I Zombie I [Omnibus Edition]

by Jack Wallen

  The doctors looked at one another and then, nervously, back at Faddig.

  “Before you even bother to breathe a word, let me say that we own you both. You may think me mad. You may completely, fundamentally, and profoundly disagree with the goals of the Zero Day Collective. You may not, however, escape your duties.”

  Faddig stood, stepped in behind the two doctors, and slapped his hands on their shoulders.

  “That’s not exactly true. There is one way in which you may actually escape your duties. Our labs are always in need of fresh flesh to experiment upon. I cannot tell you how many times we’ve had doctors, interns, or engineers grow leery of our quest and wind up on the receiving end of the virus. As much as your egos will forever weep at hearing this…you are easily replaceable. I could walk into any city across this country and find equally qualified scientists willing to smash their moral compass to pieces for the chance to enjoy the creature comforts to which they were once accustomed. Food, shelter, security…you think anyone in their right mind would turn a cheek to those amenities, considering the circumstances? It’s kill or be killed out there, and it’s a thing of beauty. The Zero Day Collective will soon have the entire population of this sickened planet eating out of the palms of its hands, and there’s not one good goddamn thing anyone can do about it.”

  Faddig leaned in close so his face hovered between the heads of Otte and Karem. “So, which is it? Will you wield the knife, or go under the knife? I await your answers, gentlemen.”

  Commander Faddig didn’t give them a chance to speak. Instead he turned and exited his office. When the door swung shut, the two men sat in breathless silence…afraid to move, to speak, afraid even to think.

  chapter 22 | metal gods

  Kaizen Sharx and Trendemic+ had the stage and were shredding through the first number of their setlist when Rip hopped his lanky frame onto the stage and pulled the mic from the stand.

  “If I could have your attention.”

  A wail of feedback sent hands to ears before the monitor tech could jump in and save the day. As soon as the Marshall stacks and loudspeakers had given up their ear-bleed banshee cry, the technician offered an “I’m sorry” wave to Vanity.

  “Par for the course, mate…par for the course. As I was saying…I’ve heard rumblings of certain bands losing their balls for this gig. You thought it was just going to be a cakewalk mosh pit of a time here? Just hop on stage, toss off a few songs, and then celebrate with some blow and a good fuck? Business as usual for most of ya, right?”

  A smattering of laugher tickled the air.

  “Well, mates, that is clearly not the case. This is the fucking apocalypse. There are actual real monsters out there that want nothing more than to bash your bloody heads open and suck down what little brains you have. What we are doing is helping the living to forget all of that for a time. That doesn’t mean this is going to be easy. This isn’t Coachella or Bonnaroo. You’re not playing for a bunch of silver-spoon celebrities or hashed-out hippies. This is life and death.”

  Vanity turned toward upstage and crossed to Kaizen.

  “I’ve been listening to you play for a while now. You’re young, but you’ve got more talent in your fucking pinky than most guitarists could ever dream of having. If you have any plans of making a name for yourself and your band, you’re going to have to fight. The second we turn these speakers up to eleven, zombies are going to descend upon this party with one thing in mind—brains. Now hopefully this whole area will be standing-room only, so the undead will be outnumbered. Even if that happens, you do not get to throw down the usual ‘get out of jail free’ card and sneak out the back—you’re part of this. We’re all a part of this. Should any of you fail, we all fail. Is that clear?”

  Aya stood and made her way to the edge of the stage, her eyes locked onto Vanity. She took the steps up to the stage slowly and, once on the stage floor, snatched the mic from Rip’s hand.

  “What are you all doing, sitting there in silence?” Aya’s voice dripped thick with her Polish accent. “This isn’t the Lilith Fair. We’re not going to sit around a campfire and sing ‘Kumbaya.’ This is metal. We sing about these moments, mock death, and place our power on a pedestal for all to see. Is that just for show? Mortoch, you’re the leader of Dead Lies. Your last album was called Laughter in the Face of Death. Could you do just that, or would you wet yourself if one of the undead crawled its way up on the stage as you belted out your metal anthem, ‘Born Dead’?”

