Pop.11 Exercise three

“Bow.”
Pujman bowed low in what he hoped was the correct manner. He had been shown how to bow in her highness’s presence only minutes before. He counted to three and raised his head.
“You may examine the princess, as her doctor.”
“Is her highness behind that curtain? The rich brocade?”
“No, Pujman, she is on the cushion.”
“Which cushion?”
“The one in front of you.”
“Forgive me, chamberlain, I see only one cushion, and on that cushion is a cat.”
“The cat is Princess Suri.”
“I am a stranger in your city. Your customs are str-”
“No customs are involved, Pujman, save those of succession,” said the chamberlain. “The sultan was cursed by a witch. The queen gave birth to a cat. There is an end to it.”
“How can this be?”
“To understand the secrets of the witch, which are secrets of God, is not given to such as we. Our gift is the opportunity to witness, to marvel, and to serve as best we can.”
“But, to bear an animal.”
“To their majesties has been given the opportunity to endure and to retain sanity.”
“How can you hold a cat to be your princess?”
A heavy hand landed on Pujman’s shoulder.
“She has the blood royal,” said the princess’s bodyguard.
Pujman turned and looked up at the bodyguard’s dark face.
“Th-thank you for explaining.” Pujman smiled. The bodyguard did not.
“I trust it is clear to you why we could not explain before,” said the chamberlain.
“Yes, yes,” said Pujman. “Quite clear.”
“You are able to proceed?”
“I am able, and competent. I have experience with animals of all kinds. From camels, to monkeys, to lizards, to cats.”
“Enough talk,” said the bodyguard. “Her highness Princess Suri needs you.”
Pujman advance on the cat, holding out his hand. He rubbed his thumb against his forefinger. It was a way to attract the cat’s attention without seeming threatening. After three paces he was near enough for the cat to smell his knuckle. When he saw the cat’s nostrils flare, he narrowed his eyes.
The cat’s green eyes looked straight at him, holding his squinting gaze for a moment. The slits in the cat’s eyes quivered, then she blinked back.
He stroked it on the top of the head. The cat began to purr.
“Is that a good sign, Pujman?” the chamberlain said.
“It’s how I always approach cats,” said Pujman. “She, I mean, her highness, is relaxed. That is a good sign for an uncomplicated pregnancy.”
“Excellent.”
“I’ll just examine her to make sure.”
“Proceed, proceed. And may God grant us at least one thing that is not complicated.”
Pujman ran his hands along the cat’s sides and belly, and inspected its rear orifices.
“All is well, chamberlain,” he said afterwards. “You have a week to wait.”
“Just a week? Very well.”

Accommodation was found for Pujman in the princess’s palace. This he found most convivial. There where many staff, as one might expect for a princess, but they were all idle for much of the time. Every princess needs a dressmaker, but Princess Suri had no dresses. Every princess needs a dancing instructor, but Princess Suri never took classes. Every princess needs a mathematics tutor, but Princess Suri never learnt to read the stars. And so on. Of the princess’s staff, Pujman was the newest and the most busy, having to attend her two or three times a day.

On the third day of Pujman’s stay there was a commotion. Pujman sought out the chamberlain and asked him the cause.
“Prince Jamshid is returning today.”
“The princess’s brother?”
“Her husband.”
“Husband? But surely nobody would marry a -”
“A what, Pujman?”
“Well, a … come chamberlain … what do you want me to say?”
“I don’t want to say anything offensive. Hence I stopped you. You may be attending her highness for some years yet. It would be well for you to learn to express yourself without using words like cat. This is our protocol in the palace.”
“Yes, chamberlain.” Some years, Pujman thought.
“Now, what did you want to ask me?”
Pujman thought for a moment. Who would marry a cat? Another cat?
“Tell me about Prince Jamshid,” he said after he had considered.
“Of course Pujman. His highness is the son of a neighbouring sultan. He enjoys riding, hunting, music, not so much the poetry or mathematics but perhaps when he is older. He is but a lad of ten now.”
“And how did he meet the princess?”
“He met her on their wedding day. They were betrothed before the princess was born.”
“Ah, politics.”
“Peace, Pujman. It is not given to royalty to wed for love, another burden they must bear.”
“What a burden it can be.”
“Quite so.”

