by Jack Wallen
A crashing sound shocked me from my thoughts. It wasn’t the splintering crash of wood, but the crash of porcelain. The bull in my china shop was really starting to piss me off. Not only was he scaring me to nearly pissing myself, he was breaking my shit.
Even before I reached the bottom of the stairs, I saw the front door open. Fortunately the door wasn’t damaged. I couldn’t say the same for the door jam. That was going to require some serious repair to keep the rest of the walking dead from dropping by. Fuck.
The constant, distorted hum of the zombie in my house rattled the brain in my head. I had to wonder if it was their master plan all along — sing out this horrific zombie song and shake loose the meat to make it easier to eat.
Zombie master plan. Fucking insane.
I finally hit the last step of the stairs. My hands were shaking like a bad metaphor in an Elvis song. One last, deep breath before the showdown. ‘Welcome to the Gunshow’ was looping in the soundtrack of my brain. Hopefully the pounding, hypnotic beat would help to bring this cowboy’s aim dead on target.
Cowboy. Yeah, right. There was about as much cowboy in me as there is in a pair of skinny jeans.
It was go time. I turned the corner, paralleled the gun with the floor, and found — nothing. My target had shambled off to another room. The sound of the zombie song still tickled my eardrums. He was close.
Another crash gave away my enemy’s position. He was in the kitchen. I’d probably catch the fucker going through my fridge, drinking my beer, dirtying up my dishes. It was like being in college all over again, only this time I really was going to kill my roomy.
Ever so slowly, my feet propelled me toward the kitchen. With each step, another crash greeted my senses. My nerves were firing on over drive. My skin was on fire with adrenaline. When my eyes finally witnessed the undead house guest, my stomach wanted to reject its contents down the front of my shirt.
The thing looked like its face had been put through a meat grinder. Obviously someone else had battled this thing … and lost. All of the skin of the face had been torn away and was dangling below its chin like a Halloween mask on a rubber string. The wet meat that should be under the surface, glistened as it was hit by the spots in my kitchen track lighting. The zombie’s left eye had somehow been dislodged from its socket and was also dangling by a similar, but thicker, rubber string.
Ah the unsealed human body. It was ever so repulsive.
There was what could be just a tinge of irony in the situation. The undead man was in a tux. Was he in the process of getting married when the virus hit? From one bachelor to another I wanted to shake the man’s hand and congratulate him for dodging that bullet. But I knew there was another bullet he would hopefully not dodge in a moment.
When the walking undead groom saw its next meal, it picked up both its pace and its moan. The thing was zombie-stomping my way, mouth gaping open to allow some thick, brownish liquid spill over his teeth and lips. When the stench of decay from the beast hit me, my stomach protested again. Bile leaped up from below and tainted the taste buds on my tongue.
And the zombie marched on.
Why I hadn’t already hoisted the pistol and put an end to this nonsense, I had no idea. But that time had finally arrived. As my right eye trained the site on the forehead of the beast, I remembered one simple fact — I had never shot a gun before. I only had the damned thing because my mother insisted. But along with the new world order, I figured I better allow survival mode to become a part of my daily routine.
“Pull the trigger dumb ass!” I had finally resorted to talking to myself. I was inches away from having my sleeves tied behind my back and buckles strapped to my chest.
The zombie drew near. My feet froze. This was that moment in film that most directors used to draw up some semblance of tension. You watch the scene and you think ‘Just shoot the fucking thing!’, but the hero always waits until the last second.
I understood that moment now. Anyone that has never taken a life hesitates. Can I really do this? pings off the walls of your conscience. Of course, I was looking into post-dead eyes. This man walking toward me was already gone. I was just finishing off the job Mother fucking Nature was robbed of.
And so I shot my first bullet.
And so my first bullet was way off the mark. I now had a hole in one of my brand new kitchen cabinets. Great. The noise of the gun caused the undead meat sack to flinch, but not enough to scare him away. Instead the thing lunged at me. When the dead weight hit me we both went down in a man-pile of flesh. The gun popped out of my hand and slid across the floor.
