The Naked Zombie

By J.Hamilton

When a trio of academics research documents that point to a class of beings they classify as zombies for want of a better word, Nancy Palmer meets Basil who turns out to be 144 years old. As the evidence mounts that there actually are such "living dead," Nancy and her colleagues struggle with the difficulty of making that knowledge public. Nancy's relationship to Basil brings her into mortal danger in the form of Exiter, a serious criminal zombie. Nancy's brief affair with Basil ends when he disappears. A female zombie who befriends Nancy volunteers to be used as a demonstration to invited scientists in order to prove that zombies exist but not as they are usually portrayed. The Naked Zombie strips away all the mystery and misinformation about them in a similar way Anne Rice revealed real vampires in Interview With a Vampire.

• Language: English
• Publisher: J.Hamilton
• Release date: May 9, 2011
• ISBN: 9780615487700

J.Hamilton

Author and visionary J.HamiltonAuthor, Visionary, Coach and Believer that by re-enabling our natural state of connection with Source, we become the means by which viable solutions become available for a planet in need of a few good ideas.My interests revolve around teaching personal empowerment based on fundamentals. By re-enabling our natural state of connection with Source (Innate Intelligence), we partner with the Order that everything shares. In this capacity, we become powerful beyond belief, i.e., we exhibit the characteristics of compassion, unconditional love, a solutions-orientation that knows no bounds, and a capacity to deliver solutions to a world in need of a few good ideas!I have been fortunate. I have been meditating for 40 years (since 1973). When I was young, I learned how to combine goal setting and meditation and retired when I was 30. After a number of years of big boat sailing, I started to do consulting and then wrote my first book, Visionaries Thrive In All Times. I now have three books and about 120 articles and a system based, in part, on neurofeedback for rapidly advancing personal (and collective) consciousness.It is my belief that the only solution for a planet seemingly a bit out of control is for the human species to become more conscious (mature). Meditation is great as an introspective tool but takes a lifetime or longer. CORE Resonance TrainingTM is a means of rapidly advancing consciousness by quieting the brain and nervous system through proprietary exercises such that the brain "cleans itself up" - itself! No programming or other invasive techniques, but the end result might be similar to defragging a hard drive, i.e., performance jumps significantly.As we quiet the brain, our very subtle connection with Innate Intelligence becomes evident and we learn how to build on this connection. As we build this connection "home," we begin to relax. As we relax, our personal reality creating begins to shift for the better. As we build this partnership with Innate Intelligence, we begin to become more whole (mature). We begin to see with "new eyes," new perceptions and new capacities for contribution.In partnership with Innate Intelligence, our true and rightful persona, we make far better decisions and inadvertently more usefully influence the whole. In partnership with Innate Intelligence, Presence and Guidance become available and we become exponentially contributive. In this partnership, Innate Intelligence delivers solutions "through us" to a world in need of a few good ideas.We become hosts for Innate Intelligence expressing and experience "the ride of our lives." It's what we came here to do.Build what’s next..TapRootTM by CORE ResonanceIntentional Communities and Intentional Corporations~harnessing the power of groups~CORE Resonance ColoniesTMProblems are of the mind;Solutions are of the Divine..TMAlignment before ActionEach and Every Day~stay tuned~TMFor additional information:Imagine a Solution: CORE Resonance ColoniesTMThe Twelve Premises of CORE Resonance ColoniesTM

Book preview

The Naked Zombie

A modern Gothic Novel by

J Hamilton

Copyright 2011 by J. Hamilton

All characters in the publication are fictitious

and any resemblance to real persons,

living or dead, is purely coincidental.

All rights reserved.

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ISBN: 978-0-615-48770-0

Chapter One: The Unexplained

Ancient Egypt 3100 B.C.

THERE WAS WAILING heard in the house of Menes, founder of the first Egyptian dynasty 3,000 years before the carpenter of Nazareth changed the reckoning of time. The priests were called to perform the rites for the immediate dead that had only recently come into pass. Servants gathered outside the bed chamber and carried on the mourning that had been customary long before the provinces of Upper and Lower Egypt had become united under the great King who now stood helpless at the side of his eldest son’s bed. The priests closed the sightless eyes of the strapping youth who might one day have become Pharaoh of all Egypt, but now lay lifeless with a grieving family all around. King Memes looked for the last time at the birthmark on his son’s left shoulder, a blood red mark that resembled a jackal which the priests had declared indicated the boy was a God incarnate. He watched as they drew the sheer linen coverlet over the handsome face of his son, murmured something, and turned to leave the room.

