APOCALYCIOUS: Satire of the Dead (22 page)

             
                                   
Chapter 20 - The Pirate Ship Has Sailed

Location: unknown

             
Arlington Neff awoke beneath the brightest lights he had ever seen but the brightness, strangely, did not seem to hurt his eyes. He didn’t feel hung over, but he knew he should have been. He tried to survey his location, but the light that seemed to emanate from everywhere at once, kept that sense from functioning properly. He decided to close his eyes and listen. He heard nothing; it was silent as a tomb and Arlington thought that he might very well be dead. He had heard about people’s encounters with near death experiences and they all seemed to talk about the brilliant white light, but they also said that they heard things too, like Angelic choirs, giggling children, harps strumming sweetly, Jesus saying howdy, but this silence was eerie. He sniffed the air and he could smell something, but was unable to recognize the scent.

             
Even though he couldn’t see anything he sat up, and he waited for the vomiting to begin as it did every morning.

             
Nothing came up, not even a belch.

             
“Yep, I’m dead alright,” he said. His voice was deafening as it echoed in the stark silence. He cringed, lowered his voice to a whisper and said, “Hello?” That salutation also echoed through the glowing tomb.

The brilliant light lessened in intensity and reduced its glow to a pale bluish color. At this he felt his pulse quicken, thinking that his joke had been prophetic. His eyes instantly adjusted and he saw that he was confined inside a room that looked metal, but unlike any metal he had ever seen before.  He was flooded in a conspiratorial wave of realization. He lowered his head and saw that he was naked, and then nodded his head.
Arlington wasn’t sure who was behind this invasion, but he guessed that the Democrats and Republicans in Washington had played a part in it. He jumped up from the examination table, unashamed of his nakedness, balled his fist and shook it over his head in a rage. “Well, you wanted me, so come get you some!” as he said this he noticed that he didn’t feel quite right, or maybe it was the exact opposite. He
did
feel right.
Really
right, in fact, he couldn’t remember the last time he felt this good. He wondered if he had ever felt like this, and then decided that, no, he had not.

             
He let his hand drop to his sides then ran it over his chest, his shoulders, and his arm.

             
There did not seem anything amiss. He raised his hand to his face and ran it over his face, his head. He found that he had been shaved, he was clean and had the same scent upon his body as the room, not unpleasant, but distinctly antiseptic. He looked down and saw that his body wasn’t dehydrated, as he had been for some time now, but full with his skin a healthy pink. Then he saw his hook; it was still a hook, but not the same one. This one was more elaborate, and he found that he didn’t have to strap it on above his elbow, it just clicked into place at the end of his forearm’s stump, as if it attached right into the bone. He opened and closed it easily, he didn’t have to use alien muscles and concentration to make it work; he just thought it and it did. It was amazing and he stared at it in admiration for a while before he realized that he was still as naked as a newborn except for his ever present Ranger para-cord bracelet. 

             
“Think I could get some pants in here?” he asked in a conversational tone and one of the walls opened to reveal what appeared to be a walk in closet. Arlington shrugged. “Thanks,” he mumbled, and walked quickly to the closet.  He couldn’t help but try out the new hook so he grabbed a pair of faded blue jeans, underwear, and a white wife-beater that was only slightly stained in the pits. He sat down on the floor; it was warm against his skin. He got dressed and found that the buttons on his jeans were easy to manipulate with the new hook. He tied his boots and found the same result. He thought that maybe he would be able to wear a regular shirt without ripping the sleeve out, and then figured that might be asking too much. He walked back into the larger open bay and padded around in a circle saying, “OK, who’ve I got to thank?” he asked, looking at the ceiling for hidden cameras. He spun around some more, and lowered his voice.  “Seriously, thanks.”

             
Arlington felt, rather than heard, the faintest vibration in the air. He turned and looked behind him.

             
Standing there were two small, naked people that appeared to be without gender. He knew instantly what they were. They were Grays… aliens.

             
He felt a grin spread across his face and pumped a fist at his side. “I knew it!” he cried exuberantly.

             
The two Grays looked at each other, but didn’t seem to be surprised in the least. After all, they were notorious for abducting rednecks and hillbillies. This was probably not the first rebel yell they had witnessed.

             
“Man, do I have some questions for you guys,” he said, still grinning like an idiot. If he had had a mirror he would have seen that his teeth and eyes were no longer that unhealthy shade of yellow.

             
In talking to the Grays he saw that they didn’t exactly talk, but used a form of telepathy. They spoke directly into his brain. He thought this was probably more efficient than talking out loud, but at the same time it felt like someone was softly running a feather over his brain. It tickled to the point of itching, and he felt himself shivering from time to time.

             
They told him that they had inserted an implant into his head, which he thought explained the shaved head and of which they explained that it allowed him to accept the situation without being engulfed in panic. His felt around his scalp for a sutured incision, but found none. They explained that shaving his head was necessary as he had lice, not necessarily to implant the devise.

             
Arlington asked what the implant did and they explained that it was to relieve him of his habits: namely drinking and smoking. They also explained that the devise was also correcting an imbalance in his brain, which had triggered his downward spiral. They had in essence, turned him into the man he should have been.

