I Zombie I [Omnibus Edition]

by Jack Wallen

  We had seen enough of the train wreak and common sense dictated that we –

  “Run! Now!” I screamed, breaking the trance that had a vice-like grip on everyone. Although the zombie was busy making its way to the nougaty center of the woman’s head, it would only be a matter of moments before the thing was hungry for more.

  “The elevator. Hurry!”

  By the time we were all at a running pace, the roaring behind us made it clear the zombie had enough of the dead woman and wanted a taste of something a bit more alive.

  “Shit, now it’s following us!” Michelle decided it made good sense to turn around and take a look at the scene behind us. What she saw, and how she reported, made us all kick up our pace a notch or two.

  “Hit the button. Up! Up! Up!” I screamed.

  With a bit of luck, the elevator cart was still waiting for us. The doors chimed open and we all stumbled in.

  “Close the door. Oh God! Close the door.” I wasn’t sure who screamed out, but my finger was already slapping the button for our floor.

  The screamer was in a mad dash to race the elevator doors, and just before the doors were about to close, the thing managed to get its head in. The roar that followed was deafening.

  “Get it out! Get it out!!!

  Roaring

  Screaming

  “Get it away from me!” Michelle’s high-pitched scream almost matched the volume of the screamer.

  Roaring

  “Shit, the door closed! Open it back up.” Somehow the fucking screamer managed to squeeze all the way inside of the elevator. We were trapped, inside a tiny, enclosed space, with an enraged zombie.

  “I can’t reach the button!”

  “Everybody, cover your ears,” said Gunther.

  “Do it!” I didn’t know why he asked, but I decided to hope Gunther had some plan up his sleeves that would save our asses.

  Roaring

  Gunshot

  Screams

  “Open the door, open the door!” Michelle was near hysteria.

  Gunther managed to get his Luger out, stick it under the screamer’s open jaw, and pull off a shot. The bullet traversed the space between jaw and cranium, ripping a path through the thing’s brain matter. The zombie dropped back, undead, lifeless and silent. As soon as the beast’s head hit the elevator door, the doors slid open and the thing fell out into the hall. Without a word, we pushed the limp body out of the car and stood back up to take a ride to our floor.

  We were covered in rot and brown blood and smelled like a necrophiliac’s wet dream. Michelle was crying. I wanted to join her. Instead, I had to be strong and show the group we could get through even a nightmare like this.

  We rode the car up to the floor without speaking a word. As soon as the car doors opened we spilled out, Michelle continuing to cry, and made our way to Susan’s room.

  “What happened? I heard screaming and a gunshot,” said Jean.

  “We don’t know, Jean. But somehow the first floor managed to become an open-air welcome center for the undead. We have to seal off the first floor from the rest of the hospital. Is there a way to do that?” My voice was all business.

  “Yes, of course. We lock all of the stairwells and hold the elevators on this floor. The only way anyone or anything could get above the first floor is by unlocking the doors – and that can only be done from a nurses’ station. It’s rather simple. Oh, and I do have some good news,” Jean finished with a slight smile.

  Before bearing witness to the ‘good news’, I had to check to make sure everyone survived the elevator ride from hell. ‘Survived’, as would be expected, is quite a relative term. Physically we all did arrive to our floor nearly unscathed (if only bathed in zombie goo.) We also proved we were able to hold off one rather pissed-off zombie until that blessed bullet disconnected the fucker’s brain from its brain stem and downed the beast for the final, and very permanent, death.

  That brief ride did put a serious dent in our mental health. Nothing, it seems, is safe and paranoia could easily (and completely) undo us. I had to come up with some way to gain us some sense of security again.

  Security – ah yes. At least with computers, security was my forte. So really all I needed to do was transpose that knowledge to a completely different metaphor. I made a mental note to more deeply examine that thought later.

  The good news was more than good. The vaccine was already showing signs it could slow down the virus – and quite possibly stop it all together. Jean was fairly certain it would be safe to try it on Susan. Although I was hesitant to do so, I wanted more than anything to bring her back to me. Besides, so long as she was comatose, we were stuck here. I have a feeling this hospital isn’t exactly the safest refuge from the oncoming end of days.

  And so I gave Jean the go-ahead to revive Susan and begin administering the anti-virus. Jean explained the process, much of which was waiting around until the effects of the coma wore off. Of course coming out of a coma wasn’t like waking from a nap. A cup of coffee wasn’t going to have Susan up and at ‘em. Jean informed me he’d need a few days to get Susan to where she was ready for the anti-virus, so the sooner he began, the better.

  When I spotted Zander examining the Obliterator, the idea hit me like a bag of cement apples. My brain instantly went back to examining the security metaphor.

  “Zander, you know this place pretty well right?” I jumped up and was by the man’s side in a heartbeat.

  “I guess you could say that,” he asked hesitantly. “Why do you ask?”

  “I have an idea for a near zombie-proof security system and I need your help.” I raised my volume just enough so that everyone could hear, but not so much that it was obvious I was raising my voice for effect. I just wanted everyone to feel a bit of subconscious protection.

