I FOUGHT THE LAWN…
Man, he really pisses me off, I think to myself as I watch the little runt cruise off down the driveway on his skateboard. He'll never see me as anything other than Dave, the guy who snuck in and snatched up his mom after his dad got shot and killed over in Arab land. He doesn't see how well I take care of him and his mom. Doesn’t care about my side of the story. I try so damn hard to be patient. Losing your old man has to be rough, especially at a fragile age. I tell myself this is a marathon, not a sprint, and just hope he'll come around one day. Sliding out from under the mower I look at my work and assess the task with pride, wipe my greasy hands on my jeans, and saddle up. I turn the key, giving my baby life, and listen to her purr. I pull the iPod out of my pocket, thread the headphone cord through my t-shirt and click it in the auxiliary jack. Headphones in and ear protection over them I thumb Pandora to my Kansas station and smile as Carry on My Wayward Son kicks in, taking me back to a younger time. Perfect choice. Backing out of the garage, I switch gears, sending the Toro lurching forward. Onward to battle. The lawn is the bane of my existence.
I see the kid in the street riding his skateboard and remember last year when he snapped his wrist. Another unnecessary aggravation where he just didn't listen and went and disobeyed us just to push the envelope. I get so sick of his bullshit. I round the corner to the backyard, grab the lighter from the cup-holder, and pull the joint from behind my ear. With a click and a toke, it’s lit, and the kid’s crap is rapidly disappearing from my mind.
Son of a bitch, it's hot. Everything about summer in Florida is slapping me across the face, a reminder of why I hate this hellhole. I've worked every day for the last ten years in this furnace. Sweating a pool by 7:30 in the morning, two weeks of cool relief every year, then back to hell again is not my idea of a good time. I watch clouds of decimated weeds and grass puff up into the air. I sneeze and rub grit into my eyes. Maddie’s consistent nagging to wear a respirator falls short, once again. I should listen next time. Maybe next time. My tunes keep cutting out and it's starting to grate my nerves, stealing my high. I only ask for one thing, just let me jam while I become the destroyer of the ever-growing grass. Looks like someone or something wants to take every tiny bit of my joy and flush it down the toilet.
They said it'd rain this afternoon. Thunderstorms likely. Thirty percent chance of precipitation. The daily south Florida recipe for unpredictable summer weather. A cover our ass forecast. The sky looks clear now, though. Cloud cover is slim. I see a hawk, far away up in the sky. At least I think it’s a hawk. It’s moving closer, but it looks like it’s coming straight at me. My iPod screeches ear piercing static, then nothing. The Wi-Fi logo doesn't even switch to 4G. It's gone. Blank. I try other apps, but everything using a signal is down. Strange. I look up again. That's no hawk up there. It's earthbound, whatever it is, and it's sure going to hit somewhere near. Too close for comfort. Maybe it's a plane. No sound coming from it though. I look for the kid. There. Waving my arms and shouting, I tell him to go inside. He's not listening. Why would he change his ways now? He’s staring up at the—whatever the fuck it is—falling from the sky, too. A deafening wail blares from the emergency speakers high up on their pole down by the street corner. I cover my ears. It's not letting up like normal. No test warning. What in the hell? I look up again. Shit! It's closer. A missile the size of a bus headed right for me.
Run you idiot!
Too late.
Boom...
I open my eyes. My brain’s ringing. Where am I? I remember. The missile—shit—I'm up on my feet amid a shower of falling dirt. The mower, upside down, blades slowly stopping. I grab the hatchet I keep strapped to the side of the Toro for rogue pepper tree limbs invading along the fence line. My crotch is warm and wet. Shit. I look at the projectile. Sleek black with red lettering covering the side like those Chinese tattoos everyone gets. The ones that don't mean what they think they do. What is this? Whatever it is, it’s no good. I see the kid through the porch door. He's terrified. I completely understand why. Where's Maddie? No time.
A hiss, barely audible over the still wailing speakers.
A puff of air. A door slides open.
