Surviving the Day

by Matt Hart

  As he picked up the microphone, the operator’s voice changed. “What the…” came over the air, then a hiss, a clanking sound, like a hammer striking an anvil, then finally dead air—no static, no sound. Dead air meant the transmitter was still broadcasting. The professor heard a series of clicks and brief squeals, then the transmission stopped and became static—nothing transmitting. He put down the microphone, glad he hadn't responded.

  It sure sounded like something abnormal took him off the air.

  “And when are they going to find me despite my Faraday cages and positive air pressure bunkers?”

  The Professor wheeled his chair to the computer and zoomed out the recorded waveform, looking at the odd noises. He stopped the recording, saved the file, then started another recording. He reached for his headphones next to the HAM set, but stopped, hearing a faint banging noise.

  The Professor stood and went to the door and put his ear on it. The banging noise was continuing, and it was somewhere in the stairwell. He strapped on the AK and added a Kel-Tec racked on the wall next to it. He opened the door slowly, leaving on the heavy chain, and looked out. Nothing, but the banging and rattling was still going on somewhere downstairs. He disconnected the chain and closed the door, taking the time to lock the deadbolt, then crept down the stairs, checking carefully around corners the entire time. He passed the armory and reached the door to the medical floor, and the banging intensified.

  The stairwell was utterly packed with zombies, they were climbing over each other and pulling on the barricade. As he watched, a table leg was broken and the mass shifted, allowing a creature to move upward a tiny bit.

  Not good.

  He slung the shotgun and brought up the AK, single fire, and looked for a shot. He was as likely to strike his barricade as he was to hit a zombie in the head. He lowered the gun.

  Think man, or you're zombie food.

  The Professor slung the AK-47 and ran up the stairs to the top floor, pulled out his keychain and unbolted the door. He ran to his food storage and grabbed a five-gallon jug of peanut oil, then carried it back out the door, leaving it unlocked. He trudged down the stairs, lugging the heavy container as well as the guns on his back, reaching the barricade with its mob of zombies only about two minutes after he’d run back up the stairs. He quickly opened the container and pulled out a Mora knife and sliced out the seal.

  “Dammit,” he muttered. He put the container down, opened the medical facility and grabbed a plastic container that held about a quart, then shut and locked the door. He went back to the oil and poured it into the cup, then threw it on the zombies and the barricade.

  He continued until the five gallon container was emptied, then tossed the container down the stairwell for good measure. Finally, he leaned against the wall to watch and see if it worked.

  Sure enough, a zombie would grab onto the barricade and its hand would slip off. Other zombies tried to pull and scramble up the stairs but were defeated by the slick oil that covered the stairs, the barricade and all the other zombies.

  And now they all smelled a bit like peanuts instead of unwashed and slightly ammoniated flesh.

  A bit.

  He picked up the quart container and took it upstairs to be washed, then locked the first floor. On his way to the electronics room, he stopped in his armory and grabbed two cans of ammo for his AK—just in case he got stuck for real. He sat the cans down away from the door and look at the workbench. The HAM radio was scanning and the computer was recording. It looked like the radio had stopped on some static again, as the recording program had captured a few sections of low-level audio. Nobody talking though – no sounds except the static.

  The Professor opened the recording of the operator from Pittsfield. He played it back, over and over, sometimes looping the odd noises – the hissing, the clicks and the squeals.

  First, he looped the hissing sounds, listening to that for more than five minutes. Not like a snake or an animal, more like air escaping. Almost like the last bit of fire extinguisher gas. He wrote that down in his notebook.

  Next, he looped the clicking sounds. He'd always been fascinated with the language of insects, and he could have sworn this was something like that.

  Finally, he looped the squealing sounds. Artificial, possibly feedback, but it wasn't just one frequency – he heard several together. Highlighting one section of sound, he profiled it and then filtered that part out of the squealing and played the result.

  His hair stood on end. It sounded almost exactly like a 1200 baud modem signal. Certainly artificial and most likely computer generated. It was a sound from his youth. Logging onto CompuServe and hanging out in a CB room. FidoNet downloading forum messages. A Wildcat BBS with Star Wars fan fiction stories.

  He wrote it all down in his notebook, then re-read his notes from the beginning.

  If I can actually read that signal, or just duplicate it somehow…

  He opened a terminal window on his Mac and started typing a script:

  ]$ nano processSignal.php

  It's going to be a long night.

  Chapter 25

  —————

  Interlude: Boreling Empire: Aliens are People Too

  By Dradge Borgwah

  Do you remember the Ruiarkians? I do. We pulled a male from the planet and even brought it here for an interview, shackled inside a bubble of its planet’s atmosphere. We asked it about its life on Ruiarkia, the name they gave their world. It told us of their history, how their machines became smart, how they nearly took over. Thousands of years had passed, and their ban on computers had remained.

