literature

Andy - 2

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I step outside of the door and nearly close it, but reach my hand through and pull the chain across to lock it. I should probably get a proper lock. Two men start walking up to me in patroller uniform. My first reaction is to make a run for it, but then I remember I'm wearing the same uniform as them.  I stumble around and pretend not to notice them. Oh shit they're right in front of me. One's trying to talk to me: 'You Andy Dout?'
I pretend to be confused. Everything's easier here if people think you're stupid. 'Uh… Yeah?'
'The chief has requested your presence. He has an assignment for you.' Damnit. I thought they would have forgotten I exist by now.
'Um… Okay, let's go!', I start steaming off, hoping they don't notice my odour or appearance. They do. One pulls me back by the shoulder.
'You can't see the chief like this. You smell like shit and you've got blood all over your suit.' I didn't see the blood. Must have been from when I punched the mirror earlier this morning.
'Let's get you cleaned up'
They push me back towards my room and try to open in, but the chain stops it from opening. One of the men signal for me to open it up, so I stick my arm through and unlock it. I stumble around to pretend to be drunk, but truth is I may well be drunk and I'm too scared try walking straight and find out. The room is a mess. The patrollers don't seem to mind. They push me into the bathroom. Blood all over where the mirror was. I sure punched it all right. The men strip my down to my underpants and stick me in the shower. One holds me under as I scream about how cold it is while the other looks for a fresh uniform. He won't find one. He finds one without blood on it. Good enough. They pull my out of the shower and dry me off. I'm basing my performance on Martin Sheen in the beginning of Apocalypse Now. I wonder if the men can notice. They pull the clothes on to me and we get going. I still pretend to be drunk. They put me in the back of the patrolmobile and we drive off. No cars on the road except other patrollers. I suppose nobody but the town can afford gas anymore.

We arrive outside the police station. The men guide me in through the door and leave me outside an office. The patrollers open the door and sitting inside are two men: the chief, a stern man, smells about as bad as I do, the only difference between him and me is the stuff he smells of costs more and a doctor, not Dr. John Johnson, which means I'm not the problem in this assignment. The chief signals with his hand towards the seat and says 'Please, sit down'
I look at the two men and they both stare back at me, and I joke 'Officer, to what may I have the pleasure' in a Texan accent.
'This is not the time for games Dout. We have an assignment for you, a simple assignment that even the likes of you will be able to complete without failure.'
I can see my mockery isn't going to get me anywhere in this room, I stern up and straighten my posture and say 'Sir'
'I'll get to what the assignment is in a minute, but first I'll have Louis explain the situation'
He hands it over to the doctor.
'Andy Dout, were you not treated by Dr John Johnson during the recovery from your leg injury?'
'Yes sir, I was'
'Good. How well do you think you know Dr Johnson, Andy?'
'Pretty well, we stayed in touch for about a year after the treatment. He took a liking to me. I think I reminded him of his late son'
'Good, good. Well, see, over the last few months, Dr Johnson has descended into severe unsociability. He never comes out at all, other than for work, which he doesn't turn up to half the time anyway. This wouldn't be a problem, see, we've offered Dr Johnson retirement to teaching after his tremendous effort and sacrifice during the second break-in, but what the problem is what he's doing at the hospital. He offered to take up medical assistance for intensive care, which is expected, being the noble man he is. We let him take it, but every man he has treated so far has died under his care. This may well be just bad luck, but we wouldn't bet on it. That's when the assignment comes in – '
He hands it back to the chief.
'Your assignment is to use your judgement on whether Dr Johnson is… himself. We just want you to go over there and have lunch with him, ask him a few questions on how he is, if there's anything worrying him and whatnot. If you believe there is something wrong, then we can send over a psychiatrist to analyse him, but unfortunately at the moment you're the best thing we've got. We were going to… retire him later this month, but there always is the chance he will become a menace to the town, so we need you to just make sure he's not going to murder anybody. You are not to tell him anything of the assignment or what Dr Carmac has told you. Dr Johnson has his day off today, so we're going to send you over to his house right after this meeting. Do you understand everything we told you?'
'Yes sir'
'Good, we'll send you over there now'

