Zombies of Dungpileton

This is a ficticious web novel.  All characters, living or dead, 
and locations or events in this web novel are entirely fictitious or merely coincidental.  

Chapter 7
 

Those are gonna be some really cool scars!

The botanist walked into Jessica's hospital room as she displayed her sutures to Consuela and Pablo.  Consuela, the executive administrator of the Texas Gulf Coastal Complex, was not taken aback by the site of sutures crisscrossing Jessica’s arms and legs.  She had seen her share of blood when she was an EMT.   Pablo, the Complex Fire Management Officer, was intent on finding which suture was the longest.  So far, it was four inches. Having seen enough, Consuela told her husband it was time to return to work, leaving the botanist to admire the repairs.  But there were other matters on his mind besides well-wishing; Jessica had phoned the botanist after the attack and voiced her concerns of a link between that incident and him. She repeated Vladimirs’ statement. 

You and that devil botanist will burn in hell and a new kingdom of God will rule America.

The botanist exhibited a look of confusion to allay Jessica’s fears because he didn’t want her to worry any more in her current state.  In his alter life there were no such thing as coincidences. The coincidence between this attack and the sudden turn of events in his personal life seems to have no superficial connection but from his experience, that line of reasoning has led to more than one agents’ death.  There would be time later to hash it out with Race.

So that judo training finally came in handy?

Yeah, replied Jessica.  I was on auto-pilot and pure adrenaline but if it weren’t for Maggie you would be visiting me at the morgue.  What is going on?

I’m not sure.  I know we’ve pissed off a lot of powerful companies with deep political connections but surely they wouldn’t go to this extreme.  Would they?

Jessica thought for a few seconds.  Well, perhaps we’ll get more answers when the LE’s (Law Enforcement Agents) finish their investigation.  She had one more suture to show the botanist.

Look at this.  Jessica partially lifted her shirt to reveal an 8-inch long suture across her abdomen. 

A half inch deeper and my guts would have spilled out all over the floor.   

The botanist was envious  and joked - Holy shit! How come I miss out on all the assassinations! Jessica laughed and doubled over in pain, nearly opening the abdominal sutures. 

Sorry about that. 

That’s OK.  I’m taking extended leave.  Somewhere else, anywhere away from here.  What about you?

Oh, I’m sticking around.  I have plans.  Get well and let me know where you end up. 

The botanist was heavy in thought as he left the hospital in Lake Jackson, 15 miles east of Dungpilton but light years in medical treatment.  Had Jessica been treated in Dungpileton she would have been added to the list of patients that never left the hospital alive due to its high percentage of antibiotic resistant bacteria. 

There are no such things as coincidences he continued to tell himself.  So what was the connection between Jessica’s attack and Debbie , the woman he met at Comicpalooza?  Why does she live in Dungpileton of all places?  They hit it off from the start, enjoying a lunch and conversation filled with Star Trek and Dr. Who trivia.  Every episode he brought up was countered by her with an uncanny display of knowledge that only a hard core geek would know.   The skeptic in him said beautiful, geeky women like Debbie shouldn’t exist in his life.  Yet one did - his ex-wife who left him three years ago because she couldn’t rot anymore in Dungpileton.  She moved in after the marriage but because she was not related to the Angleton clan there were no job opportunities in this horrible little town other than prostitution.  He remembers the day she left, the imploring to come with her and establish a marihuana farm in New Mexico.

You grow the best weed in Texas but we can’t make a living here because the regulators take a 90% cut.

The regulators she referred to were the drug enforcers of the mayor and his police force.  All drugs, whether grown for sale or personal consumption were subject to confiscation unless the grower was registered with the city.  The botanist was not registered, keeping his sales low-keyed through an underground network in Houston but he couldn’t move more than a few ounces a month.  Finally she left him, never understanding the real reason why he remained, never knowing his obligation to Race and his country.  His years in the Marine Corps engrained unquestioned loyalty in him.  Someday in the years ahead he would fulfill this obligation and live a new life in New Mexico.

