A Day for Damnation twatc-2 Page 6

  "Is that it?" I said. "I've seen zombies before. That's what happens to the walking wounded when they sink to that place below despair. Once they hit the zombie level, you can't bring them back."

  Fletcher looked like she wanted to say something in reply to that. Instead, she eased the car forward again.

  As we moved up Market Street, we began to see other shambling zombies. Most were heading westward. All of them were thin and dirty. Most wore rags, or less. Their movements were disorganized, fragmented, and surreal. They looked like they'd wandered out of Auschwitz or Belsen or Buchenwald-except for their expressions. The concentration-camp survivors had at least had life in their eyes-an awareness of the horror and hopelessness of their situation. The zombies had nothing.

  The zombies were ... detached. From the world, from everything-from their own bodies. They looked curious, and their eyes moved in quick, jerky glances; but they had no focus of attention. Their faces were empty. They moved like palsy victims.

  Fletcher slowed the Jeep then to steer around the rubble. Most of the zombies were ignoring us. A dirty creature-male or female, it was impossible to tell-shambled by us. It trailed one hand across the hood of the car. Its expression was ... almost happy. "That one looks stoned," I said.

  "Mm hm," Fletcher nodded. She angled the Jeep between two piles of bricks and up a side street. I recognized the remains of Brooks Hall on the left. The ruined marquee said simply, SAINT FRANCIS WRITHES AGAIN. I wondered who'd put that message up.

  We pulled up facing a wide dirty field. At the far end of it, what was left of City Hall loomed like a broken castle. You could still make out its broad stone steps. This had once been a great plaza; now it was a gray expanse of dust and broken concrete. Nothing grew here any more.

  "Okay," I said. "Now what?"

  "Now, we get out and look around."

  "Huh?"

  "It's safe." She patted my hand and climbed out of the Jeep. I had no choice but to follow.

  There were ... people ... in the plaza. They were pinker and somewhat healthier-looking than the ones we'd passed on Market Street. Zombies? Not quite. Many of them were fairly young-in their twenties and thirties. There were some teenagers, only a few children. There were very few beyond middle age.

  Most of the bodies were haphazardly dressed. Or maybe that should have been haphazardly undressed. They moved without regard for their clothing. It was as if somebody else had hung clothes on them, or they had draped themselves with whatever was handy. What clothing they did have seemed to be for warmth, not modesty.

  "So?" I turned to Fletcher. "I've seen this before too. These are walking wounded."

  "Are they?" she asked.

  "Well, sure-" I started to say. And then stopped. I looked at her. "They're something else?"

  "Go find out," she pointed. "Try talking to them." I looked at her as if she were crazy. Talk to them? "It's safe," she reassured.

  I turned back and studied the milling bodies. They moved without purpose, but they didn't shamble. They just sort of... moved. I picked out a young male. Maybe he was sixteen. Maybe he was twenty-five. I couldn't tell. He had long brown hair that hung past his shoulders. He was wearing an old gray shirt, nothing else. He had large dark eyes. He'd been very attractive once.

  I walked up to him and touched his shoulder. He turned toward me with a halfway expectant expression. His eyes were bottomless. He studied my face for a puzzled moment, then-not finding anything-started to turn away.

  "Wait," I said. He turned back. "What's your name?" He blinked at me. "Your name?" I repeated.

  His mouth began to work. "Nay-nay-nay ... ?" he said. He was trying to imitate my sounds. He smiled at the noises he made. "Nay-nay-nay-nay-nay-nay-" he repeated.

  I put my hands on his shoulders. I looked into his eyes, trying to create a sense of relationship through eye contact. The boy tried to look away-I pulled his face back to mine and stared into his eyes again. "No. Stay with me," I said firmly.

  He blinked at me uncertainly. "Who are you?" I asked him.

  "Bub," he said.

  "Bub? Bob?"

  "Bub-bub-bub-" He smiled happily. "Bub-bub-bub-bub-"

  "No," I said. "No." I pulled his face back to mine again. "No-no-no..." he said. "No-no-no...." And then, "Bub-bub-bub ... bub-bub-bub. . . . "

  I let go of his shoulders and let him wander away, still bubbling. I turned back to Fletcher. "All right. What?"

