A Fate Worse Than Death

				A Fate Worse Than Death


				           Chapter 3


	It was about three weeks after my encounter with the inbreeds that I ran
into Elijah 47. It was the first time I had been in contact with the male zombie
version, and had to admit that he was a formidable sight, especially wearing
that high density composite battle armor. It would have been impossible for a
normal human to carry around over 200 pounds of body and head protection, but to
the Elijah class this was like toting a bandolier of small caliber depleted
uranium cartridges.

	We acknowledged each other and exchanged information concerning the
terrain and the location of Red state settlements in the vicinity. He also
informed me that he was the sole survivor of an ambush that had taken place two
days ago to the east. The other three members of Phalanx C, a new battle
concept, had either been destroyed or taken captive by a large band of heavily
armed Red state militia. Based on my limited knowledge of what I'd seen in the
line of firepower from the enemy I found this information to be difficult to
process.

	It was then that I got the first inkling that the enemy had found our
weakness, a weakness that was a closely guarded secret. Our fatal flaw had been
revealed to the Red state military by a sympathizer who had managed to work his
way into the zombie manufacturing facility and gained this carefully guarded
knowledge that he carried back to Red state territory. The ambush of Phalanx C
could never have been successfully carried out without the knowledge of our
weakness.

	It was a well-coordinated attack that separated the quartet of zombies,
using camouflaged pits to trap them individually. Once the zombie clambered from
the trap, it was picked off with depleted uranium shells fired from modified
shoulder launched platforms. Those shells that struck their targets removed the
head from the zombie, in most cases sending them well over 50 yards from the
body. Special teams of men raced in and captured the head, removing it from the
field of battle, causing the protoplasm to be effectively neutralized. Elijah 47
had sustained some partial damage, but managed to retreat into the woods
surrounding the ambush area. The militia chose not to follow him for obvious
reasons.

	For reasons that our creators still do not understand, but finally
accepted in light of the need to get us into the field, the zombie head created
from the same protoplasm that forms the zombie's body cannot operate with any
other zombie body. Each zombie is a unique combination, its parts are not
interchangeable. I wonder what the religious folks in the Red states would say
about this little fact. On second thought, they'd still call us the devil's
spawn and do their level best to do the same thing I was trying to do to them.
Was it possible that we were all God's children after all? So this little
weakness, a tiny flaw in the DNA we carried, had the potential to ultimately
spell our own demise, now that the secret was revealed to the enemy.

	For the better part of two weeks we roamed the woods, finding very
little prey. The few Red staters we did eliminate were a scruffy lot, much like
the inbreeds that had captured me. We had little to go on, since our prime
instruction was to get rid of as many Red state folk as we could find. We were
not aware that for all extents and purposes the civil war was over and the Blue
states had been almost totally eliminated, the remaining population left to die
of radiation poisoning and diseases contracted during the various biological
warfare campaigns.

	Even more importantly for our survival we did not know that the zombie
terrorists like ourselves had been pretty much wiped out by Red state kill
squads armed with the kind of weaponry that made zombies very vulnerable and
thus very "killable", now that our little secret was out in the open so they
could capitalize on it. Had Elijah 47 and myself been given a little more
autonomy by our creators, we might have escaped and made our way ultimately into
central America or even further south, despite the presence of the Army of
Freedom that was waging war in South America. That however was not an option for
we zombie terrorists, so we soldiered on and the law of averages caught up with
us.

	It was broad daylight, and we were moving through rough, wooded terrain.
Suddenly I was hanging in midair by one ankle, watching as a line of heavily
armed folks converged on Elijah 47. He was holding his own until he was struck
by a depleted uranium shell fired from one of those shoulder mounted launchers
he had warned me about. It hit him in the chest, blew through and forced him off
his feet for a few seconds. That was all that was required. A pair of men
carrying flame throwers set Elijah 47 afire and he tried to escape into the
woods, but had a great deal of difficulty making progress due to the huge hole
in his upper torso and the fire that was melting his body armor and impeding his
vision to a significant degree. Within a few seconds he was struck by three more
shells, blowing his body into numerous chunks and totally separating his head
from the rest of his body. I knew that he was finished. As I began to extricate
myself from the noose holding me aloft they turned their weapons on me and
everything went black until I awoke in a small concrete bunker, surrounded by
members of the local Red state militia.

	I immediately realized that my head had been detatched from my body,
which was nowhere to be seen. What was left of me was mounted on some kind of
fixture that held my head firmly in its grip. The commander of this group smiled
at me and gave me a mocking salute. "Glad to see that you're alive and kicking;
that's not exactly true since we've taken the liberty of separating you from
that bundle of muscle and nerves that has caused us no end of trouble. If you're
a good little zombie and agree to certain demands I will place upon you, I'll
allow you to be reunited with that killer body. I have to admit that it's killer
in more than one way. Unfortunately or perhaps fortunately for me, I'm not
tempted by your body any longer thanks to a little injury I sustained in an
earlier campaign."

	There was very little I could do at the moment but listen and try to use
the information to my advantage. What I heard and saw was almost unacceptable.
The civil war between the Red and Blue states had been decided in favor of the
enemy. At first I refused to accept this as truth, but as more and more evidence
was brought forward, there was no other logical conclusion. During the past
months I had become more and more uneasy about our situation; the enemy appeared
to be much stronger now and their tactics and weapons were becoming even more
sophisticated based on the encounters I'd been having with them. The added
information I received from Elijah 47 only confirmed my feelings. In order to
develop a strategy that would allow me, as a minimum, to escape and continue my
assignment, I had to assume the worse, that I was on my own for the duration.

