Category: zombies

Zombie

I, Juancho, was concerned.

Science may explain many things, but not everything, not everything. Even the scientists will tell you so.

I am concerned when science and technology tells me the person addressing me is dead. My sanity may be abridged, or they may be a zombie. I lack the wherewithal to address my sanity. If I am insane, then I am insane. I inhabit a bubble of impressions and thoughts, do I not? Someone must help me from the outside.

I don’t know how to even think about how I can be insane. If this man is here, from the Beagle, but —

But, you see, but, I, Juancho, know that we on the Coronado know that those on the Beagle passed away. All were gone, killed for reasons we don’t know.

So I believe, if, I, Juancho, am sane. Perhaps I’m insane, and the Beagle never exploded and killed all onboard. Conversely, perhaps, I, Juancho, am as sane as I thought I was before this man appeared, and he is a zombie.

I, Juancho, am just a bureaucrat. I have shot weapons with sufficient accuracy to be awarded points and a carry permit, but that’s no matter, as I’m not armed.

The man across from me doesn’t appeared armed, either. He is wearing a standard Beagle utility uniform, the sort worn by engineering corps on the ship. The consistency of my possible insanity impressed me. “We have arrived at a frightening crossroads,” I said.

He watched me with narrowed eyes. “What crossroads?”

“My systems tell me that you’re deceased. If you were onboard the Beagle, then you must be dead.”

He pursed his lips, eyes narrowing more, a suspicious and irritated expression. “I was onboard the Beagle. I don’t see how that would make me dead.” He sounded petulant and childish.

Tread carefully, I, Juancho, told myself. “Do you know what happened to the Beagle?”

He became as still as a person can. I’ve seen such stillness in other aspects of my position when sharing news that surprises other people. He did not know what had happened to the Beagle. But, of course, if he was onboard it, it may have exploded and killed him without warning.

“What happened to the Beagle?” he asked.

“I, Juancho, can show you. We have records. I’ll show you.” I watched him carefully, and vowed that I would keep wary eyes on him. Whether he died onboard the Beagle or not, that was four years ago, if the Coronado’s records were correct. Where has he been in the interim?

Although he didn’t appear the least decayed, he could still be a zombie, which made him a threat to me. I, Juancho, could still be insane. It’s a conundrum. I feel haggard, and wish for a drink. I still have alcohol. The systems can compile it from collected materials, and has been doing so. If he’d arrived later in the day, I would have already been enjoying my afternoon alcoholic buzz.

“Let us go look,” I said. “This way.” I indicated for him to walk.

He eyed me. “You first.”

“No, I insist. You go first.”

“I can’t do that.”

“Nor can I.”

“Then I guess we can’t go.”

“Then we will remain at a troubling, frightening crossroads.”

His obstinance irritated me. “First you won’t tell me your name. Now, you refuse to go see the records which will show to you what happened to the Beagle.”

“Why don’t you just tell me?”

“I do not believe you would believe me.”

He shrugged. “Why should I?”

“Why should lie to you?”

“Because you’re alone on the Coronado.”

“Clarify what you mean.”

“I mean what I said. You’re alone on an exploration vessel that should have a crew of thirty. You’re being evasive and obstinate.”

“I am not being obstinate. You’re being obstinate.”

He smiled. “I don’t see it that way.” Standing, he stretched, flexing impressive muscles. “I’ve had enough of this. I think you’re a troubled individual. I wish I could stay and help you, but I need to get back to the Beagle. I’m going to go find someone who can help me, because you, obviously, can’t – or won’t.” He shrugged. “The difference is immaterial, because the outcome is the same.”

He walked off, a smug, muscular, broad-shouldered blond man in a tight Beagles engineering corps utility uniform.

I did not like him. I decided that despite the hour, I would get a drink. I decided that I would also get a weapon, because he, the prig, would be back, and I, Juancho, wanted to be ready.

The prig could still be a zombie.

1

Gems

I love it when I find something that surprises me by exceeding expectations.

It doesn’t happen often enough. Most of the time, when watching a television show, going to movies, reading a book, or trying a new restaurant or drink, my expectations have been set up to expect something pretty damn good. Too often, I’m disappointed. That’s why I’m not watching much on television right now.