What happens when people age in this wasteland? The memories of how it used to be must stick with you forever, waking you up in the middle of the night to find your wife no longer sleeps next to you, but instead never sleeps at all; she roams the land until someone shoots her. I know that if I live to be old most of my brain will have been taken up by memories after the rise of the dead, but if most of your life had been taken up by non-zombific events I can imagine it to be impossible to walk around without forgetting all about it and going about the things you used to do before you remember. And the you feel that chill down your spine as all the terrible memories come flooding back. If I were older I know I would have killed myself when everything went to shit, but I stopped myself with the hope that the pain could heal. I have found a reason to stay alive, but I am not happy. I can't imagine anybody is. Except maybe the dead. Everybody has lost so much but nobody tries to rebuild their lives, it's like everybody knows that this is the end of the human race. I wonder what a child growing up in this environment would think of it all. Would they be scared to walking outside their house or would they feel as comfortable amongst the zombies as they would their friends? I know that people come back from the dead regardless of whether they were bitten or not, but what happens if they die of old age? I mean I know people don't actually die of old age, they die of heart failure or whatever, but what kind of a zombie does an old person make? If they've lost the use of their legs do they regain it or do they remain useless? And what if it's a brain problem? Does Alzheimer's effect a zombie? I suppose it's useless thinking about it, they'll try to eat you regardless of their physical or mental state, and it's safest not to bet the old man zombie isn't going to get you.

I arrive at John's house, it's nice, but it needs some fixing up. I hope he doesn't ask me to fix it up. I nock on the door, and I hear someone come and walk up to the door. They stop to look through the eyeglass, so I look right back at them through it. Suddenly the door opens and John stands there, unshaven and dirty, and he says 'Andy! To what do I owe the pleasure?'
His hair has thinned out even more, and now it's only visible if you specifically look for it.
'I was thinking I hadn't seen you in such a long time, so I asked when you were free at the hospital and got the afternoon off for myself. I owe so much to you and yet I never visit you. Is it okay if I come in? I've been dying to talk to you for so long now.'
'Oh, oh yes, come in, come in'
He ushers me in to his house. I think he bought it. A few years ago it was a nice house, the kind of one you'd see in one of those conservative American comedies, like the house from the Brady Bunch or something. But now, now the paint hangs from the roof, it curls off and it all the light is nearly gone. It's not too bad, but just knowing what it used to be amplifies it's current state. We walk into the dining room – when I used to come and see John we'd always sit in here and drink coffee; we'd start off the conversation all happy and joyfully but we'd always descend into talking about all that we'd lost. I'd end up talking about my father and John would end up talking about his son. I think we must have filled the spaces left by our family members. My Dad was a doctor, and John always said I reminded him of his son. His son, he'd always talk about his son and our similarities. But he'd always talk about him like he'd never died, like his son was just in another room or about to come through the door. He told me in depth about how everyone in his family died, except for his son. I suppose with me filling that gap he never really had to confront his son's death.

