Wildflower

1 | Wildflower

Two-hundred and forty-six days alive. My high school girlfriend would have been proud. The Zombie Park trade was booming. People coveted what they feared, and I was in the business of eliciting thrills. I had flunked my high school aptitude test—but working the parks—I excelled at it.

We trained the lifeless to do what we could not be bothered; picking up trash on a leash monitored by a cattle-prod, clearing rat infestations with more speed and precision than rent-o-kill. Our signature act was to play catch for spectators. The fresher the slaughter, the easier it was to train the New Converts, and it was all down to muscle memory.

If you threw a ball nine times out of ten, they would snatch it. They were big dogs, not unlike Dobermans.

We fed them to each other. No punter preferred to see protruding organs and ribs through emaciated skin. The community desired the grotesque in manageable bite-size portions so not to detract them from their gift store merchandise.

We hoped we were demystifying a nightmare.

I walked the perimeter. The Gnashers were beyond decomposed for public display. They staggered in a circle, on occasion lurching and ripping a chunk out of the other. It was a better deal than monitoring the Raptor pen, which housed the adolescent and unpredictable. We satisfied them at arms' length with a pitchfork or dropped rotting flesh straight from the scaffolded skywalk above.

"We've taken shipment from Louisiana," Etienne announced, his eyes narrowed whilst flicking through the pages of the manifest. "We've got three Gnashers, one New Convert, seven Raptors, and a Statue."

"Tell Denlay our Raptor enclosure has no vacancies. Anyway, Long Island promised to receive the next batch."

"Shit." He winced, glancing at the paperwork in his hand. "Denlay is the New Convert. According to the manifest, there was an incident on the long haul. New driver's name is Jimmy."

"Denlay was a good man; I don't wanna look at his face. Return him with an Article 54 notice—Convert Known to Keeper."

Etienne disappeared into the office.

Article 54 kept laborers happy. We didn't personalize what we did or whom we did it to. Knowing a New Convert led to accidents and threatened the safety of paying patrons who saw our spectacle.

Etienne approached. "Just got off the long wave. Long island says they'll take them, but only if we deliver."

I sighed. "Add them to the next manifest."

"But it's not due to leave for another month?"

He was right. We had switched to a once a month schedule. However, the laws were strict; too many inmates and we risked our ratio of shepherds to flock, and the upper hand rules the roost.

"Fine, we'll go, let's clear the other consignment first. Maybe we could raid Costco on the way? They sold these peanut butter cookies..." For a dollar ninety-nine in old money, they were addictive and now had a street value.

Etienne chuckled. "I say we can do that."

He loosened the muscles in his neck before picking up his cattle-prod. The dead didn't feel pain, but their nervous system still operated to avoid it. It made a convenient method to shepherd them around.

We suited up; jackets insulated with newspaper and mattress stuffing, held together with duct tape. Etienne slid the bolt lock. The knocking from inside fell silent and we swung the door open.

They'd shackled the group to seats, except for one that slumped at the back.

"Spotted the Statue." Etienne boarded the truck and nudged it with his boot. "Never fed, early rigor mortis. Zap it and stimulate the tendons—see if we can get it moving."