I Zombie I [Omnibus Edition]

by Jack Wallen

  “Oh fucking righteous.” I whispered. “Pretzels, nuts …” My eyes landed on an out of place package. “What the hell?”

  And then I heard it, the cocking of a gun.

  “Back the fuck off, cock sucker, or your third eye gets forced open.” An unfamiliar, gravel-charged voice growled.

  I shot my hands up and spoke evenly, slowly. “I don’t want any trouble … just looking for something to eat.”

  “Well, you came to the wrong place, asshole.”

  The cold metal of the gun barrel pressed into the back of my skull. I could feel my hands shaking. Fear and hunger had gripped my core and shook me like a sock puppet. In desperation, I said, “I’m sorry. Just let me go so I can get back to my studio and do my thing. I’ll never come back here. I promise.”

  Silence. The gun still pressed into my flesh.

  “What’s your thing?” The voice finally asked.

  “Does it really matter?”

  “If the man holding the guns asks you, then I’d say it does.”

  He had a point. I sighed. “Yeah … um … I’m a DJ.”

  The stranger laughed. “Fucking DJ’s haven’t been relevant for years. They’re just noise filling up the machine.”

  “I’m not,” I started and then stopped. Would words actually make a difference? Maybe not in what I said, but how I said them? For the briefest of moments, I allowed my ego to come out and play. What harm could it do? Worst case, I die. Best case, this caveman with the cannon shoved in the back of my head would recognize the sound of my voice and decide my life actually did have value.

  It was worth a shot. I took in a deep breath and spoke the words that had become my post-apocalyptic calling card. “You’re listening to WZMB, Zombie Radio, your … personal sound … track, to the end of the world.”

  “Holy shit,” the stranger nearly shouted. He pulled the gun away and spun me around. “Let me get a fucking look at you.” He laughed. “Christ on a Catherine wheel, you are nothing like I expected.” The stranger looked over his shoulder and shouted. “Dudes, over here … now.”

  Almost immediately, a gang of four other men crowded the narrow hall. The man with the gun pointed and laughed. “It’s him.”

  “Who?” One of the other men asked.

  “The Zombie Radio DJ,” the first replied.

  “No fucking way, Dan. He’s too short and skinny. That dude’s gotta be like three hundred pounds.”

  “Whatever. Just listen.” Dan looked back and nodded with a huge grin on his face. He didn’t have to voice the request a second time.

  I took in a deep breath and repeated my call letters. “You’re listening to WZMB, Zombie Radio, you’re … personal sound … track, to the end of the world.”

  All five men roared with laughter. One of the other men finally spoke up. He was the smallest of the group and a bit nerdy. He stuck out his hand toward me. “Oh my God, dude. You are about the closest thing this planet has to a celebrity now. My name is Sean. I’m the drummer.”

  I opted to not offend anyone and shook his hand. “Wait, did you say drummer?”

  “Yeah,” Sean answered. “We’re a band.”

  Dan stepped back up to the plate. “We’re a metal band out of Milwaukee. 40OzFist.”

  Instead of waiting for more hands to shake, I shot a pair of devil horns up in the air, which pleased the group to no end. They joined my metal salute and added a raucous round of laughter. Dan finally broke the moment and said, “You hungry?”

  “Is Dio ugly?” I replied. The band laughed and all shouted, “Hell yeah,” in unison.

  “Come with us,” Dan said and then motioned for me to follow.

  I checked my watch. “Guys, I hate to be a piece of shit on this party, but I’ve got about fifteen minutes left on my playlist before dead air is the shot heard ‘round the world. I know it’s the apocalypse and all, but …”

  “Oh fuck, say no more,” said Dan. “We get it. What you’re doing is about the single most important thing out there at the moment.”

  “You mean besides Bethany’s work,” a man with a bushy beard and long, wavy hair down to his ass spoke up with a quiet, gentle voice. When I shot a glance at him, he smiled and said, “Yeah, we listen.”

  Dan stole center stage again. “First off, we’re not letting you leave without some grub. Second, we’re not letting you find your way back to the studio without an escort. Fucking undead try to get to you, they’ve gotta go through us. It’s the 40OzFist way!”

