by Jack Wallen
Frenzy leaped into action, his sword brandished before him. Intake laughed and withdrew a pistol from her lower back. Before she had a chance to take aim, from out of nowhere, Mikko swung a right hook that connected squarely with Intake’s jaw. The woman’s grip loosened and the gun clacked and clattered to the ground.
“Get her!” Kubrick shouted.
Everyone within earshot–and not on a mission–spilled from the shadows to dog-pile Intake. With the woman under a mound of teens, Frenzy and I bolted for the truck. Frenzy’s long stride allowed him to arrive at the destination well before me. He opened the tailgate and lowered the ramp. I picked up enough speed to allow me to wheel the dolly up the ramp and into the truck bed.
I lowered the dolly into a horizontal position, jumped out of the truck, closed the tailgate, and slipped into the driver’s seat.
Before I could pull away, Mikko banged on the window. I rolled down the glass and accepted a quick, hot kiss. She winked, waved, and raced away. I punched the gas and sped off toward the Wasteland. I took a quick glance into the rear view mirror to see Fay filming our great escape.
“Oi, that was better than boobs, Jingo. Better than boobs.” Frenzy had a grin splashed across his face the likes of which I’d never before seen.
“And we couldn’t have done it without you, Fren.”
“Hells no, you couldn’t. I am the shiz, yo.”
“Frenzy…um…that was decidedly un-British.”
We laughed…a lot. The feeling of laughter escaping my lips was the best thing I’d felt in a very long time. I wanted it to last…to the Wasteland and back.
“You know where you’re going, right?” Frenzy broke the spell.
I nodded.
“How do you know where this place is, anyway?”
I snaked my hand into the cargo pocket on my right thigh and retrieved a folded piece of paper. “Take a look at this.”
Frenzy snatched the paper and quickly unfolded it. “What the hell is this?” He fell silent as his eyes pored over the contents of the stained and tattered sheet. “Holy hell, Jingo. Where’d you get…”
“I was following Crowbar one day. I think he was drunk—or something—and he dropped it. I had no idea what it was, but I grabbed it anyway. Turns out, it was pretty important.”
“Pretty important? I’d say this is effing gold. It’s not only the map of the Wasteland, but the location of every Asylum within, what, one hundred miles?”
“Five hundred, actually.”
“What do the numbers below each Asylum represent?” Frenzy asked.
“Based on our location, I’d say they’re number of teens and adults. I have yet to figure out what that third number represents.”
Frenzy scanned over the map for a bit before speaking up. “That number might be exactly what we need.”
“Need? For what?” I asked.
“To free every damn kid in every one of those bloody Asylums.”
“When we get back, I say we sit down with everyone and come up with a plan,” I responded.
“After a long-ass nap,” Frenzy added.
We drove in silence for a bit. Frenzy shifted his gaze from the map to the road ahead and back to the map. He finally spoke. “Up ahead, Jingo. This intersection, take a right. Two more miles and we’ll be on the edge of the Wasteland.” Frenzy folded the map with a touch of reverence. “Please tell me we aren’t going into that place, are we?”
“Hell no! The Wasteland is nothing but chaos. We’d survive maybe two minutes on our own in there.”
I took the right turn and punched the gas. I wanted to dump the cargo and return home to Mikko and her Sailor Moon jammies.
“Look at the bloody sign,” Frenzy whispered, and pointed.
Ahead of us, painted over a standard Welcome to Smalltown, U.S.A. sign, was a message that read, “Abandon hope all ye who enter here.”
Beyond the sign, it seemed the air roiled with dust and smoke…as if the very laws of nature and physics no longer applied. I stopped the truck just at the edge of the boundary and shut off the engine. The newly acquired silence gave birth to some of the most heinous and frightening sounds I’d ever heard. Wailing screams, moans, and an indescribable clacking sound rose and fell from the chaos.
“Holy mother of Moses,” Frenzy proclaimed. “I cannot imagine what lives inside that dirty soup.”
