Zombie Ever After (8 page)

Donovan stared after him and then continued to clean himself. After a bit more washing, the thin brown paper began to shred apart. Donovan grabbed another handful from the dispenser.
 

A teenager came in. He scrutinized Donovan for a moment. The boy had long hair, dyed jet black. There was a silver ring in his nose. A tattoo on his arm said something about anarchy. Donovan held the paper towels under the water, not breaking eye contact.

“What’s going on, man?” the kid said on his way to a urinal.
 

Donovan waited for a second, not wanting to talk to anyone, but said, “Nothing,” and turned back to the mirror.
 

The kid came back from the urinals. Donovan rinsed his hands in the sink and wiped them off. A loud flatulent blast echoed from the stalls. This was followed by a double-flush and a nervous cough. Ignoring the drama from the back of the room, the kid grabbed some paper towels, blew his nose, and left.
 

Donovan rubbed his hands under the blower and let out a deep breath. There. Much better. As the guy in the back exited the stall, Donovan departed, leaving the man staring at the mess Donovan had left behind. Water dripped off the sinks. There were puddles on the counter and the floor. A few wads of wet brown paper towel sat on the ground like anxious toads.

*
 
*
 
*

The man groaned and clutched his stomach again. He turned back toward the stalls, but before he could reach them, he fell to his knees. And then flat on his face, dead. A trickle of blood oozed out his lips on to the tile floor. The pool of blood grew slowly larger, until it was the size of the man himself. A blood-red shadow.

The dead man lay motionless, not breathing. His heart had flat-lined.

All was quiet for a minute, and then two. Then, he moaned. A dark, steady, deathly moan. He stood up, the paper towel wads on the floor now darkened with his blood.

Outside, Donovan found the night warm and sticky. Stars twinkled in the blackish sky. Donovan crossed the street, headed for the Dunkin’ Donuts. He had no idea where he was going or what to do next.
 

A car stopped, presumably to drop someone off. Donovan stepped back to give them room. As they pulled up a little too close to him, both rear doors of the car swung open and two men jumped out. They grabbed Donovan by the arms and threw him into the backseat. Then they jumped back in. The car sped away before Donovan even had time to yell for help.
 

Inside the car, the two thugs grabbed his arms and held him in place. A fire hydrant with feet sat across from him. Her plastic nametag read,
Mirka Aballona, Assistant to the Assistant.
She had vacant, sunken eyes and a straight line of red to indicate a mouth. She squinted at Donovan as if looking into the sun. She seemed preoccupied, as if she was trying to remember something. Like some reason to hate him. She abruptly brandished a hypodermic needle and a cotton ball from the bag at her side.
 

Donovan struggled, but the thugs held him fast. The squat woman rolled up his sleeve and dabbed his bicep with the cotton ball. Then, gleefully, she jabbed the needle into him.

“You sons-of-bitches,” Donovan said. And then, the effects of the drug already swimming through his veins, he said, “Or is it sons-of-a-bitch?”
 

Those were the last words Donovan spoke, as the world around him twisted to black.

So what happened next, Dr. Portanova?

Well, Zoë, our experiments proceeded as hoped, at least from Egesa’s point of view. He was able to reanimate his clients’ heads. This was the crucial part of his agreement with them before they’d died. He would freeze their heads immediately after physical death, with the promise that they would be reanimated one day and their brains inserted into a new body. But the bathwater wasn’t working as planned.
 

What do you mean?

There were complications. Some of the heads died after a few weeks, others had brain-wave patterns indicating various states of brain dysfunction. Those we removed from the bath straightway and refroze. This process, regrettably, destroyed some of them.
 

What happened next?

In just the past two or three weeks, as a matter of fact, we began to observe a remarkable phenomenon. Not only were the brains reanimating, but if left in the bathwater long enough, some of the more responsive heads where, in fact, reanimating. Let me restate that: not only were the brains coming alive, so was the whole, bodiless head.
 

What does that mean, Alena? I’m not sure I understand.