  Every member of the band pounded their fists in the air twice and then looked on at me. I echoed the gesture and everyone nodded and laughed.

  “Seriously, guys,” I started, “you don’t have to …”

  Another band member shot his hand out to me. “Name’s Jay. I’m the bass player. You still have that hottie with you?”

  Everyone moaned. Dan gave Jay a shove.

  “I’m just messing with you man,” Jay spoke over the moans. “We’re going with you, hottie or not.”

  With a backpack full of various eats, the band locked and loaded and we stepped back out into the thick of the Savannah heat. They insisted I stand in the center of their flanking circle.

  For the briefest of moments, I felt like a celebrity.

  As we walked, I checked my watch. I had five minutes remaining.

  “Guys, I hate to be a bitch, but …”

  Before another syllable spilled from my mouth, the sound of sounds greeted us.

  “Fuck,” Dan whispered. His muscular forearms flexed as he gripped his aluminum bat.

  “Cause this is Thriller,” Doug sang softly. He was the clown of the band. Not like Amy the Clown ─ they weren’t that metal band.

  “Where’s it coming from?” asked Jay, gripping a steel pike that made Mr. Pointy look flaccid.

  The moan filled the area once again. Dan pointed his bat north. “There.”

  A pack of moaners came into view, four bloody and broken men. Even slumped and undead, they were large. Flexing muscles bulged from every possible angle. Before anyone had a chance to strike, a muffled bang sounded. From out of nowhere, a net dropped over the zombies who then began their best wacky pop dance to the ground. Their bodies continued to convulse as smoke rose from the pile of rotting, writhing meat. The smell of burned bacon wafted our way.

  “Oh fuck me,” Doug cried out. “I could so use a waffle now. Anyone have waffles? No? What about eggs?”

  Dan silenced Doug with an open palm to the mouth. “I don’t like this,” Dan whispered.

  Our group remained motionless. The pile of charred flesh fell silent. The lack of sound reminded me of one thing …

  “You’re listening too,” I said under my breath. Thankfully, no one heard me.

  Dan raised his hand for everyone to stay. Carefully, step by step, he made his way to the undead dog pile, bat held high. Before anyone could warn him, a black-clad figure dropped from a nearby roof and cocked a gun at his head. Dan didn’t hesitate and spun so quickly he was little more than a blur. The bat connected with the stranger’s shoulder and sent him sprawling to the ground. When the stranger cried out, it was clear the he was a she.

  “Fuck,” she cried out. “Asshat! What are you doing swinging bats at strangers like that?”

  Dan looked down at the writhing form. “Are you kidding me? Was that not a gun you had jammed in the back of my head?”

  “It wasn’t cocked Dillweed,” the stranger shouted. “Besides, I saved your asses.”

  Dan let out a throaty chortle and said, “As if we needed your help. I could have crushed those bastards with my eyes closed.”

  I’d seen enough. I ran to Dan’s side and leaned in to whisper, “Let’s just be grateful for the help and move on.”

  Dan looked at me and furrowed his brow. When he spoke it was out of the side of his mouth and almost too quiet to hear. “It’s not how this works, dude.”

  I returned the whisper. “How this works is we’re alive. That’s what matters, ri
ght?”

  Dan’s shoulders slumped and he lowered his bat. “Yeah, yeah, fine.” Dan offered a hand to the stranger. She didn’t take it. Instead, she spun on the ground and righted herself with a front flip that would shame Jackie Chan, Chuck Norris, and the cast of Breakin 2: Electric Boogaloo. She reached her hand out and, with a brilliant grin grabbed Dan’s and shook it with gusto.

  “Name’s Trinity,” she said.

  Dan laughed. “You mean like in The Matrix?”

  “The what?” Trinity asked.

  The entire group, including myself, moaned.

  “Guys,” I took over the moment. “I really love the witty banter and the whole saving each other’s ass thing, but …”

  I didn’t have to finish my statement before Dan grimaced and nodded. “Roll out, boys.”

  “Hey,” Trinity shouted. “What the fuck?”

