by Jack Wallen
Back in the open, I looked to my left and right—nothing moved.
I moved to the canned foods. My palate reeled at the thought of eating high-sodium meat byproducts, but my stomach welcomed the coming feast.
I shoveled cans of Spam, and its dubious generic analogues into my bag. My senses were on high alert. The hairs on the back of my neck stood up. I checked over my shoulder with every movement. My mysterious friend was somewhere around here.
Why didn’t he just show himself already?
I shouldered the bag and it cut into my flesh, but I ignored the pain.
I just needed a few boxes of crackers and I could go home, find my phone, and cuddle with Beast until Trey got back. No moaning cannibals, no optics exams to grade, and, most importantly, no Shaver creeping on me.
It was so simple.
eleven | Trey
My legs were numb. Fifteen minutes had ticked off the clock with me crouching ─ my back against the wall, tears in my eyes, and my phone staring me in the face.
She hadn’t called.
The world around me faded. There was nothing but the phone, the only connection to my one truth. A tear dropped from my cheek and splashed down on the smudged screen before me. A dissociative disco broke out in the room until the world around me faded into a black void. There was nothing but cold air, silence … and Erica’s voice drifting into and out of the reality in my head.
Make love to me, Trey. I want you inside me now. Make us infinite, our bodies a geometric sequence where it’s impossible to discern where you end and I begin, 3.14159. Trey. My love for you is Pi.
Like a whirling vortex, the room returned and I was still alone. Erica’s voice echoed within the confines of my skull. The beatific sound served as all the inspiration I needed. I raced around the room and packed my belongings. Cowardice flushed from my system. I’d just taken a life. A window to another world had opened before me … a window with a view I didn’t want to enjoy. What would have folded me in half a week ago, filled me with courage. I slung the filled pack over my shoulders, did a final check of the room, clipped my hunting knife on my belt, and stepped over the body in the hall.
I wanted to toss out some clichéd catch phrase into the universe to see if it was listening. I played it safe, remembering how much of a bitch karma could be.
When I reached the room of death, I stopped. Any second, one of these bastards could stand up and attack. It seemed the impossible had become possible. In the back of my mind, I could hear Erica say something about the bodies strewn over the floor were a veritable Schrödinger’s cat of doom.
Or something like that.
Damn, I could really use her special flavor of science at the moment.
The thought made me smile. For some sick, twisted reason, I needed that.
As I carefully wound my way across the floor, I caught a glint of something metallic. A lone moonbeam sliced through one of the windows and landed on the chrome finish of a pistol peeking out of holster.
It had come to this. All of my adult life I prided myself on never holding such an instrument of destruction in my hand. Words and compassion have guided me. I never wanted for any other ideal.
Until Hell filled up and the dead walked among the living, I thought. “Seriously?” I whispered. “I’m quoting zombie movies now? Fuck.”
Without even a hint of doubt, I reached down and pulled the weapon, holster and all, from the dead man’s belt. A sickening feeling raced up my arm and into my throat. I’d written countless anti-gun anthems. My band’s very name was a mockery of the inherent violence in the system of the human creature.
And now this.
I stood in a room filled with corpses ─ some of which were coming back to life and begging for one last dance ─ holding a gun in my hand.
Before the ironic turn of the screw righted my moral compass, I clipped the holster onto my belt ─ behind the knife. I wanted to make sure the boom-stick was still my last option.
The door to the hostel stood before me. I wrapped my fingers around the handle and twisted. The entry opened and a blast of frigid air wrapped itself around my face.
“Is that the best you got, bitch?” I questioned everything and nothing. When I finally stepped outside, I looked skyward and said, “I live in Montreal. I eat cold for breakfast.”
The door closed behind me. I shivered and rethought my last statement.
I lifted the phone, opened up the texting app, and tapped a message to Erica.
My dearest Pi. Leaving the trail. Will find a way to get back to you asap. I adore you. PS, you owe me a phone call. Need to hear the sweetest voice of all.
