Biohell (80 page)

[Studio audience: laughter].

“Now, tell me, many people have
been wondering just how
horrific
it actually
was
for you, being
turned into a zombie and having your genetics squished and squashed arseways
and bumward? Would you be willing to comment on life as a zombie?”

“Well the funny thing is, Eamon,
that for much of the time it was actually quite
enjoyable.”

[Studio audience: hushed
silence].

“You mean, eating people’s brains
was
enjoyable?”

[Studio audience: laughter/
increase volume +12].

“No, no, not like that, what I
meant to say was, on occasion, well, being a zombie, it wasn’t something
horrible to eat somebody’s brain, because brain gloop smelt so good, like the
best of sloppy puddings, and once you dipped your claws in it was a bit like
having a
Matrix-Choc Sicko Cream Egg...”

“Eating brains was like eating a
chocolate egg? Why, you sick, sick perverted woman!”

[Studio audience: sigh of
horror].

“Hey, you keep twisting what I
say, you bastard!” Ellie lunged across the table, and with squeals of rupturing
flesh and bone, long claws ripped from the ends of her delicately-painted
nails. With one deft swipe, Ellie Midget removed the summit of Eamon’s cranium,
straddled him—before any of the security guards had even
moved
—and was
dipping her long, oak-gnarled claws into the TV Presenter’s yummy blue goo
before anybody could even say
resurrection of the zombie curse.

As they dragged Ellie Midget from
the studio, her legs kicking, her mouth rimed with fresh brain, she thrashed
and struggled and squirmed and shouted, “It’s not my fault, I tell you! You
bastards! None of this is my fault! It was NanoTek! All NanoTek, I say!”

~ * ~

BLACK
AND WHITE NEWS CLIP

The City’s Premier News
Delivery Service

[available in:
print, TV, vid, mail, dig.bath, ident.implant, comm., kube, glass.wall, ggg,
galaxy.net
and
eyelid transpose— all for a small monthly fee].

News clip GG/11/12/TBA:

Quad-Gal Unification Peace Forces have
issued a statement regarding recently deviated zombie creatures and their
return to supposedly “normal” human status after the desecration of NanoTek’s
Black Rose Citadel HQ and the biomod central controlling structure, the
GreenSource Mainframe. Despite all known zombie fingers returning to human
status, there have been several subsequent outbreaks of violence around
rejuvenating areas of The City. It appears that, in a few instances only, those
who succumbed to the pirated biomod curse [Legal disclaimer: we are in no way
blaming the NanoTek Corporation for this instance of semi-genocide, and totally
uphold the view that it was the fault of all hackers and pirates who deviated
biomods in the first place]— well, many ex-zombies have had moments of minimal
relapse. On five occasions, heads have been opened and brains eaten.

There is no reason for panic or alarm,
and we are
sure
that the biomod deviation is nontransferable from human
to human or alien to alien. And remember, just because somebody was once a
zombie, this should not affect their employment rights! Several restaurants
have been found carrying admission policies; this sort of
prejudice will not be tolerated by QGM Inspectors in The City environment. We
believe in Equal Opportunities for all! Being a zombie is NOT, we repeat, NOT
the disability it once was.

So. Be safe. Stay indoors. And whatever
you do, carry a weapon—and shoot for the knee-caps.

News clip: END.

~ * ~

The
Penthouse Suite atop The City Waldorf Astoria was perfect. The best of the
best. 10 STAR+. It took more than a zombie massacre on a planetary scale to
slow down
these
lucrative money-making hoteliers!

The lights were dimmed. Champagne
v3.7 chilled in a TitaniumVI bucket. Rose petals (syntheticjreal to a grade of
7!) lay scattered across plush floral bed covers and the thick Helk-fur carpet.
Music played, a harmony by the famous Quad-Gal composer, Muzo the Third.

Even the air smelled fresh. A
miracle of filtration, as outside fires still raged from the zombie rampage.

The QGM Briefing was scheduled
for 0700 hours, led by a drugged-up but nevertheless switched-on
hover-wheelchair incarcerated Stein-hauer. He informed the remaining veterans
of Combat K that they had a job to do. And they were leaving The City in 12
hours rimwards out of The Cluster.

By 0810 hours Keenan was driving
round in a commandeered buggy looking for a Holy Man and a ring. By 1120,
Franco had a suit, Mel a dress, and by 1300 hours they were at the marble_cast
Church of the Blessed Walrus, itching in starched fabrics, pew-seated guests
staring in ill-disguised horror as Mel strode up the aisle, all eight feet of
mutation, talons cracking the stone flags, Olga her lemon-scented bridesmaid.
Mel’s white dress still looked like a meringue.

“Are you sure you want to go
through with this?” muttered Keenan, Best Man in starched monkey-suit, from the
corner of his mouth.

“Of course!”

“But she’s an eight-foot zombie,
mate.”

“Hey, I am a man of my word! I am
an honourable fellow!”

“OK pal. It’s your future.”

The following few hours were a
blur of romance, of cars and confetti, of Champagne v3.7 and heartily shook
hands. Everybody patted Franco on the back and wished him the best. And that he’d
survive.

“Didn’t she look lovely in that
dress!”

“A movie princess!”

“More beautiful than any catwalk
model!”

Pippa caught the bouquet.

Now, as The City descended
towards night in a frenzy of rebuilding, clean-up operations, and an effort to
return some semblance of normality to a rampant warzone, so the Penthouse Suite’s
door was kicked open and Franco made one damn valiant effort to carry his huge
and bulging, growling, pus-stinking, heavily-muscled bride across the marital
threshold.

He managed one, staggered,
half-sandaled slap, then dumped Mel unceremoniously on the carpet. “That’ll
have to do, chipmunk. My back’s giving me hell!”

“Ranco! Ow Omantic!”

“Yeah yeah, I know.”

Mel ran to the bed, claws tearing
carpet, and reclined amidst petals, talons curling seductively around a glass
of chilled Champers. She patted the covers beside her. Franco paled.

“OK.” He sighed. “Love, you’ve
been waiting for this for a long time, haven’t you?”

“Es.” Melanie made a crackling
puckering kissing sound.

Franco stuck out his lower jaw,
rolled his neck, cracked his knuckles, and switching off the light, climbed
onto the bed. “Let’s get it done, then,” he said.