Z-Vac

Z-Vac
Alan Green

Book I
Prologue

By 2015 temperatures soared. The Midwest drought that started in the 1970s had taken its toll. Everything from the California coast east to Kansas and the rest of the Bread Basket was parched. Annual conflagrations worsened, and over the course of a decade lush vineyards and majestic wheat fields were toasted, the ground left caked and cracked. Docks and piers jutted high over dry lakes and dusty riverbeds, skeletal monuments to recreational boating and fishing. Fires were left to burn and the sky was always hazy with smoke.

People left in droves. Panicked herds rumbled north in cars and on foot, some stopping in Chicago or Seattle where the weather was still tolerable, while others trudged on all the way to the Arctic Circle where winters were not too cold and summers were comfortable and there was still hunting, space and civility, and gardens still grew.

By 2020 the global economy collapsed for the last time. Over three billion were unemployed. Outside larger cities money was worthless, the preferred currency being ammunition, water, or food.

Riots were continuous. Some nights tall buildings downtown were gutted. Other nights entire suburban blocks burned. Wherever soldiers were not on patrol cars were overturned, houses burned, everything of value stolen. Trash cans, mail boxes (though worthless), manhole covers, even pets were taken (for food in most cases). As things progressed people were killed, sometimes for supplies they might be in possession of, sometimes out of anger or insanity.

Few professions remained viable. Soldiers enjoyed some comfort and security. There were no more police. No need for lawyers, shopkeepers, grocers, mechanics, delivery people, writers, actors, artists of any kind. Prostitutes traded their services for a meal and got by. Thieves could do well, and common banditry became, once more, a recognized, even respectable vocation. Doctors continued to be venerated, their skills desperately sought, they worked around the clock.

The Great Plague was a rampant beast. Its effects devastating. Hundreds of millions were infected. They died, slowly, as no treatment existed. The infection lived in the brain and caused slowness of speech and thought, and the terminal shuffled along, going nowhere all day. In its advanced stages, after years of decline, victims became mindless. They desired nothing, spent their days staring, and grunted when they wanted to speak, resembling nothing less than the living dead. For these reasons they were called Zombies, or Zees. Toward the end many became erratic, even violent. Such behavior was largely ignored as Zees could not inflict injury in the conventional sense. They couldn't throw a punch. Usually the 'attack' consisted of being groped and breathed on -- their breath was rotted meat and sewage. However, on occasion, addled though they were, a Zee would bite and the infection was spread.

So, Zombies were targeted for disposal. It was a pragmatic and, under the circumstances, the most humane course of action, though at times Zees were shot for sport by bored drunk kids who later claimed self-defense. A small minority protested, claiming the victim's civil liberties were being trampled. The quick retort was 'these aren't people anymore'. However, the minority was vocal and persistent so an alternate, more Constitutionally palatable solution was created. End-stagers, violent or otherwise, would be trucked to nearby deserted towns -- there was no shortage of those. These slums became known as Zombie Towns.

Soon there were dozens across the country, thousands in the world. No food or water, a pervasive stench, Zombies flopped everywhere their simple minds dreaming of puppies and cookies. However, in a queer turn, the virus caused a slowing of the metabolism, so terminal inhabitants suffered little for want of nutrition, and, when one finally died, the others would happily eat the corpse. It couldn't fairly be called cannibalism as none of the participants were, strictly speaking, human anymore, their brains long since turned to mush. They were hungry, so they ate the only available food (there were rats, but too difficult to catch), then sat and stared or shuffled aimlessly down the street, sometimes returning, sometimes spending the night in the playground or patch of woods at the edge of town.

Despite worldwide effort, the search for a treatment produced nothing. Riots escalated. Hordes demanded a cure. The population of Zombie Towns everywhere grew. Scientists and doctors promised progress but, by 2030, no Zombie vaccine, or Z-Vac, had been created.

Research continued.


Chapter 1: The Fortress

Clips From The Host

Bloody-Disgusting has 5 clips from "The Host", the Korean horror flick that's breaking box office records, and will be seen in this country soon.

Plans for a Hollywood remake are in the works -- although, I can't imagine Hollywood can match the quality of this film.

Director Bong Joon-ho crafts sequences that remind me of a young Spielberg -- except with more confidence and subtlety. These clips are some of the best I've seen.

What Makes del Toro Tick?

Anne Thompson recently hosted Guillermo del Toro, director of "Pan's Labyrinth", at her Sneak Previews class. In her report we get a clue as to the nature of what is becoming known as the 'violent scenes' of Labyrinth, as well as insight into del Toro's make up:

During his violent childhood in Mexico, he was beaten with a chain while a friend was beaten with a bottle in the back of a car. "Unlike the movies, the bottle never broke," he said. He spent time during his high school years "volunteering" at an insane asylum, where he used to walk through the morgue, where illegally aborted dead fetuses were piled up, on his way to have lunch in the cemetary. Hmmm.

When del Toro was 33, his father was kidnapped and held for 72 days as everyone waited. A cop told him that if they found the kidnappers, he knew how to get them to talk. "Break the nose," he told del Toro. "Then move it back and forth."

That's quite the background. Complete piece at Risky Biz