  She shook her head. "Uh uh. Keep going."

  This time, I chose a little girl. She was wearing only a pair of panties. What was it about these people and clothing anyway? She was very thin, very underdeveloped. She could have been a boy.

  I stopped her and looked into her face. She was as blank as the others.

  "Who are you?" I asked. "What's your name?"

  "My name... ?" she said. "My name?" She blinked. Like the boy, her expression was uncertain and puzzled.

  "That's right. What's your name?"

  "My name, my name ... is Auntie Mame. My game is fame, my game, my name, my name-" She babbled happily at me, smiling with delight at the sound of her own words. She'd figured out the game. "The game is name is fame is lame-"

  I let go of her and turned her back toward the crowd.

  "All right," I said to Fletcher, "I got it. They're not zombies. You can interact with them. But they've lost most of their sense of speech, so they're not walking wounded either. They're an intermediate step. Is that all?"

  "Part of it," she said.

  "What is it?" I asked. "A plague effect? Brain burn fever?"

  "Brain burn fever is fatal," Fletcher said grimly. "If this is a plague effect, it's something we can't identify. See that fellow there?" She pointed at a tall beefy man. "He used to be one of the sharpest biologists at the university. He was at the South Pole when the plagues broke out. He was never exposed. He was fully vaccinated before he returned. If it's a plague effect, it's a mental one."

  "How did he ... end up here?" I asked.

  She lowered her voice. "He was studying them-" She waved her hand to indicate the wandering bodies. "He thought he could see patterns of herding-something like the Emperor Penguins. He spent a lot of time living with them, moving among them. One day, he didn't come back. When we finally got worried, we came down here and found him wandering around with the rest of them. He couldn't talk much more than they could. He'd become one of them."

  I thought about that. Before I could ask the question, Fletcher said, "We're not in any danger. It takes prolonged exposure."

  "Oh," I said. I was not reassured.

  There were several hundred bodies in the plaza now. I stood there for a moment, watching them, trying to figure out why they seemed so... interesting.

  "There's something about them," I said. "I can't figure it out, but there's something going on here. The minute you look at them, you know that they're not normal. What is it?" I asked Fletcher. "What's the signal I'm picking up?"

  "You tell me," she said. "Tell me what you see?"

  "I see bodies. Pink bodies. That's part of it, isn't it? They don't wear much clothing."

  "By summer, they'll all be naked-but that's not it either. San Francisco Plaza has seen crowds of naked bodies before. The average Freedom Day Festival has less clothing than this."

  "I wouldn't know. My dad never let me come."

  "Too bad. Anyway, nudity is only part of it. What else?"

  "Um-their skin. When I touched them, their skin felt slick. Not quite oily. Kind of smooth. Different."

  "Mm hm, but that's not the cue either. You don't go around touching people to see if they're different."

  "Right." I studied the milling crowd again.

  "I'll give you a hint," she said. "What's missing?"

  "Missing? Mmmm. Talking. There's not a lot of talking. A few of them are babbling to themselves, but it's not loud and offensive, not like a street lady. They're babbling like babies amused with the sounds they're making-wait a minute." A thought was be
ginning to form. "What's missing is... intensity. They have a quality of innocence. They're like children, aren't they? It's as if they've given up all the stuff they've ever learned about how to be a grownup so they could go back to the innocence of children. Right?"

  "Go on," she encouraged, but she was smiling. I was on the right track.

  "They can feel pain or anger-but they don't carry it around with them. Adults do. We get hurt or angry and we carry it around with us for weeks, handing it out to everybody we meet. Did you ever watch Aroundabout on TV? One time they did nothing but photograph faces at random on a city street. Almost every single person they showed looked like they were wearing a mask. Their expressions were all pinchy and tight. But these ... people-I guess that's what I should call them-these people, their faces are relaxed. They've given up the pain-"

  I realized something else and shut up suddenly. "What was that?" Fletcher asked.