With great ceremony, the priests lifted the body and carried it solemnly to the chamber of the dead where they would begin preparation to make Namer ready for burial. It was very late. They left a slave boy to watch over the body and retired for a few hours sleep before the work of embalming would begin. The boy, a fifteen-year-old Nubian, was terrified being alone in the room with the dead prince. He sat in a far corner of the room, never taking his eyes off the naked body that lay still on the cold stone slab in the center of the room. The boy’s eyelids grew heavy, but he resisted drifting off, fearful of what would happen to him if the priests returned and found him sleeping on his job. The young Nubian compared himself to Namer as a means of occupying his mind, striving to stay awake.

Aside from the darkness of the Nubian’s skin, he bore a striking resemblance to the deceased prince in both physique and face, which made the slave boy ponder his own death, thoughts that made him tremble as he huddled in his corner. He had been crouched there for hours and his muscles began to cramp so that he had to stand up and stretch, never taking his eyes off the dead prince. He needed to pee so badly that he forced himself to sidle around the walls until he came to the doorway of the chamber. It would be light soon, he noticed with relief, and he stepped outside, looking around cautiously to make sure he was not seen leaving his watch. A few steps away from the building, the Nubian boy undid his loin cloth and relieved himself, immediately turning back to re-enter the chamber. Before closing the door, the boy checked once again to be sure he had not been seen outside. He was about to put his skimpy garment back on when he thought he heard the sound of movement. Turning around, he stood petrified as he saw Prince Namer sitting up on the preparation slab and swinging his sturdy legs over the edge. When the prince stood up and took one step toward the slave, he passed out from fright and fell in a heap just in front of the door.

Prince Namer paid him no mind, stepping carefully over the boy’s body to cross to the door and walk out into the night, the dim light from the oil lamps in the chamber reflecting on his muscular body. He stood there for a moment before starting to walk toward the south, away from the city and his father’s palace. As he moved away, the darkness swallowed him up like a blanket that covered his nakedness. He walked with strong, determined strides, headed south along the Nile, intent on going into the darkest parts of the African continent, drawn by an instinct rather than by any conscious planning on his part. The eastern horizon began to lighten as he walked on, passing a fisherman on his way to a small boat hidden in some rushes on the bank of the great river. The fisherman was startled to see a nude young man walking hurriedly by without speaking or showing any signs of recognizing his presence. He had seen the young prince once on a feast day and he was pretty sure he was looking at him again, not having heard about the prince’s untimely death. He bowed low, but the walking youth passed him by as though not seeing him at all.

By the time the first golden glow of the sun began to creep up on the horizon, the priests returned to the preparation chamber to a scene that filled them all with mortal fear. The body of the prince was gone and the Nubian slave lay unconscious on the floor, his loin cloth still held in his hand. Fear turned to anxious consternation as the priests huddled to think up a way out of this unexplainable situation. It was Aman-het, the eldest of the priests who suddenly realized that the unconscious slave looked a great deal like the missing prince.

Quickly, put him up on the slab, Aman-het ordered the other priests.

But, your holiness, one of the younger priests objected, what good will that do? When King Menes comes to see his son, he will know immediately this black body has been exchanged for that of Prince Namer. The mark of the jackal is not on this boy’s shoulder.

Look at his face! Aman-het barked, Look at the strong resemblance. With the right cosmetics and kohl around his eyes, dressed in the prince’s burial garments and wearing his jewelry, even his own mother could be fooled. The body will be wound with linen gauze which will hide the fact that the mark is not there. Now, place him on the slab and tie him down so he cannot move!

