How can one not be fascinated? How can one not want to learn about specially trained secret agents who are sent to another country and assimilate into the culture, waiting for the moment when their handler contacts them to commit an act of terrorism that, while it is a means to an end, might lead to their death. But to them, to the believers, death is life.
For the sake of plausible deniability, many cell members do not even know the existence of their comrades. Cell Member #1 may live in the same city as Cell Member #2 and not know of his existence. Cell Member #3 may be friends with Cell Member #4 without ever realizing that they are coworkers of sorts. Gripping, simply gripping.
There are considerably more cells in the United States than one would expect. Al-Qaeda has offshoots in Tucson, Santa Clara, Houston, Orlando, Boston, and Portland. Hamas has been spotted in Los Angeles, Kansas City, Oklahoma City, and Dallas, as well as in my very own town of Chicago. There is the Muslim Brotherhood in Tulsa, and al-Gama’ at al-Islamiyya in Detroit, and the Algerian Armed Islamic Group in Seattle, and Abu Sayyat in San Francisco, and on, and on, and on.
I know how they work, and I know how to make them work better. I know the proper way to make a pipe bomb. I know how to create sarin gas out of common household items. I know American sleeper cells better than the cell members themselves. It is my job, and I am an expert.
Becoming a member of one of the above will not be a problem.
http://www.thetruthaboutzombies.com
Welcome to the Truth About Zombies
April 19, 2009
Possibly interesting news from the world of the undead, kiddies. TTAZ member Gorgeous Gorge knows somebody who knows somebody who saw these four college kids in the Oakwood Cemetery in Nowheresville, Texas, digging up what was likely a grave. (WTF else could it be they were digging up? It’s not like you’re going to find anything else in a cemetery other than a grave.) Apparently there was moaning and a heinous stench. (Sounds pretty zombie-centric to me!) Gorge’s friend’s friend’s friend sent us a cell picture: Click here for photo.
That, dear readers, is what we in the zombie industry refer to as “indisputable evidence.” Granted, the zombie industry’s definition of “indisputable evidence” is far different than that of the rest of the world. See, we take what we can get.
Keep your eyes peeled, and drop us a note if you see anything.
COMMENTS
Bullshit picture. Doesn’t prove anything
Adam from Cleveland, OH
April 20, 1:10 AM
I know exactly where that is, and I’ve seen some weird shit going down back there for the last two weeks. First of all, I can attest to the stench. You can smell it from five blocks away, and even farther if you’re downwind. Second of all, there’re always people going in and out of the cemetery at night. I know for a fact that most of them are dipshit high school kids getting drunk and tipping headstones (stay classy, Texas), but some of them, not so much. I can’t attest to any gravedigging, but, like I said, weird shit.
P.S.—Yo, Adam from Cleveland, enough with the negative vibes. No haters allowed.
Brenda from Austin, TX
April 20, 2:42 AM
There was a little piece in the Dallas Observer about it last week. I can’t believe none of you saw this. Weirdly enough, the link for the article is dead, so I typed it up for y’all. Check it out:
“Word out of Austin is that the undead are walking the streets … or at least that’s the word from our photo intern Paul Chase, who claims that three of his friends who live by the Oakwood Cemetery have disappeared off the face of the earth, and his feeling is that they were murdered by zombies who have risen from the grave, and they will be reanimated when the time is right. We can’t prove it … but we can’t disprove it, and Paul is a good man, so we’ll run with it.”
Full disclosure: I know Paul Chase. He wouldn’t make this up. I’ve had a call in to him since I read the article but haven’t heard back. I promise I’ll post any news I can find.
Craig from Austin, TX
April 20, 7:02 AM
i died today and i was reborn and it was beautiful and you bitches are all missing out. it’s easy. bash your head against a mirror and eat the glass. put your head under the tire of a city bus. put some gasoline up your ass and light a match. then wait. they’ll come. and it’ll be worth the wait.