  Of course we already knew that—it's why we unleashed the smart machines. Their societal fear was off the charts, created an audience larger than any program in history, and made the network we know today, made the society we have today! A society built on our ability to exploit the pathetic sufferings of “lesser creatures.” Just an extension of the doglard fights that have been part of our culture as long as we can remember, along with putting fighting spurs on bridlings, and betting on which one will survive the fight.

  I recollect how the Ruiarkian squealed as it told of his mate’s death at the claws of a killer-shredder. The audience laughed as the scene was replayed on the monitor. They laughed even harder when the male tore at the prison of his interview bubble, and the footage of his death as he suffocated in our atmosphere was replayed endlessly on the re-runs of the Apocalypse Show.

  But I ask you – are we better for the kind of “entertainment” we have now? Shows about horrific crimes that we deplore, and at the same time, shows where we torture and kill thinking creatures? There's even the “Alien Appreciation Society”, intent on tasting every alien they can find. Sometimes it must be carefully prepared, as it would poison anyone who consumed it incorrectly. And other times, well, we have the Marcshgots, said to be one of the most delicious creatures ever found, best eaten alive so that their “terror juices” are at their height of flavor. Of course you know of Marcsh, the only planet to avoid complete destruction, but only because the Mellow Marcsh Treats Corporation lobbied against it in order to protect their food empire.

  An entire planet of sentient creatures, reared like cattle for our pleasure.

  We are the Borelings, the greatest empire in the known galaxy.

  We are better than this.

  The End

  Continued in Book 3 (preview at the end of this book)

  Visit ApocalypseMakers.com for release dates

  Are there any other survivors out there? There have been unsubstantiated reports of aliens escaping the carnage of the show. Fleeing in fast ships, hiding in asteroids, even deep under the surface of the planet. There are even alien sightings reported on some of the outlying worlds of our Empire!

  If you are a survivor, or know of one, go to ApocalypseMakers.com to tell your story, sign up for our Survival Tips Newsletter, or to sign the Aliens are People Too signature drive—it's the only way we can get this on the Imperial D
ocket. Keep hoping, and we greatly appreciate your reviews. Spread the word and Help the Humans!

  Book reviews are greatly appreciated—it's how indie authors like myself are encouraged and gain more readers. Thanks!

  About the Author

  Matt Hart knows a little about survival—especially what not to do.

  - Don't try to hike out of a Nevada desert after your motorcycle gets stuck in the mud—better to head to the lake proper and find help. #heatstroke

  - Don't try to jump over the icy river in your snowmobile—you'll end up standing chest deep in it, holding the machine against the far bank while your cousin rushes back to help you. #hypothermia

  - Don't turn right when driving up Squaw Mountain—that first switchback is icy, deserted, and unplowed. #stuckatmidnight

  In addition to the above near-death experiences, Matt has survived a 14 foot motorcycle jump (alone, no helmet), being shot at (as a teenager, up a thirty foot tree), and having a three wheeler land atop him as he crashed onto a concrete sidewalk after a badly-thought-out jump.

  And there's the snakes, the black widow, the 90 foot drop off…

  Apocalypse Makers: Book 3 Preview

  Erin

  I opened my eyes, barely remembering where I was. The darkness was complete, but I could hear someone breathing deeply beside me. My memories caught up quickly as I recalled the events of the past day—the zombies and the kidnappers.

  The people I’d killed.

  …

  Would my actions in this house be considered self-defense?

  It was too much to think about. I closed my eyes and counted from twenty to zero, then opened them again, staring into the dark room. I took a quick inventory. My right hand felt for my belt with the baton and machete. My left hand brushed across a flashlight. I sat up felt past the flashlight for my pack, and the guns underneath it. I felt their barrels and the bandolier, then lay back down.

  Everything's here.

  Plus Camo Joe. I wasn't sure how to feel about him. I knew I wanted to be with him, both to protect him and because he would protect me. I guess times of stress draw people together, but in the quiet darkness I realized he had begun to restore the only trust I'd ever had in anyone except my mom and dad since the Incident, as mom would call it.

  My thoughts became jumbled as I remembered. Flashes of faces. Schoolmates, police, the school board. My defenses started to kick in, but I wanted to remember.

  I forced myself to continue playing back the story, drowning out the numbers in my head that screamed for attention.

  --- --- --- --- ---

  “Come on, Erin,” called Yuriel. “It's about to start!”

  “Alright, I'm coming,” said Erin, picking up her backpack and running to her friend, laughing. They held hands like best friends do and walked together into the crowded gym. The rest of the freshman class was already there, so Erin and Yuriel took seats on the front row. They turned and waved to their schoolmates; friends they hadn't seen since the end of eighth grade. Any boys in the vicinity predictably turned and looked at the two. Yuriel had hair so blonde it was almost white. The feathered look was back in style, and her hair fell gracefully around her perfect features. She smiled and boys practically fell off their benches. She tossed her head back and giggled.

