by Jack Wallen
And just what is a Thunderdome? Is it that magical thing we missed? Is it the key to our salvation? Or is it just another word, born of ‘80s high-fantasy, that swept all of us nerd boys and girls away from the reality of a too boring world?
What do you think listeners? Do we need another hero? Can we survive? And did video truly kill the radio star? While you ponder those meaningful questions, I’ll spin you tunes to take you to faraway lands where magic is real and time is no longer a constant. David Bowie and “Time Will Crawl”.
Fuck. I never really thought it would come to this. The real endgame. Man against monster.
I stared at my console, wondering if my audience had been able to put the digits together. How could a DJ spin the apocalypse? And would the end of times make me irrelevant? What else could I do?
I’d always been a DJ. Well, that wasn’t entirely true. At one time I had a paper route and another time I lived in the basement of my Grandmother’s gassed-by-mothballs house. Strangely enough, the paper route wasn’t a means to a childhood end. I was an adult … or as much of an adult as I was ever capable of being. But mostly I’d always just been a disembodied voice, carrying my own personal take on the world across airwaves and into the ears of anyone who’d dare listen.
For the last ten years I’d worked at one of those hippy-go-lucky radio stations that held pledge-athons twice a year. The music wasn’t my cuppa, but it was a good gig and the listeners were loyal as Hell. Now? There wasn’t shit and we had no news that was worth printing … unless death, destruction, and zombies were not the news du jour for the public at large.
Fuck. Bowie was at the bridge. I had to get a sandwich. Nothing would be worse than my stomach begging for mercy on air. Last thing I needed to do was eat my mic — the only connection I had to the living world. That, of course, assumed the undead nation wasn’t currently jamming to my style. Hell, crazier things had happened throughout man’s wacky pop dance of a life.
My insides let out a loud and proud roar. I was famished. I honestly didn’t know what was worse — knowing that eventually I’d run out of food and actually have to step outside and wrestle a member of the shambling horde for a bite to eat, or starving to death. At least the latter option didn’t end with me doing the dine and dash on someone’s skull.
Rambling.
Food.
Thankfully, I stocked up on essentials before the shit storm fell from the sky. I had my heart set on a thick-ass ham and cheese. If my calculations were correct, I had just enough time to slap meat on bread and make it back to my mic. Time to eat? Not there yet.
Bread. Check.
Meat. Check.
Cheese. Check, check, and check.
Shit … the tune was fading out! Good thing I added a house-wide speaker system.
God damn! Running with a ham and cheese wasn’t as easy as I’d have thought.
Chapter 2
You’re listening to WZMB, Zombie Radio. Your personal soundtrack to the end of the world. That was the gender-challenged hero David Bowie from his smashless, hitless recording Never Let Me Down. Just like me to you, I will never let you down. The tunes will spin and my voice will fill the airwaves with news, worthless trivia, and hope. That’s right, I said it — hope. Maybe, just maybe, that song will help inspire you to survive the zombie nightmare.
Zombies.
Seriously — did you ever think George A. Romero’s vision would come true? Not I. I always looked upon his brilliance as fiction, not prophecy. But that gigantic glasses wearing auteur had a trick or two up his sleeve and here we are — lost in a world of brain-eating monsters walking the streets. What are we going to do? I tell you what we are going to do. We’re going to remain in constant contact. Call me, email me, tweet me … let me know you’re out there.
Silence.
Someone, anyone, call me.
Silence.
Okay, here’s the deal, I’m going to start eating this delicious ham and fromage sandwich until someone calls me. So you’re just going to have to listen to the disgusting sounds of me chewing and swallowing until someone out there calls. No? I warned you.
Chewing sounds.
Oh shit this is good.
Swallowing sounds.
Good God damn, I knows how to make a sandwich!
Phone ringing.
Sweet! Hello, you’re on the air with Zombie Radio. What you got?
“Are you serious? I’m on the radio?”
That’s right. What’s your name and where are you calling from?
