Zombies of the Gene Pool

Ever a Stormy Petrel Unto Us

– Francis Towner Laney's epitaph in fandom. (The term is used

figuratively for one whose coming always portends trouble.)

At ten forty-three in the morning, a gaggle of rubber-booted literary tourists waddled down the red clay slopes of Breedlove Lake and clumped onto the concrete boat ramp, which now stopped two hundred yards from the water's edge. Above them towered hillsides of clay and rubble, once submerged beneath the lake and now forming a desolate canyon beneath the pine-topped hills surrounding it.

Beside the boat ramp, a rocky mountain stream bubbled down the hillside, headed for the distant lake water. Before the drawdown the stream had been swallowed by the expanse of Breed-love Lake, existing only as a current within the reservoir, but now it had been freed to course through its own eroded canyon, through seasons of silt, as it cut its way to the muddy waters of the great Watauga, pulsing again through the heart of the valley.

The concrete of the boat ramp ended twenty feet down the slope, succeeded by a flat graveled plain that might once have been a road. Another hundred yards on-and thirty feet down, had there been a lake-the road fell away into a series of curving rock ridges, spiraling down to a shelf of brown clay that was the new shoreline. Except for deep gullies that had trapped the ebbing lake water, the valley was visible again, and once more the Watauga River, artery of the region, was a discernable confluence, kept within its banks by the release of its overflow through the sluice gates of the TVA dam.

Three boats waited in the shallows of the river. Two of them were outboard motorboats, capable of ferrying five passengers and operated by leathery good old boys in windbreakers and fishing caps. Obviously, they had hired out their private vessels for the day's expedition for a little excitement and some easy money. The third craft was the large, flat-bottomed sightseeing boat on loan from the Breedlove Marina, which, with its red awning, and its Tennessee flag flying, would hold twenty passengers. It was used by the marina for its regularly scheduled tours of the lake area, a particularly popular outing during the warm months of early autumn, when the changing leaves on the oaks and maples turned the surrounding mountains into bands of flame and gold.

Geoff Duke led the party of editors and journalists aboard the sightseeing boat, and Ruben Mistral motioned for the Lanthanides and their guests to climb into the motorboats to begin their quest for the time capsule on Dugger's farm. Mistral, now sporting a gold-braided captain's hat, mounted the newer-looking motor-boat that was obviously intended to be the flagship of the expedition. He was joined by Brendan Surn and Lorien, and Jim and Barbara Conyers, all of whom looked as if they were attending a funeral. Mistral patted Conyers' shoulder, and smiled encouragingly at the others, but he received only tentative smiles for his efforts. Jay Omega and Marion Farley, who had made a belated appearance at the point of embarkation, joined Erik Giles, Angela Arbroath, and George Woodard in the second outboard.

When everyone was comfortably seated and, at the helmsmen's insistence, corseted with orange life preservers, Ruben Mistral gave the signal for the boats to cast off, and the journey began. One by one the vessels glided out into the channel of the amber-colored river, heading upstream toward the sunken village of Wall Hollow and the farms beyond it. In the second craft, the boatman, who had introduced himself as Dub, admitted to Marion that this was his first stint as a lake guide, but he allowed as how he was a lifelong resident of the area and was willing to make conversation if anybody had a mind to ask him anything.

'Where is the town?' asked George Woodard, surveying the sea of mud surrounding the channel.

Dub smiled. 'This lake is seventeen miles long, buddy. It'll take us a good hour to get there, I reckon.'

They rode for a while in silence, past black trees spangled with snagged fishing lines and lures that clung to the dead branches like spiderwebs. There was an eerie stillness about the valley, and the slowness of the churning outboard made their passage seem like a nightmare journey through a surreal landscape. It might have been a deserted battlefield or the scene of some sudden disaster: the overriding feeling in the barren and silent valley was one of death and irreparable loss.

Marion shivered. 'It's so eerie in this wasteland. Lines from T. S. Eliot keep running through my head.'

