Read Online Zombie Society - They Live Among Us by K. Bartholomew - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: K. Bartholomew
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middle of the afternoon, the following day when John was finally released from the police cell. Deciding to take the rest of the day off work, he headed for home on foot.
John yawned and wiped at his eyes. He’d spent most of the night being interrogated, accused of mort hate crimes; battery against a protected class, notably, the dead. The cops couldn’t keep John, on this occasion his lawyer getting him off on account of the fact two humans were dead at the hands of the same two morts John was accused of assaulting. Still, they’d tried to break John down, failed, and after spending a sleepless night in a cell, they finally let him go.
John had never been in trouble with the cops before, but he would never stand by and watch as humans were attacked by morts – How would he live with himself? Though in truth, he could have done without the hassle. He had a family and a business to run but it wasn’t as if anybody else was willing to jump in and offer any help. Why should the responsibility of doing the right thing rest solely in John’s hands?
John hunched his shoulders, double taking as he walked by the news vendor. “Oh, what the…” his mouth hung open, his belly lurched.
The vendor looked several times between John and the front page of the New York Times.
John grabbed the paper, his face plastered over the front page. The headline read, ‘The Evil Face of Mortism.’ They’d taken his Facebook profile image and blown it up. To the side were several images of John punching and kicking the morts, taken from stills of cellphone footage. They’d left out any pictures of the dead human victims, instead concentrating on the injured morts who apparently were recuperating in hospital.
John flicked through the pages and scanned down the article. ‘This is John Quinn, the evil face of intolerance and mortism, the hate filled bigot who attacked two helpless morts in the street.’
The article showed images of the two morts wearing casts and neck braces in a hospital bed. ‘We din do nuttins. We good morts.’ The article continued, ‘The morts; one an aspiring musician, the other an up and coming athlete were simply scavenging for lunch when evil mortist, John Quinn, married father of two, construction company owner, bigot and all round human supremacist came out from nowhere and attacked the two morts.’
“Hey,” the vendor shouted over to John, “if you read it, you buy it.”
“There is absolutely no mention of those zombies murdering those two old men.” John slammed the paper down. “This is a fucking cover up.”
The vendor, looked briefly away and raised an eyebrow at the mention of the z word, took a step closer. “I don’t write the things, ok. I just sell them. And you can’t say that word. Do you want to lose everything?”
“No! Of course I don’t, but this paper has omitted half the important details which have totally changed the context of the story. This is slander which makes me out to be some kind of a monster.”
“Yeah, well, if you’re only just realizing this about the press then you really must be stupid.”
John arrived on his street to find several news crews swarming around his front lawn. The blue paper recycling bin had been tipped over and several of the vultures were sifting through newspapers, mail, documents and cereal boxes.
John braced himself for the melee and used his hands to cover his face as he ran over the lawn to the front door.
The reporters perked up and surged forwards as John fumbled with the keys in the lock. “Mr Quinn, do you have anything to say about being a mortist?” One reporter asked.
“Would you like to apologize to the dead community after assaulting two of their number?” Another chirped.
The door opened and John slinked through the crack, slamming it shut. He closed the curtains, enshrouding the house in darkness. “Media parasites,” he said, peeking through a small slit in the bedroom windows. “Fifteen of them.” And
John yawned and wiped at his eyes. He’d spent most of the night being interrogated, accused of mort hate crimes; battery against a protected class, notably, the dead. The cops couldn’t keep John, on this occasion his lawyer getting him off on account of the fact two humans were dead at the hands of the same two morts John was accused of assaulting. Still, they’d tried to break John down, failed, and after spending a sleepless night in a cell, they finally let him go.
John had never been in trouble with the cops before, but he would never stand by and watch as humans were attacked by morts – How would he live with himself? Though in truth, he could have done without the hassle. He had a family and a business to run but it wasn’t as if anybody else was willing to jump in and offer any help. Why should the responsibility of doing the right thing rest solely in John’s hands?
John hunched his shoulders, double taking as he walked by the news vendor. “Oh, what the…” his mouth hung open, his belly lurched.
The vendor looked several times between John and the front page of the New York Times.
John grabbed the paper, his face plastered over the front page. The headline read, ‘The Evil Face of Mortism.’ They’d taken his Facebook profile image and blown it up. To the side were several images of John punching and kicking the morts, taken from stills of cellphone footage. They’d left out any pictures of the dead human victims, instead concentrating on the injured morts who apparently were recuperating in hospital.
John flicked through the pages and scanned down the article. ‘This is John Quinn, the evil face of intolerance and mortism, the hate filled bigot who attacked two helpless morts in the street.’
The article showed images of the two morts wearing casts and neck braces in a hospital bed. ‘We din do nuttins. We good morts.’ The article continued, ‘The morts; one an aspiring musician, the other an up and coming athlete were simply scavenging for lunch when evil mortist, John Quinn, married father of two, construction company owner, bigot and all round human supremacist came out from nowhere and attacked the two morts.’
“Hey,” the vendor shouted over to John, “if you read it, you buy it.”
“There is absolutely no mention of those zombies murdering those two old men.” John slammed the paper down. “This is a fucking cover up.”
The vendor, looked briefly away and raised an eyebrow at the mention of the z word, took a step closer. “I don’t write the things, ok. I just sell them. And you can’t say that word. Do you want to lose everything?”
“No! Of course I don’t, but this paper has omitted half the important details which have totally changed the context of the story. This is slander which makes me out to be some kind of a monster.”
“Yeah, well, if you’re only just realizing this about the press then you really must be stupid.”
John arrived on his street to find several news crews swarming around his front lawn. The blue paper recycling bin had been tipped over and several of the vultures were sifting through newspapers, mail, documents and cereal boxes.
John braced himself for the melee and used his hands to cover his face as he ran over the lawn to the front door.
The reporters perked up and surged forwards as John fumbled with the keys in the lock. “Mr Quinn, do you have anything to say about being a mortist?” One reporter asked.
“Would you like to apologize to the dead community after assaulting two of their number?” Another chirped.
The door opened and John slinked through the crack, slamming it shut. He closed the curtains, enshrouding the house in darkness. “Media parasites,” he said, peeking through a small slit in the bedroom windows. “Fifteen of them.” And
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