by Jack Wallen
“No.” Kriege whispered.
From every direction, sour-milk eyes stared through the eerie red glow of the flare. Before anyone could shout a warning, Gerand had his pistol leveled and was firing shots. The darkest night did nothing for Gerand’s aim.
No one saw Burgess pull another flare from his pack and reload the gun; neither did anyone see Burgess lower the pistol and take aim at the nearest zombie.
When the pistol went off, the shiny red contrail temporarily blinded those unfortunate enough to be staring directly in its path. The flare hit home – impacting the chest of one of the damned. The EMP’d flesh and bone stood not a chance and the flare sliced its way into the chest cavity of the beast. The torso exploded - the bits and pieces nearly matching the intensity of the flare.
The momentary burst of light gave Gerand the opportunity to take aim and knock down a few at the undead. Rotting heads exploded like watermelons filled with C4.
“There are too many of them!” Godwin shouted.
Burgess released another flare from the gun, this time the glowing gremlin landed at the feet of an approaching zombie. The flare’s fire spit out and caught the shredded pant leg on fire. The monster had no clue it was ablaze until the fire had consumed over seventy-five percent of its body. The zombie swayed from side to side. Flame licked anything that came in contact.
After a short moment, three more zombies were on their knees, their flesh melting from bone.
A scream tore through the darkness.
“Help!” The shout belonged to L.A. Wenning.
Gerand turned his attention toward the scream, only to find two zombies had overtaken the woman and were dragging her to the ground. Richard attempted to take aim, but the zombies were too close to L.A. Wenning. One of the bastards had its fingers around her head and gave it a swift thump to the concrete below. The woman struggled under the power of the undead.
Wenning’s head was raised and, again, dropped to the concrete.
Her struggle was all too brief.
Gerand pulled off a shot that went wide. The zombie didn’t take chase toward the sound. Instead, he twisted L.A. Wenning’s head one hundred eighty degrees, and placed its lips on the back of the skull. The maddening sight forced a primal scream from Gerand’s throat, as his finger pulled the trigger and emptied the magazine of his gun.
Both zombie and L.A. Wenning dropped, lifeless, to the ground.
Gerand made to run toward the downed woman.
“Richard, no!” Godwin wrapped his arms around Gerand. “She’s gone. There’s nothing you can do.”
Gerand jerked free from the embrace. The weight of the moment crashed down upon his shoulders.
“What are we doing? What have I done?” Gerand dropped to his knees. The sound of gunfire and monstrous moans danced in the air around and above him.
The number of zombies continued to grow. No matter how many the group killed, there were always more to be had, more to be killed. But the battle was already lost. Bullets were finally exhausted and flares had run out.
Godwin knelt beside Gerand and whispered into his ear. “Richard, remember, we have a plan and you will soon have a chance to undo everything that has happened. But if you do not pull yourself together, that plan doesn’t stand a chance. Please, not for yourself, not for me – but for the whole of the human race, get up and play your roll.”
Gerand sucked in a deep breath and, in the release, stood and looked to Godwin.
“Thank you, Lindsay. You’re a great man. The world is a better place for having you.”
Godwin smiled and patted Gerand on the back.
“My dear man, the world would not bat an eye if I expired at this very moment. But thank you for the kind words.”
Before grief and failure had time to again blacken the soul of Richard Gerand, the sound of a helicopter brought hope to the living.
“Over here!” Burgess called out, pointing toward the same landing pad that had dropped Lindsay Godwin into the mix just a few hours earlier?
The group followed Burgess toward the make-shift helipad. The wind from the ‘copter blades kicked up dirt into the eyes, nose, and mouths of the survivors.
“Where’s Kriege?” Gerand shouted at Burgess.
A quick glance over the carnage answered the question. A group of the undead were drawing and quartering the German. Burgess offered up a silent Thank you to the man for giving them just enough distraction to make their exit. The survivors boarded the helicopter. As the exit door was closing, the blades revved up to speed and the bird began to rise.
“Pilot,” Burgess spoke loudly. “Hand me your phone.”
The man in the helmet reached his hand across the yoke and offered his mobile to Burgess, who quickly tapped out a number and placed the device to his ear.
“This is Burgess. Begin clean up procedure,” was all that was said.
Burgess handed the phone back to the pilot and instructed him to put as much distance between the bird and the village as possible – and do so quickly.
The leader of the Zero Day Collective turned back to the remaining survivors.
“You would all do best to hold on tight.”
An explosion rocked the helicopter. Another threatened to take the bird down.
Templeton was on fire.
“What are you doing, John?”
“Leave no trace,” Burgess smiled. “No one can know what we did.” The man looked over to Dr. Godwin, “Now, the real work begins.”
A fierce scream ripped from Godwin’s throat, as he leaped from his seat and entangled his fingers in the thick mop of hair on John Burgess’ head. With a whiplash jerk, Godwin had Burgess’ head snapped around so the two men’s eyes met.