“And I have zero interest in finding out. Let’s dump the cargo and turn tail.”
“I like the way you think, sailor,” answered Frenzy.
It took us no time to roll the dolly out of the truck. Together, Frenzy and I popped the lid to the barrel and rolled Crowbar just a few feet within the boundaries of the Wasteland.
“Let’s get the bloody hell out of here, Jingo.”
“I have no problems with that, Frenzy.”
We hopped into the truck, turned around, and squealed out.
Frenzy let out the biggest sigh I’d heard in a very long time. “First off, what the hell?”
“What the hell what?” I asked.
“Doesn’t that strike you as odd, Jingo?”
“What?”
“That damned invisible barrier back there!” Frenzy shouted. “What’s keeping that nightmare from spilling beyond the boundary? It’s the frakking apocalypse, not Mordor!”
“Dude, zombies are roaming the damned planet. I’d say anything is possible.”
“You know what I say? It’s time we heard some damn music!”
I punched a right-handed devil horn into the air and Frenzy manned the radio. He scanned up and down the bandwidth until the last refrains of an unfamiliar song spilled from the speakers. Soon after, an odd voice rose.
You’re listening to WZMB, Zombie Radio—your personal soundtrack…to the end of the world. That was September Mourning with their amahzing metal anthem, Eye of the Storm. Ladies and gentlefreaks, it doesn’t get more metal than that. I have to say, though, listening to that killer track makes me long for my younger days. You remember…back when the only care you had was who you were going to be seen holding hands with at the basketball game and whether or not collars were popped, not popped, or ripped to shreds. They say that youth is wasted on the young? I disagree…the young are the only ones of us who are physically and mentally capable of handling youth. When I was a strapping young lad, I could muster up the gumption for just about anything that was thrown my way. Hell, I’m fairly confident that the apocalypse itself wouldn’t have taken down this DJ when he was in his teens. I was invincible…or so I thought. Truth be told, I was vulnerable, frightened, and ready to kiss my younger days goodbye. Now? I’d give anything to return.
You know what, my loverly ladies and scrappy gents…this takes me back to a song from my youth. When anyone heard this song on the radio, it was to be immediately cranked to eleven, and those glorious waves of sound would beckon us to dance and celebrate all that was youth. So I would implore you…anyone capable of turning your radios up to maximum listening intensity…crank it while Steve Perry and Journey power ballad the hell out of the song Only The Young.
Frenzy howled an approving laughter and cranked the volume. The unfamiliar song danced from the speakers and filled both Frenzy and me with life. I punched the gas to put as much distance between us and the Wasteland as possible.
It was time to return to life, return to love…return to youth.
epilogue | the gathering and the mission
Eyes. Hundreds of them blinked and stared up toward me…as if I’d somehow magically become this all-knowing, all-seeing prophet. Or leader…I couldn’t be sure. Truth was, I was neither. How could a teenage kid, someone whose life experience extended barely beyond second base, lead a collection of homeless and frightened teens through the Wasteland? I had no tricks up my sleeve, no superhuman powers, no…
Mikko tugged at my sleeve and whispered, “They need you, Jingo. Say something.”
I swallowed the largest lump of dread down my throat. Sweat collected at the base of
my neck, and my pulse raced to a double kick drum beat. I slowly raised my hands toward the crowd. A blanket of anxious silence wafted over the courtyard.
This was it.
I took in a deep breath. In that precious moment, I remembered the song the DJ played…its melody and hopeful sentiment filled me with inspiration. I sang out what I hoped would be a mantra to carry us through the new world order. “Only the young…survive.”
Cheers rang out and fists pumped the air. Mikko wove her fingers into mine and squeezed…hard. “Keep going,” she whispered.
“Out there, thousands more just like you are trapped in similar situations…where adults have forced teenagers into an apocalyptic slavery to serve an unnecessary and dangerous purpose. We have the location of every Asylum in the state, and I say it is our job to free those kids from the torture and abuse we have only just escaped.”