  "Um, nothing really. I was just realizing how sad it must be to have to give up your intelligence to be free from pain." I looked at her. Her face was hurting with the same realization. Her eyes were moist. "Is this what you wanted me to see?"

  "Oh, no," she said. She swallowed and looked uncomfortable. "It hasn't even started yet."

  EIGHT

  I LOOKED at the bodies again. "This is a herd, isn't it?"

  "Mm hm," she said. "Last summer, it numbered over twelve hundred. During the winter, it fell to about three. Now it's building up again. We've got about seven fifty here. This is the largest herd in Northern California."

  "What happened to the others?"

  "Most of them died," she said noncommittally. "A few wander off every night. The pattern is this: you go from shock to being one of the walking wounded. There's hope for the walking wounded. But only if you get quick treatment. Otherwise, you just keep sinking.

  "There's an instinct at work here. People seek out crowds, activity. So, this-" she pointed, "-is inevitable. The walking wounded gather in herds. I guess it's an illusion of safety. Some of them, though, are so far gone they can't even survive in a herd. Dropouts become zombies. The life expectancy of a zombie is six weeks. I'm surprised it's that long."

  I looked at her. "You've been studying this, haven't you?"

  She nodded. "You may be looking at the future of the human race. At the rate this herd is growing, we could hit twenty-five hundred by July. If that happens, we expect it to split into two herds." She pointed across the plaza. "See those two trucks over there? Those are the-you should pardon the expression-cowboys. They keep the herd under control. We used to keep the herd at Golden Gate Park, but we were losing too many every night, so we moved them down here. We can put them to bed in Brooks Hall."

  The noon sun was getting warmer. I noticed that more and more of the herd members were discarding what little clothing they wore.

  Fletcher followed my glance. "Yeah," she said. "It happens. We used to have a couple little old ladies who did nothing but follow the herd around putting their clothes back on them. There's one of them now. She finally gave up."

  She was pointing at a little wrinkled old lady, wearing nothing but a smile and her varicose veins. She looked like a road map of Pennsylvania. She was carrying a parasol to shield herself from the sun.

  "Sometimes, I think Jennie's faking," Fletcher said, "but you'll never get her to admit it. It probably doesn't matter anyway."

  "Are any of them faking?" I asked.

  She shook her head. "It's not something you can fake for long. Every so often we have civilians sneak in here, thinking they could take advantage of the herd-you know, thinking it would be nothing but a sexual free-for-all. But... something happens to them. They don't leave. You can only fake it for so long. Even the faking is part of the process of... enrollment." And then she added, "On the other hand, they could all be faking--but even if that were true, this would still be a real phenomenon. Whatever it is, we really don't understand it yet."

  "I'm beginning to see a pattern," I said. "There's something very fascinating going on here. But just standing around watching isn't enough. It's like a-an anthropological black hole. The closer you get the more likely it is you're going to get sucked in."

  "Mm hm," Fletcher nodded. "That's part of the problem. This herd started out as just another group of walking wounded. But now, it's even pulling in the observers too. Almost everyone who gets close. The cowboys aren't allowed to work more than one day a week, and even that might be too much exposure."

  She added, "This herd is one of the main reasons why we're keeping the city closed. We don't know what else to do. We've even discussed... euthanasia."

  "You're kidding."

  She shook her head. "Nope. I'm not. I've argued against it, of course. There's something here we need to understand." She held out a hand to me. "Come on-"

  "Huh? Where are we going?"

  "We're going for a walk among them. It's safe."

  I stared at her. "You've just told me that people are getting sucked into this herd every day, and now you want me to walk through it?"

  "I'll be with you."

  "That doesn't reassure me."

  She held up her wrist and pointed to her watch. "Set your sleep alarm. If you start to fade, the buzzer will wake you up. I promise you, it takes more than an hour's exposure to enchant you."

  "Enchant?"

  "Uh huh. That's the word. Enchant. You'll see."

  I grumbled something about other people's good ideas and cued my own watch. When I looked up, Fletcher was already heading toward the center of the plaza. I hurried to catch up.