“Why? You murdered over four hundred innocent people and you laugh it off as if their lives were yours to take. What is next for you? Genocide? You dare flirt with atrocity the likes of Hitler in the name of science.” Godwin’s voice was raw with madness.
Burgess stared, blank-faced, at the man.
“What you are doing is wrong in the eyes of God and man. I will not allow you to continue this work.”
With a powerful shove, Burgess forced Godwin to the floor of the ‘copter.
“My dear doctor, you are in no place to make accusations and threats. That is, unless you have finally given up hope you will ever see your darling wife again.” Burgess ran his meaty fingers through his hair. “The Great Cleansing will happen and you will be instrumental in the event. We have great plans for you, Doctor Lindsay Godwin. Your name will soon become synonymous with the new world order.”
Lindsay stared up at the red and sweating face of John Burgess. Dancing through his brain, electrons fired in hopes of uncovering some means to prevent the Zero Day Collective from succeeding with their unholy master plan. As his mind searched, it brought up a brief memory of he and his wife. The last moment they shared together. She cried at his departure; wanted him to stay another night before he became lost in yet another project. Lindsay would give anything to have his darling wife locked in a warm embrace.
That wouldn’t happen unless he complied with John Burgess.
A great drop of sweat dripped from the edge of John’s nose and splashed down on the top of Dr. Godwin’s hand. There was nothing he could do but follow his orders. If he ever wanted his life returned to its natural state, he would have to do as the Zero Day Collective demanded.
The helicopter was rocked by another round of explosions as it disappeared into the black night. As Gerand watched, the seemingly desolate small town in the middle of nowhere was quickly enveloped in flame. The streets forever empty, save for abandoned cars, the corpses of stray dogs, and random gusts of wind. What was once a proud representation of pure Americana was utterly and completely dead.
Chapter 37
When the walls came down, there was nothing left to speak of. An entire city…gone. No one could explain the disappearance; no one would ever locate their missing family members. Only one p
erson with any familiarity with the situation would ever step near the charred remains of Templeton.
Gerand searched through the rubble. Why he was there, no one knew. He even asked himself if there was any point in poking around the ashes. What would he find? Certainly there was no one buried alive, no one to rescue. There was only a brief flash of memory that scarred and tormented his nightmares.
But as he walked away from the rubble, a nylon strap seemed to call out to him. After the dirt, glass, and rock were cleared off, Gerand was able to retrieve a single backpack. It wasn’t until he unzipped the pack that he realized the treasure he’d uncovered.
He slipped away, looking over both shoulders as he ran to his car. Once inside, the bag was carefully placed in the portable safe in the back seat. His collection of critical data was almost complete.
Gerand opened his sat phone and dialed the only number he needed. When Dr. Daniel Joy Michaels picked up the other end, Gerrand spoke softly.
“I have the package.”
“Good. Deliver it immediately,” Dr. Michaels replied succinctly.
Gerand turned off the phone, started the car, and drove off.
Some months later.
The editorial floor shook with movement. Writers, editors, layout managers – everyone scrambled in a perfect storm of movement. Another story was breaking; certain to bring the eyes of the planet looking toward the Times for truth and inspiration.
One writer stood among the crowd, staring at a bank of televisions – his eyes bouncing from screen to screen, in search of a thread of thought to snag. The puzzle of the story was always the biggest rush. As the pieces fell into place it was like sex to a journalist.
“Plummer! In my office, now.” The voice of the managing editor, a fierce bastard who would just as soon eat a writer for lunch than pay him a nominal salary, boomed from down the hall.
Everyone in the room turned and tossed a sympathetic glance toward the target of the voice. The great scream was a harbinger of doom. No one managed to exit the office of the managing editor with their pride, soul, and salary intact.
With a hard swallow, Jacob Plummer turned and walked, chin up proudly, down the hall. When he opened the door, the managing editor was seated at his monolithic desk. Everyone on the editorial floor swore the desk served as nothing more than overcompensation.
But for what?
“Have a seat Plummer.”
Jacob cautiously sat, his eyes never left the man behind the desk.
“You’re the best I’ve got. You travel well and I can rely on you.”
The man stared across his desk and blinked.
Jacob nervously shifted his weight in his seat, waiting for some ten-ton hammer to fall. He was also anxious to return to his story. His story – the story that could finally win him the singular award he’d always begged the fates to bestow him. Jacob recently caught a break in a lead he’d been following for over a year. A serial rapist released on a technicality and Jacob Plummer had been handed the golden ticket to an interview with someone claiming to have intimate knowledge that the technicality had been falsified.
Pulitzer.
“I’m pulling you for another project.”
Jacob stood and tipped the chair back. “What? No! You can’t. That fucking story would be nothing without me. I’m about to – ”
“It’s already done. Look, I know you’ve worked your ass off breaking that story, but I have something bigger and I need you to handle it. This could be huge, Jacob. This could wind up the biggest story of your career.”