Time was of the essence. As the other priests tied the helpless slave to the slab, Aman-het went to a cabinet, unlocked it, and selected a vial of amber liquid on one of the shelves. He returned to the slab where the Nubian was slowly coming out of his swoon. Realizing that he was tied down to the slab where the dead body had laid, the Nubian’s eyes grew wide with terror, but before he could scream, Aman-het stuffed a gag in his mouth forcing him to struggle for air through his nose. Once the boy had calmed down, Aman-het removed the gag and poured some of the amber liquid into his mouth, holding his jaw clamped shut so he could not spit it out. It tasted terrible but there was nothing for the boy to do but swallow the vile liquid. Within seconds, his body began to convulse and just as quickly lie still in death.

The priests went to work breaking open the boy’s skull to remove the brain and opening his veins to drain out his blood before infusing the body with a liquid that would preserve it forever. Aman-het placed the grey mass of brain on a small table that looked somewhat like a limestone altar and covered the whole thing with a linen cloth. The brain would later be destroyed by fire.

A few hours later, the Nubian’s face painted to match the skin color of the deceased prince, a touch of crimson applied to his cheeks, and heavy kohl drawn around his closed eyes, the transformation was complete. The slave boy’s dark skinned body was wrapped in linen strips from his neck to his feet, and the finished work looked exactly like Prince Namer to the point that one of the younger priests commented, I do believe our king has had a dalliance with one of the Nubian slave girls. The comment so underscored the success of their efforts that all of the priests, even the usually somber Aman-het, chuckled as they breathed sighs of relief. During the time that the embalmed body lay in state, Aman-het wrote an account of the whole affair, sealed it in a ceramic tube which was later buried with the body in the new tomb carved from the mountains in what would one day be called the Valley of the Kings. In the manuscript Aman-het described how he had returned to burn the brain taken from the Nubian only to find that it had disappeared. His conclusion was that Prince Namer had returned, eaten the brain, and vanished, never to be heard of again.

Sometime later, the fisherman having heard of the prince’s death, came to Aman-het to relate his story. I saw him! he insisted, He was walking south, stark naked, looking neither to the right nor to the left. I bowed, but he passed by as though he didn’t see me at all!

Aman-het convinced the fisherman that he had seen only a vision that portended the prince’s death and cautioned him never to tell another living soul. To seal the bargain, Aman-het gave the poor fisherman a small bag of silver that would be enough to provide for his family for years to come. The fisherman’s story went with him to his grave many years later; but Aman-het fearing that the written account might be found before his own death, wrote another account suggesting that it was the slave boy who walked away that night. This account he carried to be left in a cave deep in the desert.

Central Africa, 900 B.C.

THE NIGHT WAS FILLED with the sound of drums and the cold terror of the news that passed from village to village in the dark jungles which, by themselves, concealed enough horror from wild animals and poisonous plants. In the village where the rumor had started, the elders were cloistered in a round hut putting the pieces of the story together and trying to decide what to do about it. The shaman was convinced it was an evil spirit in the village that had to be rooted out by going from hut to hut until the possessed person was found and summarily put to death.

Makitah, the headman, took umbrage at the witchdoctor’s suggestion, pointing out that the problem consisted of a dead person who was not dead and, therefore, it would be impossible to kill someone or something that was not already living. Besides, if it were an evil spirit, how would one go about killing a spirit? The debate went on for hours with no solution found other than to be on guard against allowing the girl access to the rest of the village.

The story of the girl, about sixteen years of age, was incredible to the point that many people did not believe it at all. The girl, Kashia, had been walking home from visiting relatives in the next village when she suddenly and unexpectedly dropped dead on the trail. Her brother, Dagan, had carried her lifeless body back home where she was laid on a straw mat in her grandmother’s hut for the body to be washed and made ready for burial. Before the women could dress Kashia in her burial garments, she opened her eyes and sat up, her body still glistening from the water used to bathe the evil spirits away before interment in the grave even then being dug by Dagan and three of her other brothers.

