I Zombie I [Omnibus Edition]

by Jack Wallen

  Morgan took a seat next to Raneesha. “Are you from this city? Or did you climb over the wall?”

  The woman stared blankly, as if she couldn’t quite grasp the meaning of the question.

  Morgan repeated herself, this time slightly slower and louder.

  Raneesha shook the cobwebs from her head and replied, “I was born and raised in SLC, and I’m certain I’ll die here as well.”

  “Did you—” Morgan cleared her throat. “Do you have any family?”

  “All of them are dead,” Raneesha answered flatly. “We were attacked in our home. I was in the basement when it happened. I heard the final screams of my children as I fell to my knees and prayed for their souls. There was nothing I could do.”

  Morgan reached out and placed a comforting hand on Raneesha’s shoulder. “I’m so sorry.”

  The woman looked up into Morgan’s eyes. “This is going to sound cold and heartless, but that was over a year ago. I had no choice but to move on. Every day since has been dedicated to making sure my children didn’t die in vain.”

  “That’s why we do what we do,” Josh interjected. “We’ll keep fighting this war until the guilty party is finally brought to justice.”

  Raneesha glanced to Josh. “Good luck with that. Similar wars have been waged throughout time…all in the name of bringing down the perpetrators. Most of those wars only end in death and disappointment.”

  “We hope to end that vicious cycle,” Morgan responded softly.

  Raneesha stood. “I thank you for your kindness.”

  Morgan stepped forward, reaching a hand toward the woman. “Wait…what? Where are you going?”

  “I’ve been a burden on too many for too long. I’m sure your supplies are already taxed, and I have no intent on placing any undue strain on what little you have.”

  “Bullshit,” Josh barked. “That’s not how we roll. You’re not just a mouth to feed, you’re an able body who can help build, repair, and defend. Besides, we’re not in the business of turning people away. Our casa is your casa.”

  Morgan smacked Josh in the arm. “For God’s sake, your last name’s Garcia. What’s with the Spanglish?”

  Josh shrugged. “Just bein’ me, wife. Keepin’ it real.”

  I’m sorry for him, Morgan mouthed to Raneesha and followed up with a wink.

  Both women laughed.

  “Did I miss something?” Gerrand asked as he entered the room.

  “Only my wife recruiting another living being in the fight against my very credibility as a man and a leader,” Josh answered.

  Morgan exploded in a gale of laughter. “Joshua Garcia, I did no such thing. Besides, you do a good enough job of that on your own.”

  Another round of laughter. Josh turned to face Morgan with both middle fingers flying high. Morgan shook her head. “Oh, darling face, you know I’m only teasing.” She stood and planted a loving kiss on Josh’s lips.

  Josh blushed and batted his eyes sheepishly. “I know.”

  “Have we heard from Bethany and Jamal?” Gerrand brought the sentiment to a halt.

  Morgan faced Gerrand and pursed her lips. “Not yet.”

  “So why hasn’t anyone bothered to try and contact them?”

  Gerrand’s question was met with a deafening silence.

  “This is Bethany Nitshimi we’re talking about,” Josh said with an unmistakable incredulity. “She’s like…Wonder Woman. There’s absolutely nothing to worry about.”

  Raneesha stood, arms crossed. “It’s the apocalypse; there’s always something to worry about.”

  Gerrand, Josh, and Morgan exchanged nervous glances. Morgan was the first to break contact and scramble for her phone. She glanced at the display and immediately tapped a direct-dial launcher for Bethany’s number. The phone rang once, twice, three times…no answer. After the fifth ring, the call went to voicemail. Morgan disconnected and focused her efforts on a text.

  B. What’s up? Call me as soon as you read this. M.

  Gerrand and Josh stared at Morgan. She shook her head and Josh wasted no time in calling Bethany’s number. After five rings he hung up.

  “Bloody hell,” Gerrand huffed. “When did your generation decide that leaving a voice message was too much work?” He dialed the number. After the requisite rings, the call went to voicemail and Gerrand spoke in a measure of calmness. “This is…you know…please call me as soon as you hear this. It is urgent we learn your status.”

