00 Prologue: The Engine

I visited Ludovic #1 recently, the extraordinary engine that consumed such an important part of my life. They built the Plague Years Exhibit around it, a museum within a museum. School children visit the control room, stroke the long-cold tanks, peer down into the reactor stack, run wildly up and down the bunk room despite the signs instructing them to walk, barely glance at the schematics and blueprints on display, flash the strobes at each other. They are an unruly lot until the end of the tour where they stand mutely in the auxiliary fire chambers. Even their little minds can sense the implacable finality of those insulated low-slung boxes. I told the museum director to do nothing to those chambers, except sweep away the loose debris. If a child dares to touch the walls then his hands should come away blackened, so he will remember. In this at least the director listened to me.

The machine itself is the What. There are many plaques and diagrams and demonstration devices to explain the technical How of its workings. There are fewer explanations of Why and the When, as these are generally known. But there is only one sign that says anything at all about the Who, albeit a very large one at the entrance of Ludovic Hall. The sign features a line-drawn image of the man himself which takes some artistic liberties: I promise you he never looked so handsome when I knew him. The text reads:

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> In the Sixth Year of Plague warlord Martin Ludovic conceived a last-ditch effort to save mankind from the Zombie Plague. He sought out the most talented engineers still living and gave them unlimited materials and manpower. With his support, these men and women invented all of our crucial devices for destroying zombies. Their joint efforts culminated in the machine which today bears Ludovic’s name.

Nobody recognizes me during my visit, and that is by design. Yet part of me imagines that some gray-hair from the old days, their grand-children tow, would spy me and swing by. There would be introductions (with many implied winks and nods) and we would agree that yes, it really is something seeing the old girl as a museum piece like this. Those were some days. Then the children would pull my old companions away, and I wouldn’t see them again until the occasional reunion.

Instead, I am given the gift of witnessing a child, more brave or more serious than her fellows, contemplating the night-black smudges on her fingertips.