Zombie Society - They Live Among Us (7 page)

The Evil Face Of Mortism

John handed over the money for his hotdog and headed in the direction of the Titan Building, taking a bite with one hand, straightening his hardhat with the other. He peered up at the near skyline and caught sight of Fergus, distinctive wild red hair as he sealed in the window plates – Finally. After the delays, they’d be on the tenth floor by the end of the week.

John took another bite on the hotdog, almost choking when a bus rode by. “What the fuck?” The side of the bus displayed an ad for the latest Hollywood blockbuster movie. A mort stood beside some hip blonde starlet, holding hands in front of a beautiful beach setting. The title of the movie –
Guess What’s Coming To Dinner
. “I think I’m gonna be sick.”

John ditched his lunch in the nearest trash can, his stomach queasy he carried on toward the Titan Building.

On the street corner, over by the fire hydrant, several morts gathered in a crowd looking out, snarling at the humans as they went about their business. That same ridiculous music, which to John’s ears sounded the same as the other trash he was forced to endure at home, boomed from car speakers. Several morts danced on the sidewalk – At least John thought it was dancing. In truth, it was some strange tribal thing where they bent over, grabbed onto a railing and shook their asses in the air to the passing humans. Several morts wore their pants almost round their knees whilst partaking in this strange custom of the dead. Then a human, female and probably a young teenager approached the group and joined in with the dance, in full view of other humans who walked by covering their eyes. Two morts approached the girl, ran their hands down her chest and legs then pressed their bony crotches up against her.

John’s lunch stirred in his belly as he continued down the street. The numbers of dead were beginning to pile up and because of that, society was changing before his very eyes.

Then John saw something that made him want to vomit. In fact he surprised himself by his stomach’s ability to keep his meagre meal down. Across the street, a mort walked hand in hand with a female human. “What the hell is happening to this country?” John said aloud to himself. He studied the show as his meal danced a tango in his belly. The human; short, fat, bespectacled, long straggly hair, blonde, withered in appearance and dressed like a tramp looked down to the floor as she walked. “Probably a crack whore.”

Most of the humans who approached the odd couple on that side of the street crossed over to avoid them, the few who didn’t, the mort stared cold in the eyes as if to gloat he was sleeping with a human – Even if she was right at the bottom of the gene pool.

“I’m never going out for lunch again.” John shook away the disgusting spectacle. Thankfully the workplace was just up the street. With a bit of luck he could reach the Titan Building without passing another vomit inducing freak show.

Just ahead, two hunched over elderly gentlemen conversed with grocery bags in hand. The American flag had been stitched onto their jackets, their hats had ‘V.F.W.’ emblazoned on them – Veterans of Foreign Wars.

John smiled and nodded to the two men as he walked by. There were still people in America to admire.

He heard a thud followed by a tearing and John whipped round to find two morts attacking the veterans. Their grocery bags had been ripped open and various items were scattering about the sidewalk. Giving up on the raw meat within, the morts now turned on the elderly humans, punching, scratching, opening their obscenely wide jaws in an attempt to consume the men.

John sprinted to help, his hard hat tumbling to the ground, just as one of the men went down clutching his heart, gasping for air, face turning purple. The other man now tried to fend off both morts – John was close. One of the morts brought his opened mouth around the veteran’s throat and bit down, tearing away the flesh, sinews, nerves and muscle.

John screamed and launched his foot at the mort’s head, “get off him!” He connected with full force, sending the mort crashing to the road. John lifted his foot up and brought it down hard on the creature’s head. The other mort came for John but he grabbed his hardhat from the ground and threw it into the mort’s head, distracting him, before quickly following up with a succession of punches to the face. The mort crashed to the floor, John landing on top where he rained down blows upon the mort’s face, head and windpipe.

The crowd that had gathered shrunk back, nobody coming to aid John. He didn’t notice as humans took out their cell phones and filmed the event, yet did nothing. He didn’t notice the cops as they sped up, threw open the doors and cuffed him.

*

It was middle of the afternoon, the following day when John was finally released from the police cell. Deciding to take the rest of the day off work, he headed for home on foot.

John yawned and wiped at his eyes. He’d spent most of the night being interrogated, accused of mort hate crimes; battery against a protected class, notably, the dead. The cops couldn’t keep John, on this occasion his lawyer getting him off on account of the fact two humans were dead at the hands of the same two morts John was accused of assaulting. Still, they’d tried to break John down, failed, and after spending a sleepless night in a cell, they finally let him go.

John had never been in trouble with the cops before, but he would never stand by and watch as humans were attacked by morts – How would he live with himself? Though in truth, he could have done without the hassle. He had a family and a business to run but it wasn’t as if anybody else was willing to jump in and offer any help. Why should the responsibility of doing the right thing rest solely in John’s hands?

John hunched his shoulders, double taking as he walked by the news vendor. “Oh, what the…” his mouth hung open, his belly lurched.

