by Jack Wallen
“Sorry, Tuque, we don’t use guns,” said Kitty, as she made her way to the pile of gear boxes. She opened an armored case, pulled out a collapsible axe, and tossed it to Billy. “We carry our own weapons. If push comes to shove, we’ll use our instruments; but I hate cleaning zombie meat from My Baby.”
Tuque turned to Kitty, almost in shock.
Kitty picked up on the implication and shook her head. “Oh no, I have not been, nor ever shall be…never mind, it’s what I call my mic.”
Each member of the band grabbed a weapon and turned to face Tuque.
“What’s the plan,” asked Todd Flash.
“The plan is,” Tuque paused, “we fight!”
Without another word, Tuque raced to the door and pulled it open. He cocked his gun just as he turned to the exit. Shots and battle cries rang out as he ran toward the walking dead.
The band wasted no time and followed suit. There were no orders given, no plan of attack made. It was kill or be killed and chaos reigned supreme. The battle raged before them and would help to define them as a band and as survivors.
Kitty was the first to reach a target, her weapon of choice – a katana (the hilt in the shape of a mic, no less). She raced toward the moaning beast at full steam and lowered the blade of her sword as she drew near. The point was aimed too low and, as soon as it made contact, punctured the chest cavity and did its best ‘through and through’ dance on the rotten, walking meat.
“Crap,” Kitty cried out.
“You okay,” shouted Tom.
“I’d be better if my aim didn’t suck!”
Kitty steadied her body. She was about to quickly shift her weight backward, to remove the sword. Before she could move, the zombie reached out and grabbed her hands. The milky-white eyes met Kitty’s gaze. A thick flow of chunky, green and brown fluid poured from the creature’s mouth.
“Oh God,” Kitty moaned, “the thing got zombie slobber on me!”
Finally, Kitty managed to get her balance enough to tug free from the moaner’s grip and pull the sword from its chest. As the metal blade exited the wound, pus and other, unknown, thick fluids oozed from the hole. The zombie stepped in and swung a heavy arm toward Kitty’s head. She ducked and the momentum of the swing sent the zombie to the ground. The sword in Kitty’s hand reached toward the heavens and then cleaved through the cold, rubbery flesh of the zombie’s neck. The swing had just enough power behind it to cut halfway through. When the steel hit bone it stopped. Zombie arms and legs flailed and flopped. Kitty pulled her sword back and let it fall once again to finally sever the head from the monster’s neck.
“That’s how Kitty Casket rolls you ugly son of a bitch!” A swift and powerful kick sent the head flying through the air – mouth wide open as if in awe of the power unleashed by Kitty’s foot.
Mike Machine held two short pikes, one in each hand and sharpened to the finest point. Like a prize fighter, Mike jabbed out toward the zombie in his immediate vicinity. Somehow, the zombie managed to duck and dodge each blow.
“Oh come on,” Mike whined, “how do I keep missing?”
“Why don’t you ask that bastard to dance, Mike,” laughed Billy as he raced by to reach his target.
“Screw you, Bat,” Mike replied.
Billy laughed again. “How’s about you help out the cause and screw that zombie in the eye with your sticks.”
“What do you think I’m trying…”
Before Mike could finish his train of thought, his undead foe lurched forward at the drummer. When the full force of the undead weight hit Mike, both he and the zombie went down. The moaner went in for the kill, its rotting teeth and fetid breath threatened to undo what little food Mike had left in his gut. Just as it looked like the teeth would sink into the fresh flesh of Mike’s neck, he pushed upward into the chin of the beast with the palms of his hands. It took every ounce of strength Mike had but as soon as the head reached its zenith, a gun shot rang out and the zombie fell lifeless on top of Mike. In a desperate frenzy, the drummer rolled out from under the newly dead undead, stood, and wiped down his clothing and smoothed back his hair.
