The Zombie Letters Read online

  And the best application in my opinion? Age.

  We cured old age on December 18th, 2014. One week before Christmas.

  Brian was kept around the lab. He was an excellent sport. He lent us his blood, hair, semen and tissue samples on a regular basis with absolutely no complaint. We submitted him to every test we had equipment for. By the time we started officially testing him, Brian O’Reilly had not one grey hair left on his head. Before, he had gone nearly completely white. We believed that it was the initial Archie exposure to the openly-burned flesh that caused it. We were wrong.

  Lucinda Poulidi, out cleaning lady on nights, alerted me to how Brian in fact achieved his youthful appearance and remarkable health. Lucinda told me that every night Brian was on the graveyard shift, he would go into the lab and make a small incision on the bud of the plant and rub the liquid onto his face. See, the PQP in the plant is thousands of times stronger and more effective than anything around the earth today, but it is still not strong enough to change a human being like that in one sitting. Yeah, it healed the burn, but that was open skin, right? Brian stopped aging. As a matter of fact, he was reversing it. Brian’s nightly plant-facials went unnoticed and unreported for almost the entire time since I returned from my trip from that forest in the shadow of Mount Fuji.

  The version we synthesized was concentrated. Pretty brilliant how we did it. We took the extract from Archie and enhanced it with dead human white blood cells. We filled in the missing information with PQP from human breast milk, and added another formula on top of that. Basically saline solution. For some reason, the serum we made seemed to survive more effectively in water. We had another bud shipped in and Brian was allowed to lance the plant as long as he agreed to keep a daily journal of the results. We experimented with Brian, taking away plant for five days. Within these five days, we noticed the spots returning to his hands and the sides of his head were beginning to show grey again. I realized that in order to maintain his cellular regeneration, he needed regular contact with the plant’s excretions. This allowed us to study how his mitochondrial biogenesis functioned. Brian was the key to synthesizing a version that could do it in one dose. Turned out we didn’t need the white blood cells or the other stuff. Just the plant was doing it all. Nothing but the lab-created cretaceous PQP and natural, spring saline.

  That Christmas Eve was one that I will never forget as long as I live. I was out in Downtown Des Moines. I had to get some shopping done for The Winters family, Aunt Catherine, my sister Tabitha, my niece, my secret Santa at work and, of course, Brucie. Des Moines is no vast, sprawling metropolis by any means, but it’s still a city. Busses, beggars and buildings. Strippers, Starbucks and skyscrapers. There’s nothing like the big city during Christmas. Iowa snows like a motherfucker every winter, but the city’s downtown area always seemed to have streets plowed quickly. Santas were on the corers ringing bells, little kids from the Temple City Youth Tabernacle were carolling at the bandstand in the park where they did stock plays in the summer. It was perfect. All the families scurrying about in their thick mittens and wool coats saying, ‘Merry Christmas’ to each other. I loved that. Stocking hats and snow shoes were everywhere as people scurried store to store with the brightest smiles on their faces. I always loved how Christmas changes people. Within the towering concrete giants that watched over our human jungle, the air is always twenty degrees colder on top of Iowa’s famous negative twenty wind chill factor. Any other part of the Midwest . . . shit. People would be terrified to go outside in weather like that. In Iowa, that’s just better weather to spin donuts in Best Buy’s parking lot.

