Read an Excerpt
Zombies For Zombies
ADVICE AND ETIQUETTE FOR THE LIVING DEAD
By David P. Murphy Sourcebooks, Inc.
Copyright © 2009 David P. Murphy
All right reserved. ISBN: 978-1-4022-2826-1
Chapter One
WHO MOVED MY BRAINS?: The Provo Virus and You!
You've entered the Transition. Through some unfortunate circumstance that's no fault of your own, you've been infected with the deadly Provo Virus. Here's what you need to know: from the moment of your initial infection to the conclusion of the Transition, you have approximately sixty-eight to seventy-six hours before you become one of "them"-the Horde. But as stated earlier, you're not going to end up as one of them. Trust me.
DON'T KNOW MUCH ABOUT HISTORY
Let's roll back time a bit so as to better understand the epic story that led to your current condition. And not to worry-just because we're going to talk about zombies for a brief moment doesn't mean that's where you're headed. We're using the term freely here.
Zombies have a rich and colorful story that goes back many, many years. The Internet (because it is the most reliable information source ever known to man) tells us that belief in zombies began in Haiti decades ago with voodoo practitioners. There it was believed that certain magicians could bring the dead back to life while others were overly flummoxed by the old "milk into a paper cone" bit. If no current dead wereavailable, it was decided the merely napping would suffice. In addition, many of those powerful Haitian wizards were also famous for passing primitive hoops around "floating" females. (Surprisingly, between reanimating the dead and the hoop trick, the native audiences consistently preferred the hoop.) Once the reanimation "took," the voodoo priests frequently returned the deceased to their loving yet horrified families. Alas, the resulting zombie silence at the dinner table was incorrectly attributed to ongoing household quarrels and not to catatonia.
Who knew? Catatonia is not a state in the former Soviet Union but, apparently, an altogether different sort of state. It turns out that catatonia is one of the many symptoms of being a zombie and defined as "an extreme loss of motor ability." Another characteristic of catatonia is that patients stay rigid for hours and ignore all stimuli.
It should be noted that it was in this catatonic state that zombies were often used as lackeys or flunkeys or, worst of all, flackeys. Chiefly utilized for slave labor by the Haitians, they were also exploited by being made to perform in embarrassing skits staged for rich white guys who resettled on little-known tropical islands with their buxom, beautiful, and helpless daughters. This slavish aspect of the zombie heritage has, in this author's opinion, been marginalized over the years to a discomforting extent. Little-known fact: it was zombies who were largely responsible for building the early Caribbean railway system, dozens of sugar factories, and a bitchin' water park outside of Les Cayes. I hope one day they get the credit they deserve.
Early versions of zombieness supposedly still exist in the Caribbean and certain parts of northern Georgia. However, our modern-day model (2.1 and counting!) is, of course, a direct result of the tragic and accidental toxic outbreak from the QualiCorps Labs in what used to be Provo, Utah. Shame about Provo. Pretty town in its day. And a mall to die for!
PEPPERONI, ONIONS, AND EXTRA DEATH!
This brings us to the recent past and to the beginnings of the actual Disaster. The virus, it turns out, was not a virus at all, but a prion, a more primitive beast akin to Mad Cow, but way madder. As you probably know, the Disaster was unleashed on the world in a tragic pizza delivery accident. To be completely fair, the prion was set loose by a research team working overtime at QualiCorps Labs and a pizza guy. Although details remain somewhat sketchy, that night a terrible screw-up occurred at the labs: a researcher, reaching into his pocket while distracted, inadvertently tipped the pizza delivery guy a couple of bucks and a vial of the deadly strain with which the team had been working. It was postulated that the driver returned to his truck, unknowingly compromised the vial's seal, and that was that.
The same evening, dozens of infected pizzas were delivered, along with apocalyptic crazy bread and buffalo wings of death.
Thus began the Disaster, the worst bio-outbreak in the history of the human race. Those who were infected quickly turned into zombies and stopped showing up for work (which certainly compromised their requests for disability). These folks became the Horde, and have proven to be not only unruly neighbors but formidable enemies as well. It took years and countless telethons for the governments of the world to bring the situation under a degree of control. Even so, scientists were unable to find a cure, and as stated earlier, this situation continues to be the case. Gratefully, life has become a bit more manageable than it was at the height of the Disaster. Through the establishment of Containment Zones, Halfway Regions, Safe Areas, the Scarlet Shores Facilities, and, yes, the invaluable Z4Z program, slowly but surely society is returning to a more genteel existence.
TRANSITIONEERS(tm), SAY "HELLO" TO YOUR PROVO VIRUS!
