by Jack Wallen
That guilt threatened to pull me down to the floor of the house. I wanted nothing more than to fall to my knees and beg the universe for forgiveness. None would come. My acts, to this point, were not of the forgivable type. Yes, I managed to help get Bethany to safety, but up to that moment I might as well have been nothing more than a prostitute in one of Hell’s finest brothels.
What really sickened me was that, at some point, my pimp was directly connected to the corrupt government. Pimps? Prostitutes? Who had I become? At one point my life was filled with the finest thinking academia could offer. My research filled lecture halls, text books, and was the stuff of legend. Now? I was a suicide bomber about to take down a large number of the undead.
Yay, me.
And to what God should I pray? What exactly could faith bring me now? Faith had done little to help me through the reality I helped to bastardize. But even with an epic pessimism to guide me into whatever afterlife there may be, I had to hold some faith that Bethany and her child would bring this cataclysmic disaster to an end.
Strangely enough, out of nowhere, a prayer came to mind.
“Our Father, are you still in heaven? How we’ve forgotten your name. Give us tomorrow, another chance and lead us not into damnation. Forgive me my sins and my sins against your creation. For thine is the kingdom, safe haven, refuge… from the beasts, forever. Amen.”
When I stood, the grenades clanked against one another. Although I should have been shaking with fear, trembling with loss and sorrow, I was at peace. My next act was the most selfless act I would ever commit. I did this not for posthumous glory or accolades, but to give our species a second chance. If I was correct, Bethany and Jacob would survive, and Jacob would eventually grow up to realize his true purpose. If I was wrong, well, I’d be dead and it wouldn’t really matter.
I was stalling… I knew that.
The roar and moan of the undead masses drew nearer to me. My one and only chance for true redemption was now.
Save us all.
Epilogue
You’re listening to WZMB, Zombie Radio – your personal soundtrack to the end of the world. That’s right dear listeners. It’s back and it’s pissed. Of course, by ‘it’ I mean me, and by ‘pissed’ I mean ‘vengeance is a dish best served cold’. Let the undertones of that phrase, translated from the original Klingon, sink in.
Revenge… is… a… dish… best… served… cold.
Of course, the phrase has bit more sting to it when you know who’s speaking. My name is Bethany Nitshimi and I am your new guide through the apocalypse. It is my duty to hold your metaphorical hand as we walk through this valley of the shadows of darkness and hope like Hell salvation is waiting on the other side. That is, of course, if there is an ‘other side.’ Who really knows? There may only be more of this shit and viscera to drag our weary feet through. It is truly Hell out there, and that Hell is brought to you by none other than The Zero Day Collective. Oh yes, I know thirty-one flavors of truth my friends, and it is my goal to reveal to you each and every one.
I do have another goal. Before I announce that goal, I want to make damn sure the people are listening. Hello? ZDC? Are you there? Don’t lie; I know you’re there, you’ve always been there. Like a rat in a dark corner, you sit and wait for the stillness of midnight to arrive so you can crawl out and infect us all with your disease. That all ends here and now. With nothing more than the power of my voice I will raise an army of what remains of humanity and we will defeat you. Your legions of the damned will be powerless against soldiers they cannot infect.
I want every member of The Collective to memorize the sound of my voice, because it will be the very last sound you hear as I put an end to your vile existence.
And now, my children, survivors all; it is time for us to gather, to seek out one another so that we can begin to rebuild our numbers and strength. There is a mighty war to be fought against a corrupt machine that will do everything in its power to rid the world of what they deem unworthy.
But they cannot control us. They cannot and will not be our masters. The machines of hatred will be dismantled. Hear me, believe me, follow me. I hold the truth and that truth will save us all. This world will be ours again!
Muse… sing us a song of resistance. Help the weakened hearts beat strong again.
Can you hear me? Raise your fists in the air and shout at the top of your lungs “They will not control us! They will not forsake us!”
You are listening to WZMB, Zombie Radio… and this revolution, dedicated to the memory of Jacob Plummer, will be televised!