After his wife left the botanist retreated to a world of psychoactive plants, purchasing them from the internet as seeds or cuttings from all over the world.  They were grown within the confines of his house and backyard.  Through self-experimentation, he disengaged from reality at every opportunity but each trip left a residue of bitter hatred for the city and people that destroyed his marriage.  Someday, he tells himself, when he finally leaves Dunpileton there will be a bright flash from a neutron bomb in his vehicle’s rear view mirror.  The bomb was confiscated by him after a mission with Race which killed terrorists planning to detonate the bomb in Washington D.C.  All it lacked was an ample supply of tritium.  For now, there was the matter of Debbie and an opportunity to satiate his nymphomania.  Her had a date with her tomorrow and getting lucky with her would save him money on cocaine-addled prostitutes. 

Dungpileton City Hall

Race Banner’s first contact for the zombie project was the mayor of Dungpileton, Thadeus Angleton IV.  To Madison, the mayor’s receptionist, Race was just another businessman, probably peddling a new way to distribute cocaine or methamphetamine.  That’s all she encountered lately at this boring job but kept telling herself she shouldn't complain.  Her father, the mayor’s brother, secured this job for her after high school while her friends were left to fend for themselves on their back in the non-family sectors of town.  When Race arrived she displayed a smile of black, rotten teeth recessed within a lesion-covered, pockmarked face.  She looked many decades older than her age of nineteen.  Madison paged the mayor who approved the appointment.  After Race left, Madison took out her meth pipe to indulge in a toxic combination of pseudoephedrine, anhydrous ammonia and corrosive solvents, aka Meth. 

Race entered the office to witness the mayor embraced in a passionate display of kissing and breast groping a woman on his lap.  The mayor looked at him, sighed and introduced his wife, Nadine.  Race noted the mayor and his wife each had similar facial features and eye color and could easily be mistaken for twins.  After Nadine excused herself to leave the mayor issued a reminder. Don’t forget to tell Mom I’m coming over for dinner on Sunday.  Apparently keeping family control of Dungpileton was taken more serious than Race realized.  He seated himself at a chair in front of the mayor’s desk.

She's a hot piece of tail ain't she Mr. Banner or shall I call you Race?

Please do.

The mayor's energetic demeanor belied his pale, sickly looking appearance.  His left eye persistently ticked and not surprisingly that gene was expressed in his wife.  In a picture frame on the mayor's desk was a photograph of him, his wife and two slack jawed children, a boy and girl in the range of ten years old.  The mayor got down to business.

Race, it is my understanding that you are here to initiate Project Zombie and my orders are to assist and facilitate in any way I can.  May I ask, which route did you take into town?

Straight into town on business 288.  Why?

You drove through the tourist zone, the main area of businesses away from other sectors of  enterprises that provide the bulk of revenue for the city’s coffers.  These sectors will provide the participants for the project.  I read up on the pathways the parasite needs to infect the subjects and in my opinion the best method is to have them ingest the cysts after church services.  Attendance is always followed by a brunch and no one passes up on this because they may not get another decent meal for some time to come.  There are two grocers in town.  One is well stocked for family members and the other only sells rotting vegetables and fruit, molded bread and putrefying meat, eggs and milk.  The only thing that isn't rotten are foods loaded with high fructose corn syrup and these we sell for exorbitant prices.  It's either buy the sugar bombs or shit your pants for weeks with salmonella.  The poor fools are either too stupid or lazy to drive to Lake Jackson for fresh food.  Church brunch is also a prime opportunity for prostitutes to make a little extra cash away from their pimp so we will see if the parasite can also infect a host through sexual activity. 

But what about other denominations?

