Zombie Society - They Live Among Us (4 page)

Meanwhile At Harvard

Harvard Square buzzed with students strolling through the hub conversing with friends, cyclists rode past taking care to avoid errant pedestrians absorbed with cell phones and the restaurants and cafes of Harvard’s social center teemed with life.

As Shannon surveyed the thriving scene, there was however one thing missing. Where the fuck were all the dead students? Sure, Harvard was an Ivy League institution, but that didn’t excuse them from having to admit members from the mort community. Where were they all?

Then she spotted one. Just off Massachusetts Avenue, in the grounds of the Digital Media Academy, a solitary mort raked leaves on the grass. Or at least he attempted to rake leaves, for the most part actually just standing around whilst the leaves scattered on the breeze. His arm bent behind his body to some obscene degree and as he turned around, distracted by a small group of female students who chatted happily as they walked over the grass, the morts mangled face came into view - Motorcycle accident?

Then Gavin and a couple of guys Shannon recognized from Med School exited Dunkin’ Donuts. Her knees almost weak, she grabbed the placard from the floor and held it high. She checked the writing, ensuring it was still readable, ‘End Oppression Now!’ Thankfully the morning rain hadn’t smudged it.

Gavin walked within ten meters - Damn he was just so hot. That hair, spikey at the back, sigh, like that should ever be allowed at Med School, the bad boy.

She inflated her chest and shouted, “End Oppression Now!”

One of Gavin’s friends raised an eyebrow, the tall, skinny one with pockmarks, but Gavin betrayed no reaction.

“End Oppression Now!” She shouted to his back.

“Oppression? What do you mean oppression?” Some spotty kid, probably from computer science appeared from behind and stood too close.

“Huh?” She said, gathering herself.

“What are you protesting about?” The kid sniffed.

Shit – All she’d wanted to do was gain the attention of Gavin. She glanced over at the mort as it abandoned the leaves and lay down on a bench. “I’m protesting about how the zom…Um, how the morts are oppressed within society – Yeah, that’s what I’m doing.”

“Why?”

She gestured out at the square. “Take a look around. How many morts do you see who are students here?”

The kid’s eyes darted up for a second. “But this is Harvard. You ever met a mort who could get in here fair and square?”

She paused for a second. “No, but that doesn’t mean no mort should be allowed in.”

“Why?”

“Well, because, it’s not right. They should make entry easier for them.” She nodded to herself.

The kid sniffed, “but wouldn’t that lower standards for all; morts and humans alike? I mean, I’m all in favor of having morts attend Harvard as long as they’re not given any special treatment.”

Her eyes glazed over, she chewed her bottom lip, something ticked in her brain. The kid had logical arguments but it still meant that morts would lose out and it was all because of the evil human – This could only mean one thing. “You’re a mortist aren’t you?”

The kid stepped back, his mouth dropped open, eyes widened, “w…what?” He asked as though temporarily incapacitated.

“Mortist!” Shannon shouted the word, pointing at the kid. Wow, she’d won the argument by the mere use of a single word. She’d be sure to use this tactic again in the future. “Don’t you see it? Mortism must be defeated so that everybody, both living and dead can live together in peace. The way humans have treated the dead for so long is criminal, it’s nothing short of mortism by hate filled humans. This hate, this extremism, this mortism has to stop. Humans must atone for their past evils and usher in a new era of tolerance.”

The kid turned to the side, wiping his forehead. “Um, I have to go now.” He rushed across the street, almost stumbling over the curb.

Shannon’s heart soared as the mortist retreated back in the direction of the computer labs. How dare he ask questions challenging the wisdom of giving the dead advantages the living didn’t have – That was just soooo mortist!

Damn it – Why wasn’t Gavin around to see that?

*

Shannon took the bus back to Wellesley. She made her way toward the rear as all the seats up front were already taken. Along the
dead only
section at the back, several morts sat, salivating whilst staring lustfully at the humans. One tried and repeatedly failed to catch a fly in his hand.

Shannon shivered, then took a seat beside a human, a couple rows from the back. She opened her book and tried to concentrate, but the noise from behind proved too distracting.

