Of Zombies in the Twilight of Man

Joseph did a perimeter check of his basement hideout before he started cooking breakfast. He was about to fry up some frozen sausages, and didn't want any unexpected company. Sometimes the smell of food could attract the zombies, which was something he would much rather avoid than endure. So, while he checked the locks and barricades, he also made certain there were no gaps or cracks that the aroma of his cooking could escape through. Zombies were pretty stupid, and actually a bit slower than an average person, but they were relentless. They never slept, and felt no pain, which made them able to use all of their strength, even if doing so damaged them. They didn't bleed at all, and if they were damaged, instead of healing, they would develop a nasty gray scab over the wound. Some zombies were nearly completely covered in sickening gray stuff. It insulated them against battle damage. Guns were useless against them, as well. Bullets passed right through with no effect, even with a head shot. But, if a security feature could keep a human out for long periods of time, then it could keep a zombie out.

The preparation of his meal was completed without incident, and Joseph ate the sausages slowly while he read the last message he had received from the resistance for the forty third time. Paper and ink were the only safe method of long distance communication during the siege of the undead. While the zombie horde did seem to be proper voodoo magic undead, the way they recruited new members had been updated for the twenty first century. Some kind of toxic concoction, derived from the ancient voodoo recipe for zombie powder, had been distributed in major population areas, disguised and marketed as either kombucha or energy drinks. Then, every broadcast station and streaming service had been hijacked, presumably by a group of hackers, and started putting out a signal that activated the zombies with a spell, and programmed them with the orders of their master. The signal could affect anyone, not just those who fell victim to the tainted beverages, and the first thing they were made to do was to find one and drink it. Luckily, anyone who hadn't yet been poisoned with the zombie making concoction could be restored to normal simply by isolating them from the signal for a few hours. To avoid being brainwashed, the resistance didn't use any broadcast or electronic communication. All messages were shared strictly through the printed word. Of course this presented it's own difficulties, what with murderous zombies roaming the land. Drop zones had been established at midway points between fortified buildings, for mass distribution, while couriers had backup teams using all manner of distractions and obstructions to fend of any attacking zombies, which did tend to travel in packs. For isolated individuals, more extreme measures were taken. The courier would go to the rooftop of a building in the drop zone, and use a pneumatic cannon to launch a mail cylinder at the roof of that individual's hideout. The cylinder would be caught in a soccer net type of contraption, if the courier's aim was good and the wind was cooperative. If someone lived too far away for that system, then they could be out of communication for a long time.

The particular communique that Joseph was perusing was one that he had picked up on a supply run three weeks prior. It detailed a few new discoveries about the zombie invasion. They were still calling it an invasion because it had the characteristics of a deliberate attack on civilization, rather than a viral pandemic or other such outbreak. Whatever was happening was being done with purpose. It had become apparent some time ago that people with strong intellectual tendencies were highly resistant to the brainwashing signal, while those who preferred less mentally rigorous pursuits were fully converted almost instantly, and were more likely to drink the zombie poison. That was why there were still as many survivors as there were, and why the situation had become polarized so quickly. Now it had been discovered that there was more in the drinks than just toxins. Nanites had been found, both in tissue samples from the zombies, and in the tainted beverages. Once ingested, they latched onto neural clusters and intercepted nerve signals, altering them according to their own onboard algorithm. It was believed that this could explain the phenomenon of unstoppability that continued after a zombie's brain had been rearranged by a bullet. They didn't need a brain, since their whole body was under the control of the microscopic robots.

