by Jack Wallen
Before I could open my mouth, I glanced over Jamal’s shoulder and spied a sign looming over the rooftops. I pointed.
“Jamal, is that sign what I think it is?”
Jamal turned and followed my finger.
“If you think it’s a sign from God himself, you would be very much correct.”
The sign was a faded yellow beacon that called to us like a siren song. It promised sin and salvation rolled up in perfect alignment.
A grocery store.
“Let’s not get our hopes up. More than likely the place has already been looted, so we might walk into nothing but cleaning supplies and cat food.”
The thought of putting one more bite of kitty kibble in my mouth made me want to vomit. Unfortunately, the dictates of our new society didn’t offer us such luxuries as room service, fast food, or five-star restaurants. Kibble, of any kind—human or animal—was considered a gift that shouldn’t be snubbed.
“I don’t care what’s in there; as long as it’s edible, I’m good to go.”
Jamal flung the driver’s side door open and hit the ground running. I wasted no time in giving chase. He was faster than me, but the amount of running I’d done since that fateful day in Germany had given me one thing Jamal lacked—stamina. His sprint faded after thirty yards and I was on him. I reached the entrance to the store well ahead of my wheezing cohort in crime.
I didn’t want to go in. The anxiety of disappointment pulsed through my veins. So much had let us down over the last year; it was time we caught a break.
When we pulled the doors open, it was like stepping through the incarnation of disappointment.
“Empty,” I sighed.
We entered anyway; either through some twisted, masochistic sensibility or a desperate hope we’d find something edible tucked away. Whatever the reason, there we were.
“Jamal,” I whispered.
“Yes?”
“This is one of those gigantic tributes to gluttony, right?”
“I don’t follow, B.”
“We’re not in a traditional grocery store. This was one of those buy-in-bulk places where you had to pay a yearly membership for the privilege of buying way too much shit.”
“Okay, I get that.”
“Sooo…it only stands to reason there would have been some attached warehouse or storage facility to control the overflow.”
“Oh, shit, Bethany. You’re right.”
We glanced at one another and took off toward the back of the building, where, lo and behold, a set of double doors stood sentinel between the showroom and the stockroom.
Without hesitation, I shoved on the doors. “Fuck, it’s locked.”
Jamal stepped in and glanced at the door from nearly every angle. He finally reached out his hand and said, “Give me your tire iron.”
I handed Jamal the tool in question. He measured out an angle just below the door handle and shoved the metal pry bar between the doors. After a deep inhalation, Jamal jammed the bar downward and to the side. The door gave a loud “pop” and then slowly, smoothly, slid open.
“You’re my God, Jamal.”
Jamal grinned. “I have to admit, that was pretty smooth.”
We stepped through the double doors as if they were the gates of heaven and walked straight into God’s own buffet. Food practically overflowed from the shelves.
“Holy snark bait, B, are you seeing what I’m seeing?”
“Jamal, if I’m dreaming, do not wake me.”
“You’re not dreaming, Bethany. We hit the full-on food bonanza.”
Naturally, the produce and dairy had long ago spoiled. We couldn’t even step near the meats—the smell of rot was enough to make us never want to eat again. But the processed and packaged goods? Perfect. Never before was I so glad to see waves and waves of junk food.
“For so long, everyone begged and pleaded humanity to avoid processed foods. Seems to me we need to be thankful for all these preservatives.”
“That’s right, my dear, those preservatives are going to most certainly preserve us.”
Jamal and I stared at each other.
“Well, Bethany Nitshimi, what are we waiting for? Let’s load up.”
I grabbed a shopping cart and chased after Jamal, who busied himself by tossing anything and everything that hadn’t done its best to return to Mother Earth into the cart. Canned goods, chips, snack cakes, peanut butter, cooking supplies—anything that was boxed and sealed away from the clouds of flies that swarmed around the building.
“Oh God, look.”