  Gerrand pulled the phone from his head and tapped the disconnect button.

  “Smooth,” Josh teased.

  “I—” Gerrand was taken aback. “I couldn’t very well clue the ZDC into a single detail regarding our situation. I had no choice but to be cryptic and quick.”

  Josh laughed. “Dude, I’m just messing with you. You did the right thing. Now we have to hope Bethany’s in a position to call us back.”

  Morgan bristled. “I don’t like what you’re implying there, Josh.”

  Josh backed up. “I’m not implying anything. She and Jamal are on a damn crucial mission, and taking a phone call might not be a top priority. She’ll contact us the second she’s capable.”

  Everyone nodded in silence as they pocketed their phones and went back to business as usual.

  thirteen | a screamer too many

  “Faster!” I shouted over the raging cry of the Screamer.

  “Why aren’t the Obliterators working?” Jamal asked.

  I pedaled as hard as I could. “Gosh, Jamal, I don’t know. Let me take a moment to propose a hypothesis while my heart explodes from my chest like a metamorphosed alien face-hugger. Maybe you could eschew the questions for a moment.”

  The Screamer launched itself into the air and landed close enough to knock me from the bike. The impact jolted my diaphragm, sending every bit of air screaming from my lungs. I rolled to a stop, immediately hopped up, and sprinted off—desperately fighting against the muscles in my torso to allow a much needed breath. “Fry the bastard, Jamal,” I shouted.

  Jamal slammed on the brakes and skidded to a stop. He anxiously retrieved his Fry gun and took aim. The Screamer closed the gap until it was within arm’s reach of me. I glanced back at Jamal to see him struggling to sight the beast.

  “Son of a bitch,” Jamal roared.

  Finally, I turned and made a beeline directly toward Jamal…zombie close behind.

  “Atta girl,” Jamal cried out. “Full metal Zelda.”

  Jamal knew the tactic. All he had to do is keep the Fry gun steady and wait for either the pattern to reveal itself or for me to know the ideal location to…

  As the thought crossed my mind, I dropped. Jamal now had perfect line of sight to the Screamer’s veiny, raging head. He locked on, drew in a deep breath, and pulled the trigger. The dart embedded itself deep into the right eye of the Screamer. The beast flinched and tumbled forward, missing me by inches. I could smell the stench of decay as it rumbled past.

  Unfortunately, the bastard wasn’t finished yet. The Screamer came to a stop, center stage between me and Jamal. It glanced over its shoulder at me, turned back to Jamal, and shattered my sanity with a full-on screamo war cry.

  “Go, Jamal,” I said as calmly as possible. “Get back on your bike and sprint the fuck out of here.”

  The Screamer tensed, every muscle throbbing, and unleashed another hell-born roar.

  “I’m not going anywhere without you,” Jamal answered.

  I reached for my Fry gun. Before the zombie was in my sights, it locked its hands on Jamal’s shoulders and snatched him from the ground.

  “Fuck,” I screamed and, before I realized it, my gun was leveled and a dart jammed into the neck of the Screamer.

  Another unholy song rang out from the mouth of the beast—this time in concert with it pulling Jamal’s head in for a quick snack.

  I slammed another dart into my gun and took aim…this time at the base of the beast’s spine. The shot dropped the zombie to its knees. Jamal fell from the Screamer’s g
rip and stumbled away.

  “Run!” I shouted, and raced to my bike. Jamal copied my action and, within seconds, we were sprinting away from the nightmare, Obliterators announcing our escape to all the undead party people.

  The last sound we heard from the creature was what could have easily been mistaken for fear. That, of course, was a fallacy. The undead had no fear. Death was their mistress; they craved her embrace, longed for it like a junkie longed for smack.

  The monstrous howl fell silent. Fry had done its job once again. That was all the inspiration I needed to ensure our task be completed. Jamal and I would locate everything requested by Gerrand.

  My legs wanted to continue pedaling like I was a woman possessed. My lungs and heart, however, said, Nay nay. I shot my hand up into the air and did my best to communicate with Jamal. “I need…” Breath is what I truly need, I thought. “…to stop…for a moment.”