  Dan stopped and turned. “What do you mean what the fuck?” He did a fairly serviceable imitation of Trinity.

  In a flash, she had a knife out and pointed at Dan’s crotch. “I mean, what about me? You just going to leave the person that saved your asses behind?”

  Jay stepped toward Trinity. Everyone moaned. He looked back and shrugged. “Are you saying what I think you’re saying?” Jay asked.

  Trinity looked Jay’s way and smiled. “And what do you think I’m saying?”

  “That you want to come with?” Jay answered.

  “I might be saying that,” said Trinity with a nod.

  Jay looked to Dan. Dan looked to the rest of the group and then to me. “What do you say, DJ?”

  That was a bomb I wasn’t expecting. I stepped in close to Trinity and asked quietly, “What’s your mission?”

  She tilted her head at me and cocked an eyebrow. I gave her a moment to let the question sink in. She finally smiled and said, “To right the wrong.”

  “She’s in,” I said without reservation. The band, including Dan, approved and we moved on.

  Dan tried to place our newest member in the center of the circle with me. She groused and insisted on being front and center for the party. She worked her knife like it was an extension of her hand and Dan allowed her to take lead.

  I happily navigated my new posse to the house. The second I was through the door, I dashed up the stairs to the studio and left my new friends behind.

  Within my laboratory of musical madness, there was only silence. I snatched up my headphones, dropped into my captain’s chair, flipped the switch of power, and spoke calmly into Lyndi.

  “You’re listening to …” I offered up a much grander pause than normal. “Silence. Yes, ladies and gentlemen of the Zombie Radio Nation, your DJ failed you. I went out in search of a meal and came back with a feast … and a few friends. Ah yes, friends. What some might consider completely irrelevant at this point in time, I would argue friendship could be the one thing that might get us over the grand master flash of fucked up. And so, I can proudly say, The Zombie Radio studio now houses it’s very own metal band, 40OzFist. That’s right my pretties, say it with me ─ but don’t spell it out. This isn’t your grandmother’s forty … ounce … fist, this is metal and this is for real.”

  I offered up another trademark pause.

  “Unfortunately, I don’t happen to have any of their music … hand-day … but I will alleviate that problem tout de suite. In the meantime, I want to offer you up one of my all-time favorite songs written by a band with more passion and poetry in their music than any other in the history of history. The band is called Nothing More and the song is called “This Is The Time”. Everyone, listen to the words of this song as if your very life depended on it ─ because it just might well.”

  The song punched me in the chest with a profundity I desperately needed. The words, the guitar, the bass, the drums … the sound connected with my heart in a way that filled me with life. This was the only true food of my soul. That inevitable search for the meaning of life, for me, always ended here, in music.

  I checked my watch. Just under four minutes and I would need to be back at the console, ready to guide the nation through the landscape of the now. In the meantime, I had to show my guests around and feed the beast.

  three | Dakota

  The band and Trinity were still standing in the living room where I left them. They were busy mumbling to one another ─ minus Trinity who was standing before a bookshelf staring at a small collection of photos.

  I landed on the floor of the room, spread my arms, and said, “Sorry about that.”

  Everyone turned to me and nodded their approval. Dan spoke up. “We understand, dude. You’ve got a flock to shepherd.”

  “Okay, so,” I started, “this is home. Upstairs is the studio, and down the hall is the bathroom.”

  My stomach growled. Doug laughed and tossed the backpack at me. “You need to feed that thing, man.”

  I laughed and said, “Can’t argue with that. Anyone else?”

  Trinity turned sharply and raised her hand. “Hell yeah. The only thing that has crossed my lips in days is water and dust.”

  “Get over here,” I demanded.

  We both took a seat on the couch. I unzipped the pack and pulled out a bag of pretzels and two large strips of jerky. Trinity snatched a piece of the cured meat from my grip and shoved it into her mouth.

  “Holy shit,” she mumbled. “This is three Michelin stars fucking in my mouth.”

  I tilted my head at Trinity. “You mean in my fucking mouth? And how do you know …”

  She punched me in the shoulder … hard. “No, I meant fucking in my mouth. And stereotype much?”