  My plan was simple: Set up a trigger system that any breach in a given perimeter would set off a localized Obliterator that would repel any undead ne’er-do-well. I wouldn’t have to create an Obliterator for every door, since all entrances had speakers for emergency broadcasts. I could sample the sound and then create a quick program that would monitor each door. When a particular door was opened, the speaker associated with that door would flood the area with the sound from the sampled Obliterator.

  What I needed Zander for was to get all of the location numbers from the entryways on the first floor so I could encode them into the program. I was fairly certain each emergency speaker would be hard-coded with an identifier, so it would be simple to work those IDs into my system.

  Zander agreed and was off with a pad and pen. I sat down to begin work on the sampling and then coding. I was in my zone now. There was a comfort in code that I couldn’t find anywhere else. Once I started typing out functions and statements, all would melt away – there would be nothing but me and a text editor. No zombies, no comas, no lack of food, no screaming, nothing.

  “Bethany…” The voice was Jean’s. Although I always welcome its kind tone, I was really looking forward to a bit of time to myself.

  Now, however, was not the time for such demands. “Yes, Jean?”

  “I’ve stopped the medication on Susan. The fog of coma will begin to slowly lift.” Jean stood, motionless, still staring at me as if there were something more.

  “What’s wrong Jean?”

  “Oh, nothing. I was just admiring you.” Jean smiled a smile I’ve seen too many times before. The man was interested in more than just my brain (and not in that “zombie going to eat it” way) and my ability to survive. This was something I had to fend off before it managed to go too far in his mind. But now is not the time. I have to get this system up and running as quickly as possible.

  “Gotta work.” I smiled and turned back to the computer. It was lame, I know, but it was all I could think to do in order to avoid the inevitable beatdown Jean’s mood would take from a rejection.

  I sat at the desk, my back to Jean, holding my breath until I felt him go. God, that was awkward. Fortunately Jean’s ma
nhood remained intact, so he’d still be able to function without emotion or ego getting in the way.

  The sampling of the Obliterator sound was the easiest of my tasks. I only had to install a noise generator onto the computer and input the precise frequency and oscillations. Once that was complete I could create a loop of the sound and use it for the alarm.

  After about an hour’s worth of coding, I had what I needed. Zander had returned with the ID numbers of every speaker on a first-floor door that led to the floors above. With those numbers I finished, compiled, and built the code into an easy to use application. Now all we had to do was test it. That was simple.

  After launching the security program, Zander and I made our way to the first floor to test it out. All we had to do was open a door and hope for the siren song of the Obliterator to fill the area.

  “Are you ready?” I looked at Zander with an ‘aren’t I good?’ grin. He nodded his approval and I pulled the door open.

  As soon as the door was barely cracked open the high-pitched oscillations flooded the room. We laughed and almost high-fived one another before we realized we had to test every one of the doors to make sure the system was fail-safe.

  Zander and I made our way around the first floor. Thankfully hospitals take safety very seriously, so every one of the alarms worked perfectly. Our security system was in place and the only way the undead would make it to the floors above would be to scale the outside walls of the building or gather an army of deaf zombies to break our perimeter. I was fairly certain neither would happen.

  Zander and I returned to Susan’s room. As soon as the gang found out the alarm was set and functioning perfectly a look of much-needed relief spread across their faces as if the sun was breaking through the clouds and casting its warm beams across the room for the first time. After a round of ‘thank you’ hugs, I needed to relax and shut off my mind.

  “Welcome survivors, back to Zombie Radio. Sorry about that silence there, but even your friendly DJ needs to take a break now and then. Everyone knows my favorite pastime is hearing from the legions of fans out there. Your stories, your requests are like aural crack to me. But I want to change it up a bit. I want Zombie Radio to serve not just a higher intellectual purpose, but a tangible, immediate purpose. I want people calling in from safe zones – from secured locations where those less fortunate can seek shelter from the havoc that has been let loose upon us. People are scared, hungry, and running for their lives. If you have a safe house to open to them, let us know. I’m taking callers now.”

  Silence.

  “Listeners? Are you out there? Fire up those phones my babies!”

  Silence.

  “Come on! I know you’re out there. Someone call in. Let me know you have a secure place that can house the huddled masses!”

  Silence.

  “You’re kidding right? Has everyone all of a sudden turned to cowardice? Are there no heroes left?”

  I wanted to call. I wanted nothing more than to pick up the phone and shout out the address of the hospital. But the truth is, the fewer our numbers, the better our chances. I couldn’t, with good conscience, leave the man hanging. He had to understand what was going on. With nothing more than instinct to guide me, I grabbed the headset, fired up Skype, and dialed the phone number for Zombie Radio.

  “Finally, one of my loyal subjects has the balls to call. This is your guide to the new world order, who is out there?”

  “This is Bethany Nitshimi.”

  “Oh, love of my life! I knew you would rescue me from lonely silence.”

