Dead Science: A Zombie Anthology

  Also by A.P. Fuchs

  Undead World Trilogy

  Blood of the Dead

  The Axiom-man™ Saga

  (listed in reading order)

  Axiom-man

  Episode No. 0: First Night Out

  Doorway of Darkness

  Episode No. 1: The Dead Land

  City of Ruin

  Of Magic and Men (comic book)

  OTHER Fiction

  A Stranger Dead

  A Red Dark Night

  April (writing as Peter Fox)

  Magic Man (deluxe chapbook)

  The Way of the Fog (The Ark of Light Vol. 1)

  Devil's Playground (written with Keith Gouveia)

  On Hell's Wings (written with Keith Gouveia)

  Zombie Fight Night: Battles of the Dead

  ANTHOLOGIES (as editor)

  Dead Science

  Elements of the Fantastic

  Vicious Verses and Reanimated Rhymes: Zany Zombie Poetry for the Undead Head

  Non-fiction

  Book Marketing for the

  Financially-challenged Author

  Poetry

  The Hand I've Been Dealt

  Haunted Melodies and Other Dark Poems

  Still About A Girl

  * * * *

  Dead Science

  Edited

  by

  A.P. Fuchs

  Published by Coscom Entertainment at Smashwords.com

  This book is also available as a paperback at your favorite online retailer like Amazon.com, or through your local bookstore.

  * * * *

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and events either are products of the authors' imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual places, events or persons living or dead or living dead is purely coincidental.

  ISBN -- 13 978-1-897217-86-3

  All stories contained herein are Copyright © 2009 by their respective authors. All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce in whole or in part in any form or medium.

  Published by Coscom Entertainment

  www.coscomentertainment.com

  eBook Edition

  Cover art by Scott Story

  Edited by A.P. Fuchs

  * * * *

  Bowels

  Sashimi Á la Morte by Lorne Dixon

  Arch Enemy by Glen Held

  Better Living Through Chemistry by Becca Morgan

  The Decay of Unknown Particles by Mark Onspaugh

  Blood, Spit and Aspartame by Adam J. Whitlatch

  Walking With the Dead by Anthony Giangregorio

  Spark of Life by Gina Ranalli

  In the Blood by Eric S. Brown

  No Man's Land by Jason V. Shayer

  Mr. Hanson Goes to the Lab by Michael Cieslak

  Thanks for the Memories by Gustavo Bondoni

  Homeless Zombies by Vincent L. Scarsella

  The Valace Standard by Ryan C. Thomas

  Those Undead Writers

  * * * *

  Dead Science

  * * * *

  Sashimi Á la Morte

  by

  Lorne Dixon

  Doctor Silas Drundtl stood under the flickering parking garage lights, fanned out his keys in his palm, and wondered which would open his car door. The batteries inside his keychain remote were dead. For the first time since buying the luxury sedan, he would have to use its key.

  Unfortunately, he didn't have the slightest clue what most of the keys in his hand opened. He recognized the keys to his house, his office, and his safety security and post office boxes, but that left a half dozen more. He hated his need to hang on to things.

  Silas closed his fist around the keychain, dropped his head and closed his eyes. It had been too long a day, three procedures, with one that ended with him telling a sixty-five-year-old woman that she was a widow. He needed to drink a cheap domestic beer in his bed and let the sound of the air conditioner lull him to sleep.

  "Drundtl? Is your name Silas Drundtl?"

  Opening his eyes, he turned towards the voice. It belonged to a tall wire sculpture in a designer suit and bifocals. Behind him, two greasy bodybuilders in European dress shirts stood with arms crossed. The trio didn't have the word "criminals" tattooed on their foreheads---that would have been too subtle---but Silas assumed the word was inked on their hearts.

  When he didn't immediately answer, the man asked, "Don't you speak English? I can probably accommodate. I speak six languages. I do international law."

  One of the thugs asked, "You Drundtl or what?"

  "Why do you ask?" he said, and realized at the same moment that "Never heard of him" was probably a better response.