  Aya returned to the lip of the stage and knelt.

  “We are the gods and goddesses of metal; we are the ones who do the scaring. When this makeshift arena is filled with living, breathing humans, we have to make it our priority to keep them safe. We are the face of truth and we have to pull every trick out of our hat to keep this show and its fans alive.”

  Rip Vanity finally took the stage again. Aya gracefully stood and handed him the mic. Rip kissed both of Aya’s cheeks and turned back to the crowd, a clownish grin on his face.

  “What a fucking inspiration she is. Beautiful and deadly. Best of all, she’s right. We are the stuff of nightmares for the average citizen. Our shows have burned down venues, incited riots, and brought the weak to their knees.”

  Rip went silent. After a moment, a low, demented laugh poured from his mouth and into the mic.

  “I have a plan. We’ve already witnessed Mauser’s secret weapon. We also have a few toys at our disposal that could serve as a first line of defense against the zombie bastards. All we have to do is keep the monsters coming, but stop them from reaching the audience. Once the Moaners and Screamers hit critical mass, we unleash Mauser and watch as the brain-sucking fuckwits run away like frightened children.”

  Zed, of Chunderbust, raised his hand.

  “You have a question?” Rip chuckled.

  “What toys are you talking about?”

  Rip released a hiss of a laugh. “What’s the one thing no metal show is complete without?”

  “Booze.”

  “Tits.”

  “Devil horns.”

  “Music.”

  The answers were tossed around half in jest until Vanity raised his fist in the air. When everyone fell silent, he lowered the mic to his lips and whispered.

  “Pyrotechnics.”

  The word danced around the gathering like a stripper to a pole.

  “Flesh burns, baby,” Zed shouted, in homage to one of Chunderbust’s latest songs.

  Vanity laughed and pointed toward Zed. “That’s right, my vomit-loving friend. We’re going to roast those motherfuckers before they get close enough to realize the enormity of the grand buffet awaiting them.”

  Mauser stood, his tall frame looming over everyone. He looked around the gathering and with heavily lined eyes, addressed the crowd. “We should have more than one line of self-defense. I say we arm the followspot technicians with weapons and have them open fire on anything that gets beyond the wall of flame. I’m sure for most of us the sound of machine gun fire will blend in perfectly with the mu—”

  “That’s a great idea,” Rip interrupted. “Only one problem: anyone carrying firearms?”

  Half of the collected crowd reached to the small of their backs and retrieved various iterations of handguns.

  “As if I needed to ask. But pistols aren’t going to stop Screamers. You’ll need heavier firepower than a few pop guns.”

  It was Tatum Scream who stood. Rip immediately pointed his way.

  “What is it, Tate?”

  Scream hesitated. “This isn’t some sort of fucking trick to get us to confess to something that can be used by the government to put us away, is it?”

  Everyone turned and glared.

  “What?” Scream raised his hands in the air. “This whole fucking nightmare smacks of conspiracy. Haven’t any of you questioned what’s going on around us?”

  “Yes,” Rip interjected. “We’ve all raised the same questions over and over. Thing is, the question has been answered
and the truth is founded in every conspiracy you could ever dream up. The government, big business, the Zero fucking Day Collective—they are all a part of this. So if you’re wondering, the government is using much worse against you already…zombies. We now have a chance to fight back and help the one person on this planet who has a ghost of a fucking chance to really do something.”

  Kaizen Sharx stood, his face alight with a misplaced joy. “If we fight this nightmare back, we can strip modern society of the greasy shit it’s been drowning in and help the human race reclaim the dignity it lost.”

