We have little interest in the world itself, the actual matter and space. We are here for the story, for the landscape of consciousness overlying the dust and rock. In that landscape, sharp peaks are jutting up from the plains. There are quakes and floods and hurricanes, and rivers of magma press against the surface. That landscape is changing, and change demands our attention.
So we move. We drift through the upheaval of a city in crisis, remembering the scent of smoke, the pain of fire, the sorrow of loss.
Everywhere, men in beige jackets are herding people back into their homes, assuring them that they have it all under control and everything will return to normalcy, that cosy dream that’s buried a thousand revolutions.
In their panic, most of the people do as they’re told. They see confident men issuing clear instructions and they don’t much care who those men are or what the instructions entail. They just want to keep their families safe. They just want to survive the night. There will be time for questions later, on some distant morning when the fires are out and they’re no longer scared or hurt or hungry.
But the men in beige jackets are encountering one unexpected variable. A single ripple in this calm sea of compliance. There are certain individuals scattered throughout the crowds who do not react predictably. Their minds lack the key for the codes being shouted at them, so they do not respond to instructions or assurances, no matter how confidently delivered. They stand motionless in the streets, watching the men in beige jackets roar commands that blend into the promises pouring from the stadium PA, and they do not respond.
The men in beige jackets move closer in order to become more forceful, and that’s when they notice that something is different about these individuals. The tint of their skin. The slowness of their movements. The scar tissue in the shape of bullet holes, knife slashes, and wide patches of regenerated rot. But mostly their eyes. Many different hues, alike in defiance.
We drift toward a building that radiates pain, but as we get closer we notice other accumulations. Plague and its opposite: golden flickers of cure. Something like a smile spreads through our vastness.
“You’ll be okay,” Nora Greene tells a man with three shards of concrete sticking out of his back. “They’re not deep. I’ll be back in a second to patch you up.”
“Wait,” he gasps as she moves away. “Don’t leave me.”
“God, you’re needy. This is why we never would’ve worked.”
“Nora.”
“You’re going to be fine, Evan. Just stay calm. I’ll be right back.”
She darts away from his bed to attend to another patient. The warehouse once seemed awkwardly large for this miniature ER, but now every inch of empty space has been filled with the wounded. Their accommodations follow a steady grade of increasing desperation, from proper electric hospital beds to stained twin mattresses to wool blankets thrown on the concrete floor. We jump from nurse to nurse—there are few proper doctors in this age of austerity—and then return to Nora, following her as she bandages the living and comforts the dying. A group of civilians stands in a corner, waiting for the signal that it’s time to say their good-byes and then shoot their loved ones in the head, but sometimes they can’t do it and the task falls to Nora. A Colt .45 sticks out of the waistband of her scrubs, an instrument as essential to modern medicine as a scalpel.
In all the blood and screaming, no one is paying attention to the rows of special patients whose beds line the walls. Many of these have far more serious injuries—missing limbs, gaping holes—but their wounds don’t bleed. These patients sit up in their beds and observe the chaos with wide eyes. The Living do everything so vibrantly, the Dead think. Their blood sprays like party champagne, they hoot and howl like a gospel choir. Even in their agony, they are enviable.
While the Dead watch the Living die, a group of men in white shirts files in through a side door and surrounds them. One of these men unfolds a pocket knife. He sticks it into a patient’s arm. The patient doesn’t flinch, but she looks up at the man with an expression of offence. Hurt feelings.
“What are you?” the man demands.
“A … person,” the patient replies.
“No you’re not,” the man says, and moves the knife down the patient’s arm, opening a gash.
The patient’s face darkens. “Stop.”
“Hey!” Nora shouts from across the room. She hands off her patient to another nurse and rushes toward this forgotten corner of the hospital. “What the fuck are you doing? Who are you?”
“We’re with the Axiom Group. What are these people?”
“What do you mean what are they?”
“Are they Living or Dead?”
“They’re trying to decide. Why the fuck are you sticking knives in my patients?”
“We have orders to investigate these uncategorised individuals.”
“They’re zombies. They’re trying not to be. What else do you need to know?”
“The Dead don’t ‘try.’ They’re passive tissue waiting for input.”
Nora rolls her eyes. “Jesus Christ, Grigio all over again. Listen, I don’t have time for this. I have people to sew up.”
He points his knife at the patient’s face. “They’re ignoring our instructions and interfering with aid efforts.” The patient slaps the knife out of his hand. The man looks shocked. “See?”
“Get out of my Morgue,” Nora says.