by Jack Wallen
“Got it!” Jamal tagged the Moaner and tossed the rod into the back of the Hummer. “Let’s head back home, B.”
He lifted a small box and flipped a switch. A tiny beep emanated from the box.
“The ZDC isn’t the only one with tracking capabilities. I thought it might be smart to know where this fucker is heading…you know, so we don’t make the mistake of crossing paths again.”
The Hummer kicked up a rooster tail of sand as we left the area. The zombies faded into the horizon, and I released a squeal of delight.
“Why, Bethany Nitshimi, I don’t think I’ve ever had the pleasure of hearing you squeal.”
“Oh, you haven’t? We must do something about that.”
Jamal leaned over and kissed my neck. Fire rose from my core to my fingertips.
I was alive, Jacob was back in my life…nothing could stop me now.
Jamal leaned forward and turned the radio on.
“You’re listening to WZMB, Zombie Radio. Your p-p-personal soundtrack, to the end of the world. That was Yes and ‘Big Generator.’ To that I say, praise o’ praise this anthem. And speaking of anthems, I am fairly certain we all bore witness to the birth of the anthem for the new world order. During what is being called the Metal Meltdown, the Polish metal band UnSun premiered their latest song—a song dedicated to none other than Bethany Nitshimi. Once you got beyond the pure awesome sound of the song to wrap your brains around the words, you would swear you’d crawled inside the skin of Bethany and now understand the absolute hell the woman has been through to save our sorry asses. If you missed it the first time around, fear not, my undead nation, for I have one of the few copies of the studio version to exist. And, without further ado, I give you…‘Cry Zombie Cry.’”
Jamal reached out to the radio. With shocking speed I reached up to stop his hand. Jamal turned and shook his head. I released his hand and he continued to the dial and proceeded to turn the volume as high as it would go without distorting the sound. The second time the chorus came around, Jamal and I sang along at the top of our lungs.
“I know the reason, my heart beats your treason. Die inside and weave your lie…Cry Zombie Cry.”
When the song was over, Jamal reached over and placed his hand on top of mine.
“We’re going to make it through this, Bethany.”
“I know we will. We have to.”
chapter 36 | from the cradle to the grave
The living humans were crushed by sheer numbers. Thousands upon thousands of men, women, and children forced into cages, like chickens on an egg farm. No one knew why. Everyone cried out for help until voices were hoarse and ragged. No matter how they cried out, no one came—not friend, not foe.
Eventually the living grew exhausted from banging against the bars and hearing their shouts echo to silence. At that point, they gave up and fell asleep, hoping death would release them from hell.
Commander Faddig watched from within a controlled, air-conditioned environment. Placed before him was a ceramic plate piled high with freshly cooked paneer karahi—a favorite dish from his childhood. With each delicious bite, pieces of memory fell into place. His mother, her flowing sari and the smell of her jasmine perfume. The sound of music and the laughter of his father and siblings.
Peace. Well before he was drunk from the damning well of corruption to become the leader of the only organization that held a modicum of power over the innocent lives of the living.
“Sir.” A voice dragged Faddig from his reverie. The commander simply held up a hand to silence the interloper.
Finally, after the last bite of cheese had made its way down Faddig’s throat, he turned to the young soldier.
“Yes?”
“The Cradle is ready.”
Faddig nodded, picked up his sat phone, and dialed.
“Now,” was all Faddig said.
Both men focused their attention on the bank of monitors. The unsuspecting sleepers were torn from either dream or nightmare by the sound of moaning. The cage doors rattled open to give the zombies access to the ripe flesh.
The undead converged on the living as a neon-green mist sprayed from reconfigured sprinkler systems.
Screams distorted the monitor speakers. Faddig grabbed a tablet and tapped out the commands to mute all sound.
“Their screams bring me nightmares,” Faddig said.
The young soldier handed Faddig a card reader. Faddig removed a wallet from his back pocket and removed a plastic key card.
“From hell’s heart, I stab at thee.” Faddig let the words settle before he swiped his card through the reader. On the screen, a blaring sound replaced that of the feeding beasts. Every zombie dropped to its knees to beat its head on the concrete floor. A brilliant light pulsed along with the sounds.
And then…the screens went black.
The sat phone rang. Faddig answered. From the other end of the connection a voice spoke measuredly.
“It worked. The Genesis Cradle has taken effect.”
Faddig disconnected, sat the phone down, and smiled.
“For unto us a child is born.”
About the Author
Jack Wallen is a seeker of truth and a writer of words. Although he resides in the unlikely city of Louisville, Kentucky, he likes to think of himself more as an interplanetary soul … or so he tells the reflection in the mirror. He’s also the author of:
I Zombie I
My Zombie My
Die Zombie Die
Lie Zombie Lie
Zombie Radio
T-Minus Zero
The Last Casket
Hell’s Muse
Screampark
Klockwerk Kabaret
Shero
Shero II: Zombie A GoGo
Shero III: Death by Cosplay
A Blade Away
Gothica
Endgame
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Contact Jack!
To get more information about Jack, stop by his web site, Get Jack’d, and learn more. You can also send Jack an email to [email protected].