Zombie Society - They Live Among Us (6 page)

The Bus Incident

It was a relief for Shannon when the bus finally arrived. The hot sun burned down and she needed the cool breeze from an open window splashing across her face.

She squeezed along the aisle, both sides inconveniently full before settling on an empty seat a few rows in front of the
mort only
section. At the back of the bus, several morts occupied their designated seats; one of them, in designer clothing, sat upright almost with the fine posture of a healthy human.

The bus rumbled down the street as the cool breeze washed over Shannon’s face, diluting the stale stench of death from behind. She tried to blot out the gargling noises, the sounds of drool splattering against the vinyl flooring. As the bus headed in the direction of Wellesley, the humans occupied themselves with cell phones, Kindles or magazines while the dead were busy drooling over human necks.

The bus slowed for the next stop where several more humans waited to enter. Then six humans stepped aboard, diverting the attention of everybody. It was a camera crew complete with three cameramen, boom operator, director and a pretty human reporter.

The driver waited for them to take seats before moving and the crew, most of whom had ‘CNN’ emblazoned on their jackets squeezed along the aisle. Two of them managed to find seats but there was nowhere else for the rest to sit.

Then the director headed back down the aisle and spoke to the driver who turned to face the back of the bus, his eyebrows dipping before he stood and made his way to the rear. When he reached the back four rows, the driver peeled off the Velcro ‘Mort Only’ sign and attached it to the seat two rows further back. The driver waved his hand gesturing to the morts who occupied the two rows in the now human section. “Up.” He pointed to the back row. “That’s the dead section, now move.”

Shannon watched as three morts stood and shuffled toward the back. “Why are the cameras filming this?” She muttered under her breath noticing they were filming the solitary mort, the one with the upright posture, who refused to move.

“Get up.” The driver reinforced, wiping sweat from his forehead with a handkerchief.

“Move you freak.” Someone shouted further down the bus.

The mort moved – He stood and shifted one spot to his left, closer to the window. “Arg.”

The cameras moved in closer, the sound boom hovering over the drivers head. “Why don’t you stand up and move on over to the dead section?”

The mort dribbled green bile down his suit. “Me not stand, me sit.”

The driver leaned in closer, blanching from the stench. “Well, if you don't stand up, I'm going to have to call the police and have you arrested.”

Something rasped in the back of the mort’s throat. “Yes, me arrest.”

“Oh, that’s what you want is it?” The driver said, shaking his head.

The humans at the front were standing now, some coming closer for a better view.

The driver pushed through to the front where he took his seat and rang through to the police. After hanging up, he craned his neck round to the back, “you’ve gone done it now boy,” before turning back when a camera thrust itself inconveniently close.

The temperature inside the bus was stifling, made worse by the tight confines. Visible stink lines wafted up from the troublesome mort’s neck, but in the moment, Shannon admired his spirit, even if it was strange that cameras just happened to be around to film the whole stunt. She tapped her fingers on the window ledge and waited.

After twenty minutes, a police officer finally arrived and the camera crew perked up again. The officer approached the mort in the human section, “you’re comin’ with me,” he said, slipping cuffs on the dead man’s hands.

“Why you push us around?” The mort stuttered, as though reading from a well-rehearsed script.

The cameras moved close to the officer as the boom dangled inches from his face. “I don’t know, but the law’s the law and you’re under arrest.” He dragged the mort out from the bus, camera crew in tow.

Hazards In The Workplace

“What time do you call this?” John asked Jimmy Doyle as he shambled into work several hours late. “I want to be off this floor by the end of the week.” John saw the green goo dribble from his mouth. “You know what, on second thoughts, it doesn’t matter. Just get on with it, alright.”

John didn’t need this shit today. He’d been missing sleep recently and had been negatively affected by having to dismiss Roarke O’Flynn. The project was so far behind schedule, they’d not yet even placed in the plate glass windows, which considering what happened with Jimmy Doyle, should have been a priority.

