I Was A Teenage Redneck Zombie From Outer Space

Fiction by Chrome Oxide

Paw’s voice echoed through the metallic hallways of our asteroid homestead. “Cyndi-Beth, git yourself to the comm room. We gots a family ‘mergency.”

“Comin’ Paw,” I shouted. It must be serious. Paw hasn’t sounded this scared since the time we lost power on our ‘stroid for three hours. Fatal and emergency mean the same thing in the ‘stroids where the vacuum and cold of space are unkind to living flesh.

I hid my copy of Asteroid Belt Hotpods under the deck plating and threw Asteroid Bride and Homesteader onto my bunk. Maw and Paw still hoped my future included marriage and a passel of kids. They tried to hide their disappointment at my not outgrowing my tomboy phase of learning and building things. After I found my older brother Clyde’s Tom Swift Atomic Tool Kit, I’d worked on every system on our ‘stroid before helping our neighbors and friends. I like tinkering, and I’d rather be Doctor Moreau than one of his Beast Folk. I wasn’t ready to come out of the airlock and admit to Maw and Paw that I preferred tinkering to raising kids.

My older brother Floyd’s voice over the comm grew louder as I approached the comm room. “Paw. I ditched the ‘shine, but crashed escapin’ from the Revenuers. I’m in my suit now, but the cabin is leakin’ oxy and the engine won’t start. Shore is gettin’ cold in here.”

I expect this wasn’t how Floyd planned to freeze his sperm for future generations. Floyd is only two years older than me, and he’s already one of the better pilots in the ‘stroids. I’ll bet he crashed our pod dodging the Revenuers because of their new heat-sensing technology.

Paw turned to me, “Cindy-Beth, can you rescue Floyd?”

I smiled and hit the transmit switch. “Hang in there, Floyd. I’m comin’ on my go-stick. Gimme coordinates and I’ll figger the best, fastest way there.”

Signing off, I turned and said, “Sure enough, Paw, I’ll save him. If’n his oxy tank is full, and the garbage zone don’t slow me down too much.”

Maw looked at me with desperation in her eyes. “Are you sure?”

“Don’t you worry none, Maw. Ain’t nothin’ can stop me when I set my mind to it.”

Maw hugged me, wiped her tears, and smiled.

I’d do anything for family. It felt strange rescuing Floyd because rescuing younger sisters is what older brothers do, not the other way around.

I downloaded the newest star charts into my Astral Positioning System and calculated possible routes. Dang, the shortest route was straight through the garbage zone. I needed to fly through one mess to rescue Floyd from another.

Ever since Floyd built a cannon for shooting our trash into space, that became his favorite chore. He even wasted good recyclables. Sometimes I thought he had the brains of Abby Normal, like in Young Frankenstein.

The inadequate range of his trash canon caused showers of garbage to rain down on our dome like the meteors in The Day of the Triffids. It never occurred to Floyd that one day something would crash through rather than bounce off our dome. Fearing the worst, I had snuck outside and modified his trash shooter for extended range and a broader dispersal pattern. Now the trash floated in a stable orbit above our dome rather than falling back on it. Every time I left the dome for chores or to practice astrogation, I marveled at the vast quantity of trash.

I passed our other two pods sitting on blocks on my way to the airlock. The pods looked even worse after I cannibalized them for parts to build my go-stick. At least we now have a second vehicle for transportation. A spacesuit and my go-stick are enjoyable for short distances. My hand-me-down spacesuit retained the smell of hundreds of hours of prior usage. The safety of a pod’s fresher, oxy-filled cabin came a close second to the freedom of my go-stick.

Since our family never had more than one functioning pod at a time, I couldn’t get as much flight time as I wanted. It didn’t matter that the Revenuers required a minimum age to apply for a license. Paw taught me to fly as soon as I was big enough to reach the controls. Revenuers required licenses and fees for everything that made life possible in the ‘stroids. Revenuers hadn’t outlawed or regulated go-sticks out of existence since their sensors were unable to detect them.

