by Jack Wallen
Within seconds, the Obliterators were singing their songs and my legs were burning as lactic acid flooded the muscles of my thighs and calves.
“Shut up, legs!” Jamal cried out as he pushed himself harder. I had to find another gear to catch up and remain at his side.
“Fuck, Jamal, you’re good at this,” I huffed.
“Yeah, I’m full of surprises when our lives are on the line.”
Monstrous screams licked the air around us.
“What’s the radius of these Obliterators?” Jamal asked through ragged gasps of air.
“We never calculated that,” I answered.
“We calculate everything, B.”
I was tired of the back and forth; mostly because my lungs were having a hard enough time making do with what little oxygen they were given. I responded anyway. “Best guess…twenty yards.”
“Based on?” Jamal challenged.
Fifty or so yards ahead of us, a dust cloud rose, blocking everything from sight.
“What the fuck?” Jamal asked as he slowed his roll.
The pack of Screamers from behind unleashed their war cry, forcing him back up to speed.
We reached the wall of dust and stopped.
“Jesus Christ,” Jamal whispered. “This isn’t possible.” He reached a hand out and waved it through the opaque barrier. A contrail of dust followed his hand as it withdrew. “I don’t understand. The barometric pressure required to hold this shape would be noticeable.”
“Hey,” I called out and pedaled my bike to the right to where a roughshod sign had been erected. I read aloud. “The Wasteland. Abandon hope all ye who enter here.”
The pain-filled cry of Screamers punctuated the throwback to Dante’s Inferno with a layer of realism I had no desire to know or experience.
“They’re getting closer, Bethany. We have to roll.”
Jamal was right. Standing still out in the open placed a target most foul on our backs. Leaving the security of New Salt Lake City was nothing more than an invitation to dance with danger…and my card was already full.
I turned my bike back toward Jamal and nodded. “Which way?”
Jamal glanced at his queue sheet and shrugged. “I have no idea.”
I could feel the heat lapping at my already dry eyes as they widened in response. “What do you mean, you don’t know? You’re our navigator, Jamal. It’s your job to know.”
“This sheet is laid out to tell me how to get precisely from point A to B to C to D and so on. It is not Google Maps. Once we got off track…I got lost.”
“Don’t you have a smartphone with you?” I asked, my voice laced with fear.
A slight blush washed across Jamal’s cheeks. He reached into his pocket and fished out his phone. “Please, please, please, please,” Jamal whispered under his breath.
A dread curiosity got the best of me. “Please what?”
Jamal glanced up, his brow fully furrowed. “At some point technology is going to completely fail us. I’m operating under the assumption that the likes of Google have the means to supply power to their systems for a very long time…be it solar, wind, whatever. Those servers also require manpower. What happens when or if the Google-ites are gone and no one remains to babysit the Google-farm? Even with a never-ending supply of magic Google power, those services need a human touch.”
“What’s your point, Jamal?”
“Two uber nerds having to navigate the apocalyptic landscape without technology on their side…does that sound like any kind of paradise for you?” Jamal didn’t pause for an answer. “I didn’t think so. That’s an eventuality we have to plan for.”
I couldn’t address the subject at hand. My brain refused to calculate the repercussions of such an event…not while starved of food, rest, and sanity. “Any luck with finding our location?”
Jamal looked to me, his eyebrow raised in typical Spock-ian fashion. “Looks like we’re off course by about five miles. We head that way and, in about twenty minutes, we should reach our destination.”
Another round of screams punctured Jamal’s little victory…this time, the sound was noticeably closer.
Without a word, we sped off along the wall of dust, in search of what was supposed to be our third destination, led by Google and fueled by adrenaline.
We’d only managed to locate the first two ingredients for Fry. This was not going as planned. And yet, here we were…in the middle of the apocalypse with a pack of Screamers drawing in.
seven | from hell’s own heart
Faddig paced the command room, glancing between the main screen and Donaldson. “Why don’t we have audio or video feed on the Cradle?”
