I Zombie I [Omnibus Edition]

by Jack Wallen

Doctor Kinkaid took another moment to glare. “We need to not be working within a mobile laboratory. These are delicate procedures, I need stillness and I need the right equipment. If you can get me a proper lab, I could get production ramped up in a few days time. Working within this environment, it could easily take weeks.”

  Weeks wouldn’t do. Faddig had already wasted so much time the board was already breathing down his neck. They needed results. The window for the human race would close quickly. If the cure wasn’t offered to the public soon, there would be no public to take advantage of. Imminent death was one of the most profound motivating tools. When faced with death, mankind would comply.

  “Fine. You’ll have your lab. We’re being sent to Calgary, Canada. Once there, we’ll locate a suitable lab where you can begin your work. But there is something else you must do.”

  The commander’s voice held an ominous tone. The doctor stood, knowing he was about to be thrown for a significant loop. It had happened countless times, since he took a position within the Zero Day Collective. He’d joined out of fear – he wanted to live, to find the means with which to keep his family alive. But when the ZDC made the initial threats, it was immediately clear he had no choice. Either Jonathan Kinkaid sells his soul or the family he promised to protect, at all costs, would perish at the merciless hand of the makers of chaos.

  “I brought you into this task force based on your research in the field of cloning.”

  “I’m sorry commander, that work was halted over ten years ago when human cloning was banned. It went no further.”

  “Dr. Kinkaid, please do not presume me ignorant. It was not two years ago you presented a viable human cloning process to the Canadian Institute of Health and Research. They accepted your proposal and granted you funding. It wasn’t until the Mengele virus was released that your research halted. We need you to pick up where you left off.”

  The doctor’s legs nearly buckled. He had been at war with his conscience since his first work with the ZDC began. But for the most part he was doing little more than mending the wounded, so the war was an easy win. When he was charged with the research on the baby, that war became quite the challenge.

  “I’m sorry commander, but I cannot…”

  “Doctor Kinkaid, do not act as if you have any choice. You do what we say and your family remains safe. Go against the Zero Day Collective and your family will die – or worse. Do you understand?”

  The doctor remained silent.

  “I asked you a question. I will repeat it if necessary.” Faddig bristled.

  The doctor stood fast by his silence.

  Faddig pulled out his mobile and dialed.

  “This is Faddig. The Kinkaid family, kill them.”

  Tears instantly streamed down the doctor’s face as if a spigot had been opened and the sprinkler set to soak.

  “No. Please don’t. Whatever you need of me…” Kinkaid hesitated.

  “Belay the order.” Faddig barked and disconnected the call.

  “Anything you want. Just don’t kill my wife and children.”

  Faddig had him exactly where he needed him. With some men, the instinct to protect was so strong, they would go to any length or depth.

  A chilling silence drifted into the room. Commander Faddig stared deep into the eyes of Doctor Kinkaid.

  “I need a human clone.”

  “Of who?” Doctor Kinkaid swallowed a ball of fear into his gut.

  A taught silence blanketed the room. The unsaid words quickly became an elephant, stomping about, ready to crush anyone underfoot.

  “Jacob Plummer.”

  The bomb dropped into the middle of the room and sent ear-splitting shrapnel in three hundred and sixty degrees.

  “This boy’s father? That Jacob Plummer? The man that spent his last months protecting the woman you’re doing everything in your power to destroy?”

  “Yes.”

  “Why? Why would you want to bring that man back to life? And even if you did, you’d be dead by the time the clone returned to the age in which he died.”

  Faddig stared deep into Kinkaid’s core. He wasn’t used to be told ‘no’. “We live in a new world, with new rules doctor. What was once impossible is now not only possible, but made practical by the whirling hell storm that threatens to take down our very civilization. You will be given the best equipment and assistance in the world. You will be paid with protection for you and your family. In return, you will bring Jacob Plummer back to life for me. That is all the ‘why’ you need to know. Is that clear?”

  No response came. The commander slammed a powerful fist onto a thick, wooden table. The echo resounded off the metallic walls of the lab within the transport.

  “I asked you a question. Is that clear?”

  “Yes sir. Perfectly.”

  The stare down lasted only a few seconds, before Faddig smoothed out the front of his jacket and returned his spine to the rail-straight position it was used to.

  “We should arrive in Canada soon. I will leave you to your preparations.”

  Commander Faddig slowly exited the room, leaving Doctor Kinkaid alone with his misgivings and questions.

  “Why bring a harmless journalist back to life?” Kincaid lobbed the rhetoric into the air around him. There was no answer to be had. The question only beget more, deeper questions. The one making the most noise inside the skull of the doctor was whether or not Faddig (along with the whole of the The Collective) had lost his mind.

  The soft, cooing sound of baby Jacob brought Kincaid screaming back to the now. He looked down into the bassinet to see Jacob smiling up at him. Was it possible the baby knew something? Could this post-apocalyptic messiah have an insight no other had? Was the little guy boring into the doctor’s brain in search of a weakness, a deep-seeded fear?

  “Well, Jacob, looks like your daddy might be coming back to the land of the living.” Kincaid chuckled almost imperceptibly. “Nothing seems to want to stay dead these days. Even death is a lie.”