Let's not kid ourselves, though: even as you read this, the neurotoxins from the virus are racing through your system like pimped-out Roombas. Cells are mutating and croaking at an incredible rate, and your spleen has transformed into a substance resembling gelatinous Mountain Dew. Likewise, the vermis of your cerebellum is nothing special in the looks department and is currently fending off a hostile takeover. I wish I had better news, but that's how it is. Change is a-comin', and it's a-comin' on fast!
Imagine the Provo Virus in action: a healthy blood vessel is hanging out, minding its own business and providing recreational shelter for an innocent group of capillaries. Suddenly the P.V. blows into town and, like a band of banditos, comes streaming in, looking for trouble. After an initial exchange of uncomfortable pleasantries with the good-natured capillaries, the separate strings of the virus get surly and close rank around them. Within moments the virus erects what appears to be a large, lovely event tent and invites the little capillaries inside, only to immediately consume them. Despite the festive appearance, it's a bloodbath.
Later, we find the virus displaying its hunger-driven white stage as it descends on a perfectly pleasant enough red blood cell. Without so much as a "how do you do," the white virus latches onto the cell and won't let go. The poor bastard of a cell never stands a chance and is fully engulfed mere seconds after our imaginary interlude begins. The P.V. is merciless, deadly, and efficient.
Now that you've got a rough idea of what's going on with your body, please study the following chart in order to better understand the chronology of the Transition.
So why do you need this schedule? The answer is twofold: you should try to comprehend the biology behind what's happening, and you need to accept the inevitability of your evolution. The life you've had is going away quicker than a Cuba Gooding film, and a brave new existence is replacing it. While it's true you won't be quite the witty conversationalist you once were, you can, with a modicum of effort on your part, ensure that at least several of your consonants will remain available for your future use.
NEUROPLASTICITY AND KEEPING UP WITH THE QS
This radical change on multiple levels is why the first chapter is titled "Who Moved My Brains?" In your remaining time, or "tempus humanus" (as we professionals call it), you'll begin to experience a serious loss of cognitive skills and motor functions. This will happen soon, but take comfort in the fact that this loss is what is referred to as a "fixed-response reduction." It does not gain momentum in any way; it will not snowball on you. If you choose to do nothing, the effects of the Provo Virus will relentlessly drain you of your mind at a predetermined algorithm, leaving you with the personality of a Duraflame. But you're not going to do nothing; you're going to fight back.
Ironically, it's your very own brain that will do much of the heavy lifting via "neuroplasticity," your new best friend. Neuroplasticity is the brain's ability to remap information after an injury or damage has occurred. In other words, despite being pummeled by the Provo Virus, your brain (with a boost from Z4Z and its sister products) will actually rewire itself and move your most valuable "files" to a safe and secure location. Fortunately for you, the exercises provided later in this chapter have been proven to assist the brain with this redistribution of data.
Along with offering an invaluable boon to neuroplasticity, this book also aids the process of "neurogenesis," which is the ability of the noggin to produce more neurons. More neurons means a speedier mental response to any given situation, and, jeepers, that's gonna prove helpful. By giving both of these neuro processes a quantifiable "goose," you'll be markedly better off, and your Qscale(tm) number will most likely hover slightly between the categories of lesser primate and NASCAR commentator.
What's the QScale, you ask? Not so long ago, the U.S. government, along with researchers at QualiCorps Labs, developed a 1 to 10 ratings system for determining an individual's level of humanity. This QScale was meant to serve as a "measuring stick" to more accurately gauge the quantitative differences taking a toll on your system. Its intention was a natural response to the Disaster and eventually became an effective litmus test for determining how "Horde-esque" a given victim had become. For example, your typical Horde member would rate a 1 while an uninfected human would be a 10. As you can imagine, there's a lot of gray area between the two extremes, particularly if you ever worked at a law firm.
For the sake of full disclosure, you should be aware of ongoing disputes among members of the scientific community about if and when the QScale might be applicable to the average non-Transition human. One side believes it's heresy to attempt to employ such a system in that manner, while the other believes that scientists should be free to rate anyone-e.g., Geraldo as a 5.3. This author offers no opinion one way or the other.
Gratefully, there are numerous methods and new medications to help you keep your QScale number rising or, at a minimum, stop that nasty downward spiral. But be forewarned: you're probably already an 8.9 and sinking fast.
IT'S SORT OF LIKE BEING A TEEN AGAIN!
