by Nathan Allen
The pub was busier than usual this Thursday night. It had been a while since Miles had been in there. It used to be a complete dive, but that was what he liked about it. It had paint peeling from the walls, smashed windows that were boarded up instead of replaced, and a floor that was so sticky you risked becoming permanently affixed to the spot if you stood in the one place for too long. A tiny stage in the corner was usually occupied by some tuneless punk band who, even by punk-rock standards, could barely play their instruments.
But it was sold last year, and had recently reopened with an all-new gentrified makeover. Smooth polished oak replaced the chipped and splintered bar, twelve dollar imported beers replaced the cheap generic stuff, and a DJ booth replaced the stage. The place had been scrubbed clean of every speck of dirt and grime, along with all of its charm and character.
Miles knocked back another shot and placed the glass next to the others. He paused when he counted the empty shot glasses he’d lined up, side by side. One, two, three, four ... five? That couldn’t be right. Five shots? Had he lost count already?
He reminded himself that it was probably a good idea to slow down. He had a rule about not drinking straight liquor. There was a line, and if you crossed it you went from being “a guy who liked to party” to “a guy with a drinking problem”. The same way drug users believed that snorting recreationally was okay, but needles were for junkies. Drinking the harder stuff straight could lead you down a dark path. One minute you’re having a great time, the next you’re on your hands and knees puking in a back alley.
He figured tonight he could make an exception. As long as he stayed at the bar, he could rely on the bartender to measure out exact quantities. He would know when Miles had had enough. Besides, it was too expensive to keep drinking shots all night at these prices.
He ordered a Diet Coke next, just to be on the safe side.
A familiar kickdrum beat then reverberated through the venue’s speakers, and a throng of patrons flocked to the dance floor. The DJ had dropped a hit of “Acid Reflux” by SlamCore superstar Chemikal Ali, the song currently enjoying its eighth week at number one. A bunch of the Z-Pro bromosapiens made their way over, trying out their sleazy moves on the female contingent.
SlamCore – or “car alarm techno”, as some disparagingly referred to it as – started off as an underground concern, but the past year had seen it enjoy a meteoric rise in popularity. The scene was now well and truly overground, and previously obscure artists such as Chemikal Ali and KoreKayeShyn had become household names.
A hyper-aggressive form of electronic dance music, SlamCore appealed to many who had previously expressed no interest in techno whatsoever. Young suburban males who banged their heads to thrash metal or hardcore punk were now swarming to these giant mega-raves and pumping the music from their bedrooms. What was once cult was now ubiquitous. These days if you wanted to hear SlamCore you only had to stick your head out the window (it blasted out of almost every frat boy-owned SUV on the road) or switch on the TV (it featured on almost every SUV commercial). Mainstream pop stars eagerly climbed aboard this latest bandwagon, terrified of being left behind. The music that once soundtracked illicit raves and highbrow art installations was now synonymous with binge drinking, strip clubs and date rape.
The formula for a typical SlamCore track was as follows: open with a basic drum pattern, gradually build upon it over each subsequent eight bars, then hit the listener with the “slam” – pummel them with an apocalypse-announcing, heart attack-inducing barrage of pulverising drums, bowel-loosening bass lines, machine gun fire, mutant feedback, primal screaming, and anything else that could be used to drown out any discernible melody or tune. It was quite possibly the least subtle and most obnoxious form of music ever created, but it was The Sound of Now. It had been embraced by a generation surrounded by fear, death and uncertainty, and all they wanted to do was get wasted and lose their minds to it. It went without saying that anyone over the age of twenty-six didn’t get it.
Despite falling within this target demographic, Miles winced when the music came on. He was enjoying the chill house music playing when he first came in, or at least it was unobtrusive enough for him to ignore. But there was no chance of ignoring SlamCore. If all this booze wasn’t going to leave him with a raging headache tomorrow morning, this wretched music certainly would. It was like listening to an air raid siren mating with a food processor.
His thought process was interrupted when a sweaty, bearded man in a Hawaiian shirt entered his field of vision. He was about as wide as he was tall, and looked like he had enough body hair to survive in the wilderness without clothing. Every exposed area of skin seemed to be covered in dense fur – hairy chest, hairy arms, hairy knuckles. This guy must need the drains in his house unclogged on a daily basis.
Miles recognised him immediately. His name was Jack Houston.
“You’re Miles, aren’t you?” Houston said, propping himself up at the bar. The thick gold chain around his neck and chunky gold bracelet on his wrist made him look even more like a seventies porn producer.
“Uh, yeah, that’s me,” Miles said.
“I’m Jack Houston,” he said, offering Miles his hand. “I’m the owner of Z-Pro.”
“I know who you are.”
Miles tried not to show any discomfort when Houston attempted to crush his hand in the handshake. His palm was so clammy that Miles felt like his hand was caught in a dishwasher.
Houston gestured to the bar staff. “Two shots, please,” he said. Two shots were duly delivered.
“I’ve been impressed by what I’ve heard about you, Miles,” Houston continued. “I think you may have the potential to be Z-Pro material.”
