by Nathan Allen
“So where does that leave us?” Steve said.
A tiny smirk appeared on Adam’s face. “That means we’re now officially in the black.”
The look on Steve’s face said it all – a mixture of elation and gratitude, but mostly just sheer relief.
“So we’re back to zero now?” he said.
“Pretty much,” Adam replied. “We’ve taken in enough to pay off the fine and cover all our debts. We can go, now.”
Steve waited a moment before speaking. He wanted to give the impression that he was putting some serious thought into his next move, but all he was really doing was trying to come up with the best way to phrase his response. It was the woolly mammoth-sized elephant in the room. All the workers, Steve included, wanted to stay out there and keep going. No one would come right out and say it, but it was on everyone’s mind. They had stopped thinking about how much money they had made and were starting to think about how much money they were leaving behind.
“There are still at least three or four thousand zombies out here, right?” Steve said.
Adam nodded. “That’s true.”
“And we’re already here, and it’s not even midday. So maybe we should stay for another few hours.”
Adam folded his arms. “We agreed that we would only stay until everything was paid off.”
“I know, but ... come on, Adam. We’ve gone this long without any problems. It’d be stupid to walk away from this now.”
“It’d also be stupid to get greedy and tempt fate.”
With his religious upbringing, Adam was well aware that greed was the deadliest of all the sins. Even the most honourable and morally upstanding people could succumb to temptation when large amounts of money were involved. No one was immune from having their judgment clouded by greed.
Steve exhaled. “Perhaps we should put it to a vote.”
Adam consented, but he knew voting was pointless. Of course everyone would vote to stay. They were basically asking the staff if they would like to earn an extra $10,000 on top of the $25,000 they’d already made. Going home now would be like breaking into a bank vault and leaving a sackful of gold bullion behind.
Steve called the workers in and informed them of the situation, then asked for a show of hands. Predictably, everyone voted to keep going.
“It’s only another half a day,” Steve said once the workers had returned to their designated areas. “We may as well keep going while we’re out here. I’m sure it’ll all be alright.”
“Hey,” Adam said with a shrug of resignation. “I believe in democracy.”
The bus ride back into town was quiet, save for the low groan coming from the eighty zombies crammed into the makeshift pen. Devon was behind the wheel, hurtling down the freeway as if the speed limit was just a polite suggestion.
Devon had been hastily employed a couple of days earlier to help out with the Graves End job, and he was indicative as to how far Steve had lowered his standards with regards to the quality of staff. He was a borderline derelict who Miles had seen smoking discarded cigarette butts the previous morning. His long ratty hair was tied into a ponytail so tight that it gave the impression of an extreme facelift, and his arms, hands and neck were covered in homemade tattoos.
Devon had also served a six month prison sentence for looting during the initial zombie outbreak. While some looters were given suspended sentences if they stole food or other necessities, Devon was convicted after being caught stealing sneakers, iPads and twelve cartons of cigarettes.
He was sent back to prison a year later when he punched a prostitute in the face.
Miles sat one seat back, and was still navigating his way through the hazy chemical fog brought on by his pharmaceutical misadventures. Combining uppers with downers had created a mini electrical storm inside his head, making him simultaneously hyper and drowsy. One minute he felt like he was slipping into a coma, the next he was wide awake and so alert he felt like he had gained telekinetic powers. Those diet pills turned out to be a lot stronger than he had anticipated. He probably should have read the label before tossing a handful down his throat.
The bus approached the city’s outskirts, and Miles felt his pocket vibrate. He reached in and grabbed his phone. It was a number he didn’t recognise.
“Miles, it’s me,” came the shaky voice at the end of the line.
“Jesus, Clea.” Miles sat up in his seat. “What the hell was all that this morning? Where are you?”
“I’m at the police station. I need you to come and get me.”
“I’m at work. I can’t just leave.”
Clea asked again. She sounded frightened and vulnerable, two adjectives rarely used to describe her. Miles thought about reminding Clea that he had asked her for a huge favour a while back when she was in possession of some damaging footage, and she didn’t exactly go out of her way to accommodate him.
“Please, Miles,” she said, her voice cracking. “I really need your help.”
It took only the threat of tears for Miles to cave in. He hated people crying around him, and really hated it when women cried. But Clea crying would be too much for him to bear.
He put his phone down and turned to Devon. “Do you think it’d be okay if I slipped away for half an hour while you take this lot to the processing centre?” he asked.
Devon communicated his response with a stern glare.
“I wouldn’t ask if it wasn’t an emergency,” Miles said. “A friend of mine is in trouble.”
Perhaps Miles did have parapsychological powers after all, because Devon finally consented. “Half an hour,” he grunted. “Not a second longer.”
Miles returned to Clea. “What do you need me to do?”
“I need you to come to the station and bail me out.”
“How much?”
There was a lengthy pause before Clea answered. “Twenty-five.”
“Hundred?”
“Thousand.”
Miles had to stop himself from laughing out loud. “Clea, you don’t seriously think I have that sort of cash lying around, do you?”