Analogy time: remember during your teenage years how your hormones raged and every other morning you'd wake up with a fresh zit or three? Your body was changing quicker than Bobby Brady's voice. Think of the initial phase of the Transition like this but far more dynamic. In the next several days, you'll be witness to a mind-blowing series of events and changes in your body that will make zits seem like a hangnail.
But wait. Remember how, when puberty did arrive, life went on and the zits went away? You'll have a similar experience with the Transition. Shortly, you'll return to a state of calm and normalcy, and all those awful memories of the day you were bitten will seem like nothing more than a bad dream. Your hormones may still continue to rage every now and then, but they can be kept at bay utilizing Romerin (see Chapter 3) and by maintaining a positive outlook and an urbane persona.
LEGAL CH-CH-CH-CHANGES
No discussion about your rapidly evolving condition would be complete without addressing your new legal status. After the Transition is complete, you'll be escorted to whatever Scarlet Shores compound you've been assigned. Not to worry. The Shores (as they've come to be known) are akin to impressive and elegant assisted-living (or post-living, if you will) facilities where you'll reside, dine, and shop. But here's the nitty-gritty: once you've been welcomed and processed, you'll lose your right to vote and to own property (unless it's vacation land you purchased from that nice Erik Estrada).
Additionally, you'll need to surrender your driver's license; in its stead, you'll be issued a shimmering new identification card as part of your revised Identidocs. You won't be needing that driver's license anymore anyway, because you won't be allowed to drive. That's right, no more cars for you. (Make plans now to give your car away to someone you love. Personally, I wouldn't donate it to one of those screwball do-gooder charities; they'll just sell your sweet ride for a marginal tax break.) But before you go all nuts on me about this news, think of the perks: no more auto insurance, no more repair bills, no more tickets, no more pain at the pump, and no more court appearances because you "tapped" that old dude in the intersection while you were texting your bff.
Are you starting to realize this isn't all bad? Your transportation needs will be completely taken care of, and you won't have to do diddly. For the full 411 on this, look for info about ShuffleCrafts later.
So other than these three strikes against you-no voting, no property, no sweet ride-there will be no other major changes to your personal liberties except that your freedom of speech will go down the drain, too. But what the heck-like you ever used that!
SHOOT THE TIME CLOCK
When it's been determined that you haven't "gone Horde," post-life will be much like your old life with plenty of time for fine dining, relaxing, and endless hours of quality TV. One big difference for you, though, will be that you won't need a job anymore. You heard me right-this is how retirement was meant to be. Your only time obligation will be to contribute fifteen hours a week of community service (i.e., tidying up), for which you'll be paid in the seven stamp categories (Food, Liquor, Drug, Beauty, Tobacco, Garment, and Cable). Your consistent commitment to service will enable the Shores to stay spick-and-span, and the stamps will allow you to still play a vital part in our struggling economy. Additionally, you'll be required to show up at any of your Shores' local InfusoHuts for your weekly plasmapheresis session, where your bad-to-the-bone blood will be replaced with the remarkable artificial blood product, Hemo-Glowin(tm). This process is painless and a little like dialysis for your circulatory system, but far more enjoyable. So other than the infusions and those fifteen hours, your time is yours to use as you see fit. Where do I sign up?
NO BRAIN, NO PAIN
Intelligence is overrated. How often do you read on the Tubes or hear on the Telly about a brilliant guy who's all ticked off about a promotion he didn't get or an honor he didn't receive? You know the kind: gifted but miserable who shows up at a holiday faculty banquet in a cheap blue tux with a semi-automatic handgun he's nicknamed "Nancy." This planet is lousy with 'em. But here's a secret-any of those punks would, in a heartbeat, jump at the opportunity for a sparkling social life and a sense of belonging. You can never underestimate the value of friends and family. In the end, all those smarts won't buy you a pitcher with your peeps. See where we're going?
Perspective is everything and I'm going to dole out a little right now. I want you to start thinking about the Transition or, if you prefer, your transformation, like this: you're about to make dozens of outstanding new friends, and a significant number of them will quickly become like family to you. You'll be surrounded by amigos with whom you'll have a good deal in common. Consider all the incredible activities you'll take part in together: long, sluggish walks along the wooded trails outside of your plush Shores abode; dining on delivered cuisine (more on that later); easy-to-grasp card games; generous helpings of the Hallmark Channel and Scarlet TV(tm); weekly motor-skills refresher courses; intramural staggering competitions; and so much more. If you don't believe me, take a gander at the vast number of leisure activities available in Chapter 5!
(Continues...)
Excerpted from Zombies For Zombies by David P. Murphy Copyright © 2009 by David P. Murphy. Excerpted by permission.
All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
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