by Jack Wallen
*
A warm wind carried with it a soundcheck. Someone was getting ready to play. We arrived in time to see the crowd building themselves into a frenzy.
When we were approximately one hundred yards from the stage, something struck me as unique.
“Jamal.” I called him to my side. “What do you make of this?”
My partner in many a crime zipped up to my side and made a few instant calculations.
“These are pyrotechnic pots. They shoot flame to about twelve feet. I’d say someone has created a first line of defense. This is brilliant. At this distance the zombies would crumble to dust before they reached the bleacher seats of the show. If Vanity thought this up, I owe him a word or two of apology. He seemed much less intelligent upon first blush.”
Jamal finally stopped examining the pots and pointed out various locations on the ground. The area was littered with similar traps. “Damn, Vanity has this place set up to maim and destroy. I wonder what other tricks the man has up his sleeve.”
“For starters,” Joshua added, “he has snipers standing up on those towers, each of them ready with some serious hardware—long range rifles and high caliber machine guns.”
The crowd was starting to chant.
“What are they saying,” I asked. “I can’t make it out.”
“Doubletap,” Rizzo answered. “It’s what every audience shouts to bring out Rip Vanity. It’s a lame bit of shtick, but everyone involved seems to get off on it.”
I marched on as I barked out orders. “Rizzo, I want you and Echo up on those towers ready to take down anything that moves without a pulse.”
Rizzo skipped over to Echo’s side and wrapped her arms around the young girl with a joyful squeal.
“Josh, you and Morgan will be on the stage to protect the bands. Jamal and I will roam the area. Know this: The Zero Day Collective has certainly targeted this event and will most likely unleash the hounds of hell in ways you’ve never witnessed. Be prepared for anything and everything.”
We arrived at the stage and split up. Rizzo and Echo almost skipping toward the towers, Morgan and Josh pressing their way to the stage. I turned to Jamal.
“We need to find Vanity before this starts, let him know our intentions.”
*
As we approached the backstage area, we were greeted by the towering, steroid-infused brutes of security. With crossed arms, they slid in together to refuse us entry.
“We’re with the band,” Jamal smiled.
The two men shook their heads.
From behind the behemoths, I heard Aya’s lilting dialect punctuate the noise.
“Aya,” I shouted.
Somehow she not only heard me but recognized my voice. Her delicate hand slipped between the security guards to separate them. Once they were apart, she slid through. The sight of the singer nearly stole my breath. A blood-red-and-black brocade and ankle-length coat covered a gorgeous black leather minidress and knee-length boots. Yet with all the finery, it was her red-lipped smile that demanded my attention.
“You must let them in,” Aya insisted. She turned and motioned for Jamal and me to follow.
How could we not? Before we stepped forward, I cocked an eyebrow at Jamal’s wicked grin.
“Busted.” He blushed.
“It’s okay…I’m certain we have a case of identical crush for her.”
Aya led us backstage to one of the dressing rooms. She knocked on the door and called out.
“Rip, Bethany is here.”
The door opened almost immediately. Rip Vanity stood in the doorway, his eyes wide, his smile wider.
“If you’ll excuse me, I have to go warm up my voice.”
Aya kissed my cheek and walked off. Rip watched her depart. “Metal wouldn’t be the same without her.” He finally turned back to us and moved out of the doorway. “Come in. We have much to discuss.”
“Actually, there’s little to say. I just wanted to make sure you knew we were here and what our plan was.”
Rip tossed himself onto an oversized beanbag chair. “Oh, I think the plan is simple all around—kick some serious undead ass.”
The laughter that spilled out of Rip’s mouth indicated the man was either high or clueless. I wanted to go with high, on the pretext he was smarter than to think anything in the apocalypse was as simple as “kick some serious undead ass.”
I filled Vanity in on where our people were. In turn, he filled me in on the whereabouts of his men and all his various traps.
