Zombie
[INT. HOSPITAL, JOHN’S ROOM]
[TAPE CLICKS ON.]
[The clock of the hospital room ticks on steadily in the background.]
BASIRA
Well?
GEORGIE
It was just there!
BASIRA
Could he have come back? Moved it?
GEORGIE
I guess?
BASIRA
And you’re sure you didn’t recognize him.
GEORGIE
No, no – he was, um – I’d never seen him before.
BASIRA
But?…
GEORGIE
He, uh, he felt like death.
BASIRA
What, capital ‘D’ Death?
GEORGIE
Yeah. Y’know, one of your… dark gods –
BASIRA
(frustrated) They’re not –
[She cuts herself off.]
BASIRA
Look, I’m trying to help. You came to me.
GEORGIE
I came to Melanie.
BASIRA
Well, sorry. Right now, I’m it.
[Silence, but for the clock.]
BASIRA
So John told you, then.
GEORGIE
Some of it. Not – everything.
BASIRA
Right. So how exactly is it that you’re able to identify an avatar of the End on sight?
GEORGIE
Honestly Basira, it’s not your business. (pause) Sorry.
[Basira sniffs.]
BASIRA
Alright. And you don’t know why this guy would have left a tape recorder?
GEORGIE
You’re the detective.
BASIRA
And you’re sure it was him who left it?
GEORGIE
I mean – the nurses said there were no other visitors, so (breath) unless it appeared by magic?
[Pause.]
GEORGIE
(disbelief) What, seriously?
BASIRA
I don’t know. The whole tape thing is… I don’t know.
GEORGIE
Right, well… I showed you like you asked, so –
BASIRA
Shh.
[Rustling as she moves down, getting closer to the tape recorder.]
BASIRA
Down here.
[More rustling.]
GEORGIE
I told you –
BASIRA
This is the one?
[We hear the Archivist breathing hoarsely, quietly in the background.]
GEORGIE
Sure.
BASIRA
You don’t sound very sure.
GEORGIE
I mean – I don’t know. It might be a different model maybe? I thought it was plastic – but yeah.
[More Archivist breathing/sighing as she’s speaking; by the time she’s done the room is silent but for the clock again.]
GEORGIE
So – what does it mean?
ARCHIVIST
(hoarse, tired, drained) That’s a very good question.
GEORGIE
(overlapping) John!
BASIRA
(overlapping) Jesus.
ARCHIVIST
(bit of a dry laugh) Sorry. (breath) Didn’t mean to scare you.
GEORGIE
(overlapping) I’ll get a nurse.
BASIRA
Wait.
GEORGIE
Basira!
BASIRA
John, is it still… you?
ARCHIVIST
Uhh. Y-yes. Y-yes, I-I think so; I, I don’t know how you’d prove it, though.
BASIRA
Hm.
GEORGIE
Enough – just – stay still; I’ll get a nurse.
ARCHIVIST
I, no, I, uh, (he starts to sit himself up) I’m alright, it’s –
GEORGIE
(overlapping) Stop it!
ARCHIVIST
(overlapping) – I’m okay.
GEORGIE
John, you are not okay; you have been in a coma.
[Rustling.]
ARCHIVIST
Wait – wait – how long?
BASIRA
Six months, give or take.
ARCHIVIST
Six… Uh, the others. T-Tim. Is he…?
[Silence.]
ARCHIVIST
Oh.
[He lets out a breath.]
BASIRA
Daisy too.
[Pause.]
ARCHIVIST
I’m sorry.
BASIRA
Yeah.
[Pause.]
ARCHIVIST
Alright – g–
[Sounds of exertion- trying to sit up further?]
GEORGIE
John.
ARCHIVIST
It’s alright.
GEORGIE
Stay still. Please.
[The Archivist sighs, then takes a shaky breath.]
GEORGIE
How are you feeling?
ARCHIVIST
Honestly, I – I, I think I’m alright.
[Georgie sighs in exasperation.]
ARCHIVIST
I mean that’s – good, right?
[Georgie sighs again.]
ARCHIVIST
I –
GEORGIE
After a six month coma? No – it’s not. This isn’t how it’s supposed to go, John.
ARCHIVIST
I – what? Y-y-you’d prefer I was – brain-damaged? Dead?
BASIRA
John.
ARCHIVIST
(shaky sigh) W,W,What?
[Pause, Basira sighs.]
BASIRA
Georgie, could you give us a minute? There’s some things we should probably discuss.
GEORGIE
(overlapping) Fine.
ARCHIVIST
D– Georgie, I –
GEORGIE
John. If this really is a second chance, please try to take it. But I don’t think that it is.
ARCHIVIST
(breath) Georgie, I don’t underst–
GEORGIE
Take care of yourself.