Such a fucking Hollywood moment.
The beast was strong, but clumsy. Its limbs seemed to not want to work with any cohesion, like each appendage had a mind of its own. One arm would grab out, shortly followed by the other. That awkward dance gave me just enough freedom to not wind up pinned underneath the monster.
Cold fingers wrapped around my head.
Slam!
The beast knocked my skull against the island in my kitchen. I pushed forward, against his grip, with all of my strength. Nothing.
Slam!
Alexa’s scream stopped the slamming.
The zombie’s fingers released my head and I dropped, my gaze directly on the weapon.
“Oh my God! No!” Alexa cried out. The undead intruder had a change of heart and wanted a woman’s brain instead. I didn’t blame him. If I were a zombie, I’d go after the hot chick as well.
That change of plans gave me time enough to snatch the pistol with my hand and draw a bead on the back of the thing’s head.
I had to hit this time.
“Please … ” I whispered as I slowly depressed the trigger of the pistol.
The gun fired. The sound echoed through my already ringing skull. The universe thought it funny to play a joke on me and send all into slow motion. The moment was a study in art film theory. Why, at that particular moment, did the director decide to slow … down … time?
When fate handed time back to me, the zombie dropped. Alexa was on the other side of the room, facing me, her hands covering her mouth. Tears flooded her angelic face. I ran to her. My arms wrapped around her body, cocooning her in comfort.
“It’s dead now. It can’t hurt you.” My words did little to soothe her tears. This was just another moment to remind Alexa of her loss. Her body was convulsing as she wept. We had very quickly come full circle. Between breaths, Alexa managed to sweetly ask about my head. I assured her I was fine. I lied; it hurt like a son-of-a-bitch. Playing the hero card sometimes sucked.
I led Alexa back upstairs. Not only did I want her away from the corpse, I hadn’t exactly queued up enough music to last through an entire zombie-go-round.
Dead zombie.
Dead air.
Was it all prophetic?
After sitting her down, I tossed a random song into the mix (I didn’t even pay attention to what it was), and ran back downstairs. There were two things I needed to do: Dispose of the corpse and secure the front door.
The first task was somewhat of a curiosity. What does one do with a dead zombie corpse? Could the infection spread from the brownish oil that seeped out of its skull? Would the special flavor of decay bring more of its kind to my doorstep? These questions popped into my head as I dragged the dead sack of doom, by the feet, out to the curb.
Be a conscientious human. Recycle your undead.
The heavy feet of the zombie made a hollow thump as they hit pavement. There seemed to be no sign any fellow undead travelers were searching for a meal. I gave the area a quick three hundred and sixty degree scan. Nothing but the trailing steam from my breath. It felt good to be outside. Even with the bitter chill of December threatening to freeze my lungs in place, I wanted to stay outside.
Make a snowman.
Slide on the ice.
Refuse to go down.
But, I had duties to both a fragile woman and a listening public.
… and a door to fix.
/> Fortunately, my house had a back door, so nailing the front door shut wouldn’t be cause for any undue stress. Should the house catch fire or Alexa zombie-out on me, I could still escape. Emergency planning. I was starting to think ‘apocalyptic’. So long as ‘apocalyptic’ didn’t morph into ‘red neck’ everything would be okay.
The hammering of the nails brought Alexa down the stairs. When she saw what was going on the slightest of smiles crossed her lips.
“Thank you,” Alexa whispered.
I wasn’t sure what the kindness was for, but I returned the favor anyway. “You’re welcome. You okay?”
“No. But is anyone okay now?”
I got, but was surprised by, the message. The transfiguration of mankind could easily have brought out the pessimist in anyone. Not that I actually knew if Alexa naturally leaned toward optimism, but it just seemed a good fit.
“I hope you don’t mind, but I put on another song.” Alexa spoke softly, almost as if she were afraid of my reaction.