  The tall man's head bobbed like a peacock when he spoke. "I'm not asking. Enzo Occhialini, my boss, he's the one who's asking. You just imagine him standing right here between Guili and Cesare."

  Silas inched towards the men. He knew Occhialini's name from the weekly papers---retired-billionaire-cold-war-biochemist-turned-seafood-restaurateur---with multiple indictments for money laundering and extortion. "And your name?"

  The peacock's head shot straight up. "I'm Mr. Fitcher."

  Fitcher extended his hand. Their eyes locked and Silas stared into two swirling black holes. In most men's eyes there were hints of their humanity---a twinkling of humor, a gleam of nobility and purpose. Fitcher had the eyes of a corpse. Silas took the offered hand and shook it.

  "Tonight you'll make one hundred thousand dollars for a couple hours work," Fitcher said, pupils dilating like a high tech guidance system locking in on a target. "Our car is waiting."

  There was no threat issued, not verbally or with body language, but there was no mistake, either---this was not a job offer to be accepted or refused. With Guili and Cesare flanking him, Silas followed Fitcher to an idling limousine.

  They didn't speak as the driver sped them through the city, hurrying through yellow lights, ignoring crosswalks. After a few minutes, Silas turned away from the window and stared at his feet. He imagined them encased in cement, dangling off a lower east side pier.

  The car pulled into a private driveway through a pair of arched wrought iron gates into Occhialini's estate. As it glided to a gentle halt, Silas asked Fitcher, "Why does he want me? I win the lottery or something?"

  A wry grin wormed its way over Fitcher's face. "Mr. Occhialini's personal physician died recently after a long illness."

  "What did he have?"

  Opening the door, Fitcher said, "It's a very common disease called infidelity. I believe he caught it from Mrs. Occhialini. In the end, it proved fatal."

  Silas stepped out of the limousine and followed Fitcher past a long rose garden, up marble stairs and through the mansion's mahogany doors. Guili shut and locked the entrance behind them. In the massive main hall, Cesare took Silas's coat and handed it to a servant dressed entirely in white. They corralled him through a maze of rooms---parlors, barrooms and lounges---to a large dinning hall.

  Occhialini, stick figure thin, sat at the head of a long Ash Birch banquet table. There were no other place settings or chairs. Fitcher nodded to his boss and announced, "This is Dr. Drundtl."

  "I read your paper in The New England Journal of Medicine," Occhialini said as he unfolded a cloth napkin, freeing a pair of silver chopsticks. "The one about metabolic relativism."

  Silas squinted, his mind blank, and then shrugged. "Oh. That actually wasn't my work. There's another Silas Drundtl down in Princeton---"

  Occhialini dropped the chopsticks. "You didn't write the article? You're not the guy?"

  "No."

  Fitcher's eyes flicked between Occhialini and Silas.

  "Did you even read that articl
e?"

  Silas took his time before nodding. "Yes."

  "Did you agree with the findings?"

  Silas saw Fitcher nod, an almost unperceivable instruction to agree, but said, "Not really. But I'm a surgeon, not a---"

  "Well, that's a relief, actually," Occhialini said, replacing the fork. "'Cause I think that fool is dead wrong. I chose him for tonight to teach him a thing or two. But, you know, since you're already here."

  Silas blinked. "Here for what?"

  "Dinner." Occhialini clapped.

  A team of Japanese chefs rolled a large aquarium into the dinning hall. The fish inside, half buried in sand, was almost a foot and a half long and covered with flesh-colored plates. Almost flat, it resembled an eyeless catfish suited up in armor, except for the teeth on display when its wide mouth opened. No catfish had incisors like that.

  "What is that?" Silas asked.

  Fitcher tapped the glass and the fish darted to the aquarium wall, teeth gnashing, scales rising. "It was called Phyllolepis. A fresh water fish extinct since the Devonian age. Well, extinct until now. An intact specimen was discovered on the banks of the Guyandotte River, perfectly preserved in an alluvial fan ridge. It's an incredibly rare find, a naturally mummified creature with DNA strands intact. Enough to clone this fellow."