We were ready, on paper at least. Unfortunately there was no way of knowing what the Zero Day Collective had in store. Even though I’d hacked their system enough to know it in my sleep, their plans seemed to change with each breath. Besides, I was too smart to trust what now resided on the hard drives of the ZDC computers. No way would I fall for that kind of trap. In the end, that unknown could easily be our undoing.
“Look, I don’t know what’s going to come of all of this,” Rip began. “I certainly have no intention of allowing someone else to define the rest of my days. I’ve never lived in fear and I’m not going to start now. If I go out like this, then it’s been on my terms and while I was doing what I loved. And if I can help a few thousand people forget, even for just a moment in time, that hell made its home on earth, then I’ve done something good. I can see the same thing in your eyes, Bethany. You have no intention of letting this Zero Day Collective puppeteer your ending. The world needs more of that. The world needs more of you.”
Rip stood, grabbed a random bottle of vodka, and sucked the remainder of its contents into his mouth and down his throat.
“Oh fuck, yeah…that’s the stuff. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have a concert to kick off.”
Vanity left the room. A wake of booze, cigarettes, and sweaty leather followed close behind.
Jamal looked at me, his eyes soft, his mouth slowly forming into a smile.
“This is going to sound crazy, Bethany, but he’s right. If the world does end now, I can at least die knowing I spent my last moments with you. The world sucks, but since we rejoined forces, it’s sucked a whole lot less.”
Romance, spoken from the lips of a nerd.
I stepped in close to Jamal and placed my palms and my cheek on his chest. “I’m going to hold off on one-upping you until the disaster is averted. Until then, Jamal, know that I am completely smitten with your black ass.”
There was a breath and then a laugh. Jamal couldn’t suppress the brief moment of joy at hearing my words.
“B, you never cease to amaze and offend me.”
I looked up, with a wink, and smiled. “I do try.”
Not another word was spoken. It would have been impossible to improve on the moment, so we opted to slip out of the room and head toward the stage.
Jamal was the first to finally break the silence.
“What, exactly, are we going to be doing?”
“We, my dear, are command central. I have the only radio link to our group. I’ll keep everyone up to speed on what’s happening. Hopefully, with a bit of coordination, we’ll get through his.”
We arrived at the stage in time for Rip Vanity to appear in a spotlight. The already packed crowd went crazy. A wash of sound flooded the stage, temporarily halting all conversation. When the noise finally subsided, Vanity spoke.
“Ladies and gentlemen…welcome to the rebirth of the human spirit. We have gathered together to celebrate mankind with the healing power of metal! And to kick this bitch off in style, I would have you turn your attention to the screens around you.”
The entire area was instantly ablaze with light. Gigantic screens on the stage and around the audience came to life with the face of an unfamiliar man. A warm and gentle smile danced across his lips and then…he spoke.
“You’re listening to WZMB, Zombie Radio…oh wait…wrong shtick.”
It was him…the DJ that had helped carry me through some of the worst moments of the apocalypse. He looked exactly as I had picture
d him—jet-black hair, chestnut brown eyes, a crooked smile, and tiny round-frame glasses. His face was a collage of interest, curiosity, and sarcasm.
I couldn’t help but smile.
“Ladies and gentlefunk of the planet Earth, what you are about to behold is the single most important moment in your…”
That damned pause. Everyone laughed.
“…life. What is about to unfold will kick the shit out of the Mengele Virus and dare it to show it’s ugly-ass face again. For this is the one true music with the balls to claim the apocalypse as its bitch. This is metal and it’s here to remind you that each and every…one of you is filled with life. Although the Zero Day Collective can strike fear in your hearts, it cannot quiet your spirit or your soul. And with that in mind, Zombie Radio Nation, I give you the first band to rock your socks. Prepare to have the trend smacked off your duck-lipped faces, for I give unto thee…Trendemic+!”