The startled women drew back, laughing that Kashia was alive and not dead after all. Perhaps she had just fainted from the heat and the women began to speculate that the girl was pregnant, that her trip to the next village was not so much to visit relatives as it was to see the handsome and fearless son of the village headman. They spoke excitedly to Kashia and were about to go announce the good news to the rest of the village when Kashia stood up, looking only toward the door of the small hut, and started walking outside. The women were aghast. It was not uncommon for the village men and boys to show themselves naked to the world, but women always covered their loins before going out where the men would ogle any girl or woman who did not hide their sexual parts. In spite of admonition, Kashia walked through the door and headed into the jungle, not following one of the paths but making way through the tangled foliage that concealed so many unknown dangers. Kashia’s brothers stopped digging, the men working on their weapons put them down, the women peered apprehensively out the doors of the circle of village huts. There was something so eerie about Kashia’s walk into the jungle that not one of the village men found himself aroused by the sight of her firm buttocks as she disappeared into the dark tangles of the jungle.

By the time Dagan and his brothers recovered themselves enough to think to go after their sister, she had gone far enough into the darkness that no amount of chopping at the heavy undergrowth nor the loud calls of her name produced any evidence as to where she had gone. She simply disappeared.

There were reports of sightings of the naked girl wandering around the area, and that was the cause of the frantic drumming that shattered the calm of the jungle. Hysteria followed with village after village trying to search out the witch who had caused the dead to rise up and walk. Several women throughout the area who were known to keep herbs and strange potions in their huts were dragged out and summarily put to death upon nothing more than a suspicion of their practicing black magic. Raffur, the village young man Kashia had been reported to be interested in came back from the jungle one afternoon and told a tale of meeting her in a clearing where they made almost violent love after which she simply walked off into the deep jungle again. Raffur narrowly escaped with his life when the villagers started looking at him as contaminated by his necrophilia. Weeks later, after no more sightings were reported, the general consensus was that the walking dead girl had been devoured by a lion and would no longer trouble the people. After that things got back to normal and the whole incident was soon forgotten except by a few story tellers who passed the tale down through many generations.

The Spanish Inquisition, 1493 A.D.

MIGUEL DE LUNA Y ALVEREZ’S ONLY CRIME was being wealthy. His estate covered a vast area near Aragon and his gold reserves hidden deep under his spectacular castle were the stuff of local legend. Miguel contributed a large sum to finance Christopher Columbus on his expedition the year before. He was a favorite of Queen Isabella and more than one rumor circulated about their relationship.

Cardinal Horacio del Cordova coveted Miguel’s wealth and estate and set about to obtain it through the recently devised Spanish Inquisition by having himself named as a Grand Inquisitor. The Queen and the people of Aragon were astonished when del Cordova’s troops produced a menorah said to have been confiscated from Miguel’s castle and he was summarily brought before the Inquisition.

So rabid was del Cordova’s jealousy of Miguel de Luna y Alverez that he spared no extreme in humiliating the man publically, parading him naked through the streets with a Star of David cruelly carved on his chest. Miguel was retained in the Cardinal’s dungeon awaiting the arrival of a particularly vicious instrument of torture named the Judas Cradle that Cordova was anxious to use first on his despised enemy. It arrived in late summer and was immediately taken to the dungeon where Miguel was kept chained to the wall and had a clear line of sight as the dreaded instrument was installed. The so-called cradle was a sharp pyramid on four legs, bolted to the floor underneath a sling that could be raised or lowered by a series of pulleys. The sling itself consisted of a heavy brass ring onto which the buttocks would be situated just above the point of the pyramid. The prisoner would be stripped naked and sat upon the ring with his or her arms and legs tied so that movement was restricted. During the course of the inquisition, the prisoner would be lowered onto the point of the pyramid which penetrated the anus, going deeper each time the device was lowered.

Thus it was when all things were ready, Cardinal del Cordova came down to the torture chamber and ordered Miguel de Luna y Alverez strapped into the cruel device. His beautiful young wife was brought in to witness the final torture of her valiant husband. The Cardinal was grateful for his flowing crimson robes that concealed the erection he got from anticipating Miguel’s eventual death, his intention to ravish the young wife, and the confiscation of his lands and wealth. However, when the Cardinal ordered the person of Miguel de Luna y Alverez to be lowered onto the painful pyramid, he was greatly disappointed that the man neither moved nor cried out, and even more enraged when one of the soldiers announced, He’s dead, Your Grace.

