Dr. Dume ~ The Doctor is In

I don't usually persist with subtitled films, although they are better than dubbed films because at least the sounds coming from the actor's mouths match their lip movements. In 'Dead Snow' that would have been less of a problem because many of the actors don't have lips.

It's billed as 'Nazi zombies in the snow' which I can't help thinking in a Bing Crosby croon, to match 'To hear sleigh bells in the snow'. I wish I had the poetic skills to write the rest of the song around that line.

The thing is, I don't think they are zombies at all. They are reanimated corpses, they are decaying, they eat human flesh, but they are not mindless. In fact, at least one of them is very intelligent and the rest behave like a military unit, not like the usual independently-wandering mob that characerises the true zombie.

Furthermore, they have a specific goal. They are not simply motivated by feeding. There's something else and I won't say what it is because that would spoil the ending.

Not one of their victims becomes a zombie. All those corpses are the original military unit who died in the mountains. They are not infectious and one of the human characters, in particular, will be disappointed to hear about that.

So I conclude that these are not zombies at all. They are revenants. They have their original souls and their mental faculties are mostly intact. The bodies have been reanimated after death, but not by a virus or a shaman. By the original soul attached to each body.

The difference matters, because if you are bitten by a revenant you don't become one. 

There's an article due soon for AlienSkin. I think this might be worth thinking about further.

Posted by Dr. Dume at 01:15 AM | Permalink | Comments (0)

Little Caligula's feeding time was delayed today by a visit from the local constabulary. Their request seemed odd, but they insisted on knowing whether I was bothered by the Ferals in the swamp.

"Why would they bother me? I have lived with those Ferals all my life and am accustomed to their ways. The boiling lead and my trusty crossbow generally keep them at bay."

The policemen looked at each other for a moment. Yes, there were two. There always are, and I can't blame them after what happened to Constable McBludgeon in the swamp, all those years ago. They never did find his helmet.

"You're joking, right?" one of them said.

"I can assure you, there is nothing to joke about where Ferals are concerned. Nasty little vermin if they corner you."

One of them puffed out his chest. An impressive feat considering the plate-armour they all wear now. 

"I'll have to ask you to moderate your tone, sir. Those are people you are talking about."

 I had to laugh. "People? They might have been once, but no more. They are Ferals now. A different species."

"Seriously, sir, you can't say that. I have to ask - you are joking about the boiling lead and the crossbow, aren't you?"

"Certainly not. Ferals don't understand bluff. Sometimes they need a little persuasion to go away, especially when they're hungry."

They looked uneasy. "Sir, you cannot go around pouring boiling lead over people. I think we'd better come inside and ask you a few questions, if that's all right."

"Okay, but make it quick. It's feeding time."

"Feeding time?"

I had no sooner closed the door than little Caligula shot into it at impressive speed and bounced off. He keeps trying to play outside but I can't let him. It's not safe. He might make his way to the village, or worse - he might encounter a Rarely-Glimpsed Slimy Swamp Thing and I have very few of those. Caligula glared up at the policemen and bared his teeth. Both rows. The effect was enhanced by the UV light I had installed to stop him hiding in the shadows, which made him glow a healthy green.

The policemen took a step back. "What the hell is that?"

I raised one eyebrow. "Didn't you just tell me it was illegal to call people rude names? That is my son, Caligula. I have to feed him because his mother is still unconscious after his last nappy change." It was a particularly nasty one. Something moved in it, I'm sure. Just thinking about it still makes me feel dizzy.

"Look, I think we'll need to take you down to the station. That child needs a doctor and we need to know more about what you are doing to those people in the swamp."

I declined. "Why would we go to the station to converse? You won't be able to hear my answers over the noise of the trains. Caligula does not need a doctor because I am one. What he needs is his dinner and I would advise not delaying that any more than necessary."

"Nevertheless, we have to insist." One of them took out a pair of shiny modern manacles. I was about to ask him where I could buy something similar when Caligula lunged.

The policeman with Caligula attached to his leg gave out a scream and then fell over. The second one took out a little yellow gun. I've heard of those. They shoot electricity. He pointed the gun at me for a moment, then at Caligula.

"Get back!" he shouted. "Get away from there."

"I'm afraid he's only five months old," I said. "He doesn't understand you and even if he did, he's not likely to pay any attention." I let out a heavy sigh. "He never listens to me either."

The one on the floor went quiet. Caligula had reached his throat. 

It all worked out okay in the end. Caligula was fed, nobody had to go to the station and no questions were asked. We didn't really need the second policeman so he could have gone off to catch some proper criminals, but he fired that little yellow gun at Caligula.

I'm afraid Caligula became rather annoyed.

Now I have two new plant pots to hang alongside the old one. Senga will be pleased when she wakes up. She likes things to match.

Posted by Dr. Dume at 11:11 PM | Permalink | Comments (0)

It is now officially Valentine's Day here and Senga will expect a present when she wakes up. I have no fresh hearts and she won't be happy with a pickled one. So it seems I have to visit the village tonight.