Donaldson cleared his throat nervously. “I’m sorry, sir, but the range of the communication devices isn’t far enough to allow us to monitor directly.”
Faddig slammed his hands down on the desk. “Then how the fuck do we know where they are and what they’re doing?”
Donaldson tapped furiously on a nearby touch-screen monitor, then turned it to face Faddig. “Each member of the Cradle has a tracker implant at the base of their skull. They transmit a signal every thirty seconds, so it’s as close to real-time tracking as we can get.”
A small clump of red dots inched across the screen. As they moved forward, the clump began to fan out…the one becoming many.
Faddig pointed to the monitor. “Wait. Why aren’t they staying together? Won’t they be less effective spread out?”
“Sir,” Donaldson turned to face Faddig. “The Alpha Cradle has been programmed to separate. This was by design. The idea is to get them to spread the mutated virus as quickly as possible, not go to war against the living. Once we’re certain Genesis is effective, we’ll begin work on the beta generation, which will be far stronger and programmed to decimate the population by both force and by viral means.”
Faddig snatched the younger officer up out of his chair with both hands and pulled him in so their heated breath could commingle. “Do I look like an idiot, soldier?”
Donaldson shook his head, his eyes wide with fear. “No. No, sir.”
“Have you ever heard the phrase, United we stand, divided we fall?”
“Sir. Yes, sir.”
“Apply that to this situation and then answer my question again.”
Faddig released his grip on Donaldson. The soldier wiped the stinging sweat from his eyes and nervously straightened his tie. “Sir…” Donaldson paused for his commander to give him the go ahead to speak. The second it came, he continued, “Each member of the Cradle is, by way of a special radio transmitter, in communication with the others. Should one of them run into trouble, they’ll call out for help.”
“And what if help is nowhere near? I don’t suppose you’ve programmed these low-level mutated beasts to drive?”
Donaldson shook his head. “No, sir. But the Genesis prime directive will ensure the members remain in constant contact and convene at the first sign of trouble. Besides, it’s not like the average human will be able take one of them down.”
“That is, unless they happen to have a single bullet and just enough aim to send it flying through the damn thing’s head!” Faddig’s voice bounced off the walls of the tight quarters.
“We had limited resources, sir, and did the best we could.”
“Can you reprogram the Cradle to bring them back together?”
Donaldson slowly shook his head.
“Then you are of no use to me.”
Faddig retrieved his pistol from its holster, pressed it against Donaldson’s right cheek, and shouted, “Bang!”
Donaldson jumped up and back. When he landed, a circle of moisture spread from the crotch of his pants.
Faddig looked below Donaldson’s belt. “Seriously? You’re an adult soldier in what should be the most powerful militarized group on the planet, and you piss yourself every time someone yells Boo!?” Faddig returned his weapon to its holster and then guided Donaldson back to his command chair and forced him to si
t. “Here’s what you’re going to do, solider. I want you to oversee the Cradle’s traveling pattern every second of every goddamn day. I don’t want your eyes to leave that monitor for anything, or else…” Faddig leaned into Donaldson, with pure menace in his eyes. “I promise you, you will wish for death.”
The young man swallowed hard and nodded. “Yes, sir.”
“Any anomaly you spot in their patterns, you will report immediately to me. Is that clear?”
Donaldson nodded. Faddig mussed up his perfect coif. “Atta boy.”
Faddig stood and stared around the room, taking in the whole of the mission in a single stroke of the brush. Just as he was about to turn and leave the monitoring to Donaldson, all went black and silent.
“Son of a bitch!” Faddig shouted. “What’s going on?”
“The electrical grid has started to become unstable.”
“Then fix it!” Faddig replied.
“It’s not that easy, sir.”
“Everything is that easy…at least from my perspective.”
Donaldson stood and dipped into the wells of his courage. “Sir, our backup generators run on fuel…something we haven’t been able to find in a while.”