Billy took no chances. Just as he reached his target he raised his axe high above his head and dropped it effortlessly down onto the zombie’s skull. The monster dropped like a sack of wet death. Billy wrenched the axe from the bone and turned to face another challenge. This time Billy swung the axe along the horizon, but he missed. The force of the swing caught him by surprise and the momentum carried him to the ground. The zombie immediately turned and made its way to Billy. Just as the monster was about to drop in and slam-dance the guitarist’s head to the ground, another shot sounded.
“Another one bites the dust,” shouted Tuque.
Billy stood and raised his fists in the air. “Queen, my friend. Good call…and good shot.”
“I aim to please,” bragged Tuque.
“Tuque, look out.” Kitty screamed, just before another member of the undead gang was able to sneak up on the man. As he turned, the gun raised and connected with the forehead of the zombie.
“Surprise, you’re dead,” Tuque proclaimed before he pulled the trigger.
“Faith No More,” laughed Billy. “Tuque, you’re killing me with the band references.
Tuque made a slow, complete turn and finished by shouldering his weapon.
“Another battle down, my friends. I have to say, that was decidedly easier with a little help. Where did you kids learn to fight?”
Kitty raised her arms and gestured in every direction. “The mean streets of the apocalypse taught us everything we need to know. There’s no way around it; you either kill or be killed.”
Without a word communicated between them, everyone started toward the bar.
Tuque finally broke the silence. “I don’t get it though, why no guns?”
Kitty stopped in her tracks. When she spoke, her voice was low and intense.
“Accidents happen. With a gun in the mix, there’s always the possibility of accidentally shooting a friend or a loved one. You swing a sword and collateral damage is a bit more challenging to come by. Besides, guns are for cowards. A real bad ass carries a sword.”
Kitty spun her katana and effortlessly slid it into the scabbard at her side.
“I see.” Tuque smiled as he watched Kitty strut on toward the bar.
six | the baddest Canadian on the planet
“When I look at you,
I don’t even have a clue,
what you think or what you do,
you just sit there,
like there is no need to care,
but it won’t fade away, by looking away.”
…Don’t Get Me Wrong
The door to The Last Casket shut behind them, sealing the death and rot out.
“So, this soundproofing of yours,” Billy snarked. “Looks a bit lacking in the…um, how should I put this? Oh yeah, soundproofing.”
Tuque poured himself a drink and slammed it down. “Yeah, I guess I didn’t realize you actually meant your sound went to eleven.”
Tom and Mike cheered with a violent high-five smack.
“It’s an easy fix. I’ll head out and collect some more material to hang on the walls. May not be perfect, but it’s worked up ‘till now.”
Billy rushed to one of the walls and lifted a hanging curtain.
“Holy shit,” Billy turned back to the band, “this is nothing but mattresses, Styrofoam, and blankets. What the hell?”
Tuque crossed to Billy, jerked the curtain from his hand, and let it fall free.
“I said it’s not perfect. Look, I’m doing the best I can here. I’ve had no help trying to keep this place running. I never thought I’d wind up with a band cranking out three-digit decibels to call out to the shambling horde; so give me goddamn break.”
An uncomfortable silence befell the room. Nervous glances cast about in search of some bit of comfortable mooring. Eventually a sigh spilled out from Tuque.
“I’m sorry, k
ids. I didn’t mean to lash out. I just…I’ve been struggling for so long here to keep this place open. The Last Casket is the last bastion of hope for myself and those around me. There’s not much left in the world now; if I give up on this bar, that’s it for me. The only thing left would be to scatter my brains on the wall behind the counter. Personally, I’d like to ride this storm out and see what happens in the end. I want to be a part of showing the Zero Day Collective ‘what for’. Those bastards took everything we have – each and every survivor on the planet deserves to give them at least one swift kick in the groin. I plan on being there, front and center, when the scales of justice tip back. I want to feel the soft squish and pop of their testicles as my foot makes contact. Until then, I’ll fight every goddamn monster that crosses my path. So yeah, you’ll have to forgive me if my soundproofing is not up to code. It’s worked so far and I promise you we can reinforce it enough to keep the zombie nation from dancing to Kitty in a Casket.”
Todd Flash joined Tuque at the bar and poured a drink for both men. He held his glass up high. “Here’s to Tuque – the baddest Canadian on the planet.”