  The fish circled in the tank, now agitated.

  "I'm a seafood connoisseur. I've had delicacies that only kings and pontiffs have tasted. The finest caviar from early season Caspian Sea Sturgeon. The belly of the endangered unarmored three-spine Stickleback. Even giant squid, though that in itself is another story. But the Phyllolepis is different. No man has ever tasted its flesh."

  The fish settled back into the sand.

  "Or would survive," Fitcher said. "We took diagnostic samples from our friend here. Its flesh contains a cocktail of powerful neurotoxins."

  "And you intend to eat it anyway?" Silas asked.

  Occhialini smiled. "I do."

  "And you're here to keep him alive." Fitcher stepped away from the tank and nodded to the lead chef. He rolled a pair of mesh gloves up his arms.

  "Wait. No," Silas said, raising both hands. "I don't know the first thing about the toxins. I don't have the pharmaceuticals or know dosages. I haven't even examined---"

  Fitcher hushed him and pointed. Against the far wall was a mini-bar stocked with medical supplies. "You'll find everything you need right there. All of the medicine vials have been prepared for Mr. Occhialini's age and weight."

  Silas's eyes scanned the mini-bar. It was an impressive---and blatantly illegal---collection. "I still can't."

  Occhialini rolled his eyes. "Are you going to make us go out and find some other doctor? 'Cause I'm hungry and getting impatient. If 'no' is your final answer, that's fine."

  He pointed a chopstick at Guili. "Take him out back. I don't want a mess like that time with that incompetent repairman. I had to fly those linen cleaners in from Naples."

  Guili took Silas by the shirt collar, twisted, and lifted him off the floor. His arms flexed, revealing a roadmap of purple veins and arteries. He snarled. "Boss's pocket watch was still off by four seconds after he fixed it, so I got to fix him. Did too good a job."

  Occhialini slid the watch out of his coat pocket. "It's an 1898 A. Lange And Söhne not some mass produced Rolex trash, a watch worth treasuring, worth killing for."

  "Agreed," Fitcher said.

  Both hands around Guili's wrists, Silas croaked, "Wait. I'll do it. I'll do it. I'll do it."

  Occhialini gestured for Guili to release him and snickered as the doctor dropped, fell to his knees, and rubbed his neck. "Thank you, Doctor."

  Fitcher turned to the chefs and said, "Let's start."

  The lead chef reached into the tank. The Phyllolepis darted out of the sand, needle-filled mouth open, and attached itself to the chef's glove. The chef yelled and withdrew his hand, pulling the fish out of the tank. Slamming it down on the table, he tried to catch its tail with his free hand. He screamed as its scales sliced into his fingers.

  The second chef took his position at the table, angling a raised meat clever over the fish's body as it flopped back and forth, tearing through the glove. He swung down, striking the Phyllolepis just below its smooth, bulbous head. Pressing down, he decapitated it.

  The lead chef pried the dead fish's mouth open and slid out of the mesh glove. A few of the needle-like teeth remained imbedded in his ruined hand. He swore in Japanese, bowed towards Occhialini, and ran from the room.

  "Spirited fish," Occhialini said.

  Fitcher cracked his knuckles. "Had some fight in it."

  The second chef waited for the fish to move before carving it with a long takohiki knife. He cleaned the fish quickly, scaling off the armor plates, shaving off skin and fat, and slicing off a series of one-inch-thick fillets. He spread out three slices on a square plate garnished with lime slices, bamboo shoots and seaweed. The chef slid the plate in front of Occhialini, bowed, and stepped away.

  Occhialini took a sip of lemon water to clear his palate. He fumbled with his chopsticks, grinned and said, "Excuse me, I'm just excited."

  Capturing a fillet between the shaking sticks, he brought it to his lips. The flesh wiggled as he sucked it into his mouth. He chewed.

  "How's it taste, Boss?" Cesare asked.