Inside the airlock, I examined my go-stick. Every weld and bolt reminded me of the metal slivers I’d removed and the bruises and scrapes I’d earned while building it. My go-stick looked like a rail with a seat in the middle, a drive on one end, and a tool shop hanging off the side. It wasn’t pretty, but it was all mine. I smiled with pride at my creation. My go-stick provided me with freedom of travel and made me the envy of the entire ‘stroid belt.

With only one brother still at home and no projects underway, my tools were still fastened in their appropriate places. My suit batteries, go-stick fuel cells, and spare oxy tanks were full. Even though I topped everything off whenever I returned, I always checked them before leaving. In space, when seconds count, help is hours away.

Leaving our dome, I slowly threaded my way through the garbage zone. While wearing only a spacesuit for protection, ramming unknown bundles of debris at high speed seemed like a bad idea. As I dodged the larger pieces of trash, I recognized less than I expected. Spent energy rods caused my rad counter to click madly to itself like in the Creature with the Atom Brain. Floyd is more enterprising than I thought. He must have been disposing of waste for local businesses. Now I understood how he could afford to court Lindy.

Dodging the trash took too long, so I boosted my acceleration. I’d always done well in the annual ‘stroid slaloms, so I didn’t worry much. I did fine for a few minutes until I smashed into a biohazmat package. It burst rather than bounced, causing my go-stick drive to die and a sharp stabbing pain in my right leg. Without any gravity wells close enough to reduce my speed or change my direction, I ignored both the dead drive and the pain. Instead, I grabbed my pry bar. Even if I couldn’t maneuver, I could at least swat at the trash in my path. I didn’t want another collision. At this speed, I’d be out of the garbage zone soon enough. Swatting at the trash for a few minutes inspired thoughts of a detachable head like a tennis racket for my pry bar. I considered moving our ‘stroid, but rejected that as unacceptable. I didn’t want our trash to leave a navigation hazard. I’d think on recycling or disposing of the trash when I returned.

When the trash thinned out, I stowed the pry bar and grabbed a light to examine myself. A hypodermic needle stuck out of my right leg. I carefully pulled it out and slapped on a patch. Examining my leg would have to wait. The suit auto seal should work, but you can never be too careful. The oxy level in my suit had dropped, but not enough to worry about. I’d hang onto that dang sliver of metal for a souvenir. The decontamination procedures and exposure to space meant I wouldn’t worry about the needle causing an infection.

With my immediate survival taken care of, I examined the drive for damage. A broken jumper pin caused the drive failure. My souvenir needle wasn’t the optimal fix, but since my go-stick was a complete jerry-rig, this spot weld would fit right in. Whatever biological experiment the needle was used for didn’t have any effect on its conductivity because the drive started right up. I hit the accelerator. This would burn more fuel now and later when I needed to slow down, but I didn’t want to arrive too late to save Floyd.

The loss of oxy would require me to replace my tank along the way, which was another complication I didn’t need. I reset my chrono for an earlier warning. I’d wait for an empty reading on my oxy tank before swapping in a replacement. Oxy meters were calibrated so that five minutes of air remained when the meter read as empty.

Even though I’d removed the needle, the pain grew stronger and spread down and up my leg. Did the victims of The Blob feel this way when they were being eaten? I set the vibration mode on my go-stick for honeymoon to distract me from the pain and allow me to concentrate on flying.

When I built my go-stick, everyone laughed at me because it was common knowledge that womenfolk weren’t mechanical. The menfolk also decided it’s unmanly to fly among the ‘stroids holding onto a stick between their legs. However, once they flew, the only way to stop them was to add a vibrate mode to make them think it was about to shake itself apart. After that, I figured out how to adjust the vibrate mode for a more pleasurable experience. Heavy breathing used up the oxy quicker and made concentrating more difficult, but flying became a whole lot more fun. I even got Maw to try it. Eventually, I drew up and sold the blueprints for my go-stick. It didn’t take long before most ‘stroiders were building go-sticks or paying me to help them with theirs.

