I Zombie I [Omnibus Edition]

by Jack Wallen

  Jamal picked up the device and gave it the once-over. With a quick change of the subject, he said, “Torsion spring mechanisms. Simple, yet effective.”

  “Good eye, Jamal. I chose that method to avoid—”

  “Having to use hydraulics or servos,” Jamal interrupted. “I like the way you think.”

  It was time to address the daily elephant in the room. “Where are we on locating food sources?”

  Everyone turned to face me; not a word was spoken. The silence made for a damning answer.

  “Seriously?” I planted both palms onto the table. “We’re running dangerously low. If we don’t locate a cache of food soon, this is going to get ugly fast…as in Cannibal Holocaust ugly.”

  Groans rose and fell in a wave of disgust. Morgan stood and crossed her arms. “I hate to say this, but we’re going to have to venture beyond the wall. There are other people trying to survive inside our little community, and we can’t just take from them. We do that, and there’s no way in hell we’ll build up any trust.”

  “It’s not safe out there,” Echo whispered nervously.

  I gave my trusty ninja a comforting pat on the back. “As long as we have Fry on our side, the monsters can’t…”

  Gerrand cleared his throat.

  “What? Don’t you dare tell me we’re out of…”

  “We have precious few vials left. I need to restock on supplies, and we’ve drained the University dry,” Gerrand answered, his voice bereft of emotion. “I’ve already mapped out the locations most likely to have what we need—each within a twenty-mile radius.”

  “Twenty miles!” Josh rose, his voice far louder than necessary. “We’re down to traveling by bike. Do you know how long that could take?”

  “Eighty-three point seven three hours,” Jamal replied. “Given the area of a circle is Pi times R squared and traveling at an average speed of fifteen miles per hour by bike. So roughly three and a half days.”

  Gerrand shook his head. “That’s given that you wish to cover every square inch of the twenty-mile radius. I’ve already mapped out the most efficient path and calculated the time out of pocket.”

  “And?” Jamal prompted Gerrand, impressed with his follow-through.

  “Traveling at your average speed of fifteen miles per hour, we can cover the necessary area in about five hours. That, of course, does not take into account the hunting and gathering of food. Best guess on that would be an extra two or three hours.”

  “And who will be setting off on this five-hour tour?”

  I turned to Morgan and winked. “Why, the Professor and Mary Ann, of course.”

  “You and I?” Gerrand asked, taken aback.

  Jamal cleared his throat. “You might be one of the world’s most leading biologists, but I is the only Professor up in hyah. B-Monster and I are a team and…”

  I grabbed Jamal’s hands and clasped them together. “Actually, J-Mart, I did mean Gerrand and I. He’s kind of necessary on this trip.”

  Gerrand laughed. “Oh…no. Sorry, I’m not…no. I can’t. Out there? Certainly not. My talents are best…indeed.”

  While Gerrand suffered from a massive case of sentence deprivation, my gaze drifted to Jamal, who rolled his eyes and nodded.

  “Fine.” I stopped the man from stroking out. “Jamal and I will run your errands. But you better keep your radio on and at the ready. If we come into any issues locating what you require, you’ll be our best, first, and last hope.”

  Gerrand nodded. I continued.

  “We’ll head out first thing in the morning. I’m exhausted and starving.” I turned my attention to Morgan. “What are the chances you could map out the most logical route to finding food sources along Gerrand’s predefined path?”

  Morgan offered a comforting smile. “Chances are grand.”

  Jamal and I scrounged up what little eats we could find and retired to our bedroom. I took a quick whore bath and, once dry and clad in my trusty Hack The Planet tee shirt, I opened up my laptop and connected to none other than…

  That was Armin Van Buuren and “Heading Up High”. I don’t usually spin trance, but sometimes I just need to allow myself a moment to disappear into the vacuous space between my ears. Hey now, what am I saying? There’s a lot up there in my head. No brains…just an empty lot. The first time a Moaner or Screamer gets ahold of me, they’ll be sorely disappointed. I’ve never worked at an Apple store, so genius I am not. Oh, that kills up in Cupertino. Well, Zombie Radio Nation, it looks like we have a call. Maybe it’s MENSA ringing to tell me my membership has been accepted. I kid. I kid all of you MENSAites out there. I’m certain my attempts to join the vaunted few would be summarily rejected on first blush. Don’t you just love it when a DJ tries to rise above their own intellectual standing? I have the face and mind for radio…what do you expect? Okay, okay…enough with the stalling. Let’s take this call. You’re talking to Zombie Radio. What’s your name and what choo got?

  The lyrical stylings of the DJ were cut short by silence.