“Don’t worry about the money. I have it, just ... not on me right now. I can get it for you in a couple of days. I need to move a few things around first, but I have it. All you have to do is come in and sign some papers.”
“Wait a minute – aren’t your parents both lawyers? Why did you call me and not them?”
Clea exhaled before saying, “The situation with my parents is complicated.”
Miles’ head throbbed with a sudden spasm of sharp pain. He leaned forward and clutched at his temples. First Elliott, and now Clea. Apparently he was the go-to guy when you needed to be bailed out of prison.
Devon dropped him off at the police station, where a series of documents were put before him. He signed them all after giving them the most cursory of glances. He knew the gist of it anyway – Clea would be released, and his house used as a collateral. He was painfully aware of what a gargantuan act of faith this was, and that he and Shae could find themselves without a roof over their heads should Clea decide to skip town. But he figured that if you can’t trust your pot-smoking, work-avoiding, tree-hugging Buddhist housemate, who can you trust?
Clea’s hands shook as she lit a cigarette outside the station.
Miles sat with her while he waited for Devon to return from the processing centre, and she gave him the full story on what had gone down. As he had suspected, “Neil” was an undercover cop, sent in to infiltrate the group after Fabian’s shenanigans at the processing centre had attracted the authorities’ attention. His Starbucks-trashing antics were specifically designed to get himself noticed by the Zeroes’ and gain their trust.
Once Neil was a part of their inner circle he collected information on each of the Zeroes, recording conversations and documenting evidence of what they had planned. There were now audio recordings of Tariq the Anarchist saying someone should “take Marlowe out”, which amounted to conspiracy to commit murder. Fabian was openly
heard discussing his plans to inject Stephanie and Madison Marlowe with zombie blood so that Bernard Marlowe would have two zombie daughters. Everyone assumed this was just tough-talking Fabian shooting his mouth off, but with him you never could tell.
The stink bomb attack, despite being the kind of juvenile prank that school kids might play, could actually be classified as chemical warfare.
In total, they were now facing over two hundred separate charges ranging from public disorder to possession of a controlled substance to illegally keeping a farmyard animal in a residential area.
Clea was beside herself with worry. The cops had got to her, telling her that she could potentially be facing a twenty-year prison term for her role in all of this. Miles tried to reassure her, explaining that they were just trying to scare her, and if they really did believe she was a dangerous bioterrorist they wouldn’t have let her out on twenty-five thousand dollars bail.
If that was their aim, then mission accomplished. Clea had been deeply rattled by the whole experience.
“What am I going to do now?” Clea sniffed, her red eyes moistening again. “I’m almost thirty. I’ve wasted my whole life.”
“Come on, now,” Miles said. “You have not wasted your life.”
“I just wanted to make a difference. But nothing’s changed. Nothing ever changes.”
“That’s not true. You’ve done plenty of good.”
“Oh yeah? Like what?”
Miles took a moment to formulate his response. The Zeroes were good at making a lot of noise and drawing attention to themselves, but their actual achievements were harder to quantify.
“Hey, you must have been doing something right if they sent someone in to infiltrate the group, right?” he said.
“That doesn’t mean anything,” Clea said, nervously chewing on her lip ring as she spoke.
“Sure it does. For them to resort to those sorts of measures means they must have seen you as a threat.”
Miles may have only been saying this to comfort Clea, but part of him actually believed it. He thought about it some more on the bus ride back out to Graves End. Even though he sometimes made fun of the Zeroes and their ham-fisted attempts at influencing societal change, he also had a begrudging amount of respect for them. Many people claim to be angry about injustice and inequality, but few ever bother to do anything about it. The Zeroes managed to hold onto their ideals long after most others gave theirs up.
People generally became less idealistic and more conservative as they got older, which many believe is due to the wisdom and maturity that comes with age. But the truth is that affluence breeds conservatism; people are less willing to rock the boat once they’ve attained a degree of wealth. They create comfortable little cocoons for themselves, and react strongly against anyone or anything that might threaten that.
Marcus waited until his watch ticked over to 1:00 p.m., then hit play on Felix’s laptop. The sound of his beloved music flooded through the entire town of Graves End. The feeling this brought was indescribable. Superlatives like “euphoric” and “spiritual” didn’t come close to doing it justice. It was as if he was leaving his own body. This must be what superstar SlamCore DJs experienced when they performed onstage. A sensation that was almost superhuman or godlike.
That was the moment Marcus decided what he would do with the money he’d be receiving from this week’s job. His initial plan was to travel the world and rave in every corner of the globe. But that wasn’t enough. He wanted more. He wasn’t content with being just another body in the field. His destiny was up there on the stage, delivering joy to the assembled masses. That was what he was put on this earth to do. It didn’t really concern him that the music attracted the undead. Somehow, the danger aspect made it all the more appealing.
His thoughts drifted away, and he descended deeper into the rave cave in his mind. He began to map out just how he was going to achieve all this. He would quit his job after they had finished up here today, and he’d be in Ibiza by early next week. He’d spend the first few weeks making contacts and dropping off mix CDs to club owners and promoters. He’d start off small and work his way up, using his minor celebrity status as a springboard to greater things. By this time next year, his goal was to have DJ’d on every continent.