With one eye on the oxy meter, I thought about how I ended up being able to rescue Floyd. I was only able to build and navigate my go-stick because I graduated from the Karl Marx Educational Gulag, a requirement for taking astrogation, engineering, and other advanced courses. The Revenuers only offered the advanced courses because they thought we were incapable of benefiting from the classes. We ‘stroiders encouraged that belief by speaking like uneducated people and flunking out of classes until we dropped out of school.

I hadn’t realized that taking and passing those classes landed me on the Revenuer’s subversive watch list. Revenuers are suspicious of intelligence and are never happy unless they can feel superior to us.

My wrist chrono broadcast “Five-minute warning, check your oxy level.” My suit sensor indicated thirty minutes of oxy left. This made no sense because the vibrate mode should have caused heavier breathing than usual. Maybe I somehow entered a trance state and lowered my metabolism and oxy consumption.

Fifteen minutes later, I pulled up to Floyd’s pod, the Henry Hazlitt, and tethered my go-stick to the mooring ring. I hated to stop because the vibrate mode also stopped. Without the pleasure offset, the pain gnawed down and up my spine, my arms, and my legs. Even my brain and eyeballs hurt. How could the pain be getting worse from a simple puncture wound? When this rescue ended, I would chew Floyd a new one. Why was I drooling and visualizing chewing on Floyd?

I didn’t have time for this. I needed to rescue Floyd. Focus.

My chrono was nothing more than a distraction, so I disabled the countdown timer. My suit sensor now showed ninety minutes of oxy at my current consumption rate. I’ve never heard of an oxy sensor going bad, but there’s a first time for everything. That didn’t explain why I wasn’t suffering from oxy starvation. When I returned home, the doc-box would become my new best friend.

The Henry Hazlitt inner and outer airlock doors were open, speeding my entry into his pod. Floyd, in his spacesuit, floated mid-cabin, tethered to his chair. Carrying one spare oxy tank inside, I swapped out his. I hoped I was in time because his lips were blue. I must be worried because I no longer noticed the rank smell in my spacesuit.

I brought in the rest of the spare oxy tanks and closed the airlock. After flooding the cabin with oxy and telltales, I found and patched the leak. I removed our helmets and checked his vital signs. They weren’t good, so I gave him a shot of Epinephrine and started mouth-to-mouth resuscitation. My lungs felt funny, and I didn’t seem to be helping Floyd. Even so, I knew Floyd was feeling better when he tried slipping me his tongue. I was so disgusted, I slammed my helmet back on. This is the thanks I get? If I’d been any slower, he’d be brain-dead. Why did I think about brain death? Dead is dead.

My pain subsided to a tolerable level as I moved back to the drive compartment. It didn’t take me long to find the problem. Just like a man. Floyd had forgotten his ignition key and hot-wired the drive. The wires came apart when he crashed. Add in the oxy leak, and panic seemed like a reasonable response, for an Earthie. I’d tease Floyd about that later. We’d been born and raised in the ‘stroids, where panic is never an option. Artificial grav and oxy circulation resumed when I started the drive.

Floyd jumped up and hugged me as soon as I limped back into the main cabin. “Boy howdy, am I glad to see you. I ain’t never gonna tease you agin ‘bout your go-stick or tinkerin’ or nothin’.”

I turned away, removed my helmet, and hung it in the rack. “You’d better not, or I’ll tell Lindy where your tongue has been.”

“Don’t you dare. I were near dead and weren’t myself.”

When I turned to face him, Floyd’s jaw dropped. “Cyndi-Beth. Have you looked at yerself in the mirror?”

“I’m sorry if’n I didn’t have time to fix my makeup. I was hurryin’ to rescue you.”