	When they showed me how they were disposing of the captured zombies, and
there were more than I imagined, it failed to evoke the response that the
commander had hoped. We zombies have no particular feelings towards anyone,
thanks to the programming we received after being formed. We have a function to
perform, which is to eliminate Red state people in any manner suitable as long
as it maximizes our probability to survive for further combat. We have no such
sentiment as loyalty, honor, fair play and the other baggage that might get in
the way of our prime function. I was however disappointed to see other zombies
being destroyed, since that lowered my probablity of surviving, which in turn
lowered my chances of carrying out my prime function. However the manner in
which they were destroyed was of no consequence.

	The fact that every zombie that was shown being destroyed had its arms
and legs detached prior to the process brought back memories of my encounter
with the inbreeds. I was quick to notice that in almost all cases, especially
when it involved the Mariah class, which is the female version, the genitals
were a prime target for mutilation as the first step in ultimately destroying
the zombie. Most zombies were unified; for some strange reason the enemy thought
that having both the head and body available at the same time for destruction
made the zombie more sensitive to what was happening; nothing could be further
from the truth. I watched the reaction of the militia personnel who were
observing the screen upon which the elimination of the captured zombies was
occurring.

	Their respiration increased dramatically and in nearly all cases they
became sexually aroused, especially when the Mariah zombies' genitals were being
mutilated by such means as having explosives inserted into the ersatz vagina and
detonated, being burned to ashes by flame throwers, a decidedly risky method
which more than likely resulted in some Red state casualties, and being sliced
up using machetes, Bowie knives and even axes. Breasts were also a prime target
and received similar treatment. To my way of looking at things this was a
needless waste of energy and a potential hazard to those involved. I was utterly
confused by the frequent use of various methods to hang the zombie. Breaking a
zombie's neck did nothing to really harm the zombie, it could still kill Red
staters with little inconvenience if it were relatively unscathed otherwise. I
did have to admit that decapitating the zombie by hanging it with razor or piano
wire did damage the combatant substantially since now the head and body were not
in sync.

				Chapter 4


	It was the last segment of the tape that made me realize I was an
endangered species, and it appeared that the Red staters were working very hard
to change that status to extinct. It was then that my interrogator began to make
major inroads into what passed for my morale. I carefully examined every frame
of that tape as it showed the destruction of literally dozens upon dozens of
Mariah class zombies, as well as perhaps half a dozen of the Elijah class. They
had gotten the process down to a standard routine, which was the most
disconcerting information I gleaned from this display. It was obvious from the
various backgrounds that this was not one large killing plant, but numerous
small stations where the demolition of my kind had taken place.

	Each zombie was fettered with what appeared to be stainless steel
restraints. All were in some state of consciousness, many relatively unscathed
considering the type of combat in which they had been involved. Initially each
zombie was decapitated and the severed head thrown into a pile located some
distance from where the processing of the bodies took place, thus preventing any
possibility of reconstitution or reanimation. The bodies were ground up in
machines traditionally used for stump grinding, this entire Red state area once
having been covered in pine and other smaller sized trees. The ground up bodies
were then transported to a trench filled with some type of chemical bath that
dissolved the remains. This is turn was pumped into tanker trucks and the
mixture poured into quicksand bogs, which completed the process of
decommissioning the zombie. I had to admit that it was quite efficient and most
effective.

	The commander was quite candid about what happened in general to the
zombie heads. About half of them were made safe by eliminating the optical,
auditory and speaking capabilities, rendering them "deaf, dumb and blind" as he
so succinctly described the process. These were given as awards or trophies to
Red state troops who had distinguished themselves in battle. A few went to the
main museum located in Jackson, the Red state capital city, and the rest were
destroyed in crematoriums, the ashes sent to other quicksand bogs for ultimate
disposal.
 	
	I had to admit some type of reaction when the screen showed my body,
hanging from hooks on what looked to be some kind of conveyor belt. My
interrogator laughed as he watched my eyes zero in on my former body. Then he
said something that did a bit more than just surprise me.

	"What you are witnessing is in all probablility the last zombie of its
class and perhaps all classes. When it is destroyed, the zombie army, such as it
was, will have been totally obliterated. You are the last of your kind. It is
for this reason that I have been empowered by our new leadership in Jackson to
make you a very generous offer that will allow you to continue to exist for a
rather long time, likely a number of years at the least."

	"In all candor I must admit that I am dead set against this order that
has come directly from our new leader, the widow of the man who led us to this
final victory. It is tragic that at the moment of his greatest triumph, he
should be snatched away from us as the result of some minor deviation that was
initiated during his cloning, and over the decades finally ended his brilliant
reign as our maximum leader. Related to this event is the fact that our clone
armies, which were the backbone of our military success, also were heir to the
same deviation, but in their case, because of the lack of quality control, it
proceeded at a pace that was well over ten times more rapid than what took Bush
5 from us."

	"The lack of a functional clone army has severely hampered our military
efforts in the other theaters of operation and will put even more pressure on
our homeland population to continue to support the activities of the Army of
Freedom. Thus what it boils down to these days is morale. That is where you come
in. In exchange for allowing you to continue to function, you will act as a
focal point for improving national honor and pride. This will be achieved by
putting you on a tour that will allow the various population centers the chance
to witness what you are and vent their anger and frustration as they watch you
suffer the torments of the damned. For in truth, you are truly damned to remain
functioning under the most dire of situations. In a sense you are the last of
the undead from either side, but that is a thought that I will only share with
you."