That evening the sultan visited the princess’s palace and an opulent feast was held in his honour. The princess did not attend. Afterwards, the chamberlain gestured to Pujman to sit with the royal guests.
“Well, Jamshid, my son” the king said.
“Sultan and father?”
“I hear that I am to be a grandfather.”
“Yes sultan.”
“There is a question that I must ask, son.”
“Then I must answer.”
“Are you the father?”
The boy blushed and said nothing.
“It’s alright, Jamshid, these things happen,” said the sultan. “Not every royal man can satisfy a royal woman. When this happens, royal women sometimes look elsewhere. Do you follow me Jamshid?”
The young prince looked at the floor.
“This madness,” he said, plucking the cushion on which he sat.
“It is a form of madness that overcomes them, I suppose,” said the sultan. “And when it does, and there are children, it I best to pretend nothing untoward has happened and to treat them as your own. That’s what I will do.”
“Your majesty, father, are you criticising me?”
“Well, who else can eh?” The sultan stood, as did the chamberlain, Jamshid and Pujman.
“In the book of holy readings much is written on the matter of love,” the sultan said. “It may be considered an abuse of a wife for her husband to neglect her needs.”
“But how can I -”
“Let’s speak no more of this. I understand the house is to be blessed with children in a matter of days. You will have to consider them your own, and ponder your shortcomings as a husband.”

The princess Suri gave birth on the day Pujman had predicted. Four kittens were born, all healthy. As is normal, the kittens were born with their eyes closed.
Three days later they opened their eyes. The first three had green eyes like their mother. The other had brown eyes like their grandmother.
“Remarkable,” said the chamberlain. “A cat with the eyes of a man.”
“A girl, chamberlain,” said Pujman. “And what about protocol.”
“Why, this is so remarkable that I abandon protocol, in order to express hope.”
“What hope is that?”
“Well, as I said, I know not the secrets of the witch. But if a human gave birth to a cat, then perhaps a descendant of this cat will give birth to a human?”

Zombie theme parts 1 and 2

Damn, this growing in the telling rather. One more chunk still to come after this, I reckon.

Lively’s Condition

“You’ll have give yourself the injection,” says Hargreaves as he tightens the band on my upper arm. “Ethics of the suicide mission and all that.”
“I understand,” I reply.
He hands me a syringe labelled “007”.
“It’s smaller than I expected,” I say, just to delay the inevitable.
“It has to be concentrated, a small volume I mean,” he says. “It’s effective at the tissue level so we have to be sure you can inject all of it quickly without, you know…..”
“Dying too soon?”
“It’s a bit more complicated than that, old chap, but yes, for your purposes.”
I take a deep breath and put the point against my arm.

And then I wake up. Must have been dreaming.
I’m lying on my back and I can see a box of sky. There’s a throbbing noise, like an engine, all around me. Where am I? Need more information.
I sniff. Nothing. Of course not, I have no sense of smell any more. No proper sense of smell that is. I mean, I can recognise the smell of brains, of course. No brains here.
I lean up on one elbow and look around. I’m in some kind of metal chamber, open to the sky. Next to me is a corpse.
The corpse is lying face down, although there probably isn’t much of an actual face judging by what’s where the back of the head should be. All that’s there is a two halves of a head. Both halves are covered in short hair, blood and some stringy bits and bobs. There’s nothing inside either half. Now I remember eating the brain. And before that splitting the guy’s head open with an axe. And before that smashing him on the bridge of the nose with the same axe, blunt end that time. And before that he shot me. That’s further back though.

