The party continued. The rich spoke about the things rich people speak about, which is generally ‘now that I’ve made it, what crazy shit can I do to keep me occupied?’ The rich are always trying to outdo one another; joining cults, overdosing on clichéd drugs, killing prostitutes, killing themselves… you know the type. I mention this only as an attempt to explain why one of the partygoers snatched a set of keys from the nearest security guard on duty and proceeded to unlock the leashes attached to the necks of the three Zombies.
Who it was doesn’t matter but he, always a he, needed the rush, desperate for a thrill that didn’t involve hookers or blow. He assumed that everyone else did, too. He may as well have slung a belt around his throat and swung from the rafters, hoping that someone would cut him down just after the point of orgasm but just before the point of death. That’s a rush. This was reckless.
The Zombies set to work on those standing next to the smoked salmon appetisers. It wasn’t a complete massacre – the Zombies are just too slow for that – but they did well because it took time before the partygoers realised this wasn’t just another example of the freaky shit that happens at Hollywood bashes. When blood finally started staining the white walls, they started to run. After the situation resolved itself, forty of the most powerful Zombies in Hollywood were locked into the main dining room, with the remainder of the guests safely on the other side, in the guest quarters, or whatever phrase passed for ‘living room’ that week.
A summit was held.
‘There’s some serious talent in there. It would be a shame to waste it,’ someone said, either forgetting or not caring that they had just wiped a dude’s face from the front of their Prada sunglasses.
‘But what can we do? They are dead. A bad career move,’ another heartless fuck piped up, his age, gender and gorged facial expression almost indistinguishable from his buddy over there.
‘There’s no cure. We should get the Preservation up here, get them to clean up, then order some more booze,’ I said, probably, and although I’m pretty sure it wasn’t me it’s also something I could easily have said, in an attempt to sum up the feelings of the room and try and extend this party further into the night despite the record-scratching events of ten minutes prior.
‘No cure… that’s not entirely true.’
If that sentence sounds shady and mysterious, it’s because it was. This fucking Suit, that’s all I can describe him as, emerged from the back of the group like a freakin’ Bond villain and made his gooey presence felt. He represented at least three of the actors that had dropped about ten IQ points – we aren’t smart as a profession – in the other room and he’d be damned if he was about to lose commission on an issue as trivial as Neurological Zombosis.
He’d heard about a place where the really powerful, but Zombified, members of society go to retain their humanity.
The Church of Zombology.
A church for the tax benefits, dressed up as a splinter religion that worships George A. Romero for saving us from the horrible Zombies. They even have a converted Catholic chapel in downtown LA, with Romero’s bespectacled face painted on the wall and their own ‘Stations of the Cross’ that chronicle the journey of Zombies from Night of the Living Dead until when the Blood Turned, with cultural landmarks in between. It’s goddamn impressive and if I knew more about those films that I consistently told my agent to reject parts in, then I could describe it in a little more detail. You’ll have to go see it for yourself.
Their ceremony also mimics Christianity when it comes to the sacrament of Communion. Jesus Christ’s body and his blood, given up for us. It’s more than just for show to the IRS; it serves a purpose, one that I was staggered I was finding out about for the first time by this middle man at a fucking vodka bash.
Their ‘body’ was the flesh of humans, and their ‘blood’ was a milkshake of their innards. It wasn’t merely symbolic either; it was necessary.
The Suit continued his monologue, the kind that would have worked well as a cutaway on screen, y’know, the type of exposition that lazy directors use when they can’t find a proper way to tell the story.
In trying to discover a cure there was a drug formulated that could slow the decaying process by a matter of months, but the details were never revealed because it simply delayed the inevitable. The patient retained the thirst for flesh and, well, their bedside manner left a little to be desired. However, in the final stages of analysis, a sufferer of NZ that had been taking this cure under test conditions for weeks got the jump on his doctor and bit him, tearing away half of his face. What happened next, I swear, it would have made for a fucking great script had this not… well, y’know.
The cure used in conjunction with the consumption of flesh helped to fight off NZ to the extent that some human characteristics could be returned to this walking corpse. This guy who chewed out his doctor had been placed back into stasis while they dealt with the immediate situation of their colleague turning before their eyes. When they returned, they noticed a stark difference in the patient – he seemed a little more aware of his surroundings.