	I had to admit that this was tremendous amount of information to digest
and attempt to sort in order to determine what my response to this bargain
should be. It did not take more than a few seconds to come to the conclusion
that cooperation with this human was the optimal path to take if I wanted to
continue to fulfill my prime objective, which was to eliminate Red state people.
I had no reason to doubt the truth of what he said. The last month or so there
had been a tremendous reduction in encounters with the enemy and based on the
information provided by Elijah 47, out efforts to overcome the Red state
militias was not at all successful. Indeed I might very well be the last of my
kind and thus it was imperative I remain functioning in hopes that at some time
in the future I could once more return to action. All that remained was to hear
the human's terms and the restraints that would be placed upon me. They were
quick in coming once he knew I was in agreement with his offer.

	"In your new capacity, there will be almost constant travel. This is the
one area of our new leadership's plan that concerns me the greatest. To reduce
the chances of you escaping and returning to your original state as a terrorist,
I will have two things done to you. You will receive an implant which will send
a signal that can be picked up by our network surveillance system in case you
somehow manage to escape. To further reduce this possibility, a small but deadly
charge of plastic explosive will be surgically buried in your brain. This can be
set off from a distance of approximately half a mile."

	I could see by his body language and the tone of his voice, that he was
quite pleased with himself. I did nothing to make him think otherwise. It would
take some serious study of the problem in order to develop an exit strategy. I
felt that time was my ally and thus the better my performance as a morale
building tool, the better my chances for extended survival.

	He then revealed to me his strategy for making certain that I did not
escape during the time that would be spent doing from one city to another. After
each appearance, which invariably would result in my  decapitation as part of
the morale building event, my body would be transported in an independent
carrier that would always be separated from my head by a distance of at least
one mile, guaranteeing that there could be no way for me to reanimate or
reconstitute myself except when it was necessary to be prepared for my next
appearance.

	His next revelation was almost laughable to me, but my logic could
appreciate the importance of such cosmetic considerations. I would now be
capable of emitting all variety of shreiks, screams, pleadings and the like
thanks to a small broadcasting system implanted in my throat area. My other new
capability was being able to "bleed" by means of a small pump that could supply
a reasonable facsimile of blood from various ports located in my torso. The
irony was that we zombies had no feelings and no blood supply. How else could
the audience believe or imagine that I was suffering the torments of the damned
if they could not hear and see some manifestation of what I was enduring?

			       A Fate Worse Than Death


				  Chapter 5


	Well, it's been nearly six months since my grand tour of the Red State
nation, now called New Freedom, began. I've appeared in some sixty-two
presentations, and to quote my handler/manager, the good commander, "I'm still
alive and kicking." Despite the fact that we have been in close proximity most
of this period, I know nothing about him, not even his name. In some of my less
lucid moments, I imagine that he would make a fair zombie soldier due to his
fixation that everything involved in this morale building project shall be "by
the book", as he often says.

	We've covered the nation starting from what was left of Montgomery, then
following those highways still open to finally reach New Orleans. I was a  huge
hit in that city ,especially with its history of things magical and the zombie
tradition that had been brought to that part of the country by settlers from the
Caribbean and Africa. We did two events over a three day span, allowing one day
for me to reconstitute what was left of my body after the first morale building
appearance. By then the event protocol had been totally established. Upon our
arrival there would be a private session for those entrusted with governing the
city, ranking members of the Church of the Crusader and decorated heroes who had
fought bravely in Civil War 3.

	No matter where the city, these Red staters that make up the majority of
every private session seem to also be following some type of protocol when it
comes to venting their anger and hatred on me. The commander would make a short
speech addressing whatever significant events occurred in and around the city
during the last civil war, provide some very general information concerning my
role in the war and then introduce me to them. I will be rolled into the meeting
room securely manacled to the metal frame that is an essential part of the
presentation.

	To make me less threatening, so I'm told, I'm stark naked, my body oiled
so that it glistens. If you recall my original description of a Mariah, you can
imagine the effect that my totally naked and most vulnerable body produces in
all but only a small fraction of the male population. The thing that is most
amazing is the way the women respond to me. I honestly think that if the makers
of the clone armies had decided that they be female, my side would have been
swept from the field in a matter of months, instead of the nearly three years it
took for things to wind down.

	I've never been able to be absolutely confident about why women react so
violently towards me. Yes, I am beautiful and extremely well built. Yes, I and
my fellow zombies have been the cause of many a widow. Yes, I am not white.
These are good reasons for women to be jealous and at the same time hate me for
my "crimes", but I know there is still more beneath the surface. This is what
causes them to totally lose control and attack me with their fists and
fingernails, not to mention the butcher knives, lead pipes, lengths of chain,
hat pins,ice picks and the lady from Biloxi who actually managed to hack two of
my limbs from my body with a hand axe before she was dragged away, screaming and
frothing at the mouth.

	The men on the other hand prefer to use their fists, sometimes enhanced
by brass knuckles or spikes, the latter can do some terrible damage in a
superficial sense. I often look over to the commander and can see him wince as
some male tears my face open or worse. It is not pity that causes this reaction,
rather the knowledge on his part that I will have to be allowed some time to
reconstitute myself before I'm turned over to the tender mercies of the
assembled mobs that have come to see me literally torn to pieces before their
very eyes.