Zombie Jim from You Don’t Want to Know, TX
April 21, 12:04 AM
Interesting. Very, very interesting.
Morris Frost from Las Vegas, NV
April 21, 12:10 AM
Zombie Jim, you’re a moron. And Morris Frost, you’re probably a moron, too.
Adam from Cleveland, OH
April 21, 9:17 AM
FROM: [email protected]
TO: GaryChurch@gmail
SUBJECT: Anybody home?
DATE: April 23, 2009
Hey, Gar—
I know you’re busy on the set and all, but I haven’t heard from you in a week. What gives? Shoot me a text or something.
Love,
Warren
FROM: [email protected]
TO: [email protected]
I’m fine. Don’t write me.
SENT FROM MY VERIZON BLACKBERRY
FROM: [email protected]
TO: GaryChurch@gmail
SUBJECT: Anybody home?
DATE: April 23, 2009
Screw that. (I’d have said “eff” that, but we have a sensitive spam filter.) I’m calling you tonight.
FROM: [email protected]
TO: [email protected]
I’M FINE. DON’T CALL ME.
SENT FROM MY VERIZON BLACKBERRY
ERICK LAUGHLIN:
I still don’t know the exact date in April that it started, and I still don’t know most of what happened, and since I’m not the deepest thinker in the world, I don’t like going there all that often. Whatever.
What happened was, every night I stayed home—whenever I was in my apartment—I’d fall asleep at exactly 9:33 P.M., and then wake up each morning at 9:33 A.M. When I was at a gig, or a rehearsal, or on a date, or at a movie, I’d stay awake, no problem. But if I was in my crib at 9:33, boom, out like a fucking light. Those sleeps were dreamless, and I always woke up tired. What the fuck, right?
Once I figured out the pattern—which took four, maybe five days—I tried to keep myself awake. I’d set my alarm for 9:35 P.M.—two minutes after crash time—and I’d blast that shit at full volume. Didn’t work. Slept right through it. I bought two more alarm clocks and set them at staggered times throughout the night. Same thing.
Now, I may not have the ability or desire to examine my inner self, but I’m definitely not one of those guys who’ll let things sit. I’m a pragmatist. Like if I see a red splotch on my balls, I’m going to the dong doctor’s office, and parking myself in his waiting room, and not leaving until the guy sees me. Having a father who half-assed his cancer treatment until he had one toe in the grave will affect you that way, you know? So on the fourth night of this crap, when I woke up with dirt on the cuffs of my jeans, reeking of sweat socks, I was like, Screw this, something ain’t right. I might be sleepwalking all over the damn place. I’m getting a sleep study.
DR. JOSEPH HOLLANDER (director, Austin American Sleep Diagnostic Center):
Erick Laughlin came to the center on April 30, 2009, complaining of what was, in effect, a case of narcolepsy. Most people have the misconception that having narcolepsy means you fall asleep at random times, and while that is one of the symptoms, the disorder is, unfortunately, far more debilitating. Among other symptoms, narcoleptics can also experience sleep paralysis, hallucinations, and, worst of all, cataplexy, which is similar to an epileptic seizure in that the patient is conscious but unable to speak, or move, or feel.
Mr. Laughlin’s sleep study took place on the nights of May 2 and May 3, and it proved nothing. On the first night, he fell asleep just before midnight and awoke at seven A.M.; the seco
nd, he slept from eleven P.M. to eight A.M. His test readings both nights were normal.
At our May 5 consultation, he insisted that we take our equipment to his residence and conduct the study there. Unfortunately, that would have been prohibitively expensive, and his insurance didn’t cover a remote study, so we had to refuse. It was at that point he became argumentative and physically aggressive. Security escorted him from the building, and I never heard from him again.
I should note that some narcolepsy sufferers are prone to violence.
