All Our Tomorrows (18 page)

Doyle replies to Ajeet, but his eyes never leave mine.

“One violation. One infraction or breach in security, that’s all it would take for the horde out there to overrun this facility.”

“I know,” Ajeet says.

“You don’t let these two out of your sight. Agreed?”

“Agreed.”

Reluctantly, Doyle walks toward the door. He bends down and picks up his gun and I feel my heart pounding in my throat as his fingers slip around the pistol grip, but he slides his gun into its holster and leaves, slamming the door in disgust.

“Asshole,” Steve mutters under his breath. I’m pretty sure everyone in the room heard him. No one seems to disagree.

With a clap of his hands, Ajeet says, “Who wants coffee?”

Surreal.

I stare at Ajeet with disbelief.

“Well,” he says, with an irrepressible smile. “A geneticist has to be useful for something in the zombie apocalypse.”

I’m stunned. How can he detach himself from the argument with Doyle so quickly? Seeing the look on my face, Ajeet adds, “What? I used to work as a barista while at college.”

Ajeet grins, adding, “I’m a man of many talents.”

I have no idea what a barista is. At a guess, I’d think it’s someone that works in a bar, but apparently it’s someone who makes coffee?

“You have coffee?” Steve asks. Like me, I doubt he’s ever had a cup of coffee in his life. Occasionally, the marauders would liberate some freeze dried coffee still in its vacuum packaging, and Marge would make up a vat full of coffee for the commune, but us kids never got any. It wouldn’t last more than an hour or so before it was all gone. Dad would let me sip his coffee, but it was so bitter I never tried it more than once. I couldn’t understand why everyone raved about coffee. Even the teens.

Ajeet says, “Like almost everything around us, our coffee supplies will outlast us.” And that provides more of an insight into their stockpile than I think he intended. But the essence of his comment worked. Mentally, we’ve all moved on from Doyle.

“Count me in,” says Steve as the others all put in their requests with names that sound Italian.

“Me too,” I say. It’s the allure, the idea more than the substance that attracts me.

“Sugar? Creamer?” he asks.

Steve and I look at each other and nod. Seems like an awful waste of sugar. And as for creamer, I’m guessing that’s a type of milk. It’s been so long these concepts are distant memories. We get a lot of honey and fruit in the commune, but no refined sugar as such. Honestly, it’s just nice to not have a zombie chasing me or a gun pointed at my head right now. I’d eat dried cockroaches if they offered them to me.

“So we’ve got a geneticist and an anthropologist,” I say, not sure what either actually does, but the titles sound impressive. I face Elizabeth, asking, “What about you?”

“Oh, not me,” she replies. “I’m not a scientist, not in the strict sense of the word. I’m a doctor. A pediatrician.”

“Oh, Dr. O’Connor,” Ajeet says from the kitchen. “You should give yourself more credit.”

She smiles at his comment. The look on my face must tell her I have no idea what a pediatrician does.

“I specialize in working with young children.”

“Ah,” I say, still not really grasping why that would be any different to treating adults.

Steve says, “So you weren’t part of the original team? You’re one of the survivors?”

“Yes,” she says, and suddenly everything makes sense. For her, seeing us is a glimpse of what she once went through, and I wonder if someone stood up for her as well at some point. Perhaps Ajeet?

Elizabeth continues, saying, “We don’t see many young children around here so these days I’m more of a generalist.”

One of the women comes over and sits down across from us. She has her hands clenched in front of her. Normally, I’d take that as a sign of being nervous, but her eyes seem to pierce my soul.

“Dana Benson,” she says. Dana is in her late fifties, maybe her early sixties, and of African-American descent. With neatly cropped hair and high cheekbones, she could be mistaken for an actor or a model rather than a scientist. “So … you were bitten. Both of you.”

“Yes,” I say, feeling as though behind this warm exterior there’s a cold, calculating killer. I shouldn’t think like that. She’s probably really nice, but her demeanor is stern. If I were to lie, I’m sure she’d see straight through me.

Ajeet places coffee cups in front of Steve and me. Steam wafts from the mugs but neither of us touch our coffee. Dana is too formal to interrupt.

“How did you survive?”

