The Apex Book of World SF 2 (32 page)

Human beings as we
know them are excited by every development in their offspring because what
purpose is there for the hard labour of parenthood if not to send forth an
independent, productive adult who can satisfy his own needs? But the Slows
appeared to enjoy the helplessness of their larvae—the lack of humanity, the
deplorable fervour of the little creatures, their muteness, their mindless
appetites, their selfishness, their ignorance, their inability to act. It
seemed that the most disgusting of traits were what inspired the most love in
savage parents.

The screeches
stunned me. I was so riveted by the sight of that wriggling caterpillar that I
almost missed the moment when the woman started talking again. "If we knew how
much time was left for us…" So she didn't know everything: the invasion would
start that day; it might already have begun. "If we knew that we had another
year or two, if you would only tell us how much time there is people could
prepare themselves." Had she come as a spy? If they greeted the police with
violence, they'd only bring disaster down upon themselves. A few spontaneous
uprisings were to be expected. After all, theirs was a volatile culture. But an
organised attack would be a kind of stupidity that was hard to fathom.

"I'm asking for so
little," the savage woman said. "Just this—to know how much time remains for
us. Listen to me. I know you're different from them. You're not a missionary.
You know us. You're merciful, not like them. I feel it. You could have called
the guards when you saw me here, but you didn't do it. Maybe you once also had
a baby you loved."

The larva arched its
body backwards, and the woman unconsciously fingered the opening of her shirt.
Suddenly, I knew what she wanted to do, and with that thought, the sourness of
the coffee rose in my throat. To give it her milk bulges—that's what she
wanted, that's why she was plucking at her shirt. When I'd been a student, I
was forced to watch a film about ancient nutritional customs. It was for a
course restricted to advanced students, but none of us was advanced enough to
view that sight without a sharp feeling of nausea. From close up, we watched
the ravenous face of the larva and the swollen organ thrust into its wet mouth.
It was a rather large larva, at least thirteen pounds, and the depraved sucking
noises that it emitted mingled with the female's bestial murmur. White liquid
dripped down its chin, and the woman tickled its lips with her gland, holding
the organ shamelessly between finger and lustful thumb. I still remember the strong
protests voiced by three women students, which was understandable.

"If you'll just
answer me that," the savage woman said, and her voice shook with feeling. "Just
that."

The emotionality of
the Slows had the strange characteristic of clinging to me like a stain. As
sometimes happened after a few hours of conversation with one of them, I began
to feel polluted. "The good of the children is the only thing that we consider,"
I said finally. "Do you want a cup of water? I see that you haven't touched
your coffee."

When I got up and
went back to the machine, the woman bent her body over the larva, almost
concealing it under a black curtain of hair. The cold water refreshed my mouth,
removed the traces of yesterday's drink and the bitterness of the coffee, dislodged
the clinging feeling. I drank two cups. It is sometimes possible to identify
the rational thought amongst the Slows, but their emotional exaggeration
dilutes it. Though I had hoped to calm the savage woman, at that moment it was
clear that there was no point in trying.

When I returned to
the desk with a cup of water for her, I saw that she was rocking slowly on the
chair, moving the larva rhythmically back and forth. It was tired from so much
screeching, and its voice was growing weaker. She was so deeply immersed in her
drugged movement that she didn't notice me. I watched the two tired bodies
moving together and knew that soon, very soon, there would be an end to their
suffering. The larva would become a man in control of his body, and she would accept
it and smile. With clarity, I saw that image and, as though to transmit it to
her, I reached out and placed my hand on her shoulder. All at once, like an
animal, the woman recoiled, raised her head, and bared her teeth. The sudden
movement jolted my body backwards, and for a long moment we were frozen,
twisted in mid-movement, looking into each other's faces.

"Don't touch me!"
she spat out, as though at an enemy. Her face was transparent, and I could read
everything in it, all her distorted thoughts. She believed that what I wanted
was to hold her soft body, to curl my fingers and grasp her flesh, to press it
against mine and rub, blind and hopeless, against her milk glands. Her eyes,
like snakes, penetrated my thoughts and fed them her abominable vision, the
visions of a lower animal. For nine years I had been in the Preserves and never
had I experienced such defilement.

