Instead there were floor lamps about six feet tall situated all around the room, both on the other side of the bars and on Conrad’s side. The only other thing on his side was a simple black chair, facing the bars.
What was on the other side of the bars, though, was what captured his attention. The room was fairly large, the section behind the bars taking up three-fourths of the space, and there were shelves upon shelves of something Conrad thought he’d never see again in his existence.
Books—actual books —lined the shelves. There were at least half a dozen cases in all, and there may have been more but Conrad could barely tell because his dead mind was racing. He took a step forward, having suddenly noticed the fish tank, much like the one in Albert’s office, and while there were tropical fish in this tank swimming lazily through the water there was something about these that just wasn’t right.
“Are those fish,” Conrad said, touching his dry tongue to his dry lips, “are they …”
But before he could finish the question, before he got out any more words, there was movement behind the bars.
In a chair that was faced away from them, a figure had stood up. Now it turned, peering through glasses at who had entered the room. Setting a book down on the table—and still Conrad couldn’t get over it, seeing that book and all the rest, things that had been destroyed, banned, illegal all over the world, things he had actually destroyed himself—the figure approached the bars slowly, a smooth, steady pace that just wasn’t natural.
The figure said, “So is this the new recruit you were telling me about, Albert?”
Conrad’s hand went instinctively to his broadsword. But he wasn’t wearing his broadsword; he wasn’t wearing a weapon of any kind.
“Hello, Conrad. I’m Gabriel. It’s very nice to meet you.”
And the zombie stuck its living hand through the space of the bars, a simple, common gesture, as if from one friend to another.
Chapter 8
Back in Albert’s office, the fluorescents were humming, the fish tank was bubbling, and the three men were silent. They were in the same places as before—Conrad and Norman in the chairs, Albert behind his desk—and as before the mood was tense.
Conrad sat slumped in his chair, his head bent, staring at his wedding band. He moved the gray ring around on his finger, all the while thinking about how when he finally expired—when all his hair fell out, his skin and bones decayed to nothing—this ring would still be the same, unchanging, the only testament to Conrad’s existence. He blinked, stopped moving his wedding band, instead moved each of his fingers one a time, as if testing their flexibility, before clearing his throat and looking up at Albert.
“You have a zombie here.”
The scientist sat back in his wheelchair, his elbows on the armrests, his hands clasped together in front of his face. Slowly he nodded.
“Actually we have twelve, counting Gabriel. We did have thirteen until two days ago, but … well, you know what happened.”
Conrad frowned.
“He was the zombie you hesitated in killing,” Albert said.
“What do you mean he was the zombie I hesitated in killing?”
Albert stared at Conrad for a long moment, his hands still clasped before his face. “I’ll answer your question, but first I want to tell you a story. It’s about a boy who many believed would expire before his tenth animation day. Even his parents believed this. He had contracted a parasite which was eating away at his feet, at his legs, working its way up to the rest of his body, and the boy and the boy’s parents and the boy’s doctors had to make a very important decision. In the end they decided to take the boy’s legs, to tear them from the rest of the boy’s body, to try to save what was left.”
Albert moved his chair out from behind his desk, turned so he faced Conrad. He reached down and rapped both of his legs with
What was on the other side of the bars, though, was what captured his attention. The room was fairly large, the section behind the bars taking up three-fourths of the space, and there were shelves upon shelves of something Conrad thought he’d never see again in his existence.
Books—actual books —lined the shelves. There were at least half a dozen cases in all, and there may have been more but Conrad could barely tell because his dead mind was racing. He took a step forward, having suddenly noticed the fish tank, much like the one in Albert’s office, and while there were tropical fish in this tank swimming lazily through the water there was something about these that just wasn’t right.
“Are those fish,” Conrad said, touching his dry tongue to his dry lips, “are they …”
But before he could finish the question, before he got out any more words, there was movement behind the bars.
In a chair that was faced away from them, a figure had stood up. Now it turned, peering through glasses at who had entered the room. Setting a book down on the table—and still Conrad couldn’t get over it, seeing that book and all the rest, things that had been destroyed, banned, illegal all over the world, things he had actually destroyed himself—the figure approached the bars slowly, a smooth, steady pace that just wasn’t natural.
The figure said, “So is this the new recruit you were telling me about, Albert?”
Conrad’s hand went instinctively to his broadsword. But he wasn’t wearing his broadsword; he wasn’t wearing a weapon of any kind.
“Hello, Conrad. I’m Gabriel. It’s very nice to meet you.”
And the zombie stuck its living hand through the space of the bars, a simple, common gesture, as if from one friend to another.
Chapter 8
Back in Albert’s office, the fluorescents were humming, the fish tank was bubbling, and the three men were silent. They were in the same places as before—Conrad and Norman in the chairs, Albert behind his desk—and as before the mood was tense.
Conrad sat slumped in his chair, his head bent, staring at his wedding band. He moved the gray ring around on his finger, all the while thinking about how when he finally expired—when all his hair fell out, his skin and bones decayed to nothing—this ring would still be the same, unchanging, the only testament to Conrad’s existence. He blinked, stopped moving his wedding band, instead moved each of his fingers one a time, as if testing their flexibility, before clearing his throat and looking up at Albert.
“You have a zombie here.”
The scientist sat back in his wheelchair, his elbows on the armrests, his hands clasped together in front of his face. Slowly he nodded.
“Actually we have twelve, counting Gabriel. We did have thirteen until two days ago, but … well, you know what happened.”
Conrad frowned.
“He was the zombie you hesitated in killing,” Albert said.
“What do you mean he was the zombie I hesitated in killing?”
Albert stared at Conrad for a long moment, his hands still clasped before his face. “I’ll answer your question, but first I want to tell you a story. It’s about a boy who many believed would expire before his tenth animation day. Even his parents believed this. He had contracted a parasite which was eating away at his feet, at his legs, working its way up to the rest of his body, and the boy and the boy’s parents and the boy’s doctors had to make a very important decision. In the end they decided to take the boy’s legs, to tear them from the rest of the boy’s body, to try to save what was left.”
Albert moved his chair out from behind his desk, turned so he faced Conrad. He reached down and rapped both of his legs with
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