Bite Me

1

"Mr. Price. My superiors are concerned about your most recent novel. In particular, its close parallels with reality." The guy wore a neatly tailored suit. Not expensive or flashy, not the sort that attracts attention, but well-made nonetheless. In fact, the whole point of this guy's appearance was to deflect attention. If anyone took notice of him, he wasn't doing his job well. He was meant to be overlooked in appearance as much as action.

"What's wrong? Your bosses can't handle a little gore?"

"It's not the graphic nature of the novel that raises alarms..."

"I don't do graphic novels, and what do you mean alarms?" Andrew Price raised an eyebrow. He was accustomed to these nameless lackeys arriving at his apartment unannounced, flashing credentials that he couldn't check and giving him orders he couldn't ignore. If he valued his skin – he'd tow the party line, but the top-secret nature of these visits didn't impress him the way they once did. He found himself looking forward to the end, horrible as it seemed, if only to release him from the boring, day-to-day, monotonous, hum-drum, banal...

"Mr. Price!"

Andrew snapped back to attention.

"You are doing a service for your country. You are part of an initiative that will desensitize and psychologically prepare the populace for a fundamental change in the way they live their lives. We face an inevitable end to society as we know it, for which we have fortunately been warned and can therefore be prepared..."

Andrew knew you couldn't stop these guys once they got started, he just had to ride it out. Their fervour was something akin to religious fanaticism. He'd heard it before and would hear it again, no doubt, but he learned to put up and shut up if he wanted to remain useful. He had box seat tickets for the Big Show, and he didn't want to jeopardize that.

"...much the way first-person shooter video games are preparing the young for this catastrophic detour in human history. We have teams working hard on our end to stave off this change as long as they can. Clean Squads are targeting these incidences and sterilizing the sites as quickly and quietly as possible, but they are occurring more and more frequently. Those who die in hospitals are easy enough to manage, but there are some who cross over in the privacy of their homes. Entire families often fall prey before the Cleaners reach them..."

While his attention drifted in and out, Andrew thought about mundane things, fully aware that there would come a time when mundane things wouldn't be around to think about anymore. Like sitcoms and Starbucks and Angelina Jolie. He pictured Angelina with an eye gouged out, blood dripping down her chin as she disembowelled Brad Pitt.

Andrew drifted back to attention as the Suit was nearing the end of his rant. He could tell it was nearly over because the guy was hitting a crescendo. Zealots were characteristically impervious to interruption. He saw a vein bulging in the Suit's forehead and mentally tucked that one away. The guy was only upset because of how his kind had been portrayed in Andrew's last novel. That such elements had survived the vetting process said a great deal about the true attitudes of their superiors. Truth in fiction. Something like that...

"...set our estimated time of saturation at seventeen months! By then, our teams will be wholly unable to meet the demands of this crisis and will be forced to enter the next stage. Our way of life is doomed. Little will remain of society, and that is why we need men like you to continue your work. By providing the public with your scenarios, coupled with those of movies and videogames, we estimate that one tenth of the population could conceivably survive the initial change and continue on to form pockets of humanity across the nation. Your work is critical for preparation. The novels you write will soon become survival manuals for your fellow citizens, such as they are."

The Suit took a breath, centring himself to explain the real reason he was here, the conclusion that Andrew pretty much knew and expected.

"If the public knew that their government had prior knowledge of this crisis, it would greatly damage our credibility to say the least. The transition would be tainted by a lack of faith in the government and its message. The resultant chaos would see a greater loss of life, due to a lack of collective cooperation. With an every-man-for-himself scenario, we estimate only a one thousandth preservation rate of human life.

"That is why your most recent novel has raised alarms with my superiors. You spun a yarn about a government conspiracy in which the nation's highest office was fully aware of an impending crisis that they caused. A crisis involving biological weapons of mass distraction set against a backdrop of widespread cannibalistic behavior!"

"Spun a yarn? What am I, making sweaters? But anyhow, that's the truth," Andrew argued.

"But the people mustn't know that, Mr. Price! We didn't give you a get-out-of-judgement-day-free card so that you could break stories like some hack journalist. You're not a whistleblower, Mr. Price. Your job is to write stories to prepare the people, not cause a panic."

Andrew opened his mouth to argue but the Suit interrupted him.

"Rest assured, Mr. Price, we will be paying much closer attention to what you write from now on. You wouldn't want to be left out in the cold because you wanted the people to know the truth, now would you?"

The words fell heavily and Andrew, smartly, did not respond. He simply nodded in defeat. The Suit was playing hardball and Andrew knew he didn't have a defence.

"That's good, Mr. Price. I'm glad you see it our way. My superiors will be pleased. Now, there will be a few changes in what is expected, procedurally that is."

"Yeah, what?"

"First of all, all manuscripts will be routed through our offices prior to publication. We want to ensure that the people are provided with the most helpful story scenarios possible. Scenarios that do not point a finger at government offices and officials."

Andrew sat down in a nearby chair, beaten. He simply nodded, hearing every word the Suit said.

"Furthermore, we have some suggestions for the future format and content of your novels. Of course, we appreciate your flair for storytelling, but if we are to meet the needs of the people and ensure maximum preparedness then there are guidelines we expect you to adhere to."

"To which you expect me to adhere?" Andrew corrected.

The suit smirked and held out a folder which Andrew accepted with reluctance.

"Guidelines, huh."

"And a deadline," the Suit chuckled at the irony of that last statement before he turned and left the apartment, pulling the door shut behind him.

Andrew opened the folder with its Confidential stamp on the cover. There was a brief intro in governmentese, then a list of criteria. Andrew glanced at the first three.

1. Novels will be submitted every four weeks, on the last Friday of each four week period before 5 PM.

2. Novels will make no mention of government offices above the municipal level, and never under any circumstances will any government office be portrayed as having prior knowledge of, involvement in, or responsibility for the impending catastrophe.

3. Novels will refer to the antagonistic beings as "zombies" or "the undead" in the majority of references as these terms are widely recognized by the reading populace and do not leave room for misinterpretation.

Andrew closed the folder and tossed it across the room where it landed in a pile of dirty clothes. He got up and poured himself a whiskey, straight, no ice. After he drained the glass, he poured another and drained that. He didn't stop until the bottle was dry and he was unconscious.