Another wall-rattling cheer rang out, quickly followed by chants of my name.
“Jingo! Jingo! Jingo!”
I raised my voice above the din in a vain attempt to silence the crowd. “No…we live and die as one. I am no hero. I am no saint. I am a teenager on the outskirts of the Wasteland, who will stop at nothing to ensure the survival of those I love.” I lifted mine and Mikko’s hands into the air. “Our lives and our spirits will not go wasted. We will survive and we will thrive.”
The crowd roared once again. Mikko leaned in and kissed me square on the lips.
It’s good to be a teen.
Slowly everyone danced, skipped, or walked away. Only me and my posse remained.
“That was gorgeous, dude.” Frenzy nodded.
Nicco pointed the camera directly at my face. “You’ve just beaten Crowbar, Jingo. What are you going to do now?”
“I’m not going to Disneyland, if that’s what you’re after. I’m going to scavenge for a bite to eat, clean up, and go to bed. I’m bloody exhausted.”
“Oi, wanker,” Frenzy shouted. “That’s my shtick.”
Everyone laughed; my heart swelled with pride.
Kubrick raised a hand and sucked the joy from the moment. “Were you serious about attempting to rescue all those other kids?”
“Of course I was, Kube. There’s no way I could sit back knowing there were others suffering the same fate.”
Kubrick nodded his head. “Good. I wanted to make sure you knew my team’s with you.”
“That’s exactly what I was hoping to hear, my friend. Because I’m gonna need you and your crew.”
Kubrick, Nicco, and Fay all turned to face me…their eyes lined with fear. I leaned into Nicco’s lens and smiled. “You and your camera are going on a mission.”
Reunion
By Jack Wallen and Thea Gregory
Copyright 2014 by Jack Wallen
PUBLISHED BY: AUTUMNAL PRESS
This book is a work of fiction. Unless otherwise noted, names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously (unless otherwise noted). Any resemblance to actual locales, events or persons living or dead is entirely coincidental.
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any printed or electronic format without express permission from the author. Please do not participate or encourage piracy of copyrighted materials in violation of the author’s rights. Purchase only authorized editions.
Edited By
Heather Austin
*****
Jack would like to dedicate this serial to the one person he would traverse the whole of the apocalypse to reunite with – Stephanie.
Thea would like to dedicate this to Pip – a world class cat and best friend for life. RIP.
Forward
In 2011, when I embarked on the journey that would become I Zombie I, I had no way of knowing how much it would mean to me as a writer. A single book – one that was intended as a stand-alone to finally bring allow me to step foot into the hallowed, haunted halls of horror authors.
That one book soon became three, and then four, and then eight. Spawning spinnoffs, fan fiction, a podcast, and now … a serial, I Zombie I was that book which launched a thousand moments for me.
And it led me to this. Reunion.
The idea came to me during a discussion with my co-author, Thea Gregory. The idea of co-writing was something we both wanted. I had great respect for her work and she mine. Both lovers and writers of zombie fiction, we decided the genre was a no-brainer.
And then it hit me – two writers, a man and woman, co-authoring a book set in an apocalyptic landscape … write what you know, write what you love. So I posed a simple statement: Two lovers separated by the apocalypse struggling to return to love’s embrace.
Very little discussion had to take place. We know the world (my I Zombie universe) and we know the goal.
Ready.
Set.
Go!
It took less than thirty days to hammer out the first draft. We took turns and built upon one another’s entries. It was like a real-time journal we each lived for a very brief period and it was pure joy.
I cannot begin to tell you how happy I am with the results. What you hold in your hand will take you on a serialized journey from the near destruction of humankind to the reunion of truest love. Along the way, we might hear from a few characters we all know and love and we’ll most likely pick up a few new interesting people.
The important thing, as always, is the journey.
Enjoy.