There are only two churches in town and both are non-denomination.  One is for the ruling family and the other for the sectors in which live our project participants.  Muslims, Jews and other non-Christians were eradicated from Dungpileton decades ago.  The residents of this town will not be contaminated by false gods, not even in the other sectors.  Inbreeding provides all the tax paying residents we need but if an outsider should slip through the cracks they are quickly dealt with except for federal government workers.  The disappearance of federal workers would bring unnecessary attention until we are ready to expand this project to the rest of the country.  Besides, there are only two, both working for the U.S. Fish and Wildlife Service.  One is some lunatic botanist in sector 6.  I can’t recall his name.  The other, David Siegfried is passing time in jail for nearly beating my nephew to death.  Unfortunately too many tourists corroborated the beating was justified and we will have to release him soon.   He would have met a mysterious death in jail if our citizens were the only witnesses.  The mayor didn’t add his nephew was a registered sex offenders who approach the daughter of the man who left him in the hospital on life support.  The mayor also seemed unaware of the order to assassinate the rogue botanist.  He gave Race more contacts to assist with the project which would start the following day.  He closed the meeting with a tidbit of FYI.

Did you know Race that I have the patent on the armrest you will see on shopping carts at the grocers?

Race entered the receptionist office to find several cans of Mountain Dew littering the floor.  Madison was facing a bookcase, obsessing over the exact placement of hundreds of books according to their alphabetical title.  Persistent lesion scratching had promoted a stream of blood to flow down the side of her neck.  She didn’t notice it or Race leaving.

Dungpileton

Sector 6

The botanist moved to Sector 6 after the departure of his wife.  After previously living in an apartment in the family only sector of Dungpileton he realized a yard and fence offered more privacy and space to grow plants for his mind altering experiments and top of the line Dro.  The apartment manager was only too eager to release him early from his contract and not bother anymore with the hands off exception he had to abide by for federal workers.   Sector 6 also had the best prostitutes, best in that they were less scavenged by drug addiction and venereal disease.  They were the only ones present on the streets, walking relentlessly day and night through swarms of mosquitoes and oppressive heat and humidity.  The protocol was to meet the John or Jane at their resident but neither they nor anyone else stepped on the property of the botanist.  The urban myth of no one leaving his residence was the first warning new sex workers received and no one wanted to test its validity.  He would have to quell his sex addiction at the brothel by the church.

When Race drove on the botanist’s street he knew where to go without looking at the house number.  Like other houses, his was obscured from the road but it was by vegetation.  The other houses were blocked from view by mountainous piles of rotting food, takeout containers, boxes of new consumer electronics and drug paraphernalia ranging from bongs to crack pipes to hypodermics for shooting heroin.  Trash pickup for non-family residents occurred every two month – maybe. The botanists’ front yard was a wildscape, inhabited by a multitude of native flora unlike the yards of his neighbors.  Theirs were wastelands of non-native St. Augustine grass (Stenotaphrum secundatum) or Berumda grass (Cynodon dactylon) with an occasional crape myrtle (Lagerstroemia indica) and Chinese tallow tree (Triadica sebifera).  Those yards were sterile, dead zone that never evolve with the local wildlife.  Where Race was able to see past the garbage he noticed every window had the blind pulled down by a hand with eyes peering out to watch him drive by.  Ever vigilant he noticed hookers approach his vehicle from the front and rear and then abruptly walked in the other direction when he pulled into the botanist’s driveway. 

The botanist greeted him in the driveway.  He was expected and both men warmly greeted each other. 

Before entering the house, the botanist pulled from his trouser pocket a small black object with an electronic button on its surface.  Leading Race to the end of the driveway the botanist instructed him to look down either end of the street.  He then pointed the object in his hand towards a wireless megaphone hidden in a Texas wild olive tree (Cordia boissieri).  After depressing the button a signal was sent to activate the megaphone and SD card within its housing.  What blurted out was a cacophony of tunes reminiscent of an approaching ice cream truck.  Within ten seconds Race witnessed a chaotic deluge of humanity spew forth from every house on the block.  Pale, morbidly obese children with video controllers in their hands and skeletal meth addicts crashed through or climbed over the garbage walls.  Most of the children simply collasped from exhaustion after a few feet.  Others who made it to the road discover the truck never existed.  The botanist laughed, telling Race he did this every day and they still ran out like it was the first time.

It never gets old. C’mon inside, I have a beer with your name on it. 

Race entered the house, noticing since last time there was twice the number of animal skulls nailed around the door jam.  Inside, he was nearly overwhelmed by the sweet scent of flowering cannabis.  He hoped there was also a bong with his name on it.