David Bernstein: Machines of the Dead

“Yeah and this is the ‘ government sanctioned ’ news. You should hear what some of the local, less — respected, but highly believable radio stations are reporting.”

“And what are they reporting?”

“That after some of the sick people died, they came back to life.”

Jack shook his head, disgusted. Even in a time of real crisis people were scumbags, making shit up in order to get people to listen. He needed to sit.

“I thought about getting out of the city,” Zaun went on, “but where would I go? I’ve lived here my whole life, no family or friends, anywhere but the city.”

Jack stood quickly. Jess, how could he have forgotten about her? She was one of the really sick, a real emergency.

“I have to get my wife to the hospital, Zaun. Will you help me, plea-” he stopped himself when it dawned on him. He had thought she was dead. In fact he was sure of it. Then she came back and when she did, she was not like herself. He shook his head. No, he was letting what Zaun had told him screw with his head. The dead don’t rise up. He had done CPR, probably the same thing others had done, hence the reports of the dead coming back to life. He sighed, feeling better.

“Zaun, please,” Jack begged. “My wife needs your help.”

“Jack,” Zaun said, pointing at the television. “Have you seen the news? About what’s going on out there? Do you want to risk getting Jess infected? Yourself? Me?”

Jack hadn’t told anyone about Jess being bit. If he told him now, there was no way Zaun was going to help him. He didn’t want to lie to the guy, but he loved his wife and he would do anything to save her.

“Look,” he said. “I’m a hunter. You know that. I’ll bring my handguns. Even give one to you. We’ll take a cab to Beth Israel, down on First Avenue. You can drop Jess and me off, and then you can go back home. You won’t even really be outside; you’ll be in a cab.”

“First, I don’t need a gun, but thanks. Second, no one knows what’s really going on. I bet all cabs are being used by the sick too, turning them into Petri dishes of disease, or whatever it is that’s going around.” He shook his head. “Sorry, man.”

“You know me and you know Jess. We’ve been friends for what, a couple of years now? I’m asking as a friend to please help me with her.”

“I’ll come to your apartment. If she’s really sick, and I mean bad off, I’ll help you get her into the cab, but that’s it.”

“Good enough.”

Together, they left Zaun’s apartment, Zaun locking all three locks, even though he only lived a few doors down from Jack. The life-long martial artist took his sword with him, telling Jack, “ You never know, man.”

Standing in the Warren’s apartment, just outside the door to the bedroom, Zaun said, “What’s that noise?”

“It’s Jess.”

“Sounds like a dog scratching at a door,” Zaun said, almost laughing. Then his face went slack. “Why is she scratching at the door?”

“I told you, she’s sick.”

“And you locked her in the bedroom? What the hell’s going on here, Jack?”

“Nothing, she’s not in her right mind. The door’s not even locked; she can’t even open it.”

“Oh, my God, she really is sick. Let’s call that cab and…” he trailed off, appearing deep in thought. “Wait a minute, exactly how sick is she, Jack?”

“Listen, I was going to tell you-”

“No, no, no,” Zaun shouted, backing away. “She’s got what’s going around, doesn’t she?”

“Honestly, I don’t know for sure, but maybe.” Then, “Yes.”

“She was bitten by that guy on the news? The guy that went around assaulting people, wasn’t she?”

Jack closed his eyes and nodded.

“Oh, man,” Zaun said, his voice cracking.

Jack opened his eyes and saw Zaun looking at him. The man’s stare was focused on the area between Jack’s right shoulder and neck, the place where Jess had bitten him. With eyes wide, mouth open, Zaun said, “she bit you. You’re infected.”

“Zaun, I’m sorry,” Jack said, reaching out.

Zaun backed away, and in the blink of an eye, had sliced his sword through the air. Jack watched as four of his fingers came off, thumb untouched, like diced carrots on some crazy cooking show, flying in the air. Blood spurted like mini-geysers from the stumps as the digits landed on the floor. Jack screamed.

“Shit, Jack,” Zaun yelled, “I’m so sorry, man.” Zaun went to grab a towel from the bathroom when the apartment’s front door burst open. Four men and a woman, dressed in black military fatigues, came through the doorway, all of them holding handguns.

Jack was in pain and going into shock, but seeing the men shook him from his state. He watched as Zaun raised his blood-splattered sword to attack the intruders. One of the gun-wielding men pointed the weapon at Zaun and fired. There was no bullet sound, only a “pop” and then two darts attached to wires leading from Zaun’s chest to the weapon. Jack knew immediately it was a Taser. The sword fell from Zaun’s hand as his body convulsed. A second later, the martial artist was on the ground, shaking.

Cradling his hand, Jack asked, “What do you want?” He felt the warm blood dripping over his other hand, like freshly heated maple syrup.

“Where’s your wife, Mr. Warren?” one of the men asked. He was a huge fellow, with dark hair, graying at the sides, and a scar splitting his right eyebrow.

Jack didn’t know if the men were here to kill or capture, but from seeing the Tasers in their mitts, he assumed they were here to capture. They could’ve easily killed Zaun, but didn’t.

“In the bedroom,” he said. “She’s-”

“Sick,” the man finished for him. “We know.” Speaking to the man next to him, he said, “put this fucker to sleep.”

“Sleep, sir, not tasered?” the man asked, seeming confused.

“Yes, sleep. He’s been bit ten. The doc will want to take a look at him.”

“Wait,” Jack said, holding out his good hand. “I’ll cooperate. Do whatever you guys want. Please, just save my wife.”

“I think it’s too late for that, Mr. Warren, but we’ll see what we can do about you.”

Jack felt a pinch on his neck, and then the world went dark.

Jack awoke in a wheelchair, his ankles and wrists bound to the metal contraption. He was in a small, dorm-like room, with walls that were painted a light gray. A simple twin bed with a blanket rested in a corner. On the other side of the room were an empty desk and a chair. Other than his head being a little foggy, he felt fine. Then he remembered: his sick wife, the men in black, and the loss of his fingers. He looked down at his hand. All four digits were present and accounted for. He flexed them to make sure they were real. What the hell was going on? Had he dreamt the whole thing?

“Hello?” he called out. “Anyone there?”

“I see you are awake, Mr. Warren,” a voice said, sounding as if it had come from somewhere to Jack’s left. He quickly spotted that the sound was coming from a small box protruding from the wall near the room’s door. Jack scanned the rest of the room, looking at the empty walls, and along the ceiling. It was there he spotted the small camera, its red lens a dead giveaway.

“Where’s my wife?” he asked, struggling uselessly against his bonds. Seeing his hand again, he stared at it. There were no scars or sutures to indicate the reattachment of his digits. Even if he had found some indication of a surgical procedure, there was no way he would have use of the hand. It would take time to heal, if such a thing were possible. He shook his head and closed his eyes. He had to be dreaming.

“You’re not dreaming, Mr. Warren,” the voice said, as if reading his mind. “Your precious fingers are back.”