I Zombie I [Omnibus Edition]

by Jack Wallen

  Faddig placed a hand on the forehead of Subject 001. The flesh instantly warmed. “Trust me, you will, very shortly.”

  “Will it hurt?”

  “Yes, it will. Your pain will be a glorious testament to the rebirth of humankind.”

  A bead of sweat rose on Subject 001’s forehead. Before he could reply to Faddig’s statement, every muscle in his body locked. He arched on the bed until his spine threatened to snap. His head shook violently on its thin neck, tossing thick, ivory foam from his mouth. His arms twisted and jerked upwards, his hands and fingers curling and snapping in and out.

  And then he froze, his body locked in a rainbow of pain.

  Faddig removed the picc line from his elbow, cleaned the rivulet of blood, and rolled his sleeve back down. He stood, exited the room, and locked the door behind him.

  “Twenty-four hours,” Faddig whispered as he checked his watch, “until the game changes.”

  He made his way back to central command. He walked in and immediately barked out his latest orders. “I need a new group of subjects. This time I want living humans. Send out a collection crew immediately and inform me when they return.”

  The second the crew acknowledged his orders, Faddig exited and made his way to an unmarked car. He placed his palm against a worn section of wall until a single beep initiated the unlock sequence. The door hissed open and Faddig slipped inside.

  In the center of the room, a stainless steel table held a bassinet. Surrounding the table was a wall of inch-thick Plexiglass. Tucked safely within the sleeper was a baby. Attached to the baby were tubes…some giving, something taking.

  Jacob was alive, his color pink and healthy. Faddig stepped near the wall and placed the palms of his hands against its crystal clear bulk.

  “Ah, Commander Faddig,” a male voice called.

  Faddig held up a hand for silence. The speaker complied.

  “You are the body of Christ, Jacob Plummer. Together, we will rule the planet.”

  Faddig turned and addressed his audience of one. “Zero one zero.”

  With the code spoken, the man in the lab coat immediately went to work. He tapped out a command on a keyboard to raise the encircling wall. Next he rolled a second table parallel to Jacob’s and then proceeded to gather the supplies necessary for the transfusion.

  “Please lie down,” the man requested. “Are you certain─” he started. Before Faddig had a chance to silence the man, he changed course. “Of course you are. This will only take a moment to prepare.”

  Faddig removed his shirt and climbed onto the surgical table. “Doctor Brandt, we have only one chance at this. Do know that I have protocols in place should you fail.”

  Brandt swallowed hard against the lump in his throat.

  “I understand, sir,” Brandt replied.

  Faddig rested his head on a folded towel and eased his naked flesh onto the cold metal. He took in a deep breath and whispered, “Begin.”

  fourteen | gas

  Rondo checked his watch and glanced toward the driver. “ETA?”

  The driver checked his GPS and then the digital clock above the speedometer. “If I can keep up this pace, about five hours. But…” his voice drifted off, the lingering sound carrying an air of warning.

  “But what?” Rondo demanded.

  Before the driver could answer, the bus chugged, lurched, and coughed to a stop.

  Cries of “What the fuck?” poured out from the rear. Rondo leaned forward and snapped, “What just happened?”

  The driver remained silent, staring at the dash.

  Gerrand turned in his seat and said nervously, “Why aren’t we moving? We can’t be stopped.”

  “We’re out of gas,” the driver mumbled.

  “What did you say?”

  The driver finally turned to Rondo and confessed, “I neglected to watch the gauge while dodging zombies. We’re out of gas.”

  Rondo’s jaws flexed and relaxed as his eyes narrowed to slits. The slightest tremor shook his head like a nervous twitch as he glared at the driver. He forced his breathing to slow and deepen. With one last gulp of fresh oxygen, he stood and turned to face the crew. “I need volunteers to locate fuel for this vehicle.”

  Manolo and Rusty shot up their hands. Rondo nodded their way. “I believe you’ll find plenty of the stuff parked on the highway.”

  The driver grabbed Rondo’s arm from behind. “This bus drinks the shit. We’re going to need more than a couple of five gallon cans if we have any intention of making it to the next stop.”

