Cerveris murmurs as he studies the wretched hole where my heart once beat.



"Take a photo if you like it that much," I grunt.



"I've already seen lots of snapshots of it," he says.



I frown, wondering when the photos were taken, but I don't ask.



Dr. Cerveris sits again and Josh turns his chair around.



"You've taken to this like a duck to water," Josh notes.



"You mean being dead?"



"Yeah. Most revitalizeds struggle. It takes a lot of counseling before they begin to adapt to their new circumstances. But you..." He whistles admiringly.



"Shit happens," I sniff, not telling him that of course there are times when I want to scream and sob, but that I don't plan to give these bastards the pleasure of seeing me crumble. "So are there a lot of revitalizeds?" I ask casually.



"A few," Josh replies vaguely.



"We haven't been able to establish an estimated ratio of revitalizeds to reviveds," Dr. Cerveris says. "But from what we have witnessed, only a fraction of the undead populace appears to recover consciousness."



"Any idea why?"



"We have some theories," he says.



"Care to share them with me?"



"No."



I scowl at the doctor, then glance at Josh. "How long have I been here?"



"In this cell?"



"No. Here." I wave a hand around, indicating the entire complex. "How long since the attack on the school?"



"Six months, give or take," Josh says.



I process that glumly. Half a year of my life that I can never get back. This is one of those times when I feel very small and alone, but I don't let them see that. "Do all revitalizeds take that long to recover?" I ask instead, acting like the gap in my life is no big thing.



"No," Dr. Cerveris says. "Most revitalize sooner."



"My teachers always used to tell me that I was slow," I grin. "Have I been here all the time since I was killed?"



Josh nods. "We brought you here directly from the school. You were in a holding cell with other reviveds before your senses kicked back in."



"There were more attacks that day. My dad told me it was happening all over London."



Josh sighs. "Yeah. It wasn't a day any of us will forget in a hurry."



"Have there been more assaults since then?" I press. "Are zombies still striking or have you put a stop to it? What's the world like out there?"



Josh shakes his head. "I can't discuss that with you. All I can say is that the situation is currently stable."



"That doesn't tell me much," I huff.



"I know, but that's the way it is. There are limits to what we can discuss. If it's any comfort, we don't tell the other revitalizeds any more than we're telling you."



"Is there a reason why you're being so secretive?" I ask.



Josh rolls his eyes. "You're a flesh-eating member of the walking dead with the ability to convert as many of the living as you can get your hands or teeth on. You scare the living hell out of us. If some of our staff had their way, we'd tell you nothing at all, only incinerate every damn one of you."



"Why don't you?" I challenge him.



Dr. Cerveris answers. "We want to learn more about you, understand what makes you tick, why your memories return, if your current state is sustainable."



I stiffen. "You mean it might not be? I could... what's the word?"



"Regress." He nods somberly. "It has happened to a couple of others."



"That's why I came packing," Josh says, tapping a gun that hangs by his side. "You'd better pay attention and stay alert. If you start to zone out, the way you might in a boring class, I'm not going to take any chances. If I think there's even a slight chance that you're turning back into a revived, I'll put a bullet through your head."



"I bet you say that to all the girls," I snarl, and Josh laughs.



Dr. Cerveris asks lots of questions, about my past, how much of the day of the attack I can recall, if I can remember anything since then. Somebody opens the door and hands him a folder - he didn't call for it, so others must be watching this on hidden cameras - and he subjects me to a Rorschach test, then word-association games and other psychological crap. I play along patiently, answering honestly, in the hope that if I help them, they can find a way to help me.



The doctor asks about my sense of taste and smell. I tell him I can smell even better than before, but I can't taste anything.



"Is that strange?" I ask.



"No," he says. "The others are the same. We're not sure why. What about your ears? Have you noticed any difference where sounds are concerned?"



"I dunno. There hasn't been much for me to listen to."



A machine is rolled in and Dr. Cerveris tests my hearing. He puts headphones on me and I have to raise my hand when I hear a high-pitched noise in either ear.



"How'd I do?" I ask when he takes them off.



"Admirably," he says. "Every revitalized has an improved sense of hearing. The reviveds do too. Your sense of smell is probably sharper as well, as you have noted. We'll test that some other time."



I grin ghoulishly. "So I've turned into a big bad wolf. All the better to see, hear and smell you with, my dear."



"Not see, I think," he mutters, and lo and behold, an eye chart is duly carried in by a soldier. The test tells me what I already knew, that my eyesight has deteriorated. It's not as bad as I feared. I can still make out most of the letters, even on the lower lines, but they're more blurred than they used to be.



"Would I go blind if I didn't put the drops in every day?" I ask.