Miles glanced over at the Z-Pro staff on the opposite side of the bar, heckling the DJ and simulating sex acts on each other. He didn’t know whether Houston meant it as a compliment or insult by referring to him as “Z-Pro material”.
“We’re always on the lookout for talented workers. I think you’d fit in with us quite nicely.”
“Are you offering me a job?” Miles said. The five shots of whiskey had taken effect, dulling his basic comprehension skills while removing any filter between his brain and his mouth.
“Yes,” Houston replied. “I’m offering you a job.”
Miles took a moment to think this over. “That’s very generous,” he said. “But I’m afraid I’m going to have to turn it down.”
Jack Houston forehead creased, like that wasn’t the answer he was expecting. “I gotta tell you Miles, I’m surprised you’re not more enthusiastic. Most people I approach with an offer like this accept before I can finish my sentence.”
“Don’t take it personally,” Miles shrugged. “I’m just happy where I am.”
He wasn’t entirely sure if this was true. Was he really happy working at Dead Rite? It’d probably be more accurate to say that even if he wasn’t completely happy with his life at that point in time, he doubted a move to Z-Pro would do anything to change that.
Houston shook his head. “How much longer do you expect Dead Rite to be around? Every rat deserts a sinking ship sooner or later.”
“Steve and Adam are doing okay,” Miles replied. “They’re not going anywhere.”
He didn’t know why he felt the need to stick up for his employer like this, but something about Houston’s demeanour had him on the defensive.
Houston leaned forward, his eyes darkening. “There’s no need to insult my intelligence Miles,” he said, his tone becoming slightly more sinister. He was close enough for Miles to feel his hot garlic-scented breath on his face. “What kind of idiot do you think I am?”
“Just the regular kind, I suppose,” Miles replied.
Houston glared at Miles. There was a prolonged silence. A pregnant pause.
Elliott once told Miles that the term “pregnant pause” comes from when you see a woman who might have put on a bit of weight, but no one wants to risk asking if she’s pregnant or not, so they wait
for her to bring it up. He didn’t know if this was true or not, since Elliott often told Miles fanciful stories purely for his own amusement. When they were kids, he managed to convince Miles that his great-grandfather invented the canned laughter that is used in television sitcoms. It was years before he found out this wasn’t true.
Houston then let out an irascible laugh. He wasn’t used to this kind of recalcitrance. Miles wasn’t used to dishing it out, either. It was only with five shots of whiskey in his system that he had the courage to do so.
“Just give it some thought,” Houston said before leaving. “An offer like this won’t be on the table forever.”
Houston waddled away, and Miles looked at the two shot glasses on the bar before him, the ones Houston had bought. Even though he’d told himself earlier that he’d probably had enough to drink for now, it didn’t count if the drinks were free.
After debating what to do for all of two seconds, he tipped both shots into his Diet Coke and stirred it around with his finger.
Chapter 11
Miles awoke mid-morning with a devastating hangover. He staggered out of his bedroom and went straight for the kitchen. With his bloodshot eyes, rancid breath and lumbering gait, he didn’t look all that different from the creatures he caught for a living. He was in dire need of a shower, but food and caffeine remained his number one priority. He’d forgotten to eat last night, and his stomach was now on the verge of cannibalising itself. Drinking on an empty stomach would explain why he was feeling so awful this morning. Drinking two days after giving blood wasn’t all that smart either, and he ended up paying for it. One minute he was knocking back shots and having a great time, the next he was on his hands and knees puking in a back alley.
The kitchen was again in a state of disarray. A mountain of dirty pots, pans, plates and cutlery were tossed haphazardly into the sink. The rubbish bin was overflowing. The stovetop was caked in brown gunk. It was the same scenario playing out over and over; Miles would wake up to find the house in a complete mess, then clean it all up, only to discover it in the exact same state the next morning. He often wondered what would happen if he just left it all and didn’t do any cleaning, but he already knew the answer to that – it would keep piling up for weeks and weeks, until he finally caved in and did it all himself.
He once asked Clea if she wouldn’t mind helping out with the washing up every now and then. That suggestion went down like a whore on the Titanic – Clea went ballistic, calling Miles a chauvinist and accusing him of having outdated sexist views regarding the gender roles of women and housework.
The only thing they did manage to clean out quite comprehensively was the refrigerator and the cupboards. True to her word, Clea had replaced all the food she and her friends had eaten the other night. And once again, it had vanished as soon as Miles wanted some. All that was left in the refrigerator was a small block of cheese, half a tomato, a can of whipped cream and a jar of pickles, while the cupboards contained only a jar of jam and an open packet of peanuts. He briefly considered concocting some experimental Frankenstein dish from these few ingredients – in his hungover state, it would probably taste as good as just about anything else – but he eventually decided that his churning stomach would require something a little more substantial to make it through the day.
He trudged out to the garage, where they kept their emergency supply of food. He was scraping the bottom of the culinary barrel by resorting to this.
Stacked on the shelves at the far end of the garage, behind the makeshift weapons they had once fashioned out of brooms and rakes to fight off the zombie onslaught (but only ended up using to scare off looting teenagers) were rows and rows of tinned corn, tinned spaghetti, tinned soup, tinned potatoes and tinned tuna. This was a constant reminder of the panic buying they all succumbed to in the early days of the outbreak, and the fact that they could fall for the exaggerated media hype as easily as anyone.