Jamal had stopped, his eyes wide. When I turned to follow his gaze, I assumed I’d see a gang of zombies ready to start slamming skulls. Instead, I found an aisle of booze.
“Mother of Catholicism, look at all the spirits.”
We also found bottled water and soda—all of which went into a second cart. Very quickly it became clear that our food haul wouldn’t all fit into the truck.
“Two choices, B. We make a second trip, or one of us follows behind the truck, pushing the shopping cart.”
Although his latter suggestion was the most efficient means of getting everything back, it didn’t take into consideration the noise of the rattling bottles and the shopping cart. If there were more of the undead, they’d find us in a second. We finally agreed to shove everything in the truck but the booze. As much as it pained us both, we could come back for liquor. The batteries and the food had to make it back. Booze, at this stage in the game, was a complete luxury. Besides, we also found a stockpile of coffee. We’d all have to pretend to be members of AA and stick to coffee.
I wasn’t sweating it. Given the circumstances, getting hammered was the absolute craziest idea. Who knew what kind of drunken revelry would ensue. Knowing our motley little crew, we’d wind up rousing the dead and losing our minds—literally and figuratively.
chapter 15 | doubletap suicide
The amp stack pitched forward.
“Hey, ya bloody wanker, that might well be the last working Marshall on the goddamn planet. You break that and I’ll send your arse out as zombie bait.”
The volunteer roadie waved nervously, unsure if Rip was serious.
“Come on, Vanity, give the pant shitter a break. It’s not like he—”
“Piss off, ya fuck tart.” Rip Vanity spat. “I’m trying to organize the first ever post-apocalyptic metal concert and I need this shit, all of it, to work. We’re only going to get one bloody chance at this; if we blow it, we’ll be gobsmacked by the entire fucking planet. So sod off.”
A punk-clad young woman, platinum-white dreadlocks flowing over her shoulders, stepped into the scene—a laptop in her hand.
“I’ve got him,” the young woman said nervously.
“Who? Got who, babe?”
“That Zombie Radio guy. He’s here, on Skype.”
“Bloody hell, why didn’t you fucking say so? Hand the shit over.”
Rip sat the laptop down on the edge of the stage.
“You there?”
Nothing.
“Hell…I thought you fucking said—”
From the laptop came the all-too-familiar voice of the DJ.
“You’re listening to WZMB, Zombie Radio. Your personal soundtrack to the end of the world. That was Kitty in a Casket and their most recent blast from a psychobilly past, ‘Best Before Doomsday.’ Now, if I am correct, I have the one, the only, the irreverent and most certainly in a fuck-drunk pissy mood, Rip Vanity from Doubletap Suicide. Rip, are you there?”
“Fuck yeah, I’m here.”
“Let’s cut to the chase, Rip, you’ve got something big going on. Care to share with the Zombie Radio Nation?”
Rip let a devil-wide smile creep across his lips, which was lost on the disembodied voice. “Oh bloody hell, yeah, I care to share. I have organized one of the biggest metal festivals in the history of music. It’s time the human race realized that we are survivors; through music we’ll show the cock knockers of the Zero Day Collective that it
takes more than a single virus and an army of darkness to bring us to our knees.”
“That sounds brilliant. I can’t believe it’s taken this long for something like this to come to life. How are you managing to pull this off? I mean, it is the apocalypse. There are more issues than I would imagine a metal superstar like yourself could handle.”
Rip released a laugh loud enough to cause feedback to spill from the laptop speakers. “Oh now, yer insulting me. You obviously don’t know the power of the metal family. Look, I’ve poured my heart and soul into this event. It has to succeed or else we might as well give up. Besides, it’s fucking music…the food of life.”
“Ah, Shakespeare.”
“No, I was quoting one of our songs, ya knob shiner.”
“So, who do you have lined up for this festival?”
Rip pulled out a tablet and flipped through a few pages.