  “Well, okay then. Kaizen, I’m putting you in charge of arming the followspots ops. Gather enough firepower to make sure they can do some serious damage. Tatum and Mauser, you’re in charge of getting the pyro techs to build us a wall of flames. Aya, you and I are going to reach out to Bethany and let her know what we’ve got planned. I think she’s going to want to be a part of this.”

  chapter 23 | codes and guests

  “You’re listening to WZMB, Zombie Radio, your personal soundtrack to the end of the world. That was ‘Entombed,’ by the Deftones. I think I can speak for the whole of the living population when I say I get it. At this very moment, I feel entombed…trapped and tricked by circumstances. Yes, I realize I just dropped a reference to the holiest of trinities, Rush. But that’s my job, ladies and gentle Canadians—I am here to bear witness to the truth of truths, and that truth being music. Well, that’s not the whole of the matter…if we’re speaking in truths. I am also here to bring us all together into a collective whole capable of surviving this shitstorm brought to you by the letters Z, D, and C.”

  I sat cross-legged, with my laptop in front of me, the tiny speakers of the computer just loud enough to hear clearly, so as not to arouse any attention. I wanted to focus on the task at hand without the others asking questions.

  The moment, the time, was now. I pulled my headset on and connected to Skype. As soon as the green light of connection blinked, I requested a call from the Zombie Radio DJ. Just as the phone was answered, I muted the laptop speakers to avoid a feedback loop.

  “Bethany?” The DJ asked in surprise.

  “Yes, it’s me.”

  “To what do I owe the pleasure of this meeting? Have you finally called to ask me out?”

  Silence.

  “Okaaay,” the DJ drew out, “I get it, there’s no connection, no spark. I have a face for radio and you’re a supermodel. What can I do for you?”

  I dove in without hesitation. “I need to reach Dr. Gerand. But you can’t just blurt out information over your show; the Zero Day Collective—”

  “—is watching, I know.” The DJ interrupted. “They’re like Big Brother on crack. How are they following our every move?”

  “I don’t know. A mole doesn’t make sense…not now. The apocalypse has done a lot of very bad things to a lot of very good people, but no one in their right mind would be willing to aid them in their sick, twisted plan.”

  I was greeted with silence. Finally, the DJ sucked in a quick, deep breath and spoke.

  “Never discount the power of evil, Bethany. What the ZDC has is seductive.”

  “And what is that?”

  “Power and resources. People have very basic needs now, needs that cannot be met without outside help. The Zero Day Collective can most likely offer everything we desire at a primitive and carnal level.” The DJ fell silent for a brief moment. “Bethany, hold on just a moment. I have another call coming in. This might be your lucky day.”

  The phone line clicked. I half expected a horrible Muzak version of any given light eighties jam to start playing. Then I remembered who I was talking with. There was no bad music to be found with this man.

  The line clicked back. This time the voice was not the familiar homage to James T. Kirk, but another familiar voice—Richard Gerand.

  “Bethany, at last. We have to meet. I fully believe that together we can make right this tragedy.”

  “You mean the one you created.”

  Silence again.

  “Yes. That one. I didn’t call to argue chicken and egg theories. I called because I have something you very badly need. If you’re willing to meet me, I am willing to hand over my work.”

  “How do I know I can trust you?”

  “I have documentation. In fact, I have hard drives full of video I can show you that proves everything I have said. Just agree to meet me. Please.”

  Something deep inside of me begged to turn away from the offer. I’d managed this rocket ship to hell fairly well on my own so far. The idea of another mind joining our cause had its merits, however—especially when said mind most likely had a thorough understanding of the Mengele Virus.

  “Agreed.” The word slipped out of my mouth. “But the only way we can meet is if you assure me you have the ability to move covertly enough to not be tracked. And we meet at a location of my choosing and you come alone.”

  “Whatever you ask, Bethany. The survival of the human race depends upon this connection.”

  I couldn’t hand over a location over the phone, not with the undead Big Brother watching over our shoulder.

  “Tune into our favorite station in exactly one hour from now for instructions. And understand this clearly—for every action, there is an equal and opposite reaction.”

  I hung up. I didn’t want to chance questions being asked or lingering on a line I wasn’t completely sure couldn’t be traced.

  *

  I placed the call to Zombie Radio as soon as I hung up the phone with Gerand. Now, an hour later, it was time to give a listen and hope the message came across as planned.