I was on fire and he shot me in the chest.
To my left another man shouted “La tête, la tête.”
The head he’s saying. I must know some French.
The shouting man was standing on deck near the gunwale of the boat. Under his arm was a gas cylinder rigged up to a rubber pipe with a cigar lighter taped to the end. The French love their bricolage, eh?
He grimaced and blasted me with burning gas again. The fire doesn’t hurt, nothing does, but it is a concern. I could feel my flesh charring. Much more of this and I wouldn’t be able to move. Then I might actually get shot in the head and then there’s a good chance I’d be dead. Dead dead, not moving dead.
I’m calm in a combat situation. I have no idea why.
My other assailant was to my right, also backed up against the gunwale. He was raising the pistol. He was not calm. His hands were shaking.
I was on the deck in between them. Had to charge one or the other. They both reeked of brains. If I went for the fireman, burning as I was, there would have been a good chance of his DIY flamethrower exploding and blowing both of us to pieces. I hurled myself to the right.
My arms wrapped around the man, “mon dieu” he screamed, and my momentum carried us both over the side of the boat into the sea.
Immersion put out my burning flesh, which was useful. Bubbles erupted from the man’s mouth as we descended, not far.
Something touched my temple. The gun! I pushed myself back as he fired. The bullet missed me just barely. Apart now, we both stood up. I was too slow though. I straightened up to find him already standing, up to his waist in water, with the gun held in both hands pointing into my face. He squeezed the trigger and the gun clicked.
“Merde!” He turned and dived into the water.
I tried to follow but it was no good. He was swimming faster than I could wade. Any other prey, I wondered.
On the beach was a screaming scrum of zombies and Frenchmen. I’m the leader of these zombies, the Picnic Crew I call them. I say leader, but it’s less formal than that. There was been no election or other appointment. It’s just that I’m in better condition than any of them, physically and mentally.
There they were, picnicking on the rest of the French crew. Twenty or so zombies and three live humans, not much of a contest. My plan had been that they would get the three brains to share between them, whilst I would pursue the two on the boat and get at least one brain all to myself. The plan was not looking good at that point.
The boat had already motored away some distance. Far beyond the boat, I could just see a plague buoy, bobbing in the distance. When the zombie pandemic had struck they had quarantined off the UK mainland with a perimeter of these buoys.
Nobody was supposed to cross the line of course, but there was always somebody willing to take the risk in the hope of finding something valuable. Somebody like these Frenchmen.
The swimming man started shouting. I don’t know enough French to understand what he said but I saw the boat come about and stop. Could I catch up? Maybe if I could swim.
And suddenly I was swimming. Quite fast too. Every now and then my dead body surprises me with a skill remembered from when I was alive. Like the French and the calmness in combat. It’s never surprised me by remembering any events from when I was alive though, just skills.
As I drew closer to the man the smell of brains thickened. My arms and legs moved faster. I saw his boots, kicking, and above them his sodden overalls. That won’t be helping him, I thought. The charred fragments of my own clothes had fallen away by then. I was swimming in nothing but the tool belt that held my axe.
I could have caught him in the water, but I realised that, if I did that, the other man would motor away in the boat and take his brain with him. Being able to realise stuff like that is part of what makes me the leader of the Picnic Crew. Another part is that I can suppress my hunger long enough to act on a plan.
Right then I planned to allow him to reach the boat, with me in close pursuit, and get on board. Once there I would kill both men and eat their brains.
I stopped swimming and let my body sink. No need to breath, no need to surface. I paddled underwater. The comet trail of the swimming man’s limbs was easy to follow. Soon, the hanging intrusion of the boat’s hull came into view. I increased my speed and started to ascend. He noticed me just before he reached the boat.
I surfaced. His friend on the boat had been about to help him climb aboard. Now he turned away. The man in the water started shouting, something about god, shit and a prostitute I think. I trod water and unhooked my axe.
The man on the boat turned to face us, raising a rifle. The bullet missed as I ducked back underwater. He fired again, a white line in the water marked the bullet’s path. I swam under the hull to consider my next move. The man in the water swam towards where I was lurking. I could probably grab him and get his brain, but it would mean losing the other one.
His legs dangled in front of me, I guess he was trying to pull himself onto the boat. More white lines appeared. The man on board must be firing, I thought, suppressive fire to keep me under cover. But no, these were coming from another angle. What was happening? The man fell back from the side of the boat, thrashing. I pushed forwards, breached the surface, and was assaulted by noise.
The rattle of automatic gunfire filled the air. There was clanging and splintering as the boat was hit. The man in the water was shouting. The man on board was shouting and firing. So, they were under attack, probably from a quarantine patrol. That didn’t change my objective: brains.
I lunged forward, my hand catching on the man’s overall. Both his hands seized my wrist and started working it left to right. Steadied now, I brought my other hand over and smashed the blunt end of my axe onto the bridge of his nose. His eyes crossed and glazed, his hands went limp and we started to sink.
Underwater, the noise of gunfire lessened and then was blotted out. A silver stream of air bled straight up from the man’s sagging mouth and from the mess between his eyes. I clung to him, I had my brain. It would have been easy to paddle with him back to the beach and feast, but it was not to be.
Without warning, I was surrounded by a pervading disturbance in the water. Then I was not in the water. My picnic and I had been caught in a net and hoisted into the air. In the few moments that I had before being dropped again, I saw that I had been taken by a small trawler.
The hold where we dropped was metal-lined and square. I was not back on the beach or any kind of land, but the hold would do as a place to eat.
I remember standing over the body, turning it face down, and raising my axe. After eating I remember I had a nap. Did I dream? That I can’t remember.