I closed the app and pocketed the phone. It was time. I had to take this journey moment by moment. My next such moment was to get off the fucking trail and find the means to reach Erica.
As they always say, the first step is always the hardest.
Whoever they was, clearly never shoved a knife through a dead man’s skull.
And then … it hit me. Dead man.
“No,” I hissed. The thought racing around my brain powered my legs forward. “I will not fall prey to that level of paranoia. There is something wrong with these people, but they aren’t …”
I couldn’t say it. I wouldn’t say it.
Instead, I sang … softly.
“Wake up. Rise above your lonely state of being. Take up. Your never ending life is fleeting.” The melody of Doubletap’s biggest hit centered me, helped me to focus on my goal.
To exit the trail, I had to meander off on a fork that wound its way through thick forest. A few miles stood between me and what I hoped would be salvation. I’d hiked the trail a number of times, but it was always start to finish. Never had I ventured off this path less travelled.
The canopy of trees did its best to filter out the moonlight. I reached back and unclipped the headlamp from my pack. Once the quad LEDs were fired up and the strap around my head, the surrounding darkness retreated.
“Could this be any spookier?” I asked.
And on cue, a chorus of moans answered.
My hand shot back for the gun. Before I had the heavy weapon in my hand, I stopped and removed the knife instead. I waited, in complete silence, for the moans to return. When they failed to offer up an encore performance, I continued on.
The beam of my light sliced through the trees before me. A riot of shadows flitted and flicked through the woods. It took every ounce of will I had to keep from replacing the knife and retrieving the gun.
Ahead, I spotted a clearing in the woods. In the center of the clearing, a fire pit smoldered.
I wasn’t alone.
“Hello?” I whispered.
Nothing.
I played it safe and didn’t call out again.
Judging from the heat coming from the dirt-covered pit, this fire had only recently been burning. Whoever it was couldn’t have gotten far.
I focused my light around the clearing. Cast off, near the tree line, was a large internal-frame pack. Hopefully, I’d find some extra supplies. There was no way of knowing how long it would be before I could replenish my stock. I approached the pack.
I wished I hadn’t.
When I rolled the pack over, a torso was still attached. Neck, shoulders, arms … and intestines. The stench of blood and rotten meat crashed into me. I turned and vomited what little food I’d eaten. The second the bile slushy finished coming up, I sprinted off, deeper into the woods.
twelve | Erica
Shit.
I didn’t get far before I realized that I had made a major miscalculation; the one moaning wonder I left back in the hallways?
He had friends. Cannibal smoke break was over, and it was time to get back on shift. Too bad their day job was making lunch out of the small, cute, and nerdy. They came at me, arms outstretched. Their dead eyes stared through me into the ether of the universe, but their feet and open mouths faced me with purpose. Their gait was slow, and they swayed in an invisible breeze. The
re was only one blocking my way to the stairs below. I could make a sprint for it. All those afternoons of weekend training on the mountain with my sadistic friends would pay off. There’s no better place on Earth to practice sprints than Montreal.
I sucked in a deep breath. My backpack was secured with a chest strap. I wielded my golf club like a broad sword. Both hands were fixed at the base, leaving the metal free and hungry for the kill.
I paused for an instant before charging on my path. In its past life, it was a man of about fifty. The wrinkles in his face grinned around an always-open mouth. He must have been a happy guy, the life of the party. Now, he’s just a sack of meat that didn’t get my memo.
“It’s death time,” I whispered.
The man didn’t flinch. There was no reaction to my primed weapon, nor to the speed of my approach. Its fingers stretched towards me, clawed and feral. It was all I could do not to scream as I attacked. My eyes were wide, and my arms brought the club down like a hammer on his forehead. My body twisted downwards, pulling every bit of force from my muscles to drive it home. Hot blood rushed through my ears.