Last night, while wandering through the TV wasteland’s Amazon region, I came across a movie called “The Girl With All the Gifts.”

“Oh, is this based on the book?” my wife asked.

I didn’t know. If it was, the movie slipped right past my notice. Slipping past my notice isn’t difficult. The cats do it all the time.

It turned out that “The Girl With All the Gifts” was based on the novel. With Glenn Close and Paddy Considine, we had hopes for the movie.

We weren’t disappointed. This isn’t a movie review, but we enjoyed the movie. Dominique Tipper, who we knew from “The Expanse,” was marvelous as Devani, sweetly delivering the courage, innocence, and intelligence demanded of the role. Featuring zombies, the movie had some damn grisly moments, but it was a fascinating twist on the zombie spin. Seeing Paddy reminded me of how much I enjoyed him in “Hot Fuzz,” and Glenn Close played Doctor Caldwell with focused energy. Like most zombie dystopian movies and television shows we encounter, it was fast-paced, and we were second-guessing decisions and tactics. They gave us a lot to second-guess. It was a lot of fun.

I would recommend the movie to you, but I don’t want to get your hopes up. I did enjoy it, though, but that’s just me.

 

0

Zombies On Bikes

I was on Zombie Watch the other day. Peeking out from behind the office blinds in my home, I was watching for Zombies. That’s why we call it Zombie Watch.

(Editing Note: Zombies and Zombie are both to be capitalized, per the Trump Administration. As Sean Spicer said in a presser regarding the Executive Order, “Hey, come on, where there’s that much smoke, there must be a fire. We had far less information about Russia interfering with the U.S. elections last year. You guys believed that, and there’s been far less information about that out there, out there on television. You guys ever watch iZombie? Come on, that stuff can’t be made up.”)

My cell phone was at hand to provide the world with high-quality video evidence should I see one. I was nervous, of course. From all I’ve seen on television, Zombies have very good hearing and eye-sight. They’re pretty good at sneaking up on you, too. And, where there’s one Zombie, a hoard is likely following, because Zombies are very social walking dead.

A start went through my heart as movement registered. A Zombie. On a bike. “There’s a Zombie on a bike,” I said, watching the Zombie’s laborious progress up the hill.

“I don’t think Zombies ride bikes,” my wife said.

“Are you sure?” I frowned. The cyclist disappeared. “They say you never forget how to ride a bike.”

“I don’t think they drive cars, either,” she answered.

“That’s not the same thing. Cars require more hand and eye coordination.” I didn’t know what I was talking about. “Plus, you need gas, and car keys, and you’d need to adjust the seat.”

“I suppose that’s true.”

“Although the way some of these people drive, they might as well be Zombies,” I said.

I continued my watch. I wasn’t certain if Zombies ride bikes or drive cars, but I’ll be damned if they’re going to take me by surprise. So, I’ll continue to assume that Zombies can be on bikes.

And I guess they might be able to drive cars.

 

 

 

0

The Compulsion

It was between his second and third, or maybe fourth and fifth, pints of a Pacific Ale that he realized he, and his friends, had become zombies.

Mouths slack, they were snarling and growling. Part of his brain still functioned sufficiently to observe and think. Those in the pizza place who were drinking beer were becoming zombies. A young family was about to be attacked and eaten on the other side of the room. The family, and perhaps a few kids that weren’t part of the family, ignorant of their impending fate, were still laughing and yelling and eating pizza. The young parents had their hands full.

There was no more conversations at the table. His friends were eyeing other people as possible meals. Ron was already staggering to his feet. Anyone watching might think he was drunk and going off for a piss.

Screams and shouting with tinges of shock and horror broke out. All his friends rose up, rushing to eat others. He wanted to go to, but —

Beer remained.

He reached for the pitcher. He understood his compulsions and what kind of zombie he was.

0

Hear That Sound?