Something out of one of the kid’s war games comes barreling out. Staggering like a drunk after too much free booze at happy hour. A god damn half-robot half-human. LED lights flashing across circuit boards strapped to its robot half are twitching on-and-off. Its human eyes are wet, dripping. It looks infected, like it’s battling a severe case of the flu.
Argh. This noise. I need a hand on the hatchet, so I sacrifice one for an ear. My brain feels like it’s melting. The thing is sweaty, pale eyes wide and crazy. The human and robot sides move as if they are in disagreement. The non-human side wins, dragging it towards me.
Shit.
I back up, almost tripping over the mower. I swing hard, off balance, but biting deep into its shoulder. Black blood shoots out. It doesn't flinch. My hatchet is stuck. It’s on me. Metallic hands grab my arms, pushing me down. I look for a weapon. Nothing but grass and clippings. I look to the house, still no Maddie. The kid's opening the door. I shake my head frantically, “NO!” He sees and stops.
Crunch...
I feel a sharp pain then syrupy heat pours from my neck.
The screaming fucking speaker!
Stop!
It’s in my face, teeth oozing with green foam, snapping, chomping.
POP POP.
A gunshot. Maddie. I start to cry. She hits, pissing the thing off and grabbing its attention. My mouth gurgles a warning, one never making it past my lips. As it turns, I see its feverish eyes. Sad. Apologetic.
It climbs off me. Behind it I see another emerge, then another. My insides are on fire with a boiling heat, moving from my neck down deep into my body. I try to understand one last time, but my brain doesn’t let me, leaving me in confusion as the sunny day fades to black.
SURE SHOT
POP POP.
I push Jake away hard as I send two bullets soaring at the monster, shattering the porch door in the process. The shots hit home. The training’s paid off. Nothing. I just made it mad.
Oh, hell no!
Whatever it is, it has the flesh of Dave's neck dripping from its chin. Dave's not moving. He's dead. It’s looking right at us as another emerges.
I yell “NOOO” in frustration. I stop myself. I have to be strong. Jake’s terrified. He’s shaking. Our flimsy barrier is destroyed. No time to think. "Jake, the car. NOW." He's in shock, not moving, just standing there with a death grip on his skateboard. The monster’s getting close. POP. I shoot its human leg. It goes down. Yes. The other, close behind, gets the same treatment. POP. Down. I see Dave move, flail. Alive? He’s seizing, a black mist spraying from his mouth. I turn back to Jake. Sorry, honey. I slap him hard across his face. Tears well up, but he's back. "Go. Now. Car.” I risk a quick glance back. They're both up again, the machine part pulling the bleeding leg along behind it. Another appears in the missile’s doorway. It’s different. More machine with an awareness in its eyes. I push Jake. We run to the front door, unlocking it. We plunge outside. Shit, keys. I turn, reaching around the doorframe for the keys on the hook just inside. Grabbing blindly they snag on the hook.
"COME ON!"
An infected cyborg, the only practical thing to call them, is through the shattered patio door and coming at me quick. Far too close. I get the keys free and slam the door. It doesn't close, making contact with the machine hand wrapped around the jamb. I slam it over and over. Crunch, crunch, crunch. The fingers fall to the ground and the door slams home. I put my shoulder to the door.
"JAKE."
My hand holds out the keys. "Lock it. Quick, quick." He grabs the keys and locks the door. Two seconds to breathe. I see the robot fingers twitching on the floor and the splintering door reminds me to pick up the pace. We run to the car. The street is empty. Where the hell are all the neighbors? Waging individual zombie wars in their own back yards? Jake reaches
out to hand me the keys, skateboard still clutched in his hand. Something to redirect his fear. A security blanket. I smile despite the nightmare. The speakers are still blaring across the sky. I barely notice them now that other issues are taking the lead. A bang comes from the direction of the front door. “Jake, keys.” I reach out an unstable hand.
"MOM.”
THE BLACK
I see the thing coming quick. Where are the neighbors? It’s much faster than the others.
"MOM."