[The Archivist lets out another shaky breath. Georgie leaves, closing the door behind her.]
ARCHIVIST
Wh– I – (sigh) (quicker) What about you? Disappointed to see me alive? Basira?
BASIRA
We can deal with it later.
[The Archivist sighs.]
ARCHIVIST
(small) Yeah.
(breath) Yeah, okay.
[More heavy breathing.]
BASIRA
Do you want me to grab you some water, or…?
ARCHIVIST
No – ah, the, the, uh, the statement. In your, in your bag.
BASIRA
Oh. Yeah, I uh, (unzips her bag) I just grabbed one on the way out; I thought maybe you’d need it for –
ARCHIVIST
(overlapping, quick) You, you were right – I, I think it would do me some good. Do you have a tape re– Oh.
[He sighs.]
BASIRA
How did you know I brought one? (pause) Right.
[The Archivist sighs.]
ARCHIVIST
Thank you, Basira.
BASIRA
Hm.
[She leaves, and we catch a whiff of hallway bustle as the door shuts behind her. John lets out another deep sigh.]
ARCHIVIST
Statement of uh, (something catches in his throat, he swallows) Uh, Lorell St. John regarding, uh… (huh) (disbelief) …zombies. Original statement given 1st February, 2015. Recording by (labored breath) Jonathan Sims. The Archivist.
Statement begins.
[As he reads the statement, his voice slowly, incrementally starts to improve.]
ARCHIVIST (STATEMENT)
People always used to tell me I was… solipsistic. They said that I – never really engaged with other people, never acted like they really existed, or mattered, at least not in the same way that I did. I suppose in, in many ways they were right. It’s hard to explain without sounding stupid.
Obviously other people are real – (stammering) O-obviously, the, the way a building is real, or my watch is real. They exist. If people weren’t real, I’m sure I’d find them much less of a chore.
So no, I don’t not believe in other people. I just find it very difficult to feel for others, I, I can’t understand them, and they’ve always seemed…oh there’s no tactful way to say it – they’ve always seemed… pointless. I know what my pain feels like, and I know what my joy feels like, but when I see those same things on the faces of my friends, or my enemies, I feel… Well that’s it, isn’t it? I don’t really feel anything. Their emotions and suffering feel as distant to me as a character on a movie screen. More distant, really.
I-In many ways I find those crude characters that wander through ridiculous plot after ridiculous plot more relatable than the people watching next to me. That said, Danielle did tell me once that films tended to depict characters like that so it’s easier to project yourself onto them. So maybe it isn’t quite as surprising as all that. I like animals, too. They don’t pretend to be important. So, assuming you can understand anything, I would hope that you could understand why the philosophical concept of zombies might worm its way into my mind.
Danielle studies philosophy. W-Well, she studied philosophy. And she was one of those people who loved to talk to other people about it, try to explain it as a way of internalizing the information, so come exam season, her favorite revision method was to try and explain a year’s worth of dusty old white men thinking about existence to me.
She said it really helped, and, well – sometimes I didn’t have anything better to do. It never stuck, of course; it’s all kind of rubbish, really – people trying to think the universe into making sense, coming up with all sorts of nonsense and trying to claim that ‘if you can imagine it it must be true.’ I’m, I’m grossly oversimplifying, of course, but I don’t care. I don’t think Danielle did very well in her exams.
I remember the night she told me about zombies. It was dark outside and must have been late. It was high summer, and the days were long. And sweltering. Our building really kept the heat, and had very few opening windows, so even in the evening that humid warmth seemed to stick around. One of our housemates, Liam, was sat at the other end of the living room, playing some obnoxious video game. He had the lights at that end of the room turned off, and the screen lit up his blank, gormless face as he stared at some space monster or other that he had to kill.
Danielle explained that a philosophical zombie is someone who outwardly displays all the signs of life and consciousness: they talk; they laugh; they scream; they even appear to think. But they have no inner life at all, no actual subjective experience. It’s all a, a rule, a, a conjuring trick. If you cut them, they’d bleed, they might even cry out, but they wouldn’t actually feel any pain, because they can’t actually feel anything. It’s all just an act.
(laughing) I said to Danielle, “Like Liam,” a-and she laughed, at what she assumed was a funny joke, and tried to explain it again, told me they weren’t real, that it was all a, a thought experiment, and the fact that you could imagine them was supposed to counter some other philosopher, who sounded equally meaningless.
But, like I said, I don’t think she got a very good grade, and looking at Liam, blankly staring into that glowing square on the wall, I, I knew she was wrong. They were real. His eyes were so dark, and – dull. Empty windows to a soul that – he didn’t really have.