“It’s worse than that. You look right sickly.”

I grabbed my helmet and gazed at my reflection in the faceplate. My skin was a pasty grey, and my breath wasn’t fogging up the visor. “What the eff?” Don’t panic. Panic kills. Take a deep breath. I mean, think calm thoughts. What did that needle do to me? Not breathing explains the lack of fogging, but what explains not breathing? I took my pulse, or tried to. Nothing. I glanced around the cabin, looking for something I knew wasn’t there, like an explanation of what happened to me. The spot on my leg where that needle stabbed me was barely noticeable. I desperately needed to visit a doc-box real soon. What kind of biological infection survived decontamination procedures and exposure to space?

After glancing toward the control panel and trying a few exercises, I decided that I hadn’t suffered any impairment in my thoughts or bodily motions. That meant figuring out what happened to me could wait.

I wanted to slap Floyd upside the head for causing this situation. Instead, I started drooling and thinking about eating. “Brains.” Did I say that out loud? I must have because Floyd stared at me and backed off. Floyd never watched the monster movies the way I did, but like Elvis in Bubba Ho-Tep, you can’t always rule out something that doesn’t seem possible or even likely.

It only took a moment to review my symptoms. Grey skin. Not breathing. Desire to eat brains. It may not be scientific, but it all fits. Just like the horror movies I’d seen at the ‘stroid fly-in along with the other kids. Night of the Living Dead. I’m a zombie! Maybe Astro-Zombies aren’t exactly like the earthbound kind. The extreme conditions of the ‘stroids might cause some differences. It’s not like those movies were documentaries.

Since I felt normal, did that mean my condition was less serious than my initial fears? I mentally laughed when I thought about the Burke and Hare Medical Center on the Vladimir Lenin Moon Base. The few ‘stroiders who had visited the Medical Center reported that all diagnoses and treatments must be approved by bureaucrats on Earth. Anyone with a serious injury would die waiting for the approval process to complete.

Long before the Revenuers began work on their Medical Center, we finished developing our doc-box technology. Like most of our other innovations, we managed to keep them secret from the Revenuers.

Those and other factors caused us to trust all Revenuers no farther than we could throw them in a gravity well. We call all government workers Revenuers because all they care about is filling out forms and collecting revenue rather than helping ‘stroiders survive. They don’t bother hiding their resentment of us and being assigned to the ‘stroids. We pretend not to notice.

When we got back home, I needed to thrash Floyd something fierce. He should have warned us what kind of garbage he was shooting above our ‘stroid. I would have taken precautions.

“Cyndi-Beth, I’m feelin’ kinda shook up. Let’s go home?”

Before my infection, I would have agreed. “Naw. We have plenty of oxy now, and with my new condition, we need the trade goods more than ever. There ain’t no Revenuers around to stop us from picking up our ‘shine and deliverin’ it to the Runners.”

Runners are Earth folk who hate the government as much as we do. Keeping our word to them is important. We each supply goods that the other can’t provide. The government bans too many needed items as unsafe for human consumption or bad for the environment. Whether coming or going, we call everything that we trade with the Runners ‘shine.

Floyd spent the rest of the flight huddled over and whispering into the comm unit. I never understood the saying from Alien, “In space no one can hear you scream.” In a small ship, I heard every noise and whisper, including Floyd on the comm complaining about my pallor, lack of breathing, and drooling whenever I stared at him. The drooling bothered me more than the other symptoms because the moisture might short out one or more of the controls.

I need to stop lying to myself. All my symptoms bother me equally. However, as long as I continue to think clearly and move without problems, maybe it’s less serious than I think.

We reached the ‘shine trade location without any further problems. The Runners were upset because we were late, and I was wearing a suit. They distrust strangers.