Faddig chuckled. “Are you fucking kidding me? There’s fuel all around us.”
“I…I don’t understand, sir.”
“Solar fucking energy, solider,” Faddig shouted. “Cover the roof of this God-forsaken shack with solar panels and, poof, no more need for gasoline-powered engines. Is it at all possible that what remains of the Zero Day Collective might actually have the wherewithal to pull off such a stunt?”
Donaldson drew in a breath to speak. Before he could utter the first syllable, Faddig stopped him short. “Before you answer that question, let me remind you that we just unleashed a squadron of thinking, communicating zombies. If we can pull off that biological miracle, I think we can engineer a few solar collectors.”
The soldier nodded. “Yes, sir.”
The room fell silent, save for a few random electronic blips. Faddig and Donaldson stared one another down, each afraid of giving the slightest ground. Both men knew, full well, that Faddig would never bend, never break.
Donaldson turned back to his station and furiously tapped on the keyboard at his workstation. Once satisfied with the results, he turned back to Faddig. “I have a crew assigned to the issue now.” He glanced back at his screen. “They should have the solar panels fully functional within the next three hours.” Donaldson swallowed hard. “Give or take an hour or so.”
Faddig returned his attention to the monitor. The Cradle had separated enough so each member was now alone. Their cadence did not slow; their trajectory did not alter. He sighed as he stared on at the display. “I see it now,” Faddig whispered. “The beauty in the chaos. Power in the one. Let them spread to the far corners to sow seeds most foul. Tear the fabric of humanity apart and bring Bethany Nitshimi and her little gang of superheroes to their knees.”
Faddig pressed the palm of his hand to the monitor and bowed his head. A soft, barely audible whisper, left his lips. “Heavenly God, I pray to you at this moment to give power and strength to our soldiers of mercy. Help guide them to the uninfected, the undying, so that they may spread their sickness from sea to shining sea. In the name of the Father, the Son, and the Holy…”
Before Faddig could finish his prayer, a hellish scream pierced the peace, and the tiny building rocked on its foundation.
“Oh, fuck,” Donaldson whispered as he switched the monitor to display the external cameras. He glanced up just in time to see a Screamer throw its entire weight into the side of of the building.
Another crash sent a massive shudder through the structure.
Faddig turned to face the monitor. He raised both hands to the screen and said softly, “He knows we’re in here. He is consumed with want and will stop at nothing until our flesh is his.”
The Screamer reared back and fully exposed its teeth to the camera—its lips nearly tearing for the effort. The tendons running down neck of the once-living being threatened to break free of their bonds as it issued an all-too-familiar scream.
“What do we do?” Donaldson cried out, desperate for an answer.
Faddig smiled, his face an ironic mask of acceptance and joy. “We marvel at our creation; rejoice that the prodigal son has returned; covet that this magnificent creature knows only one thing…destruction.”
“Are you fucking out of your mind? That thing is going to rip through the walls of this building like it was made of paper and then do what those bastards do.”
“Consume,” Faddig whispered.
The building rocked farther and farther with each attack until the Screamer managed to roll it off its foundation. Everything within the makeshift headquarters was hurled into a momentary state of chaos. Donaldson’s head cracked against the lip of a tumbling desk to send him into unforgiving darkness. Faddig was tossed through a glass window like an unstrung puppet. When he landed on the dusty ground, blood seeped from countless tiny cuts and balled up in little clots of sand.
Faddig stood on unsure legs to see the Screamer tear the door from its hinges and toss it to the ground. The raging zombie reached into the building and withdrew a limp Donaldson with one hand.
The Screamer took a great sniff of the motionless man’s head, opened its mouth until its jaws threatened to unhinge, and bit through the skull. The audible crack of bone was only made worse by the slurping of meat and blood. Faddig fought back the urge to vomit until the Screamer finished with Donaldson and turned its attention to the nearest living feast.