"No-one's touching
you," I pronounced with difficulty, turning towards the door and putting my
hand out to press the button. By the time the alarm went off and the sound of
the larva's weeping reached me, I was already in the light—in the bright,
bright light outside.

 

Zombie Lenin
Ekaterina Sedia
 
Ekaterina Sedia grew up in
Moscow but has since moved to the United States. She is the author of
The
Secret History of Moscow
and
The Alchemy of Stones
, and edited the
World Fantasy Award winning anthology
Paper Cities
.

1.

It all started when
I was eight years old, on a school trip to the Mausoleum. My mum was there to
chaperon my class, and it was nice because she held me when I got nauseous on
the bus. I remember the cotton tights all the girls wore, and how they bunched
on our knees and slid down so that we had to hike them up as discreetly as
eight year olds could. It was October, and my coat was too short; Mum said it
was fine even though the belt came disconcertingly close to my underarms, and
the coat didn't even cover my butt. I didn't believe her; I frowned at the
photographer as he aligned his camera, pinning my mum and me against the
backdrop of St Basil's Cathedral. "Smile," Mum whispered. We watched the change
of guard in front of the Mausoleum.

 

Then we went inside.
At that time, I was still vague on what it was that we were supposed to see. I
followed in small mincing steps down the grim marble staircase along with the
line of people as they descended and filed into a large hall and looked to
their right. I looked, too, to see a small yellowing man in a dark suit under a
glass bell. His eyes were closed, and he was undeniably dead. The air of an
inanimate object hung dense, like the smell of artificial flowers. When I
shuffled past him, looking, looking, unable to turn away, his eyes snapped open
and he sat up in the jerking motion of a marionette, shattering the glass
bubble around him. I screamed.

2.

"A dead woman is the ultimate sex symbol," someone behind me says.

 

His interlocutor laughs. "Right. To a necrophile, maybe."

"No, no," the first
man says heatedly. "Think of every old novel you've ever read. The heroine, who's
too sexually liberated for her time, usually dies. Ergo, a dead woman is dead
because she was too sexually transgressive."

"This is just dumb,
Fedya," says the second man. "What, Anna Karenina is a sex symbol?"

"Of course. That one's
trivial. But also every other woman who ever died."

I stare at the
surface of the plastic cafeteria table. It's cheap and pockmarked with burns,
the edges rough under my fingers. I drink my coffee and listen intently for the
two men behind me to speak again.

"Undine," the first
one says. "Rusalki. All of them dead, all of them irresistible to men."

I finish my coffee
and stand up. I glance at the guy who spoke—he's young, my age, with the light
clear eyes of a madman.

"Eurydice," I
whisper as I pass.

3.

The lecturer is old,
his beard a dirty-yellow with age, his trembling fingers stained with nicotine.
I sit at the back, my eyes closed, listening, and occasionally drifting off to
dream-sleep.

 

"Chthonic deities,"
he says. "The motif of resurrection. Who can tell me what the relationship is
between the two?"

We remain wisely
silent.

"The obstacle," he
says. "The obstacle to resurrection. Ereshkigal, Hades, Hel. All of them hold
the hero hostage and demand a ransom of some sort."

His voice drones on,
talking about the price one pays, and about Persephone being an exception as
she's not quite dead. But Euridice, oh she gets it big time. I wonder if
Persephone or Eurydice is a better sex symbol and if one should compare the
two.

"Zombies," the voice
says, "are in violation. Their resurrection bears no price and has no meaning.
The soul and the body separated are a terrible thing. It is punitive, not
curative." His yellow beard trembles, the bald patch on his skull shines in a
slick of parchment skin, one of his eyes, fake and popping. He sits up and
reaches for me.

I scream and jerk
awake.

"Bad dream?" the
lecturer says, without any particular mockery or displeasure. "It happens. When
you dream your soul travels to the Underworld."

