The War On Horror: Tales From A Post-Zombie Society

by Nathan Allen

Adam opened the door leading down to the basement and was instantly struck with a barrage of pounding music. He and the rest of the team instinctively clasped their hands over their ears. That was the moment Miles realised just how effective soundproof walls and doors actually were. There was near-silence when they entered these premises a moment ago. Now they were forced to scream at each other in order to be heard over the thumping racket.

  “Can we get that music shut off?” Adam shouted into Miles’ ear.

  Miles ran back upstairs and had the owner switch the music off. He hurried back to the basement, just as the lights flickered on.

  Once everyone’s eyes adjusted to the light they could see just what sort of establishment this was. It looked something like a dungeon crossed with a grimy dive bar. It had a kind of futuristic-gothic décor, with chains hanging from the ceiling, medieval torture devices strategically placed throughout the room, and mirrored glass covering almost every surface. This was not the kind of nightspot any of the staff had ever frequented, with the possible exception of Adam.

  But the real eye-opener was the bar’s clientele.

  The room was filled with kinky freaks in spiked dog collars and chain mail vests, leather chaps and body piercings, PVC bodysuits and gimp masks. Every one of them was kitted out in extreme BDSM getup, and every one of them was now undead.

  One young female zombie was chained to the wall, halfheartedly struggling to free herself. Another zombie, a middle-aged man, had his head and hands in stocks, the kind of punishment used in colonial times – although in those days, it’s unlikely he would have also had his nipples clamped.

  Adam did a quick head count. There were maybe fifty zombies in total, although the hall-of-mirrors effect made it seem like there were thousands. He was almost giddy with excitement, but refrained from showing any emotion; it was unprofessional, not to mention in poor taste, to derive pleasure from such large-scale loss of life. But he couldn’t deny the sheer relief he felt upon laying eyes on so many zombies in the one location. Dead Rite desperately needed a job like this to help stay afloat.

  The rest of the crew viewed the club from above, barely able to believe what they were seeing. Many had walked past this place hundreds of times before with absolutely no idea of what lurked underneath.

  “What do you suppose could have happened here?” Felix said, sweating even more profusely than usual.

  “Who knows, guy?” Adam replied. “Maybe someone was infected when they came down here, then it spread to the others and they weren’t able to get out in time. It would have been pretty dark, and there’s only one exit.”

  “Could be a conversion party that got out of hand,” Marcus hypothesised.

  “Oh, come on,” Miles said. “Those are just urban legends. Aren’t they?”

  Conversion parties were unsubstantiated reports of people coming together to deliberately infect themselves to become zombies. There had been isolated reports of this happening involving suicidal people, the terminally ill and extreme body modification enthusiasts, but the existence of large-scale gatherings that Marcus was describing had never been proven, and all evidence regarding them was purely anecdotal. But that didn’t stop the rumours from spreading, helped in no small part by sensationalised reports in the tabloid media. Some claimed it was done as the ultimate act of rebellion and defiance towards straight society. Others were said to believe that becoming a zombie was a form of immortality; a way of cheating death.

  The Dead Rite crew set to work, carefully and methodically subduing each zombie and taking them up to the minibus. They were all relatively easy to restrain – made easier due to the fact that many were already handcuffed or in shackles, and some even had ball gags stuffed in their mouths – but the job still took over five hours to complete. They had to make four separate trips to the processing centre, but no one minded working the extra hours. This was the most lucrative job they’d had for some time.

  For some of the more experienced workers it brought to mind another job they had undertaken a couple of years back, inside a sprawling mansion in the wealthiest part of town. That one netted them a staggering seventy-eight zombies. It was beyond belief – every room they entered uncovered more and more undead beings, many with little or no clothing. It was rumoured that the owners rented the place out as some sort of zombie whorehouse, although these allegations were just speculation.

  “Oh. My. God.”

  Erin’s mouth was agape as she stared at the elderly zombie before her, clad only in leather hot pants and a blindfold. His hands were tied above his head, and fresh whip marks crisscrossed his back. “I know this guy!” she screamed. “He was literally my high school principal!”

  Miles came in for a closer look and saw that it was in fact Mr. Gordon, the principal from his and Erin’s high school days.

  “Just when I thought this job couldn’t get any weirder,” he said.

  “Oh my God, you don’t even know what this guy was like?” Erin squealed. “He was the squarest guy you could ever imagine? It was like he literally arrived in a time machine from the nineteenth century or something?”

  The words were tumbling out of Erin now, unaware that Miles already knew all of this. He too was having trouble reconciling the fact that the nearly-naked undead pervert spreadeagled before him was the same man who frequently gave him detention for school uniform violations.

  Miles recalled that Mr. Gordon often showed up to school sporting bruises and black eyes. He claimed these were sustained during squash games, but now he knew what was really going on. It seemed that quite often the more normal someone appeared on the outside, the more depraved they were on the inside.

  A terribly inappropriate thought suddenly materialised inside Miles’ head. He knew it was so very wrong, but he couldn’t help himself.

  At least Mr. Gordon died doing what he loved.

  “You okay there, Miles?”