The vendor looked several times between John and the front page of the New York Times.

John grabbed the paper, his face plastered over the front page. The headline read, ‘The Evil Face of Mortism.’ They’d taken his Facebook profile image and blown it up. To the side were several images of John punching and kicking the morts, taken from stills of cellphone footage. They’d left out any pictures of the dead human victims, instead concentrating on the injured morts who apparently were recuperating in hospital.

John flicked through the pages and scanned down the article. ‘This is John Quinn, the evil face of intolerance and mortism, the hate filled bigot who attacked two helpless morts in the street.’

The article showed images of the two morts wearing casts and neck braces in a hospital bed. ‘We din do nuttins. We good morts.’ The article continued, ‘The morts; one an aspiring musician, the other an up and coming athlete were simply scavenging for lunch when evil mortist, John Quinn, married father of two, construction company owner, bigot and all round human supremacist came out from nowhere and attacked the two morts.’

“Hey,” the vendor shouted over to John, “if you read it, you buy it.”

“There is absolutely no mention of those zombies murdering those two old men.” John slammed the paper down. “This is a fucking cover up.”

The vendor, looked briefly away and raised an eyebrow at the mention of the
z
word, took a step closer. “I don’t write the things, ok. I just sell them. And you can’t say
that
word. Do you want to lose everything?”

“No! Of course I don’t, but this paper has omitted half the important details which have totally changed the context of the story. This is slander which makes me out to be some kind of a monster.”

“Yeah, well, if you’re only just realizing this about the press then you really must be stupid.”

John arrived on his street to find several news crews swarming around his front lawn. The blue paper recycling bin had been tipped over and several of the vultures were sifting through newspapers, mail, documents and cereal boxes.

John braced himself for the melee and used his hands to cover his face as he ran over the lawn to the front door.

The reporters perked up and surged forwards as John fumbled with the keys in the lock. “Mr Quinn, do you have anything to say about being a mortist?” One reporter asked.

“Would you like to apologize to the dead community after assaulting two of their number?” Another chirped.

The door opened and John slinked through the crack, slamming it shut. He closed the curtains, enshrouding the house in darkness. “Media parasites,” he said, peeking through a small slit in the bedroom windows. “Fifteen of them.” And at least three were busy pitching tents on the front lawn. Can they do that?

John crashed on the bed, pressing a button on the TV remote. Surely they weren’t covering the story on the main news channels.

Two talking heads; one human and one mort sat either side of the anchor. “
I just think it’s time we had the conversation about morts
.” The human wore a yarmulke, which he readjusted on his head.

The mort dribbled down his Armani suit, “
we make contribution too, we deserve slice of pie
.” After a few minutes of trying to understand what the mort was saying, John stood and peered again through a gap in the curtains.

“Oh Christ.” John gawped at a group of morts stumbling down the street, pushing over trash cans at random. Had they arrived to target him because of what he did the day before? No, he dismissed that idea immediately – This was nothing unusual after all.

“
It’s clear that the dead make an invaluable contribution to society
.”

One of the creatures thrust its head inside a trash can before settling on what looked, from John’s viewpoint, like a half-eaten chicken. Another grabbed a cat that was rolling around on a car hood and crammed the feline’s head down his throat, biting down. John winced and shifted focus to the nearer mort who crept down the street toward the news crews.

“
Indeed, without morts, our economy would grind to a halt. In fact, I would argue that our entire nation is culturally richer now than ever before. It is these evil mortists, such as John Quinn who prevent integration and assimilation from taking place
.”

The mort approached an elderly woman from behind as she pottered down the street, shopping in hand. She didn’t hear the footsteps. The first she knew she was being attacked was when she hit the ground.

“
Our ability to stand up and protect the rights of all in the mort community will be a test of our own humanity. We face a critical choice between a future of happiness in an assimilated society, or a future measured by higher walls and longer fences. It is sad that in every generation we need to continue to fight the battles of ignorance, intolerance, bigotry and hate
.”

John watched as more morts arrived and tore into the woman’s flesh, while the cameras below continued to film his front door.

A Match Made In…Um

“Does anyone have any more Scotch?” The slim, blonde reporter asked her crew. “If I’m to get through being around these freaks another day, I’m gonna need more Scotch.” The director passed her a small metallic flask which she took, unscrewing the cap and taking a long pull.

Shannon stood behind the camera crew where the crowd grew as the minutes past. She yanked on Teejay’s arm, “let’s try get behind the reporter woman, maybe we can get in shot.”

“Arg,” Teejay said, not wanting to move, only wanting to continue drooling as he stared at his date’s esophagus. He had no option though, as Shannon pulled him around in an arc until they emerged between the reporter and the KFC to the rear.

The cameraman took a couple steps to the side, forcing Shannon to move with it. She threaded a hand in the crack of Teejay’s elbow, pulling him along with her. Shannon sniffed, she’d become used to the stench Teejay omitted but that which drifted over on the breeze was something different entirely.

