Blake 187: A Zombie Revolution, page 6
Pye’s personal assistant was a man called Luther Leon Zlotnik. Originally from what had been the Baltics, he remained as powerful as Pye and was a staunch follower of Severance. I never liked his thin lips or the dark glasses he was never seen without. This time, he made an impassioned speech about his leader Pye being the greatest man who had ever lived. A prophet of the future we should adore and follow without question.
Next on the film’s agenda was Pye’s famous assistant, Lark 3. A beautifully restored zombie female who gyrated her naked body on screen for the world to see. It was a clever ploy to successfully manipulate male zombies who, like me, still had sexual desires and sharp eyes to see. Lark was more than just a highly trained viper. She was Pye’s trump card.
Chapter Six
I honestly couldn’t remember how many rehabilitation sessions I’d attended. There had been so many. Weeks passed before I bumped into Zindra and it was almost a month before I saw Pete again. I got the message his attitude toward me hadn’t changed when he completely ignored my friendly greeting, preferring to keep to himself. Zindra informed me he was still on report and forced to attend discipline sessions that were making him surly.
I thought about approaching Pete despite his mood. But as we took our seats, I thought better of it when I saw our facilitator was Milo de Kempe. He possessed a cold stare and a love of power more than any other facilitator. It was also common knowledge he despised zombies.
This was to be the third session I’d endure with the short, stocky, bearded tyrant who enjoyed pushing the female zombies around the room while fondling their private parts. Milo had to be the worst kind of opportunist who facilitated for sadistic pleasure. I couldn’t bear to be in the same room with the bastard. Three hours of Milo taunting and bombarding us with tales of bloody zombie attacks on innocent breathers was unbearable, but not one of us complained. It wasn’t worth the punishment.
I glanced over at Pete who clearly wasn’t paying attention to anything Milo was saying. He preferred to keep his eyes fixed on a cracked wall or give an occasional wink to Zindra. This fueled my imagination that there was something going on between them. I hoped there wasn’t. They’d both be crazy to risk breaking one of the most feared zombie decrees. Intimate relations or declarations of love were punishable by immediate extermination. I sincerely hoped I was wrong.
Not content with his on-going hate campaign against zombies, Milo then moved on to evil witch crimes committed against humanity. I had no choice but to listen to his exaggerated stories of how witches cast evil spells and sacrificed babies. With no change to his mind-set and determined to make us believe everything, he spent a good hour trying to convince us witches were to blame for the latest virus. I knew very little about the world of strange and excitable witches other than what I was told to believe mostly by my witch-hating father.
But I couldn’t help but be fascinated with their wild untamed hair and obscenely long fingernails, although many tried to disguise themselves in public with scarves and gloves. Some of the more pushy ones would knock on doors, claiming they spoke to the dead and could heal the sick with plants. Their fee, a few uploaded credits was enticing enough for some of the neighbors who let them in out of curiosity. But it was too much of a risk for my mother. If my father had come home to a witch sitting at the table all hell would have broken loose for sure.
Enni was afraid of what they might have told her so she avoided witches as if they were a disease. Now I was doing my utmost to suppress my anger as Milo continued to push the blame for everything on these poor women. I didn’t get how a handful of attention seeking women had the scientific savvy or facilities to bring on a virus. Nothing Milo spouted made an ounce of sense.
During a break from the incessant attempts at brainwashing, he turned his attention to a very young female zombie who knew not to fight off his advances no matter how uncomfortable it felt. Pete’s dislike for the situation was obvious as he looked on with disgust. I tried to hide my disapproval at Milo’s behavior in fear of repercussions.
“Why does Severance allow this?” I asked Pete quietly, hoping he’d acknowledge my presence.