Dingy, bloodshot eyes bored holes into the gaze of the ZDC Commander. When the beast released a threatening cry, a waterfall of curried bile spilled over Faddig’s lips and onto his linen shirt. A trembling hand made its way toward the gun he always had on his side. The Screamer caught the movement and clacked its teeth together.
“To the last, I grapple with thee; From Hell’s heart, I stab at thee.” With each passing word from Melville’s Moby Dick, Faddig’s confidence grew. “For hate’s sake, I spit my last breath at thee.”
The shot raced from the pistol and splintered the front of the Screamer’s skull into the tiniest black hole. The heap of rotting, raging corpse dropped, in an undead heartbeat, and tumbled into the upturned headquarters.
Faddig stood motionless, pistol at his side, and retrieved a handkerchief to blot away the layer of sweat and blood covering his face and neck. Once dry, he returned the cloth, stained with the patterns of war, to his pocket and unclipped the satellite phone from his belt. He dialed the only number that mattered.
After a moment, Faddig said simply, “I need immediate extraction.” A soft confirmation tone sang out through the receiver, and the commander disconnected the call. As he waited, the remainder of his crew gathered, weapons in hand, to surround their leader.
In the distance, the wailing of monsters filled the sky with a symphony of dread.
eight | madness
Our journey toward whatever Mecca Gerrand had us chasing led us away from the mysterious wall of dust. For that, I would be eternally grateful. Every so often, muffled sounds of monstrous and murderous intent would rise from the other side of the strange formation to remind me just how fucked reality had become. Curiosity threatened to get the better part of me on a number of occasions. The Wasteland. I remembered the sign and felt another inquisitive wave wash over me.
“No,” Jamal’s soothing voice shook me from my introspection. “I can see it on your face, Bethany. Our mission doesn’t include such reckless activities. Besides…abandon all hope; remember that?”
“Yes,” I answered with great hesitation. “But aren’t you curious?” I pointed toward the vertical, brown cloud.
“Hell yeah, I’m curious. Strike that. I’m curiously optimistic death is what resides on the other side of that wall.”
Death. We now lived in a three hundred sixty degree panorama of global meltdown. This wa
s not the world the previous generation had promised to leave me. We’d been had, duped by the very entities we should have known were out for our souls all along. Big business and politics. How did we not see this coming?
At the moment, I remembered the Zombie Radio broadcast—the ZDC offering to sell Cure 2.0 to the highest bidder. Since the Mengele Virus dropped, I’d hoped humanity would leave behind the old ways—trading our souls for commerce, being ruled by the dollar bill, the infamous one-percenters. And yet, here we were again. In the midst of the apocalypse, and dollah, dollah bills, y’all was still the mating call du jour.
What did the Zero Day Collective hope to gain from this? A new world commerce? Capitalism 2.0? Buy, zombie, buy? Jesus Christ, the dark spiral of intellect has always been a powerful drug when there’s very little else to occupy the mind. Now? It could be deadly.
I wanted to slap myself for diving down that rabbit hole fashioned of nihilism and existential angst. It no longer really mattered how this all had happened…it only mattered that it had. Chasing the why of this all would certainly send me free-falling into madness. The who, on the other hand, was a known entity, and I would never rest until they were dust at my feet.
“Holy shit,” Jamal’s aghast voice yanked me from my inner monologue.
When I glanced up, I couldn’t help but repeat his proclamation.
Before us was a wall…similar in scope and scale to what surrounded New Salt Lake City. The biggest difference was the color scheme drifted more toward earthy tones…browns and rusty reds. This was iron and rust to our concrete and steel. We rode up to the construct and came to a stop.
“Schroedinger’s city, I assume?” Jamal asked.
I couldn’t help but laugh. On the other side of the wall, a population could be both alive and dead. “We’ll never know until we ascend into the heavens.”
“Aren’t we supposed to be gathering the goods to make Fry?” Jamal inquired.