	In many cases the by invitation only viewing is attended strictly by
men. It is these times when I am raped savagely as they lose all the trappings
of civilization and turn to what mankind must have been like many thousands of
years ago. It is time for the ritualistic mutilation of my femininity, my
breasts sliced and hacked from their moorings, my vagina stabbed and slashed
with huge hunting knives and the like. It is during this frenzy I always go back
to my first encounter with the inbreeds and the one who opened me up with one
pass of his knife; now that was impressive!

	Naturally my restraining frame can be turned over to expose my back and
hindquarters for even more violent fun and games. I've had heated pokers
inserted into my anal passage, an item as useful to me as is the appendix for
humans. They've pounded wooden stakes into that tight orifice until it split
apart, and yes, they have sodomized me almost as often as they raped my vagina.
It may sound strange to hear me say this, but after enduring this type of
treatment over and over, I sometimes long for someone with a bit more
inventiveness or originality in what he or she does to my body. Unfortunately
these members of the New Freedom nation are in many respects much closer to the
clones and, yes, even we zombies, in that they lack the capability for
independent action.

	What is currently being done to my helpless body is so typical of the
private sessions. Except for the fact that one of my eyes has been popped from
its socket as the result of a blow with what looks like a piece of lead pipe,
it's business as usual. I am amusing myself, so to speak, by predicting exactly
how many slices it will take for them to totally remove my breasts. The ones
working on my right one seem to have more enthusiasm and slightly more muscle
than the group amputating my left breast. It's my guess that the right one will
go first, but the left one will take more cuts to remove it from my chest wall.
As is usually the case, especially after the Biloxi incident, the blood pump has
been disconnected, so the entire process is decidedly sterile, truly bloodless,
although the speaker lodged in my throat is producing some outstanding versions
of the human death agonies as they continue to wittle away on these outstanding
examples of human femininity. 

	When they are finished venting their lusts on me, it will be time for a
period of reconstitution and then out to the main stage to be torn to pieces
before nearly three thousand Red staters from the area of Oklahoma City. With
some luck I'll be capable of performing tomorrow night in Tulsa, our last stop
before heading south to Little Rock and finally ending this segment of the tour
in Jackson. I've noticed that there are a growing number of hooded and robed
people now attending these "patriotic manifestations of unity", those are the
commander's words not mine. I have a footnote somewhere within the brief
implanted history of the former United States of America that informs me that
these hooded ones are members of a once outlawed secret society called the Ku
Klux Klan, now once more flourishing in the New Freedom nation. I find it
strange since there are no people of color allowed in New Freedom. What is their
charter these days?

	To pass the time until my assailants finish with their mutilation of my
private parts, I begin reviewing the last four stops on the tour, recalling what
was done to me at each once the public display took place. Let's see, the tour
started its Texas leg in Longview, reaching it three days after finishing up in 
Shreveport, our last stop in Louisiana. We had a pretty good crowd for out
initial stop in what was left of the lone star state. West Texas no longer
existed as far as being a place where life could flourish, and the southern
portion of the state had been obliterated by a combination of nuclear and
chemical weapon attacks.

				Chapter 6


	It was audience participation time and so I was hung by my wrists from
the stage and the good folks of Longview had at me with a variety of weapons
ranging from barbed wire whips through chains, finally finishing up with the
ever popular Bowie knife. I was a rather tattered zombie terrorist by the time
that segment of the presentation ended. Then for the grand finale they hung me
using razor wire, which gradually cut through my neck until I was not so neatly
decapitated. A few minutes before my body and I parted company, I was doused
with some highly flammable liquid and ignited. The flames must have jumped
fifteen feet into the air bringing waves of delighted applause and shouts of
glee from the asembled throng. Just as my body dropped away from my head the
fireworks went off right on cue and the good folks of Longview stood as one and
sang the Church of the Crusader hymn of victory. All in all, a good time had
been had by all, except yours truly.

	We arrived in Tyler a day and a half later; the main highways were still
damaged to the point that we had to take a number of detours. However this still
gave me sufficient time to reconstitute once we reached our destination. The
show the following evening went off without a hitch. Here the crew was able to
hook up the speaker in my throat to the sound system in the small stadium and
treat the audience to the horrifying sounds that were wrung from this "truly
terrified", (once more the words of the commander) terrorist zombie by the
outraged citizens who took turns demonstrating their hatred for this evil
servant of the godless demons from the Blue states. For a little change of pace
during the grand finale, while I was hanging from the razor wire, they had a
number of local heroes from the war use chain saws to separate my body into a
number of chunks as the audience went wild with patriotic fervor. By now I could
sing the Church of the Crusader victory hymn backwards as well as forwards. Then
it was on to Dallas, for three big shows.

	It was a long trip, made necessary because the main highways leading
into Dallas were still under repair, and might still be for the next few years
acording to what I heard from the commander's comments to his underlings.
However after the better part of two days and nights we pulled into the city for
three big shows, all to take place in perhaps the only large, undamaged stadium
in the entire New Freedom nation. The opening show was before an audience of at
least ten thousand people, the biggest we'd had on the entire tour. Opening
night was a bit more brutal in keeping with the size of the crowd.

	I was not only sliced and diced with the usual weapons such as barbed
wire, but I also took some terrible treatment from one veteran who used a flail
to shred me to tatters, managing to tear half of one breast away as the audience
roared their approval. I was able to follow the action by looking up at one of
the huge screens that was giving every person here a front row seat. It's a
strange sensation to watch yourself being ripped to pieces and yet not feel a
thing that is transpiring. It's during these moments that I usually concentrate
on watching the faces of those who seem to be enjoying themselves to the limit
of their capability.