I started to do some… experiments on him. N-not many, just a few little ones here and there to… see. I suppose you might’ve called them cruel, if Liam was capable of suffering; he certainly pretended to cry out in pain when I accidentally cut his hand while chopping onions, and he did a good impression of grief when his fish died. But his eyes were always the same: cold. And empty.
I didn’t do anything about it, obviously; what was the point? There was no real harm in him going out into the world pretending to live his life; it was no skin off my nose, certainly.
It wasn’t just him, though. There were… so many more of them out there. At one point I did legitimately entertain the notion that they might all be zombies. Every one. That it was just me. That I was the only real person that existed. But, no, that wasn’t right; it was just certain people; I watched their reactions, the emotions they didn’t quite get right, and I knew they were a facade.
It became like a game to me. Watching out for those… soulless husks. Whether on the bus, the street, or even meeting a client for work, I would look into their eyes for just a second, and see the emptiness inside. I tried to make it a game, at least. The truth was, they scared me very deeply. What were they? How did it happen; were they – born hollow, or did something scoop them out, leave them like that?
And the question that kept me up, staring into the darkness late at night – why did it seem like I was the only one able to see them? I saw so many people, real people, chatting with these zombies, talking to them as if they were able to understand what was being said to them, rather than simply pretending. How was it that they couldn’t see the quiet void that lurked behind each of their smiles. And there seemed to be more and more of them every day. Sometimes I found myself utterly alone. Facing down a room full of nothing eyes, willing myself to take action.
I never did, though. Not even when one of them started following me. I first saw him in the street; it wasn’t difficult to guess what he was; half the people around him were just as hollow and soulless. But there was something else, to him. He was tall. But not so tall as to stick out. Thin, but not unhealthily so. He wore a blue t-shirt despite the falling temperature, and his short, dark hair and pale skin surrounded a smile so fake, it practically glowed.
He stared at me as I walked past, not making a move to follow or stop me; nor did his eyes seem to actually… move. It was like one of those paintings that watch you; it just seemed that whatever place I looked at him from, he just happened to be focused on me. In as much as there was any focus in them at all. Vacant.
The next day he was there again, this time in the hallway outside my office, standing in the center, so that I had to hug the wall to avoid touching his… motionless form. He was identical. Except that his t-shirt was now a dull orange.
I asked my colleague Norma what she thought of him, why he was there, and if she noticed anything strange about him. She looked out into the corridor, then, back at me and shook her head. She told me he seemed normal enough. But her eyes were like blank pits, and I knew she was lying about all of it.
Had he done this? Had he taken Norma’s..s-self, h-her soul, or… or had she always been a zombie? Cramped, into a little open-plan desk, patiently listening to client complaints, and I just hadn’t noticed? I looked around my office, a low dread starting to build as he waited outside. A numbing cavity wrapped in skin.
I tried to talk to him, when he stood next to me on the bus. I played as casual as I could, trying not to seem afraid when I asked him how his day was going.
“Just fine, thank you for asking,” came the flat, uninterested response.
Then I, I asked him his name. “Just fine, thank you for asking,” he said.
I have never wanted anything as much as I wanted in that moment to cut him, and see if he pretended to scream in pain.
By the time he appeared outside my house, this time wearing a rotten green t-shirt, I could feel a numbness in myself even as I looked at him. Was I finally becoming like them? My internal world melting away into nothing but a pantomime? I remember I ran at him, all my rage burning inside my chest as though desperate to remind myself that I could still feel something.
I think I might have been screaming, but the memory is fuzzy. I remember I punched him in the face, though. When my fist connected, it was like punching a canvas. Taught, dry, and – yielding, ever so slightly, until all at once it broke with a tearing pop and all that resistance was gone, my fist falling into the empty space behind it.
Inside his head, I-I pulled my hand back in sudden disgust, and he looked at me, through the torn and bloodless hole in his head. I could see one blank eye hanging down off his face, still following me, as his split mouth moved to try and form the words that I could hear clear as day: “Just fine, thank you for asking.”
They’re all like that now. You’re all like that, I suppose. I have no reason to believe anyone will – (sharp breath) – read this who would be any different, no reason to believe – (same breath) – you’ll be able to read this, that you won’t simply stare blankly at this page before – performing your response, your artificial opinion. There is every chance that I am – the only one left. And the whole world has fallen to a – soulless horde, devoid of life and feeling. Even so, thank you for… pretending to care.
ARCHIVIST
Statement ends.
(sigh) Well that – (breath) – certainly helped, I think. No notes or – followup in the statement, and… (dry laugh) obviously no research done by myself or, uh… my team. I think we can safely say that Ms. Saint-John is not the only person left in the world, though, whatever (inhale) she might be doing now. And whatever might be with her.