“Pye Peters is slowly becoming invincible. He’s a psycho who has survived over fifty assassination attempts. The bastard has even reached the ripe old age of one hundred and fifty and still tries to father more kids with countless women. He refuses to believe he’s now sterile. The big problem is his council Severance has created slick indoctrination films about how fit and healthy Pye still is, while his medical team keeps him alive with the finest medication. He’s too sick to know half of what’s going on like breathers breaking the rules by having sex with zombies.”
“How do you know so much about his secret life?”
“I keep my ear to the ground at all times, maybe you should do the same.”
“So what do they do to breathers when they get caught with a zombie?”
“They castrate them.”
“Seriously?”
Our conversation caught Zindra’s attention. “And the female breathers as well. Since I’ve been here, I’ve heard lots of stories like the one about the girl who went insane after they castrated her for having a relationship with a zombie guy. She was a meds assistant who fell in love with a zombie called Maximilian. He was packed off to Mars and she was euthanized on account of her biting people just like a rabid zombie.”
“I never heard this story.”
“So where have you been hiding all this time, Blake? Under your bed?” Zindra replied, with a hint of frustration.
With Milo satisfied he’d terrorized the poor girl, he went on to explain what we had to do to reach level 54547 Employ. The name and numbers were nothing more than fancy terminology for zombie slave labor. I shuddered. If I didn’t make a break for it soon, I stood a good chance of being sent back to the zone and put to work in a low position on a grueling science program, or be packed off to places unknown with little chance of survival.
Meanwhile, Milo plowed on relentlessly. “There has been a series of earthquakes in Zone Eleven with over five thousand souls sadly lost. Severance issued urgent instructions to send as many helpers as we can to clean up and restart the community. Register your interest for an assessment as soon as possible,” he informed us with pride.
No one responded, not even the most compliant. “I expected a better response than this,” Milo continued. “If you refuse without reasonable grounds, it will go against you in the long term.”
“I’m prepared to consider it, once I’ve been assessed. In fact, we all should,” I replied.
Unlike the rest, I had contrived an agenda. I was convinced it could be a way to escape. Even though Zone Eleven was miles away, it was far better than being trapped way below ground.
Zindra caught onto my plan of cooperation. “Blake 187 is right. I would like to be assessed for Zone Eleven as well. I’m this close to being totally rehabilitated and need to progress. Being at Dock has taught me to behave appropriately. I’ve accepted my punishment and I’m almost ready for Pye’s society. I know I am.”
Zindra and I continued to put forward convincing comments pledging our commitment in the hope of fooling the system. A zone so deep in chaos and ravaged by disaster must surely have little or no security? It was the perfect opportunity to attempt a breakout. All Zindra and I needed to do was to persuade Pete to play along, and we’d be home and dry. The moment we were back in recreation, I pounced.
“I’m signing up for every single session they throw at me. This earthquake has to be the way out. They’ll be so wrapped up with trying to control the disaster they won’t see us gone until it’s too late.”
Pete was listening, but he remained skeptical. “If we’re all put on the same work detail then maybe we can pull it off. But what if we get there and we’re separated, then what?”
“Let’s tell them how we want to work together to help the poor breathers down there. With good fortune, they’ll ship us out at the same time. We just need to play our cards right,” I said, trying not to sound too annoyed.
Pete’s lack of involvement concerned me.
“What’s up with you, not interested?” I continued needing to know if he was standing with us, or not.
“I’m not jumping for joy with your flimsy notion of escape. Besides, we’ve no guarantee to find Dex even if rumors say he’s hanging outside of Zones ten and eleven. Then there’s the other problem of getting our hands on extra meds before taking off.”
The recreation room was full of zombies from other programs as well as ours. They mostly gravitated to their own little groups or ran around trying to muscle in on other people’s conversations. The camera’s watched our every move ready to catch us doing things we shouldn’t do. Like pushing each other or making rude gestures.
“What are you guys mumbling about?” A zombie had barged into our conversation to complain non-stop about how the weather patterns had recently hastened the destruction of the world’s shorelines.
