An Age Past Protocol

With Halloween just around the corner (and experiences leading to posts like the one that precedes this), I'm increasingly mindful of things that go bump in the night. Thus I offer this short story, that I wrote for a previous Halloween and published to www.homepageofthedead.com, the great "all-zombie-all-the-time" website.

I was traumatized by George Romero's "Night Of the Living Dead" when I just too small for it, and in this day I find them more relevant (as far as monsters go) than any other horror incarnation (anybody in the red states come to mind?).

Anyway, here's my take on a world gone down to zombies, "An Age Past Protocol."

(p.s. I hope my British friends will forgive my game attempt to effect Ian Fleming here!)

•••

James ran on through the brisk morning of late Autumn, a light perspiration offsetting the chill of the season. He hadn't let his training slip, that was a small comfort. He could keep this pace for hours, and would make another thirty kilometres before tea. This had always been his favourite time of year, back when concepts like "favourite" still carried some interest. He had been a man of many favourites back then; his taste for such ran to infamous indulgence: favourite cocktail, handgun, amphetamine, haberdasher, cigarette. Christ, he longed for a proper cigarette; he'd all but given them up now that they'd gone stale. He thought of the endless acres of tobacco left to rot in that first, frantic year. The land had surely gone fallow by now. He silently cursed the Yanks, the ninth curse he'd sent their way since breakfast.

Bloody arrogant sods, those Yanks. If only King George hadn't been such a buggering fool, the world wouldn't be on this crashing pitch. With regular and proper thrashings, the colonials would never have gotten their feet, let alone gotten it up to toss our boys out on their teapots. That would have solved the whole mess - to say nothing of sparing him the repetitious bother of pulling the Yanks out of a series of messy diplomatic "incidents" over the years, when their CIA proved time and again out of their depth. He snorted with mirthless laughter. There was one more indulgence that had bloody well gone to hell. Political intrigue, gone the way of all the folly of the twentieth century, to be counted no less the indulgence now than were the damned cigarettes.

He hadn't completed the thought when, rounding a corner, he encountered a pack of the undead trying to claw into an abandoned tobacconist's. It was his personal vow to allow no ghouls to continue fouling Her Majesty's dominion once he'd encountered them, and he'd kept the vow against all but the most imposing odds. He coolly drew the weapon from his right hip and began dispatching the zombies with one carefully placed bullet after another. None of the rotting blighters were worth more than a single shell.

James put seven of them down before the remainder of the company even noticed him; finally they turned and came for him even as their numbers dwindled to nine, then seven, then five. When he'd emptied the nine-millimeter he replaced it in its holster and drew the .357 from his other hip, carefully stepping backward to preserve the safety margin as the ghouls drew near. Before the fingers of the last had brushed his lapels it had been put to rest, and he took a moment to reload, first the .357 and then the Glock, before regarding the tobacconist's window with interest.

"Right, let's see what the fuss was about, shall we?"

He moved to the door of the tiny shoppe, which had been flimsily barricaded with a chair under the doorknob. With the 9mm still held at the ready he put his boot to the door and sent the ramshackle barricade to pieces. He rolled onto the rug and came up in firing position, quickly sweeping the weapon to cover the dark corners to the rear. He had only begun to relax when someone dealt him a glancing blow to the back of the head. He rolled with the blow, bringing the gun up with two of the trigger's three-pound pull already applied, only to find a wild-eyed young woman raising a splintered cane to deal him another stroke. He offered her his most disarming smile:

"That's no way to make friends, my darling."

Perhaps not, but the little idiot appeared resolved to swing again. He rose at the moment she brought the cane swishing down, and it was knocked from her grasp when it met the tempered steel of his weapon. She screamed in desperation as he pushed her to the floor, bringing the 9mm to bear against the shadow now back-lit in the doorway. The shadow took one shuffling step inside before a hollow-point rejoinder sent it sprawling back into the lane. He carefully checked the walk for other zombies, and was astonished to receive yet another blow from the cane.

"What the bloody hell? That's enough of that!"

He ripped the cane from her grasp and snapped it over his knee once, and again, before flinging the pieces into the street. Wild-eyed, the girl bared her teeth and raised ragged nails as if she'd throw herself upon him. He sighed and offered in place of his charming smile the business end of his weapon.

"You're trying my patience, my lovely. Mind your manners, or I will put you well out of my misery."
"Sod off, you bastard!"