  Epilogue

  December 24, 2016 11:17 PM

  Unknown location

  Zombie Radio Nation. It’s yet another apocalyptic Christmas here on good ol’ planet Go Fuck Yourself. This is Bethany Nitshimi here to bring you bad tidings of hate and not even so much as a crumb of fruit cake in your stockings. We’ve been Grinched and Scrooged yet again this holiday season. But hey, that’s okay! We’ve grown accustomed to this new way of life – right? It’s like the old hacker credo, less is more. If you knew your bash scripting, you’d get that joke. Otherwise, ladies and gents, just smile and nod.

  Christmas. Yeah. Christmas. A holiday that was, at one point, filled with joy and merriment, now a barren landscape of loss and suffering. It’s been over a year…I think. Hell, I don’t actually know how long it has been. It feels like a century has passed since I showered. I know…imagine how rank I smell. Oh listen to me, practically resorting to fart and dick jokes for ratings. Look into my eyes, does it seem like I give a shit?

  I let a silence waft into the airwaves. I needed that brief moment to collect myself. I had become prone to random fits of anguish – thanks to the loss of my baby. Since the moment of his capture I have daily sworn to all that I hold holy and dear that I would return that baby to my arms. One way or another, Jacob will be reunited with his mother.

  I’m sorry.

  Another silence.

  It gets lonely in the apocalypse. I never thought I’d spit those words out, but it’s true. Even with friends and loved ones by my side, loneliness still manages to creep its bastard way into my gut. It doesn’t hurt that the only remaining family I had was ripped from my arms.

  Before I could choke out the next words, Jamal was standing at the window of my new broadcast booth holding up a hand-written sign. The sign simply said:

  We got a hit!

  The short sentence had me sucking wind and wanting to scream joy out into the universe. I didn’t. The entirety of the Zombie Radio Nation (if there was still su
ch a thing – I was hardly even a serviceable replacement for the original) would go deaf at my exhalation. Instead, I opted to let something different flow from my soul.

  When was the last time you felt joy? I’m talking the birth of your first child kind of joy, or your first paycheck from your dream job kind of joy. It’s out there – still. Even among the trash, rubble, and chaos there is still joy and pleasure to be had.

  God, I just wanted to wrap this up so I could know what the hit was. I knew what Jamal was referring too – my tracking script – but had no idea of the details.

  Segue. Segue!

  If you are listening to me, that means you are still beating incredible odds. The human race is at critical mass and anyone still living is playing with house money. For over a year we’ve bested the bastards that did everything they could to terrorize and cripple mankind. And even though they’re still out there, attacking and corrupting, we’re still standing. That’s right babies, momma’s still standing and she’s gonna fight like a mad bitch from Hell until everyone is safe from those makers of mayhem.

  Jamal returned with another hand-written sign stating:

  Take off, eh!

  You know, it’s been a long, long time since I’ve played you a song. I think it’s that time again my lovelies. But what kind of madness can I drop on you?

  Jamal’s sign finally smacked me upside the head. I tossed a wicked grin his way and he gave me his goofiest thumbs up.

  I’m going to take you back to the ’80s and this strange little tune that stars two comedians and one high-pitched singing, kick-ass bass playing Canuck. Take off ya hoser!

  The silly little Bob and Doug Mackinzie song danced out of the monitors as I ran to the door, flung it open, and wrapped my arms around Jamal.

  “Your program worked. We tracked down a call from a mobile to Calgary, Canada. Commander Faddig, searching for a suitable lab in order to continue the ground-breaking work of the Zero Day Collective. Morgan has dispatched the Calgary Zombie Response Team on a recon mission. In the mean time, break out your tuque and your parka, we’re heading to the Great White North!”

  “Cooo, loo, coo, coo, coo, coo, coo, coooo!” I sang out.

  “Beauty, eh?” Jamal replied.

  Did stereotypes still exist in this post-apocalyptic world? If not, I’d make sure to start some new ones. The first? Pissed off, bad-ass, no-name-taking mother. And that, my friends, was no lie.

  Cry Zombie Cry

  By Jack Wallen

  Copyright 2014 by Jack Wallen

  PUBLISHED BY: AUTUMNAL PRESS

  This book is a work of fiction. Unless otherwise noted, 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.

  Edited By:

  David Antrobus

  Heather Austin

  Claire C. Riley

  Halima Rahman

  This book is dedicated to everyone out there who has turned to music to help them through a rough time. As Shakespeare so brilliantly said, “If music be the food of life, play on.” And what better way to “play on” than with a bit of zombie apocalypse and metal. m/

  I also must extend a very special thank you to Aya and Mauser of UNSUN. I have been a fan of your music for a very long time and was honored that you wanted to be a part of this wicked little world. Here’s to more amazing music from UNSUN.

  Another special thanks to Kaizan Sharx and Trendemic+ for also joining in on this little ride through the apocalyptic landscape. Bethany and company owe you one.

  A final special thank you to super fan Jaki Marler for not just being a remarkable survivor, but for inspiring the character of Rizzo.