“Well, obviously we have yours truly and my band Doubletap Suicide as the headline. We’ve also got UnSun, Trendemic+, Spinal Horde, Powerdrain, Chunderbust, Flip the Switch, and Dead Lies. Those are the early entries. We’re still working hard to line up even more A-list bands. And, before you ask, no one is getting paid for the gig. We’re all doing this because we know it’s right.”
“What are the details? How can the Zombie Radio Nation become a part of this phoenix rising out of the ashes?”
“The show will take place just outside of New Salt Lake City. We plan to crank it up to eleven in two days. It’ll start Friday and the metal will continue shredding through the weekend. So if you have any desire to remind yourself of what being human means, you’ll show up, ready to have your soul shocked and rocked.”
“You heard it here first, ladies and gentlemen of the Zombie Radio nation. Rip Vanity, lead singer of Doubletap Suicide, inviting the world to experience the greatest metal gathering in the history of the apocalypse. Start your pilgrimage to New Salt Lake City now, so you can fight for the most wicked front row experience of your lifetime. And now, in honor of Rip Vanity, let’s spin one of Doubletap Suicide’s latest tunes. Have a taste of ‘Brain Drainer,’ my lovelies.”
The song sounded flat through tiny computer speakers. Vanity considered plugging the laptop into the outdoor arena’s PA system, but eventually talked himself out of it. He still needed to complete the mic check before the bands started arriving for full-on soundchecks. Hearing “Brain Drainer” played over the airwaves for the first time in years was all the justification he needed for what he was doing. The song was their anthem against corporate culture—the very beast that had capped mankind in the knees.
Rip’s eyes were closed, his mind lost in the thrum and drum of the song, when his assistant slapped him on the shoulder.
“How many fucking times do I have to—?”
Before Rip could finish his tirade, his assistant finally caught his attention and directed his eyes forward. Standing center stage was a lone female, clad in every femme fatale cliché the metal universe had to offer. She stood in silence, a temptress smile across her blood-red lips.
“Holy shit!” Rip jumped up on stage and raced to meet the woman. “Aya!” Rip dropped all pretension of anger and attitude in favor of a thick layer of charm. “It’s so good to see you.”
Finally, a smile broke loose on Aya’s face and she wrapped her arms around Rip.
“It’s been too long.” Aya’s Polish accent was heavy, the twinkle in her eyes as light and bright as the sun. “Are we going to rock the undead back into their graves or what?”
chapter 16 | rip the douche
“Bethany.” Jamal’s voice carried with it a tragic warning I’d rarely heard. “You’ve gotta hear this now.”
He sat a laptop down on the table. Out of the speakers spilled a voice I’d never heard, with a Sid Vicious-thick South London dialect.
“The show will take place just outside of New Salt Lake City. We plan to crank it up to eleven in two days. It’ll start Friday and the metal will continue shredding through the weekend. So if you have any desire to remind yourself of what being human means, you’ll show up, ready to have your soul shocked and rocked.”
The next voice to rise from the speakers I’d developed an almost familial connection with.
“You heard it here first, ladies and gentlemen of the Zombie Radio nation. Rip Vanity, lead singer of Doubletap Suicide, inviting the world to experience the greatest metal gathering in the history of the apocalypse. Start your pilgrimage to New Salt Lake City now, so you can fight for the most wicked front row experience of your lifetime. And now, in honor of Rip Vanity, let’s spin one of Doubletap Suicide’s latest tunes. Have a taste of ‘Brain Drainer,’ my lovelies.”
The remaining words ran together in a dreamscape static. It didn’t matter what was said after New Salt Lake City and crank it up to eleven. The noise brigade was coming to our area and every member of the undead army for miles would zombie-stomp their way into town, ready to line up at the brain buffet.
Without fair warning, my fists came down on the table. Jamal jumped back, afraid my rage would spill off the table and wash over him. I stood, trembling with anger at the news.
