Make Them Harmless
Ronald Hunt's knuckle-draggery gets him arrested. Meanwhile, a woman makes a deal to get some harmless zombies made.
Written for the March Madness writing challenge. Come and join us!
“They're not getting out of the way.”
The sickening crunch and slight slithering told Ronald more than any commentator could. Trapped in a tank with three gung-ho security contractors, he could only hang on as best he could while it ploughed at top speed into the zombie horde. The nauseating stench would live long in his memory. It made his eyes sting now.
“The motorcade is finishing them off, sir,” said a voice behind him. “If there's any of ‘em still standing afterwards, your security detail can pick ‘em off.”
Ronald gagged. The self-satisfaction in their tones was as vile as the stink.
“It's gonna take a lot o’ Febreeze to make this smell better,” said the driver. “They're still comin’ towards us. Hundreds of ‘em.”
“Bear left,” the man in the gunner’s seat said. “We're going to the mall, aren't we?”
Ronald found an empty fast food bag. “Uurrp!”
“You heard the man,” the other one, who was wearing a black beret, said. “Let's go!”
The crunching continued forever, it seemed. Ronald could feel himself crunching beneath the tracks. It wasn't supposed to be like this. It wasn't supposed to feel like this. He spat a chunk of something acidic into the bag.
“Mall’s just ahead of us,” the gunner said. “Doors are open. The last of the zombies is out.”
Black Beret, who seemed to be in charge, turned to face the man in the gunner’s seat. “As far as you know, Kowalski.”
“Yes, sir.”
The sound of sirens faded in, growing louder.
“Has somebody called the cops?” Ronald asked, as panic began to rise inside him, tightening his gut.
Black Beret grinned. “They're probably coming to help us, sir.”
“Let's get out of the way, soldier,” Ronald replied. “I daresay they're better equipped than we are.”
“I doubt it,” he replied. “Show him, Kowalski.”
Kowalski showed him.
“Oh.”
The sirens grew louder until a voice distorted by a bullhorn called, “This is Sergeant Stanton D. Rudge of the San Junipero Police Department. Pull this tank over right now.”
The tank kept going.
The commanding tone demanded respect. “Sooner or later you will run out of fuel. Or you'll want to use the john. What will you do then? Now, pull over!”
Black Beret turned to Ronald. “Sir?”
Shaky and sick, Ronald looked around the tank. These men were accustomed to battle and had come to kick ass. But the fantasy he'd paid for had gone sour already. “You'd better do as he says, soldier.”
“Armstrong, sir. Dirk Armstrong.”
“Pull over, Armstrong." He could see the man's lower lip curl in distaste, and could feel the tank move aside. A brief flush of relief blew through him, but he dreaded the moment the hatch would open. He felt like a naughty boy caught with his hand in the cookie jar. He took a deep breath and opened the hatch, then put on his best grin. “What seems to be the problem, Officer?”
The Sergeant was standing outside the cruiser, glaring at him. “‘What seems to be the problem?’ You come riding into my town perched on a tank like you're Schwarzenegger or something, commit at least a dozen felony offences, then come out grinning like you've done nothing wrong. Look at the mess you've made! Do you think you're some kind of hero?” He marched over to Ronald and pulled out his handcuffs. “I'm arresting you for reckless endangerment, Mutilation and Removal of Human Remains, and a dozen other Health & Safety Code violations.” He slapped the handcuffs on and pushed the governor-elect into the cruiser while his men looked on, aghast.
Ronald found his voice. “But I'm the governor,” he protested.
“Not yet,” Rudge retorted. “Lieutenant Governor Ramirez assumes authority in Governor Gabbin’s absence. You haven't been inaugurated yet. You're not in charge.”
Something broke inside Ronald. His dream had died. His self-image shattered when the cuffs went on.
*****
The Periwig bar was busier than usual. Waiting staff bustled about bearing trays of food or dirty dishes. A middle-aged woman wearing sunglasses and a blonde short bob cut peered over a menu as she sat at a table. In front of her lay a single white carnation.
A tall man in a straw pork pie hat and wraparound shades strolled over and said, “Nice weather we're having, Ma’am.”
“No sign of rain,” she replied.
He sat down in front of her and took off his rucksack, then looked expectantly up at her.
“Did you bring it?”
“A little.”
“Show me.”
He reached down and pulled a pair of gloves out of his jacket pocket, donned them, then pulled a glowing vial and a foil-lined paper bag out of his rucksack.
“How radioactive is it?”
“Very. I'd advise against taking it in your hand, you'll get burned.”
“And you use this to make PVs?”
“I can.” He dropped the vial into the bag.
“How do you get them to sing and dance?”
He grinned, took off the gloves, pulling them inside out, put them into another foil-lined paper bag, and tapped the side of his nose. “Trade secret.”
“But those ones are harmless.”
“Wouldn't hurt a fly.”
“They're the dancers.”
“Yes.”
“Can you make some harmless PVs?”
“Yes.”
“What do you need?”
“People.”
She looked down, then up. “I can get you some subjects from a mortuary.”
He sat back and grinned. “I need them alive.”
She sucked in her lips. “What else do you need?”
He drummed his fingers on the table. “One million dollars per person turned.”
“That's too much.”
“No deal.” He stood up, bringing his rucksack with him, put everything into it, and made to leave.
“Wait. We need two, maybe three.”
“That's two, maybe three million, lady. One million per person. I don't come cheap.”
“In bitcoin.”
“I'm not stupid.” He took one step, then another.
“Wait. This is very risky for everyone involved. We need guarantees.”
“Rankin?”
From behind a potted plant, a man with deeply-tanned skin rose and approached them. He peered over the tops of his sunglasses, showing inky curves under his irises. A smell like mould and swimming pools wafted towards them. When he took his hands out of his pockets she could see they were marbled.
“One million per person,” he croaked.
She nodded. “I'll make the arrangements.”
The two men strolled out into the sunshine, leaving the woman sitting there, her lips pursed, drumming the table. She got up and left when a waiter approached, leaving the flower behind.
This story follows And The Winner Is… Read the sequel, A Way Out.