Joseph had read the same words so many times that he knew the information by heart, but he would still read it again, every morning, savoring every word as evidence that humanity was still thriving somewhere, albeit under siege from things that had become less than human. He had been isolated to the same ten block area of the city, surviving alone, for two solid years. It had been pure chance that led to his discovery of the basement bunker that had been set up by the superintendent of the apartment building where Joseph had been, technically, squatting. The superintendent, sadly, had not made it into his safe place before being torn apart by zombies. It had been a gruesome scene, with the terrifyingly transformed people grabbing and biting, strangling and mangling, anyone who was slow enough for them to catch. They weren't driven by hunger or need, but just by the physical rage programmed into them by the signal. Medically, they were dead, and had been so since shortly after ingesting the zombie poison. There was no recognizable intelligence behind their eyes, no humanity remaining in their expressions. They were truly mindless automatons, designed for violence. Joseph's dread of them was surpassed only by his dread of becoming one of them. But sometimes, even that fate seemed preferable to his loneliness. Not often; just when something poignant reminded him of how life used to be. Reading the messages from the resistance helped him stay grounded.

His pensive state was disturbed by noise from outside. He went to the periscope, a feature installed by the now deceased superintendent, to investigate.
There was a large horde of zombies filling the street outside. They seemed to be moving in an uncharacteristically coordinated fashion down the street, and they were all wearing matching ill fitting coveralls, with identification badges dangling from collars around their necks. Each zombie had a pointed stick in one hand, and a heavy duty trash bag in the other. Flanking them on the sidewalks on both sides of the street were people in black uniforms, carrying some type of strange weapon, which resembled a chrome covered version of those large water guns that the user had to pump up with air pressure. Their faces were obscured by minimal personal protection equipment, but they also had badges, only theirs were made of shiny metal. A large black bus followed the horde down the road. It had what looked like an antenna array on top, and the side bore the logo of the SpacelinX Corporation. SpacelinX was owned by Eglund Munch, a South African billionaire playboy come worldwide tech bro. The Munch family had made their fortune in blood diamonds and the airline industry. Three of the jet planes that had been used in the September Eleventh terrorist attacks had been designed and built by Munch Aeronautics, and they were proud of that.They had even supported Apartheid.

The zombies fell into a formation, then, in perfect synchronization, began spearing garbage which they placed into their bags. Joseph watched them until they had worked their way completely down the street and around the corner. This was something new and astonishing. It seemed that a corporation had somehow remained intact, and was now actually controlling and using zombies to clean up the streets. Joseph could not fathom how or why these circumstances arose, but he most wondered if the resistance was aware of the situation yet. Moving quickly, he retrieved a pen and a pad of blank paper. He composed a greeting to the resistance, and then wrote down everything that he saw, checking it over twice to make sure he hadn't left out any details. After that, he printed his name at the bottom, Joseph Teller. He made an envelope out of a second piece of paper, folded his message, and placed it inside. Tucking the envelope into his pocket, he selected an aluminum baseball bat as a weapon, in case he met something unpleasant while attempting the dangerous thing that he had in mind, and quietly cracked open his door. The plan was to go outside for the first time in weeks, make his way unseen to the drop zone, and leave the resistance his message.

He got three blocks before he was surrounded by zombies in coveralls, and people in black uniforms. The bat had been no help, as one of the uniformed goons blasted him with a concussive vibration from the gun he carried. Joseph went down instantly, unable to move or hear for over a minute. He was taken into the bus with a bag over his head, and his hands cuffed, then driven to an unknown location. When the bag was removed, he found himself seated and shackled to a heavy metal chair, and facing Eglund Munch himself. The pompous tech bro was seated in a tall, overstuffed wingback chair upholstered with a sort of exotic leather that Joseph didn't recognize. His feet, clothed in expensive looking Italian dress shoes, rested atop an enormous mahogany desk. There were a pair of large lamps behind the chair, one to either side of it's occupant, producing a backlit effect that made Joseph feel nauseated from eye strain.

"Well, well, well," Munch intoned in his nasally un-American accent. "What have we here? Mister Teller, you're very lucky that my crew discovered you before any wild zombies got to you. They might have made a mess of you that we would have had to clean up." The obnoxious little man on his high chair tittered like a school girl at his own bad joke.

"What do you want from me?" asked Joseph. "I'm no threat to you. I have nothing of value to you. Just let me go."

Munch adopted an expression of deep thought, and looked at the ceiling with a tilt of his head. "No threat, you say? And nothing of value, too! Well now," he snapped his face forward to stare malevolently at Joseph. "That remains to be seen, doesn't it!"

