by Jack Wallen
Gerrand’s hands shook and his breathing dove into shallow depths. Morgan approached him. “What’s going on with you?”
The doctor turned his gaze to the floor, his hands pumping in and out of fists. “I’ve spent the last few years working on Fry because of the relentless guilt for what I did. If the Zero Day Collective manages to reclaim Bethany and Jacob, everything I’ve done will have been for nothing.”
Josh approached Gerrand, his size imposing its will on the smaller man. “Explain.”
Gerrand leaned against a nearby table. “Fry depends upon a certain genetic criteria being met. At the moment, that criteria is known. The problem occurs when the ZDC acquires Bethany and her child and can then inject their DNA into the equation. Doing so will allow them to almost randomize the mutations─even more so than Mother Nature has already done. Should that be the case, Fry will never work without me knowing the key sequence the Collective used to modify the strain. It would be like solving the Enigma machine without the cypher—which, as I’m sure you know, would be impossible.”
“Jesus,” Morgan said under her breath. “I knew the woman was important…but she’s messianic-important.”
“What do we do, then?” Josh asked.
“Move ahead as planned. There’s nothing we could do that Rondo couldn’t. In fact, we’d just be holding him back.”
Josh nodded. “You’re damn skippy there.”
Gerrand leaned forward. “How can we just…”
Morgan cut across the doctor. “You don’t know Rondo and his gang like we do. The man will not let harm come to Jamal. They’ll risk their own lives to save their target. They are the best we’ve got.”
Josh folded his arms across his beefy chest. “And that’s saying something.”
Gerrand nodded nervously, his eyes blinking in perfect counterpoint to the shaking of his head. “Fine. Fine. I suppose I should get to work, then.”
It was Morgan’s turn to nod. “Is there anything we can do to help?”
Gerrand took in a deep, shaky breath. “Keep me from coming unwound.”
“I could sing you a song?” Josh grinned. “I do a mean Avenged Sevenfold.”
“Actually, there is something you could do for me.”
Josh nodded. “Name it.”
“I’m starving. Do you happen to have something, anything that I could gnosh?”
“As a matter of fact…” Josh grabbed his pack and retrieved a handful of energy bars. “I have just about every flavor known to man.”
“Flavor is irrelevant at this juncture. So long as it will quiet my raging hunger, I don’t care if it’s blood pudding or haggis-flavored cat kibble.”
Morgan closed her eyes and pinched her face together.
“You’ve tried haggis, I take it?”
Morgan glanced at Gerrand. “No, cat food. Long story…don’t feel like going back there.”
Josh handed over a couple of the bars. Gerrand ripped into one as if he’d been deprived of sustenance for weeks.
“Thank you,” Gerrand spoke between bites. “This might well be the most tasty bit of…what flavor is this? I detect a hint of blueberry.”
“It’s more than a hint, my friend.”
Morgan interrupted. “I hate to break up the slumber party, but don’t you have a weapon to create? And don’t you have a man to guard?”
Josh hung his head like a scolded puppy. Morgan gave him a sweet pat on the back of the neck.
“I don’t want to be here any longer than necessary. If Rondo needs us to help rescue Jamal, we need to be ready to relocate at a moment’s notice.”
Josh offered up a mock salute. “Aye aye, captain my captain.”
Morgan approached Gerrand—close and personal. “If you’ve yet to understand the gravity of this situation, let this be a valuable lesson. Bethany is our most precious asset. Without her, this is all worthless. But without Jamal, Bethany might as well not be Bethany. She needs him like we need her. And shortly, the Zero Day Collective will touch down near that transponder…which puts Jamal in even more danger. Need I connect the dots of that story line for you?’
Gerrand shook his head, stood tall, and inflated his chest. “I’m ready.” Without another word, he marched into the lab and went directly to work.
Morgan turned to Josh. “We need to remain here, in case Gerrand comes up short of something. I don’t want that man freaking out.”
twenty-four | pleasure, freedom, life
The warehouse was little more than a sheet metal structure over arid ground. With each stomp of a boot, a cloud of dust rose to form a thin layer of desert fog.