  “I wanted to tell you that no one is reporting safe zones, not because there are none, but because people are afraid.”

  “Everyone is afraid, Bethany. The world is a fucked up, frightening place now.”

  “No, I mean people are afraid of drawing attention to safe zones. The fewer the numbers, the safer the location. Less noise, more food to go around – less is more. The only places that are capable of securing any sizable numbers are military bases and I do not see the military opening their doors for the huddled masses at the moment.”

  “Speaking of the military – where are they? I thought the number one duty of the military was to protect its citizens?”

  “The military is under control of the government and the government is partially responsible for what has happened. But everyone already knows that. My point is, that you are not going to have a massive wave of callers giving up their hideaways. People need to feel safe – wait – Damn it, I can’t believe I hadn’t thought of this before. Anyone who has been reading my blog knows I created a device, the Obliterator, that repels zombies. I’m going to create a schematic drawing for that device and post it up on my site, so anyone can build one and have some protection. It’s not ideal, but it’s better than nothing”.

  “I like the way you think Bethany. One of these days you and I are going to meet and I am going to propose marriage to you. Promise me you will say ‘yes’.”

  I didn’t even know the man’s name. I have to say, though, I was flattered. Of course I realize the notion was crazy, but it felt good to know how appreciated my efforts were.

  Before I hung up the phone I made sure to rattle off the address of my blog, which would have a link to the schematics download as soon as I create the file. I hope to hear the resounding bray of Obliterators across the planet soon. Only then will I know people were finding some semblance of security and sanity. When that becomes a reality, I will know everything I have done was not in vain.

  And with that warm, fuzzy thought, I must say ‘good night’.

  Blog Entry 12/11/2015 2:22 a.m.

  I woke in the middle of the night to another dream. I was in an audience attending a symphony. Surrounding me were the upper echelon of the wealthiest citizens on the planet, every woman covered in the finest silks and diamonds, every man tuxedoed and manicured to perfection. Not a sound was made by the audience as the red velvet curtain was drawn back to reveal the musicians. Even before the conductor’s baton was raised, I knew something was amiss. Instead of instruments, each musician held in their lap an Obliterator. At first it seemed I was watching a moment frozen in time. No one flinched the slightest muscle, nor was the tiniest of sounds made by musician, conductor, or audience. The moment hovered in the air, waiting for some inciting incident to tip it over an edge and let momentum carry it forward.

  When the moment was finally given the requisite nudge, the conductor’s baton began dancing like the man was attempting to swat flies from the surrounding air. The musicians, at various moments, would turn on and off their Obliterators, creating a cacophony of sound that had very little to do with music.

  The dream took a turn for the horrific as, one by one, the musicians turned from innocent instrumentalists to flesh-gnawing, brain-eating zombies. At first they seemed content to attack one another, but soon they realized their folly and, at once, took off toward me.

  I tried to hide behind the opulence of one or more of the attendees, but the zombies would not be fooled. When a small crowd of moaners managed to get their hands on me, they began pulling at my limbs. Just as it seemed I was about to be drawn and quartered, something woke me. When I jerked out of the nightmare, I was sitting up in my bed breathing and sweating like I had just won a marathon. My heart was trying its best to pull itself out of my chest and my breath was coming in desperate drags. Everything was pitch black. I felt alone, absolutely, utterly alone.

  Blog Entry 12/11/2015 7:01 a.m.

  The orchestra from hell did not revisit my dreams. Fortunately I can’t remember how the second act played out. I do remember very well, however, every moment of Act The First. That bit of theatre would haunt me for quite a while. It might be some time before I can enjoy the lush beauty of a symphony again. There are worse things, I suppose.

  My first task of the day is to create the schematics for the Obliterator and upload them to the web site. That will take all of thirty minutes, as I fortunately keep extensive and tho
rough notes.

  But before I undertake that task – breakfast! I closed my eyes and imagined a hot plate of waffles with thick, sweet syrup and a cup of hot coffee. Yeah, that’s love. But instead I’ll have to settle for a couple of granola bars and a lukewarm cola. I suppose the complaining should be reserved for the real problems. Actually having sustenance could not be counted among said problems.

  “Bethany, I have a surprise for you.” Jean’s voice pulled me from my hot-waffle day dream.

  “Is it a pot of the blackest coffee? If not – fuggetaboutit,” I chuckled in an attempted New York accent. An actor I was not.

  “Actually it’s much better than that. I have someone who wants to talk to you.” You could almost hear the smile creep across Jean’s face.

  “Oh my God, Susan?”

  “That’s correct. Now, she’s going to have a bit of trouble using her voice and she might seem a bit out of it, but she did ask for you by name.” Jean helped me up out of my bed. I have to hand it to the man, he was scoring major points with me left and right.

  I slowly walked to the side of Susan’s bed. She was still perfectly horizontal, but when I came to her side, she moved her head so she could see me. Her eyes were mere slits, but when they spied my face, she smiled the faintest smile. That smile did more for my morale than anything to date. Susan recognized me and it made her happy.