He sits me down and takes a seat himself.
'So, Andy, how have you been? How's your job?'
'I'm enjoying it a lot more than I thought, and soon enough they'll start giving me better hours which means I can start studying to do something more useful and fulfilling'
'Well what did you have in mind?'
'I was thinking I could become a writer, or an artist or something like that. I mean civilisation has got to have someone to artfully interpret the times, and I don't see anyone else doing it. I haven't really told anyone about that yet though'
'Probably a good decision, I'm sure most people will be happy to have a writer, you've got to have a new book once in a while. How would you mass produce it?'
'I… I haven't really thought of that yet… I'm sure someone will have one of those old presses somewhere… If not I suppose we'll just have to do it the same way as Gutenberg. Nevertheless, it's a problem for another day.'
'Yes, I suppose you're right'
'Well, how have you been doing? I heard your thinking about retirement'
'Oh no no no. I'll be a doctor till I die. I just wouldn't have anything to occupy my life with, except… No, I can't. The town needs me, even if they don't know it.'
'Don't you have a hobby or anything?'
'I suppose you could call it a hobby. For a couple of years I did experiments – on the virus, you see. I thought I may as well try to cure it, and hell if it worked… but I gave up on that eventually. It hurt too much. I've got a much simpler, more obtainable goal now'
'What's that?'
'I'll… show you later. It'll be something for you to write about, to say the least'
'Great, I'm looking forward to it then'
John takes a long breathe in and then another long one out and gets up.
'I'll make us some coffee', he steams off before I can tell him I kind of had a big breakfast.
I sit there and look at the pictures on the wall. Pictures of his family, his wife, his daughter… no son. No son. I am his son now. He doesn't seem to have anything wrong with him… but dead patients don't lie. Should I just sit here and wait or should I have a look around? I'm sure he wouldn't think I'm  doing anything suspicious. I hear the kettle whistle, too late. A minute later he comes back into the room with two cups of coffee. I ate too much this morning, and drank too much last night. Just the thought of consuming another thing makes me want to vomit.
'I'm really sorry, but I'm not feeling right for coffee right now'
'Oh that's okay, I'm sure you'll want to drink it as soon as you see how much I'm enjoying mine'
He takes a couple of sips from it, licks his lips and smiles. 'It's very good, if I should say so myself'
'I'm sorry, but I'm really not up for it'
'Just drink a little bit, I'm certain you'll love it'
'No, I'm really not up for it'
'Just drink'
'I'm sorry'
'Drink it'
'I'm sor-'
'DRINK IT!'. He slams his hands against the table and gets up. He's turned bright red and he breathes heavily. I hope he doesn't have a heart attack or anything.
'Maybe I should leave and come back to see you another day'
'…'
I'm bailing, I don't have to deal with this sort of shit. I can just go and report back and maybe see him again when they think it's safe for me to. But now I feel like he might stab me if I try leave. He turns around and he seems fine again. 'I'm really extremely sorry. I don't know what came over me. I promise it won't happen again'
'You know what, I've got stuff I've got to do today. I'm already late for something. I promise I'll come back but I honestly have to go now'
'Won't you at least see my little hobby?'
'I'm sorry'
'Please, come see it, it'll only take a second and then you can leave'
I bite my lip. 'Alright, fine. But it'll have to be quick'
'Very quick'

We walk deeper into the house and the darkness seems to spread the further we go. John walks behind me, and tells me which way to turn. It seems the house is much bigger than I thought – we walk down some stairs – we must be underground now. All the walls are tiled. This place must have been a hospital itself before the apocalypse. The lighting turns to that sickly green that's not particularly bright but still manages to light everything up and we get to a room with a metal door. I stop in front of it and John tells me to open in and so I turn the knob and push it open. The room smells like nothing I have ever smelt before. I vomit on the floor and as I look up I see two feet, bloody. Two legs. Two thighs. Male genitalia with a large surgical scar above it. A stomach, surgical scars, dried blood everywhere. I chest, even more scars and a neck. A head. A man. A zombie. It's awake, but it shivers rapidly and it's eyes never blink, they just stare at me. The lighting makes it look like an alien. I feel something go into my back, a syringe, and it all floats away.