Their anger decreased after they recognized me, and my story about my spacesuit preventing the spread of a contagious infection. Even though Floyd acted twitchy the whole time, he didn’t contradict me. While Runners aren’t Revenuers, they are Earth folk and are only slightly less untrustworthy.

On the return flight, we didn’t detect any Revenuers or encounter any other problems. Floyd stayed by the comm and spoke with Maw and Paw for the rest of the flight.

When we reentered our ‘stroid airlock, Maw just about blew a circuit. “Cyndi-Beth, what happened to you out there? I’m worried sick ‘bout you.”

I explained what I thought happened to me in the garbage zone.

She shook her head. “I thought all those vids were just foolishness. I didn’t think zombies were real.”

“I’m still not sure they is. Yet. But I’ll be runnin’ tests in the doc-box to find out.”

Maw glared at Floyd. “You know Floyd were saying unkind things about you the whole trip back?”

“I’m dead, not deaf. Of course, I heard him. He should have known he wasn’t in any danger. I’d never harm family. Not even with my strange new cravings.”

“Paw and I will be forever grateful. Floyd’s our youngest son. We couldn’t bear to lose either one of you. We don’t know what to do.”

“But Maw, I didn’t set out to become a zombie. I’ve been good. I didn’t take a bite outta Floyd or anyone else.”

“How are we gonna git you married now?”

This forced me to consider other folks’ reactions to my condition. No ‘stroider would date me after I ended up on the Revenuers subversive watch list. The men-folk avoided me like I’m the monster in The Bride of Frankenstein.

Revenuers might not care about the subversive list, but not breathing and having a hankering for eating brains would discourage even the most lonely and horny from asking for a date. Would I be capable of getting pregnant and carrying a child?

Maw and Paw had planned to retire after I got pregnant and dropped out of school, like all normal girls my age. Their hopes and dreams were now as dead as I was.

Floyd shrugged and backed away even further.

With everyone standing around and staring at each other, Floyd spoke up. “Maw, Paw, I ain’t so good with words, but I got something I needs to say. Lindy and me done said our vows. We have some money saved and we done picked out a ‘stroid to homestead. We was waiting for a good time to tell you. I know this ain’t it, but I don’t know if’n there ever will be one. I’m heading to the comm room to call Lindy to come and git me.”

Maw and Paw stood there with open mouths. Paw managed to whisper, “Floyd, we was gonna give you the ‘shine business.” His voice trailed off as he spoke.

Floyd called over his shoulder as he walked away, “Smuggling’s too dangerous. Me and Lindy got another young’un on the way. Give the business to Cyndi-Beth.”

How would Floyd and Lindy adjust to my medical condition? Would they invite their Auntie Zombie over to bounce their young’uns on her undead knee? There was one thing I did know. Floyd would want my help raising the dome and installing the systems they needed for their new homestead.

Maw shook her head and turned to paw. “You can’t give the business to Cyndi-Beth. That ain’t no kinda job for a lady. Why don’t you sell it?”

“I can’t. Them smugglers are skittish. They won’t trust someone they ain’t seen ‘afore.”

Maw smiled. “Then you can’t give the business to Cindi-Beth. She ain’t never gone on a run.”

Paw hung his head down. “You know she’s my favorite. I can’t refuse her anything.”

“What does that mean?”

“She done gone on a few runs before.”

“How could you let her go? That’s dangerous. It’s bad enough you let our sons enter the business. You let my precious Cindi-Beth go with them hell raisers.”

“Our boys are careful.”

Maw and Paw turned to look at me. Maw shook her head and cried. Paw just stood there breathing heavily.

I couldn’t think of anything else to say, so I walked down the hall to our doc-box. I switched it from healing to diagnostic mode. I didn’t know exactly what the infection did to me, but I didn’t want the doc-box trying to fix something that wasn’t already in its database.

After an hour in the doc-box, I put on my spacesuit and went to our ‘shine factory on the dark side of our ‘stroid. Some Earthers had supplied us with gear for growing crystals in low gravity. I disassembled one of the units and brought it back to our dome. Maybe I could jerry-rig the sensors to work with the doc-box.