Do you hear that sound? I think of it as a thousand thousand metallic and plastic insects clicking their way around the world. It’s really millions of fingers typing on keyboards. It must be happening after reading this headline:

Cosmic radiation may leave astronauts with long-term cases of ‘space brain,’ study says

I mean, come on. Look at all the graphic novels, horror tales and science fiction stories that headline can inspire. The actual story behind it is not as rosy, citing the chance for many long-term ill effects, including chronic dementia.  But the story also says, “But it’s not clear exactly what effect space radiation has on the brain because there are different types of radiation and they’re delivered in different doses.” Maybe space brain will develop mutant space zombies (which may be redundant, as I think zombies are mutants). Or space brain unlocks telekinetic and telepathic powers of which we’ve fantasized.Maybe space brain triggers weird time travel or teleportation skills, or the ability to see or experience other dimensions.

Of course, space brain may just cause space rage or space laze or space gaze. Who knows?

Let your imagination guide you.

 

0

Greetings from a Sexagenarian

Back when my mother was in her late seventies, she went dancing on Friday nights. She often mentioned how much she enjoyed it, and enthused about the old people and their dancing skills and energy.

That always drew my laughter. “The old people? Mom, you’re old.”

Impatience snapped through her response. “I mean the really old people, you know, in their nineties.”

While I understood her point, it amused me that she didn’t think of herself as old. Now, at sixty, I understand better.

My wife was in a conversation with a man in his mid-eighties. She’s a few years younger than me and mentioned to him that she was middle-aged.

He seemed amused. “Middle-aged? Isn’t that well behind you?”

I was taken back when she told me. If she’s younger than me and she’s not middle-aged, than what am I? What constitutes middle-age?

Does it matter?

Not really, and yes, and no. Middle-aged, as already demonstrated, is a vague, inaccurate term. Definitions by psychologists and institutions vary, as it does by era and culture.

Part of it, which disturbed Mom, and bothers me, are the connotations associated by these terms, young, middle-aged, and elderly. Think ‘young’ and contemplate the images and ideas springing to mind. Substitute ‘elderly’ and ‘middle-aged’.

Yet, in most of the advanced world, these labels mean less and less. So I’m taking up the Latin route. I’m sixty, so call me a sexagenarian. I like it. Easy to spell, and it has sex embedded right in it. Mom, in her eighties, is an octogenarian.

I mean, what does middle-age conspire to mean? I’ve been accused of being immature, old beyond my years, and an old man before his time. I’ve also been deemed young at heart by some, immature, or young in spirit by others. My older friends – in their late sixties to upper eighties – call me their young friend.

It’s all context and impressions. Like everything else, a spectrum of behavior, expectations and impressions establishes others’ perceptions and judgement. Yet this can change by day. Give me a short night of sleep and I can appear as a cranky old man. Pour a little beer in me and I can be as immature as a two-year old. Mostly, I’m somewhere in between.

I don’t dress ‘old’ but nor I dress ‘young’. I adopt dress that is neat without calling attention to me. My hair is thinning and retreating as fast as antarctic ice (but with less alarm), and when the sun gets its rays on it, it goes silver and white. Do I care?

Hell, yes.

And hell, no.

See, I’m trapped on that spectrum. I logically understand aging and its impact. I also appreciate the freedom of aging, and its limitations. I know I can’t do anything about it, nor influence others’ impressions of my age and their labels, so why care? But then someone says, “Isn’t middle-age behind you?” and I’m newly irked.

In the future setting of my novels, ‘Returnee’ and ‘Long Summer’, you can bet it’s addressed, because we’re driven by advertising, perception and self-image, themes that sharpen in that future setting. You can bet that a civilization that has developed a technological work-around to dying has done the same with aging’s impact and their appearance.

It becomes an exercise for the characters and their thinking. Many embrace genetic sculpting to develop a look which they like and others appreciate. It’s just like hair, mustache and beard styles and colors, or even jewelry. Some take up the approach, how do I want to look today? What color should my skin, eyes, and hair be? Others emulate famous people, but more establish a look and keep it. A few chose to resemble cats, dogs, dragons, centaurs, and other creatures. It’s almost free and relatively easy.