The rest of the band raised their arms in salute. Todd and Tuque tossed the drinks back and brought the glasses down hard on the counter top.
“Come on, Tuque, let’s go find some scrap to bolster the soundproofing for the Casket.”
“Hell yeah,” Tuque shouted. “I’ll pull the truck out of the garage and bring it around to the front of the bar.”
For a second it seemed as if Tuque was about to stumble from the bar. He quickly found his footing and marched out of the building.
Kitty raced to Billy’s side. “Are you sure that’s a good idea? I don’t know how much we can trust him?”
Billy smiled at Kitty. “It’s sweet that you’re worried; but I can take care of myself. Tuque wouldn’t dare try to…”
“I’m not worried about Tuque. It’s the undead that have me pissing myself.”
“Seriously, I’ll be fine. Besides, it’ll give me a chance to keep an eye on the man,” Billy whispered.
Kitty tilted her head in concern. Before she could say anything, Mike Machine stepped up.
“I’ll go with him, if that’ll put you at ease, Kitty.”
“Would you,” asked Kitty.
Mike winked. “Hey, we’re family and family sticks together through thick and thickest.”
“Thick and thin,” cried Todd Flash.
“You’re just jealous because I played the bravery card first.”
“You go right ahead and be a hero. I’m not about to put myself in dangers line of sight. I like my skull and brains intact.”
As the door closed behind Billy and Mike, Kitty stood in the center of the bar, holding her breath. Todd Flash sidled up to her and wrapped his arm around her shoulders.
“They’ll be fine.”
Kitty tilted her head onto Todd’s shoulder. “Do you really think that?”
Silence.
*
The old truck bounced about on complaining leaf-spring suspension, as the pot-hole riddled road ribboned by. The three men stared out in silence. Tuque finally reached out, turned on the radio, and pressed the first saved station button. As soon as the familiar voice bounced from the tinny speakers, a smile sliced across his face.
“You’re listening to WZMB, Zombie Radio. Your personal soundtrack…to the end of the world. That was The Cult and She Sells Sanctuary. I have to ask, how much did she sell her sanctuary for? I mean, are we talking euphemism? Was her ‘Sanctuary’ just another word for her ssssssex? And if that’s the case, was her sex really a sanctuary? Think about it; the very definition of ‘sanctuary’ is ‘a sacred place’. Isn’t that just a bit presumptuous of that woman to say her sex was sacred? Don’t get me wrong, I’ve made the sex with women for whom I could happily proclaim them sacred. But I don’t know this woman The Cult sings of. I wonder if it might have been the same woman INXS sang about in their song Beautiful Girl? Let’s hope so. The combination of ‘beauty’ and ‘sanctuary’ makes for a rather intriguing mystery – don’t cha think?”
Both Billy and Mike stared on at the radio – their brows furrowed.
“Oh come on, tell me you’ve heard Zombie Radio,” Tuque questioned.
Both men shook their heads.
“Wow. I would have thought musicians of your caliber had already been in league with that man to get your music heard. That show must have millions of followers.”
Tuque released a loud laugh that took Billy and Mike by surprise.
“By God, we’re going to record a song or two and send ‘em to that DJ.”
Billy turned to Tuque. “We don’t really need to record them. There are hundreds of our CDs in the van. We can just rip one of the disks on to a computer and then send the DJ one of the songs via email.” Billy stopped his train of thought and tilted his head a moment. “You have internet at the bar, right?”
Again, Tuque laughed. “It’s a bar! Why would I have internet access?”
“Everyone has internet access,” Mike replied.
Tuque stopped the truck and slammed it into park. “How many times do I have to tell you, it’s the apocalypse. The world has been turned on its head and ‘fucked’ is the new ‘black’. We’re lucky to have radio waves and gas – let alone the ability to tweet and post selfies on Facebook. The ‘look at me’ era is over. Anyone taking a self-indulgent pause will wind up human paté on the all you can eat zombie buffet. So…no internet access. We’ll have to figure out a different way to get your songs to the DJ.”