“We can’t catch a break. The second we manage to get settled in, some arrogant douchebag rock star finds it necessary to feed his ego and draw in the entire walking dead population to our safe haven. This is just fucking great.”
Jamal stepped in close and clasped his hands over mine.
“Bethany, we don’t know what will come of this.”
“You heard the man, Jamal. He said this Friday. He didn’t hint at a date or give an approximate date…he gave a very specific date. This is going to happen, and when it does…we’re fucked. All of us, fucked. We’ll be surrounded by the undead and won’t stand a chance against those numbers.”
Jamal’s arms encompassed me. I had to fight his warmth to remain angry. I wanted to be angry, had a right to be angry.
“Bethany, we don’t even know if the man has the means to pull off such a feat. You know how much power it would take to run a full-on metal fest? He’ll be lucky to power one guitar amp and a spotlight.”
Before Jamal could continue the comforting, Rizzo rushed into the room.
“Oh my God. Did you hear the news? Doubletap Suicide and UnSun are going to be playing at a metal fest just outside our wall. Two of my favorite freaking bands! I have to go. Bethany, you have to let me go to this concert.”
I wanted to turn around and tear into Rizzo for spreading ill-conceived innocence. The apocalypse was no place for naiveté. Our only currency had to be fact and truth. Even plausible denial had to be tossed out the door.
Truth.
Truth was I couldn’t come down on her. The look in the sweet girl’s big brown eyes refused to allow me to raise my voice or my temper. Even so, the concert had to be stopped. No matter what band found their way onto the stage, we had to make our way there and keep this party from ever getting off the ground.
“Jamal, I want you to finish up the solar panel charging system as quickly as possible. Once you have it complete, you and I are going to give old Rip Vanity a visit.”
Jamal grinned. “That’s the B-dizz I know and love. It’s good to see you got your bitch back.”
“Oh, Jamal, it never left. It was just taking a bit of a catnap.”
“Meow, little kitten.” Jamal raised his fingers and mimed a cat scratching the air.
“You can be kind of queeny, you know that?” Rizzo laughed. When both Jamal and I turned to her, our eyes the size of pies, she raised her shoulders to her ears. “What? Oh, come on, I’m allowed to say that.”
“Just because you’re gay, you think you’ve earned the right to use derogatory terminology?” Jamal tossed the question to Rizzo with a bit too much gusto.
“And just because you’re black, you get to use the n-word with your cohorts?”
Tou-freakin-ché.
I broke up the catfight before it could begin. Rizzo raced off, Jamal remained with me.
“What’s the plan, B? We just hop the fence and locate this Vanity dude and let him know he has to cancel the event?”
I nodded. “Yep. That about sums it up.”
The look on Jamal’s face spoke volumes.
“You don’t think we can do it?”
Jamal shook his head. “I’m not sure we should. Think about it, Bethany—the living need to be reminded they’re still alive. Otherwise we may as well be dead. This may not be the best route, but at least this guy’s trying to do something.”
It was hard to argue with Jamal, but there was one bit of flawed logic I couldn’t get beyond—my baby. If this festival happened, there’d be a chance I’d lose my opportunity to reclaim Jacob. I relayed that information to Jamal, which seemed to diffuse his desperate need for justice a bit. Even with Jamal’s anger quelled, I still had a boiling rage churning in my own gut. That emotion wanted to drive me out a window with the hopes that the fall to the concrete would be a few hundred floors…at least. Instead I placed a calming hand on his shoulder and spoke softly.
“Jamal, no matter what we do, we cannot allow that concert to draw in the beast. You help me do this one thing and I will owe you for life.”
“I do like the sound of that,” Jamal said softly. “The things I could do to make you pay.”
Jamal let a maniacal chuckle escape from the depths of his throat. I couldn’t help but laugh.
“Okay, B, I’m on your side, you know that. So what do we do to stop the upcoming metal fest? Oh, and for the record, this really sucks. I’ve always wanted to hear those bands.”