  I think that was the last time I remember things being okay. The last days of the good life. The last time I had a smile on my face . . . a genuine one. Something was happening at the university that would win us a phone call from the Nobel Committee. I had my own unit at the lab with every ounce of funding Nathaniel and I asked for. We were granted things I could have never afforded if I was working on my own. My heart was truly filled to be Assistant Director under my best friend – laying the first road to world change. Our research was going to spin society on a new axis. I remember thinking how perfect life was. How we were going to change the world. I didn’t need any magic plant to be healthy at only thirty-three years old. That shopping day was one of the fond memories. On top of that, I got eye-fucked by a woman at least ten years younger than me as I walked past a Victoria’s Secret. I never thought of myself as an attractive guy. I mean, I was always conscious of my health and physique. My body has always been lean and healthy. Not too muscular. I never cared about any of that shit. When I let a little stubble grow out, people say I look like that guy from that . . . show. What’s it called? You know, that stupid TV show all those horny single, middle-aged, wine-drinking women liked? Supernatural or something. I’m not talking about the Dean or Sam characters. I look more like the actor who played the angel . . . name’s Castiel. Castiel? Yeah, Castiel. Women say I look like the guy who plays that part. I hate television, so I’m not so sure. Rebecca, one of our lab technicians, showed me a photo of the dude who plays Castiel and it got a legitimate chuckle out of me. Fit guy. Five o’clock shadow. Fucked up hair and no wardrobe style? Touché, God. I think I actually have do a brown trench coat somewhere.

  Unfortunately, that girl with the fuck-me eyes walked out of the store, holding hands with a faggy-looking crew cut jock with an Iowa State Cyclones team jacket on. I should have recognized ol’ boy since I actually live at the university. That goes to show you how much I actually get out. Widow of business, like I said.

  You got all this? Tired of writing yet, lady? Good.

  Why am I telling you all this? You have to know how it started. Nathaniel’s notes don’t make too much sense after awhile, so my word matters more now.

  I guess.

  The horse’s mouth is pretty useless, but his notes and letters can give you a few clues. I still included Nathaniel’s emails in the materials I gave your superiors. I hope they help. I, Doctor Darin Miles, can give you all the background information . . . birthplace, favorite food, if I like Pina Coladas and getting caught in the rain. All the pedigree stuff, right?

  I haven’t heard music in a long time.

  IV

  I suppose I will start today’s interview with what’s going on now. I’m sitting in a military bunker used as some sort of fallout shelter. It’s under Greenbriar Resort in White Sulphur Springs, West Virginia. From what I was told when I got here, the underground facility was built back in the fifties in case of nuclear attack or some other kind of legitimate national threat. The place doesn’t look that old. This place is really state-of-the-art. I can tell it had been updated a few times during the course of its existence. Technologies improve and evolve. Someone had to put WIFI antennas in every room and replace all the electrical outlets with those ones that have USB ports built in. I’m sure it was more than that. Just being a smart-ass. When I say state-of-the-art, I mean immaculate. The personal living quarters of the brass here, as well as the surviving members of Congress are housed in a part of the buried bunker about the size of the state of Rhode Island. No exaggeration. Pretty impressive. There are shuttle-cart drivers that have to take you to the farther parts of this place. Sons of bitches are fast, too. That’s not the only way to get around. I can explain, but I was specifically told not to divulge how the elevators work.

  Since I don’t give two shits, the elevators here [SECTION OMITTED]. This place is fully equipped, too. You have this room that acts as a holding area in case someone decides to go section eight inside this massive, yet completely closed-in area. It has a fully integrated and functional hospital, where I go to pass the time. It has an incinerator as large as a two-car garage for ‘biological waste,’ as they put it. A quarantine area is in Blue Unit on the north side in case of a sickness outbreak, plus a one-hundred foot tower located forty-five miles from here used to send and receive any emergency messages. Apparently, this facility was leaked in 1992
by the Washington Post. The bunker was destroyed . . . but I can assure you that it’s a lovely cover story. I’m standing in it right now. The main building . . . Red Unit, I think . . . has a mock Congress hall so you all can still conduct that business in there. In here are all military and all Congress. Met the Vice President . . . well . . . the President earlier today. Pretty neat. Wish it didn’t have to be under these circumstances. Our electorally-voted President and his family never made it out of the white house. They . . . got him.