Too late. She lifts the gun and the cyborg zombie backhands it away, raking the back of its hand across her face, slicing the skin deep. She hits the ground. Booming from the door persists. Earsplitting speakers. Too much. I swing my skateboard up at the freak’s face. I hit so hard, the board sends chunks of wood and metal parts flying. It falls back, tiny sparks of lightning dancing over its head and blue smoke pouring out of its eyes.
Bang. Snap. Door.
Screams from somewhere in the area. Not close. Another attack?
"MOM." I tap her bloody face gently. "Wake up. Please." I'm so scared. Tears burning my eyes. "Jake.” She's awake but not there. I help her up, take the gun from her hand, get her to the car, and put her in the back seat.
The two zombies come, one after another, shuffling around the corner towards the car. Human faces in pain. Wake up Jake, I tell myself. I pull the unlocked door open and rush behind the wheel. My shaky hands help the key find its home, and I give life to the Honda. A screeching and shake of the car makes me look up. A cyborg zombie hand, finger deep, is clawing the hood, tearing back metal. It's going for the engine. The other, coming straight for me.
I glance in the rearview. Mom’s out again. No help from the backseat. Shit, I've never driven a real car, just in video games. I pop the stick into reverse and hit the gas harder than I should, dragging the zombie stuck to the hood. Jerking all over the place, I end up half in the street, half across in the neighbor’s front yard. Still no neighbors. Still the constant insanity of the speaker's shrieking. Shifting to “D”, my foot slams the pedal as far as it can go. I surge forward and hear a thud, then metal grinding. The cyborg hood ornament is gone. The Honda swerves all over the road, but I gain control. Looking in the rearview, I see the zombie roadkill clawing its way after me, half of its body left behind, a black smear stretching down the street.
I have no friggin clue where to go. Never paid much attention to where anyone important lives. No other family. I know one thing; I’m sure as shit not staying here.
I look out through the windshield and see more dark spots appearing. Thousands and thousands, multiplying every second like black stars in the summer sky. I find the switch and turn on the headlights as the long, horrific day quickly turns to an artificial night.
The missiles are falling left and right, I can hear the distant thuds over the screeching emergency speakers and Dave’s crappy CD playing low on the SUV’s stereo. Classic rock, ugh. Led Zeppelin. Not bad, but not great either. CDs? Who would’ve thought they’d make a comeback. Other cars are on the move. I’ll follow them. They’re all headed the same way and in a hurry. I hit the gas to keep up. The driving is easy, as long as it stays like this. A small distraction from the heap of WTF currently crashing down around us. Invasion USA.
A bump then a groan from the back seat jerks my eyes to the rear-view. Nothing. I risk a glance over my shoulder.
She’s moving.
“Mom.” No answer.
The car swerves to the right. The passenger tires bump over and over. I snap my head back and yank the wheel to the left. Corrected. Fewer cars on the road now, probably best with my skills. Thick drops of rain slap against the windshield. Great, what else?
I peek at Mom again.
Rearview.
Shit.
Foamy black ick is oozing out of the cuts on her face. Her eyes are white, pupils wide and milky.
“No, MOM!”
Her entire body spasms, she’s moaning, screaming.
The road.
“MOM.”
Arms swinging she hits me hard on my shoulder.
Shit, it’s burning. I look, blood.
The SUV’s all over the road, I hold the wheel steady despite the thrashing in the back. Like Dave. “NO, NO, NO.” I grab the gun in my lap. Tears roll down my cheek, dripping on my hand. I point it behind, to the back seat. She bumps it. I hold it steady.
Rearview.
BANG.
“FUCK.”
Runny vision, like under water in a pool; my eyes burn. I try to hold them back but my eyes open, wide. Tears, far from soothing. Pain, all over. I hurt more inside. I want to puke. “Mom.” Stillness in the backseat.
Eyes on the road, don’t look back there.
I look at my shoulder. It’s bubbling and bleeding. I fiddle with the gun in my hand, both resting in my lap. The road keeps coming at me. Over and over. Feels like I’m driving on a never-ending treadmill. The world seems too slow. Rain spatters the windshield. Overcast sky, missiles soaring across the horizon as far as I can see. How many more?