  Occhialini swallowed, took another sip of water, then turned to Cesare and said, "Difficult to describe. Nothing like modern fish. Meatier . . . more . . ."

  Occhialini fell silent. There were two indications that he wasn't just searching for words to describe the cuisine. His white-knuckled fists slapping to his chest was the first. His eyes were the second hint. They exploded.

  Guili blurted out a short, ugly word and took an unconscious step away from the table.

  Convulsing, Occhialini collapsed onto the table and slid until the chair under him tipped over. He hit the floor, arms curled up over his chest like a dead bird. He stopped twitching.

  Fitcher ran to Silas, put a hand on his back and pushed him towards his boss. Prodding him farther, Fitcher screamed, "Help him. HELP HIM NOW---"

  Silas broke out of his shock and rushed to the fallen man, not out of the threat of violence or the promised payment for his services, but because he was a doctor. Kneeling, he put a hand on Occhialini's throat and felt the man's pulse wither down to a weak occasional pump. "I need a defibrillator and an Epinephrine syringe."

  The goons exchanged empty stares.

  Silas pointed. "The crash cart."

  Fitcher reached it first and rolled it over.

  Silas pumped Occhialini's chest with his palms.

  "What do I do?" Fitcher asked.

  Silas took one hand off Occhialini's chest and gestured to the defibrillator's power cord. "Plug it in."

  Eager to help, Cesare snatched up the plug and ran towards the bar. The cord, still wound around the defibrillator's base, snapped tripwire tight. The cart overturned, spilling the defibrillator, boxes of medical gloves and dozens of syringes across the floor.

  Fitcher screamed, "IDIOT."

  Silas continued CPR even though he could no longer feel a pulse.

  Cesare scrambled, still searching for a wall socket, dragging the defibrillator behind him. Guili chased the machine, hunched over, hands scraping the floor, trying to free the cord. He slid on a latex glove and fell screaming onto a bed of hypodermic needles.

  "Idiots," Fitcher muttered.

  Silas pulled his hands off Occhialini, stood, and turned to Fitcher. "It's not going to matter. He's dead."

  Cesare and Guili ran to Fitcher's side.

  "You can resus---"

  "---bring him back with the paddles---"

  "---ain't, you know, dead dead, right?"

  Silas firmly shook his head. "He's dead dead, yes."

  Cesare's eyes filled with tears. He dropped the defibrillator. It crashed to the floor, crushing syringes, its hard plastic case cracking. "You gotta do something. You gotta, man."

  Si
las said, "There's nothing I can---"

  Cesare's hands came down on Silas's shoulders like bolts of lightning. He lifted the doctor off the floor and tossed him onto the dining table, pushing into his throat with a bulbous elbow. He shook Silas and spat as he spoke. "The boss took me in when I was seven after my father died. He treated me like . . . like a son . . . taught me everything he could. I was never real smart. I was never gonna be a boss like him, but that never . . . that never mattered to him. He treated me like a son---"

  Silas sputtered, unable to respond, and flailed his arms. Intense heat swam up from his throat. His lungs began to twitch as they tried to expel the depleted oxygen trapped within. Cesare's face began to darken as consciousness began to fail.

  Cesare turned, his mouth dropped open, and he lifted himself off Silas. Silas pushed himself across the table, out from under the thug's shadow, hacked out a series of rapid coughs. He turned his head.

  Occhialini sat up.

  Cesar bolted to his side, slid onto his knees and wrapped his large arms around his boss. "You okay now, Boss? You scared the hell out of us. He said you was dead, y'know, dead dead."

  Occhialini's head snapped to one side, pivoted to face Cesare, and smiled. Dozens of sharp teeth no wider than needles had sprouted in his mouth. He launched his jaws into Cesare's face, biting down, lacerating open a gaping hole. Cesare's face disappeared in one bite, replaced by a hollow red cavity that exposed the skull underneath.

  The skull face screamed as Occialini's head whipped back, tearing the wound open even further. The boss's tongue snaked out, twined itself around the flap of flesh dangling from his mouth, and sucked it in.