"No," Dr. Cerveris says as he jots down the results. "We haven't observed any of the reviveds losing their sight completely. But they suffer irritation and infection. It gets so annoying in some that they scratch their eyes out."



I wince and immediately try to push the image from my thoughts. I'm glad I can't sleep because I'm sure I'd have nightmares about that if I did.



"A little knowledge can be a dangerous thing," Josh chuckles. "That's another reason we prefer not to tell you too much about yourself."



"I'd rather know than live in ignorance." I lean forward. Josh pats his gun and I stop and raise my palms. "Easy, boss. I wasn't trying to freak you out."



"Like I said before, I won't take any chances." The light tone is gone from his voice. "Any move towards us will be interpreted as an aggressive gesture, so just hold on the way you were and everything will be fine."



I ease back, hands still raised. "I just wanted to ask if you knew what caused the attacks, how this is happening, why the dead came back to life."



"That's classified," Josh says shortly.



"I figured as much, but if you don't ask..."



There's silence while Dr. Cerveris writes up his findings. A couple of soldiers enter and remove everything that had been brought through, except the TV and DVD player.



"What now?" I ask, trying to sound chirpy but failing.



Josh raises an eyebrow at Dr. Cerveris. The doctor stares at his notes, hands flat on the table. Then he looks at me. "I think it will be safe to introduce you to the other revitalizeds soon."



"The kids I saw dressed in leather?"



"Yes."



"The ones who were torturing the zombies?"



Dr. Cerveris smiles icily. I thought he'd deny the charge and say that wasn't what they were doing. But all he says is, "Yes."



"But don't refer to them as revitalizeds," Josh warns me. "They prefer to call themselves zom heads."



"Dig that crazy new slang," I mutter witheringly. "What happens after I've joined the merry gang? Where do I go from there?"



Josh frowns. "I don't understand what you're asking."



"What's an average day like for a zom head? Do we torment zombies all the time? Go on picnics? Hang around looking cool in our leathers?" I start to lean forward, recall Josh's warning and stop myself. "What does the future hold? Do I have any chance of being set free?"



Dr. Cerveris and Josh share a smug look. It's as if they've been waiting for me to ask that question. Without a word, Dr. Cerveris turns to the TV and switches it on.



As the TV flickers to life, Josh turns on the DVD player and presses play. A grainy black-and-white image comes into focus. It's a corridor in my old school. Kids in uniform run past what must have been a security camera. Others follow, but although these look the same as the first lot, I can tell that they're zombies by the way they move. They don't shuffle along like zombies in movies, but move intently, swiftly, surely, like hunters.



Josh rewinds. He lets it play again, then pauses as the pack of zombies comes into view. "Spot anyone you know?"



"I didn't realize we were playing Where's Waldo?" I snap.



"Actually it's Where's Becky Smith?" he corrects me, and points to the lower left of the screen.



I stare hard, but with my weakened eyesight I can't be sure. It looks like me, but the picture quality isn't great and I'm not used to seeing myself in black-and-white.



"This next clip is from a helmet camera," Josh informs me. "I wasn't one of those who stormed your school, but I was part of the control team coordinating various units across London. One of my guys captured this charming footage."



He hits play again and the black-and-white clip gives way to a shaky color shot. The person with the camera is moving swiftly, jerking his head from side to side. I glimpse a rifle in his hands.



Horror images. Blood sprayed across walls. Limbs and corpses scattered across the floor. There's a blur. The rifle kicks in the soldier's hand. The camera goes out of focus for a few seconds. When it steadies again, I find myself looking at a kid whose head has been blown apart. Hard to tell if it was a boy or a girl. It's just scraps of meat now.



The soldier pushes on, then pauses. He focuses on a number of bodies to his left. I thought they were all corpses, but someone's moving in among the dead. The soldier takes a few steps forward, stops and adjusts the camera. It zooms in on the face of a zombie hunched over the remains of a dead boy.



The zombie has cut the boy's head open and is digging out bits of his brain, spooning them into its mouth with its bone-distorted fingers. It looks like a drug addict on a happy high. The boy's arms are still shaking - he must be alive, at least technically. The zombie doesn't care. It goes on munching, ignorant of the trembling arms, the soldiers, everything except the slivers of brain.



The zombie is a girl.



The zombie is me.



"We don't know how many you killed that day," Josh says softly, "but by the variety of flesh and blood we picked out of your mouth when we were hosing you down later, we're pretty sure that boy wasn't the first."



"We can never release you, Becky," Dr. Cerveris says with just a hint of gloomy satisfaction. "You're a monster."



I don't respond. I can't. All I can do is keep my eyes pinned on the girl - the monster - on the screen. And stare.