  Rondo turned back to the team. “I need all hands on deck. Each of you will walk back, locate a car that will start, and drive it to this bus. We will then siphon fuel and get the fuck out of this miserable Dodge. Is that clear?”

  Yes, sirs exploded from the passengers.

  Without further need of command, the Zombie Response Team filed out of the bus and took off, at a high clip, toward the parked cars.

  Rusty caught up to Manolo. “Doesn’t this just beat the clown’s balls?”

  “You’d know, Bozo,” Manolo snapped back with a laugh.

  “Remember what they say about big hands and big feet? Same goes with big, floppy clown shoes,” Rusty replied.

  Manolo shot her hand down and grabbed a handful of Rusty’s crotch as they ran. “Wait, are you a fucking woman? I don’t feel dick down there.”

  “Ha ha, Manolo. I’m sure you got schlong enough for both of us.”

  She released her grip. “You’re damn straight I do, smoothy.”

  Rusty peeled off toward the first car he spotted. Before he could swing the driver’s side door open, Manolo shouted, “Incoming.”

  The shot from Manolo’s weapon rang out before he could react. The Moaner dropped, its left hip shattered. Rusty dropped his size eleven boot onto the zombie’s skull to send rotting brains splashing down in three hundred and sixty degrees. He shot a glance at Manolo and flipped her off. She laughed and grabbed her crotch to return the salute.

  Rusty slipped into the car and checked for keys. “Bing-fucking-o,” he shouted, and started the car. A quick check of the gas to see it had three-quarters of a tank. “Hell yeah.”

  Two other cars sped past before Rusty could point the Lexus toward the bus. He rolled down the windows to let some of the stale air out; when he did, the cry for help spun his heart in this chest. He slammed the brakes, shifted the car into park, opened the door, and hopped out. He pulled a pistol and lowered his body into shooting position. He eased forward, careful not to rattle his arms.

  “Manolo,” Rusty shouted. “Where are you?”

  A single light dimly illuminated the horrific scene before him. Inside a burgundy Prius, a Moaner held Manolo against the driver’s side door, its gnashing jaws snapping within inches of her neck. Her arms pressed hard against the shoulders of the beast.

  Rusty paused to take aim, but couldn’t get a clean shot.

  “Fuck!” he shouted, and took off at a sprint. “Hold on, bitch, cavalry’s coming.”

  A high-pitched squeal rattled against his eardrums and cracked him in the heart. He found another gear and reached the car faster than he thought possible.

  Too late.

  The Moaner had his teeth buried in Manolo’s neck. A fountain of blood colored the windshield in scarlet death.

  Rusty reached into the car, grabbed the Moaner by the back of the tattered shirt, and yanked him from his meal. The second the zombie hit the ground, Rusty shouted. “No!” He dropped his boot down on the beast’s chest and shouted again. “No!” Another boot drop, another shout. He continued until the sternum cracked and popped. The zombie’s arms waved upwards, attempting to gain purchase on the meat of Rusty’s legs. Rusty dropped to his knees, grabbed the Moaner’s head, and forced the gun into its mouth.

  “Die, zombie, die!” He screamed with every ounce of rage contained within his body and emptied his clip into the Moaner’s head. Once the gun was bereft of bullets, Rusty picked up the limp body and
brought it down hard onto the hood of the car once, twice, three times.

  He let the bag of meat drop to the ground and unleashed another, more primal scream. Tears streamed down his cheeks as he looked in on what was once his best friend. She gasped and gagged as the last of her blood burbled from the gaping wound in her neck.

  Rusty reached in, grabbed Manolo’s gun, and turned the barrel on her. A single bullet crashed through the bone in her forehead and her body fell limp.

  Without a word, Rusty turned and walked back to the Lexus.

  “I’ll mourn when I die,” he whispered, and slipped into the car.

  The bus came into view. Rusty dried the tears from his cheeks and sucked what little bravery remained in his gut. The other members were busy working out the best method of siphoning gas from the tanks of the cars and into the bus.

  Rusty exited the car and headed into the bus. He stood toe to toe with Rondo and saluted. “Manolo didn’t make it, sir.”