	You can imagine what I am thinking at that point as well. One of my
intermediate goals is to somehow break free of my bonds during one of these
orgies of violence and run amok in the audience as an exercise of my capability
for destruction. There is a small part of me that grudgingly acknowledges that
perhaps I have now experienced so much violence towards my person that there is
a small element of celebration in what will occur as I work my way through the
hordes of Red staters, leaving a trail of blood and death in my wake. I am
curious about how many Red staters I might dispatch before being forced to flee
into the wilderness to once more stalk the human prey that populate this region.

	Once this phase of the event was over, something new was added. The
commander hadn't alerted me to this, so I was as interested as the audience in
what was to come next. A small group of militia, veterans of civil war 2 who
acted to prevent the California survivors from escaping into Mexico, marched
onto the stage. I was still hanging from the chains, the blood pumps working
away to simulate what a living creature might look like after such brutal
handling. I noticed that they were all carrying old style rifles with bayonets
attached. I wondered if I was about to be shot full of holes by what passed for
a firing squad. Then I heard the one in charge of the squad announce "Fix
bayonets!" Then I got it, in more ways than one.

	Each member of the group took a pass at me, burying his bayonet into my
body and then tearing it up or sideways in an attempt to create a larger wound.
Quite a few took dead aim at my groin, especially the vulva. Many hit home and
it was interesting to watch the expressions on their faces when one of the more
accurate managed to bury his shaft of steel deep inside my ersatz vagina and
then pull and twist the blade as he screamed and even in some of the more
frenzied cases, frothed at the mouth in their fury. It is moments like this that
steel my resolve to escape and go back to what I was designed to do.

	After the "firing squad" got done turning me into what appeared to be a
bleeding piece of meat, I was prepared for the grand finale. By now the audience
was collectively frothing at the mouth , awaiting my total destruction in some
horrible manner. I was manacled to a rectangular frame of metal and wrapped in
barbed wire. Then about a dozen muscular members of the audience used clubs to
drive the barbed wire deep into my body as a warmup for my big finish. All the
time they were driving the barbed wire deeper and deeper into my torn and
tattered body, a couple of members of of the local militia were preparing me to
be hung from my neck using the old tried and true favorite, razor wire.This time
the hook for the crowd of screaming, blood-thirsty humans was the lumberjack
special, a particularly violent and brutal assault on what was left of my body.

	Once the muscle men had finished driving the last of the barbed wire
into my private and public parts, the fun began. A noose of razor wire was
looped round my neck and drawn tight, beginning the process of decapitation. It
was now time for the variation in the standard big finish. Two local heroes
armed with axes, the kind used to chop down the local forests for lumber, took
up their stances on either side of me. At a nod from one of the local leaders of
the Church of the Crusader they started hacking away at my body.

	This was no completely berserk attack, it was done with a degree of
precision considering the implements they had to use. Almost simultaneously my
feet were chopped off, then my legs at the kneecaps, and finally at the juncture
to my torso. By now one of the men had taken a small lead over his companion. It
was then that I realized it was a contest. I was unable to ascertain what
defined victory, but I would discover that very soon at the rate they were
butchering me. All the while this was going on, the wire was doing its job as
well,  first slicing slowly across my neck and then gaining speed as the amount
of material holding my head attached to my body was reduced.

	The one slightly ahead landed a pair of vicious blows to my midsection,
leaving the remainder for his opponent to hew away, and then moved up to neaty
hack one of my bleeding breasts from my chest wall. He then took his stance,
readying himself for the winning blow, which would result in my head being
separated from the chunks that used to be my body. It was then that I realized
there were two things that constituted victory, arriving at my neck first and
then slicing my head off before the razor wire did. It was close, but the razor
wire did its work a fraction of a second before the blow landed. This distracted
the axe wielder just enough that he managed to shear away the lower portion of
my face, bringing a frenzied roar of approval from the mob of totally insane
folk. In retrospect I had to admit that for unmitigated violence and sheer
barbaric behavior, this one was very near the top of the scale.

	It took most of the time between performances for me to reconstitute my
badly damaged body. I received no sympathy from my manager who expressed a great
deal of unhappiness in some of the unplanned actvities that had occurred at last
night's performance. At the next performance there were no surprises as far as I
was concerned. The militia did their thing and the rest of the activities went
off as planned, "by the book" as the commander said. Then it was time for the
grand finale and this was the first time in a while that more modern technology
was employed to destroy me before the eager throngs of Red staters.

	My torn up body, bleeding profusely from various areas, was chained to a
group of motorcycles, and dragged slowly around the stadium to give everyone a
good close look at the terrorist zombie being prepared for her just desserts.
Four heavy links of chain ran from the metal collar around my neck and were
connected to the rear assemblies of the motorcycles. My arms were manacled
together at wrist, elbow and bicep, but otherwise I was unfettered. I could see
a crew of men working on the surface of the oval track upon which I was to be
dragged once more, but they were too far away to show me exactly what they were
doing. I found out shortly.

	They took one circuit at a fairly respectable speed as I bounced along
behind them , scraping off patches of skin and opening up some new cuts. My
breasts, that had been turned to twin lumps of bleeding meat, were taking a
brutal beating, but my head was relatively unscathed, which I'm sure was no
accident. Then they gunned the engines of the bikes and tore around the track
one more time to the roar of the crowd, which was on their feet and screaming.
It was difficult to see since my body was bumping from side to side and on
occasion becoming airborne so that I skipped like a stone across the surface of
water.

