Free The Neuropathology Of Zombies by Peter Cummings Page A
Authors: Peter Cummings
a fog. I closed my eyes not wanting to see any more of the world beneath me. “How did I get into this mess,” I mumbled.
CHAPTER 9
I felt the bump of the helicopter hitting the roof of the police barracks and I opened my eyes. The high pitched sound of the turning rotors began to deepen into a low pitched hum as the rotation of the blades slowed. Out of the window I watched the other two members of my team run towards the exit, ducking low to avoid the propeller blades. I sat for a few seconds, and then followed them down to the tents.
The former parking lot was buzzing with activity. Everyone was trying to finish their work before the briefing.
I walked over to a group of Marines. “Is there a shower in there?” I asked, pointing to the building.
“Yeah, and there’s some food in the tent around the corner. Grab some grub and take a shower, Doc, you’ve got plenty of time,” replied an eager, baby faced soldier. I tried to imagine him in battle. I tried to envision him shooting the zombies. I wondered if he would have that same little boy shine after this adventure was over, if he lived through it.
I grabbed a cold soda and a roll, and sat down in the shade of a tent. The scene reminded me of a plane crash I had worked on many years ago. All of the pathologists and morgue technicians had been working around the clock for days crammed into a wet and stinky aircraft hangar located close to the crash site. We were all exhausted. Many of the restaurants in town had donated food for the morgue workers, which was amazing because usually we are forgotten about in such circumstances. The only down side to it was that in order to get the food, you had to pass through the Kindred Souls tent and walk by what felt like 100,000 grief counselors. They would look at you with a sickening, fake sympathetic puppy dog stare and ask “ now, are youalright ?” I remember it was a beautiful September, much warmer than usual. After passing through the trailer, people would sit on a grassy hill overlooking the runways and enjoy the fresh air. Once you were comfortable, the grief team would start walking around asking if you were still ok. It became a joke between us that you shouldn’t go anywhere alone, one of the ‘grief goons’ might get you. One of the goons cornered me one afternoon while I was lying on the hill enjoying the sunshine and a cold soda. “Are you ok? Do you have any feelings you want to talk about?” came a voice standing over me. “No, I’m fine,” I said. He kept pressing me and pressing me about my feelings until I finally snapped and yelled, “You know what I want to talk about? I want to talk about how you’re going to feel when I shove this soda can up your ass, now leave me the fuck alone. Jesus Christ. Have you even stepped foot in that morgue?” I pointed at the aircraft hangar. He shook his head ‘no’. “Then don’t come around here asking me how I feel. Get the fuck out of my face.” That was the last time any of the grief goons came near me. In retrospect, it should have served as a red flag that maybe I was stressed out, but the reality was these people were phonies and they knew it.
The shower smelled of mold, but the water was hot, and it felt good to get the grime of the last 14 hours off of me. I could feel the deaths of the strangers washing off my skin and sliding down the drain with the dirty water.
I really didn’t bring any appropriate clothes with me; the ripped jeans and pile of t-shirts that were my usual modus operandi were a liability here, so I was given Government issued fatigues. Not having my own clothes reminded me that I was away from home and I hoped everyone was alright. I wished I could call and check in, but I was sure General Fitch would never allow it. I was confident that my ‘evacuation order’ was being followed and there was no need for me to worry.
After a shower and a bite to eat I felt like a new man. I sat outside, staring up at the palm trees
CHAPTER 9
I felt the bump of the helicopter hitting the roof of the police barracks and I opened my eyes. The high pitched sound of the turning rotors began to deepen into a low pitched hum as the rotation of the blades slowed. Out of the window I watched the other two members of my team run towards the exit, ducking low to avoid the propeller blades. I sat for a few seconds, and then followed them down to the tents.
The former parking lot was buzzing with activity. Everyone was trying to finish their work before the briefing.
I walked over to a group of Marines. “Is there a shower in there?” I asked, pointing to the building.
“Yeah, and there’s some food in the tent around the corner. Grab some grub and take a shower, Doc, you’ve got plenty of time,” replied an eager, baby faced soldier. I tried to imagine him in battle. I tried to envision him shooting the zombies. I wondered if he would have that same little boy shine after this adventure was over, if he lived through it.
I grabbed a cold soda and a roll, and sat down in the shade of a tent. The scene reminded me of a plane crash I had worked on many years ago. All of the pathologists and morgue technicians had been working around the clock for days crammed into a wet and stinky aircraft hangar located close to the crash site. We were all exhausted. Many of the restaurants in town had donated food for the morgue workers, which was amazing because usually we are forgotten about in such circumstances. The only down side to it was that in order to get the food, you had to pass through the Kindred Souls tent and walk by what felt like 100,000 grief counselors. They would look at you with a sickening, fake sympathetic puppy dog stare and ask “ now, are youalright ?” I remember it was a beautiful September, much warmer than usual. After passing through the trailer, people would sit on a grassy hill overlooking the runways and enjoy the fresh air. Once you were comfortable, the grief team would start walking around asking if you were still ok. It became a joke between us that you shouldn’t go anywhere alone, one of the ‘grief goons’ might get you. One of the goons cornered me one afternoon while I was lying on the hill enjoying the sunshine and a cold soda. “Are you ok? Do you have any feelings you want to talk about?” came a voice standing over me. “No, I’m fine,” I said. He kept pressing me and pressing me about my feelings until I finally snapped and yelled, “You know what I want to talk about? I want to talk about how you’re going to feel when I shove this soda can up your ass, now leave me the fuck alone. Jesus Christ. Have you even stepped foot in that morgue?” I pointed at the aircraft hangar. He shook his head ‘no’. “Then don’t come around here asking me how I feel. Get the fuck out of my face.” That was the last time any of the grief goons came near me. In retrospect, it should have served as a red flag that maybe I was stressed out, but the reality was these people were phonies and they knew it.
The shower smelled of mold, but the water was hot, and it felt good to get the grime of the last 14 hours off of me. I could feel the deaths of the strangers washing off my skin and sliding down the drain with the dirty water.
I really didn’t bring any appropriate clothes with me; the ripped jeans and pile of t-shirts that were my usual modus operandi were a liability here, so I was given Government issued fatigues. Not having my own clothes reminded me that I was away from home and I hoped everyone was alright. I wished I could call and check in, but I was sure General Fitch would never allow it. I was confident that my ‘evacuation order’ was being followed and there was no need for me to worry.
After a shower and a bite to eat I felt like a new man. I sat outside, staring up at the palm trees