“Thaoaehrnaleruaer.” One of them articulated, then, “Harrughhhhh.”

Shannon slammed the book closed and exhaled.

The human to her side leaned in close. “The least they can do is talk our fucking language.”

Shannon stood and turned toward the back. She tilted her head up, rolled back her shoulders and then, as if making a spectacle of it all, began walking the three steps to the rear and took a seat with ceremony.

She glared down the aisle from between two rotting morts. Nobody looked, but she covered her nose anyway. “Will someone please fucking notice me!”

Executive Order 11246

Up on the ninth floor, John pondered how long the job was taking. Sure, they’d suffered a major setback, losing poor Jimmy Doyle, but John hoped to start on the tenth shortly. He’d since hired a new guy, Roarke O’Flynn, with fifteen years’ experience in the trade. He was good, knowledgeable, hardworking and would prove an asset to the company. On the far wall, Roarke attached the plaster board with a rare speed and efficiency. They were back on schedule.

The elevator doors pinged open. Roarke who banged nails into the wall turned round to look, causing a ripple effect as twenty heads turned to see Jimmy Doyle dragging his leg along the floor. His right foot, which trailed far behind his leg, pointed the wrong way, his neck hung way off to one side, causing his head to hang beyond the shoulder. On top of all that, he now staggered with a major stoop, as though somebody had taken a sledgehammer to the spine – He was fucked up alright.

The ninth fell silent, save for the scraping of Jimmy Doyle’s foot on floorboard. Roarke dumped his hammer in the tool box and took a step closer, folding his arms across his giant chest. Everybody else ceased what they were doing too. Fergus seemed to take a few steps toward Jimmy Doyle, perhaps to offer assistance but then thought better of it.

John folded his arms as the shambling mess approached – How long would this take? Should he close the gap, help him out? Maybe not.

Finally, after several minutes, Jimmy Doyle stopped a few paces from John, the stench wafting through his breathing apparatus. John felt the overwhelming urge to cover his nostrils, but thought it better to at least try and be polite. “Do you know how much trouble you’ve caused me?” John asked, looking Jimmy Doyle cold in the eyes. “I’ve had the Department of Labor breathing up my asshole.”

Jimmy Doyle didn’t flinch, blink or even breathe, just kind of gazed through John with empty eyes. “Me…Job…Give back…Now!” His jaw must’ve suffered a shattering on the asphalt because the grating sound it made came out louder than the actual words.

“Fuck off!” John said, turning away, finally bringing a hand up to cover his nose and mouth.

After a few seconds, the shuffling sounds started up again. Then after several minutes the elevator doors pinged to a close.

It was around three hours later when the damn elevator opened again. This time Jimmy Doyle was accompanied by a tall, rake thin, bespectacled human in suit and tie, with the face of a dead fish. The man waited for Jimmy Doyle to suffer his way to John, though he offered no assistance. Had the man nothing better to do? John checked his watch and considered making a start on installing the lighting. Then Jimmy Doyle neared and just as before, the workmen downed tools and stared as the shambling mess that was their former colleague approached the boss.

“Mr Quinn?” The man asked.

“Yes.”

“Hello, my name’s Tony Dankworth and I’m a Mort Assimilation Enforcement Officer from the Office of Federal Contract Compliance Programs.” An ID badge hung around his neck with his name and ‘OFCCP’ printed in large letters. “I’m afraid we’ve received a complaint.”

John bucked. The little snitch. Jimmy stared blankly forward, nothing in those dead eyes. John had a good idea where this was heading. More worthless government taxpayer funded bureaucrats snooping around his business while the real men got on with the work and actually put money into the economy. “Carry on.”

“Mr Doyle tells me you’re discriminating against him on grounds of mort status. As you may or may well not know, Mr Quinn, that under Executive Order 11246, it is illegal to discriminate against somebody just because they’re dead. You must treat the living and the dead equally as according to the law, Mr Quinn.” Dankworth, the sniveling toad took out a handkerchief and blew his nose. He took a few seconds to recompose himself, turning his nose up at the laborers among him.