Now what? Have to get out of the hold and get back to the land and my picnickers. Although … this vessel must have a crew. With brains. Strange that I can’t smell any nearby. Strange that a trawler would be used for patrolling too. Still, brains, mmm.
I try climbing but the walls are too smooth. Maybe there’s a trapdoor? I look in all the corners, shift the body, nothing. No doors of any kind. I start bashing the walls, listening for a hollow.
“Calmez vous, mate,” says an amplified voice, from above.
I look up to see a megaphone being held by a person wearing some kind of gasmask.
“Il n’ya pas de exit, I mean, sortie – hang on. Fucking hell, what’d you do to that other one? Wait a minute. You’re a zombie.”
The gasmask must be filtering out the smell of brains. Any of my crew would ignore him, but not me. I know there’s a brain in there, although it is disorientating not to be able to smell it.
“You are aren’t you? Are you? A zombie?”
What do you say to a question like that?
“No,” I shout. “Let me off the boat.”
“Jesus, I never met one who talks before.” Then he turned off the megaphone and disappeared.
“I’m not a zombie,” I shout after him.
After a moment two heads in gasmasks appear over the edge. I think they’re talking to each other but my dead ears can’t hear them above the noise of the boat. I shout and wave. They look down at me but say nothing. Soon one of them goes.
The remaining one seems to be watching me. I feel naked. I’m not ashamed as such, maybe it’s just that I’m used to wearing clothes and now I haven’t got any. The overalls come off the body easily enough and I pull them on over my tool belt.
I try to start a conversation a few times but the person in the mask ignores me. The trawler is moving so we must be on our way to somewhere. I can bear to wait. I’ve had a whole fresh brain to myself recently.