She’s smart. She knows there’s a catch, and she knows we know precisely why we survived when others either turned or died. Ajeet and Elizabeth might be content to run tests, Dana wants answers.

“My dad. He’s studied them.”

That gets Ajeet’s attention.

“How?” he asks.

“I don’t know exactly, but he keeps heads in jars, stretches their skin out on racks. Things like that.”

Jameson, the anthropologist, laughs, saying, “I like this guy already.”

“Dad figured out that zombie skin cells use photosynthesis for energy.”

No one’s laughing any more. They’re all listening intently.

“He said there are sea slugs or something that steal genes from algae. He said the zombies are like that. He, um. He put a light on the skin and it made a needle jump.”

Not the most scientific of descriptions, I know, but I can see Ajeet’s eyes lighting up. He whispers to Jameson, saying something about confirmation, but Jameson signals for quiet, not wanting to break my train of thought.

“My dad—he doesn’t think all this is caused by a virus. He thinks it’s a complex relationship between several microbial species. He called it a chain. He said, break the chain—break the cycle—and you won’t turn.”

“And you broke the cycle?” Dana says, leading the conversation on. All the scientists have gathered around. It’s a little unnerving being the center of their undivided attention.

“Yes.”

“How?”

“We found some tablets—”

“The vet’s office,” Ajeet says, snapping his fingers.

“You knew about that?” I ask.

“Go on,” Dana says, but I’m distracted by Ajeet.

“How did you know?”

“Traffic cameras,” Jameson says. “We monitor zombie activity using whatever means we can.”

Dana stares deep into my eyes. I can’t keep eye contact with her, and yet I feel compelled to go on.

“My dad. He was infected. We went to the clinic to find worm tablets.”

“And the tablets?” Elizabeth says. “They worked?”

“Yes.”

Dana faces Ajeet, asking, “Flatworms? Hookworms? Amoebas? Is there a symbiotic connection? Is there something we’ve missed beyond a viral infection?”

“There are parasites that produce neurotoxins affecting mammalian behavior,” Ajeet replies. “But something so radical would take millennia to evolve.”

“This would explain why the vaccines fail,” Elizabeth says.

“Anthelmintics,” Ajeet says. “They’d work against a broad range of microbial parasites without injuring the host. Pyrantel will paralyze a whole branch of microscopic nematodes, not just your classic tapeworms. We did some work with mebendazole before it was discontinued in humans, but I think it was still used in pets at the time of the outbreak. Mebendazole has a broad base of intracellular action, far beyond parasites. It even showed promise against lung cancer. It’s not as quick as Pyrantel, but it works extremely well.”

Jameson asks, “So the mode of action is to disrupt a parasitic life cycle and prevent cascading tissue degradation?”

I shrug my shoulders.

Ajeet replies, “The rapid onset has always been troubling. If you can engender a zombie transformation so quickly, why can’t you block it just as quickly?”

“It’s an interesting thought,” Dana says.

My excitement gets the better of me.

“Interesting thought? It’s a cure.”

“Not so fast,” Dana says. “Even though he’s pigheaded, Doyle may yet be right. You look perfectly healthy today, but the effect could be temporary. Rather than finding a cure, you may have simply delayed the onset.”

Not what I wanted to hear.

“But I’m fine,” I protest. “I feel fine.”

Elizabeth touches the back of her hand to my forehead, saying, “Slight fever, but she could be fighting a regular bacterial infection given the state of her wounds.”

“I’m not going to turn into one of those things,” I insist.

Elizabeth senses my anxiety. She rests her hand on my forearm.

“Hey,” she says. “It’s all right. We’re all in this together. We’re here to help.”

Steve says, “I bet you say that to all your lab rats.”

I laugh. I thought it was funny, but no one else laughs.

Jameson says, “If her father is correct and the transformation is blocked by an anthelmintic, then so long as she’s not exposed to the parasite again, she’ll be fine.”

“But which parasite?” Ajeet asks. “I mean, we could be dealing anything from a roundworm to an amoeba.”

“And there’s the problem of phenotypes,” Dana says. “The anthelmintic may work today, but use this strategy too broadly and we could inadvertently breed a resistant variety of zombies and end up right back where we are today.”

Ajeet says, “I’m going to need some zombie fecal matter. If this parasite is in the gut, it’ll pass out through the bowels. We should be able to find eggs.”

