CHAPTER 9

A Brief history of ambulatory rotting flesh.

What had happened some hundred and eighteen years ago was that two factions of undead decided to split: The Free Society people went South, the Revelationists headed North. It was either that or eat each other which was bad juju – kinda like “Ape shall not kill ape.” Darwin would’ve gotten a kick out of how even those no longer having a pulse found a way to seek dominance and thin the herd. I suppose it’s a lot to pile on the undead, the expectation that their petty human differences would somehow disappear like the blood in their veins (which was now full of some dark viscous goo).  That in their reanimation they’d want to plant trees, bring nations together, figure out a safe sugar alternative.
     To quote John Belushi, “But nooooooo.”
     The undead, like anything else human or facsimile needed someone to tell them what was what. To make them aware that evil was at hand and that fear was what they should feel in their cold, dead hearts. For the Free Society folk, it was Jackson Quark and his lifestyle of early Rome, with a dash of Southern hospitali-tee and a sprinkle of Upper West Side Manhattan. For the Revelationists, it was Horace Varna, an ex religion and philosophy prof (non tenured) at Cal State San Bernardino who relied heavily on the writings of Calvinist orator, Jonathan Edwards. Horace carried a copy of Edwards’ seminal sermon “Sinners in the Hands of an Angry God” in his wallet to crib from when the occasion arose. He wasn’t as educated as Jackson, but he had the handkerchief in fist, sweat dripping, moxy of Huey P. Long delivering his “Every Man a King” speech.
     Jackson Quark was more the Oscar Wilde snark.
     The way Superman felt about Kryptonite was how the undead felt about heat. And what they didn’t learn until they were deep in it, was how extreme cold had the nasty habit of making parts snap off like a gingerbread man. So the age old question of which is better, to be too hot or too cold became the apex of philosophical debate among the undead. Also, what tasted better, warm, rotting flesh or frozen? Though Jackson and Horace would have you believe the splitting of the undead was a matter of spiritual awareness wrapped up in doctrine, the truth really was that it was about the weather.
     And so it was, that in Antarctica, tucked away in a bungalow town one hundred and seventy-five miles away from the nearest U.S. Research facility, the undead Revelationists lived. The bungalows once belonged to Russian scientists who had come to measure stuff and write it down. Abandoned at the end of the Cold War, the bungalows had a solid post WWII construction, much like Kyle and Virgil’s new digs, with everything labeled in Russian. Once upon a time everything used to run well, but if you think sea salt is hard on things, try sub zero temperatures. As the second to last power generator that kept things at about 40 degrees Celsius began to breakdown, news of the Yelina islands coming to life reached the frozen doors of The Revelationists.
     About the whole “Revelationists” moniker. In the beginning, Horace Varna would assert his convictions via revelations that usually came to him when he ventured out into the ice pack alone. After a while, when he started having revelations about things like whose turn was it to shoot pool and who got to choose the music for the New Year’s Eve dance, the whole concept of revelations downwardly spiraled.
     At a town hall gathering, the presiding mayor, Bea Debell, announced that word had come that the Yelina Islands were alive with activity again.
     “I told you they’d have it better, surrounded by sea life and all,” Stan Ottoman shouted. “What do we have? Spam.”
     “That’s baloney,” Bea replied.
     “Wish it was,” Stan quipped, elbowing the man next to him.
     “Our hunting parties regularly provide us with ample blubber from our own abundant wildlife – “
     “And the occasional scientist,” interrupted someone from the crowd.
     “There you go,” Bea said. “What makes you think Jackson Quark and his minions are fairing any better? Because we hear that they’re building?”
     “Which begs the next question,” Stan said. “What exactly’s going on in the Caribbean?”
     “Bet he’s building another refrigerated orgy room,” a voice from the back rows shouted.
     That caused the room to hum with murmuring.
     “Now now,” Bea said, holding up her hands to calm the gathering. “Whatever hedonism Jackson Quark’s residing over is no business of ours.”
     “Then why do we have spies planted there?” Stan asked.
     “Due diligence!” boomed a voice from the wings.
     Horace, dressed in rolled up long sleeves, buttoned vest and gold pocket watch walked to the front of the hall. There was no handkerchief in his hand which was a good sign that they’d all get out of there at a reasonable hour.
     “The mayor is correct!” Horace shouted. “What goes on over in Jackson Quark’s island of degenerates is of no business to a God fearing undead. We keep sentinels there for our own peace of mind. NOT to gauge the levels of sin being committed on a daily basis. No, we’re quite happy here, so long as we know what they’re doing over there.”
     “Which is what exactly?” Stan asked.
     “What would they have you think?” Horace replied. Chapter 14 in the Jim Jones’ guide to homicidal tyranny – answer a question with an obtuse and illogical question.
     “Well I don’t know what’s what,” Stan said. “I’m just a retired drill press operator from Saskatchewan. I do know that I’m sick and tired of having limbs epoxied back on and living on a steady diet of meat substitute. We’re the undead goddaimit; we eat flesh. Human flesh if possible.”
     That got the crowd going. Whoops, hollers, clapping and the occasional slogan such as, “Yeah! We need meat!” and f or no good reason, “Flesh Terrorists!” There was a time when Horace’s menacing and pious stare would’ve been enough to calm them down in an instant. Now, he had to jam four fingers in his mouth and whistle. Not as cinematic, but still effective.
     “Bretheren. I think we can all agree on two things,” Horace said holding up his fist.
     “First, we need to eat. Second. We need to know exactly what’s going on in the Caribbean.”
     Chapter 37 of the Politician’s Guide to Which Way the Wind Blows clearly states that if the crowd turns, turn with ‘em. The room erupted with cheer once again.
     “I’ve already established a secret reconnaissance team whose sole function is to locate a suitable food source and to learn the reasons behind the sudden activity on the Yelina Islands.”
     As the crowd got to its feet to cheer, Horace leaned into Bea Debell’s ear and said with a broad grin, “How’s that for an arctic jet stream?”