He blinked in surprise at her fury, then shrugged and holstered his weapon. He moved off a step before turning back once more in entreaty:

"Look, if you're alone here, I can perhaps be of some assistance. My name is B-"
"Bugger your assistance! Just clear off! I can do very well on my own!"
"So be it. You'd be well advised to do it elsewhere; we've raised a racket that will soon bring more company. Incidentally, you might consider something with a bit more heft than a bamboo cane. I happen to know there's an armourer up the road; you might have a look if you've a mind to continue doing very well."
"You can take your advice and-"
"Right then, pleasant day."

James resumed his trot down the block with a rueful shake of the head. Too bad she didn't exhibit more sense. He'd been longing for a proper companion, the feeling growing stronger as each day passed. He'd done well enough on his own, but skill carried one only so far. A second hand would prove an enormous strategic advantage over the damned "congressmen," as he called the shambling lords of this despicable age. Every time he faced one of the lurching, rotting bags of sod, he thought of the lumbering American bureaucrats who had, through their bungling, brought this plague upon the world. The characterization gave him particular satisfaction with every one he dispatched, although, sadly, just as with yesterday's political blighters, you couldn't get fully past one before you'd likely run foul of another.

His macabre thesis was immediately confirmed when he encountered two more congressmen shambling to intercept him; with two quick slugs they joined the rest of the putrefaction which fouled the gutters. The echoing reports from his shots chased each other through the deserted streets, at last dying off in the distance. He wondered how many of the stinking bastards would now be turning to move in his direction, and resolved that it was time to get back up to pace. Wait; was that a scream? He looked back the way he came, in case the girl had changed her mind, then muttered as he gave up and moved away:

"Come on, woman, move your silly ass."

James jogged on with another shake of his head; he couldn't imagine how the silly twit could have survived this long - clearly, she had to be only recently on her own. Had he done the right thing in moving on? One could not afford many risks in this age, and a recalcitrant partner could quickly get him killed. Still, she was... oh bugger it.

He regarded those surprising feelings of longing as a yardstick for time passed, for the inexorable, improbable healing of what had once seemed mortal wounds. After the nightmare of last year but one - incredible that Melinda could now have been so long gone - he'd sworn that he was through with females for good. What a joke. It had been well known in MI6, to say nothing of the worldwide intelligence community, that women were James's fatal foible. Clearly, they would remain his Achilles' heel until the day that the congressmen, calamity, or some other cruel fate at last removed him from Her Majesty's service once and for all.

His thoughts returned to the tobacconist's twit; she wasn't half bad looking, under the grime and hysteria. Such practically passed for cosmetics these days. Women were scarce, and attractive women all but extinct. Perhaps it was too much to ask that a bird be comely; hell, it was all but too much to insist they be ambulatory. He thought of that crazy Burroughs, the trainee who'd compromised the last of the agency safe houses: the mad bastard had found a ghoul with a figure he'd fancied, stripped her and tied her down to have a shag. It was no surprise that a nutter such as that hadn't lasted. For his own part, James had learned the hard way to keep his head screwed on, and long before demanded so by a world such as this. Still, that ghoul did have one hell of a rack. Not unlike Melinda's, although that was long before he'd clapped eyes on her.

Melinda; she was like no one he'd known. The stupid, stubborn bitch had to do things her own way, right up to the end; she didn't give a damn who he had been, or what he knew. She had that in common with the twit back up the road, James had to concede. The world worked for Melinda only when sorted out to her own sensibilities; once done so she was one to be reckoned with. She'd gone from a silly fashion bird - nearly catatonic with fear of the congressmen when he'd yanked her out of that salon where she'd holed up - to a calculating killer and a dead shot with the PPK. It was only in watching her adapt to this dark world that he'd finally gotten hold of himself; he'd been on a bit of a mad rampage, going from wild, amphetamine-fueled killing sprees at day to alcoholic somnambulence when the sun went down. She'd saved him from a pretty pickle after that first night, with the stinking congressmen crashing in on every side and he, dead drunk and fumbling to reload. She'd taken the PPK for her own after that, and it served her well.

They'd taken to one another right off, and in short order made one hell of a lethal team. It was merely stupid of them to think they were somehow immune to the calamity that beset the rest of the world as they swept the streets in search-and-destroys through the day and shagged like teenagers through the night. It was, however, unforgivably ignorant to think they could manage when she turned up pregnant. That she carried the little bleeder to term was itself a minor miracle, what without proper food and with stress enough to kill a horse. That the child was born dead should have been no surprise; poor, dear Melinda managed well enough until the little tot came back, waving his tiny blue arms and squealing with feeble, unholy hunger. James cursed himself for allowing that to happen--for watching impotently as she used the PPK first on the tot, and then, without a word, on herself as well--cursed himself bitterly, then, and every day since.