             
He asked them if they were gods, like some of those conspiracy sites had said, the ones that claimed that God was an astronaut. They visibly recoiled from him both in stature and expression. Repulsed by such an accusation,
YAH
, they said,
was the one true God
. They were like humans, created beings, just far more advanced. Arlington nodded knowingly, even though he had not known at all.

             
“Yah, huh, is he German?” he said joking.

             
They said nothing but continued to stare at him in those overly large oval black eyes and Arlington thought that they had the look of a mantis; only their color was a metallic gray.

             
He raised his hand and new hook in front of him appeasing them, “Tough room,” said Arlington gently. He felt that light tickle on his brain again and shivered involuntarily. He knew they were reading him, allowed him to know what they were reading. They saw that he had lived a virtual hermit’s existence and lacked social graces, and they assured him that they would correct that. He didn’t like the sound of that, it sounded like mind control to him. They assured him that they would teach him, manners, they emphasized.

             
“So what do we do now?” he asked, eager to try out his new equipment.

             
Now, we teach.

             
“I was never good at school,” he said sheepishly, then added “Say, what should I call you guys anyway? I’m Arlington. Arlington Neff,” he said, holding out his hand before them.

             
The Grays looked at each other and then the taller of the two stepped forward and put his hand into the grasp of Arlington’s. The hand was light and, though it had looked like it would be slimy, it felt like a shark’s skin instead; scaly, but not rough. The long fingers wrapped around his hand and he noticed that the fingers had four joints in them as opposed to the three that human beings hands possessed. He heard in his head.
You may call me Noah. This other is Shem, for he is my son.

             
“It’s a pleasure to meet you boys. Now about this teaching thing, how long is it gonna take?” he asked, letting go of Noah’s hand. He thought he heard a little laugh in his head and even though it sounded benign in its wordless response, it also sounded a lot like ‘A long freakin’ time’.

             
It will take as long as it takes, Arlington Neff, that and not a moment longer
, said Noah.

             
Arlington felt a smile cross his lips. “Are you guys sure you’re not politicians, ‘cause you sure answer questions like one.” Again he heard that little laugh in his head, and to tell you the truth, he kind of liked that sound.

             
                                           
Part Two

             
 
Life in the Land of Death

                                                        Six Months after infection

                                      Estimated Living U.S. Population…500,000

                                  Estimated
U.S. Zombie Population…220,000,000

    
Chapter 21 - The Long Count   

Dayton, Ohio 

Wright Patterson Air Force Base

              Daniel Tyson
had spent six long months providing slave labor for the military. The prisoners called Wright Pat the Long Count because the days never seemed to end. Hard labor in construction and demolition had been his area of expertise. It wasn’t that he had a lot of experience in those areas, only that it was the job that any unskilled laborer was assigned to, but Daniel had to admit that there had been some good come of it too. He had always been a little soft around the middle, but now he was ripped. His previous existence had consisted of going to work at the glass factory and watching bottles go past like in the intro of Laverne and Shirley, then going to the pub across the street , going home and maybe play some video games and eating pizza rolls heated in the microwave.

             
He remembered being arrested by what he called, ‘the Gestapo’. Daniel was ushered from his home where he had barricaded himself when he had become trapped by a mob of his dead neighbors. The soldiers hadn’t been gentle. After blasting the house with canisters of tear gas they had flung in a concussion grenade that had left him fumbling on the floor gagging on the gas and his own snot, which dripped like melted ice cream from his nose, and completely disoriented from the flash bang grenade. He remembered the soldiers busting down his front door in a pack. One of them had assumed it was necessary to club him in the back of the brain pan with the butt of his Mossberg and that was that. There had been no negotiations, no serving or protecting, it had been the way that his old buddy the Pirate had once told him. The Man had held a coup d’état.  Evidently, that had been the government’s rendition of protecting ‘We the people’.

             
Daniel Tyson had awoken in a long barracks lined with bunk beds. He no longer had a name, just a number; 48. It had been tattooed on his forehead and the back of his neck in bold black numbers. Daniel found that everyone had numbers in the same locations of their own persons. He occupied the top bunk while his bunk-mate, the illustrious 47 called the bottom bunk home. Number 47 was a mountain of a man; easily six foot-five and weighing in at around two hundred and sixty pounds of tanned hide and blacksmith arms. He was shaved bald like everyone else, but sported a full beard and hula dancer tattoos on his forearms that gave him the appearance of a redneck Polynesian biker. Daniel had liked Bodie Barnes instantly. Where Barnes could have played the big, bad lifer and made his bunk-mate miserable, or even worse, his bitch, Barnes preferred to chat about his favorite Television show, the Simpsons. Daniel, no slouch at useless trivia, held his own.

             
Daniel’s first night had been another in a laundry list of learning experiences. He was approached by another well-tanned, yet wiry knucklehead that had watched too many episodes of OZ on HBO. The wiry man’s name was 21. He had been a prisoner for a few months and thought he ruled the roost. He had shoved Daniel backward. “I don’t like your face,” spat 21.

             
Daniel just blinked at him.
Very original,
he thought wryly. He had always been a pacifist. Aside from his recent violence at the funeral home he had never been in a physical altercation with another breathing human being. He held his hands up in front of him. “Hey, man, I don’t want any trouble,” Daniel/48 said to 21.