The DJ decided he liked his segue and spun up Beautiful Girl. The opening piano lilted out of the speakers and brought an unsuspected calm to the two men.
“So…”
Before another syllable slipped from between Billy’s lips, the truck was assaulted. The soul-rattling roar shook the rusted-metal of the chassis before it gripped the hearts of the men inside. Tuque grabbed the shifter and wrenched it into first gear. He punched the gas. The truck didn’t budge.
“Oh no,” Billy screamed and pointed. Tuque and Mike followed Billy’s point to see two screamers standing in front of the truck, their hands planted on the hood, keeping the vehicle from moving forward. The monsters were in bad shape. Each had the flesh scorched from their face – bone China white peered through tears and crisped holes in the skin. As they hissed and screeched, a river of thick, black goo dropped from their gaping, lipless maws.
Tuque grabbed the shifter, punched the clutch, and threw the truck into reverse. His foot slammed down hard on the gas.
The truck didn’t move.
Mike, Billy, and Tuque turned to glance out the rear window. A mirror image of the front of the truck presented itself; two screamers pushing forward against the truck. The truck was no match for their rage-fueled strength.
Tuque, switched gears and punched the gas again.
The only movement was dirt flying from tire tread.
“Here,” Tuque called out. He fished a pistol from under his seat and held it out to Billy.
“What?” Billy asked, staring down at the proffered weapon.
“Roll down your window and shoot those bastards in front of the truck.”
Billy shook his head. “No way. I don’t do guns.”
Before the zombies in the rear grew bored, Tuque put the truck in reverse and gave them something to do.
“Take the damn gun and make yourself useful.”
Billy pushed the weapon away. “I’m sorry, I can’t.”
“Look, if you don’t shoot those bastards, they will kill us,” Tuque shouted. “All you have to do is aim for the heads and shoot. They’re close enough that you’d actually have to try to miss. “
Again, Tuque shifted and slammed the gas. Again, the screamers prevented any forward movement. This time, however, they added a throat-splitting roar to the fun. The ligaments in their necks strained against a never-ending rage. Any second, bones would snap and break through pasty fles
h.
The maddening sight was enough to push Billy over the edge. He grabbed the gun from Tuque, rolled down his window, lifted his upper body out of the truck, took aim, and fired.
His first shot went wide.
“Come on, Billy,” Mike shouted from the back seat.
“Breathe, son.” Tuque called out to help calm the shooter.
The sights of the gun were hovering around the left-side screamer. The fear of the moment had Billy’s arm shaking enough to mix a martini. He filled his lungs with air and slowly exhaled. When all remnants of breathe escaped his lips, he pulled the trigger.
The left-side screamer dropped.
Tuque punched the gas again. This time, the force of the truck was too great for the lone zombie and the truck plowed over him. The roaring engine masked the crunch of bone and the pop of rotting flesh.
Mike turned and looked out the rear window.
“Oh shit. Tuque, they’re coming after us,” shouted Mike.
Tuque slammed the gas pedal down so hard, he was sure the metal of the pedal fused to the floor of the truck.
On the radio, Led Zeppelin’s The Immigrant Song helped to proclaim them victor.
Tuque sang along as he drove off.
When the chorus came back around, all three men sang out.
The zombies faded in the rear view mirror. Tuque didn’t let up until they were gone.
“That was,” Mike started.
Tuque interrupted. “Please do not say that was ‘epic’, or ‘awesome’. That was a tragic mistake and could have been the end of us. We cannot drop our guard for one second or we slip one step closer to worm food.”
Without warning, Tuque slammed on the brakes. The truck came to a neck-snapping stop.
“Over there,” Tuque pointed, “a roll of discarded carpet. That’ll be perfect.” He pulled the door handle to exit, but Mike grabbed his arm and held him fast.
“Look before you leap.”
“Good man, Mike.” Tuque winked as Mike released the python-esque grip he had on Tuque’s arm.
After deciding the coast was certainly clear, Tuque exited the truck and jogged over to what looked like a collapsed garage.