  Rondo’s forehead and eyes creased. “What do you mean, she didn’t make it?”

  “I mean, sir, that she was taken down by a Moaner. She’s dead.”

  The two men shared a significant silence. Manolo had been with the team since the beginning. She was one of their best, bravest.

  “There are no words, sir,” Rusty said with finality, and returned to the vehicle. He opened the hood of the Lexus and rummaged through the engine compartment. He retrieved a multi-tool from his belt and went to work on the longest piece of hosing the car had to offer. The second he had the hose in hand, he pulled an empty Jerry Can from the side of the bus and held it aloft. “This shouldn’t be fucking empty!”

  Rusty returned to the Lexus and began the process of siphoning gas from its tank. When the can was full, he returned to the bus and poured the fuel into the beast’s tank. It took three trips to empty the tank of the Lexus. With the job complete, he handed the hose and the can over to Serge. “Pass this around until everyone has transferred their car’s fuel to the bus.”

  The grieving soldier went directly to the side of the bus. Along a black strip of paint, just under the Zombie Response Team logo, a number of ticks were scratched. Rusty pulled out his knife and added another. “Fuck you, Manolo,” Rusty whispered, and choked back a lump of sorrow.

  Within the bus, all was silent. The majority of soldiers were still transferring fuel. Rusty stopped in front of Gerrand and glared down at him. Tension rose as Rusty clenched his fists and sucked in a large enough breath to puff up his already barreled chest. When Rusty spoke, his voice was ragged and deep. “You better be worth it.”

  Gerrand blinked and nodded, his gaze dropping to the floor of the bus. “I’m very sorry.” His whisper went unheard.

  Rusty made his way to the back of the bus and took his seat. He stared ahead, motionless and sullen.

  fifteen | ackbar’d

  Jamal slid into my room, his eyes child-wild and his mouth a Pennywise smile. “I did it, B.”

  “Solved Beal’s conjecture?” I replied.

  Jamal’s eyes momentarily glazed over.

  I snapped my fingers to pull him out of the math-induced trance. “Come back to me, J-mal.”

  He laughed. “That never gets old.”

  We had no idea what the future held for us, but we still had the past…and sometimes that past was the only connection to what little humanity remained.

  “So what is it that you did?”

  Jamal offered an exaggerated nod. “Successfully modified the routers. We now have a working mesh network throughout the house that will prevent the signal being produced by Jacob’s implant from calling home. Until we can figure a way to remove it, he can at least be carried through the house without fear.”

  “Have you tested it?” I dared to ask.

  Jamal Spocked his left eyebrow. “I fail to see the logic in your statement.”

  “Of all the…souls I have encountered,” I gave Jamal my best James T. Kirk. “His was the most…” I paused.

  “Human,” Jamal and I wrenched out the last word together.

  Jamal nodded. “Jacob’s Ladder has been tested and confirmed.”

  I reached out to hug Jamal, but the moment was ruined by a single, spine-shrinking sentence. Three simple words, uttered by Morgan.

  “We’ve got trouble.”

  My heart nose-dived into my bowels. The apocalypse was an all-you-can-eat buffet of trouble. Under normal circumstances, we ate trouble for breakfast, lunch, and dinner. But something in the tone of Morgan’s voice inspired a deep-seated dread to sprout in the pit of my stomach.

  “What is it?” I ventured.

  Morgan gestured for us to follow. She led us to the entryway of the house, opened the door, and pointed.

  Off in the distance, a plume of black smoke rose.

  “Son of a bitch,” I hissed. “We have to do something about that.”

  Fire was chaotic and chaos was our enemy. Even with a city full of zombies and lunatics, fire couldn’t be ignored. Unchecked, a single blaze could burn the whole of New Salt Lake City to the ground. I wasn’t ready to go, not when we’d come so far and still had so much to do.

  I grabbed Jamal and pulled him close. “I want you to stay here with the kids.”

  He nodded quickly.

  “Morgan, Josh,” I called out. When they appeared nearby I added, “You two are with me. We’re going to locate that fire and put it out.”

  “Seriously?” Josh complained. “Me and fire don’t get along well.”

  Morgan slapped Josh across the arm. “Suck it up, buttercup. You’re going and you’ll like it.”