Lie Zombie Lie
By Jack Wallen
Copyright 2012 by Jack Wallen
PUBLISHED BY: AUTUMNAL PRESS
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously (unless otherwise noted). Any resemblance to actual locales, events or persons living or dead is entirely coincidental.
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any printed or electronic format without express permission from the author. Please do not participate or encourage piracy of copyrighted materials in violation of the author’s rights. Purchase only authorized editions.
The apocalypse is just a grievous error away. Thankfully groups like the Zombie Response Team are real and ready to “Protect and Sever”. I want to thank Morgan Barnhart and Joshua Garcia for allowing me to make the Zombie Response Team an integral part of the I Zombie series. I look forward to placing Bethany, Morgan, Josh, and company in deeper and darker peril just to see how they manage to fight their way out. Rock on!
And to my fans who keep begging for more – fear not, I have much nastiness in store for the world. So long as you keep reading, I’ll keep writing. And speaking of writing, let’s get on with this bitch… shall we?
Chapter 1
“This is Bethany Nitshimi. I’m alive. I’m still kicking ass and broadcasting fast. After facing down the biggest horde of zombies imaginable, I managed to escape the Zero Day Collective yet again. I will not, I repeat, I will not be taken down by this apocalypse brought to us by corporate greed. I will fight, I will kill, and I will do everything I can to help mankind back to its feet. Until then, my vengeance will be merciless.
My current zombie count is one hundred and twenty two. I started that count the day I wound up on my own. That same house that saw the death of my friends Sam Leamy, Courtney Sellers, Dr. Joy Daniel Michaels, and Dirt Bag became my secret hideaway. There I grew to understand exactly what it takes to survive – how to make cold my heart and silent my fear. I can kill now without thought, without remorse, and I will not stop until that body count includes every member of the Zero Day Collective. It’s been almost a year since the Zero Day Collective served up a grand buffet of gray matter to Homo Erectus 2.0. They thought it was in their right to cleanse the planet of all those they deemed unworthy. Thing is, they didn’t count on the resilience of the human spirit.
Zero Day Collective, I hope you are listening to me. I have a message to deliver to you from all mankind. Listen carefully, as I am only going to say this one time. The human race is coming for you. We will tear you apart and make you pay for what you’ve done. Mankind will rise again.
This is Bethany Nitshimi, for Zombie Radio. I will post the time and address of the next broadcast in the usual location. Be safe.”
It begins anew…
November 16, 2016
Unknown Location, Pennsylvania USA
The first snow was both a harbinger of hardship to come, as well as a blanket of pure hope covering the landscape. That blanket covered the bits and pieces of fallen friends; and the fragments and shards of the zombie horde laid waste by the detonated hell-fire grenades strapped to Dr. Michaels. Her suicide saved my life. Had she not made that sacrifice, the moaners and screamers would have breached the walls of the house and ripped me and my baby to bits. Thankfully, that snow hid the carnage
from sight.
When the first snow of the last year hit, it was accompanied by the gray ash of death brought on by Dr. Lindsay Godwin’s Quantum Fusion Generator. Even with the comfort of innocent snow falling, being alone with a child in tow was an exercise in constant fear; especially when the undead were everywhere. They always return. The supply of the walking dead was never ending. At least now they only arrive in drips and drabs, instead of waves and platoons. But the constant presence of the zombies brings an undertow of dread. They should have started dying off. Instead, it seemed the walking dead were multiplying like undead rabbits. While time should have been the enemy to the monsters, it turned out to be completely irrelevant. The apocalypse laughed at Father Time, mocked him, flipped him off.
The apocalypse was faced a foe like no other – A pissed off mother with a secret weapon for a baby. That’s me, Bethany Nitshimi. I had every intention of bitch-slapping this apocalypse right back down the throat of the Zero Day Collective. With my baby Jacob along for the ride, the child whose very blood contains the cure for the Mengele Virus, I was ready and armed with everything I needed to give the human race a second chance.