“Poo?” Steve says with disgust, and I’m with him. I cannot think of anything more foul than searching through zombie shit for some microscopic creature.

Jameson says, “We need to keep you under watch. Until we identify the parasite, you could inadvertently be exposed to it and the transformation would be triggered again.”

I am not liking what I’m hearing, but I tell myself this is good to know.

Ajeet says, “Yes, yes. Regardless of the particular tablet you took, the anthelmintic would have done it’s work and passed through you with the next bowel movement. Don’t think you’re immune, young lady. One bite and you’ll turn.”

The hair on the back of my neck stands on end. I’ve been stupidly reckless the last few days, feeling somewhat invulnerable to Zee. Dumb luck has kept me safe, not brains or brawn.

We thought those tablets were a game changer, and in a way they still are, but they’re no silver bullet taking out these werewolves once and for all.

Chapter 10: Milkshake
  

I sip my coffee. It’s cooled a little, but it’s still a treat. As I stir in my fifth packet of sugar, I catch Elizabeth watching me and then glancing at Ajeet with a smile. Five packets was probably one too many.

“Don’t eat or drink anything other than what we give you,” Elizabeth says. “We can ensure the purity of the food and water. Until we isolate the parasite and understand its lifecycle and means of transmission, we can’t risk contamination.

“You’re going to have to be careful out there. Boil water before drinking. Wash vegetables in sterile water. Things like that.”

I nod, feeling stupid about the risks I’ve taken.

Steve asks, “You really think we could still turn?”

“Yes,” Ajeet replies without a moment’s hesitation. “Your systems are primed, but you’re missing the trigger. You must be careful.”

“We need to retrieve some of those tablets,” Dana says. “We need to isolate the active ingredient, understand its mode of action, dosage requirements, and toxicity.”

“Will you be able to synthesize more?” Johnson asks.

Ajeet shrugs his shoulders. “Maybe. We were able to manufacture antibiotics. It’s a matter of gaining access to base ingredients and reviewing the technical difficulty.”

Ajeet opens a packet of cookies.

Cookies!

I bet my eyes are popping out of my head right about now. Just the sound of the plastic wrapper being torn open is enough to start me salivating. It’s been eight long years, almost a lifetime ago.

They have cookies!

The writing on the side of the packet reads Nutter Butters, leaving me wondering why butter would be considered special. I remember Oreos from before, but not much else. They were black and white, like a zebra, or maybe I’m getting them confused with something else.

Steve gets to his feet. He’s been sitting on the other side of the table and gets up, taking his cup back to get more coffee, only he moves slowly, painfully. In the rush of adrenaline with Doyle, I never paid attention to his physical injuries, but he walks awkwardly, swinging from his left hip.

He must see my concern as he says, “Dislocated while being dragged over a fence.”

“Oh,” is all I can say in response. What else is there to say?

My excitement at the cookies fades as I think about what Steve must have gone through over the past few days. He puts his cup down and one of the scientists pours him another cup of coffee, joking with him, but I can see him rolling his shoulder, shrugging off some muscular pain. And I thought I was stiff and sore. He’s been through hell.

“Cookie?” Ajeet asks, handing me the packet. I take three. I don’t mean to be greedy, but I’m pretty sure one won’t be enough. Why three? Why not? I take a bite. The cookie is a little sweet, but doesn’t have much flavor, which is disappointing.

“The astronauts,” I ask. “Who were they? What were they doing out there in the mall?”

“Ah, those were old suits,” Ajeet says. “We use them as mannequins, scarecrows—glorified light stands stuffed with mummified bodies to avoid too much interest from the zombies. The cameras in the suits still work, so we were able to watch and observe.”

“Why?” I ask, glancing at Steve and realizing he could have died out there. “Why would you leave him there?”

“We didn’t know what we were dealing with,” Johnson says. “Behavior is never easy to interpret. When we saw them dump Steve on the stage, we thought he was dead. We set up an observation post in the mall, wanting to learn more about them. If we can understand their behavior—”

Ajeet cuts him off gently, holding his hand up and speaking softly. “You are right. We should have intervened. Once we saw he was alive, we should have retrieved him. We saw a scientific opportunity, not a person lying injured on a stage.”