Curses was what his world had come to. Once a grand and glittering spectacle, it had come crashing down around him, like a great house of cards built as a monument to his vanity. The bright side of it was that his vanity had gone with the rest, blown with the bullet straight to hell through the back of Melinda's pretty head. In its wake, little was left but the training, and the will to survive. It wasn't much, but it was just enough to drive him on, down the road through the early Autumn afternoon.

James stopped to have a swig, and to check his supplies. It wouldn't do to run short out on the road, what with self-serve presently so close at hand. He glanced at the map, calculating the distance to his next stop against a budget of bullets and beans; four boxes of the former, three cans of the latter, complemented with five guns and a church key. Funny that it all should have come down to mathematics - formerly his weakest suit - yet the sum of those numbers was the difference between survival and election to the undead congress. Margins were the things to watch; margins of safety, margins of error. One had to keep light enough to keep mobile; keep fed to keep strong and sensible; above all, keep well enough armed to hold off the mustering of the full caucuses.

It was a piker's lot, he knew, but it had become a piker's world overnight. C'est la guerre.

James pressed on through midday, stopping only briefly for his hobo's meal of beans and water. He passed the next three villages without seeing another living soul, each time thinking of the one he'd abandoned. Fucking hell, would he never stop second-guessing himself? It was clearly no use; she was half a day behind him and had surely joined the ranks by now. He would not be surprised to spare her shambling remains a blessing and a bullet when next he passed this way. How many had he done the same for since the beginning? His mind flickered back to Moneypenny, and how he had added an impromptu PPK part to her careful coiffe when he found her crouched over M; she'd been at his neck, and nearly had his fool head off. He was still angry that his mentor hadn't fared any better than that, when the chips were down. All in all, damn few of them had, despite the training. License to kill, indeed. What rubbish. License to die was more like it. It was a minor miracle he hadn't gone with the rest - he'd been on his way to Q's lab when the place went off like a bomb.

He'd only just fought his way from the bedlam of the offices that day; he'd kept moving ever since. He knew that most chaps tended to board themselves up into ill-advised, makeshift garrisons, but he'd always been most effective on his feet. Besides, how many times had he found a small army of congressmen laying siege to one of those death-traps? He'd tried to stay and help that first time, boarding the place up, laying in active defenses, using all his skills, only to be overrun before the first week was out. Another narrow escape, that, but never again. He kept moving as a rule, dealing with the dead as they presented themselves, staying in one place only long enough to stock up, and to sleep.

Speaking of which... he glanced at the horizon, where the sun was now settling in. It would prove too risky to blunder about in the dark. He'd never known the rotting sods to cop so much as a nap - they kept right on through the night, but a cornerstone of his survival code called for regular rest. A quick check of the map showed he was near the little airfield at Banningshire, among his favorite bivouacs.

He wasted little time locating the rural airfield, former province of crop dusters and country aerialists; it stood, by all appearances, just as he'd left it. A half-rotted congressman in formal wear shambled out of the mechanic's shed like a macabre welcoming committee; the sod's head was cocked at an extreme angle, the broken neck a likely sign that James's security system remained in place. The ghoul moaned his hunger and reached out with greedy hands. James slapped the hands away with a mocking admonition:

"Regret I must spare the bullet, m'lord; we're working quietly, you know. Right, over you go."

James kicked the zombie's legs out from under it, so that it fell prone. He put his boot firmly between its shoulder blades as it scrabbled to rise, and drew his machete. A few efficient hacks at the thing's neck allowed him to kick the head away cleanly.

"Rest easy, old chap."

He cleaned his blade on the ghoul's tattered tailcoat and moved to the back of the small control tower, where wooden stairs rose up two flights. A half-dozen of the risers in the middle of the second flight had been removed along with the hand-rails, so that an agile man could walk the tightrope that was the remaining center joist, but the clumsy congressmen pitched off onto their empty heads. A pity that the fall didn't do them worse than the occasional broken neck; he'd have saved bullets in that case and instead gone about with a hammer, removing risers throughout the U.K. and having things sorted out in no time.