  Speak, or you’ll suffer the three-second rule.

  Another dreaded silence.

  Three. Two.

  The voice on the other end of the call was rough and haunting…like a man who’d smoked too much and hiked across a desert during the hottest days of summer.

  No horse. No name.

  “We have the cure for the virus.”

  That’s rich, sir. I believe we already know that Bethany and company have worked out the cure for the Mengele Virus and are currently coming up with a distribution method.

  “Her cure will no longer work.”

  Who are you?

  “You already know who I am…or at least who I am with. I represent the single most powerful organization on the planet.”

  The DJ paused before saying, The Zero Day Collective.

  “In the flesh…as it were.”

  And how do you know Bethany’s cure will no longer work?

  “Because the virus has mutated and we now possess the only viable remedy.”

  How do you know the virus has mutated?

  The slightest laughter greeted the DJ’s question. What the man said next brought a flood of tears instantly streaming down my cheeks.

  “The Zero Day Collective forced the mutation. We call it the Genesis Cradle, and I promise the chaos it will inflict upon the natural order will be glorious.”

  I reached a finger down to silence the broadcast. Jamal stopped me before I could complete the act. He whispered, “We need to know what’s going on, B.”

  I nodded and placed both hands in my lap. The DJ interrupted my bout of angst.

  We’re going to find you. When we do, the wrath that will befall you bastards will break the laws of physics and logic.

  “I sincerely doubt anyone alive has the ability to stop the work we are doing.”

  Don’t underestimate human resiliency, you inglorious twat rag. I’ve watched humanity pull itself from the ashes and fight you back at every instance. There’s no reason to believe that strength has been depleted.

  The caller on the other end of the line chuckled. There was an honest and sickening sense of humor rising in the sound of his reaction.

  “My good, ignorant man.” The disembodied voice had the gall to sigh. “We broke the human spirit some time ago. There is nothing left but a shell of a race. But if that’s what you’d like to think…far be it from me to burst your tiny bubble.”

  Fuck you, the DJ hissed.

  “Mr. DJ, the fucking has already been taken care of. It was painful and it was plentiful.”

  Silence.

  Are you— the DJ asked hesitantly.

  “Still here? The caller cut the DJ short. “I wouldn’t dream of going anywhere, my dear punching bag. It is such a treat to hear you struggle and squirm. I only hope you are managing to find some semblance of joy in these proceedings. And just to make sure you understand where this is all leading, I will say this to your audience: The Zero Day Collective has the onl
y known cure to work against the mutated virus. We will begin distributing the serum to those who can afford its rather steep price. My suggestion to everyone is to gather every penny you can—no matter the means—and prepare to hand over all of your assets. If you want to survive, you will buy. If you want to save your children and your loved ones, you will pay.”

  The caller’s tone shifted from ominous to playful. “You will know us when we arrive in your towns, so be ready…cash in hand. It’s a buyer’s market out there.”

  Go to Hell! The DJ spat the three powerful words and then cut the call off.

  Ladies and gentlemen, that was a mistake. I should know by now to not even remotely entertain such discourse. I cannot begin to tell you how many times someone has called the station, claiming to be members of the ZDC. Turns out, there are a lot of freaks ready to dive deep into that pool of crazy. Listen to me carefully, Zombie Radio Nation, this is not something to joke about. If you believe using the ZDC is a means to gain entry to an elite club, then know you are a just as fucked up as Jonathan Burgess ever was. I have to believe that call was nothing more than a farce…otherwise, why bother?

  The DJ paused, his sorrowful breathing loud and clear.

  I need a song. Honestly, the only tune I can imagine playing right now is Liar, by the Rollins Band. Suck it, ZDC.

  The odd, jazzy beginning to the song rolled out of the laptop speakers like a smooth jam pimp. I waited for Henry Rollins’ voice to soothe my ire.

  The soothing never came; I was far too angry, too ready to break the machine of the Zero Day Collective.

  Jamal’s hand found mine and gave it a gentle squeeze. “Don’t believe it, B. There’s no way they would have the means to force a mutation of—”

  I stopped Jamal short. “Why not? They created the virus, manufactured it in a lab. Who’s to say they couldn’t reboot the damn thing on a whim?”

  To my surprise, Jamal stood and left the room. He quickly returned, with Richard in tow.

  “What is this about?” Dr. Gerrand asked.

  “Ask him,” Jamal prompted me.

  The words were a log jam in my throat. I wasn’t sure if it was the fear of facing what could be an inescapable truth, or nothing more than a fist-sized lump of angst. Either way, my larynx was having nothing to do with forming words.