He twirled Joseph's envelope around in his fingers. "You recognize this, don't you? We found it hidden on you. It is addressed to someone you call the resistance. Who are they? What are they resisting? Why did you wish to inform them of our activities? Tell me, and you will be safe, I promise."

"Oh, you promise?" Joseph asked sarcastically. "Like you promised that city in California that you would fix their traffic congestion problem by boring a tunnel under their highways? Or like the promise you made to solve world hunger?"

Munch giggled. "Well, don't you think those problems are solved now?"

Before Joseph could answer, a door opened at the back of the room, which Joseph now noticed was much larger than he had realized, something like a parking structure or hangar. A tall blonde woman carrying a riding crop walked through the door and it was shut behind her. At first glance, he thought that she may have been a zombie, because her face was gaunt, and she had a strange patch of black stuff on her head that resembled a pile of zombie scabs.

"Shut up, Munch!" She screamed in a smooth British accent. "What did I tell you about talking too much?"

Munch leapt out of the chair and made a slight bow to the woman, apologizing profusely, but he didn't sound sincere. The woman strode confidently up to him, looked him directly in the eyes, and smashed the riding crop into his groin. He fell to the floor gasping and retching.

"Go clean out the zombie pens, you little prick," the woman said, and Munch crawled away to do as he was told. She sat herself in the vacant chair, and Joseph got a better look at her. He could tell that her designer suit would have been very expensive in the world before zombies. There was an unpleasant aroma that wafted over from her, like mold or mildew. Joseph realized that the smell was coming from the patch of black stuff, that he could now see was actually growing through her hair on the right side of her head. Then he recognized who she was; none other than G.A. Rawlingus, famous author of popular young adult novels. She had introduced an entire generation of high schoolers to the story of an abused orphan boy with special abilities, who was abducted and brainwashed into joining a dangerous cult, and used by it's leader in a war against his even more dangerous rival. Then it had been discovered that she herself was using social media to brainwash kids into her own cult of anti masculine radicals. Her book and movie sales had plummeted, and her amusement park had taken a huge hit, but she had managed to remain one of the wealthiest people in the world. She had used that wealth to fund unethical genetic research into human parthenogenesis, with the aim of making the male contribution to human reproduction obsolete. There had been a huge scandal and the labs were shut down. Then, of course, the zombies had invaded.

"Why do I even let that obnoxious pervert live?" Rawlingus mused to herself. "I swear, if his technology wasn't so useful, I'd turn him into one of the zombie slaves. Goddess, how I loathe anything that ever had a penis." She stood abruptly, violently gesticulating with her arms, making slicing motions, as she screamed, "Doom to the patriarchy! Doom to mankind! Death to all things masculine!"

She plopped back down in the chair and chuckled darkly for several moments. Once she had composed herself, she turned her attention to Joseph.

"So! You there, Joe, may I call you Joey? Joey, do be a dear and confess everything. I haven't got all the time in the world, you know. I simply must know everything about this resistance of yours. Where are they? How many are they? What are they planning? All that sort of thing, obviously."

Joseph pulled himself up as tall and straight in his chair as he could sit while in the shackles, trying to look her in the eye. "There is no resistance. It's just something I imagine, because of the loneliness and isolation. I needed to believe that there were other human beings in the world, and not just zombies, so I made them up."

"He's lying, Mistress!" came a sickly nasal voice, seemingly from nowhere. "Oh, he's a liar, I can tell."

Rawlingus started, and ducked her head down behind the desk. She uttered a small shriek of surprise. "Eek! Why Dickie Vergass, you scamp! Have you been under there all this time?"

"Yes, ma,am, I have. What am I like? I'm just a cheeky monkey, aren't I?"

The owner of the voice crawled out from underneath and perched clumsily on the corner of the desk. Joseph recognized him as Dickie Vergass, the infamous British comedian whose act consisted mainly of berating religious people for having beliefs, and bullying people with non binary sexuality or gender differences.