A crash of chains startled Jamal awake. For the first few seconds, he looked through a thick mask of confusion, everything distorted and blurred. When the pain and ringing shocked his system, every fragment of memory slammed into his conscious mind.
“Fuck,” he shouted. The single epithet was followed by a throat-ripping scream that echoed into a distant oblivion.
The sound died, only to be replaced by laughter and a mocking slow clap.
A James Earl Jonesian voice spoke loud and clear. “Bravo, young man.”
Jamal twisted his head to the left and right to locate the source of the voice. His vision, still a Gaussian blur, made the task challenging at best.
“You’ve just managed to call forth an army of the dead to make our game even more risky.”
Chanting and cheering filled the room.
“Yes,” the strange voice boomed. “Risk is good. With great risk comes great reward, and the only reward worth risking is pleasure.”
The crowd’s collective chant rose to maddening heights.
The speaker finally came into focus. Dreadlocks spilled from a chain mail headband. A wide nose and an even wider smile. Eyes as white as college-rule paper stared from behind steampunk goggles. He stepped up to Jamal and knelt beside him.
“Welcome to paradise,” the stranger whispered. He stood again, raised his arms above his head, and shouted, “The Pleasuredome!”
Screams and cries rang out from every corner of the building.
“I am the postmodern Kublai Khan. I am Frankie and I have come and gone to Hollywood to return with an unlawful carnal knowledge to please the one, true God.”
Another round of chants vibrated the walls until they threatened to come down. The stranger clapped his hands above his head and all fell instantly silent.
“You are to be our next offering. Honor will follow you into the next life. You will be reborn an angel of mercy or a demon of justice.”
Another clap and two men appeared, clad only in leather chaps. Each grabbed a chain and heaved. Jamal’s arms rose until the weight of his body tugged mercilessly at his joints.
“What are you doing?” Jamal cried out.
The stranger laughed and then replied with a question of his own.
“Want to play a game?”
“No,” Jamal shouted. “I don’t want to play a game. I want you to release me, and then you can play a rousing game of hide and go fuck yourself.”
An eruption of laughter and mockery filled the warehouse with a perverse joy. The stranger silenced the crowd once again.
“Unfortunately, my friend, you have no choice in the matter. You see…you are the game, and we the spectators. This is what the Pleasuredome is all about…testing the limits of the human spirit. But don’t worry, the game is not without its spoils. Should you win the game, your life is yours. Lose, and, well, your life is forfeit.”
Jamal choked back tears. “Why are you doing this?”
A hushed sense of anticipation overcame the crowd. The stranger backed away from Jamal and nodded as he raised his arms into an actor’s rendition of the crucifixion. “We were all once cogs in the machine of corporate corruption. We dug our heels in day after day to make sure the God of greed was sated. We bled, wept…ejaculated to fulfill the needs of the one. Our suffering was perpetual—an ouroboros of self-loathing and sacrifice. The man crack
ed his whip and we gesticulated and prostrated until our knees and backs were bloodied by a hollow and horrific culture. But then the virus struck and we were freed—never to suffer at the hand of hatred again. That profound freedom gave us life and sight. We feel, we see, we live. What we feel is pleasure. What we see is freedom. What we live is life. That is the holy trinity of the new world order, my friend.”
A new chant rose. “Pleasure, freedom, life!” The three words repeated over and over again as the platform was rolled to the overhead door. The door rose and a brilliant beam of light cut through the dimness.
The stranger silenced the crowd and then shouted, “Let the parade begin!”
Jamal danced on the chains that supported him from above…like a gallows rag doll. Every bump in the dusty road threatened to dislocate his arms. He cried out in agony. Each painful protest was met with laughter and cheers.
Slowly the parade made its way down the street toward the square. Tears streaked through the dust and blood caked on Jamal’s cheeks. He blinked against the stinging sweat that dripped from his brow.