  Erin was in many ways a perfect contrast to Yuriel, beautiful in a different way. She was athletic where Yuriel had a movie star’s body. Her dark hair was silken, not a strand out of place. Her skin was like alabaster, clean and smooth. Yuriel sported sunburnt cheeks and cute freckles. They compared their fingernails for the tenth time that morning. They'd started a tradition the first time they painted them: trying to outdo each other the first day of school. Yuriel had bright yellow nails with a rainbow on each hand. It came together in an arc when she pressed her fingers together. Erin opted for a dark peach color with a feather on her right thumb. Her mom had taken her to a professional, and it was a hard coating that would last for weeks.

  The two friends waved at people they knew, and flirted with cute boys they didn't know. Yuriel’s smile was gifted freely to anyone, while Erin’s was reserved until she laughed. Both were petite, fast friends since the fourth grade, but their popularity circle was practically infinite. Yuriel was dating an older boy, and Erin had missed her friend during the summer.

  But then she might have been the one who wasn't around, spending much of her time sailing with her father. Her mother was a lawyer in some big firm, while her father was retired from the Air Force and was an occasional motivational speaker.

  “Ahem!” came a voice out of the gym speakers. A slightly disheveled man stood at a small podium. “Welcome to Lincoln High School, freshman!” he said, a little too happily and a little too loudly. The noise dwindled, but there was still a remnant chattering amongst themselves, including Erin and Yuriel. “Listen up please, listen up everyone.” The two girls turned their attention to the podium, still giggling over a shared joke. A row of teachers stood behind the man.

  “Behind me are your teachers, whom I'm certain you'll all get along well. The teaching experience behind me represents over two hundred years of experience.”

  Erin nudged Yuirel and giggled.

  Neither of them noticed one of the teachers staring at them.

  --- --- --- --- ---

  It wasn't Yuriel’s fault, and it wasn't my fault, but Yuriel blamed herself. The only person to blame was Rilky. My face felt like it was on fire as I remembered his name.

  --- --- --- --- ---

  A whistle blew, loud in the enclosed gym. “Alright everyone, bring the basketballs over here and hit the showers.” Erin and Yuriel laughed and bounced their balls as they headed toward the gym teacher, surrounded by a gaggle of boys, strutting and tripping over themselves to get the girls’ attention. As they neared the rollable shelves for the balls, Yuriel missed her dribble; the ball tripping Erin and slamming her to the floor. The gym teacher rushed over as Erin lay facedown on the hardwood of the basketball court. He started to gently roll her over, but his eyes went wide as he saw her ripped shirt. He turned her back facedown and looked around at the students behind him. It didn't seem like any of them saw it.

  “Everyone except you, young lady, hit the showers.” The students muttered among themselves as they walked off. “What was your name again?” asked the teacher.

  “Yuriel, Mr. Rilky.”

  “Okay, I want you to help me get this young lady to my office. She's had a bad fall, possibly a concussion.” The teacher slid his hand beneath Erin, running his hand across her body and pulling up the torn shirt, and then turned her over, his thick, squat frame hiding his actions from Yuriel. He lifted her to his shoulder. He was short enough to carry her comfortably. Yuriel took her other shoulder and they carried her to the teacher’s office.

  “Why did you throw that ball at her, Yuriel?” he asked casually as they walked Erin to the office.

  “I… What? No, I, I just missed…”

  “I understand it might have been just for fun, but you've seriously injured this young girl,” he said. They went through a door and the teacher paused for a moment to press a button on the edge of the door.

  “It was an accident, Mr. Rilky, honest!” cried Yuriel. “I didn't mean to trip her!”

  “Oh I'm sure you didn't mean it,” said the teacher in a calm, cold voice. “But I'm going to have to call an ambulance, and they'll have to involve the police.” The two reached the office, and the teacher pulled out a key ring and unlocked the door.

  “But, but I…” stammered Yuriel.

  “Look,” said the teacher, “it'll be alright. I don't know what the other kids will say to the police, but I'll be sure to tell them you didn't mean to trip her, okay?” He cupped Yuriel’s chin and lifted her tear-streaked face. “It’ll be okay,” he said, and kissed her forehead.

  “Thank you, Mr. Rilky,” said Yuriel, choking back sobs. The teacher walked over to his desk and picked up the phone, then dialed some numbers. He l
ooked back at Yuriel.

  “Go ahead and take your shower, I'll call the nurse first and see what she says. Maybe we don't need an ambulance after all.” Yuriel nodded her head and walked out of the office, terrified and crying, her thoughts jumbled. She was afraid she'd hurt her best friend, afraid she'd get in trouble, afraid that the other kids thought she'd done it on purpose. She pushed open the door to the gym and turned and went to the lockers.

  Behind her, the door to the office closed, and the lock clicked shut.

  Yuriel walked quickly to the girl’s locker room. “What happened, is she alright?” asked a tall redhead. Yuriel looked up and the girls around her gasped as they saw her tear-streaked face,

  “Mr. Rilky called the nurse, he thinks she'll be alright,” said Yuriel in a detached voice. She walked to her locker and opened it, took out her clothes bag and carried it to the showers, still crying.