  We hit the brakes. Jamal panted as rivulets of sweat streaked down his face. “Damn, girl, I thought you’d never say that. Every muscle in my body is on fire. Hell, muscles I didn’t even know I had are roasting under my skin suit.” Jamal pulled a water bottle from its cage and squeezed a healthy amount into his open mouth. “Damn, that’s good agua.”

  “So, how far off are we this time?” I dared to ask.

  Jamal offered up one of his patented Aren’t I smooth smiles. “My dearest Bethany…this is one of those times where I rolled a natural twenty and the dungeon master was forced to bow to my will.”

  I stared blankly at Jamal. “Meaning?”

  “Voila!” Jamal did an embarrassing game show babe-in-a-gown reveal. “Our next location.”

  I followed Jamal’s pointing arm to see a small industrial complex. The campus was way out of place amid the dusty desert…but there it was. I wasn’t sure how many buildings stood in the area, but it was clear someone didn’t want passers-by to know exactly what went on within the walls.

  “What is it with these nondescript buildings?” I asked.

  True to form, Jamal offered up a hypothesis. “It’s common for the United States government—as well as various and sundry businesses of questionable nature—to set up shop in lesser populated areas. And because this part of the country makes for the ideal solar option, it’s easier for such structures to go off-grid. Think Area 51.”

  Jamal returned the water bottle to its cage and nodded toward the buildings. I was thankful we were doing our best to get back to HQ quickly; otherwise I’d have to listen to Jamal’s usual spiel about how the government obfuscated the alien findings in Roswell. Jamal could drop into Mulder-mode sans prompt.

  Within seconds we were riding through a half-full parking lot and stepping off our bikes.

  “The plan?” Jamal asked.

  “Second verse, same as the first,” I answered.

  Jamal nodded and grabbed the handle on the door. To our surprise and relief, the door opened and the air from within didn’t reek of death.

  I gestured toward the open door. “After you.”

  As Jamal passed by, he mumbled, “Equal rights my ass.”

  I let the slip of the tongue pass. There were far more pressing issues at hand.

  Inside the building was total silence…and, with the exception of natural light entering from various locations, it was darker than I’d have preferred.

  Jamal retrieved a flashlight from his pack and shined it into the area. “Interesting.”

  Silence.

  “You can’t do that—and you know you can’t do that,” I said.

  “Do what, B.?”

  “Say something such as Interesting and then go ghost protocol on me.”

  Jamal pointed into the hallway. “I did not ghost protocol your ass. I was referring to the distinctly seventies feel of the decor.”

  “What does that tell you?” I dared ask.

  “That whoever owns this business doesn’t want everyone to know they’re failing.”

  “I have no idea what you’re talking about, Jamal.”

  J-Mart turned to face me…his eyes and mouth laced with concern. “When a company prospers, it’s almost always reflected in their surroundings. When a company fails…the same thing holds true. This place looks like a holdover from past decades…and not in the good, kitschy way.”

  Jamal was right. Every inch of the building spoke volumes…as in Encyclopedia Britannica, directly imported from my mother and father’s era. Worn-out shag carpet, wall paneling, ash trays on nearly every horizontal surface. To the overly paranoid, this place could have easily been part of a time-travel experiment; or as if life within the building had come to a halt during the Nixon/Ford administrations.

  “Let’s find what we’re looking for and get the hell out of this time-warped nightmare,” I whispered.

  “You’ll get no argument from me,” Jamal said, and pointed forward. “This way, my dear.”

  The lumpy, sticky shag pile did an incredible job at muffling our footsteps.

  “How in the hell could this carpet be so sticky in this arid environment?” I asked nervously.

  “Do you really want to know?” Jamal replied.

  “Not really,” I answered.

  Contrary to my response, Jamal knelt down to investigate the floor. “Son of a bitch,” he mumbled.

  “Tell me, Jamal, do I want to hear what you have to say?”

  Jamal released a sigh I’d heard all too often lately. “Not really, no. But—”

  “I don’t have a choice, do I?” I interrupted.