A strange gargling resounded from outside and John plodded toward the edge to investigate. “Oh, just great.” He blinked several times to make sure it wasn’t some kind of a light trick. Now
this
was something new. Three morts assembled on the sidewalk apparently singing. Except, the only clues they were actually attempting to sing were the microphones some idiot had given them. “That’s their music?” John asked nobody in particular.

It consisted of a disgusting monotonous gargling sound, interspersed with the snapping of teeth. Then the lyrics began, “brains, braiiins, braiiiiiinnnsssss.”

“A one track fucking mind.” And where the fuck did they get that amplifier?

“What is that noise?” Fergus appeared at John’s side.

John pointed downwards. “Let me guess – You really like this music, huh? Are there any spare ear defenders?”

“You really are intolerant aren’t you. This is their culture and it’s enriching us.” He wasn’t serious – He couldn’t be serious, could he? “But no, they’re all used up by the welders.”

John zoned out, distracted by movement in his periphery vision. “Who the fuck gave Jimmy Doyle a gas turbo welder?” John squinted as the idiot tried figuring out how to ignite the flame. And what was the point in the creature wearing ear defenders? John’s new pair too. Jimmy Doyle was also hard of hearing on account of having his head smashed into the sidewalk, to add to his long list of other problems. A building site really was no place for such a danger. John diverted his attention back to the street as the lyrics changed.

“Zombie, zombie, zombie.” The morts clacked from the sidewalk.

“I thought that word was banned?”

Fergus’ eyebrows dipped, “hmm, I guess it must be alright for
them
to say it.”

“But
we
can’t say the
z
word?” John turned on Fergus. “Do you know how insane that is? Either a word is banned or it isn’t. Which means it should be banned for all.”

“You’re treading on very dodgy ground there my friend.”

John was again distracted by Jimmy Doyle, who’d somehow managed to ignite the flame and now shuffled about the ninth like an alcoholic – With a fucking blowtorch. “We really should be on the next floor by now.”

“It’s all for the greater good – A few sacrifices here and there to help out the dead – We owe them.” Fergus said as he brought the defenders down to cover his ears.

“They’re holding us back.” John laughed. “Heck, if it wasn’t for all this dead weight, we humans could be at the top of this skyscraper by now.”

Fergus didn’t disagree.

John was alerted much too late by the distinct high-pitched creak of metal rupturing, immediately followed by the fan of sewage from the burst pipe as filth sprayed all over the ninth.

*

“What really gets me is there’s nothing I can do about the damn situation.” John complained as he twirled spaghetti around his fork. “He’s only been back on the job one full day and already he’s injured two people.” John referred to Jimmy Doyle of course, who, after burning a hole through the sewage pipe then proceeded to accidentally burn both Alex and Glen with the same gas powered welder.

“Ooh, what’s that smell?” Kerry asked, sniffing the air.

John leaned back in his seat and sniffed the air around him. He’d returned home early after sending the entire workforce home while a decontamination unit worked on the ninth. He’d used the time to shower twice. “What smell? I don’t smell anything.” John leaned forward again and filled his mouth with spaghetti and meatball. “I mean, it’s a damn travesty that better qualified humans are unemployed because we have zombie quotas to fill.”

Shannon perked up. “Dad – You cannot use the
z
word.”

“Oh, not you too. Not at the dinner table. In all places, I should be able to speak my mind in my own home.”

Shannon pointed her fork at John. “No, dad, you cannot ever use that word. It’s mortist. And by the way, it’s only right that humans should have to pay for all their past crimes against the dead.”

“That’s rubbish – Every culture in the world has buried their dead for thousands of years. Looking out for your own kind is the most natural thing in the world. All you’re doing is turning your back on your own people for some trendy cause the TV is telling you to get behind.”

Shannon’s eyes rolled up as she searched for an argument to use against her father. “Mortist!” She finally said, leaning back with smug satisfaction.