The 4G in my future (the fourth generation of space colonists) have taken it to an extreme, part of their statement about who they are and their stand. Their leaders look prepubescent. That fad is spreading. They think it’s a meaningful statement of who they are and represent, but others who have lived longer and done more, mostly understand how little that appearance really means. There are some who are more easily swayed, or want to be included in the new youth movement. It’s fun to think about and one of the great joys of writing fiction.

In one of my vaguely conceptualized ideas, people who become zombies immediately look young and beautiful, which sways a large segment of weak thinking people, who want to look young and beautiful again. And as zombies, they have no cares about work, taxes, politics, wars, civil rights or the environment.

Which takes me from here to there and back again. Because, after all, weren’t we really talking about mindless zombie thinking about what it means to be old?

 

0

178

One seven eight may be my new favorite number. This is a fickle thing so, maybe not. I’ll test it.

Five was my favorite number for the longest time. The problem with five is that it’s a simple prime number, and just one digit. Nothing to add. No other ways of looking at it. I do appreciate and respect that it shows up EVERYWHERE – five toes, five fingers, the Fab Five, five rings, five senses, you can create the list. Five has served me well.

But 178, that’s a number you can play with. First, 1 + 7 = 8. Isn’t that cool? Then 1 + 7 + 8 = 16; 1 + 6 = 7. Neat, right? Or is it just me?

It could be just me. I dreamed of 178 last night, part of a long, rambling dream (like this post, but in color) about delivering a wheeled case for an old man. He was in charge of a place and was wheeling it along, but he was old and the black case was large, and I was there and bored, so I offered to help him. He made some snarky retort and then told me to take it to 178.

Off I went, through a door. I picked up my wife as an assistant, but once through that door, we discovered we were in an airport. Announcements were echoing, people rushing along, as they do in airports during peak travel hours. The place was gray cement and full of ramps, so the sound traveled unabated. White signs with numbers in red were overhead. Where was 178? My wife took off, thinking she knew the way, but I went in a different direction.

Arriving at 178 shortly, essentially an alcove, I found an old white refrigerator. Somehow, I knew I was to unpack the black case. Opening the refrigerator, I found it loaded with cheese. Cheese wheels, sticks, slices. White, yellow, blue. Opening the case to unload it, I discovered more yellow cheese, sliced, in packages. Insufficient room was in the frig for the new cheese, so I re-arranged the cheese to make room and add the new cheese.

“Cheese,” I was telling myself in the dream. “What’s with all the cheese?” I was baffled.

Finishing that and looking around, I realized that I was in someplace from my military career. And somewhere around there had been a locker where I’d kept personal items and military gear. I just needed to find it. It was locker 178.

I walked around, orienting myself and searching, moving through a maze of military green and gray doors and walls, past military members, along cinder block walls with exposed pipes. As I went and remembered, I told myself I was close. It had been locked, I remembered — but I had the key. Yes, the small key remained on my key chain.

It was my real and current key chain, just the house and mail key, but now with the key to to lock to my old storage locker (a locker that never actually existed, except in other dreams).

I finally located where the locker used to be, but guess what? It was gone, replaced by a Base Exchange facility where new uniform clothes were racked. No sign of me or my life there existed.

I looked up 178 this morning, and found that when it’s reduced to 7, it’s a mystical number, the number of cycles, of beginning again.

Yes, I had begun again, a new life, life after the military, life after Silicon Valley start-ups, life after IBM. And I’d been feeling that sense of renewal the last several days, like a song playing through my head, or a lingering perfume after a tight embrace.

I like that, although my explanation for the cheese is rather lame: the cheese represents food for thought.

Yeah.

Don’t know if that’s true. But one good thing I take from it all is that I didn’t wake up a zombie. That has to count for something.

Of course, thinking of that, I immediately begin conceptualizing a story about people who are zombies in their dream – and what happens in their real life.

Time to write like crazy, at least one more time.

2

Zombie in the Mirror

It’s easy to notice holes in my sock. Although I put them on mindlessly, the difference in color, the sock’s small size and the focus I use to put on my socks (even if it’s a recurring practice that I can do in my sleep) help highlight the message to the brain, “Hole.” Then debate commences about whether wearing a sock with a hole in it is acceptable on that day. I usually do, unless I’m going through an airport, visiting someone’s home who require shoes be taken off at the door, or trying shoes on. Other than those times, I’ll keep wearing it unless a toe sticks through it. That physical impression disturbs me.

