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Authors: Clarence Walker (the late)
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improvised
explosive devices. As such, it relied heavily on donations from former
service-people. Not the monetary kind of donations, either.
So,
naturally, to entice people to part with their gray matter when they shuffled
off their mortal coils, there were weekly tours of the facility run by a petite
blonde in tight-fitting pinstriped pants and a blouse that was missing a couple
buttons at the top. She walked everyone around the place in her high heels, and
waxed eloquent about “leaving a legacy” and “being a part of protecting the
next generation of patriots.”
And
wouldn’t you know, at the end of the tour there were papers you could sign to have
your brains scooped out by a board-certified organ removal specialist when you
died. Never mind that there were people out there who could use those brains,
people who would rather sit at home and watch HBO over a quiet cerebellum
soufflé, than have to join a hoard and go hunting for their food like someone
out of the Romero era.
No,
just put the brains on a shelf. Run some tests. Let them sit there and pickle
while good zombies are forced to do things that inevitably get them killed by
ragtag, yet resourceful, bands of humans.
While
the blonde’s attention had been on positioning her cleavage so that it hid some
of the more unsavory clauses on the “brain scooping” form, I’d wheeled out of
sight and shambled back to the server room. After that, making the cameras show
a loop of empty parking lot had been easy as dying. Now, several hours later, I
smiled up at those cameras as we strolled over to the main entrance and Freddy
got to work on the lock.
Meanwhile,
Ned limped around to the back of the building where the loading dock was. He’d
be sitting pretty in a recently liberated cold storage truck by the time we got
there with the first load of brain canisters. He wouldn’t bother with locks
like Freddy; he had a duffle bag full of explosives and he wanted to use them.
And
hey, part of being a good leader is letting your people go with their
strengths. The complex was surrounded by woods. Nobody’d hear a couple little
explosions now that we’d taken care of the guard.
“Aaar
Arp,” said Freddy proudly, and pushed open the front door. Inside was a fancy
lobby with framed posters showing soldiers looking wistfully into the distance.
Underneath their faces were slogans like, “The Few, The Proud, The Donors” and
“Died 2012. Still serving our country today.”
I
kind of liked that last one.
This
was where they took prospective donors, and we followed the tour route I’d been
taken on until we came to a hallway with a long observation window. That window
looked down on the repository itself, row after row of stainless steel shelves,
each one filled with brains packaged in individually sealed plastic canisters.
The
jackpot.
“Start
cutting,” I said, but Freddy was already taking the circular glass cutting saw
out of his satchel. All the official entrances into the warehouse below had
arrays of sophisticated alarms. Not so the observation window.
“Who
goes there?” demanded a rent-a-cop as he came around a corner.
I
took out my pistol and shot him in the forehead.
Guns
are the way of the future for zombies, I always say. The guard fell backwards,
and I turned to Sarah and Freddy, who were gaping at me slack-faced like “Night
of the Living Dead” extras. They didn’t approve of me carrying a gun.
Then
again, they were Democrats.
“Sarah,”
I said, pausing to blow dramatically on the barrel of the gun, “radio Ned. Tell
him the guards are dealt with, and he can go ahead wi—”
“That
really stung!” said the guard, pulling himself up to his feet as I swung around
and trained my gun on him again. “You should warn a fellow before you just up
and pop him like that. Common courtesy. I say ‘Who goes there?’ and you say
‘None a’ your business, Copper,’ and then we shoot. What’s the
world coming
explosive devices. As such, it relied heavily on donations from former
service-people. Not the monetary kind of donations, either.
So,
naturally, to entice people to part with their gray matter when they shuffled
off their mortal coils, there were weekly tours of the facility run by a petite
blonde in tight-fitting pinstriped pants and a blouse that was missing a couple
buttons at the top. She walked everyone around the place in her high heels, and
waxed eloquent about “leaving a legacy” and “being a part of protecting the
next generation of patriots.”
And
wouldn’t you know, at the end of the tour there were papers you could sign to have
your brains scooped out by a board-certified organ removal specialist when you
died. Never mind that there were people out there who could use those brains,
people who would rather sit at home and watch HBO over a quiet cerebellum
soufflé, than have to join a hoard and go hunting for their food like someone
out of the Romero era.
No,
just put the brains on a shelf. Run some tests. Let them sit there and pickle
while good zombies are forced to do things that inevitably get them killed by
ragtag, yet resourceful, bands of humans.
While
the blonde’s attention had been on positioning her cleavage so that it hid some
of the more unsavory clauses on the “brain scooping” form, I’d wheeled out of
sight and shambled back to the server room. After that, making the cameras show
a loop of empty parking lot had been easy as dying. Now, several hours later, I
smiled up at those cameras as we strolled over to the main entrance and Freddy
got to work on the lock.
Meanwhile,
Ned limped around to the back of the building where the loading dock was. He’d
be sitting pretty in a recently liberated cold storage truck by the time we got
there with the first load of brain canisters. He wouldn’t bother with locks
like Freddy; he had a duffle bag full of explosives and he wanted to use them.
And
hey, part of being a good leader is letting your people go with their
strengths. The complex was surrounded by woods. Nobody’d hear a couple little
explosions now that we’d taken care of the guard.
“Aaar
Arp,” said Freddy proudly, and pushed open the front door. Inside was a fancy
lobby with framed posters showing soldiers looking wistfully into the distance.
Underneath their faces were slogans like, “The Few, The Proud, The Donors” and
“Died 2012. Still serving our country today.”
I
kind of liked that last one.
This
was where they took prospective donors, and we followed the tour route I’d been
taken on until we came to a hallway with a long observation window. That window
looked down on the repository itself, row after row of stainless steel shelves,
each one filled with brains packaged in individually sealed plastic canisters.
The
jackpot.
“Start
cutting,” I said, but Freddy was already taking the circular glass cutting saw
out of his satchel. All the official entrances into the warehouse below had
arrays of sophisticated alarms. Not so the observation window.
“Who
goes there?” demanded a rent-a-cop as he came around a corner.
I
took out my pistol and shot him in the forehead.
Guns
are the way of the future for zombies, I always say. The guard fell backwards,
and I turned to Sarah and Freddy, who were gaping at me slack-faced like “Night
of the Living Dead” extras. They didn’t approve of me carrying a gun.
Then
again, they were Democrats.
“Sarah,”
I said, pausing to blow dramatically on the barrel of the gun, “radio Ned. Tell
him the guards are dealt with, and he can go ahead wi—”
“That
really stung!” said the guard, pulling himself up to his feet as I swung around
and trained my gun on him again. “You should warn a fellow before you just up
and pop him like that. Common courtesy. I say ‘Who goes there?’ and you say
‘None a’ your business, Copper,’ and then we shoot. What’s the
world coming
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