'I know,' murmured Angela Arbroath. 'I've never seen a place so desolate in bright sunshine. It even feels cold. Do you suppose that it's Pat Malone that is making me feel gloomy?'

George Woodard's piggy face became animated with alarm. 'Angela!' he hissed. 'We aren't supposed to talk about you-know-what.'

Marion looked at him with ill-concealed contempt. 'I found the body,' she said.

'Did Mistral ask you not to tell anyone about Malone's death?' asked Jay.

Angela nodded. 'He didn't want the reporters to find out. He thought it would distract them from the reason we're here. I can't believe that Pat Malone is dead.'

George Woodard stared at her. 'I can't believe he's alive!'

'Yes, it takes some getting used to. I'd said good-bye to him all those years ago, and then suddenly he's back, and-'

'In all my life I have loved but one man, and I have lost him twice,' said Marion dreamily. Noting her companions' puzzled looks, Marion hastened to add: 'That's from Cyrano. It seemed appropriate.'

They floated on in silence for a while. When they passed under the concrete arch of the Gene C. Breedlove Bridge, looming half a mile above their heads, envious spectators leaned over and waved at the makeshift flotilla. Its passengers craned their heads to peer at the pink blobs high above them, and a few of them returned the greeting.

George Woodard, lost in thought, barely noticed the bridge at all. He was pondering the death of Pat Malone and envisioning a memorial issue of Alluvial. After giving the matter careful consideration, George had decided not to demean himself and his phone bill by activating the S-F grapevine, but he concluded that the prestige of his 'zine depended upon his being the final authority on the Lanthanides reunion and on the Malone affair. He was, after all, both an old comrade of Malone's and an eyewitness. Why should the other 'zine publishers have the story. If he established himself as the authority on it (surely none of the other Lanthanides would bother), he could be invited as Fan Guest of Honor to any number of conventions in the coming year, which would mean that he would have his way paid to these conventions and the really good ones would give him plaques for his wall commemorating his status as Fan Guest. Pat Malone owed him that.

He considered his material for a memorial issue. New eulogies would have to be solicited, of course, and perhaps some samples of Pat's writings could be included. Would Pat's recent undeath affect the copyright laws, he wondered. Would anybody even believe that Pat Malone had come back? No one had thought to take any pictures of him. Perhaps it would be best not to mention him at all, but, of course, he had unimpeachable witnesses. And besides, hardly anyone ever questions the veracity of anything in fandom. The memorial issue was sure to be a big seller in fannish circles. He wondered if he could afford to double the number of copies for this issue.

George, for one, was not sorry to see Pat Malone dead. The late Pat's sneering reappearance at the Lanthanides reunion had been a forceful reminder of how little he had missed the scornful, bullying Malone. George was always twice as inept when Malone was present. With painful clarity now, he remembered Pat Malone's old practical jokes at his expense. There was the shaving cream in his bed, and the phony acceptance letter from Weird Tales, and the campaign Pat and Curtis had started at a Knoxville con to 'cure' George's virginity. Well, perhaps he ought to forgive them that one. Earlene had volunteered to effect the cure, and George had fallen hopelessly in love with her. Sometimes, though, he wondered if she had done it in hopes of getting the attention of Pat Malone.

Had Earlene ever loved him? Were those sadistic jokers from the Fan Farm ever his friends? And did he like who he was; had he ever liked himself?

George looked out at the barren lake bed, wondering if his life had been a mortal version of Breedlove Lake: a pleasant, opaque facade, covering up a whole lot of nothing.

In the bow of the white motorboat Ruben Mistral struck a pose -like stout Cortes silent upon a peak in Darien, the Times reporter had quipped. Several of his colleagues scribbled down the phrase, unaware that Keats was being quoted. (USA Today reported the phrase as 'a mountain in Connecticut.') Mistral's expression of solemn dignity suggested that he was leading an expedition up the Amazon rather than taking a boat ride in conjunction with a business deal. Occasionally, though, he forgot to provide a photo