The screens dissolved to the logo of the first band and the stage exploded to life. A single guitar roared as if possessed by the spirit of Godzilla. The first note began in the depths of a melodic scale and worked its way up like an erotic volcano. Kaizen Sharx held the last note until it begged for release. Finally, the drummer danced on his double kick drums and was joined by the bass to form a more perfect union.
When the opening number finally came together, the crowd released a collective scream.
It had begun.
It was now only a matter of time.
Jamal looked my way, his eyes lined with concern. His mouth moved but I couldn’t hear him. He leaned in and spoke again.
“Where should we be?”
There was a part of me that wanted to hang out in the periphery, to wait for the inevitable attack by the Zero Day Collective. Thankfully, the rational side of me won out and I yelled in the vicinity of Jamal’s ear.
“We need to find a location that affords us the best view of the entire area.”
Jamal pulled away and scanned the event. His eyes danced from point to point to point. I could practically see the calculations running through his mind. Eventually he pointed. My eyes followed the gesture to the stage manager’s booth. It was perfect—high enough to give us an ideal vantage point and would probably offer a modicum of silence within which I might actually think.
I nodded. We took off at a jog.
chapter 29 | welcome to new heaven
The drop-ships were a mile out of the area when Subject 002 ordered them to land. The pilots attempted to argue but were quickly reminded who was in charge of the mission. No one dared cross 002 for fear of the consequences handed down by Faddig.
Subject 002 spoke slowly into the radio.
“You will give me exactly one hour before you resume your flight and begin the attack. One hour; no more, no less. Is that clear?”
The three pilots replied with a “Yes, sir,” and the radios went silent.
Subject 002 opened the hatch of Drop-Ship One and jumped to the ground. He had been charged with a mission of his own; that mission would begin very soon. Aside from the crunch of desert sand underneath the boots of 002, the only sound was the metal of the drop-ship engines cooling. With every step he took, the sound grew more and more faint.
Subject 002 dialed the number on the sat phone without looking. After five rings, the call was answered.
“This is Faddig.”
“I am now on foot, heading toward the event. I will ensure she sees me before the drop-ships arrive and release the cargo.”
“There is no room for failure.”
“Understood. Subject 002 out.”
With the radio returned to his pocket, he picked up his pace to a run. The single mile could be covered in less than seven minutes if necessary. That added time could mean the difference between success and failure.
“No room,” Subject 002 whispered.
*
As he reached the periphery of the location, the sound walloped him in the chest. Some hidden instinct drew his facial-maxillary muscles upward until he was smiling. Somehow, Subject 002 knew the song that drifted from the stage to his ear. He began to sing under his breath as he ran.
“Fight. The system is broken. Fight. The trends will drug your life. Fight. There’s no escape tonight.”
Subject 002 had no idea how the memory bubbled its way up to his consciousness. It didn’t matter, as long as he could focus on the task at hand. Shoving aside something as trivial as music was simple for an undead killing machine.
“I will fight.” Subject 002 laughed, as he once again picked up his pace.
*
The entrance to the event was a congested, knotted line of the living. Faddig’s threat of “no room for failure” echoed off the walls of 002’s skull. There was no time for patience.
Subject 002 forced his way through the crowd. As more and more people complained, the crowd grew thicker until there was no way to move forward. He glanced at his watch. Forty-five minutes remained. He was still too far from the stage to be seen.
“Hey, what the fuck, dude!” The complaint assaulted his ears as he began to force his way onward. There were no pleasantries, no “Excuse me,” or “Sorry, sorry,” there was just brute force insisting itself upon the masses. After only five minutes of shoving and shouldering, Subject 002 found himself through the gates of the kingdom of New Heaven…or so read a banner displayed by a pair of topless women.
The electric stage stood before him. A quick scan revealed his target.
Bethany Nitshimi.
chapter 30 | metal saves
The Zombie Radio DJ introduced the next act. This time the music was slower, darker, thicker. The singer was a rail-thin, shirtless male with the word “UNLOVED” tattooed across his chest. He held the mic to his lips like a lover and spoke the first words of their opening song.