	Then I struck something that ripped my body into shredded meat. I was
twenty yards beyond the point of impact before I realized I'd been dragged
across at least three circular ripsaws that had been running at top speed. I was
positive they hadn't been there on the other laps. They must have been buried
and then deliberately raised on this, my last lap for the night. My arms and
legs were gone and my torso had been ripped apart from neck to vulva. Only a few
scraps of skin and shredded meat were holding what was left of my torso to my
head. The audience was going crazy. Then the fireworks went off and the mob
began bellowing the victory hymn on cue as its words began to course across the
giant screen that was also showing what was left of me being dragged off the
track as the motorcycles headed beneath the stands.

	After another lengthy reconstitution, more on that subject in a moment,
I was barely ready for the third and fnal show for the Dallas people. As it
turned out, I'd seen and experienced it all before, so I managed to get through
the last show on shall we say, automatic pilot. This time the grand finale was
sort of meat and potatoes. After being multilated beyond recognition by the good
people of Dallas, my body was chained to four ATVs and my limbs ripped off as
the drivers gradually eased their vehicles from one gear to the next. Then a
squad of local dignitaries, some I'd already encountered in the private session,
buttressed by some local citizens who had been chosen by lot, proceeded to chop
my torso into bits with saws, axes and even those ubiquitous Bowie knives that
seemed to abound in this area of New Freedom. A good time was had by all, except
this terrorist zombie who was beginning to wonder if she had made the right call
when offered this opportunity to continue waging war against the Red states and
their citizens.

	On the way to the thriving metropolis of Denton for yet another show, I
remember assessing the situation once again and coming to the same conclusion.
It was still to my advantage to keep taking whatever these people could dish out
in hopes of beating the odds just one time. Early in the tour it appeared that
luck was with me when the vehicle carrying my head had an accident and the
following vehicle, containing my body, inadvertently got within a hundred yards
of me before being warned to keep its distance no matter what the situation.
That bit of luck had kept my confidence high for most of this tour.

	Nothing unique happened in Denton. It was the usual rape and mutilation
at the private session and more audience participation and additional mutilation
at the "patriotic manifestation of unity" event. The only thing that was
beginning to concern me was the fact that my original animated body had lost
almost ninety percent of itself through the various travails that it was put
through during this grand tour. It was not common knowledge, but if by chance
all my original material was somehow spread out over the entire area of New
Freedom, it would not be possible to reconstitute me. Original material was the
source of the nucleation that  allows the other ersatz material such as cadaver
parts or even carcasses of dead animals to grow into a zombie. Take away the
seed, and no growth, just a head that can do very little without a body. My
handler/manager was aware of this fact, having been given intensive briefings on
the subject of the operation and maintenance of a zombie.

				A Fate Worse Than Death


				          Chapter 7


	We were on the last leg of the tour, making our way toward Little Rock
after a show in Tulsa. The commander had been acting strangely ever since we
arrived in Tulsa. Everytime we were alone, he would stare at me and then smile.
This behavior was totally out of character for him.  Yesterday he actually sat
down and had a conversation of sorts with me. Naturally it was rather one-sided,
but I took in every word and tried to interprete as best I could what this
decidedly odd behavior meant. I remember his opening words perfectly.

	"I'll bet you are one bored terrorist zombie these days. Just how many
ways are there to do you  in? All these nasty things that people do to you must
be like water off a duck's back. If only you could be a participant in this
great show of pariotic unity, knowing and feeling what it must have been like to
fight and suffer for your cause. This is one of the reasons that I dislike you
so much. You have absolutely no emotions, no feelings. It's like you have this
boring job in a factory and you are punching a timeclock every day for the rest
of eternity. That's not the way for any sentinent being, even a zombie like you,
to exist."

	Feelings and emotions were foreign to my kind. We were designed
expressly to do one function and do it well. The concept of boredom did not
exist in my makeup. I was either active or inactive. To my way of viewing my
current situation, I was active. I was continuously gaining new knowledge about
my prey; knowledge that would make me even more efficient once I freed myself
from the current state. The more I pondered the commander's words, the more
interested I became in understanding them. I bided my time and awaited more
information that he might provide.

	The following day was quite arduous. We were required to take a number
of very challenging excursions from our planned itinerary, and made little
progress in reaching our destination. We encamped for the night, not willing to
risk traveling under what were adverse conditions of terrain. Once more the
commander settled down to have one of these strange "chats" with me. The
modification that had been made to install the speaker in place of my vocal
cords had made it impossible for me to speak, even if I was so inclined. He
continued to ramble about my lack of feeling, saying it was more evidence that I
was not one of god's creations.

	I am not much for philosophy, except for logic. The rest of it is not
part of what I need to accomplish my objective. However I still struggled to try
to understand this new vector that was coming from the commander. Perhaps
understanding its meaning would aid in escaping from this current situation,
something upon which I was totally focused. Just before he ended this latest
sitdown, which is what he called it, he mentioned that once we reached Little
Rock, I would be meeting with two representatives from the New Freedom office of
technology. He went out of his way to make certain that I understood that this
meeting would not be part of the usual private sessions that were always held
upon our arrival in a new city.

	It was almost sundown before we reached our destination, escorted for
the last hour or so by a number of motorized local militia. In a most unexpected
move I was reunited with my body, even though there was no private session or
show scheduled for this evening. I realized this was in preparation for my
meeting with the two persons from the New Freedom government. Surrounded by over
a dozen well armed militia, I was transported on my frame to a building located
some distance from where our trailer was parked.