The square came into view. Surrounding the open area, buildings stood at three and four stories—each sporting a balcony. Soon after the platform entered the courtyard, the balconies began to fill with revelers.
A hand swatted at Jamal’s feet. He glanced down as best he could to see the dreadlocked stranger staring back at him. His resonant voice called up, “Soon, my friend, the Moaners will come. With your legs dangling low, they can reach you. If they can reach you, they can eat you. I highly recommend lifting your legs as high as you can to avoid the touch of death at all costs. But just how long can you hold your knees to your chest? My guess is…the zombies will win this little game.”
The stranger set off toward one of the buildings. As he walked, he cried out, “Call the dead and the damned to the court, so the game can begin!”
The crowd hummed…loud and low. The sound was like an orchestra of didgeridoos offering a sorrow-filled song to the Outback gods.
Jamal swung and spun. As he dangled from the rusted chains, he called out for anyone listening, “Help! Someone help me, please!”
His cry was met with the distant sounds of moaning. Jamal immediately fell silent. The moans faded.
The crowd shouted their disapproval.
The moans returned.
twenty-five | the cavalry arrives
I arrived at HQ, my legs and lungs threatening to revolt. I jumped off the bike and raced to the door. Even with Echo and Rizzo watching over Jacob, I wanted to check on him. Motherly instinct could be a bitch to circumvent.
Rondo was there, ready. He pointed toward the bus. I needed no further instruction.
When I boarded the vehicle, all eyes locked onto me. I wanted to scream, to drop and weep, to beg each and every soldier to do whatever it took to save my Jamal.
Their collective steely gaze assured me they needed no prodding, no pleading.
I took the first open seat. Immediately, a hand fell to my shoulder and squeezed. I turned to see Rusty, his kind eyes doing their best to fill me with hope. He offered the slightest nod—one that mended the tiniest piece of my broken heart.
Rondo entered. Rusty pulled his hand back and focused every ounce of attention he had onto his commanding officer.
“This is black ops shit, people. This is make or break, do or die. If you’re asking yourself what happens should we fail…then we’ve already failed. There is only one option here: success. We are going into a war zone where we will soldier the shit out of every fucking nook and cranny until we mine gold. Is that clear?”
“Sir, yes, sir!”
Chills danced over my sweaty flesh at the call and response.
“Are we locked, cocked, and ready to fucking rock?”
Every soldier shot an arm in the air…ending with a devil horn salute. “Hell yes, sir!”
Rondo turned back to the driver. “Let’s roll, motherfuckers.”
The commander sat in the front seat and turned to me. “It’s all you.”
For the briefest of pauses, I had no idea what Rondo meant. He then nodded his head toward the driver and understanding washed over me.
“Right. Shit. Straight until you reach the stop light and take a left.”
The driver nodded and nudged the bus well beyond the now-defunct speed limit.
Fuck the law.
Rondo returned his attention to me. “When we reach the target, I want you staying in the bus. Me and my men need to focus all of our attention on the target. I can’t be worrying about your pretty little…”
I stopped him with an angry shake of the head and then dressed him down. “Don’t you dare insult me. I have survived more hell than you can imagine. At this point, if you or any of your men get between me and Jamal, the only thing you’ll need worry yourself over is whether or not your men survive my wrath.”
Rondo pursed his lips and fell into a quick, deep thought. He nodded and said, “How are you with guns…big guns?”
“I don’t give a shit how big it is, as long as it holds the capacity to nullify the undead.”
Rondo smiled and looked back over my shoulder. “Serge, looks like you’re on the ground for this mission. Nitshimi is going topside.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Fuckin’ A,” Rusty whispered behind me.
“Take a right at the next intersection,” I called out as I spotted the next landmark.
The bus took the turn with ease.
Ahead of us, the rear wheel of Jamal’s bike peeked out from the alley. A massive lump took up residence in my throat. I could feel heat rising in my cheeks and the taste of tears on my lips. When I spoke, my voice cracked and croaked. “Take the next left and we’ll be there. That will block off the entrance to the square where we should find Jamal and the Thelemites.”