I'm lying on my back and looking down on me is John. I try to move my head but it's held down by something – everything is being held down by belts. I look to my right, a mirror, I can see a bed on the other side of me in the mirror, I look over to it: the zombie.
'I'm sorry, the aesthetic wasn't strong enough, I'll pump some more into you before the procedure'
'What?'
'Don't fuck with me Andrew, I know you know what's going on here. Why else would you be here? Why else would you come to my house, at this oh so crucial time. Don't fuck with me'
'I was told that something was wrong with you… I please tell me what's going on'
'That's not all they told you'
'They told me you were being unsociable'
'Warmer'
'They told me all your patients were dying'
'They didn't all die, but keep going'
'They… that's it'
'No it isn't, spit it out!'
'That's all they told me'
He pauses for a second and stares at the zombie.
'Is that really all they told you?'
'Yes'
He grabs a scalpel and throws it down into my palm and the blade comes out the other side. I scream and thrash in pain'
'Is that really all they told you?'
'YES!'
John pulls the scalpel out. It doesn't hurt any less, but I cope with the pain. John strides up and down the room, the sickly green reflecting on his eyes and on his scalp.
'FUCK! I fucked it up! I could have fucking gotten away with it. Fuck this fucking shit!'
He storms out of the room and leaves me with the zombie and the way the zombie looks at me, he looks at me the same way as John – no. It… This all… Shit. John walks calmly back into the room, now completely recollected. He stands and looks down at me.
'Andy, I would like you to meet my previous son, John Johnson Junior. John, I would like you to meet my current son, Andy Dout. John, I know it must hurt you to meet your successor, but I'm afraid it was necessary for the passage to be complete. Andy, this must all be quite confusing for you. It would have been confusing for John. He was just like you. But then he was bitten. He was still himself at first. We got into the town, I don't know how, the defences must have been low at that point. We got into the town, and John,' he turns to his son 'you turned. You turned and I didn't even get to hear you say goodbye. You turned, but you had locked yourself in your room, and the instant I heard that moan, I knew what had happened. The knowledge flowed through my veins as if my blood were ice. You, my son, my last possession, taken from me just when everything was all right. I kept you down here for years, didn't I? I kept you down here where you couldn't hurt anyone. I waited. I waited and waited for you to get better, for the virus to pass out of your body. I felt it in my bones, I knew you were one day going to be you again. But you never did become you again. You stayed as your alter-ego, your shambling brain-dead persona. But I had an idea: I was a doctor, and under my care people died. Just died, no repercussions for me. People with the organs needed to make you good again. I couldn't know for sure what organ it was going to be, but I knew it, I felt it in my bones that this way it would work. But it didn't. I replaced all that I could, and then at the end of it, when so many sacrifices were made so you could talk to me once again, so you could say goodbye, and I could say goodbye to you. But it didn't work. I then realised… I then realised that you weren't you. Andy was you. You were Andy. You weren't perfect, but you were Andy and Andy was you. And so I brought you both down here today so I could complete it, make you, Andy, perfect. My son, perfect.' He turns back towards me again. He's a fucking psychopath, I can't believe I'd never seen this side of him before. 'Andy, you will receive my son's face, so I can see him smile once more, his eyes, so he can see my love for him again, his ears, so I can sing him to sleep oncemore, and his voice, so I can hear you finally say goodbye. After that, I will be complete, I can end my life without remorse or regret.'
I can't believe what he just told me. This is a nightmare, this is hell.
'And Andy, my son, don't worry, your consciousness and personality will still be intact after the procedure, you will just be a different person. I made sure that you would not turn, otherwise, what would be the point? I would have to find a new son.'
He tapes up my mouth and says 'I'm afraid I'll need complete silence during the operation, but you are welcome to watch.' He walks over and starts cutting up the zombie. And it looks into my eyes and I see the son in there, in the glint of it's eye, wanting me to help him. It screams in pain but John has taped over it's mouth as well, so all that's left is a muffled scream, but a human scream. I hear him scream and I scream and I cry and he screams and John cuts off his face, then his eyes, then his ears and lastly he stops screaming when his voice box it cut out. When it's all finished, and the son thrashes no more John comes up to me with the syringe and he stabs me with it and it's all okay.
The second chapter in a series of stories telling the experiences of Andy, a man living in a town that's defending itself against a never ending zombie invasion. It'll be a while before the 3rd chapter is up, but stick around for other stories in the zombie apocalypse, because that seems to be all I'm posting at the moment.
Comments1
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myprrrecious's avatar
My, the things in your head,
I like it.