I smiled. It was the only reaction she needed. But when I stopped to listen, my smile grew exponentially bigger. She played ‘Teardrop’ by Massive Attack. “You have great taste.”
“It’s my comfort song.”
I wanted to tell her she was becoming my own personal comfort song. Her voice, her eyes, her just being here brought me a peace I didn’t think I would otherwise know. I didn’t. I just let the lilting ultra-feminine voice of the singer dance between us.
Alexa’s head bounced in rhythm to the tune. She was losing herself within the notes and beats of the music. When she stood and walked down to stand next to me, I was surprised. When she wrapped her arms around my neck and pulled my lips to hers, I was shocked.
The kiss transported me. Far away from the nightmare, the zombies, the dead, the undead, the blood, the gore, the hopelessness — it all disappeared for the briefest of moments as our tongues danced around one another.
The kiss ended with Alexa’s arms slowly withdrawing from around my neck. She placed her hands and her head on my chest. This was a moment I would never forget. She pulled away, looked at me with the softest gaze I’d ever witnessed, and turned to go up the stairs.
I couldn’t help but watch her ascend. Her ass was perfect.
She must have known I was watching as she turned to look back down and winked. When she disappeared back into my office, my heart finally came back out of hiding and dropped to its regular rhythm.
What had just happened? Did I just make out with the most beautiful woman to ever cross my path? Or was this some dream I would wake from only to find another zombie ready to attempt a dine and dash on my skull?
I finished up the door, grabbed some water, and headed back up to Zombie Radio Central. Alexa was perched in her chair, waiting for me. She had queued up another perfect song for the perfect moment. The song was ‘Kiss’ by Prince. The look on her face was wicked sexy.
She smiled. I melted. Prince kissed.
Chapter 9
You’re listening to WZMB, Zombie Radio. Your personal soundtrack to the end of the world. That was the mighty Prince and ‘Kiss’. I think we could all use a little kiss right now. So grab the person closest to you, plant your lips on theirs, and let the moment sweep you away from the waking nightmare. Embrace. Fold yourself within another’s heat. Dance. Romance. Let the life of love remove you from death’s cold pallor.
And aim for the head. That’s right my lovelies. Your DJ learned a valuable lesson. Other than making sure your deadbolt is secure, the movies were right — a shot in the forehead will end the insufferable life of the undead. I not only witnessed it firsthand, I lived it. The first time I had ever shot a gun, was the first time I missed killing one of the walking dead. The second shot was dead on; and I do mean dead on. Dead as in death. Dead as in ‘no more’.
Am I changed? Is my heart and soul colder and harder than it was before the shot heard round my skull? No. What I am is alive. And so, too, is the beautiful woman at my side.
So grab your firearms my listeners. Have them at your sides and make sure the head you are aiming at is thinking of only one thing … eating your brains. If you’re unsure, ask the damnable walker a question. Here’s one that should be universal. ‘What is the meaning of life?’ If that shambler smiles and replies ‘42’, you’ll know not to shoot. If the thing continues on, with nothing more than a moan on its lips, shoot very old woman, shoot like the wind.
And if you get that reference, my listeners, you are cool beyond cool.
Do I have any hipsters listening? If I do, and you know who you are, answer me a question — why the too small jeans and the too large sunglasses? It’s a question that has been on my mind for some time now.
And we have a phone call. Maybe it’s one of the hipster nation calling to fill me in on the ways of hipster fashion.
You’re talking with Zombie Radio. What’s your name and what ya got?
“Sorry, not a hipster, so I can’t answer your question of questions.”
That’s okay caller, I’m sure someone will eventually confess
“My name is Samantha. I’m trapped in a laundry mat in old dirty Chicago.”
Oh that sucks. I can think of maybe a handful of places worse than a laundry mat to be stuck in. Oh well, at least your panties will always be clean. Gotta have an upside right?
“Yeah, I guess. The hardest part about being stuck in Chicago is knowing the vast majority of people were already zombies before the Mengele Virus hit.”