Miles and his family hoarded all the non-perishable food they could get their hands on and bunkered down for the long haul. Now, almost three years later, two thirds of the food remained uneaten. It wasn’t that they didn’t try to use it all up. It was just that there was only so much tuna and spaghetti you could eat before getting sick of it. It didn’t take long for this to happen to Miles. Just looking at these tins of food made him feel queasy.
It was a normal Thursday morning about two-and-a-half years ago when Miles received a hysterical phone call from Shae. He couldn’t decipher much of what she was saying over all the sobbing, but he soon came to understand that zombies were on their property, and the possibility existed that one or more family members had been bitten.
Miles told Shae to get to a safe place, then borrowed a friend’s car and made the three hour journey back home in less than two. He prepared himself for the worst when he arrived – but he soon came to realise he had no idea of just how bad the worst could be.
In the backyard he found not one, but four zombies. Or what was left of them.
It was his father, his mother, and their two neighbours, the Parkers. Their identity wasn’t immediately obvious to Miles. They had all been bludgeoned to death, then doused in petrol and set alight. They were now nothing more than four piles of putrid, smoldering remains; two under the clothes line, one in the garden bed, and one in the garage. The words “DIE ZOMBIE SCUM” were smeared across the walls in blood.
The police never did track down those responsible, but it was unlikely they even bothered looking for the culprits. In those days, few charges were ever brought against anyone accused of zombicide, and successful convictions were even rarer.
The events of that one day in August played over and over in Miles’ head ever since. For a long time he harboured a great deal of anger and resentment. It was such a stupid and careless way to go. They’d survived the worst of it during the initial outbreak, but they let their guard down just the one time and paid the ultimate price.
He resented the Parkers, who were probably bitten by a stray but didn’t take the necessary precautions to protect anyone else when they inevitably turned. He resented his father for recklessly getting bitten after that – he was apparently trying to remove the two zombies from the property rather than call in the professionals – and his mother for not leaving with Shae when she had the chance.
Most of all, Miles’ fuming anger was directed at the nameless cowards who tipped off the vigilantes. It had to have been somebody living in their street; it was quite likely that they lived within a couple of houses either side of him.
Ever since that day, Miles viewed all of his neighbours with suspicion. In all likelihood he would never find out who it was, but he probably saw them on a regular basis. They’ve probably said hello to him dozens of times since and acted as if nothing was wrong.
Miles stared at the big black burn mark in the centre of the garage, the location where his mother was beaten and cremated. He’d scrubbed at that spot over and over, but he had never been able to get rid of it completely. It served as something of a metaphor for his ever-present rage; no matter how much he wanted to move on and let go of all the resentment building up inside him, he could never quite do it. It was a stain on his life that he was unable to fully wash away. He worried what effect all this repressed anger was having on him, and feared that one day he might just erupt. A few weeks ago, at Stacey’s barbecue, he felt the overwhelming urge to knock Alistair’s teeth out when he made the comment about putting a bullet into every one of the zombies. And then last week, Miles was in a café when he heard a news item on the radio about vigilantes in South America caught massacring hundreds of zombies. Another customer loudly applauded this news and let everyone know that this was the best possible course of action. Miles quickly left the premises in case he did something he might later regret.
Miles gave up on the idea of food and went back to bed in the hope of getting a couple of hours more sleep before work. That didn’t happen. Instead, he stared at the wall and counted all the bl
u-tack residue leftover from the posters he’d had up during his teenage years. It sometimes felt weird that, at twenty-three, he was still sleeping in the same bedroom he’d had since he was six. It made him feel like he still hadn’t properly grown up. On the other hand, he had to grow up pretty damn fast when he was forced to take responsibility for Shae.
He moved back home after his parents were killed. Shae was thirteen and Miles was twenty-one (with their eight year age difference, Miles never hesitated to remind Shae that she was a mistake), and so he was old enough to be granted legal guardianship. The change in his lifestyle was immense; one minute he was extending his adolescence during his gap year (which had blown out to three years by that point), the next he had a whole world of adult responsibilities thrust upon him. Partying and travelling took a back seat to paying utility bills and keeping the house out of reach from the bank. He initially wanted to sell the house and rent somewhere smaller, since the loan repayments were surprisingly hefty, but he ended up staying for Shae’s sake. She had been through enough trauma already without having to deal with the upheaval associated with moving to a new place. Besides, this house was now the scene of a gruesome quadruple zombicide. Its value plummeted, and if they sold it now they wouldn’t come close to covering the outstanding mortgage.
Like his Dead Rite job, Miles thought moving back home would be a temporary arrangement. He had planned on finally commencing his long-delayed commerce degree when the new semester began six months later. But six months turned into a year, which then became two years, and was now two-and-a-half and counting. In that time he had seen all of his friends graduate and start their careers while he was trapped in a dead-end, go-nowhere job, watching the plans he’d had for his own life grow more and more distant by the day.