"Hey, Joey," said Vergass, "did you think the afterlife was gonna be like this? Hey, the afterlife? It's good, innit?"

"So, what is this?" asked Joseph. "A British invasion?"

"Hey, sourpuss," responded Vergass. "Leave the jokes to the perfessionals, right? I'm the comedian, and you're the prisoner, right? That's why I'm happier than you."

"It wasn't really a joke," replied Joseph. "I'm just curious."

"Oh, deary me," interjected Rawlingus. "Such a drama queen! No, it isn't a British invasion, poppet. We've got the Saudis, and some Russian oligarchs. We're very inclusive. Our little group used to have dozens of American members, as well. There was Scooter Bowow, the former child star, and Jimmy Forest, the actually good actor, Dan Crane, from that cute little superhero television series, then Cowboy Rock, the pop star, Marsha Stabbert, the home crafting legend, that loudmouth Alec Johns, and a lot whose names I can't recall. But, sadly, they had a celebration shortly after the zombies, ehm, arrived on the scene, where they tried to test their durability by shooting at them with various calibers and gauges of firearms. It was an awful mess. Well, I told them not to do it. But, now they're all dead, and nothing more to say on it."

Vergass started laughing, a wheezing, breathy sort of sound that grated on Joseph's nerves. Joseph was beginning to suspect that this group of wealthy and offensive people had more to do with the zombie invasion than merely happening to survive. He was getting the feeling that they had somehow arranged it all themselves. Rawlingus could well have financed the development of the zombie poison, since she had the contacts, and Munch could be using the SpacelinX satellites to broadcast the control signal, as well as providing the nanites. These people were all well known for only really caring about themselves. Maybe they had intended to turn everyone else into zombie slaves, and have the whole world for their playground. It all fit together like a sinister jigsaw puzzle. He wondered what would happen when they inevitably turned on each other. Would anyone survive the aftermath? A disturbing stray thought came to him that he may have the answer to the Fermi Paradox.

"So," continued Rawlingus. "How about it? Tell me what you know, and you could have a place with us. You would never be lonely again. You could live a life of luxury beyond your wildest dreams. There are women, who would lavish you with all the attentions you desire. Just talk."

Joseph sighed heavily. "No offense, lady, but you lot are not exactly known for honesty. I don't trust any one of you to keep a promise. And beside that, I don't care much for your company. And I've already told you, I don't know anything. I've never met anyone who was part of any resistance."

She stared at him for a minute. Then her expression shifted, and she seemed to arrive at some sort of decision. "Well, that's fine. It's fine. The offer is now off the table, of course. We'll just have to keep you here until we find out what we need to know on our own."

She gestured, and two black clad guards came forward from the shadows, and put the bag back on his head. They dragged him off, and tossed him into a small, empty room, where they took off the bag and the handcuffs. They left him there, and locked the door. Examining his prison, he found that he had one ceiling lamp, with no wall switch, probably controlled by a timer. In the side wall there was a small door that led into a perfunctory restroom, about the size of a porta potty, containing a small basin with running water, and a toilet with one roll of thin single ply toilet paper. There was even a bar of soap, a cup and a toothbrush on a shelf above the basin. The bare necessities. Over the course of his incarceration he was brought one meal per day, which was passed through a slot in the door by one of the guards. Joseph always tried to strike up a conversation with them, but they were always stoically silent. The rest of the time he had no human contact, nothing to read or keep his mind occupied, and nothing to take his mind off of his loneliness. He was now more isolated than ever. Sometimes he wondered if he would be able to drown himself in the little basin. He figured it was only a matter of time before they concluded that he was of no use to them, and made him just another zombie slave.

A day came when, as Joseph sat dissociating on the floor in the middle of his room, sounds of combat were heard in the hallway outside. It lasted for the duration of about half an hour, then everything was quiet. No food came that day, or the next, or the one after that. Joseph called out through the slot in the door, even though he was usually punished for that, but there was no answer. He could just barely see the arm of one of guards laying on the floor down the hallway. It didn't move. No one ever came to clean it up. Joseph sat in his room, facing starvation, all alone.