James adroitly negotiated the tightrope and moved to the door of the control shack, keeping the machete at the ready as he moved inside. The tower was situated to command a 360-degree field of view; while designed for a different purpose, it offered an ideal respite from latter-day congressional intrigue. A quick sweep of the airfield's perimeter with the binoculars confirmed a measure of solitude.

LATER:

The control tower stood as a dark sentinel in the moonless night. Inside, James rested uneasily on the ragged armchair in the corner, until the softest snick issued from the darkness. His eyes abruptly snapped open and fixed upon the door, where the knob was turning, ever so slightly, back and forth against the lock. He bounded out of his chair as quick and quiet as a cat with the 9mm suddenly in one hand. When he jerked the door wide a dark figure was sent sprawling onto the rug with a high, feminine scream.

Out on the airfield, half a dozen lumbering shadows turned ponderously, zeroing in on the scream.

Back inside, James centered the gun sight on his unwelcome guest and snapped on an electric torch. He was astonished to find the tobaccanist's twit scrambling up from the rug, a tire iron in one ready hand.

"A bit late for party crashing, wouldn't you say?"

The girl's eyes cast ricocheted about the room like a trapped animal's. She glanced out the open door and screamed again. James spun to find a congressman in mechanic's coveralls lurching at the landing between flights, eyes fixed dully on his prey in the tower. He swayed onto the first riser, two steps from the gap, when the girl rushed him with the tire iron. She screamed yet again when James yanked her back from the door; the scream was cut off when he clapped a hand over her mouth.

"Rest easy, my dear. He won't get much higher."

She watched warily as the zombie stumbled upward one step, then another. His next step was placed squarely on the joist that spanned the gap, and the one which followed it found only thin air. The ghoul made no sound as it pinwheeled out of sight; a sickening thump signaled the end of its short flight. James gently turned the girl to face him, the hand over her mouth replaced with one finger, raised to signal caution.

"We're quite safe, I assure you. We must remain quiet, however, or we'll have the devil of a time checking out in the morning."
The girl eyed him with no less wonder than if he had struck the ghoul down with lightning from his fingertips.
"I... I... did you... how-"
"I'm pleased to see you've taken my advice about the cane, although I'm afraid a tire iron is only slightly more efficacious." She cast an abashed look at the weapon still clutched in one hand as he continued: "Still, I shall take it not at all well if you plan to employ it in similar fashion."
His gentle rebuke brought a bright spot of colour to her cheeks, and she stammered a hasty apology: "Oh, I should like to apologise for my behaviour this morning. I'm sure I acted most disgracefully."
"Under the circumstances, I quite understand. We'll have a truce, then?" He offered his hand, and she took it gratefully.
"My name is Melinda Collins; I'm very glad to meet you." He glanced sharply at her given name before relaxing with a grin.
"I'll call you Mindy, if you don't mind. You may call me James.
"James what?"
"James what, indeed. I seem to have left my surname in another life."
"Very well, 'James-what-indeed.' I had quite the merry afternoon keeping up with you, you know."
"Yes, and well done. You must be in fine shape; I wasn't dawdling." He cast an appraising eye at her form, and she stiffened.
"No offense, of course." She relaxed with a rueful grin. "Of course not. You'll understand when I confess I've long been out of the company of gentlemen."
"Half a sec there, luv, before you make me out the gentleman; I've offered no such warranty."
"You needn't; it's written all over you. Yours is the first shirttail not passing for the flag that I can remember."
"You mistake a tactical measure for manners, I'm afraid."
"Call it what you will, then." They exchanged grins, but the moment was broken by a low moan from the ground. James doused the torch, quietly closed the door and motioned her into a chair.
"Call it stupidity. We must cap it for now, or we'll draw half the Kingdom. Get some rest, we can wax polite in the morning."

He draped a blanket over her before settling back into his chair. For a lullaby they had the repeated sound of clumsy footfalls on the stairs, repeatedly terminated with a crunching thump. As with most nights in this age, sleep was too long in coming and was this night driven further away by the awareness of the warm body now reclining so close at hand. He vowed this time to remain steadfast, however, and had nearly drifted off when at last she came to him in the darkness; he raised a hand to steady her, and gasped when he found her bare hip under the blanket. His resolve lasted a matter of moments after that, slipping away with the blanket that proved to be her only stitch of clothing. To hell with caution, he thought ruefully, they would sort things out in the morning - perhaps he'd show her how to handle the PPK. M had always said it was a ladies' gun. True, they had only just met, but they lived in an age that had moved well past protocol. Besides, women had always been his Achilles' heel.

Everyone knew that.