“Rumors of my death have been greatly exaggerated. The more recent myths have me turned into the king of zombies. I’ve also been thrown from a fire escape and eaten by infected dogs.” Stein paused. “Who’s Pete?” he asked.
“Nobody. Anymore.”
“For someone just a little bit dead, you’re in remarkable shape. Do you have a doctor? A caregiver? Someone responsible for your upkeep?”
“Nurse. She shot herself in the head.”
Stein bowed his head in sympathy. “I’m sorry for your loss,” he said.
Ros pulled me down behind the railing. “Help me,” he whispered. His eyes were yellowing like an old newspaper. He curled into a fetal position. “Brains,” he whined.
I put my sign aside and embraced Ros. My brother-in-arms. My only friend.
Stein tapped on the boat.
“Private Drake,” he called, “can I assist you in any way?”
Ros stood up, clicking his heels together. “Brains!” he wailed, and buried his face in his hands.
“There, there,” Stein said. “It’s not your fault. This should calm your stomach. For now.”
He threw Ros a calf’s liver and Ros shoved the whole thing in his mouth. Blood dripped on my head, and the killer inside me roared.
“I have something for your friend too,” Stein said.
I am not your trained monkey, I wanted to shout. I am a PhD!
Nevertheless I stood up and held out my hand like a beggar.
Oh, humility! This was the moment when I should hand Stein my treatise; we would match wits and establish sympathy; empathy, love, and protection would be born. Cheeks would be turned, neighbors loved, peace agreements signed.
The American dream realized. Its promises fulfilled.
No such luck: Stein tossed me some pig intestines and I stuffed them in my mouth the long way, not even bothering to chew, sucking them in like linguini.
“Let me tell you a story,” Stein said, “while you dine.” He cleared his throat. I didn’t look up from my meal. “Once upon a time,” he began, “there was a scorpion, and this scorpion asked a fox to carry him across a rushing river.
“‘But you’ll sting me,’ the fox protested.
“‘If I did that,’ the scorpion replied, ‘we’d both drown. Since I need to cross the river, it wouldn’t serve my interests to sting you. Have no fear. I’ll refrain.’
“The fox agreed. He certainly couldn’t argue with the scorpion’s logic. But a funny thing happened: Halfway across the river, the scorpion stung him anyway.
“‘Why?’ the fox asked as they both drowned.
“‘It’s my nature. I’m a scorpion.’”
I stopped swallowing.
“You boys are scorpions,” Stein said. “Do you understand me?”
I understood: Dogs chase cats. Bees make honey. Humans wage war. Zombies eat humans. No free will. And no compromises.
There was an old lady who swallowed a fly. We all know why she swallowed the fly. And now she’ll die.
“There have been others like you,” Stein said.
“I know. I collected them,” Ros said, his face bloody. He looked like a greeting card photo of a baby covered with spaghetti sauce, the bowl on top of baby’s head, a few noodles hanging down, and a caption reading: I Didn’t Do It!
“Each of you proved the viability of my theory,” Stein said, “that no one has to die.”
“Where are they now?” Ros asked.
Stein made a sweeping gesture with his hand, as if the night held answers. As if the man in the moon cared. “My son,” he said, “nothing has worked out as planned.”
The best laid plans of mice and men…again and again and again.
“It was to be a new beginning,” he continued, the cane impotent and resting against his leg. “Not an army of automatons or an enemy of man, but a new race, one with the potential to live indefinitely. One that wouldn’t require food or shelter or gasoline or television. One that wouldn’t waste natural resources.” Stein looked up. “The virus wasn’t ready when they unleashed it. Not even close.” His eyes shone in the flashlight beam. They were the brown of mud, of dirt, of the clay with which he made us.
“Dr. Stein,” one of the soldiers said with a note of warning in his voice, his eyes and rifle trained on Ros, who was twitching and contorting and moaning. Falling into character. Becoming the scorpion he was.
Stein shook his head, clearing it. “The military wanted to ship you to the desert. Turn you into soldiers for their war. But all hell broke loose first.”
“Father,” Ros gurgled.
“I have failed miserably. Our only choice is to give in, give up, submit.”
“Save…us,” Ros said. He grabbed my hand and held tight.
“It’s too late for that,” Stein continued, rubbing his forehead with his hand. “You’re both prime specimens, and at first we tried to help your kind. We sought you out and brought you to our labs. We conducted experiments using positive and negative reinforcement, trying to teach you right from wrong. We had some success, but, well, Private Drake here, his behavior is typical.”
Ros glanced my way; his eyes were as yellow as stomach bile. He was vibrating, a Holy Roller about to speak in tongues, the secret language, the word of God.
“BRAINS!” he yelled, and catapulted himself over the bow, heading straight for Stein.
It was a graceful dive, a swan dive, Olympic worthy. The soldiers opened fire; bullets pinged against Ros’s metal trapdoor of a head and bullets penetrated his cranium, but Ros continued flying, free as any bird. And Stein, our father who art an old boob in a boat, stood up with open arms to receive him.
Ros knocked the mad scientist over; they landed on a bench seat, Stein bent over backward like a doll, embracing Ros, and Ros was really dead now, his brains scattered into the lake, no better-or worse-than chum.
Food for the worms. Ashes to ashes. The great beyond. A better place. Doggie heaven. All that rot. Pun intended.
I took a step back. Two soldiers tended to the good doctor; the remaining three turned to me, guns, rifles, pistols cocked.
“I’m fine,” Stein said, pushing Ros’s corpse off of him and standing up. “How’s the other one?”
I held my hands over my head as if I were being arrested. The classic pose of submission. I raised one finger in the air and slowly moved my other arm. From my professor pocket, I pulled out my treatise, holding it between two fingers. I shook it at Stein.
“Looks like someone wants to tell us something,” a soldier said.
Stein gave me the once-over, taking in my tattered tweed jacket and tarp of a torso, my pus-filled skull of a face, the rusted sores and scant strands of hair, and the crumpled and water-stained piece of paper in my hand.
“You think you’re different, don’t you, son?” he said, crossing his arms over his bulletproof vest.
I unfolded the paper and held it out so that the words faced Stein, as if they were an incantation or a spell. The password primeval. The sign of democracy. Somewhere in the city, there was an explosion and a barrage of machine-gun fire. The soldiers tensed and a radio squawked.
“Let’s hope so,” Stein said, nodding at the men. “Bring it here.”
One of the soldiers approached me, and I smelled his brains, his musk, like fresh-baked bread, wild honeysuckle, Sunday-morning bacon. His helmet was too big for him; it covered all of his head and most of his face too. I didn’t dare look at his eyes. I extended my arm and he snatched the document.
Stein put on a pair of reading glasses and sat down. “‘A Vindication of the Rights of the Post-Living,’” he said. “‘By Professor Jack Barnes.’ Impressive title.”
I lowered my head in a gesture of modesty.
Stein skimmed my manifesto, nodding his head occasionally. “Justice,” he murmured. “Equality. True democracy. Hmmm. An analogy to slavery and suffrage. Very well written, Professor Barnes. Displaying a high degree of memory and cognition. There’s no denying your intelligence.”