Oh well. Can't be helped. First, though, this -

The new Alienskin magazine is online, with sad news to relate. 

It comes to us all in the end. Angels and devils might pass you by, but Death never forgets your name.

In this issue, Sergeant Shelsky discusses the free exchange of ideas among SF writers while Lady Blade deals with (harumph) well, you know, the sweatier aspects of a relationship. It's to do with fantasy but the image of orcs engaged in - ahem. Moving on quickly...

My own contribution considers the most horrible thing imaginable - children! Well, mine is, anyway. I've had to confiscate his toy guns after I caught him in the workshop, rifling the barrels and fitting proper firing pins. Mischievous little scamp!

I've also reviewed a book for this issue. A really good one. It's come from The Horror Zine. Don't worry, I'm not promoting the competition. The Horror Zine takes stories way over the wordcount for Alienskin, and also has art and poetry sections. So we're not competing for the same stories and there's time to read both.

Alien Queen Mother has been wandering the world and has submitted to interrogation. So have others. Their answers make interesting reading.

Must dash. The late-night butcher will still be open and I can pick some swamp flowers on the way back.  I suppose I should really restrict myself to the non-deadly ones, although they are also the least interesting. It's only once a year, so I suppose I can put up with it.

Posted by Dr. Dume at 12:53 AM | Permalink | Comments (0)

You know when you have a lot to do and you really want peace and quiet? That's when the hordes of visitors descend. It's been quiet for weeks and now I'm busy, here they come.

Today it was a small man in a striped suit and bowler hat who called himself the 'tacks man'. Unfortunately all my icicles have melted or I'd have slammed the door and watched through the peephole. Instead, I simply told him I didn't need any tacks.

"No, no," he said. "You misunderstand. I collect tacks."

"Oh. Well, I don't have any. Try the village." I tried to close the door but he stopped it with his hand. A grasping, thin hand with cracked and yellowed nails. I did wonder for a moment if he might be a distant relative but Dumes don't generally look quite so pallid and malnourished. 

"I thought I made it clear." I put on my best impression of the Professor which is about 80% haughty and 20% contempt. "There are no tacks for you here. Go away."

"I'm afraid you have a legal obligation to pay me tacks on your earnings." His voice, already shrill, now strained the limits of my range of hearing.

"Huh?"

His lips pursed, or rather, they disappeared inside his mouth so that I thought his nose might touch his chin, like Aunt Demdike's did the time the Slimy Swamp Thing borrowed her teeth.

"Now look," he said, drawing himself up to his full height, a move presumably calculated to make him look impressive but which actually made him look like a stick with a bowl on top, "I am empowered by Her Majesty's Government to collect twenty percent of any money you have earned this year, along with previous years and fines for late payment."

"Now look. I'm busy. Can't you come back another time?" Entertaining lunatics can be fun but really, I have a book to review and an article to write.

"No, I am here to audit your books and collect all tax due. Now."

Confusion took over. Audit my books? I haven't written them all yet. Did he mean the ones in the library? And who was this Herman Jessy Govmint who had empowered him? He didn't look powerful to me. He looked like a streak of tired bacon with a hat on. One word filtered through and touched a memory. Earnings.

"Aaaaah, you mean tax." I nodded vigorously but this time remembered to stop before getting dizzy. "No, you see, I don't actually have any earnings. No income. No need."

His face went through some kind of self-test sequence. His jaw moved up and down, his eyes tried every conceivable direction and his nose flared and contracted. I think, but I'm not sure, that his ears wiggled. His eyebrows went through such convoluted contortions that I'm not sure whether they actually changed places.

Then his voice self-tested. 'Whuh...uh...gah," it said.

"Are you all right? Every bit of your face seems to function but are you still in control of it?"

"No income? No income? No income?" He shook his head, I suppose to unstick his voice. "There is no record of you getting any benefits at this address."

"Well, I have a wife, which I suppose could be seen as some kind of benefit. And a son, which couldn't."

"I mean monetary benefits. Unemployment, that sort of thing."

I puffed out my chest. "I am a Dume. I am not unemployed. in fact, as I told you, I am busy."

His eyes narrowed well past the point where an ordinary person's would be shut. "So you are employed? Then you have an income."

"I am not employed, neither am I unemployed,  I am extraordinarily busy and I have no work. I have no income and no need of one." I paused to savour the steam coming from his ears. "And I have no need of tacks."

"Savings." He breathed out a long gasp of air that smelled like old paper. "You must be living on savings."

"I live on money." I frowned at him. "I've never saved anyone."

His body did that thing telescopes do when you've finished with them. When he looked up, his eyes leaked. "You must get the money from somewhere."

"Previous Dumes have provided," I said. "I will add to it in time but for now it is more than enough."

"Aha!" he jumped up so fast his hat rattled. "Gotcha! You have savings and interest on savings is taxable."