Cold steel connected with cold flesh. The skin gave way, like paper being torn from a notebook. Bone caved in, devouring the head of the golf club. Underneath the seeping brown blood was the hint of brains.
He shuddered, his hands dropping, but he was still standing. His mouth moved as though to moan, but no sounds came out.
I took a step back, pulling him forwards with all of my weight. He toppled to the ground, the golf club sliding free with a slurping sound, like that of noodles eaten too enthusiastically.
I would never eat ramen again. This is how food aversions are made.
I stared down at the ruin of a man, this thing that only a day before I could have spoken to. Understood. Maybe even called a friend.
Now he was a cold mess on a tile floor, his white eyes hidden from view. His blood pooled as my hands shook.
I am a teacher, not a killer.
I ran. My breath burned in my lungs, and tears stung my eyes. I needed to get home, to talk to Trey. I needed to tell him that I was alive. Alive, but changed. In this instant, I had gone through a door and closed it behind me. From a life of discovery and peace to looting and violence. Trey could help me piece it together. There must be a song lyric, or a quote from a philosopher who could make it right or at least bearable.
I looked behind me as I rounded the corner to my hallway. Three more moaners followed. They stepped over their comrade as though he didn’t exist. They meandered along, like they were out on a stroll rather than an exciting trip to brain one neophyte college professor.
I collided with the door. I blinked, stunned. My lungs ached, my legs shook and bile rose in my throat when I saw that my sneakers had been splattered in blood. I shook my head, fighting to clear it. My hand groped for the handle.
I found it. I swung the door open, and pushed it shut. My eyes scanned the floor for my cellphone, but I didn’t see any sign of it.
With as much stealth as my trembling limbs could muster, I crept up the stairs. I looked back at the basement stairwell entrance, but there were no signs of life.
I finally reached the third floor. Whose bright idea was it to live on the third floor? Oh, yeah. Mine. Pi, right? My favorite number was going to get me killed.
I peeked through the glass, and saw that it was all clear. I squeezed myself through the door, and made a mad dash for the apartment.
I swung the door open and kicked off my shoes with what could have only been superhuman speed. I barred the door before stumbling to the bathroom. I threw the golf club in the bathtub before collapsing over the toilet seat.
A slurry of vomit erupted from my lips. I’d be paying homage to the porcelain god for a while.
thirteen | Trey
The woods surrounded me like a swarming, cold comfort. In my desperate attempt to flee the carnage, I lost track of the trail. I stopped. My lungs took in great heaves of breath, my throat dry from gasping. After a great gulp of water, I spun slowly in place to locate the narrow path that would, hopefully, lead me to safety.
My phone buzzed.
I pulled it out, expecting a missive from the other half of my soul.
No dice. The text was from Rip. Most likely, he was spun out on blow having a crack at a few groupies ─ all at once.
Mate. The world has gone to piss. You still at it? Alive I mean. You need to listen to this thing called Zombie Radio … let it serve as your beacon to safety. Ring me, brother. DTS4E.
Double Tap Suicide For Ever.
The words filled me with a bit of pride. That moment was all too fleeting as the screen on my phone faded to sleep and left me in the dark.
“Zombie Radio?” I asked myself. I brought my phone back to waking, retrieved my headphones and plugged them in. I opted to only listen with one earbud, on the off chance the walking dead decided to play a rousing game of Undead Marco Polo. From the browser, I searched Zombie Radio and came up with a link. The second the page loaded, an odd, Captain Kirk-ish voice greeted me.
“…what say you, Zombie Radio Nation? Should we accept the notion that corporate greed had, once again, forced the world to bend over and grab their ankles? If you’re unsure of what I mean, do me this one favor. Stand naked, with your back against a full-length mirror and bed over. Look between your knees and tell me what you see? That, my friends, is the very target corporate America is after ─ yo ass. And, if you’ve been following my broadcast, you know that one Jacob Plummer has uncovered a very telling disturbance in the force. All those years we thought the governments and big business were plotting and scheming against us? Guess the fuck what? They were! So listen up mah peoples, I am your lifeline. Feed the machine of hope with your calls, your email, your tweets ─ however you can get the word out, I am here for you.”