The driver downshifted to prepare for the turn. The engine whined as the clutch released. I winced against the noise, hoping to hell the bastards didn’t scurry like roaches at the oncoming sound.
The bus eased into the narrow passage…there’d be just enough room for the team to depart and raise every flavor of Cain imaginable. This was the go time. There had never been a more important moment since my escape from the clutches of the Zero Day Collective.
Fingers gripped weapons. Hands smacked helmets. Rondo pointed me toward the roof hatch. Without question, I stood and made my way to the rear of the bus. One of the soldiers stood, lowered the stairs, and helped me climb onto the roof.
I stood. The view did nothing but throttle my heart. In the center of the square, Jamal hung from a pole, his legs raising and lowering as a small collection of Moaners reached for him. Surrounding the court, Thelemites filled balconies and roared their approval at the horrific scene.
Before me, a large-caliber weapon was permanently mounted to the roof. I dropped onto the makeshift seat, checked the magazine, and turned the weapon to bear on the undead bastards doing their best to make a meal out of my love. Before I could lock one in my sights, the Zombie Response Team spilled from the bus and took over.
Rusty led the charge; as soon as he reached the nearest Moaner, he jammed the business end of his rifle into the mouth of the beast and unleashed chaos into its brain stem. The bastard dropped, lifeless, to the ground.
From the balcony, a profoundly deep voice shouted, “Kill them! Kill them all!”
Cries rang out from every direction as the Thelemites spilled down stairs or dared clamber down fire escapes. When they hit the ground, machetes and pistols were unleashed. Rondo and company were surrounded…all the while fending off the undead.
This was on me now. I held the key to victory in my hands and my hands alone.
“Son of a bitch,” I whispered against the still-growing lump in my throat.
I’d never been faced with the idea of taking so many lives—lives that were still being lived. It was one thing decimating the undead…but the living posed problems on multiple levels.
> And then, the scales of justice tilted in such a way that cooled my overheated heart. Jamal spotted me and screamed my name. In the naming, I realized there were really only two lives that mattered to me in that moment, and one of those lives was being held in the balance.
I turned the weapon to the crowd, away from Jamal and the team, and unleashed hell. The gun kicked against its mooring like a pissed-off donkey. I held tight and continued spilling lead into the crowd.
Tiny clouds of scarlet dust burst into the air as bodies dropped. The noise of the gun masked the sound of misery. As life continued to vanish from those before me, all I could do was whisper his name, “Jamal.” The single word inspired me to vanquish anyone in the way of our efforts.
One of the Moaners forsook the oncoming buffet and turned back to Jamal. In a moment of weakness, Jamal dropped his legs and the Moaner wrapped him up.
“Fuck!” I shouted at a dangerous volume and pulled hard on the trigger of the weapon. Bodies littered the ground as my aim slowly fell to true. The Moaner danced and jigged as the bullets tore at meat and bone.
It refused to relinquish its grip. I continued firing low until the bottom half of the zombie dropped to the platform—the upper half still clinging to Jamal.
There was nothing I could do. One bullet would fly through the Moaner and into Jamal.
“Help,” Jamal cried.
I stood and raced to the front of the bus. “Rusty,” I screamed.
An arm raised, bowie knife in hand. The large man lumbered forward, randomly plunging the blade of his weapon into the skulls of the surrounding damned. When he reached the platform, he jabbed the blade into the base of the zombie’s neck and wrenched the upper half of the creature from Jamal’s legs. Before another Moaner could step up for a pole dance, Rusty released the chains and hefted Jamal onto his beefy shoulder. He turned, gave me a quick nod, and plodded through the carnage.
Instinctively, I raced back to the gun and opened fire—this time into the balconies. I wasn’t sure if there were any stray Thelemites cheering on the theatre du macabre, but I wasn’t about to leave our survival to chance.