But before my vengeance could be exacted upon the Zero Day Collective, I had to survive. So far so good; but the sound of a small gathering of moaners, coming from just outside our little refuge, warned me that I’d have yet another chance to prove my mettle against the zombie horde.
“Shhhh. It’s okay Jacob. What has momma told you about crying when there are zombies near?” I rocked baby Jacob smoothly and quickly. The moaners must have picked up the cries of my child and wouldn’t rest until they had the fresh meat in their mouths.
Over my dead body.
I probably shouldn’t have said that.
The sounds of the gang of monsters drifted into the open house. The front door had been ripped off its hinges, the glass of the windows shattered. Me and baby Jacob were tucked inside an upstairs bedroom, as far away from the front door as possible.
Jacob cried out again. I popped a pacifier in his mouth to silence the sound.
“It’s not going to end like this, Jake.”
I could have dragged Jacob back up into the attic, but that was nothing more than a dead end waiting to trap us like wild animals. No way. My modus operandi was to beat these bitches back into the ground from which they came.
A crash from below shattered the gentle moment between me and my little guy. I sucked in a deep breath and held life within my lungs for the briefest of moments. I locked my eyes onto Jacob as he smiled up from my arms and sucked the rubber nub in his mouth as if it contained the very essence of life.
The moan below was joined by another, and another, and another. The sum total of death below grew to five. I could live with those odds – I’d lived through much worse.
“Jacob,” my voice was a lullaby-whisper. If his cries were to go off again, that would be it, I would lose the element of surprise. “I’m going to leave you here for a moment. Mommy has to go kick some zombie ass. I’ll be back for you, okay. Just promise me you won’t cry.”
A closet became my baby’s temporary nativity; with Jacob swaddled in the worn blanket I pilfered from the house (the same blanket I used to cover an out-cold Sam Leamy). The blanket was a painful reminder, but one I needed. No way I was going to forget those fallen friends – the last, closest thing to family I had. The Zero Day Collective took that away from me, but those men and women would be the last the apocalypse would ever steal.
With Jacob safely tucked away from the maw of Hell, it was go time. My blood ran red hot, my eyes and ears alive with sensation.
From below, the zombies punctuated their moans with crashes and random shattering sounds. They knew life was somewhere inside the four walls of the house. A full, gray-matter meal, with a side dish of brain veal, was ripe for the taking. My brain. My baby’s brain.
My little black bag of tricks contained some very special toys I was anxious to try out. I cobbled together some interesting weapons from the attic that was my refuge, during the final stand of Sam Leamy, Courtney Sellers, Dr. Joy Daniel Michaels, and the rest of my fallen compatriots. But now, it was just me.
I unzipped the bag and pulled out my new favorite weapon. I had no idea what the original use of the tool was. Effectively, what I held in my hands, was a collapsible pike with a very sharp end. When collapsed, the pike was a mere two feet in length. When stretched out and locked, the beast gave me a full four feet of reach. Four feet between my jabbing hands and the gnashing stench of rot and decay.
I telescoped the pike to its fullest and locked each piece in place. When I stood back up, I could feel a smile cross my face. The whole of my new world defied logic. I was a hacker – and one of the best. Up until a year ago, the closest thing to combat I’d seen came in the form of many and varied video games. The new world order dictated even the most hard core of pacifist pick up arms. Those that couldn’t defend themselves were nothing more than meat for the beasts.
Since the virus date-raped the planet, I had become skilled with a gun, a knife, a sword, fire, and now my favorite piece of phallic hardware. Four feet of hard steel.
Who said size didn’t matter?
Before I made my way to battle, I gloved my hands and donned a pair of shop glasses (in order to protect myself from back splash.)
Always practice safe zombie slaying.