"Chthonic deities,"
I mumble. "I'm sorry."

"That's right," he
says. "Chthonic."

4.

When I was eight, I
had nightmares about that visit. I dreamt of the dead yellowing man chasing me
up and down the stairs of our apartment building. I still have those dreams. I'm
running past the squeezing couples and smokers exiled to the stairwell, and
mincing steps are chasing after me. I skip over the steps, jumping over two at
once, three at once, throwing myself into each stairwell as if it were a pool.
Soon my feet are barely touching the steps as I rush downwards in an endless
spiral of chipped stairs. I'm flying in fear, as the dead man follows. He's
much slower than me but he does not stop, so I cannot stop either.

 

"Zombies," he calls
after me into the echoing stairwell, "are the breach of covenant. If the
chthonic deities do not get their blood-price, there can be no true
resurrection."

I wake up with a
start. My stomach hurts.

5.

I take the subway to
the university. I usually read so I don't have to meet people's eyes. "Station
Lenin Hills," the announcer on the intercom says. "The doors are closing. Next
station is the University."

 

I look up and see
the guy who spoke of dead women, sitting across from me. His eyes, bleached
with insanity, stare at me with the black pinpricks of his pupils. He pointedly
ignores the old woman in a black kerchief standing too close to him, trying to
guilt him into surrendering his seat. He doesn't get up until I do, when the
train pulls into the station. "The University," the announcer says.

We exit together.

"I'm Fedya," he
says.

"I'm afraid of
zombies," I answer.

He doesn't look
away.

6.

The lecturer's eyes
water with age. He speaks directly to me when he asks, "Any other resurrection
myths you know of?"

 

"Jesus?" someone
from the first row says.

He nods. "And what
was the price paid for his resurrection?"

"There wasn't one,"
I say, startling myself. "He was a zombie."

This time everyone
stares.

"Talk to me after
class," the lecturer says.

7.

The chase across all
the stairwells in the world becomes a game. He catches up with me now. I'm too
tired to be afraid enough to wake. My stomach hurts.

 

"You cannot break
the covenant with chthonic gods," he tells me. "Some resurrection is the
punishment."

"Leave me alone," I
plead. "What have I ever done to you?"

His fake eye,
icy-blue, steely-grey, slides down his ruined cheek. "You can't save them," he
says. "They always look back. They always stay dead."

"Like with Euridice."

"Like with every
dead woman."

8.

Fedya sits on my
bed, heavily, although he's not a large man but slender, birdlike.

 

"I could never drive
a car," I tell him.

He looks at the
yellowing medical chart, dog-eared pages fanned on the bed covers. "Sluggish
schizophrenia?" he says. "This is a bullshit diagnosis. You know it as well as
I do. Delusions of reformism? You know that they invented it as a punitive
thing."

"It's not bullshit,"
I murmur. It's not. Injections of sulfazine and the rubber room had to have a
reason behind them.

"They kept you in
the Serbsky hospital," he observes. "Serbsky? I didn't know you were a
dissident."

"Lenin is a zombie,"
I tell him. "He talks to me." All these years. All this medication.

He stares. "I can't
believe they let you into the university."

I shrug. "They don't
pay attention to that anymore."

"Maybe things are
changing," he says.

9.

"Are you feeling all
right?" the lecturer says, his yellow hands shaking, filling me with quiet
dread. Same beard, same bald patch.

 

I nod.

"Where did that
zombie thing come from?" he asks, concerned.

"You said it
yourself. Chthonic deities always ask for a price. If you don't pay, you stay
dead or become a zombie. Women stay dead."

He lifts his
eyebrows encouragingly. "Oh?"

"Dead are objects,"
I tell him. "Don't you know that? Some would rather become zombies than
objects. Only zombies are still objects, even though they don't think they are."

I can see that he
wants to laugh but decides not to. "And why do you think women decide to stay
dead?"

I feel nauseous and
think of Inanna who kind of ruins my thesis. I ignore her. "It has something to
do with sex," I say miserably.