“What the fuck is that?” The blonde reporter grimaced and took another pull from the flask. She covered her breathing apparatus, taking a few breaths before removing her hands and scrunching up her nose.

Murmurs of discomfort swept through the crowd like a Mexican wave as the rotten stench grew stronger. Shannon gazed at the KFC, the exterior decorated in pink flowers for the occasion. She couldn’t see inside very well, but it looked like the tables were suitably covered in finery. Even the staff had turned out in their best. But it was the groom, who waited by cash register number 2 who stole the show.

“Please tell me she’s close. I’m not sure how much more of this I can stand.” The reporter quipped, then looked up the street as the horses came into view. “Fuck, I grew up with horses. I never knew them to make such a disgusting stink.”

Shannon counted sixteen, all beautiful beasts that pulled the pink painted carriage along the shopping mall car park. The clatter of hooves on asphalt grew louder, as the smell grew in intensity. She moved a few inches to the side, satisfied she was in shot and threw an arm around Teejay, his cold dead skin sending a shiver up her spine.

“What kind of a wedding is this anyway?” The reporter continued, glancing around at the guests, around only half of which were human. “It’s taking place in a KFC but the guests have all brought their own food – Tasteful. Fuck, I’ll have to make notes for my own ceremony next year.” She grimaced again as the horses drew up to the KFC entrance, then nodded to the second cameraman. “Try not to film the coachman, he’s wearing a facemask – Wish I’d thought of that.”

The director held up a hand then counted down, “three, two, one,” he pointed to the reporter.

“We are live as we make history today for the world’s first ever inter-mort wedding. And we’ll have full coverage of this miraculous event as the soon to be Mr and Mrs Grimley say their ‘
I do’s
.’” She roped in a female guest, heavily pierced with dozens of rings and studs all about her face, tattoos up and down her neck, chest and arms, hair matted in dreadlocks as she held a tray of food. “Hello, madam, how do you feel about being present for history in the making today?”

“I think it’s wonderful that we’re finally breaking down barriers in this country. There is no reason why the living and the dead can’t marry. It’s only evil human oppression that has prevented this from happening before. I can’t wait for the day when all these barriers are removed and all members of the dead community will be married to members of the living.”

The reporter pushed her aside as she moved toward a mort as it swayed with the wind. “Hello, sir, and how do you feel about this marriage taking place today?”

The mort’s neck creaked on its axis. “Fleeeeeessshhh.”

Shannon looked at the carriage is it finally stopped, “oooh, I wonder if…” She knew the truth, even if she couldn’t say it. It wasn’t the horses that had tinted the breeze a transparent brown. That brown was the stench which came from the bride, visible stink lines drifted from her pale flesh.

The camera crew along with several guests walked towards, before checking their approach to the bride. The coachman jumped down from his seat and along with an assistant, removed the entire side of the specially modified carriage. The ample girth of the bride was revealed to all as she was helped to her feet by six bridesmaids all gasping for air. The coachman rolled a pink carpet down the steps toward the KFC entrance.

A mort barbershop quartet initiated a strange gargling sound that had to be the wedding music as the bride trod onto the creaking steps and carpet. She wore a bright pink wedding dress, a bit tacky, Shannon thought, but she wouldn’t say it. Then the half-gagging bridesmaids followed the bride off the carriage, holding up the tails of the dress.

“Look how beautiful the bride looks.” The reporter said, holding her breath. “This is history in the making, breaking down barriers. Whether living or dead, we’re all the same. Isn’t it wonderful.”

The bride plodded down the carpet, struggling under her own weight before pausing for a rest. She placed her hands on her ample thighs and doubled over a touch, ripping the dress up the crotch.

The cameramen repositioned again, to avoid humiliating the, um, bride.

When she regained her energy, she continued then took one look at the narrow entrance to the fried chicken joint and stopped again. Her head wobbled around for anybody who looked like they could have been responsible for the building. “I can’t fit in here. Which mortist built this?” She tried lifting a hand in an effort to point at the nearby janitor who leaned against a sweeping brush over by the trash cans, but gave up when she couldn’t summon the strength. Instead, she raised her voice, “you there, you mortist. Widen these doors.”

The cameras swarmed around the man as he straightened and rushed toward the pink carpet. “There’s nothing I can do. Can’t you squeeze through?”

She moved her eyes down her own front, “does it look like I can squeeze through? I know what this is about. You’re a mortist.”

“But, I didn’t construct the building.”

She tried waving a hand in a dismissive gesture, but gave up due to the exertion. “You’re all the same, you mortists. This is because you disagree with me marrying a member of the dead.”

The janitor’s head jutted back. “But I only started here last week. It’s really got nothing to do with me. I…I…I suppose I could get my axe and chip away at the brickwork until it’s wide enough?”

“You’d better, you mortist, cos if you don’t,” she nodded at the TV cameras, “we got evidence of your mortism. You’ll lose your career, your family, everything you hold dear.”