John looked to Finn. “Well what do you think? Do you think it’s right you missed the cut because a one-legged zombie was given preference over a more physically able and hard-working human?”

Finn looked down to his plate. “Yeah, I guess it’s alright.”

John thumped the table. “You’re allowed to have an opinion of your own, son, what the heck are they teaching you in school?” He asked, subconsciously glancing over to his wife, who gazed through at the living room TV screen.

“Shush dad, we’re watching some groan.” Shannon said, looking away from John.

“Groan?” So their music had a name.

MTV played the curious new spectacle of Notorious Z and Mort-e-Fied groaning their new song, which sounded almost identical to the horrific noise John had to endure earlier in the day. His children had been watching more and more of this crap recently. Were the music stations playing less human music all of a sudden, or had they genuinely picked up an interest in zombie music?

John himself had always been a fan of Rob Zombie but the media had suddenly deemed him too offensive and forced him to change his name to Rob Human. Regardless, his career was as good as over. “I just don’t get it,” John spoke over the gargling noises, “mortism didn’t even exist before we were forced to co-exist with them and now they’re all saying it’s the worst thing in the world. It literally paralyses people.”

Shannon shushed him as a scantily dressed female human emerged in the music video and began grinding up against Mort-e-Fied. Then the zombie flashed his dollars around and even more female humans entered, pressing themselves up against the zombie’s rotting flesh. It was a slick, professionally produced music video and doubtless the weak, foolish and gullible amongst the human population would allow themselves to be influenced by such obvious propaganda. He looked to his children who were wide eyed and entranced, as nausea built in his stomach.

Hey, Everybody, Look At Me

Just off Harvard Square, in the grounds of the Digital Media Academy, Shannon sat on a bench, reading through some lecture notes. It was often hard to concentrate in lectures, with Gavin so close. His blue eyes, that hair which drove her insane.

A cool breeze blew through the grounds, sweeping leaves up from the grass where they swirled around Shannon’s feet. The mort groundskeeper, whose job it was to rake the leaves and tend to the grounds leaned back against a tree not far away. A sweeping brush stood propped against the other side of the trunk. Was he sleeping? A pigeon strutted close to the sleeping mort, looked around for a few seconds then plucked up a discarded bread crust from the grass. The long strand of bread dangled from its beak as it tried to gobble it down. Then a hand reached out and grabbed the pigeon by the neck, the lower half of the crust snapping, discarded to the floor. Shannon watched wide eyed as the mort closed its mouth around the head of the still flapping bird before it went limp. Then the mort crammed the remainder down his gullet before wiping his mouth with a sleeve. He flicked the blood sodden crust away with a green finger before leaning back against the tree and returning to sleep.

Shannon’s belly turned. Luckily she’d skipped breakfast today.

Then Gavin exited Dunkin’ Donuts, coffee in hand. Girl’s hand in the other!

It took a few seconds for the magnitude of the situation to sink in – Gavin held hands with a girl – Long-legged and blonde – It was that bitch from class.

Her stomach lurched again as her heart underwent that familiar sinking feeling. And then Gavin and the bitch were approaching.

She fumbled with her notes, pretending to read the text and then he was close. Oh God, surely he wouldn’t sit on the same bench as Shannon with the bitch? She just couldn’t take it. Shannon looked up and forced a smile but he didn’t notice. Was she invisible? It wasn’t just that Gavin blanked her. It was more that she didn’t exist in the first place.

They swerved past Shannon and headed toward some other bench where they took a seat and nestled close to each other.

Shannon’s hand balled into a fist as she lost all sensation in her skin.

Why did nobody pay her any attention? She was kind of attractive – Wasn’t she?

Over by the tree, the mort struggled to his feet, grabbed the sweeping brush, then stumbled in the direction of the
mort only
bench, where it took a seat, dropped the brush and went back to sleep.