  Miles looked up to find Elliott standing beside him. “Huh?”

  “You’re staring into space with a weird goofy grin on your face.”

  “Oh, it’s just ... nothing.”

  The two of them untied Zombie Mr. Gordon and led him upstairs.

  It was dark by the time they finally finished. Most of the staff were exhausted and just wanted to go home, but the job had put Miles in a buoyant mood. With the overtime rates and bonuses he was about to receive for today’s work, he would have made over nine hundred dollars. Now he felt like celebrating.

  It was just his luck that the first pub Miles wandered into was filled with Z-Pro workers. If he’d known that, he wouldn’t have gone anywhere near the place. But he was here now and they had all seen him, and he didn’t want to look like he was trying to hide from them. He knew a few of them, since many were former Dead Rite employees. Dwayne Marks was there, along with a couple of others whose names he’d quickly forgotten once they’d jumped ship. They offered a friendly wave, and he waved back, but neither gave any indication that they should catch up on old times. That suited Miles just fine.

  He went to the bar and ordered a shot of whiskey.

  The Z-Pro guys (and they were exclusively male) dominated the pub, chugging beers, talking at the top of their voices and hitting on anything in a skirt. All were former high school jocks yet to realise that their school days were over. Aggressive alpha-males oozing hyper-confidence, but with little to back it up. They all looked identical, too – every one of them had tattoos covering both arms and a triangular patch of facial hair on their lower lip, and they all wore brightly-coloured polo shirts with the collar popped. To an observer this was a slightly unsettling image. It was as if scientists had taken the biggest douchebag they could find and cloned him fifteen times. Even Dwayne Marks now had a small cluster of tattoos on his forearm, displaying the early symptoms of the Z-Pro virus that would slowly but surely take over the rest of his body.

  Z-Pro were the polar opposite of Dead Rite, who were a mélange of misfits, geeks, outcasts and losers; the ones
always picked last. Z-Pro had successfully stripped Dead Rite of all their talent by poaching the best and leaving the rejects. Many of the defectors couldn’t wait to get away from Dead Rite – not only was the money a lot better at Z-Pro, but they didn’t have to live with the stigma of working for “a couple of homos”.

  The pub was busier than usual this Thursday night. It had been a while since Miles had been in there. It used to be a complete dive, but that was what he liked about it. It had paint peeling from the walls, smashed windows that were boarded up instead of replaced, and a floor that was so sticky you risked becoming permanently affixed to the spot if you stood in the one place for too long. A tiny stage in the corner was usually occupied by some tuneless punk band who, even by punk-rock standards, could barely play their instruments.

  But it was sold last year, and had recently reopened with an all-new gentrified makeover. Smooth polished oak replaced the chipped and splintered bar, twelve dollar imported beers replaced the cheap generic stuff, and a DJ booth replaced the stage. The place had been scrubbed clean of every speck of dirt and grime, along with all of its charm and character.

  Miles knocked back another shot and placed the glass next to the others. He paused when he counted the empty shot glasses he’d lined up, side by side. One, two, three, four ... five? That couldn’t be right. Five shots? Had he lost count already?

  He reminded himself that it was probably a good idea to slow down. He had a rule about not drinking straight liquor. There was a line, and if you crossed it you went from being “a guy who liked to party” to “a guy with a drinking problem”. The same way drug users believed that snorting recreationally was okay, but needles were for junkies. Drinking the harder stuff straight could lead you down a dark path. One minute you’re having a great time, the next you’re on your hands and knees puking in a back alley.

  He figured tonight he could make an exception. As long as he stayed at the bar, he could rely on the bartender to measure out exact quantities. He would know when Miles had had enough. Besides, it was too expensive to keep drinking shots all night at these prices.

  He ordered a Diet Coke next, just to be on the safe side.

  A familiar kickdrum beat then reverberated through the venue’s speakers, and a throng of patrons flocked to the dance floor. The DJ had dropped a hit of “Acid Reflux” by SlamCore superstar Chemikal Ali, the song currently enjoying its eighth week at number one. A bunch of the Z-Pro bromosapiens made their way over, trying out their sleazy moves on the female contingent.

  SlamCore – or “car alarm techno”, as some disparagingly referred to it as – started off as an underground concern, but the past year had seen it enjoy a meteoric rise in popularity. The scene was now well and truly overground, and previously obscure artists such as Chemikal Ali and KoreKayeShyn had become household names.

  A hyper-aggressive form of electronic dance music, SlamCore appealed to many who had previously expressed no interest in techno whatsoever. Young suburban males who banged their heads to thrash metal or hardcore punk were now swarming to these giant mega-raves and pumping the music from their bedrooms. What was once cult was now ubiquitous. These days if you wanted to hear SlamCore you only had to stick your head out the window (it blasted out of almost every frat boy-owned SUV on the road) or switch on the TV (it featured on almost every SUV commercial). Mainstream pop stars eagerly climbed aboard this latest bandwagon, terrified of being left behind. The music that once soundtracked illicit raves and highbrow art installations was now synonymous with binge drinking, strip clubs and date rape.