“My name is Mary. I’m calling from my car. I was trying to make my way out of town when my car died. I think I ran out of gas, but I can’t be sure. I’m afraid to get out of the car.”
What’s going on around you Mary?
“Those things, they’re everywhere. They haven’t seen me yet, but they’re getting closer and closer. I’m afraid — Oh no. Oh shit! They heard me! Help!”
Screaming sounds.
Mary, stop screaming!
“Oh my God no. Please.”
Moaning
Crashing
Silence
Mary? Mary?
Silence
How do I — What can I … Jesus shit. Okay, yeah it’s real. What you just heard is tragic and it’s happening. I’m not pulling this out of my ass for ratings. The world has become a dangerous place and we must do everything we can to survive. I will do anything in my power to make this possible. I will bring you together in a safe-haven aural landscape where we can help one another survive this new tenth level of Hell. If you have any advice for your fellow listeners, send me an email at [email protected]. Who knows, maybe your suggestion will save a life.
How did this happen? That’s the big question of the day and I want answers. If anyone out there has any idea how all of a sudden Night of the Living Dead became a reality, let Zombie Radio know. Was it something that fell from the sky? Was it a government conspiracy? Was it terrorism? Maybe corporate politics gone horribly wrong?
And here come the calls.
You’re on Zombie Radio. What’s your name and your location caller?
“Hey, thanks for taking my call. Name’s Mark and I’m calling from Sheboygan, Wisconsin.”
Hey Mark from Sheboygan. I’ve always wanted to hear from the great Cheese State. What ya got for me?
“Ah yeah, it’s crazy as Hell up here as well. That gray fluff mixing in with our regular couple of feet of snow is making it impossible to travel. And let me tell ya — that’s not snow. I don’t know what it is, but crystalline flakes of frozen water it ain’t.”
Thanks for sharing that Mark. So what you’re saying is don’t rush out and take a bite out of Frosty’s head?
“I guess you could say that. Actually what I was calling for is that I believe the gray ash has something to do with what’s going on. How could it not? As soon as it started falling, the dead started rising. That can’t be a coincidence.”
You have a point Mark. Maybe we need to get someone out there to do some science on that snow and see exactly what it is. Anyone? Anyone? Bueller?
“Hey DJ, can you play a song for me?”
That’s what I’m here for Mark. What would you like?
“Give me a little Rush. I know, since we’ve got all the time in the world, play me 2112 — the whole side one.”
While I respect your taste in tunes, I have to point out Mark, I spin from my PC and in the age of the MP3, record sides are gone. Those vinyl disks you refer to only exist in the tragically hip minds of the Hipsters and audiophiles who moonlight as technophobes. But I get what you’re saying, and I will happily play for you 2112 by Rush.
Zombie Radio Nation, I give you the true holy trinity.
As the priests of the temple Syrynx did their thing, I had to finish my meal and stretch my legs. God Damn it was going to be rough. That woman, Mary, if I had to endure more calls like that I might well just suck off a pistol and be done with it all.
The complex rhythm of t
he drums warping around the guitar begged me to sit and listen. I knew better. Walk damn it! Walk! I had about twenty minutes and change. This was crazy. Whoever would have thought our biggest enemy in the apocalypse would be boredom. But hey, I’d take bored over dead any day. Of course, I’d take dead over zombie just as well.
With the last bit of my ham and cheese now sloshing around in the gravy of my gut, I figured my best bet was to keep myself busy. My plan was simple — don’t think. Don’t let the reality of whatever the fuck was going on cause my brain to self-destruct. Too bad it already started. I could sit there rocking back and forth, staring out onto the street until my internal organs gave up. Ironically enough, it did seem peaceful outside. Even though, mixed into the normal virgin white blizzard was the gray pallor of death, it was calm. Snow always had that affect — unless you were driving in a city filled with idiots who panicked at the first sign of winter on the road. Then it was sheer Hell.
“Oh no!” My eyes just caught panic at this disco. “Mother fuck.” I leaned into the window to get a better view, my breath steaming up the glass quicker than I could wipe it clear.