It was after midnight, so the body was lowered, released from its bonds and dumped unceremoniously on the cold dungeon floor to await disposal the next morning. Cardinal del Cordova stormed up to his bed chamber and after taking several brandies, was undressed by his valet and put to bed. There were no witnesses when the Cardinal awoke suddenly in the middle of the night to see the form of Miguel de Luna y Alverez standing at the foot of his bed, his body colored by the blue reflections of the moonlight streaming in through the window.

The Cardinal fell into a deep swoon and was oblivious to Miguel’s lifting him out of his bed and carrying him down to the castle dungeon. When they discovered late the next morning that the Cardinal was not in his room, the search for the man ended in the dungeon where his nude body was found impaled on the Judas Cradle intended for Miguel de Luna y Alverez. The body of Miguel de Luna y Alverez was never located.

Although Miguel was never seen again in Aragon, the subsequent investigation revealed that the whole charge against him had been a frame up devised by the Cardinal himself. The Cardinal’s castle was burned, all his wealth turned over to King Ferdinand, and all record of his existence obliterated from Spanish history. Miguel’s estate and fortune were handed over to his eldest son who continued his father’s support of the Spanish court.

Five hundred years later, a clergyman’s diary was discovered that told of a naked man who strolled into the village, stole some clothes that had been left hanging on the line over night, and walked out the other side of the town. It had all taken place in the early dawn so several frightened people had witnessed the event which became a matter of general gossip for several weeks. Considering the location of the village, the date written down by the priest, and the fact that the stranger had come into the village sans clothes, it is fair to say that Miguel de Luna y Alverez had passed that way.

Southwestern USA, 1887

THEY WERE AN UNRULY GROUP OF RENEGADES following the defeat of Geronimo the year before. A dozen young braves who refused to accept defeat roamed the area of Arizona, New Mexico, Colorado, and Texas, defying the blue coats who hunted them relentlessly. But they were like shadows, moving in and out of the territory in a ghost-like fashion, wrecking havoc wherever they went and then disappearing as though they had melted into the landscape.

It was early summer of 1887 in the mountains of Colorado when Roger Danforth, a private in the Union Army had slipped out of camp to go bathe in a hot spring pool in the Sangre de Cristo Mountains. He folded his clothes carefully and laid them on a large rock before slipping into the warm water of the crystal clear pool. Danforth lay back against a granite boulder that sloped down into the pool and closed his eyes, letting the water soothe out the aches and pains in his weary body. He was a well built blond from Ohio who had been too young to fight in the American Civil War but joined the military as soon as he was old enough to enlist. Back home in Ohio, he had loved the outdoors, hunting, fishing, and camping out in the forest as often as possible. Always a loner, he had learned to be self-sufficient in nature, a fact that served him well in the military that was charged with maintaining the peace in the southwestern United States.

As the warm water eased his body, Danforth dreamed of the young woman who had stolen his heart and changed his life from the wanderer into a domesticated puppy. Juanita. She was the raven haired love of his life, a goddess who had reduced him to a whimper whenever he looked into her black, almond eyes and her perfect oval face framed by jet black hair that fell around her shoulders like cascades of ebony water. He drifted off to a kind of half sleep with a smile on his lips, thinking about the next year when his tour of duty would be over and he would return to his adored Juanita.

When Danforth eventually opened his eyes, ready to get out from the relaxing stay in the hot springs water, he discovered that his pool was completely surrounded by a dozen renegade Apache youths, the very ones that his unit had been trying to locate and corral. Rough hands reached down and pulled him from the water where they dragged him to a clearing and surrounded him so that he had no avenue of escape. His back had scraped against the rough rocks as they pulled him from the water, leaving blood on the stony surface. The young Apaches made fun of his white skin and blond hair, poking his naked body with their rifles as they laughed at his discomfort. Danforth showed no sign of the fear that was in him which impressed the renegade youths who might have simply cut his throat on the spot. Instead, they honored his bravery by parting the circle and giving him a head start for a hunt with Danforth as the game.

Realizing what the Apaches had in mind, Roger Danforth took off running, feeling the sharp edges of the mountain rocks cutting against his bare feet. He dashed into a thicket of pine, cedar, and aspen trees, looking for a hiding place that would give him a chance against his hunters who would be following any moment. The aspens were too smooth and had no low branches for climbing, but Roger found a pine tree where he was able to find footing enough to get