  The formula for a typical SlamCore track was as follows: open with a basic drum pattern, gradually build upon it over each subsequent eight bars, then hit the listener with the “slam” – pummel them with an apocalypse-announcing, heart attack-inducing barrage of pulverising drums, bowel-loosening bass lines, machine gun fire, mutant feedback, primal screaming, and anything else that could be used to drown out any discernible melody or tune. It was quite possibly the least subtle and most obnoxious form of music ever created, but it was The Sound of Now. It had been embraced by a generation surrounded by fear, death and uncertainty, and all they wanted to do was get wasted and lose their minds to it. It went without saying that anyone over the age of twenty-six didn’t get it.

  Despite falling within this target demographic, Miles winced when the music came on. He was enjoying the chill house music playing when he first came in, or at least it was unobtrusive enough for him to ignore. But there was no chance of ignoring SlamCore. If all this booze wasn’t going to leave him with a raging headache tomorrow morning, this wretched music certainly would. It was like listening to an air raid siren mating with a food processor.

  His thought process was interrupted when a sweaty, bearded man in a Hawaiian shirt entered his field of vision. He was about as wide as he was tall, and looked like he had enough body hair to survive in the wilderness without clothing. Every exposed area of skin seemed to be covered in dense fur – hairy chest, hairy arms, hairy knuckles. This guy must need the drains in his house unclogged on a daily basis.

  Miles recognised him immediately. His name was Jack Houston.

  “You’re Miles, aren’t you?” Houston said, propping himself up at the bar. The thick gold chain around his neck and chunky gold bracelet on his wrist made him look even more like a seventies porn producer.

  “Uh, yeah, that’s me,” Miles said.

  “I’m Jack Houston,” he said, offering Miles his hand. “I’m the owner of Z-Pro.”

  “I know who you are.”

  Miles tried not to show any discomfort when Houston attempted to crush his hand in the handshake. His palm was so clammy that Miles felt like his hand was caught in a dishwasher.

  Houston gestured to the bar staff. “Two shots, please,” he said. Two shots were duly delivered.

  “I’ve been impressed by what I’ve heard about you, Miles,” Houston continued. “I think you may have the potential to be Z-Pro material.”

  Miles glanced over at the Z-Pro staff on the opposite side of the bar, heckling the DJ and simulating sex acts on each other. He didn’t know whether Houston meant it as a compliment or insult by referring to him as “Z-Pro material”.

  “We’re always on the lookout for talented workers. I think you’d fit in with us quite nicely.”

  “Are you offering me a job?” Miles said. The five shots of whiskey had taken effect, dulling his basic comprehension skills while removing any filter between his brain and his mouth.

  “Yes,” Houston replied. “I’m offering you a job.”

  Miles took a moment to think this over. “That’s very generous,” he said. “But I’m afraid I’m going to have to turn it down.”

  Jack Houston forehead creased, like that wasn’t the answer he was expecting. “I gotta tell you Miles, I’m surprised you’re not more enthusiastic. Most people I approach with an offer like this accept before I can finish my sentence.”

  “Don’t take it personally,” Miles shrugged. “I’m just happy where I am.”

  He wasn’t entirely sure if this was true. Was he really happy working at Dead Rite? It’d probably be more accurate to say that even if he wasn’t completely happy with his life at that point in time, he doubted a move to Z-Pro would do anything to change that.

  Houston shook his head. “How much longer do you expect Dead Rite to be around? Every rat deserts a sinking ship sooner or later.”

  “Steve and Adam are doing okay,” Miles replied. “They’re not going anywhere.”

  He didn’t know why he felt the need to stick up for his employer like this, but something about Houston’s demeanour had him on the defensive.

  Houston leaned forward, his eyes darkening. “There’s no need to insult my intelligence Miles,” he said, his tone becoming slightly more sinister. He was close enough for Miles to feel his hot garlic-scented breath on his face. “What kind of idiot do you think I am?”

  “Just the regular kind, I suppose,
” Miles replied.

  Houston glared at Miles. There was a prolonged silence. A pregnant pause.

  Elliott once told Miles that the term “pregnant pause” comes from when you see a woman who might have put on a bit of weight, but no one wants to risk asking if she’s pregnant or not, so they wait for her to bring it up. He didn’t know if this was true or not, since Elliott often told Miles fanciful stories purely for his own amusement. When they were kids, he managed to convince Miles that his great-grandfather invented the canned laughter that is used in television sitcoms. It was years before he found out this wasn’t true.

  Houston then let out an irascible laugh. He wasn’t used to this kind of recalcitrance. Miles wasn’t used to dishing it out, either. It was only with five shots of whiskey in his system that he had the courage to do so.

  “Just give it some thought,” Houston said before leaving. “An offer like this won’t be on the table forever.”

  Houston waddled away, and Miles looked at the two shot glasses on the bar before him, the ones Houston had bought. Even though he’d told himself earlier that he’d probably had enough to drink for now, it didn’t count if the drinks were free.

  After debating what to do for all of two seconds, he tipped both shots into his Diet Coke and stirred it around with his finger.

  Chapter 11