Curiosity piqued, Jacob righted the chair and sat.
“A physicist named Dr. Lindsay Godwin is about to unveil something called a Quantum Fusion Generator in Munich. I want you there to cover the unveiling and get an interview.”
“Oh for fuck’s sake – every hack journalist in the world has already beaten that dead horse into its grave. Why in the hell do you need me there?”
The ME gave a nervous glance over Jacob’s shoulders.
“I have a source that has led me to believe there is more to the story than just some renewable energy source.”
“Who’s the source?”
Jacob was met with silence.
“Don’t fucking play games with me. If you’re going to pull me from the biggest story of my life, you damn well better not hide information from me. If I’m going to agree to this, I want to know where the information came from.”
“Blythe Edwards,” the ME said simply.
Jacob cocked his head to the side. “How did you…”
“She came to me. Don’t worry; she’s still your primary source. I have no interest in taking that from you. In fact, she made a deal with me. She said the only way she’d give me the information was if I put you on the story.”
Another silence drifted over the room.
“I made the deal, Jacob. You’re going to Munich. I’ve already booked your flight. You take off tonight.”
A single ticket and itinerary slid across the desk.
“At least I’ve booked you in the best hotel Munich has to offer. You also have a fairly fat per diem; so eat the best food, drink the best wine, pick up a hooker – I don’t care. Just bring me back something no one else has; otherwise this was an entire waste. Jacob, you know I hate waste.”
Jacob Plummer stared, hard, across the space between the two men, and into the eyes of his boss. If looks could kill raced through his mind. Finally, Jacob stood.
“If I find nothing, and the story you’ve taken from me goes global, you will owe me big.”
The threat landed on the man’s lap seated behind the one hundred thousand dollar desk.
“When was the last time I owed someone? If I recall correctly – never. I smell a game changer in Munich.”
The ME stood and reached out a hand. Jacob took it and gave a solid shake.
“I hope you’re right.”
Jacob Plummer exited the office. When he turned to walk back toward the editorial room, all eyes were on him. A smile snaked its way across his lips. Jacob Plummer had always been a man of firsts. This time, he was the first to exit the boss’s office having won. He’d fly to Munich and, one way or another, something big was going to fall into his lap.
He had a feeling the assignment in Munich would change his life…forever.
Zombie Radio
and the bonus short story
Silent Night
Jack Wallen
Copyright © 2011 by Jack Wallen
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This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual locales, events or persons living, dead, or undead is entirely coincidental.
This book goes out to all you wacky zombie lovers and those that thought the Zombie Radio podcast hip enough to tune into every weekend. You guys swim in oceans of awesome.
And a special DEADication to my Number One Fans. I know that it doesn’t seem possible to have more than One Number One…but this is my world, so I can have whatever I want!
Prologue
The Earth shook. My trusty mic rumbled out of its cage, causing feedback to rattle my eardrums. I was sure the listeners were about to call in by the thousands, either wanting to know what the fuck was wrong with the
DJ or what the Hell just caused the ground to rattle.
The red panic light on my console flashed, meaning some form of shit hit an industrial-strength fan. I ran out of the sealed and soundproof booth to gather some information to pass on to the public radio nation, but found chaos had pretty much usurped order.
“Look out the window! What the fuck?” My boss was kneeling at a window, her patent black heels kicked off behind her.
Outside all was still, save for the exhaust of autos and the pattern of traffic lights. Bodies were scattered on the sidewalk as if they had simply been turned off and fell to the ground.
“I don’t feel so good.” My boss tried to stand, but stumbled backwards as if she had caught her heel on her skirt.
Before her back could rest on the floor the change began. Her skin was growing transparent and her eyes glazing over with a thick, milky substance.
“Joanne? Are you … ” Before I could complete the question, she jerked up. Something was off, wrong, fucked. Once upright she started my way, her arms dangling uselessly at her side, her feet dragging a bit much for someone with her usual grace.
Then she moaned.
I ran.
Chapter 1
You’re listening to WZMB, Zombie Radio, your personal soundtrack to the end of the world. That’s right, my lovelies, the end of the world. We all knew it was coming — at least those of us with a modicum of conspiracy theorist in us — and here it is. The perpetual cloud of gray ash hanging in the air, the undead roaming the streets, reality TV taking control of the airwaves — well, maybe not so much that last bit, but I’ll be damned if I could let it go by without mention.
Never the less, here we are — the Apocalypse. Say it with me, everyone. Apocalypse. Not a word that just rolls of the tongue is it? In fact, it almost hurts. Say it again — Apocalypse. The mere thought of the word brings up Mad Maxian imagery of men on motorcycles with spike shoulder pads and bad hair cuts. And we must not forget Tina Turner’s insanely long legs tempting us all to join the Thunderdome.