Tears still drop, free. I’m numb. I think about Dad, he was brave. I turn up the stereo, loud, to drown out my mind. The red LEDs on the stereo flash Led Zeppelin: Immigrant Song. Not bad. I chuckle, then swallow as the tears come again. I lift the gun, warm barrel to my temple. One hand on the wheel. “I’m coming Dad.” I look at the rearview. Red, wet, tired eyes. My finger squeezes against the trigger. The metal resists, I scream…
…BANG.
A Word from Christopher Boore
When Samuel Peralta came to me and asked me to write a story for The Z Chronicles, I just about crapped my pants. I was terrified. I'm far from a connoisseur of this genre by any means. Don’t misunderstand me, I watch The Walking Dead. I’m current with that mainstream zombie show, but that's about it. I’ve never really watched any other zombie show. I'm definitely not staying up Sunday night until 9 p.m. to watch it when it airs either. I like my sleep. You won’t see me spewing spoilers all over Facebook the next day. I watch it maybe three months later to fill a void when there's nothing else on. The scenes are so slow and too boring for me most of the time, but when you get to the action...man, it’s worth it. I love action.
When this project came along, I had no idea what to write or where to begin. It scared me to the core and made me realize how little I knew outside my comfort zone, let alone zombies. I’ll tell you this though: This, for me, was a challenge of epic proportions. I am so glad that I accepted because it made me think far outside of my personal box of tricks. I really think I’ve scored a hit. I wanted to write something that hadn't been done before in, what I believe to be, an over-saturated genre. Zombie fiction, movies, TV has been done, and done, and done. Then it has been picked up, bits of flesh shaken off, and done all over again. I didn’t know if I could come up with something unique and original.
Then, as I was clicking the refresh button on my Facebook feed on my phone, I thought, “What if everything turned off, and an age-old political enemy chose that moment to attack? Then I re-watched the Terminator movies. What better way than with cyborg-zombies? A plague that wouldn’t end because the machines would never stop. What if it happened during a cyber-attack of epic proportions to cover up the incoming invasion? Take it off radar.”
My biggest real life apocalyptic fear has always been digital silence. Communication breakdown.
No phones.
No Internet.
No TV.
No way to access your bank.
The world would erupt in chaos like we've never seen. It could happen at any time! Add a contagious rabies-like virus to the mix, terrifying. I have faith that in reading “Kamika-Z”, you’ll taste my fear.
Hopefully you enjoyed this short as much as I enjoyed writing it and please keep an eye out for my future work. With any luck the premise in “Kamika-Z” should never come to pass but hey, at least if it does, I may have given you a battle plan.
You can visit me on my
website, http://caboore.thirdscribe.com/ -- stop by and subscribe to my newsletter. I’m also on Facebook, at https://www.facebook.com/cboore1
Also, swing on by my Amazon page and check out my other stories,
http://www.amazon.com/Christopher-Boore/e/B00ELG5TT6
The Fall of the Percedus
by Jennifer Foehner Wells
TARN DIDN’T TAKE HIS EYES from the hologram of the newest squillae template that hovered over his desk. He kept his voice flat—it wouldn’t do to raise Pyona’s ire further. “I told you it’s not ready.”
He heard Pyona inhale deeply, and then her words came out like a raging storm. “In the name of the Cunabula, I swear that if you say the words ‘it’s not ready’ one more time I’ll be forced to do violence upon you, Tarn.”
Tarn let a moment go by. Then he said, “It’s not ready.”
Pyona yanked Tarn’s seat backward and whirled him around. Her face snarled into his. “Look at me, Tarn. People are going to die—maybe all of our people. It’ll never be ready—not like you want it to be. I know that you want it to be perfect, but the time is gone. We have no options left. We must use your weapon.”
“And I have just lost valuable work-time to your wasted expenditure of anger. Every distraction is a delay. Remember the precepts taught to us in the schoolroom. They still hold true, Pyona. ‘Desperation reaps a tainted harvest.’”
Pyona seemed to vibrate with the effort of containing her temper. Violence was in her. He hoped she wouldn’t actually strike him in front of his subordinates. They weren’t children anymore.
The Z Chronicles Page 7