  And now, ladies and gents…shall we turn it up to eleven?

  chapter 1 | a mother’s worst nightmare

  It began as a low thrumming in the base of my neck. I wasn’t sure if the feeling was physical, mental, or what—but it was there, buzzing like a million cicadas dancing about my cerebellum. Slowly, almost painfully so, the buzzing migrated upward. As it crawled through my occipital and parietal lobes, the buzzing rose in pitch—one octave, two octaves. The sound reached my frontal lobe and this time the note climbed a mountainous musical scale so high I could hardly withstand the affront. The noise transformed into death-inducing white noise and then soared well beyond my range of hearing.

  I could still feel it—a thrashing pressure against the inner walls of my skull. Pounding, crashing, roaring to a breakneck mosh pit rave fueled by the apocalypse and driven by an inhuman desire to destroy anything and everything I could lay my hands on—walls, doors, human flesh and bone…but more so—brains.

  Eat. Pray. Love. Demolish. Unmake the human machine.

  The sound dropped back down within range of my auditory system and was joined by a certain familiar oscillation. My vision shaded to a blood-red rage. The meat within my skull boiled; the pain was unbearable. There was only one impulse coursing through my system—save every living soul around me from the same fate. They were everywhere—innocent people, shoving their way to get beyond my grasp. No one screamed, no one panicked. In perfect silence, the throngs of living meat pressed on by.

  They had to feel it, the suffering within. I couldn’t help not knowing.

  I stopped and wrapped my hands around the head of one of the unwashed masses.

  “Can you feel it?”

  Nothing. The man stared on, his eyes and mouth bereft of emotion. I let him pass. The salvation of the numb and lifeless served no purpose.

  The tide of the wannabe-damned continued past me. The pace of the onslaught came to a Hollywood slow-motion crawl and then every face but one faded from existence.

  “Jacob,” I cried out.

  The bullet hole in his forehead was gone, his face complete and filled with joy upon hearing my voice. He ran to me, his arms spread wide, ready to take me up in an embrace. As he approached, his eyes went milky white and the gunshot wound reappeared.

  “Bethany!” Jacob’s voice was barely recognizable, under the insufferable roar that spilled from between his lips.

  I could smell his sour breath, hear the tendons in his neck creak under the pressure of rage. Before he could wrap his hands around my skull…he fell to dust.

  Finally, it stopped. The sights and sounds of my hate-filled wonderland crashed down around me until all that was left was a dust bowl ghost town. Me and nothing. I knew Jacob hadn’t really been there. I wanted to cry out from the loss, but I’d traveled that road far too many times since I put the bullet through his head. As with every dead-end moment in my life, all I could do was move on.

  A hot, dry wind sliced across my cheeks and brought tears to my eyes. The ghost town reclaimed my focus. Something deep inside of me wanted to let loose the clichéd western-soundtrack whistle and pull my trusty pistol from a cracked and worn leather holster I knew wasn’t on my thigh.

  Cliché.

  Why does everything have to be grounded in stereotype?

  I had to reclaim the truth; no wind caressed my cheek, no pistol appeared at my thigh, and no ghost town surrounded me.

  Just as I turned my back on reality, the sound of a baby beckoned my soul onward. The cries began as a single, sorrow-filled whimper—a sound to bring any mother to her knees. A baby gently reminding its mother there are needs far more important than hers—needs that can only be met by kindness and the warm embrace of loving arms.

  The cry rose and multiplied until I was surrounded by a chorus of horror. A multitude of babies cried out for help…from me.

  “Jacob!” My voice ran rampant through t
he growing windstorm that rose and fell with each banshee-like cry.

  “Mommy hears you.” Again, I shouted above the wailing wall of infantile sound.

  A crack of lightning washed the area with blinding light and a near-deafening rumble. The sound faded and took the cries along for the ride.

  The silence that engulfed me was horrifying.

  “Jacob, come back to me. Please?”

  My call out to my son disappeared into the darkness.

  Another crack of lightning.

  The wailing returned; only this time, it came from within—a sound that shook the gray matter within my brainpan. Along with the sound came unbearable physical and emotional pain. I could feel the desperation in my baby’s cries. Logic threatened to dictate that the cries would evolve into a voice and that voice would speak the words I dreaded hearing:

  This is all your fault, Bethany.

  The cries shifted pitch and tone. From an impassioned accusation to a gentle request.

  “Bethany, wake up.”

  I could barely make out the words.

  “Come on, B, you’re having a bad dream.”

  When I finally managed to pull myself from the nightmare landscape, my body was wracked with sobbing convulsions. Snot and tears poured into the hands that cupped my face.

  My hands. Hands that should be holding my child.

  “He’s gone. My baby is gone,” were the only words I could think to say.

  “We’ll find him, B, I promise.”

  It was Echo; her tiny arms stretched to encompass my near-fetal body. She was strong beyond her young years and smart beyond the street.

  “It’s okay, Bethany. Cry it out if you need.”

  Echo rocked me. I wanted to shrug off the gesture, but for some reason I found it a comfort I couldn’t imagine going without. Instead of continuing the fight, I melted into her embrace. It was about time I disappeared into some other person’s core.