You’ve been listening! Good for you
“Are you kidding me? Everyone is listening to you. Before I got trapped here, I had been running around the city looking for my friends. Everywhere you go people are tuned into your show. You fucking rock!”
I’m flattered my friend.
“Just promise to keep doing what you’re doing. You’re saving lives dude.”
Well, I wouldn’t go that far, but I appreciate the sentiment.
“I wanted to respond to something you just said about recognizing the undead. I have an idea. It makes sense if we all carry flags with us. You see someone coming your way, you wave your flag. If they wave back, you know they’re living. With a big enough flag, you could even let someone know you’re alive from a distance. No more accidental shootings by zombie killing snipers.”
That is a brilliant idea Samantha from old dirty Chicago. You heard it listeners, make tatters of your old bed clothes and create your ‘I’m not a zombie flag’ right now. Stuff that bitch in your back pocket so it’s at the ready the next time you see what you think might be another living human.
Got anything else to say Samantha?
“Yeah. My boyfriend is missing. James, if you’re out there, I’m at the laundry mat where we met. I’m going to stay here until tomorrow. If you can, get here. I miss you. I love you. Oh, hey, could I request a song?”
For the brilliant mind that brought the world the zombie battle flag, anything.
“Play ‘Reverie’ by Megan McCauley. It’s mine and James’s song. Hopefully he’ll hear it and it’ll give him the strength to make it to me.”
Consider it done. Samantha. I wish you luck my dear. Be safe.
Well Zombie Radio Nation, it’s time to really let your freak flags fly. And we can all thank Samantha from old dirty Chicago for the idea. And James, you better make your way to your lady or someone else will snatch her up. She’s a keeper!
The haunting piano riff of ‘Reverie’ teased out of the speakers. I wasn’t quite sure where life was at the moment. When last I visited my own personal reality, I had a hot red head hanging around my neck and locked on my lips. I was afraid to turn around. Afraid to find out Alexa was nothing more than a dream. But before I could allow doubt to wend its way into my conscience, a pair of gentle arms wrapped around my neck and lips connected with my cheek.
“You’re wonderful, you know that? What you’re doing is incredible.” Alexa’s silky voice whispered into my ear.
“I�
�m just — ” I tried not to blush. It was easy to blush with an incredibly beautiful woman hanging on me.
“You’re saving people. That’s what you’re doing.” Alexa hammered home her sentiment with another kiss.
I couldn’t help myself. I stood and turned to face her. Immediately our eyes locked and she had me under her spell. Lost. Caught in some transfer of time and tide, my heart beat a little faster and harder than it should. My palms began sweating.
What? Was I in junior high school again?
The next thing I knew, Alexa and I were in a full-on slow dance, our hips and shoulders swaying to the lovely rhythm and tone of the music. I hadn’t expected the moment to happen, it just did. But no matter why it happened, it did; and it was beautiful. To feel human again, to feel like a man caught up in the sway of song and the beauty of attraction; it was everything and all I needed.
We didn’t speak. There was no need. Every word was spoken in movement and in the exchange of breath and look. How could this happen? Amidst a total human meltdown, someone chanced into my life and I found myself enraptured by a woman I didn’t even know. I couldn’t really take the time to dig into the why. All I cared about was the who and the how. We were here. This was our reality. I was going to make the best of it.
Our impromptu prom came to a close as the song did its final twists and turns into silence. Before the last strains of the tune could come to a complete halt, Alexa kissed me deeply, passionately.
Like whoa!
And now, I have to DJ.
You’re listening to WZMB, Zombie Radio. Your personal soundtrack to the end of the world. That was Megan McCauley and ‘Reverie’. That song should be striking a chord within the hearts and minds of every living human being remaining on the planet. ‘Left here alone and unsure of what I feel. Unclear but I see just what I’m afraid of.’ Yep. That pretty much sums it all up. The big question we all want the answer to. Can we heal the wounds we’ve created?