The zombie slowly meandered about the street without purpose. It was fascinating, only because I was safe on my side of the wall and there was only one of the walkers.
“Shit!” He looked my way. Or at least he seemed to look my way. It didn’t matter — I ducked. There was no fucking way I was going to take any chances. I was not a God damned hero. Hell, I was a DJ, the very definition of coward. We sit behind the comfort of sound proof walls and mock the real world. Besides, there wasn’t even a reason to play the part of hero. Just let the shambling shit bag make his way down the street and out of hearing or smelling distance.
Something was keeping the thing in the area. It stopped right in the middle of an intersection. Time seemed to just stop. The only indication the second hand was even moving was the snow and ash gently falling around the monster. A dichotomy. An exercise in opposition, born of some grand psychotic scientist’s wet dream.
The show playing out before me was fascinating, but underneath the fascination was a layer of fear that desperately wanted me to avert my eyes. This was the train wreck you had to watch. Although you knew something horrible was going to happen, your heart and lungs stood still in your chest as you waited for some crime against nature to spring up from the well of life.
The zombie just stood there; motionless, waiting. I leaned in closer to the glass, until my forehead rested against its near-frozen surface.
And then, right before my eyes, real horror unveiled itself. A woman, confused or unable to see, walked in just close enough for the beast to get a whiff of her scent. The woman continued slowly walking forward, straight into the intersection where the intersectionally-challenged zombie stood.
Why didn’t I open up the window and warn her? Had I so quickly devolved into apocalypto-mode that I couldn’t even help save a fellow human? Wow. It hadn’t even been a week since the God of might and irony flipped mankind the finger and I was already Mr. Crazy Pants militia man. How in the fuck did this all happen so quickly?
Like a jump-cut in a bad horror film, the zombie reached out and snatched the woman in its clutches. I was surprised when I jerked back in fear — as if I had no idea the woman was lunch meat before the zombie leaped into action.
The zombie forced her to the ground. The train wreck was growing ever bleaker. I should have pulled myself away at this point. I didn’t. I wanted to see — no, had to see — what was going to happen. Disappointment did not get a chance to join the orgy.
Faster than I thought possible, the zombie had the woman on the ground and managed to wrestle its way on top. The silent film, accompanied by the tenor of Geddy Lee and 2112, was part tragedy and part comedy. Switch the music from Rush to the Benny Hill soundtrack — instant hilarity.
Or at least it was until the zombie finally grabbed her head in his hands and started cracking her skull against the pavement. The helpless victim kicked out the first few times her head hit ground. After the fifth or sixth crack, all movement underneath the monster ceased.
I’d seen enough zombie films, so I knew what was about to happen. Yet I still couldn’t pull my eyes from the sight. The zombie swung around so his gaping maw was nearest the woman’s skull. With bare hands the thing finished the work the pavement started and pulled open her skull.
Bit by bit the thing consumed the dead woman’s brain.
Reality. Bites.
And chews.
And swallows.
The show concluded with the monster completing its meal, getting up, and slowly gimping off. Steam wafted from the woman’s unsealed head. The sickening moment overcame me. A life was just ended without thought, without consequence. How would this play out in the grand scheme of things?
“Shit!” In the background I heard the final notes of 2112 starting to fade. There may be dead air overtaking the world — but not my show.
Chapter 3
You’re listening to WZMB, Zombie Radio. Your personal soundtrack to the end of the world. And the meek shall inherit the Earth. Do you think Neil Peart had the apocalypse in mind when he wrote those words? I’m thinking ‘no’. Especially after what I just witnessed outside my window. Ladies and gentlemen of the zombieverse — it’s ugly out there. You venture outside the safety of your home and you risk your life. Is curiosity worth a brain scramble on the sidewalk? I think not.
Hello email. Listeners, I have an email and in that email is a poem. I do believe this poem is worthy of reading out loud as it is a zombie haiku. And just who doesn’t love a good haiku? Me? You? An alien named Kazoo? If you get that reference, then to you I say ‘bravissimo’. Okay, back to poetry.