  "Shh," she said. "Don't run. It upsets them. We had a stampede once. It was awful. Just stand still for a minute and get the feeling of being in the herd. Don't talk. Just look and listen."

  We stood there together, side by side, turning slowly and watching the other bodies circling around us. Their faces were content. It was unnerving. I felt uncomfortable. I could feel the sweat trickling down from my armpits.

  The sun was hot. It felt good. I loosened the top two buttons of my shirt.

  There was a naked girl standing in front of me, studying me. She had red hair and a dirty face. She could have been Peter Pan's little sister. She was smiling, but she looked puzzled too. She stepped toward me cautiously and reached out a hand. She touched my shirt. She fingered the cloth. She sniffed it. She looked up at me and sniffed me. She touched my face, let her fingers trail down past my chin to my neck and my chest. She stopped at my shirt buttons and studied them. It didn't take her long to figure it out. She unbuttoned the next button. She smiled with delight at her own cleverness.

  She took one of my hands in hers and studied my fingers. She turned my hand over and over. She sniffed it. She must have liked what she smelled, because she licked my fingers. She took my hand and stroked her breasts with my fingertips. Her bosom was small, her nipples were hard.

  She let go of my hand; my fingers stayed where they were. She searched my face again, curiously.

  Abruptly, she stepped away from me and dropped to the ground. She got down on her hands and knees and presented her rump to me. She looked back at me and smiled and wriggled her butt.

  "Uh-" I looked to Fletcher. I could feel myself flushing with embarrassment.

  "Go ahead," Fletcher nodded, "if you've a mind for that sort of thing. It's only the first step toward joining the herd."

  "I'll pass for now, thank you," I said.

  "Most men do. The first time, anyway."

  "What do you mean by that?"

  She shrugged. "She's communicating on a very direct level. Much more direct than most of us are used to. That is very difficult to ignore. It is almost impossible to forget."

  The girl looked back at me again, puzzled. She got up from the ground and looked at me again. She looked hurt. She wandered away sadly. I felt sorry for her, but a moment later, she was presenting herself to a teenage boy. The boy mounted her from the rear and took her quickly. She gasped and laughed, so did he.
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br />   "From an anthropological point of view-" I began. My voice cracked suddenly. My throat was dry. I cleared my throat and tried again. "Excuse me-I was going to say that what we're seeing is somewhat atypical behavior."

  "At the very least," said Fletcher, tongue firmly in cheek.

  "I mean-if you study ape and monkey colonies. Promiscuity isn't very often seen, is it?"

  "Not like this. But maybe this isn't atypical for a human-ape colony. We don't know. We don't have enough data on human herds yet. My own theory-" She stopped herself.

  "No, go on," I said.

  "Well..." she said slowly. "I was going to say, my own theory is that what we're seeing here is a ... distillation, or a reflection, of our own culture, but returned to the ape level."

  "Is that why they're all so horny?"

  She nodded. "It could be. Our culture tends to be oversexed. These ... apes ... have learned the lesson well." And then she said, "I also think... that they're still acting out the traumas of culturization-the adaptations that the human animal has had to make for sentience. Even though they seem to have given up sentience, they're still acting the roles, the learned behaviors."

  "I'm not sure I understand that."

  "All right. Try it this way. Consciousness has goals of its own. Consciousness perverts instinctive behavior to accomplish those goals. On the species level, we're all mad-because we've suppressed our natural tribal behaviors to try to be sentient. Most of us are so busy pretending to be sentient that we're deliberately tuning out our own bodies, our own feelings. We're detached from ourselves. Most so-called civilized human beings act as if they're living by remote control. They operate like machines.

  "I think what's happening here is a kind of a ... reaction. The plagues so damaged the world-view of these people that they gave up consciousness. Sentience didn't work any more-so they abandoned it. What we're seeing here is the remaining tribal behavior. The expression of it is no longer covert. It's all out in the open now. These ... people have become beings of pure sensory experience. They're always operating in the present, in the here and now. They have no past or future, no timebinding. They're just here, feeling. When they feel sad, they feel sad-until they're through feeling sad; then they stop and feel something else."