Zindra found a way to get rid of him. “You’re Steyn 365, right?” she asked as she cleverly led him away. “Let’s forget about the weather for now and talk about Severance. I’m kind of confused over the five selfless steps to Pye. What order are they in?”
“Do you believe there’s good and evil in everyone?” Pete asked me. A profoundly deep question without any prompting.
“Even more so now that I’m a victim of other people’s hatred. Are you sure no one is listening to this conversation? I’m trying not to get back into the shit I was in before.”
“Trust me, they tell us they’re listening when they’re not. Most of their surveillance systems are broken beyond repair and they don’t have the funds to fix them.”
“Are you sure, Pete?”
“Yep, without a doubt.”
“How?”
“Unlike you, I watch, listen, and learn.”
I had got myself caught again in trying to unravel how Pete had become such a mine of information while I remained a dumbass in the ways of security operations. Pete was intelligent, but he was also intense and very much a closed book. I had no idea where he came from or how he met his end, and apart from Zindra’s strange “I’m not really a zombie story,” I knew nothing about her either. Yet I made a pact with them not to step out of line and do whatever it took to get to Zone Eleven.
“From this moment on we need to be super good, then we’ll see how easy it will be to wind the facilitators clean around our little fingers,” Pete declared.
In the following weeks, while we waited to see about our assessments for Zone Eleven, it was an easy ride. I zealously agreed with everything our facilitators discussed and even went so far as to feign sympathy when they confided how difficult it was to do their job. I constantly reinforced how I was planning on becoming a good, law-abiding zombie while trying not to think about how every facilitator received bonus points for a successful rehabilitation. If I were sent to work on a relief project they’d receive twenty points. For Mars it was double. Points meant big rewards for themselves and their families. It came down to this. The sum total of my existence was valued purely on the few extra advantages it would bring a facilitator with an inflated sense of importance.
I tried not to dwell on the unfairness of being brought up to believe I was in an equal society, so instead of being angry over points, I moved on. My indifference paid off with an appointment for the final assessment. I was on my way to beating a system based on needing to know I understood the conditions and roles I was expected to play in breather society. If I put one foot wrong in the testing, I would never reach Zone Eleven. Any chance of escape would be massively delayed on account of my being sent right back to the beginning of the program under high security. I could not afford to fail.
I was taken to a long and narrow interview room with nothing more than a chair placed in front of a wall screen. A captor ordered me to keep still and listen carefully to a series of repetitive beeps coming from behind the screen. The room was bathed in red light and a hypnotic voice bombarded me with questions. I was expected not to make any mistakes.
“What is your name?” it asked. “Blake 187.”
“Do you have a breather family?”
“Not any more…I'm a zombie now.”
A loud beep alerted me to the fact I’d done something wrong. “Do you have a breather family,” it repeated.
“Yes. A father living, mother deceased.”
“Why must you respect breathers?”
“Because they are superior to me on every level.”
Monotonous and irrelevant questions continued unabated. What year was Pye born? How many decrees had been written and what were they? The pressure to answer played havoc on my restricted zombie brain.
But my biggest hurdle was yet to come: The one-to-one interview with a high-ranking Severance official. I was face to face with a coldhearted breather who made me nervous of my hidden intentions. His black uniform was heavily decorated with pure gold stripes on the shoulders proving his zealous commitment to the regime, a regular fanatic. I quickly surveyed my surroundings. His room was plainly decorated just like all the others I’d been taken to. Apart from the four wall screens, there was nothing much to show his importance. Only a few wall photographs of Pye and his right-hand men. But he was given an android assistant who stayed seated close to his master and ready to jump if called. There was no formal greeting from the official. He didn’t give his name, and kept a distance, as if repulsed by the sight of me.
“Sit,” he ordered. I complied, wearing a slight smile.
“Define a bio runner?” he asked in a stern tone.