Well, Zoë, we began to see facial movements, including movements of the eyeball behind the lid, like REM sleep. Facial tics appeared. The faces started to make expressions—anger, sadness, joy, laughter. Much like an embryonic baby in the amniotic fluid. This phenomenon progressed quickly, until one day one of the heads in the bath opened its eyes.
 

My, that’s incredible.
 

Yes. This was, as you might expect, quite shocking for all of us scientists in the room. Equally as shocking was the speed of development. The timeline from open eyes to full interaction was remarkably fast. It was as if these celebrities and billionaires had themselves reappeared from beyond the grave. These heads had no bodies, however. Nor were they their old selves, not by any means. They were their own “evil twins,” so to speak.
 

This seems more like science fiction than fact.

Exactly. Imagine how we all felt. But it got worse. The heads snapped at our hands, like dogs, whenever we reached into the Plexiglas containers, or “eggquariums” as we called them—that name is patented, by the way. Anytime we reached in to make any adjustments to the wiring connecting the brains to the computer systems, or to check the condition of the water, or just to pet the heads, they would bite. The attacks were becoming more and more vicious. The heads were rebelling.
 

Meanwhile, as our viewers are now well aware, the overflow tanks containing these heads and chemicals poured directly into the aquifer. Chemicals from ATELIC were ending up in the local drinking water, in other words. Here in the city and other parts of the Bay Area. Unfortunately, we’re out of time. Alena, great having you here. I’m Zoë Krant. Thanks for watching. Good night

When Donovan came to, he found himself feeling claustrophobic in a tight, closed little room. He sat up, his head spinning slightly, his brain sluggish. He peered out the window to an empty parking lot. The tarmac was torn. Weeds grew up through the cracks. A fast-food wrapper blew across the lot. He tapped the glass of the window. It seemed thick, possibly bulletproof. No doubt, it was soundproof.
 

Donovan forced himself to stand up from the room’s only piece of furniture, a kind of prison cot. He walked to the door. Almost absurdly, he tried the knob. It was, also absurdly, unlocked.
Weird. A trap?

He sat back down and went over the events of the past two or three days. It had only been two or three days, hadn’t it? Being drugged unconscious had none of the beneficial effects of a real night’s sleep and lack of sleep was starting to play tricks with his sense of reality.
 

How long had he been out? An hour? A day? A week? None of what had happened seemed real, more part dream/part nightmare. Cathren was dead. The city poisoned. A hell of a big mess.
 

The door to Donovan’s prison cell opened. In walked Burkhart Egesa, sporting a vicious scowl.
 

“Ah, good, you’re awake. And, don’t fear, I’m not scowling at you,” Egesa said. “This is actually how my face looks in full repose. Also when I’m expressing joy, fear, delight, exasperation, orgasmic rapture, and so on. This is it. This is all you get.”
 

The scowl is the least of your problems. There’s that mouthful of tiny yellow teeth. And the matching teensy yellow eyes.

“What do you want?” Donovan asked, guardedly.

“You had us worried. You see, an experimental drug was administered to you. You were the first human test subject, in fact. My apologies.”
 

Egesa tipped his hand to his forehead with a flourish, as if he were Count Egesa instead of Dr. Egesa.
 

“But it did do its job, and with no side effects, yes? And now you know for certain that
everything
I do is a brilliant experiment.” He laughed, tilting his head back slightly. Tiny beads of sweat glistened on his forehead under the bare bulb.
 

Donovan didn’t get what was so damn funny. He said nothing, but there must have been a reaction of some sort written across his face. Egesa stared at Donovan for a second, his laugh cut short. His face contorted back to a kind of comfortable sneer.
 

“I assume you know who I am? From television, yes? From YouTube, perhaps? True? I am Dr. Burkhart Egesa, at your service.” He clicked his heels together for some odd reason. Social awkwardness, no doubt.
 

“I am CEO, founder, and chief scientist at ATELIC Industries. Impressed? Good. Now, come with me, my friend.”
 

Egesa gestured toward the door.
 

“We have something to show you. Something that, I believe, may change your mind about me once and for all.”