“Jimmy Doyle jumped from the roof and killed himself. He is not responsible enough to be on a dangerous building site.” John waved an arm about at the tools, drills and hacksaws as if to emphasize his point.

“Mr Quinn, as you may or may well not know, is that Mr Doyle is dead and therefore is a member of a protected minority and disadvantaged group who without these laws would otherwise suffer unfair discrimination. As a medium sized employer in the construction industry, you are covered by Executive Order 11246 and cannot therefore discriminate on grounds of mort status.”

The sniveling little rat had spoken so quick, thrown so much jargon and numbers at John that he just couldn’t think. John didn’t need any of this crap right now with a rebellious daughter and the Department of Labor breathing hard all the way up his asshole. John exhaled and ran a hand through his hair. “Ok, so what do you want me to do?” Surely Dankworth wouldn’t make him rehire Jimmy Doyle, a member of the dead who could barely even walk – It was truly insane.

“Mr Quinn, you need to bring Mr Doyle back into the protective bosom of your organization.” He said it straight faced, which was the scary thing. “There must be some sort of role you can assign him?”

“We’re a construction company, Dankworth, and we operate on the ninth floor.”

“You’re in receipt of federal contracts are you not?” Dankworth sniffed.

“We have on the occasion yes.”

“Well then, you must comply with Executive Order 11246.” Dankworth looked around the building site, turning his nose up once again at the blue collar workers and sniffing. “Twenty men I count, Mr Quinn, and there’s not a single member from the dead community on your staff. Let me remind you, Mr Quinn, that under Executive Order 11246, at least five percent of your workforce must consist of members from the dead community. Now, you could either send Mr Doyle on his way, in which case you’ll only be required by law to hire some other member from the dead community, or you could simply take Mr Doyle here back into the protective bos…”

“…I get it!” John cut him off, not wishing to hear Dankworth’s nasally voice anymore.

This was bad. The company couldn’t afford to take on another construction worker, and he used the term ‘worker’ loosely when referring to Jimmy Doyle’s probable capabilities. He scanned across the ninth floor and his eyes settled on Roarke O’Flynn; large, hardworking and capable. Damn it, but the man had a family. But given that Roarke was the last to be taken onboard, it was only right that he should be made sacrificial lamb in order to get the latest batch of government parasites off his back. “Fine.” John conceded, scowling at Jimmy Doyle. “You can start back right away.”

Jimmy’s mouth opened, an audible crack giving way to visual green tinted goo which dribbled down his brand new Armani shirt. He turned to Dankworth and uttered something John had no hope of comprehending. Best keep the freak hidden away from potential new investors.

Dankworth straightened and turned back to John. “Ah yes, that reminds me. We’ve also received an allegation that you called Mr Doyle a ‘fucking zombie.’”

John’s jaw dropped wide open. “I most certainly did not!” How could Jimmy Doyle make such untrue allegations?

Dankworth shook his head and made
tutting
sounds. Whether or not the sniveling rat believed John over the dead guy with the crushed skull was open to interpretation. “Mr Quinn, let me remind you that although the
z
word may not yet be illegal to use in this country, at this point in time, society in general does not look too kindly upon such behavior.”

John stepped toward Dankworth who took an even larger step back in an automatic response, eyes widening like a frightened child being cornered by the school bully. “I did not say the fucking
z
word, Dankworth.”

Dankworth straightened his tie. “Good, Mr Quinn. Because I don’t want to see you one day in the not too distant future having to attend one of my Mort Assimilation Awareness courses.” Taxpayer funded no doubt. He turned to face his client, “Mr Doyle, I wish you luck and let me know if there are any further problems.” He chose not to shake the dead man’s hand, instead heading straight for the elevator.

It took several seconds for John to feel his arms shaking as the anger bubbled inside.  His employees resumed work as John beheld the specimen of Jimmy Doyle before him. Maybe there was a
long stand
he could send him to the warehouse for. Come to think of it, they were also in need of some spirit level bubbles, elbow grease, tartan paint, a hard punch and a long drop – On second thoughts, better scratch that last one. “Hey, Jimmy?” John asked with a raised eyebrow.

But Jimmy Doyle was already shuffling toward the couch. “Me on break now.”