ERICK LAUGHLIN:
After Dr. Hollander told me they couldn’t haul their equipment to my pad, something snapped, and I jumped over his desk, grabbed him by the lapels of his lab coat, and shook him, and shook him, and shook him, and I couldn’t stop. I had no control of my limbs. It was like I was standing outside of my body. Apparently that might’ve been caused by my narcolepsy that, according to Hollander, wasn’t really narcolepsy, but whatever. It happened. Nobody got hurt. Badly.
Since the center wouldn’t do a study, I decided to do one myself. My apartment became the Erick Laughlin Clinic for Weird-Ass Sleep Disorders. It wasn’t the most high-tech setup: We’re talking a microphone fed into my Mac and a sweet video camera I borrowed from my drummer, Theo. After years of being a film critic, I was making my very own movie. Sort of.
So three days after my two bullshit nights at the center, I got into bed at 9:00, pressed Record on my computer, turned on the camera, and stared at the clock. The last thing I remember was seeing 9:32.
The next morning, I woke up at 9:33, put on some coffee, pulled the DVD-R out of the camera, stuck it into my computer, synced it up with the sound, and hit play.
And then I disappeared.
THEO MORRISON (drummer, Massacre This):
Yeah, I totally remember when Erick called about the whole disappearing thing. He was like, “Dude, get over here now.”
I was like, “I’m on my way to the shop, man.” I worked at Friends of Sound over on South Congress Street. My manager didn’t like it when I was late, and I was always late, so when I had the chance to be on time, I took it.
He was like, “Call in sick, man. I need you. I’m fucked-up, Theo.”
Me and Erick met in freshman year of high school, and we’ve been tight ever since. We’ve been through a lot of shit together, but he never told me that he needed me, so I knew something was up. I was like, “Okay, bro. Be over in fifteen.” My boss at the store was pissed until I told him it was a family emergency. Because that’s what it was. Laughlin was family, man.
I got to his crib in, like, five minutes. He buzzed me in, and I went up the stairs, and he looked a mess … at least for him. Unless he was wasted or hungover—or both—Erick was one put-together cat, like with his hair always in the right place, and his face always all shaven, et cetera. Not that morning. That morning, he looked … wild. Animalistic. Kind of creepy.
I was like, “What’s wrong, bro?”
He was like, “It’s this sleep thing.”
I was like, “What about it? How’d the camera work out?” He goes, “It’s fucked-up.”
I was like, “Dude, tell me you didn’t fuck up that camera. That shit was expensive.”
He says, “The camera isn’t fucked-up. The whole thing is fucked-up. Dig this.”
And then he showed me the video. It was him sitting there reading, then him falling asleep, then him disappearing. Poof. Gone.
I go, “Dude, that was some awesome editing!”
He was like, “I don’t have any video editing programs on my computer. What you see is what happened. I … fucking … disappeared.”
I was like, “Well, you’re back now. Did you look at the end?”
He goes, “Shit, no. I freaked. I didn’t want to watch alone. That’s why you’re here.”
I go, “Hell yeah, that’s why I’m here. Fire that shit up again.”
So he drags the cursor to the end of the recording, and poof, he reappears in the exact same position he was in when he disappeared. I was like, “WTF?”
He goes, “Yeah. WTF. Bro, you’re staying with me tonight.”
I was like, “Shit.”
ERICK LAUGHLIN:
Theo was not psyched. I can’t say that I blame him. I know if one of my friends was evaporating and asked me to babysit him, I’d probably be a little, um, let’s say trepidatious.
THEO MORRISON:
I couldn’t say no. He’d have done it for me.
So fast-forward to 9:33 that night. We’re sitting there yammering about John Bonham, and right in the middle of a sentence, the dude falls asleep, right on schedule, and then, right before my fucking eyes, the dude disappears. WTF, right?