	There were two humans waiting for me as it turned out. They introduced
themselves as Drs. Stanton and Wylie, formerly members of the Neurological
Research Department of the now defunct University of Texas at Austin, which was
just a crater that glowed in the darkness. At first this meant nothing to me,
but as they started to decribe the type of research they had been doing and now
were continuing under the aegis of the New Freedom defense department, it became
apparent that there was a direct and terrible connection between what they had
achieved and my continued existence.

	Even as they hurriedly explained what type of research they were doing
and its ramifications, I could see that the sight of my bound and very bare body
was having a decided effect on the younger of the two. He finally could no
longer stand the distraction that I was causing. It was obvious that he fell
into that category of human males that were strongly attracted sexually to my
appearance, a tribute to the Blue state designers who came up with me. He walked
over to where I lay and stared down at me, his breathing now rapid.

	"I've seen plenty of pictures of the Mariah zombie, but they hardly do
this one justice. I have to admit that if she was human, I'd be all over her in
nothing flat. Those tits are extraordinary and I hear that her pussy is superior
to any woman on  the planet. I have this on good authority from the few
survivors of sexual contact with the Mariah class zombie that we managed to
interview before their deaths." The older of the two laughed and chided his
companion.

	"Come off it Dr Stanton, you're not kidding me. Let's be honest; you'd
love to tear off a piece of this sexy death machine, especially this one who is
the last of its kind and utterly helpless to prevent you from nailing her good
and proper. I'm sure the commander would be a gentleman and look the other way
while you and I made a few personal observations of her sexual abilities so that
we could incorporate the data into our future work. After all it is for the good
of the New Freedom nation."

	A few minutes later after the two of them had satisfied their curiosity
concerning my sexual prowess, and returned to what they came to discuss with the
commander, things stopped making sense to me. They kept referring to
experimental work they had done on the "brains" of other Mariah zombies that
gave strong evidence that the use of prions, which they described as pure
protein that did not possess either RNA or DNA, caused substantial changes in
the zombies' brains. These changes occurred thousands of times faster than in
normal tissue since like the prions, the matter composing zombies' brains lacked
any genetic coding that typically determined how normal tissue developed.

	The commander , who was not an educated man, did not completely accept
what they said, since he knew for a fact that a great deal of my body was now
composed of cadavers and animal matter, both of which were "normal" tissue. The
two neurologists dismissed his argument out of hand, stating that the zombie
brain would not accept traditional genetically coded tissue, despite the less
than perfect composition of the zombie's body. I began to lose interest in this
strange discussion until the two men finally got around to what they wished to
do to me in order to  prove their premise about the use of prions to modify the
ability of the zombie to experience sensory stimulation.

	Now I was once more paying very close attention to what they were
saying. I was also applying as much effort as I dared to testing the strength of
the bonds that held my body down onto the transportation frame. I had been
performing this exercise every chance I got ever since the tour began. I
reasoned that if I continued to apply force to my bonds, ultimately I might
weaken them sufficiently to allow me to break free. Of course I still had to
somehow immobilize the commander to prevent him from detonating the small charge
of plastic explosive buried deep within my brain. Then I might have a chance to
make a run for it and escape into the countryside. I still had not figured a way
to cloak my movements from being detected by the national surveillance system,
but that was a problem that was more tractable than the other two. One had to
wonder just how reliable such a system might be, considering the damage that had
occurred throughout what was left of the old United States of America.

	The more I listened to what was being said, the more I realized that my
window of opportunity , which had originally been years, may now be rapidly
closing. The two men had produced a document that the comander was reading. From
the expression on his face and the stiffness of his body, it was apparent that
he did not like what he was reading. Finally he looked up from the document and
glared at the two.

	"According to these orders, I am to immediately terminate the tour and
allow you to join my caravan as it returns to the capital by the quickest and
most prudent route available. We, in turn, will be joined by  members of the
motorized  Mississippi militia at a yet to be determined location, to provide
additional security for its valuable cargo, to wit, the zombie known as Mariah
47. Upon arrival at the capital city, control of the Mariah 47 zombie will be
transferred to the office of Technology Development.  I wish to communicate with
my organization to verify the accuracy of what this document contains."

	The commander had the militia stand guard over me while he used the
transmitter located on the outskirts of the city to contact his chain of command
for instructions concerning the document he had just received. There was nothing
I could do under these circumstances except bide my time. This however did not
prevent the militia and the two scientists from using me sexually. I took this
opportunity, while they were so occupied, to once more evaluate the probability
of breaking free, eliminating this group, and fleeing. The plan was too high
risk to attempt at this time. I had no way to be sure that I could take the
commander by surprise, meaning a high probability that I would be destroyed.

	The commander did not return that night. However I had plenty of company
to keep me busy and out of trouble. Those were the  words that the two
scientists used as they watched the militia take turns using me. A number of
times while this "ritual" took place I was sorely tempted to free myself and end
this charade. However I had to wait until the commander returned, since he was
the key to a successful escape. Once the militia were satiated, they left me to
the tender mercies of the two professors. Their behavior toward me was even more
excessive than what had occurred previously.

	The younger one, Stanton, was still fascinated by my sexual prowess, but
unlike the militia, he was a bit more sophisticated, if that be the proper word,
this time around. By dint of effort he managed to insert his fist into my
vagina, and move it upwards until he was in me up to his elbow. This seemed to
excite him tremendously and he shouted to his companion to see what he had
accomplished. Dr. Wylie was not impressed, stating the obvious, that I had no
way of responding to this activity since I was devoid of almost all sensory
capability. This did not prevent his companion from continuing to use his closed
hand inside me. Immediately upon withdrawing, he inserted his sex organ into me
and from  the look on his face, almost immediately discharged into my body. It
normally was my method of operation to begin killing once my assailants were
partially satiated and thus their response to my attack was slowed considerably.
However this could not be my approach in this situation, so I continued to bide
my time.