It’s night when the boat stops moving. There’s movement around the top of the hold and a light comes on. The light is dazzling when I look up and I can’t see who’s holding it or who’s up there. There’s a clattering and a net swings into the hold. It settles onto the floor as the ropes from which it is suspended slacken.
“Get in the net.” It’s the megaphone again, speaking from behind the light.
I don’t seem to have an option. I could try climbing up one of the ropes but it doesn’t seem worth resisting at this point.
I step onto the net. The clattering starts up again and the net lifts and swings me out of the hold.
I roll and twist in the net, where am I? Of the trawler I can still see nothing. The light is being held on me, tracking me, and dazzling me. In the other direction I can see a small concrete dock. There are two vehicles parked there: a transit van and, behind it, an army truck. The truck’s headlights are on. There are two soldiers in gasmasks taking a bar off the back doors of the van.
I am set down in the glare of the truck’s headlights. The van doors are open and I can see into the back. It’s lined with metal and there’s no opening at the cab end. Another cell, like the hold.
“Normal drill?” says one of the soldiers.
“No,” says the other. “We’ll have to drag it in there, net and all, then cut it free.”
“Tricky. Hey, it’s looking at me.”
“Wants to eat your brain.”
“I thought the masks, you know…”
“Yeah well. It’s still a zombie. And that’s what zombies do. Now then, grab your side of the net.”
“You grab your side.”
“I will when you’ve grabbed your side. It’s nearer to my side. You give it a heave, it’ll go towards you then I can grab my side and we’ll have it in the back in a jiffy.”
The other soldier rubs his hands together and widens his stance.
“OK,” he says. “I’m going to grab the net.”
“Go on then.”
“Right. Here I go.”
“Go on then.”
“Um. You don’t think it can understand what we’re saying do you?”
“Eh?”
“I mean, it might have heard all that and be waiting to pounce on me.”
“Pounce?”
“Yeah, like a shark.”
“You can’t pounce underwater.”
“Alright, like a tiger. Jesus. What I’m saying is he might be ready for me. Might be about to go for my brains.”
“He’ll be sadly disappointed if he does. What’s in your head wouldn't cover a cream cracker.”
“Yeah but how’s he to know that?”
“Ha ha. Did you hear what you just said?”
“Eh?”
“Listen. If it pounces on you I’ll shoot it, never mind what the professor said.”
The soldier patted his hip. There was a holster there. The other soldier had one too.
“You’ll shoot it?”
“Yeah. In the head.”
“Proimise?”
“Promise.”
“Get on with it,” a third voice shouted. The truck door slammed. Footsteps approached across the concrete.
“What the hell are you doing? We’re very exposed with the boat here and all the lights on.”
“Sorry Professor Lively.”
I grind my teeth, feeling a crunch as something gives way. Why did I do that?
The soldiers have been joined by a third gasmasked figure, this one in a lab coat.
“What’s the problem here?”
“It … it might have heard what we’re planning and be about to pounce, professor.”
“I believe it’s a he, Stafford. And if he did understand what you’re pleased to call your plan then he also understood that Harrison’s going to shoot him if he pounces.”
“Right sir. Good point sir.”
“So can we get on?”
I let them drag the net into the back of the van and even help by clambering, so far as I can. Once inside I curl up into a ball so that they won’t feel threatened. They squeeze past me and get back out. They cut the ropes and slam the doors. Sounds like the bar is slid back into place.
It would have been funny to pounce when they grabbed the net, but I think Harrison would have shot me.

“There’s a chance you won’t remember your mission after, you know, after …” Hargreaves says.
“After I’ve re-animated?”
“Exactly. So we’re going to try to implant the key elements hypnotically.”
“Well. You’re the boffin.”
“Good of you to see it that way. Now, I want you to watch the screen and listen only to the sound of my voice…”
And then I wake up. What was the mission? What are the key elements? Just another dream.
This time I’ve woken up strapped to a chair. I’m in a candlelit room. There are metal counters, beakers, lengths of rubber tube, other equipment I can’t identify. It’s a laboratory. The man in the lab coat emerges form a shadowy corner. He’s still in his gasmask. Professor Lively they called him.
“Were you dreaming?” he says.
“Yes.”
“Fascinating. And you can talk. What did you dream?”
“Can’t remember.” It’s true, I can’t.
“Shame,” he says. “Do you know your name?”
“No.”
“Well, I want us to have lots of conversations and that’s going to be difficult if you don’t have a name. How do you feel about … Adam?”
“I can’t shrug, strapped to this chair,” I say.
“Ha ha. Jokes as well. Fascinating. I’m Professor Lively, by the way.” He touches the back of my hand. “Pleased to meet you.”
“I’m not going to kill you,” I say.
“That’s good I suppose, but why did you say that?”
Reflections of yellow flames dance on the visor of his mask. I can’t see his eyes. I have no idea why I said what I said.
“Hmm? Adam, why did you say that?”
“To put you at your ease,” I say.
“I don’t think that’s entirely true, is it Adam? Now, it’s important to me that you answer all of my questions truthfully. I hope you’ll come to find that important too. So I want you to understand that what I’m about to do is in your best interests.”
What is he going to do? I look at the tubes and other equipment. There’re some scalpels, a vice, something with a screw thread. The bonds are too strong to break. I can’t even get enough leverage to break an arm and wriggle free – whoever restrained me clearly understands how dead flesh works.
“Last chance, Adam.”
“I don’t know why I said it.”
“Sorry Adam.” He turns and leaves.

