The New Humans

Chapter 8

In the afternoon when school was over, Ash hurried home. He went straight to his room and switched on the computer.

"Hi Net. Please find all the information you can on the Living Dead."

Net came back with several articles on zombies, horror films, and Haitian legends.

"Try searching for Living Dead plus Luther Wall," said Ash.

All that appeared were results on the life of Luther Wall and his alleged immortality.

"Living Dead plus Civil War."

"The information you are requesting is too generic," said Net. "You should refine your search."

"I don't know how," said Ash.

"If you don't know what you're looking for, you will never find it," replied Net.

Ash nibbled his fingernails. He had the impression he had already heard that name, but not in reference to magical creatures. It must have been a nickname, but he didn't remember whose—not someone he had known personally anyway.

Many Numa heroes or members of the Shadows had chosen noms de guerre during the war. Living Dead was the kind of name that could inspire fear in one's enemies. His mother was a Numa history expert; if Ash had heard anyone use that name, it had to be her.

He went downstairs, calling for her several times, but she didn't answer. He remembered then that she wasn't home; she had warned him that morning she would be out. But he couldn't wait. He went into the living room where she kept the tablet that listed all the books she had used in her research and turned it on. A page opened with a table showing the number of buildings that had been burned during the civil war.

"Search for Living Dead," he said, but the tablet found no results.

Most historical works contained an appendix. He flipped to the end and read the entries one by one. Abel street, Apple street, Axe street. . . Were there only streets? He went back to the cover of the book and read the title: How the Civil War Influenced Architecture.

He closed the book and opened the virtual library. One volume caught his interest: The Four Years of Terror, a classic of the genre. He searched for Living Dead again, but to no avail. Flipping through the list of names, he found an entry called Ghost. He went to the indicated page. Ghost was a member of the Shadows, a war criminal, nicknamed thus because he'd worn a suit to make himself invisible when he killed Numas. But he had been arrested and had died ten years ago—it couldn't have been him.

Ash kept searching until the front door opened and Mom came in holding two shopping bags. She looked at him as if he were a chicken thief. "What are you doing with my tablet?"

"I'm doing research for school," Ash stammered.

"Right." She laughed. "I guess I can't get too upset about you reading history books." She went into the kitchen to put the groceries away, and Ash followed her.

"Have you ever heard of Living Dead?" he asked her.

She stopped, one hand in the fridge holding a bundle of lettuce. "Are you referring to zombies?"

"No. I mean, I don't think so. When you've been doing research for your books, have you ever come across that name?"

Mom lifted her eyes as though searching her memory. "No, sorry, I've never heard of them."

Ash scratched his head. If not from her, then who had he heard that name from?

"Did you put the keys back?" Mom asked.

He had forgotten. He went to his room, retrieved it from his backpack and brought it downstairs. Once there, he couldn't help thinking of his father's gun. This time when he tried to open the drawer, it was locked. I wonder if the key is in the bunch with the spare key? Ash chose a key at random and the lock clicked open.

Her father's gun was in the same position where he found it in the morning, a piece of dark lead with two barrels. Ash picked it up. It was heavy, as long as half a forearm, difficult to handle with one hand. Big as it was, it looked like it could shatter a skull with one blow, but it was actually harmless.

For many years now, the police had only been equipped with glue guns to prevent avoidable acts of violence. They were loaded with cartridges of a special glue that was dissolved and then fired; the glue dried almost instantly and immobilized whoever was hit. It was made of micro-holes, however, so that even if the shot entered close to the nostrils, the person would still be able to breathe.

He imagined himself as an IDAN agent who went around the slums of the metropolis pasting all the scoundrels he met on his way against the walls. In reality, it wasn't so simple, because if the cops used glue guns, criminals continued to use deadly weapons, like lasers, which killed a man from several miles away with no noise and without the risk that the wind might deviate the shot. Or plasma weapons, also called Death rays. They were huge rifles that emitted electrons that passed through the air like lightning. Those weapons could kill five people with a single shot and could also break through walls and blow up a car. They were supplied only to the army and it was not allowed to sell them to civilians in theory, but criminals could get their hands on them somehow.

Ash turned the gun over in his hands. It was like the perfect completion of his arm. He was overcome by the crazy idea to take it and try it somewhere. He had always dreamed of doing it. It was Friday; his dad wouldn't be using it all weekend. He could go and try it at the Pond; he would shoot it once and then bring it back.

He looked around to make sure nobody was watching, then hid the gun in his trousers. Then he got dressed, got his bicycle from the garage and set off.

The Pond was an agricultural area a mile from Ash's house, named for the stream that crossed it and ran into a small pond. Ash parked the bike against a tree along a pebbled road in the middle of two vineyards. Small tractors were going around between the rows of vines. They ran without need of a driver. Ash was alone.

He went back to the road. Ten yards in front of him was a tree with a cavity inside. Let's try to hit that hole. If he hit the spot, he told himself, that would mean he was born to become an IDAN agent—despite everything his father said. He pulled the gun out of his pants, took aim, and pressed the trigger, but the shot didn't explode. Ash checked that there was ammunition in the magazine. Yes, there was a bar of solid glue ready to be used. Then he spotted the problem: the safety catch on the gun was still on.

He removed it, took aim, and fired. The gun let out a muffled thud like a bottle being uncorked, and the recoil raised his arm so high the projectile hit the leaves of the tree. The shot had been so quick Ash didn't even see it leave the gun; all he saw was a ball of beige glue dangling from the leaves of the tree.

He tried to shoot again. He still couldn't keep his arm steady and ended up hitting the high branches. He tried a dozen times but couldn't even hit that hole accidentally.

What the heck! You needed the strength of a bull to hold that weapon still. Ash aimed at the cavity of the tree again and held the gun with all the strength he could muster. As soon as he pulled the trigger, though, he felt the weapon slip from his hands. Splashes of glue came out of the back of the barrel and went everywhere.

He examined his hands and touched his face, worried: at least no glue was stuck to his skin. But the gun on the ground was covered with solidified glue. Maybe it had jammed and the shot had exploded while it was still in the barrel. He picked up the gun, tried to pull out the charger, tried to press the trigger, but the gun was unusable. The glue had blocked every mechanism.

Dad will kill me.