I walked in silence. My favorite purple Doc Martens danced over the hardwood floor, as if they didn’t even touch ground. The moans from below grew louder and louder – and then fell silent. A calm before an undead storm was always the most disturbing moment. The zombies knew I was near; they could smell me. Hell, I could smell me. A hot shower would be better than sex at the moment. It’s not outside the realm of the possible that they could hear my heart beating. Evolution had wreaked some crazy havoc on the moaners, screamers, and berzerkers on the planet. There was no reason why their sense of hearing couldn’t have also fallen victim to change.
The apocalypse didn’t play fair.
Once again, I held my breath. Once again, I had to fight for my life.
My instinct demanded I wait it out, wait until the moaners finally caught wind of me and come to fight on the stairwell. Should that happen, I could at least take them on one at a time. But the fuckers could be painfully slow at catching a ride on the clue train. Instead of waiting for the fight to come to me, this bitch took it to them.
The second my feet hit the first floor, I saw them. Five of the ugliest moaners to meet my sight in a while. They were all average size; three male and two female. All were covered in dried blood and other human remains. One of the females had a rope of intestine wrapped around her neck, like a string of macabre pearls. One of the male zombies was missing its lower jaw, allowing a length of dried up, brown tongue to dangle and flap as it moved. They were slow and, in typical moaner fashion, dumb as fuck.
“Hey,” I tossed caution in every direction to expedite the freak show Battle Royale. “Over here, you half-wit pieces of shit. You want brains? I’ve got a family-sized portion just waiting for your ugly asses.”
The Warrior Nitshimi struck a pose, my shiny metal pike of death ready to lay waste to the band of flesh eaters.
“God, I need a soundtrack.”
The first of the moaners came up the stairs and lunged at me. I jabbed my weapon out and missed the sweet spot. Instead of impaling the monster’s head, the pole easily slipped through the rotting meat of the things chest. It took a couple of strong yanks to dislodge the weapon. Thankfully, the business end of the pike was now coated in thick, slick zombie gore, so when the beast made a grab for my weapon, it merely slipped from his grip.
My second strike hit home – the pencil-point end of the pike running through the right eye of the male zombie, into the gray matter, and out the backside of the skull. The moaner instantly dropped to its knees and then down for its last and final count. I placed a foot on the thing’s shoulder and removed my pike. Not
a dollop of zombie spattered my Doc Martens. The thing flopped down the stairs, nothing more than a sack of worthless corpse.
“Which of you walking bags of ugly is next?”
This time, it was ‘Jaws’ that attacked. The lolling tongue made me laugh. I wanted to grab the tongue and yank down hard to see if the zombie’s eyes would roll back like some strange circus toy. Instead of grabbing the meaty dangly bit, I ran my zombie-killing phallus through the soft palette of the beast. The innuendo of the action was not lost.
With a slam of the flat end of the pike to the stair below, the moaner deep throated the pole. When the zombie’s head hit the hardwood, I yanked up to free the staff, just in time to defend myself from Pearls.
I hated gore. I really hated it. It wasn’t just the sight or the smell, but the sound. The slopping, wet squish of raw human meat was nothing but a gateway to dry heaves – or worse. The sight of this she-bitch, with her string of human sausage around her neck, made me want to go beast-mode and poke out my minds eye. That might well be the only way sleep would ever visit me again. Otherwise, I was certain to have nightmares of an undead Grand Slam Breakfast.
I hated sausage.
Pearls, and the remaining zombies, decided to not play fair and attack me all at once. Pearls grabbed my pike and yanked me down the stairs. Thankfully, all the years of ballet training allowed me to remain on my feet.
That’s right, I said it, ballet.
The zombies surrounded me, tipping the odds in their favor. But I had my pole and hours upon hours worth of Jackie Chan footage looping in my head.
Be Jackie Chan. Be the crap out of Jackie Chan.
Fortunately, the pike was as light weight as it was deadly. It spun in my hands like a majorette’s baton from Hell, buzzing low enough to impress a Jedi Knight or a didgeridoo master. I was fairly certain zombies didn’t give a shit about Star Wars, or about music – especially indigenous Australian music.