Fat chance.

“I want you to see who here is on the side of good,” Egesa went on. “And who is on the bad side. Yes? Let me assure you, despite appearances and these recent—and quite unintended—catastrophes, I have only—my whole life, my entire career—ever wanted to do the right thing. And now I’ve succeeded."

“Right in there, my good Mr. Codell,” Egesa said, stopping at a door painted the color of rust.

Donovan raised an eyebrow, but Egesa’s expression didn’t change. It never did. Donovan paused, then opened the door and went in.

The room was small, dark, with four or five chairs lined up in a row facing a large window that looked in on another room. It reminded him of the interrogation scenes he’d seen on TV. One or two cops plus the suspect on one side of a one-way mirror. More cops, lawyers, the D.A., on the other side, observing.

Through the window, Donovan saw a woman on a gurney, a sheet pulled halfway over her. Despite the bandages covering her neck, face, and chest, Donovan recognized her in an instant.
 

Cathren.
 

The bed was raised so she was sitting upright. She wore a hospital gown, again. A drip attached to her arm fed her—what? Saline? More of Egesa’s “experimental” drugs?

“Cath—” Donovan breathed.

“Yes, right. Your girlfriend,” Egesa said. “Looking a bit beat up, don’t you think?”

Donovan turned, his face tight, his hands balled into fists. One of Egesa’s bodyguards who had followed them into the room placed himself between Donovan and Egesa.

“Her condition is as expected,” Egesa continued. He slunk away from his bodyguard, toward the window. “She’s been opened up in the operating room, died, and sewn back up again.” He turned toward Donovan. “Frankly,” he said, “I hope I look half as good if that ever happens to me.” Egesa twisted his face into what might have been a smile, but Donovan wasn’t sure.

Donovan gritted his teeth, his hands shaking.
Believe me, I’d love to make that happen,
he thought. He felt sick. Both from Egesa’s posturing and the effects of whatever the fuck they’d shot into his veins.
 

“Anyhoo,”
Egesa went on, “there she is. But don’t worry; she is being well taken care of. For now, at least. Oh, in case you haven’t figured this out, we can see her, but she can’t see us.”
 

Donovan had, in fact, figured that out. His eyes darted to the thugs at the door, then back to Cathren. He was as incapable of helping her as if he were still unconscious. Donovan stared through the one-way mirror at her and his heart ached. She just lay there on the gurney, dead.
 

“I saw you at the hospital,” Egesa said. “I simply wanted to bring you here so you would know her death was not in vain.”

“What are you saying?”

“She was given a saline drip during surgery. The drip, like most water-based things here in the Bay Area these days, was, alas, contaminated.” Egesa paused for effect. Donovan said nothing. “Anyway, although she died, for unknown reasons, the drip didn’t change her. It should have made her quite sick.”

Donovan stared straight ahead. “I don’t understand” was all he could manage to say.

*
 
*
 
*

“Before she died she should have shown typical zombie-like symptoms. But she didn’t. We believe her unique DNA,” Egesa droned on, “along with the bite she unfortunately received from a rogue head of ours had somehow—and we don’t know just how yet—made her, well, immune. Invincible. Perhaps, immortal. She’s the key to it all.”

That caught Donovan’s attention. “Immune? Invincible? What the hell are you talking about?”

“The contaminated solution had no effect on her. In fact, her blood seems to have some sort of antibodies which fight off and destroy the mutant component of the water. Destroy it completely, in fact. It should have killed her, but
she
killed
it
. We also extrapolated that therefore, by default, she is immune to the bite of anyone infected with this disease.”

“How?” Donovan asked, despite himself.

“Exactly what we need to find out. That’s what I wanted you to know, to witness—the answer. The answer is Cathren Whitney herself. Once we are sure she is truly dead, we will dissect her—I’m sorry, I meant to say autopsy her—and try to find out what in her genetic makeup, her DNA, has given her this amazing ability, this
power
if you will.”

“Hold on a minute, you what—? You plan on turning Cathren into a science experiment?”