They can be hard, though, other, other people. Feelings. I-I’m – I’m trying to focus, trying to make sure I’m the same me as before, but… how can anyone really remember that? How do you know you’re the same person that went to sleep?
[He sighs.]
[Then there’s a faint knock-knock-knock on the door.]
ARCHIVIST
(quiet) Oh. (calling) Ah – Uhh, yes – I’m done.
[The door opens, we catch a glimpse of the hallway bustle. The Archivist takes a shaky breath.]
ARCHIVIST
Georgie, is she, um –
[He sighs.]
BASIRA
She’s gone. Didn’t see where.
ARCHIVIST
No, I, I wouldn’t have, uh.
[He sighs again.]
ARCHIVIST
Probably for the best.
BASIRA
Yeah.
[Pause.]
BASIRA
Better?
ARCHIVIST
Yes. Yes, thank you.
BASIRA
Right. Then I’ve got questions.
ARCHIVIST
So do I.
BASIRA
Me first. What are you?
ARCHIVIST
I – (sigh) (shaky inhale) Honestly? I don’t know. I don’t feel… inhuman, or… I want to say I’m the same. But I don’t – really know if that’s true. I know I’m different. I feel… more real, somehow.
[Basira hms, unimpressed.]
BASIRA
So what does that actually mean?
[The Archivist sighs.]
ARCHIVIST
Probably nothing good.
[Pause. He takes another, long shaky inhale.]
ARCHIVIST
My turn. What happened to me?
BASIRA
How much do you remember?
ARCHIVIST
I don’t… Music. Everything was wrong. Gertrude was there, and then… dancing, I think. Then, pain. And I was somewhere else. Dreaming.
BASIRA
Dreaming.
ARCHIVIST
Yes. (pause) …You’re… sure, a-about Tim.
BASIRA
Yeah, they um… They found his remains a few days later.
[Pause.]
ARCHIVIST
And – Daisy?
BASIRA
They still haven’t found her body. Probably never will. I thought for a while she might, um… (she sniffs) But, it’s been months. She’s gone.
ARCHIVIST
Just you and me. And – Melanie and M-Martin, I, I guess. (breath) Honestly, I’m surprised Martin isn’t –
[Basira takes a deep breath.]
ARCHIVIST
What? (realizing) Oh god – the, the plan, it’s – Martin i-is – is he okay, w-what – (he takes a breath to compose himself) What did Elias do?
BASIRA
No, nothing. Elias isn’t the problem.
ARCHIVIST
So – what?
BASIRA
Elias is locked up.
ARCHIVIST
Wait, Martin’s plan worked?
BASIRA
Yeah. A bunch of sectioned officers took him in. He made some sort of deal, I think, but he’s not getting out anytime soon.
ARCHIVIST
Oh. (pause) Wow, uh – o-okay, so – what’s the problem?
BASIRA
He appointed an interim director. Guy named Peter Lukas.
ARCHIVIST
Oh.
BASIRA
Yeah.
ARCHIVIST
I’ve read about him.
BASIRA
Yeah, I’ve hunted down some of those old statements, and – (small sigh) Yeah.
ARCHIVIST
What did he do to Martin?
BASIRA
I… don’t know. We don’t see him around the Archives much these days. Best I can figure? He’s working on something with Lukas.
ARCHIVIST
No, that – (breath) No, that – that – There must be something else.
BASIRA
Maybe. I don’t know.
ARCHIVIST
And Melanie?
BASIRA
A lot’s happened, while you’ve been gone.
[The Archivist sighs.]
ARCHIVIST
Right. (sigh) Well I guess we should probably let one of the nurses know I’m awake. (sigh) I’m sure they’ve got all sorts of – tests to do, make sure I’m not a – zombie, or… (hah) I don’t suppose you brought in any – clothes?
BASIRA
No, I just, you know, grabbed that statement on my way out.
ARCHIVIST
Right, well, uh – I kept some in the – uh – Archives, uh, in my office.
BASIRA
Yeah, those got um – we had to throw those out.
ARCHIVIST
What?
BASIRA
Like I said, a lot’s happened.
ARCHIVIST
S-since I’ve been – (inhale) Fine.
[He lets out a deep exhale.]
BASIRA
I’ll get you some new ones. Better ones.
[Pause.]
BASIRA
Anything else?
ARCHIVIST
(swallows) Water, please.
BASIRA
Sure thing.
[She opens the door and leaves.]
ARCHIVIST
Oh, or, uh, a cup of t–
[The door falls shut.]
[Long pause. The Archivist sighs.]
ARCHIVIST
(almost a whisper) Okay. (sigh)
End recording, I suppose.