“A walking dead science assistant who cleans, sterilizes, and takes orders from those in higher positions—the breather scientists. This, he does without question.”
“Who are the great ones residing in Zone one?”
“The artificial intelligence creators. Pye Peter’s elite, the physicists, and top Scientists.”
“Are there walking dead in the ranks?”
“No, sir, only breathers are awarded high ranks.”
“So, what breed of human are you?”
“I am walking dead…Blake 187. Cause of death suicide.”
“Are you trash, lowest in our society?”
“Yes, sir, I am trash.”
“Why are the walking dead sent to Mars?”
“To work in entertainment, cleaning, and assist the sex industry.”
“Very good. For what little brain you have left, you have learned much.”
A silence prevailed while he made a decision about my future. Everything rested on me being given a much-needed positive result. I assumed he would ask me the magic all-important question about where I would like to go if I had a higher status. I was convinced he would and prepared myself as he tapped his fingers on the desk and studied me carefully.
“Do you have any requests for special assignments, Blake 187?”
“Yes, sir. I request assignment to Zone Eleven to assist the earthquake victims and my lowly walking dead comrades. It will be a privilege for me to efficiently dispose of bodies for the great Pye and rebuild the Zone to its former glory. A place fit for breathers to once again live in.”
“Your request has been approved on this day, Augustus the 3rd in the year 2603. I will arrange for you to be shipped out later today. Blake 187, you have been successfully rehabilitated. Try not to relapse. I don’t want to see you back here.”
“No, sir, you can be certain I won’t be coming back.”
I’d gotten what I wished for and I meant what I said. Even if I did screw up, before they had the chance to drag me back, I would set myself on fire. I was taken straight to the departure bay to board a carrier and be transported out of the artificial light and atmosphere, and back into the real light of day. But there was no sign of Pete and Zindra. I worried they hadn’t made it. I was, however, far from alone. There were four zombies, two captors, and to my surprise a witch joining me as I boarded the carrier. I was under the impression captured witches were exterminated, yet one was alive and well, and on my transport. When Zindra and Pete finally appeared, it was hard to conceal my excitement—the three of us had made it!
Strapped into a transporter, we were driven through the endless tunnels at great speed until we finally rose up and out of the underground depths. My eyes feasted on what I’d been waiting so long to see. A beautiful, clear blue sky…my one step closer to freedom. Having been without natural light for so long, I couldn’t help but look out of the window at the sight of land, no matter how barren it was. Zindra was sitting across from me quietly transfixed at the view outside. Pete sat two rows in front with one of the captors next to him. I wouldn’t have dared ask a captor anything. Luckily for Pete, he’d found a talkative one.
“Where are you taking the witch?” Pete inquired.
“Same place as you, Zone Eleven. She’s sex entertainment for the recovery workers. In my opinion, it’s scraping the barrel. I’d rather fuck a mutant slut from the lower space colonies than the likes of such a thing,” he replied.
Two seats behind me with fear in her eyes sat the witch girl. The captor decided to make his point to Pete clearer by going to her and slapping her hard around the head. She didn’t flinch. The witch girl was no more than twenty with dirty hands and matted long hair. She avoided eye contact with everyone, staying quiet in her seat with her head bowed and her knees shaking under her shapeless smock dress. Despite the fact she was a witch, I suspected she was on her way to hell. I wanted to help.
“There’s nothing you can do. She’s doomed,” Zindra leaned over and whispered. “I’ll give her a week to live, no more unless of course, she’s tougher than she looks.”
“How can you be sure of what they’ll do to her?” I asked.
“Did you ever hear the whispers in Dock One? When I wasn’t drugged up and clear enough to listen, an older female zombie told me what those bastard breather men did to witches. This one will be used for sex non-stop and, if they’re sadists, they’ll do terrible things to her. Severance doesn’t repair or rejuvenate witches. She’ll be discarded and left to die slowly of broken bones and internal injuries while they ship in another one.”