This was the beginning of his second act. He would no longer be some washed up former soap actor who used to be moderately famous. He would be a star, once again.
Marcus was so caught up in his daydreaming that he didn’t notice the music had been playing for over three minutes now. He also didn’t notice the one-armed zombie creeping up behind him, ready to sink his teeth into the back of his head.
While some people claimed that you should live every day as if it’s your last, Marcus was one of the few who actually followed through with this philosophy. He pursued each and every one of his hedonistic impulses which included partying for days on end, consuming every mind-altering substance put before him and copulating with anything that had a pulse. He lived by the mantra that it’s better to regret the things you did rather than the things you didn’t do.
Yes, Marcus genuinely lived every day as if it was his last day on earth. Unbeknownst to him, that day had arrived.
Elliott and Felix struggled to keep it together. Here they were, stranded in a dead-end street, with angry zombies closing in on them from every direction.
“Why is the music still going?” Elliott shouted over the noise.
They rushed around trying to switch off all the radios, but it wasn’t doing any good. Even if they did manage to shut these ones down, there were still dozens more blaring in all the surrounding streets.
“Something must have gone wrong!” Felix replied. “We have to go check it out!”
Elliott wasn’t so sure this was a good idea. If the music was still playing after five minutes, there was a good chance something had happened to Marcus. And if that was the case, there was little they could do to fix it. If the unthinkable had happened, the smartest thing would be to get out of town as quickly as possible. There were a number of cars sitting idle in driveways, and most still had their keys in the ignition.
But before Elliott could do anything, Felix had split.
He saw him in the distance, running off in the direction of the church car park. He shouted at him to come back, but Felix either ignored him or couldn’t hear over the music.
Elliott cursed under his breath, then set off after him.
Steve and Adam were finally in the clear. They watched the carnage unfolding from their hiding spot, crouched down behind two filthy dumpsters. They were both at a complete loss as to how everything could have gone so horribly wrong.
Ten minutes earlier and it was all going swimmingly. Twenty more zombies were lined up and ready to load as soon as Miles and Devon brought the bus back from the processing centre. It was still only early afternoon, and so they had enough time to fill up another three or four busloads before the day was out. The pressure was off – they had already made enough to pay off their debts, and so every busload from this point on was pure profit.
But then, for reasons unknown, the music didn’t stop when it was supposed to.
The twenty zombies they’d already captured reacted to the music, thrashing around in their restraints like vicious guard dogs trying to get at a piece if raw meat. It wasn’t long before they found themselves surrounded by dozens more, drawn out from the nearby houses. They were like wild animals that had spotted their prey, and before Adam could figure out what was going on he found himself cornered.
Steve rushed to his aid. He grabbed the battering ram from the minibus and swung it around wildly. Three zombies were struck in the chest and face, and were sent sprawling to the ground.
He pulled Adam away, and they escaped to their hiding spot. Seconds later, a mass zombie crowd converged on the area.
“We can’t stay here,” Steve said. “If that music doesn’t stop, this whole place will be swarming within minutes. We need to fi
nd a more secure place and figure out what to do from there.”
Steve knew that time was of the essence. He had no idea what had happened with the music, but he could only assume the worst. If there was no one manning the controls, the music would keep playing until the battery inside Felix’s laptop went dead. That could take hours.
He spotted the church across the road, and saw that it had a side entrance. The door appeared to be slightly ajar.
Here was their chance.
Steve conveyed his plan to Adam: he would create a distraction, which would allow Adam to run across the road and barricade himself inside.
“You’re coming with me, aren’t you?” Adam said.
Steve shook his head. “I can’t.”
He pulled up his sleeve, and Adam saw the laceration on Steve’s right arm. It was only small, but it was unmistakably a zombie bite. He’d sustained it a few minutes earlier.
“I’m sorry,” Steve said. “This is something you’ll have to do alone.”
Adam shook his head. “There’s no way I’m leaving without you.”
“Adam, be smart about this. If I go, you’ll end up stuck in a confined space with a hyperactive zombie.”
“I need you to come with me.”
“I’m sorry, but I’m not going anywhere.”
“Well in that case, neither am I.”
Steve did his best to keep his temper in check. “This is not the time for arguing.”
“If you’re not coming with me, then we can both just sit here and wait until you turn. And then you can bite my face off. I can think of worse ways to go.”
Adam folded his arms, which Steve knew was his way of saying the matter was closed and no further discussion would be entered into. This infuriated Steve, but he knew Adam wasn’t bluffing. He was the most stubborn person he had ever met, and Steve didn’t doubt for a minute that Adam would allow himself to be bitten just to win the argument.
The set-up area was swarming with zombies by the time Felix arrived. He could see no sign of Marcus. He sucked a deep hit from his asthma inhaler, then psyched himself up to make a mad kamikaze sprint for the laptop.