By the time he returns I’m starving. And he’s brought lunch, a naked man, hobbled and manacled, and wearing a gas mask.
“Hello Adam. See what I’ve brought you?”
Professor Lively pushes the manacled figure to one of the benches and starts tying him in place. The man struggles then starts shouting. It’s not in English and the words are muffled by the gasmask.
“Right,” says the professor. He takes a step back from the bench. “Feeling hungry Adam?”
“Yes.”
“But how much more hungry do you feel when I do this?” He pulls the gasmask off the trussed man.
It’s been a while since I’ve seen a face, rather than a gasmask. The man takes in a gasp of air – must get stuffy in the mask – then looks around. He starts saying a word, over and over again. Sounds like it might mean no, although I don’t recognise the language. He’s looking at his bonds and squirming by the time the smell hits me.
Ah, fresh brains. Intellectually, I know you can’t see a person’s brains through there, but I find my gaze fixed on this man’s ear. The circular black area in the middle is the most interesting shadow in the room. I’m aware of drool dripping out of the corner of my mouth. My hand tries to wipe, instinct I suppose, but just jerks against my bonds.
“Quite a lot more I’d say,” says the professor. “But we can go one step further.”
He steps in front of the man, links his hands behind his neck and forces his head down. There’s a vice on the bench there. The man has started to scream, but this turns to gurgling as the professor tightens the vice on his cheeks.
Lively straightens his lab coat and turns to rummage.
“Here we are.” He’s holding a hacksaw. “I’ve found that the freshest brains are the best for zombies. You don’t mind if I call you a zombie do you?”
I’m too hungry to say anything.
“I have been trying to think of a less pejorative word. I mean so far as the state of zombiehood, I term it Lively’s condition. Fair as I’m the inventor, don’t you think?”
He starts sawing at the crown of the man’s head. A sprinkle of blood fountains up but not high enough to reach the professor’s gasmask.
The sound of sawing is dim to me. As the vapour of brains reaches my nostrils everything else fades. The man’s gurgling reaches a peak then stops. The professor starts talking again.
“That’s better,” he says “now I won’t have to shout. Where was I? Oh yes, Lively’s condition. Originally I was in germ warfare, you see. Anyway I started coming across all kinds of interesting phenomena around death and putrefaction. I won’t bore you with the details, which you wouldn’t understand, but suffice to say that I gained an understanding of what it means for flesh to be dead. It’s not as simple as you might think.”
He put the saw down and took up the device with a screw thread.
“They tell me you were using an axe. Is that true?”
“Yes,” I say.
“You’d have been much more efficient with one of these. A surgical instrument going by the simple name of spreader. Inserted thus … uh, ah … and, after loosening the vice, the thread can be turned thus, and the brain ex…posed. See?”
I could see, but was overwhelmed by the smell.
He scooped a spoonful out and fed it to me. Delicious.
“Anyway, back to my germ warfare research. I realised that I had stumbled upon the undead. It’s the next step you know.” He dipped the spoon in again. “Humans can now be immortal. Do you understand Adam?”
I could feel my head twitching. All I could think about was the spoonful of brains, out of my reach.
“Do you Adam?”
“Yes, professor. I understand. I’m immortal, the next step, in evolution.”
“No Adam. Evolution is over. Humanity will be a race born of science. You’re immortal. Think of how much time you have to learn, to improve, to push back the boundaries of knowledge.”
“I want to do that professor. I want to push back the boundaries.”
“Good,” he said, feeding me the brains. “Very good. My problem was that I couldn’t do enough research. Had to keep everything to myself. I mean, what would the government have said? I was supposed to be developing disease weapons, not solving the problems of pain and death forever.
“In the end it was too frustrating. I had to do more research. There was only one way forward. I had synthesised a biochemical agent in the lab that would bring on Lively’s condition in dead flesh. I released this agent into the atmosphere. D’you see? I turned Britain into my research ground.

pop.11 assignment three is to write something inspired by this picture.

I propose the following deadlines:
Start whenever you like.
Post your piece to your blog by, well, let's give folks a decent chance, 25sep2005. That's just over three weeks.