I hadn’t finished with my adjustments when Maw called me in for dinner. Family dinners used to be joyous occasions where we brought each other up to date on our lives. Tonight, Maw and Paw ate their food in silence. I missed seeing Floyd at the table, but not because of any dietary cravings. I sat and stared at my plate. We didn’t have anything or anyone I wanted to eat. Halfway through the meal, Paw blurted out, “I can’t eat while Cyndi-Beth stares at me and drools.”

Maw replied, “She don’t mean nothin’ by it. She can’t help it.”

I piped up, “I won’t eat people. You know me. If’n I set my mind to it, there ain’t nothin’ I can’t do.”

Paw slammed down his fork and stormed out. Maw said, “Be patient, girl. You was always his favorite. He’ll come around if’n we give him a little time. You’ll see.” She ran out after Paw.

I put away the leftovers and cleaned the dishes. The doc-box needed a few more modifications before I’d be happy. I took my time since I couldn’t afford any mistakes.

While lying in the doc-box, I considered my future. Before I zombified, I could of worked as a receptionist, exotic dancer, or anything in public. I doubted anyone would hire me to work with living people. There were fewer jobs working with dead people because while Earth claimed to recycle, we recycled everything.

My modifications worked. The revised readings provided additional information on my current condition. This was a good start. The room temperature now matched my body temperature, or was it the other way around? My thicker blood was pushed through my body by my veins, rather than my heart. Even before these tests, I’d noticed I wasn’t breathing. Additional tests needed to be done.

If I could isolate whatever caused this and figure out a cure, a lot of ‘stroid prospectors would be interested in a drug that allowed them to survive using reduced heat and oxy. Could the radioactive fuel rods in the garbage zone have turned a failed medical experiment into a success? How long should I wait before considering this a success?

Maw shuffled in while I reviewed the readings from the doc-box. “Hey, Maw. Since I don’t eat much or breathe any, maybe I should become a ‘stroid prospector.”

Maw shouted, “No female in our family, even a zombie, will live that kind of life.” She teared up and stomped out.

I considered living in a pod. No pods came with storage facilities for fresh brains. I could fix that, but I still didn’t know if I needed to eat brains or if any raw flesh would do. I hadn’t eaten anything since the infection, so I wasn’t sure what my new dietary needs were.

A few minutes later, Paw shuffled in with his head hanging low. “I’m sorry, Cyndi-Beth. I know how hard this is for you. But I’m an old man, and this is difficult for me. You’ve always been my favorite. I just needs some thinkin’ time to sort this out.” He looked up and stared at the modified console. “Cindy-Beth, what do you know about the Revenuers’ new heat sensors?”

“Not much, but I reckon they won’t pay me no mind now.”

“You’ve always had a thing for tinkerin’, even though I tried to discourage you. If’n the new heat-sensing techno can’t detect you, they is less likely to search a pod for ‘shine.” He paused and stared at the jungle of wires and gauges before continuing. “That’s a mighty fancy jerry-rig you did on doc-box. Is this how you want to spend the rest of your life?”

“Yes, Paw. You know I have a knack for tinkering.” Paw listened while I explained how the courses provided the knowledge I needed to help me tinker. I hadn’t planned on taking over the smuggling business, but it would provide the freedom and income for me to continue doing the tinkering I enjoyed.

That got Paw and Maw talking long into the night. Neither wanted their only daughter to run the ‘shine business. However, ‘stroid folk learn to accept and adapt to change.

The next morning, I joined Maw and Paw in the dining room. Paw smiled at Maw and turned to me. “We’re old. Life in the ‘stroids is for the young. We decided to retire to the moon and give you ownership of the ‘stroid and the ‘shine business. After all, even if you’re a zombie, you’re still family.”

The End