	Now the other one took his turn, but he had other interests that were
just as ineffectual. He produced a small, extremely sharp knife which he
demonstrated by plucking a hair from his beard and then slicing it in two with
one motionof the blade. Then he proceeded  to begin carving my breasts up,
cutting lines that all started at the nipple and moved out, creating sectors.
Then he began peeling the top layer of flesh, if I dare call it that, simulating
the activity known as flaying. Of course it meant nothing of significance to me.
I was highly perplexed at the visceral reaction this procedure caused in him. He
began to laugh maniacally, followed by remarks that made no sense.

	"Once we have you in our laboratory and can work on your brain with our
prion therapy, you will have the delightful pleasure of feeling what a procedure
such as the one I am currently performing can create. I am sure you will not
enjoy it. It is called pain and so you will have taken one small step to
becoming a little less like a robot and more like a sentient being. Regardless
of how successful our work might be, you will never be human. The pleasure we
will have making you feel pain, knowing that no matter how much pain you endure,
you can never die from it because of that godless ability of yours to
reconstitute yourself, will be reward enough for our years of research that has
put the final nail in you eternal coffin. In truth, yours will be hell on
earth."

	"Imagine, if you can, going back on the tour to serve as a true symbol
that will bind up the wounds of our glorious nation. This time your screams of
agony will be genuine and make an enormous impact on our nation's population.
You will be a constant reminder of what the face of our foes looked like to
those who never experienced the horror and terror brought on our nation by your
kind. There is still more in store for you that you cannot even begin to
understand. I believe that ultimately our research will create a method of
allowing our people to bond with you as you suffer the fires of hell here on
earth. However they will be shielded from your pain, but not the terror that you
are experiencing as you are tortured beyond belief, surviving travails that no
human could. You will experience the pain and possibly even the humiliation of
being raped by hundreds, no, thousands of angry men who were injured in one way
or another by your kind."

	"I do not expect whatever happens to you to cause irreparable damage to
your mind, since your brain is more reptilian than human. Then again it may be
possible for you to be driven insane, which might be a blessing for you, but a
minor setback for what we are striving for here on earth. You will be the first
of your kind, and for that matter, any kind, that can truly make the statement,
"Mine is a fate worse than death!"

	He got so carried away that his knife slipped, removing my nipple and a
chunk of protoplasm beneath it. He grew more agitated and spittle flew from his
lips.Then he began slashing away at my face with that sharp blade, gouging more
pieces of my oft reconstituted flesh that fell onto the floor. When he began
mindlessly stabbing me in the chest, his associate called for help from the
militia stationed outside the room. They came quickly and restrained Wylie from
damaging me further, even though I felt nothing and realized that within perhaps
an hour or two, all of this superficial evidence of his loss of control would be
gone.

	After checking me, the other professor took his leave as well, leaving
me to my thoughts about what I had heard from Stanton. I knew the word "pain",
but had no idea what it meant. His statements about having a method of making me
feel something that I had never experieced held no fear for me at present. What
the future held for me in this matter was something I could not fathom. On the
other hand the way he responded to me was so inimical that I began to form a
plan to extricate myself from this situation very quickly.

	I resolved that as soon as I was in the presence of the commander I
would eliminate him immediately after breaking loose from the manacles that were
now so weakened that I knew I could free myself within moments. This would give
me the element of surprise and might allow my plan to be executed as designed. I
waited and went over my plan again and again to make sure that under the
circumstances it was optimal.

	Just before dawn I heard voices outside the door; the commander had
returned and by the tone of his voice was not very happy about something. I
heard him tell one of the militia that he wished to see me before he left the
convoy that would be taking me to Jackson. He cautioned the guards that I was
still extremely dangerous and therefore he was putting the mechanism that would
detonate the explosive lodged in my brain in their possession.

	"If she comes through that door, I'll be already dead, so don't waste
time, just press the button or she'll kill you all." My confidence of escaping
plummeted. There was little chance of me doing away with the commander and
getting past the guards if they had the detonator in their possession. I was now
forced to wait for a better time  in hopes for a more fortuitous opportunity.
The commander entered and took a position above me, his eyes looking down into
mine. He sighed deeply and announced that he had been relieved of his duty and
from now on the two scientists would be in charge of my security. Then he did a
very strange thing, reaching down and touching my face.

	"We had an arrangement and as far as I am concerned, it's still in
place. You are the enemy and in normal times I'd be doing my damndest to kill
you. The war is over for us both and I'll be damned if I'll turn a good soldier
over to a couple of perverts who want to play god at your expense. Take my
advice and when you get out of here head south for Central America. You won't be
bothered by the radioactivity and the left over biological blooms, so you have a
good chance of escaping. Now do what you have to do and take this with you." He
held the detonator in his hand. Seconds later I broke his neck and in less than
a minute I dispatched the four militia who waited outside. The one who thought
he had the detonator had a strange look on his face just before I tore his
throat out; the fountain of blood distracted his cohorts just enough for me to
send them to wherever humans went when they died. I leaped from the trailer,
noticing that the sun was just rising over the crest of the small hill that
provided some degree of shelter for the convoy. I quickly headed west and
minutes later I was in dense underbrush. Even as I put the miles between me and
the convoy I wondered why the commander had done what he had done. My function
had not changed and it never would. I wondered what would happen to me after I
killed the last of the Red state folk.

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