  “It’s blood,” Jamal whispered. “Nearly every square inch of the carpet is soaked in blood. How in the hell did we not smell this?”

  I took a deep sniff and realized I’d missed something important. There was an odor masking the coppery stench of blood. It took me a moment to put my finger on the stink, but I finally did.

  I rocked back on my heels and heard the squish from below. What little I’d eaten had had enough of swimming in the gastric juices of my stomach and decided to rise to a foul-tasting occasion. I did my best to hold it back, but, in the end, my body won out and expelled a chunky yawn to the floor below. The sickening splash of vomit brought another round into my mouth. The idea of blood and puke swimming at my feet was more than my gag reflex could tolerate.

  Jamal stood and held his own against a rising tide of bile. “I don’t even want to venture a guess as to what went down here.”

  “A goddamn war,” I mumbled.

  “That’s…yeah…my guess as well, Bethany.”

  “What do you smell?”

  Jamal stood and sniffed. The second he did, his face blanched. “Fuck.”

  “Bitter almond?” I asked.

  “Yeah. Someone’s either baking cookies or we’re walking through halls filled with cyanide gas. Either way…”

  “We can’t take that chance.” I nodded toward the hallway behind us. “Shall we?”

  We raced toward the exit, the floor sticky under our feet with every step. I had to continuously fight back the urge to hurl with every sticky, sloppy footfall, all the while holding my breath as best I could. When we finally crossed the threshold of the door, we put some distance between us and the building before collapsing to the ground.

  “What went on inside this abattoir?” I asked between gasps.

  “And were the slain living or dead?” Jamal piled on.

  “Undead, Jamal. Undead. Get your descriptors right.”

  “The human body contains one point five gallons of blood. In order to soak this much carpet, this thoroughly…” Jamal paused to calculate.

  “If you don’t mind, Jamal, I think I’d rather stay in the dark on that one. Couple whatever it is going through your mind with the fact that this blood is still fucking moist, and we’re looking at kills fresh enough that the beast might still be somewhere nearby.”

  “Suit yourself. If you change your mind, the answer is quite staggering.”

  I shook my head. “I cannot imagine I’ll be changing my mind
on this one.”

  Jamal sat up. “Shall we address the apocalyptic elephant in the room?”

  “I’ll bite. Why in the fuck was cyanide gas inside that building?”

  Jamal waved a finger in the air. “And, more importantly, how long before it dissipates? If I recall from Chem 101—which I am a bit hazy on—the gas becomes inert fairly quickly.”

  “Which means something inside that building is currently producing the gas.”

  “Goddamn it,” Jamal growled.

  Without communicating a single word or thought, I knew where Jamal’s mind was going. Simultaneously, we stood, raced to our bikes, hopped on, and sprinted away from the building.

  A thunderous explosion instantly drowned out the sound of the Obliterators. Thankfully we’d managed to reach a safe enough distance that I only felt the slightest concussive blow on my back.

  Jamal pulled his bike in close to mine. “You’re going to hate me for this, B…”

  “Say it anyway, Jamal.”

  “Is it beyond the realm of the possible that someone could be onto our little scavenger hunt and has taken it upon themselves to stop it…and us?”

  “You’re right, J-Man, I hate you for that. But don’t worry, it’s only a temporary hate…so it’ll pass.”

  “Seriously, Bethany. It is possible that the Zero Day Collective intercepted some communication between us and HQ or…” Jamal fell silent.

  “What is it now, Jamal?”

  “How much do we know about Gerrand?” Jamal asked.

  “Enough. Why?”

  “Maybe he’s still working for the ZDC and sent us out on this fucking goose chase so the bastards could finally get their hands on the great Bethany Nitshimi.”

  “First off…they’ve already had their hands on me once before.”

  “No fucking way,” Jamal argued.

  The last thing I wanted was to relive that little slice of history. It was the only moment, since the virus hit, that I wanted to die, like a zombie…die.

  My heart and mind flipped within their bony cages at the thought of being strapped to a hospital bed, thinking I’d be the latest in a long line of experiments.