  “I’m sorry, I assumed …”

  Trinity cut across me. “What? That I was some homeless loser piece of shit before the apocalypse hit? That I’d never known what it was like to taste poetry?”

  I was stunned into silence.

  “Just so’s ya know, I was head chef at Bistro 182. If you’re not from here, which I’m guessing none of you are, that’s a really big deal.” Trinity looked around the room. When her gaze returned to me, there was a tragic story behind her eyes. Before I could catch it, her defenses flew up. “I guess my palette was wiped clean the first time I laid eyes on the walking dead.”

  I nodded and said softly, “Understood.” And then it dawned on me. “If it makes you feel any better, these guys are in a metal band called 40OzFist.”

  Trinity jumped to her feet with a squeal. “Holy shit, you’re kidding me? I was in Milwaukee last winter testing some new menu items at a friend’s restaurant. She took me to one of your shows. You guys rocked.” She punched both her fists in the air and stuck out a pierced tongue. “What have you been up to since then?”

  Dan stepped forward. “We just finished a world tour with Doubletap Suicide.”

  Trinity’s jaw nearly hit the floor. “Oh my God. I want to have Trey Hawkins’ babies! What were they like?”

  I interrupted the fangirl fest. “I gotta go chat with the world for a bit. Make yourselves at home ─ just don’t turn it up to eleven.”

  Without another word, I hit the stairwell to the studio. Trinity’s squealing voice faded away as I shut the door the control room.

  Back in my captain’s chair, I released a sigh, returned my headphones to their rightful place, took a deep breath, and picked up where the song left off.

  “You’re listening to WZMB, Zombie Radio, your personal soundtrack … to the end of the world. That was Nothing More and “This Is The Time”. Every once in a while a band comes along that manages to bore its way into your core. No matter how hard you try to leave them behind, you can’t. You set their albums on repeat until you’re fairly certain you’ll come out the other side of the tunnel sporting a straightjacket and diapers. That is art and it is the truth ─ a truth you cannot find anywhere else. No television, no prophet, no big box commercial store with bright lights and blinding billboards can reach the kind of depths those artists can reach. They touch you and re-define you. That is what Nothin
g More did for me a few years ago ─ right before the Mengele Virus hit. There are days when I wonder if I can navigate my way through these dark waters, but with the help of such powerful words and music, Nothing More has managed to guide me out of those hellish times where suicide seems like the only solution. And so, to all of my children out there in the Zombie Radio Nation, I ask you … what music gives your life enough meaning to make it through the end of the day? Email me, text me, call me, Tweet to me ─ just let me know what I can play for you that will help you survive. Let my voice and the soundtrack to the apocalypse be the thing that gets you through. And that, my lovely children, was a segue ─ one you can’t ride on like a tourist or a mall cop. It’s been a while since I’ve played the Ozzman. Let me rectify that by playing one of his more obscure songs, “Gets Me Through”. Crank it up to eleven, for the dark prince of rock.”

  The song washed over me. Before peace swallowed me whole, the door to the studio creaked open and Trinity’s head peeked in. Her eyes lit up when she got a glimpse through the magic veil.

  “Holy shit,” she said. “They weren’t kidding. You’re him. You’re really him.”

  “Who is this him you speak of?” I said, innocently.

  “The Zombie Radio DJ.” Trinity entered the room and shut the door behind her.

  All of a sudden, I was fifty shades of uncomfortable. Trinity slowly strode around the room, taking in every nook, cranny, and … me. She smiled and said, “You’re a lot cuter than I thought you’d be. Don’t guys go into this business because they have a …”

  “Face for radio?” I interrupted.

  She grinned and nodded. “Yeah … that. I hope that’s not insulting.”

  I shook my head. “I’m used to it?”

  “What, girls flirting with you?”

  “Oh hell no, not that. I mean …” I fell silent. I wasn’t exactly sure what I meant. This was the first moment I’d had up close and personal with the opposite sex since the girl in my bed was a thing. But the apocalypse … she giveth and she taketh. In this case, that bitch took something I loved. At first I missed her company dearly. It didn’t take long to fall back into the lone wolf routine. Such is the life of a DJ.