brought you tomorrow’s zombies today, used this camp to cull “volunteer subjects” for testing.
So, a bunch of my fellow corpses had gotten it into their decomposing heads that Camp Kyua was a good thing. Given how hard we are to destroy, the smart ones figured ChemBet was hunting for a way to
really
kill us, quickly and easily. I could see it. Given the mangled results of failed efforts, that’s not an unwelcome thought, Still, not something I’d
volunteer
for. The not-so-smart ones thought it meant that ChemBet was trying to
improve
the RIP,
really
bring us back to life.
So, the “cure” meant life or death.
Praise Kyua.
And I was still hoping the blue stuff was relatively harmless, like an addictive drug or an explosive. If thiscrap was ChemBet’s, it had to be worse. And so was my situation. ChemBet had real power. I’d already figured I was royally screwed, but every time I thought I had a handle on how deep the screw went, it twisted in a little more.
I thought about the briefcase I’d so carefully wrapped in plastic. I thought about the arm, moving on its own. A bit of conversation slipped into my head:
What would I have to gain?
Maybe everything.
The toad, whoever he was, was worried I’d try the stuff myself. Right. Given all Travis and Rebecca Maruta’s great work to date, I’d sooner saw off my head with a Spork. It also meant I couldn’t hand it back to them. These were, after all, the folks who’d fucked up
death
.
There also had to be a story behind that arm. Since it’d cost him, Misty, and myself so much, I wanted to know what it was.
Camp Kyua was ground zero. If there were answers, they’d be there. Under normal circumstances, getting in shouldn’t be a problem, but my corpse-kisser was plastered all over the net. I had a new ID card. I just needed a new face.
At the warehouse, the women’s room still had a mirror. Looking at my photo was one thing, but I had to fight my instincts to give myself a good hard look in the flesh. That was one thing going for me. Livebloods didn’t like looking at us too much either. Can’t blame them. Even if we’re dressed nice, you can never be sure what might pop out from where. Think seeing someone’s flabby gut poke from a T-shirt is freaky? Imagine desiccated intestines slipping over a belt.
But I had to change myself at least a little. Makeup could work, but I didn’t have any. That left the last refuge of the fashion conscious, self-mutilation. If thine eye offend thee cut it out, and replace it with something that matches your hair.
The few chakz who’d gone that way had generally died as teens, and were now trying for echoes of lost angst. Some idiots filed their teeth into points, which
really
made the LBs love them. One girl, featured on Nell Parker’s show, had carefully razored the skin from her hands, creating a kind of muscle-glove effect. Others just carved at themselves idly. None of them kept from going feral long enough to start a trend.
My attachment to my body wasn’t as strong as when I was alive, but it was all I had. I could take a knife to some of the skin, but the wounds would never heal. Break my nose?
I was pissed enough about it all to grab a brick and give myself a half-hearted whack that hurt more than I expected. I clutched my proboscis, danced around, banging into stalls and wall, using all the invectives I had at my disposal. After all that, another look in the mirror told me I’d only scraped the tip, exposing some cartilage, a pebble of white on a little gray hill.
That left getting some makeup.
12
H aving seen myself on the net, I wasn’t thrilled about leaving the warehouse again. But, Halloween wasn’t two weeks old. One of those seasonal costume stores might still be open. I cruised until I found a quiet strip mall that had what I wanted, a costume outlet complete with a witty banner reading, E VERYTHING M UST G O —A S D O W E A LL !
The display window was full of overturned boxes,
So, a bunch of my fellow corpses had gotten it into their decomposing heads that Camp Kyua was a good thing. Given how hard we are to destroy, the smart ones figured ChemBet was hunting for a way to
really
kill us, quickly and easily. I could see it. Given the mangled results of failed efforts, that’s not an unwelcome thought, Still, not something I’d
volunteer
for. The not-so-smart ones thought it meant that ChemBet was trying to
improve
the RIP,
really
bring us back to life.
So, the “cure” meant life or death.
Praise Kyua.
And I was still hoping the blue stuff was relatively harmless, like an addictive drug or an explosive. If thiscrap was ChemBet’s, it had to be worse. And so was my situation. ChemBet had real power. I’d already figured I was royally screwed, but every time I thought I had a handle on how deep the screw went, it twisted in a little more.
I thought about the briefcase I’d so carefully wrapped in plastic. I thought about the arm, moving on its own. A bit of conversation slipped into my head:
What would I have to gain?
Maybe everything.
The toad, whoever he was, was worried I’d try the stuff myself. Right. Given all Travis and Rebecca Maruta’s great work to date, I’d sooner saw off my head with a Spork. It also meant I couldn’t hand it back to them. These were, after all, the folks who’d fucked up
death
.
There also had to be a story behind that arm. Since it’d cost him, Misty, and myself so much, I wanted to know what it was.
Camp Kyua was ground zero. If there were answers, they’d be there. Under normal circumstances, getting in shouldn’t be a problem, but my corpse-kisser was plastered all over the net. I had a new ID card. I just needed a new face.
At the warehouse, the women’s room still had a mirror. Looking at my photo was one thing, but I had to fight my instincts to give myself a good hard look in the flesh. That was one thing going for me. Livebloods didn’t like looking at us too much either. Can’t blame them. Even if we’re dressed nice, you can never be sure what might pop out from where. Think seeing someone’s flabby gut poke from a T-shirt is freaky? Imagine desiccated intestines slipping over a belt.
But I had to change myself at least a little. Makeup could work, but I didn’t have any. That left the last refuge of the fashion conscious, self-mutilation. If thine eye offend thee cut it out, and replace it with something that matches your hair.
The few chakz who’d gone that way had generally died as teens, and were now trying for echoes of lost angst. Some idiots filed their teeth into points, which
really
made the LBs love them. One girl, featured on Nell Parker’s show, had carefully razored the skin from her hands, creating a kind of muscle-glove effect. Others just carved at themselves idly. None of them kept from going feral long enough to start a trend.
My attachment to my body wasn’t as strong as when I was alive, but it was all I had. I could take a knife to some of the skin, but the wounds would never heal. Break my nose?
I was pissed enough about it all to grab a brick and give myself a half-hearted whack that hurt more than I expected. I clutched my proboscis, danced around, banging into stalls and wall, using all the invectives I had at my disposal. After all that, another look in the mirror told me I’d only scraped the tip, exposing some cartilage, a pebble of white on a little gray hill.
That left getting some makeup.
12
H aving seen myself on the net, I wasn’t thrilled about leaving the warehouse again. But, Halloween wasn’t two weeks old. One of those seasonal costume stores might still be open. I cruised until I found a quiet strip mall that had what I wanted, a costume outlet complete with a witty banner reading, E VERYTHING M UST G O —A S D O W E A LL !
The display window was full of overturned boxes,
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