The apocalypse
Evolves mankind into meat
For the zombie beasts
That poem was penned by Jesse in sunny Glendale, California. I have to wonder, what is California like now that the zombies have taken over? If I were to train a camera on Hollywood at this moment, would I see tanned and toned zombies marching around Rodeo drive flashing their too-bright smiles, fake tits, and wardrobes that cost more than my house? Was Hollywood spared from the fuck storm? Is the plasticity of the movie-star celebrity immune to whatever the Hell caused this nightmare? I’m fairly certain the average reality TV star doesn’t have brain meat enough even to sate an anorexic teen dream star.
Thank you, Jesse, for that poem. Keep those haiku coming. 5-7-5 me to death, people.
And we have a caller.
You’re talking to Zombie Radio! What’s your name and what’s your game?
“My name is Jesse.”
Hello Jesse. You wouldn’t happen to be my new favorite Haiku Ninja artist would you?
“That’s me.”
What can Zombie Radio do for you my Ninja? You want to do a full-on, post-apocalyptic poetry slam?
“No. Actually I wanted to pass on something I heard. I’m pretty tight with some underground prepping communities — .”
Prepping communities?
“You know, preparing for the apocalypse. We all knew this was going to happen. It wasn’t a matter of if. It was a matter of when.”
Seriously? So there are entire underground communities preparing for what was always considered a fictitious outcome for the human race?
“How fictitious does this all look to you?”
Oh I’m with you. I’m fully on board. There was obviously a rotten, corrupt vein in the organism somewhere.
“Exactly. We knew this was going to happen. We just couldn’t pinpoint the exact date. Well, here we are — full-on Armageddon. The four horsemen have appeared and soon a new messiah will arrive with promises of a cure at the ridiculously low price of your soul.”
Pretty bold speculation. I’m fairly certain I agree with you though.
“You should. But there’s more. We have some pretty solid intel that partial funding for this virus was paid for by the US Government.”
Who
a there. Are you serious? First off — virus? How do you know this was a virus?
“How else do you explain this? This smacks of corporate greed and political control. The citizens of every country have never been anything more than cattle to be lead around, experimented on, and ultimately consumed. The next step in this evolution is Soylent Green.”
Okay Jesse, do you have names? Can you offer my listeners the proof in your pudding?
“I don’t, at least not yet. But we’re working on it. I’m part of a coalition whose purpose is to uncover the truth behind the walking dead. When we find that proof, I’ll be in touch.”
When you find that proof Jesse, you will have the ear of every Zombie Radio listener.
“Thank you. I have to go. They’re listening … they’re always listening. Be safe Zombie Radio. Keep fighting the good fight.”
Ladies and gentlemen of the jury — let the conspiracies begin. That’s some heavy shit there. What do you think? Are we looking at a political system so corrupt they were willing to sacrifice mankind at the altar of corporate bullshit? Let’s hear your opinions! In the meantime, let’s feed the machine of conspiracy with Red’s ‘Feed the Machine’.
The electronic beginning warned of the pulse-pounding beat that was about to shake the windows. It didn’t take me long to put two and two together and start running in a panic to turn down the various loudspeakers in the house. As much as I loved my music played at eardrum shattering volumes, there was no reason to open up the house to a dead man’s party.
Note to self: Play Oingo Boingo’s ‘Dead Man’s Party’.
Along with the sound, at some point I decided it would be wise to board up the windows. The idea of smashing up my furniture into scraps of lumber made me want to vomit a mouthful of hatred into my cheeks. I’d spent the better part of my adult life collecting antiques and now those precious treasures would serve to keep the undead masses from reaching through the glass panes of my windows and sucking the juicier bits from my skull.
Sacrifices, sacrifices.
The house had a basement. I knew at some point I would most likely have to migrate below ground. I also knew that fucking underground storage was cold as ice. It was winter. I hated being cold.