  “You’re listening to WZMB, Zombie Radio, your personal soundtrack…” The DJ offered up one of his signature pauses. “…to the end of the world. That was ‘Every Sperm is Sacred’ by those wacky Brits we called Monty Python. Oh, for the love of all things SPAM, wouldn’t it be the most magical of moments to turn on the telly and see Cleese, Palin, and the gang up to their usual cracking of wise and gender-bending madness? Those mad bastards of Python really were the kings of random. They could pull anything out of their ass and make it funny. Anything. The Black Knight could read the phone book and have us rolling on the floor. Brave Sir Robin could lead the Ministry of Silly Walks to coordinates 111.8833 degrees north and 40.7500 degrees west and have us belly laughing until it hurt….”

  And there it was: the coordinates for New Salt Lake City recited in opposites. Gerand was an intelligent man; surely he would pick up on the cleverly disguised misdirection. If not, he’d wind up somewhere in Mauritania, Africa. All I could do now was wait…and hope. If Gerand showed up, we’d bend and twist science until it caved to our demands. If he didn’t show, it would be standard operating procedure.

  Before the DJ could spin up a new tune, Morgan broke through the surrounding peace and quiet.

  “I have two units en route to the last known coordinates of the Zero Day Collective. They should arrive later today. What are your orders for them?” Morgan sat next to me as she awaited my command.

  I stared deep into Morgan’s kind brown eyes.

  “Tell them to wait. If they attack too soon we’ll lose our edge. We want to hold off until the curtain rises on the show. We’ll be using the concert as a distraction for the main act—when the Zombie Response Team descends upon the Zero Day Collective headquarters and recovers my child.”

  Morgan put her arm around me and gave a quick squeeze. “You impress me more with each day, Bethany.”

  “How’s that?”

  “Most women…people…would have collapsed by now. The weight of the world isn’t something a single person should have to bear; yet here you are. Honestly, I don’t think I could do it.”

  “I’m not sure if I should take that as a compliment or a sign that I’ve completely lost my mind.”

  Morgan laughed. For a split second the room was filled with energy and life.

  “I’m fairly certain we’ve all lost our minds. Craz
y is the new sane after all.”

  “Damn, I didn’t realize I was leading a fashion trend.”

  “Zombie couture at its best.”

  I hung my head. “Don’t remind me.”

  “Ladies and gentle cats of the Zombie Radio nation, I have a request for a song. The dedication is to none other than Bethany Nitshimi. The song is by Phil Collins and it’s called ‘On my Way.’ Enjoy it like your lives depended upon it.”

  I released a sigh that was larger than the moment at hand.

  “Did I miss something?” Morgan asked. I explained.

  Jamal entered the room. As soon as he heard the song from Zombie Radio, he began dancing and singing.

  “I know, it’s crazy, right? A black man getting his groove on to one of the whitest men in entertainment? But just listen to this song. This is exactly what we need more of.” Jamal sang along with Mr. Collins for another verse. “Optimism.”

  Both Morgan and I covered our mouths to keep Jamal from the shame of our laughs.

  “What? Am I wrong?”

  I suppressed another bout of laughter. Morgan wasn’t so nice. After a drawn-out laughing frenzy, she straightened up and turned back to Jamal.

  “I’m sorry, Jamal. It’s just that, well, you’re wrong. The last thing we need to do is bury our heads in the sand, start singing praises, puking meaningless words from our mouths. What we need is truth, period. Even if said truth takes us far away from joy.”

  Before Morgan could dive deeper into the rabbit hole of doom, Rizzo and Echo crashed our party. Their faces mirrored an all-too-obvious fear.

  “We might have a problem,” Rizzo said.

  “Outside,” Echo added.

  The girls led us to the entryway of the church and pointed through the cracked and dirty windows. A small crowd of pale and frail survivors were gathered. Leading the charge was a tall man in a torn and tattered suit, his skin pulled tight over his bones. Every member of the group had been ravaged by atrophy and decay—so much so, it was nearly impossible to tell if they were terminal patients of some vicious disease or the first-ever collection of thinking zombies. It wasn’t until the tall man stepped up to the church door and knocked that I realized they were, in fact, not the undead.