  Josh stomped a foot in a mock pout and then said, “Yes, ma’am.”

  Before anyone had a change of heart, I snatched up a walkie talkie and gave Jamal a kiss. “Channel three. Turn it on and keep it on. You hear shenanigans, you call in the cavalry.”

  Jamal slapped his open palm to his chest. “Said cavalry being yours truly?”

  I nodded and slipped out the door.

  Morgan caught up and fell into lock-step with me. She had a bow strapped to her back and a pistol in her hand. Behind, I could practically feel Josh’s massive body walking close. The large man was frighteningly silent.

  The plume of black smoke drew nearer. My nerves jingled and rattled.

  “What do you think it is?” Josh asked in a whisper.

  “Don’t worry, Bear, you’re not missing a barbecue. If you are, it’s certainly not one you want to attend.”

  “Are you kidding?” Josh chided. “I don’t care if they’re barbecuing each other…I’m in.”

  Morgan shook her head. “One of these days, Joshua, you’re going to realize that not every cookout is created equal.”

  We slipped and slunk through the streets of New Salt Lake City on our way toward the calling plume. I expected to be greeted by some revelry or other, but none came.

  “The silence is maddening,” Morgan whispered darkly.

  I was overcome by the urge to start singing Bjork’s “It’s Oh So Quiet”, but I resisted the temptation. Too much noise in this vacuum of sound and we’d be drawn and quartered by the horde.

  Or worse.

  A shock of fear crawled up my spine. Since the Mengele Virus had reset evolution’s clock, I’d never once thought I’d fear something more than the undead scourge. Even the Zero Day Collective, with their blackened hearts and broken moral compass, could be beaten back with a large enough stick. This sickness of the soul, this withering lack of compassion that defined the Thelemites, was a different and more hideous beast altogether.

  Morgan pointed toward the origin of the smoke. We turned a corner and hugged a wall. Before we could take another step, the overpowering reek of burned flesh gave my sense of smell a smackdown. There was no mistaking the stench.

  All of a sudden, I didn’t want to do this.

  Josh and Morgan exchanged glances, nodded, and continued on. Against my better judgment, I followed.

  I wished I hadn�
�t.

  Standing in the center of a large, four-way intersection was a massive pyre. Strapped tight to the center pole, consumed by flames, four bodies cooked. The roar of the fire barely masked the hiss and sizzle of the flesh.

  “Fuck,” Morgan’s hand shot up to cover her mouth. With her free hand, she pointed.

  Before the pyre, a wooden cross displayed the familiar logo patch of the Zombie Response Team.

  “Goddamn,” Josh said under his breath.

  Morgan turned to face the nightmare. Drops of sorrow splashed down between her feet. “This was my fault. I ordered them into this trap.”

  I placed a tentative hand on her shoulder and whispered, “You couldn’t have known.”

  Morgan’s head snapped toward me. “It’s my place to know.”

  Before I could stop her, she held her weapon up and stepped into the crossroads.

  “Morgan,” Josh whispered as he grabbed for her, but missed.

  One by one, she pointed her gun at each rooftop and each window. She spoke with a chiseled fury when she returned to zero. “This was a tragic mistake on your part.”

  Her words were met with silence.

  Josh gave me a look, sighed, and joined Morgan out in the open. They stood back to back, weapons drawn. I remained in the shadows. Not out of cowardice, but to provide some semblance of backup should things go sideways.

  And self-preservation. I couldn’t deny that bit of truth.

  The fire continued to fill the area with the foul stink of cannibal buffet. The pop and crackle of the blaze was maddeningly hypnotic. If I could punch fire, I would have.

  “Art,” an amplified male voice echoed off the surrounding walls, “is such a subjective thing. One man’s brilliance is another man’s Jackson Pollack or John Cage. For some, the art is in the creation or destruction of the actual thing. Take, for instance, your friends here─those brave soldiers you sent in to take us out. We tied them up, doused them with oil, set them on fire, and watched them fry. Some would say art could be found in the positioning of the arms and legs, the tragically tilted angles of their heads. Others would insist the art lies in the leaching of life.”