Well, you know, I am very interested indeed in the dungeon hoard but I had no idea I was supposed to pay someone called Herman Jessy Guvmint, or rather, the badly constructed homunculus at my door, for that action. I shall take less obvious interest in future.

For now, I solved the problem by inviting bowl-on-a-stick indoors and directing him to the laboratory.

There was even less meat on him than I expected. Perhaps it's just as well. I don't have time for a proper experiment.

Posted by Dr. Dume at 02:31 AM | Permalink | Comments (0)

Is it possible to sympathise with a zombie?

I'd have said 'Don't be silly' if you had asked that question earlier this evening. A zombie is an unthinking eating machine and what it wants to eat is you. You cannot reason with it and you can't kill it because it's already dead. It's not possible to sympathise with such a creature under any circumstances.

Then I watched 'Colin', a film by Marc Price and produced by Justin Hayes. It's low budget and full of unknowns but it's well made, well acted, and the idea is astounding in its brilliance.

A zombie story from the point of view of one of the zombies!

Throughout the film we learn more about Colin's former life and finally find out what made him a zombie. It's the only film I've ever watched in which I actually felt sorry for the zombies!  The living humans are even more monstrous than the flesh eaters in some places.

But then, they always were.

Posted by Dr. Dume at 02:37 AM | Permalink | Comments (0)

Death visited Dume Towers tonight. He certainly picks his times. I'm far too busy to entertain guests.

There's an article brewing for the next Alienskin issue and I have a book to review before little Caligula eats it. Senga is in one of her moods, something to do with a suggestion I made concerning her mother, a sewing kit and a rabid dog. Honestly, the woman can't take a joke. Little Caligula has left teeth marks in most of the furniture and Underbed Monster has run off again. Not a good time to visit. Not good at all.

Well, he had come a long way so I had to bite my lip and let him in (Not my own lip, you understand. I have a jar of candied lips in case of such eventualities). I say 'let him in' but there's not really much of an option. He goes where he pleases, and only knocks at my door out of politeness.

Death had a purpose. He had come to see Caligula.

"I hope you're not planning to take him," I said. "I don't want to have to go to the trouble of making another one. It's all very messy and complicated and involves some unpleasantness."

"Take him? Why would I do that?" Death clacked his teeth at me. "I'm still hunting down the last of those wedding guests and I have several of your ancestors on my backlog list.  Your new one isn't ready. I just came to see him."

"Oh. A social call." 

"Aren't they always?" Death scratched between his eye-sockets with the tip of his scythe. "Your family are the most elusive I've ever had to deal with. I get the call to say one of you has died and by the time I get here, they're not home."

"We're an active family," I said. "No time to hang around." I showed him to Caligula's room and slid back the peephole cover on the door. Last time I did that, the little tyke shoved a six inch nail through it so this time I used some caution. Once I had established he was in his cot, I opened the door and let Death in.

Death paused on the threshold. "You don't think I'll scare him, do you? I mean, all the dark clothes and the bones and the scythe. Kids get a bit upset about those things."

I grinned. "He's a Dume. He scares me most of the time. Just don't let him get hold of that scythe."

Death drew eyebrows on his skull, rubbed them out and drew them on again, a little higher up. We went into the room quietly.

Little Caligula was fast asleep, gnawing on a rib. Death and I watched him for a while then left in silence. Once I had closed the door I allowed myself to breathe again. It's not often a visit to Caligula's room passes without incident.

"He looks dangerous," said Death. "Excellent. I'm sure he'll put a lot of business my way in the future. How about you?"

"He's not old enough to make a serious attempt on me yet. Don't get your hopes up."

"I mean, any stray spirits around as a result of your experiments? I could do a quick clean-up for you if you like." 

"There might be a few. Help yourself." The place is crawling with them but most have learned to hide whenever Death visits. They hide when the Professor visits too. Only the recent ones ever get caught and as they are the noisiest, it's good to let Death have a quick sweep of the place once in a while. He disappeared along the corridor, scythe in one hand and soul bag in the other. I returned to my study.

Death appeared shortly afterwards, his soul bag bulging and squirming. 

I nodded at the bag. "Good haul tonight?"

"Excellent. I still haven't caught your father though. Have you seen him recently?"

"No. He hasn't materialised since Caligula was born. He's probably worried about getting killed again."

Death shook his head. "Not even a Dume can do that twice. Anyway, best be off. I have to take this delivery and fill in the paperwork for them."

I would have pried for details, as usual, but I had too much to do. "I'll show you the door."

Death tilted his skull. "I know what a door looks like. Thanks for the offer but I don't have time for sightseeing."  He strode to the wall and then through it.

I returned to my work. The article awaits and it has to be about horror. It also has to be something new. If only I had an idea, if only something would happen to inspire me.

Then Caligula woke up and howled.

"That's it," I thought. "There's nothing more horrific than a child!"

Posted by Dr. Dume at 04:00 AM | Permalink | Comments (0)