  A Colonel named Mendoza gave me a tour here the first day. He seemed amazed that he had found someone from the laboratory that this shit all started in. But at the same time; it was strange. He seemed not surprised as well. Faking it. My bullshit detector isn’t as good as it used to be, though. I just don’t like to think I made it here because of my wits and cunning alone. Maybe I did. Who knows . . . I do know how to kill those monsters. Mendoza simply said that the United States establishment had been looking for me, or anyone on my team, since the initial outbreak. I still don’t know why yet. Probably to help stop it . . . I mean, after all, I helped start it. My team and I were more qualified than anyone to find some kind of solution. I’m amazed that I haven’t lost my mind after all the carnage I’ve seen. The mayhem. God . . . the screams. Every scream I heard will echo in my soul for the rest of my life. It was an accident at first. I do believe that in the end, it was something I could have prevented. No . . . I know I could have prevented it. I could have made one phone call or wrote one letter to tell your people here, my superiors at the lab, what Nathaniel had done. I was so blinded by his grand visions. We were pioneers, understand? Heroes. It was HIS goddamn motherfucking fault.

  But . . . I never told anyone. I never alerted anyone of anything.

  I never made one phone call. I believed in his cause as blindly as he did. Probably more.

  Some of the people directly in charge of Locke Research Center walk these halls now. Face to face with me. It’s so hard looking them in the eyes. So hard. They are understanding, perhaps. Did I do what Nathaniel did? No. I could never do that . . . but I was the only one that saw the danger behind closed doors, the bullshit and white-washed reports Nathaniel sent back. Don’t believe anything he said in those e-mails. He wasn’t a victim. He was the architect. I saw trouble and I did nothing.

  Nothing.

  V

  I travelled to Osceola. It’s right outside of the predominantly Dutch community of Pella, Iowa. Went there for my family Christmas party. Brucie went with me. Nathaniel and I only took Christmas Eve and the following three days off. We granted the rest of the staff a paid week. Brucie had a hell of a time, as did I. I don’t regret never having children, because my work was always something I was proud of. I do love children. My niece is fifteen and though I didn’t see her as often as I would have liked to, my sister and her husband Tom raised a good girl that loves her family. She was bright. Just like Father was. She was no slouch, either. Girlie made a name for herself as a freelance editor for the Cosmopolitan Magazine’s fashion weekly columns. She did it from home, too. At fifteen years of age, mind you. Brilliant girl. My brother-in-law Tom worked for Lockheed Martin as the chief safety inspector for their aerospace division. He was a vastly intelligent man who actually wrote novels in his spare time. They were all historical fiction centered around the middle ages. Dragons, pretty maidens locked in dungeons and corrupt kings being poisoned and usurped by their second-born princes. Man, that was some good stuff to read. That was actually the guy that inspired me to write. I believe he won a few awards for a couple of them. Two of his books were sold to Lionsgate Films and made into The Daedra Heart series. Yep. Ever hear of it? That’s him. I personally know the writer of two back-to-back summer blockbuster films. Don’t be too impressed, though. Writers don’t get paid a pittance of what the movie will eventually take in. That Dan O’Bannon guy who wrote the Alien movie wears the same bow tie everyday. No shit.

  Funny how things seem so far away now. Talking about movies and books feels like I am talking about something ancient. Forgotten.

  I returned to Locke at a still-empty winter break Iowa State campus. Nathaniel and his wife Samantha were in the employee lounge when I arrived on that December 28th . . . sporting a brand new wristwatch, sunglasses and a milkbone as long as Brucie was. The old four-legged man was behind me, stopping once or twice to bury his head in the show outside the front door . . . like you know how dogs do when they catch a whiff of something. Nathaniel and Samantha were already waiting for me, their faces beaming as I walked inside. “Hiya guys! What’s the occasion?” I asked as Samantha walked up and gave me a hug that made me wish I’d gotten married. What a beautiful woman she was. She was a woman that could have easily modeled. She had brains that landed a masters in architectural engineering on top of an already promising culinary schooling. She was actually the one that designed the university Locke lab complex. Visitors were always fascinated at how unique-looking the place was. Not all artsy-fartsy, post-modern stuff that all those queefs in that profession shit out nowadays. It was interesting and functional. Samantha smiled at me. Even at forty-something, she still looked like she was in her twenties. She had one of those baby-faces, you know what I mean? Full cheeks, canyon dimples . . . that type of woman that never seems to age. I never told Nate, because I respected him and Sam, but I always wondered what it would be like to make love to her.