I go to the bed and feel around, and yeah, sure e-fucking-nough, that bastard was gone. Gone, gone, gone, clothes and all. I grab his keys from his desk and go for a walk to see if I can track his invisible ass down. I didn’t know where to start. I mean, where the fuck was I supposed to go? His mom’s house? Our rehearsal space? A cemetery? No clue, so I went back to his crib, and lay down on his bed, and waited for 9:33.
Now that I think about it, it’s weird that we never discussed why this was happening to him, only how we could fix it. Hunh.
ERICK LAUGHLIN:
I opened my eyes at 9:33—of course—and there was good old Theo, crashed out right next to me. He rolled over, then said, “Yo. Welcome home, dude. Sleep well?”
I said, “Did I disappear?”
He said, “Yeah. You disappeared like a motherfucker. But I have an idea.”
THEO MORRISON:
I didn’t sleep for shit that night. I mean, would you? Your best bud disappears, and you’re supposed to be able to crash? No way, man. So I thought, and thought, and thought—what else was I going to do?—and came up with the best idea ever.
ERICK LAUGHLIN:
He said, “We’re going to use the camera.”
I said, “We already used the camera.”
He said, “No, we’re going to put the camera on you.”
I said, “We already put the camera on me.”
He said, “No, we’re going to put the camera on you.”
I said, “What’re you talking about?”
He said, “Dig it: Your clothes went with you when you pulled your fade, so maybe if we duct-tape the camera to your chest, it’ll go with you, too. We’ll hit the Record button before you go beddy-bye, and we’re good to go. It’ll pick up something.”
Theo was right about that. It sure as shit picked up something.
THEO MORRISON:
That camera weighed like fifty pounds, and it took an entire roll of duct tape to get that thing secure. It was probably uncomfortable as shit for Eric, but, you know, the dude wasn’t having trouble falling asleep, so that wasn’t an issue.
So he disappears at 9:33 at night again, and he comes back at 9:33 in the morning again, and when he gets up, I pull out a box cutter and start cutting off all the tape. He’s like, “Dude, slow down. My skin is under this tape.” So I slowed down, and I got the camera off, and I managed to cut him only once.
I’ve got to tell you, man, we were not psyched to watch the video. But we watched it.
ERICK LAUGHLIN:
Based on what we saw, I wasn’t disappearing, exactly. It was more that I became invisible and moved really fast.
At first, the picture was kind of a blur, but we could tell I was going down my stairs and out of my building, and then I made a left, which meant I was heading west. Beyond that, it was impossible to even guess where the fuck I was going.
About half an hour into my invisible run, or sprint, or whatever the hell it was, I came to a sudden stop in front of a mall, and it was light outside. Maybe that was a trick of the camera. Or maybe I went so far west that I caught up with the sunset. No clue.
I clearly still wasn’t visible to the world at large, because nobody looked directly at me, and if you saw some guy in the middle of a mall wandering around with a vi
deo camera duct-taped to his chest, you’d stare.
No staring. No nothing.
I was gliding smoothly through the mall—the picture never once became shaky; it was almost like the camera was on a dolly. The angle of the shot was relatively high, and since the camera had been strapped onto my chest, and I’m only five foot ten, it seemed like I was floating.
And then people started falling.
THEO MORRISON:
There were these red things shooting out of Erick, or from behind Erick, and when one would hit somebody, they’d stumble onto the ground, then they’d get right back up again, like nothing happened. It was totally random who was getting zitzed: some dudes, some chicks, some grown-ups, some kids, some African Americans, some white peeps, and some Asian folks. Wait, now that I think about it, it wasn’t totally random: All the people getting shot were alone. The only zitz-ees were wandering the mall all by their lonesome. Weird. Or weirder.
After about an hour at the mall, Invisible Erick took off and glided along for another forty-five minutes. He ended up at a movie theater—no surprise there; Erick’s a film nerd, and that’s the way he rolls … even when he’s invisible, I guess—and then he went shooting that weird red shit at the loners again. That was when things got weird. Or weirder.
Midnight Movie: A Novel Page 8