“Tonight we dance through cobweb memories; cheek to cheek, pulse to pulse.”
A hush fell over the crowd. The music continued to drone as the singer knelt at the front of the stage and begged the audience to join in song.
“Our morbid twist will pale your flesh, my knife will do its deed.”
The audience picked up the verse and sang along.
“Our lungs will choke, our eyes go blind, our hearts will cease to bleed.”
Amazed, Jamal and I looked on from the director’s box.
“This is happening, Jamal. Vanity’s idea actually had some pretty serious merit.”
“I’d say. For this moment, everyone out there has forgotten everything going on around them. The world and all of its disaster has disappeared.”
Jamal reached out and grabbed my hand. We stood there silently, and for the first time in what seemed like forever, allowed ourselves the luxury of getting lost in life.
On the desk sat a pair of binoculars. I grabbed them to get a closer look at the audience. At the edge of the stage, something caught my eye. A man, familiar…too familiar. I pulled away from Jamal and stepped closer to the window.
“B, what is it?”
I remained silent, concentrating on keeping the binoculars on my target. The man moved. I scanned the area and quickly picked him back up, spinning the focus ring to get a better look.
“Jesus Christ,” I whispered.
“Care to share, Bethany?”
Another silence.
“Come on Beth—”
Before Jamal could continue, I raised my hand for silence. Jamal immediately complied. Finally, I pulled the glasses away from my head and turned to face an anxious Jamal. He bit his lower lip and raised his brows.
“We have to get back down to the stage.” I didn’t wait for a reply, but when my hand held the handle of the door, I turned back. “Now.”
We rushed out of the booth and raced to the stairwell. My feet hit the stairs two at a time until I reached the ground floor. Jamal pulled in behind me, I could hear his breath gasping an unsteady rhythm.
“Bethany, what is this about?”
I turned to Jama
l, my face flashed between cold and hot.
“I saw Jacob.”
“Your baby?”
“No, the baby’s father. Jacob Plummer.”
Understanding washed over Jamal’s face. He slowly, carefully reached out and grasped my hand.
“Sweetheart, you know—”
“No, I don’t want to hear about his death again. I know what happened; I was there, I pulled the trigger. But I’m telling you, I just saw Jacob out there and I intend to find him.”
Jamal seemed to realize the futility of arguing and nodded. He gestured onward and I took off. With a sigh, Jamal stepped in behind to keep pace.
This time, we were not met with resistance by security. The two monstrous men stepped aside and allowed us both to pass through. Without hesitation, I rushed to the stage to the down left position—the last location of the Jacob Plummer specter. A quick pass from left to right revealed nothing. The spotlights swept across the stage and plastered their brilliance on top of me. The second the audience realized who they were seeing, a rush of celebration exploded. The singer took a moment between verse and chorus and shouted: “Bethany Nitshimi.”
Nothing else needed be said. The crowd unleashed another tsunami of appreciation. I held up my hands and smiled awkwardly—wishing the lights would spin away so I could tune my sight back onto the crowd.
The band picked up the song again and every ounce of audience attention returned to the singer. The lights shifted and, after a moment of blinding sunspots, I was able to see again. I didn’t have to look far. Standing before me, at the edge of the pulsing crowd, was Jacob. This time he looked back. Our eyes met. The man before me raised a single finger and touched its tip to his forehead.
The gesture punched me in the gut. Tears immediately spilled from the dams of my eyes. My jaw quivered until it broke open to release a primal cry. The sob was drowned out by the music. Jamal didn’t need to hear the wail; he could see my body wracked with sobs. He raced to my side and wrapped his arms around me. I pointed out toward the crowd. Jamal followed the point to see a small group of young women dancing, gyrating together. When he finally managed to sway my attention to the audience, I too saw there was nothing and no one to give me reason to weep.
