Written for the March Madness writing challenge. Come and join us!
A dull green glow dimly lit the tunnels of the sewer system beneath San Junipero. Streams of creatures moved slowly along, heedless of the filth and the surging, rolling waves of water that periodically sent them tumbling headlong for a while. Those that landed on their feet kept moving forward, as if they knew where they were going. The others were left, ineffectually waving their feet until they ran out of whatever steam was powering them. The stink of waste from 52,000 soil stack pipes had no effect on things that were rotting too. The few that made it to the end of the system found that it didn't end up in a processing plant. No, it poured out of a stained concrete pipe into a dead-end ravine in the desert. They were too dead to drown. They struggled up through the stench, driven by an instinct so ancient, they were not aware of it. And some of them made it to the lip of the ravine. And some of them got out.
*****
“What's going on over there, Cricket?” Officer Dabney asked, as he returned to his seat beside his partner at the taco stand.
Officer Jimenez took a swig of soda. “Blue hair brigade causing trouble again, Dabs.”
Dabney sighed. “I suppose we'd better take a look. Call it in.”
“This is 2-Adam-13, Jimenez here. We're going to investigate a 10-15 at the entrance to the Gold Rush shopping mall.”
“Copy that,” the dispatcher replied. “Let us know if you need any help.”
They were halfway there when a man with long cherry-red hair lunged at a security guard, shouting, “Give me those keys!”
The guard's profanities could barely be heard above the yelling of Red’s friends, who were wearing pro-PV t-shirts. The words “HOPper” and “anti-PV bigot” featured prominently in their denouncement of the guards’ actions.
The cause of the commotion was, at this point, slapping the shutters.
“Let them in,” the protesters demanded. “They are human, just like us.”
“Calm down, everyone,” said Dabney. “I'm sure we can work something out.”
“Well, you can start with opening those doors,” said Red, who was pointing at them.
“Sir…”
“Mx.” He pronounced it as ‘Mix.’
“Mix, nice to meet you, my name is Ronald.”
Red sneered. “Like Hunt.”
“I'm a peace officer, here to keep you safe, Mix.”
“Safe from bigots like this jerk.” He pointed at the chubby security guard, whose open, pursed mouth declared his innocence.
“In light of recent events, Mix, the authorities have deemed it…”
“Well, I didn't vote for you!” Red crowed.
The sickly, mouldy stench of rotten meat crept in through the gaps of the doors.
“Can you smell it?” Jimenez asked.
A short woman jabbed him in the belly with her finger. “So you're letting a bit of B.O. stop you thinking of them as being human?”
“Can you smell it?” Jimenez asked again.
“It doesn't matter what they smell like,” Red argued. “It matters that they want to get in.”
“They're not going to shop if you open that door, Mix,” said Dabney. “They're gonna eat folks.”
“You don't know that,” Red said, shifting a little to the left.
Dabney sighed. “That's what they do.”
“That's what you've heard they do in the right way in the right wing press.” Red moved again. “You're media illiterate.”
Taking a moment to gather his thoughts, Dabney said, “I have lived experience of this. Do you?”
Red shifted again.
Dabney felt something fall against him. “Cricket!”
A shouted warning drew his attention to the doors. A protester was standing, grinning, by the doors as the shutter went back up again.
“Oh, you fools!”
Grey-green hands tugged the shutter doors up, and the first of the zombies forced their way inside.
Jimenez shouted, “Run!” and bolted.
Dabney followed him. “Lorraine, we have a 10-34 at the Gold Rush mall. Please send backup.”
“Copy that, Dabs. What's going on?”
“We've got mobile 10-54s pouring into the mall,” he replied, panting as he ran. “Security guards had put the shutters down but blue-hairs grabbed the keys and rolled them up again.”
“How many 10-54s?”
“All of them, I think. There are hundreds of them. Everyone is running except the protesters.”
“Can you get safe?”
“We're taking cover in a taco stand.”
“What about the shoppers?”
“They're going into the stores and the doors are closing.”
“Get in there and stay put. Help is coming.”
*****
Every channel was showing the ad, which depicted zombies pouring into the mall and shoppers fleeing in terror. “They are as human as we are,” a whiny voice declared.
Ronald Hunt appeared, putting his arm around a lady. She looked up. “Th-they killed him. The p-pos…”
He squeezed her shoulder, pulling her closer. “You can speak your mind here, lady.”
“Zombies ate my husband.”
“They're as human as we are.”
The camera moved closer to the lady. “Zombies ate my husband.”
People stampeded through the mall, knocking each other over in their haste to escape.
The next shot was a close-up of the lady. “Zombies ate my husband.”
“Vote for Ronald Hunt.”
This story follows We're Letting You Go. Read the sequel, Regime Change.