As the DJ continued to speak, I pulled the phone back and searched for a number on the page. The second I found it, I tapped the link and let good old Android do the rest.
The phone rang.
And rang.
Four rings and a disembodied voice picked up.
“You’re talking to Zombie Radio, what’s your name and whatchoo got?”
It was him. The voice, the rhythm, and affected inflections couldn’t be mistaken.
“This is Trey Hawkins …” was all I got out before the DJ cut into my words.
“The Trey Hawkins? From Doubletap Suicide?”
“Yeah … that’s the one.” I felt a bit sick to my stomach at the moment. The idea that anyone could go fanboy while humankind spiraled into a very dark abyss was beyond me.
“Holy hand grenade. Ladies and gentlebeasts, we are speaking with rock and roll royalty at the moment. I certainly didn’t think the tides of fortune would flow my way so soon. All it took was the fucking apocalypse.”
“Wait,” I snapped. “Did you just say apocalypse?”
“I did, I did. My friend, where have you been? The world has gone critical mass. Dr. Lindsay Godwin fired up his Quantum Fusion Generator and the next thing ya know, cats and dogs are living together ─ mass hysteria.”
This man’s shtick would be my undoing. I decided to keep this train of thought from derailing. “So these things coming after me?”
The DJ broke one of the cardinal sins against radio ─ dead air. When he finally broke the silence, he said a single word that punched me in the heart.
“Zombies.”
Silence.
“Trey?” The DJ broke the spell. “You there, brother?”
“Yeah. It’s just …” I’d forgotten the very reason I called the man.
“What is it, man? You okay?”
Just as I was certain the lobes of my brain were about to commit suicide and squeeze through my ears, my reason for connecting with the DJ hit me.
“Erica,” I blurted into the phone.
The DJ laughed. “Isn’t that your fiancé?”
“It is,” I answered. “I need you to get
a message to her. She’s not answering her phone and I want her to know I’m alive. Erica,” my voice caught in my throat “I need you to know you’re my reason for living and your existence is the only thing driving me forward.” I paused. “DJ … can you play a song for her?”
“Trey, my man, for you I’d play a thousand songs. You want something by Doubletap?”
There was only one song that would ease the heart and mind of my dearest. A song that had helped soothe our sorrowed hearts when thousands of miles separated us, when the darkest hours threatened to melt our resolve and crush our spirits.
“Play “Open Water”, by Bless The Fall, for Erica.”
“Well played, my friend. Sweet song. She’s something else, isn’t she?”
“Yes,” I answered.
“Would you like to say anything else to her?”
There was but thing I could say that would ease her pain and worry. “Three point one four one five nine.”
The DJ laughed. “Okay then. Sounds like you and Erica might well have a math fetish. Trey, my man, I will happily get my emo on for you. And do not hesitate to call again. I am here to serve your needs. Be safe, you God of Metal.”
The call disconnected. I went back to the station and listened.
“Who am I to deny the request of a genuine rock star? Ladies and gents, let’s all bow our heads and send out every ounce of positive energy we have so that Trey will find his way back into the arms of Erica. And … Erica … if you’re listening, this song is dedicated by your lovely husband-to-be, Trey.”
The song faded into being and instantly filled my heart to bursting. I closed my eyes and could feel Erica’s body pressing against mine as we made love to the song for the first time. For those few moments, the fear and the nightmare gave way to a sacred passion.
“Please be listening,” I whispered. The song took over as I leaned against a tree and let a deluge of memories bubble up to the surface.
fourteen | Erica
I stirred as Beast’s gentle trills brought me back from the depths of dreamless sleep. My eyes were glued shut by tears, and I’d drooled all over the cold tiles of the bathroom floor. I uncurled myself from the fetal position, and rubbed my eyes.