Jack Wallen
one | Trey
The sky is a blanket of thought, daring that I should conjure up a single image of you. A limitless endeavor of space and time…
The lyric passed through my mind and left a black hole in its wake. The night was perfect. No crushing noise, no screaming fans, no rushing to get from gig to gig. It was just me and the trail.
A muffled moan graced the moment.
And the countless, disembodied voices of the wild kingdom joined in.
I never thought I’d say this, but I really miss people. I take that back, I miss one person. That thought drove my hand into the pocket of my pants to retrieve my phone. “Come on, come on, come on,” I chanted. My hope was quickly dashed when the indicator mocked me with the big squadoosh. No signal.
Despite the ability to effectively communicate, I opened up the messaging app. Like the hopeless romantic I’d been accused of being on so many occasions, I scrolled to the top of the last chat with Erica to read … perchance to dream.
Erica: How much longer?
Trey: Why? Do you miss me?
Erica: Pi.
Trey: As in 3.14159?
Erica: :-D
Trey: Why the smile?
Erica: You just made my day.
Trey: Because I know Pi?
Erica: Because you’re beautiful.
Trey: YOU’RE beautiful.
Erica: I love you so much.
Trey: I adore you, love you, cherish you, treasure you … you are my muse, my poetry, my breath.
Erica: You are my math, my periodic table, my science.
Trey: I cannot wait to see you.
Erica: Again, I say … how much longer?
Trey: Maybe a week.
Erica: Noooooooooo.
The last thing she did was send me a selfie in her lab coat and glasses. She knew I was a sucker for her brilliance. I spent every evening of the last world tour dreaming of my fiancé in that fucking lab coat. Truth be told … there may have been heels involved.
And stockings.
Yeah, there are always stockings.
It didn’t matter. Erica was sexy from brain to bra. I was the single luckiest guy on Earth, except for the fact that I couldn’t pick up a damned cell phone signal to save my life. I’d hiked this trail every year for the last five and was always able to find a signal somewhere. I was on a ridge and the sky was crystal clear … “This doesn’t make sense.”
I made a mental note to stop at the next hostel and ho
pe for wireless so I could catch Erica with a Skype call. If I go much longer without hearing that darling Canadian voice, I’ll certainly lose my mind.
“Shatter my world with your distant, hollow glance,” I sang the chorus of the last song we performed on the tour. My voice was still a bit worse for wear … after belting our special flavor of melodic metal, night after night, for the last year.
The distant moan returned.
“Hello?” I called out.
Another moan.
“Shit,” I whispered. With a ninja-level of stealth, I slipped into my bivvy and zipped the fly. In the perfect darkness, I remained motionless, silent. The clear sky shot a beam of moon glow over the area. Shadows danced over my nylon fortress. Tree limbs grew monstrous and threatened to undo my manhood.
I wasn’t a coward. I’d faced down muggers, drunks, rabid fans, assholes … paparazzi. What was a bit of Mother Nature doing scaring my inner little girl out to play?
An image of Erica laughing at my predicament popped into my mind. She would laugh at me hiding in my tent at what most likely would turn out to be the wind blowing through the autumn foliage. With her angelic smile locked in my memory, my pulse slowed and a smile slipped across my face. I could only imagine, at this moment, she was lying in bed, reading a sci-fi novel on her kindle, wishing she could slide her tiny foot over to touch my leg.
The thought gifted me a very necessary peace. I reached up and unzipped the fly. The cool night air rushed in and tickled the skin of my neck. Outside, the world had returned to silence. The Vorpal Bunny or a horde of flesh eating zombies weren’t about to attack and suck the marrow from my bones.
My stomach growled. The little horror show reminded me that I hadn’t eaten dinner. I grabbed my pack and set up shop. Within minutes, my Whisperlite stove was fired up and a pot of water was preparing to boil.
“Tonight I dine on ramen,” I said with a laugh.
Every night I dined on ramen. It was a favorite indulgence of mine that I only allowed myself while hiking. My dietician and logic-fueled fiancé weren’t around to lecture me on the dangers of MSG, starch, or sodium.