Shannon clenched her jaw, grabbed her bag, stood and walked in the direction of the mort. The faint stench of decay grew stronger as she neared. She took a deep breath and braced herself.

One student over by the crossroad already watched her, intrigued about what she was about to do. Then the number of eyes grew exponentially the closer she got.

Fuck – But the smell – Intense like rot. No wonder humans kept themselves separate.

The mort twisted his head, an audible snap of vertebrae came with it, that dead expression in the eyes, pigeon blood had dried to a crust on his chin.

Shannon nodded to the empty space next to him, got no response but took the seat anyway. She heard the collective gasp of students from as far away as the Tory Row pub as she tilted her head up, one side of her mouth curling into a satisfactory smile. She covered her mouth and nose in her hands, which did little to lessen the cheap stink as she took a deep breath and turned to face the freak to her side.

The mort scowled at her like even he was surprised a human had chosen to sit next to him. His loose green flesh, slack upon his face was not attractive in the slightest – Perfect.

Shannon cleared her throat. “Hi, I’m Shannon.”

The mort’s mouth fell open as if no muscle existed to control the movement. “Me am Teejay.”

She knew she had to do it, painful as it would be. She extended her hand and waited for ‘Teejay’ to reach out and shake it. Something in his shoulder cracked as the hand slinked forward, then the slimy mitt wrapped around her hand. The thing’s grip was slack like its mouth, then he retracted the paw, leaving a medium thickness residue on her skin.

Shannon looked over to where Gavin and the bitch sat. They both gawped at her. “Finally notice me, hey?” She looked around the rest of the grounds, where dozens of people had stopped mid-stride to witness what was happening on campus. “Yeah, you all notice me now don’t you.” She muttered under her breath.

“What you say?” Teejay asked.

“I was just wondering if you were hungry?”

Green tinted liquid dribbled from the corner of Teejay’s mouth at the mention of the word, his lips parting to reveal brown stained teeth. “Me am hungry, give Teejay flesh.”

Shannon gagged, “I know just the place.”

During the walk, more and more people stopped and stared aghast at the peculiar sight. Children pointed and laughed before mothers shielded their poor eyes. But Shannon loved every minute of the slow walk.

When they arrived at the KFC, Shannon helped Teejay to a table in the center of the restaurant. At least four lunchtime patrons dropped their fried chicken, two standing to leave.

“Mortists.” Shannon said louder than intended.

“You promise flesh.”

Teejay would have his own mort food stamps but Shannon decided to pay anyway. Five minutes later she returned to the table with two trays filled with fried chicken. “You see that first cashier? See how she suddenly went on her break when I arrived?” She snorted. “Fucking mortists.”

Teejay didn’t seem to notice, so entrenched in the chicken he was.

“You know, I never eat the gristle.” But her words were lost on him as he gnashed on tendons and all. She brought the chicken to her mouth and took a bite, washing it down with a gulp of coke. She looked around, noticing most people had stopped watching her – What the fuck? “Fucking mortists!” She snapped at two teens a few tables away. “Yes, I’m on a date with a mort. Got a problem with that?” The two boys continued with their conversation. “Mortists.”

Teejay finished the fried poultry and reached forward, sliding Shannon’s own tray toward himself, “me,” he spat.

Shannon shrugged, she’d lost her appetite anyway. Instead, she directed her attention to the human couple who entered, walked toward the center of the seating area, saw her with Teejay and then moved to a booth in the corner. “Mortists!” She said, just loud enough for them to hear.

Wow – Shannon leaned back and took a deep breath, inhaling the stench of chicken infused with dead man. That pariah feeling – From now on people would notice her.

They left the restaurant and stood in the parking lot. Vehicles rumbled down the street and drivers stuck their heads out the window to gawp. Shannon tilted her head up in self-satisfaction and held her hand out.

Teejay took her hand, the dead flesh cold against her own. It was the most unnatural feeling in the world, but she dismissed that mortist thought and walked hand-in-hand back toward campus.