Most other things about my dress aren’t noticed by me. I barely notice my hair when I brush it. I’ve become more thoughtful about my shaving because I became curious about it, but clothing? Naw. Others must point out the holes in a shirt, a stain, a frayed collar, a tear in my jeans. I’m the zombie in the mirror, practicing life by rote. I like those comfort habits. Comfort clothes. Comfort food. Sandwiches for lunch. Sandwich is a big comfort food.

Unfortunately, as written here before, my body and wheat’s relationship with it is becoming abrasive. I let myself go the other day – hell, the other week – and enjoyed sandwiches, chile relleno pie, zucchini muffins, pizza, even a couple veggie cheeseburgers. On top of that were IPAs and Amber Ales, and blackberry cobbler.

Symptoms of wheat overdose arose. I was eating like a zombie, not thinking about my intake, and following zombie routines about what I ate, where I went, and what I didn’t eat. Bloating began. My waist swelled. Shorts grew tighter. I was phlegmy each morning. I developed a baby bump. Joints started aching. Sleeplessness rose. Energy, focus and concentration dipped. And finally, when the urine was a meager trickle, I recognized what I’d done.

So I vowed it all off. No wheat in any form, I told the zombie in the mirror. “Are you sure?” he asked. “Sandwiches….”

“What’s Michael’s favorite food?” a friend asked my wife.

My wife laughed. “Sandwiches.”

I couldn’t argue, as habits and history supported her. So that’s where I was, giving up sandwiches, pies, beers, for a while, wheat in any form for a while. Was not fun. Most know how it goes: try not to think of something, try not to do something, and it grows like the blob to dominate your brain. Or so it happens in my brain.

But it worked. Sleep and urine returned (not at the same time), pains faded, concentration, energy and focus returned, bloating dissipated and my waistline dropped.

It’s not fun, giving up wheat. It’s not a permanent thing, either. I’ll have beer again, and eventually other things. I can indulge in these things with wheat, in moderation.

I just need to watch out for the zombie that I can be.

 

2

Rant, Driving Ed.

I’m compelled to rant and ask, to determine if this is something that happens only to me. I tell myself I’m trying to understand, but WTF, this is a rant under the mask of being curious.

Why do some vehicles run stop signs and rush out into traffic, only to slow down? Has this happened to you, or is it Just Me? But here I am, cruising along at the speed limit, 35 MPH, alone in the land for about a quarter mile in either direction, and this white Ford pick up (and how many times is it a truck?) pulls up on the stop sign on a road to the right, slows down to a fivish MPH roll and trundles out in front of me.

So I’m coming up on him, coming up on him, foot off the gas, reaching for the brake, looking ahead, waiting for him to pick it up, but he levels off at twenty-nine.

That’s step one, the person who rushed to get out in front of me only to slow it down. Are they being passive aggressive? Is it being directed at me? But why?

Step number two. We go down the road at twenty-nine on this glorious morning until – wait for it – we reach the next zone, where the speed limit drops down to twenty-five. What does this man driving this white Ford pick up do? Did you guess that he accelerates his vehicle?

As I slow down to match the speed limit, he takes off as though it’s been raised. WTF is going on in his head?

Two traffic lights and less than a quarter mile later, we’re side by side at a red light, awaiting the signal change. We’re still in a 25 MPH zone. I’m curious about what he (for the record, a white middle aged male with short cropped gray hair, yes, wearing a tee shirt) will do. The light changes. Traffic moves forward. I accelerate to twenty-five. And I leave him behind. Traffic backs up behind him.

Maybe there’s a problem with the truck.

Maybe he’s a zombie. I don’t think zombies are very good drivers.

Yeah, I’m trying to be kind. Really. I…am…trying.

Others will ask, who the hell cares? It didn’t matter, you still reached your destination, and he clearly didn’t slow you down, because you passed him. What did it do, add a few seconds to some segment of travel?

Yeah, I know.

2

Blog at WordPress.com.

Up ↑