Heaven Sent Us A Zombie Virus

(When Prompted to Write 997 Words)

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I wrote the first draft of this story in 15 minutes on the train to work for “The Great Substack Prompt Celebration” hosted by the ‘fable-licious’ Fictionistas. A big thank you to Heather Huffman and Nicole Rivera for their seemingly endless supply of prompts and inspiration they have on hand to hand out during their prompt parties.

More info on how this works can be found in this post:

February's Let's Write Together

Here’s February’s Flashy Fiction Prompt:

You wake up one morning, and every time you reach for your phone, you get extremely nauseous, sometimes vomiting. You turn on the tv and it’s happening all over the world. Why? Is it fixable? Will the world ever be the same?

We all had a chance to read our rough first drafts out loud, which added fuel to the creative fires burning on the pages around the world. I typed up my handwritten scribbles the next day before they became unreadable ash, and I didn’t look at my story, “The Zombie Virus Descends From The Heavens Above,” again until today. 

I’m happy with the unusual direction my story took, and I like my new title more than the old one, although I feel I needed the old one to set the tone and the mood.  

Enjoy reading or listening to my body of words as it leaps onto the page and then into the air.

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Heaven Sent Us A Zombie Virus

“Yes, Mister Doberman, the project is nearing completion. Our client is impressed we’re completing everything ahead of schedule despite continuing global warming trends and strange weather patterns,” I say. 

I’m glued to my Eyphone. It’s an essential part of my identity as a productive member of our planetbound community who work hard to survive. The air scratches at my raw throat. I’m standing on top of another skyscraper to double check installation protocols.

“Good. Update me when work is complete,” he barks at me. “Tackle the next project as soon as possible. At this rate you might qualify for that fatherhood license by the end of the year. Be aggressive, John!”

“Thank you, Mister Doberman, sir.” My name is Jothang, but I dare not correct my boss. I got this job because the last guy did just that. 

“Boss’s always right.”

I hang up and notice a bright light falling in the distance. I narrate because the constant voice in my head has a way with words.

“In the beginning of the end of humanity’s far future, a shooting star shoots across a crisscrossed sky. People are too busy to notice the event. They frown at their Eyphones.”

I am pleased with my narration, and so I continue to entertain myself as I put the final touches on the latest app. I check connections. I test response times. I please the self-appointed gods above.

“A shooting star is a meteor burning up as it enters the earth’s atmosphere. And as it glows in holy radiance it disperses its alien cargo of zombie viruses for all of mankind to breathe in at their leisure.” 

At least that’s what I predict is happening. And I get to see it all firsthand through the nearby satellites I am linked to. I’m a bit of a dreamer.

People still need to breathe the air, no matter how bad it is. Luckily the air is still mostly free, for now. The next app I’m working on is an air quality controller. They’ll probably start charging a fee for clean air.

I continue.

“The explosion of the meteoric impact is a silent one from where I’m watching. I stay quiet, too. Who would believe my fanciful story, anyway? And what do I know? I work in tech support and quality control. Who needs another conspiracy theorist spreading alternative facts?”

At home I step into the air shower and blast the grime of the day off my hairless body. My wife has an instadinner heated up for us to share. We cuddle and talk and eat. We’re saving up for a parenthood application. Womb-vats are expensive to rent.

After the meal we keep an eye on our holo tv. Our dead houseplant needs no more water. 

A few hours later reports flood in from every part of the world. At first people are only slightly nauseous when near their Eyphones. Soon, everyone feels violently ill if they even look at their Eyphones. 

Doctors are confused.

Scientists are baffled. 

Engineers fail to make Eyphones safe to use.

There is no cure. The condition is permanent. Eyphones are destroyed by the ton.

My wife and I wear double masks to bed that night, but when we wake up the next morning I instantly know we are infected, too. I throw our Eyphones in the recyclix and feel better.

I am relieved. We no longer need to constantly reach for Eyphones to keep in touch with friends, family members, and our bosses. I rediscover my inner introvert. I rejoice in reading a good old-fashioned book as my wife reads hers. We’ve never felt this much peace and freedom in our lives, even as everyone else panics. 

“It was that meteor,” I tell her. I want to show my wife the videos I recorded, but our phones are in pieces.

“You be crazy talking now,” she answers with a smile before kissing me on the cheek. 

The virus quickly mutates. Soon, all technology makes people want to vomit until they die. We end up destroying it all.

Only the wealthiest are immune to the virus. They breathe their own specially designed air in their geostationary orbital homes far above the planet’s surface. They live like angels up in the heavens. They can’t use technology to force us to worship and serve them any more.

Soon the world splits unevenly between the Techs and the Techless.

I am Techless and proud of it.

We Techless are called Zombies because without access to any kind of technology we revert back into wild human ways like speaking face to face in real time. We shake physical hands, hug, and even do the dreaded kissing and lovemaking that had become taboo generations ago.

My wife’s belly swells up. 

Life has become a sexually transmitted disease again. We don’t need womb-vats.

The elite class of Techs continue to live on in their airtight bubbles of solitude, away from the germs, away from the bacteria, and away from the happy viruses of the world. They continue to design babies in test tubes. Robots grow perfect children in womb-vats in their Techtopia. AIs educate them into a life of sterile privilege. Their days are numbered, and they know it.

Meanwhile, we dirty Zombies farm the land, clean the air, and fix the planet by reverting to our natural human states.

Everyone’s become an Adam or an Eve.

“The snake is the technology that tempted us to climb too high.” 

Now everyone’s back in paradise, learning what it’s like to be a human being again.

The Techs continue to orbit the earth and babble about the good old days when technology enslaved everyone for their benefit. They sometimes send drones to communicate with us. We ignore them, or we vomit blood.

I keep an eye on the sky and wonder when the next shooting star might bless us with another miracle from the heavens. 

I’m ready.

My wife’s ready.

And so is our unborn child, Gabriel.

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