  “Darin! Been too long! Hey there, Brucie!” Samantha knelt down and kissed Brucie on the forehead. He happily licked her on the cheek as she gave the dog a strong hug. Brucie stayed by her side, wagging his tail so hard that his butt was shaking. “Darin, we have a surprise for you. Nathan wanted to be the one to tell you, but I did too; so we drew straws. I was stuck being the champagne caretaker. Nathaniel gets to be the bearer of the good news today.”

  I shook my boss’s hand and he pulled me in for one of his bro-hugs. He was a kind and generous man who loved his wife and two children deeply. A stern boss who expected nothing short of excellence, but his handpicked team defined perfection in their fields. “Emily and Michael are at my mom’s and they say hi,” Nathaniel said. For a middle-aged man, he looked incredibly youthful that day. It was his smile. I’d never seen him so happy. Nathaniel and Samantha’s kids were fifteen and eighteen . . . and beautiful ones at that. Good kids. “Have some of this, my friend,” he said, pouring a glass of liquid happiness into a plastic champagne glass we kept in the lounge for parties and special occasions. “I’d tell you so sit down, but you will stand right up again when you hear this.”

  “What . . .? What??!” I said. Something had to be major to warrant that kind of celebration. A quick look at the label on the bubbly proved that. Even on my salary, I’d have to sell a kidney for that bottle.

  Nathaniel smiled, turning to give his wife a wink. “Mister Miles, we at Locke have just been approved for animal trials.” I was speechless. I remember standing there, stammering. I didn’t realize that I chugged down the glass in my hand. Sami was quick to refill it. I hadn’t even noticed. “That’s right, pal! If the trials are successful, we have already been recommended for a sixteen-million dollar advance to start human trials. Advances like these are not given. They are confident in us. Well? Say something, man!” Nathaniel nudged his wife, who had her arm crooked around the small of his back. “Look at him, baby! He’s stone!” Samantha smiled sweetly as me and leaned her head onto her husband’s shoulder. They looked so in love. I was sharing a special moment not just with them as individuals and people I knew because of my work, but I was sharing a moment in their marriage. Their union. I felt so proud, yet a little sad for myself.

  I don’t remember what I said. My mind was on overdrive. All of my work, my dues paid, my education. All opportunities in my life lead to that very second in time.

  It was the greatest moment of my life.

  VI

  I mentally logged those few precious moments. I did . . . because, as with life, you throw a ball in th
e air? It’s going to come down. You didn’t need a scientist with an IQ of one-hundred and seventy to tell you that. No MENSA Gold Card is required to learn that bit of information.

  I saw Samantha in high spirits that day, as she always was. Brilliantly vibrant and vivacious. What I didn’t know was that in November of that year, she had been diagnosed with breast cancer. I was told a little while later when she started chemotherapy. I saw her not six months later on June 4th, 2015 when I visited their home. Her cancer spread rapidly; due to her not taking scheduled tests and ignoring a lump she found all the way back in August of that year. In March of 2015, she had to have a double mastectomy. The disease had spread to her breastplate. Her ribs were affected and she was beyond surgery. Her doctor said he had never seen cancer spread that fast. I wish I hadn’t stayed away for those months. Things were so insane at work and Nathaniel asked me to take care of Brucie for awhile. I don’t know if I could have been much help, though. I didn’t feel bad about them not telling me. They needed that time to themselves. Still . . . maybe I could have helped ease their stress a little bit. I am a therapist, after all.