  “Fine, I’ll do it.” Jamal to the rescue. He turned to Gerrand. “Could the Zero Day Collective force a mutation of the Mengele Virus that would render our cure void?”

  Gerrand responded without hesitation. “Of course. That scenario is wholly possible. Within the confines of a lab, they could mutate the virus. The more important question would be, is it probable that mutation could spread quickly enough to be a threat? Considering the majority of people brave enough to walk the streets are the undead, the chances of them reaching the only targets that matter are growing slimmer and slimmer by the day. To succeed, they would have to develop the means to infect the infected, and that is highly unlikely.” Gerrand paused and then crossed his arms. “Why do you ask?”

  My words were finally given life. “Because some arrogant bastard just called into Zombie Radio claiming they’d pulled it off…mutated the Mengele Virus.”

  “Did he give a name?” Gerrand asked.

  “No, why?” Jamal lobbed a question right back.

  Gerrand chewed his lip for a moment. “There are only a handful of molecular biologists on the planet capable of pulling off such a feat. At least one of them is still under the employ of the ZDC. Another happens to be standing before you. And considering that I was…” Gerrand fell silent and looked away. There was no need to finish the sentence. Both Jamal and I knew exactly where the doctor was heading. He was responsible for the Mengele Virus in the first place. Yes, he had atoned for his sin against the human race—and had even gone to great lengths to make up for said sin—but the man standing before us helped to bring the world to its knees. I couldn’t imagine he will ever unburden himself of that weight.

  “It can be done,” Gerrand said softly. “And if he is speaking the truth, everything we’ve worked for was in vain.”

  “What do we do?” Jamal asked, his voice tight.

  Gerrand looked up and mouthed something I couldn’t hear or read. He nodded twice and then looked me dead to rights in the eyes. “We will have to find someone—or something—infected with the mutated strain and then run tests to discern what they did to the virus. That will be our only hope.”

  My head lolled forward and hung until my chin brushed against my chest. “And how do you suggest we locate one of the mutated moaners? Shine a special light on them to decode their super secret blood? Thumb through our trusty Harry Potter book of wizarding spells? Or maybe we’ll get lucky and the new millennial zombies will tag themselves on Instagram or Snapchat us, so we know exactly where they are, who they’re eating, and if they’re suffering from a tragic case of the feels.”

  Gerrand raised a solitary finger into the air. The gesture reminded me of any given Jeff Goldblum film, where he was about to change the course of the movie with a single, uniquely-delivered sentence. “Actually, my dear, the key to discovery is Fry.”

  “I don’t—” I started, and then immediately retracted my confusion. “Son of a bitch…he’s right,” I nearly shouted.

  Jamal looked between me and Gerrand and back again. “Care to fill Mr. Clueless in?”

  Gerrand nodded my way. I nodded back and explained. “Fry will take down any Moaner, Screamer, or Boner with the known virus coursing through their veins. But what happens if we plug a monster with the mutated virus?”

  Jamal’s eyes and mouth widened with realization. “Nothing,” he almost laughed aloud.

  “Exactly,” both Gerrand and I sang out.

  “Of course,” Gerrand continued, “that means we’re going to have get busy stocking our shelves so I can produce more serum.”

  Gerrand’s message was received, loud and clear.

  “Tomorrow, then,” Gerrand said as he turned and left the room.

  I powered down the laptop and curled up in bed. Jamal cozied up to me, and darkness caressed my senses.

  *

  The landscape shifted into a cavernous room of limestone and sulfur. Heat licked and lapped at my skin. I was seated on a scalding hot stone bench, surrounded by creatures of various twists and deformities. Flesh melted and peeled away as women tossed their heads back in a boudoir pose and laughed at unheard quips and limericks. Bodices, corsets, bustles, heels, and stockings fueled drool-inducing fantasies in the other twisted beauties seated nearby.

  The audience sat in a semi-circle, facing a large obsidian lectern. The pulpit was polished to a high shine, yet reflected no light.

  A door opened; the sound echoed through the room as if it desperately wanted live on in perpetuity. The eerie noise was quickly overshadowed by the monstrous clopping of a two-legged horse.

  Only…this was no horse. A scarlet-skinned man, with veins of black coursing over his flesh, stood behind the pulpit. From his forehead, two twisted daggers of charred and phosphorescent bone rose. The man slammed his beefy fist onto the lectern and then nodded to the right.

  A bailiff with dreadlock snakes rising from his scalp pushed someone forward, their head covered with a black cloth. Once the person was in place, the bailiff whipped off the sack like it was a big game show reveal. Underneath the mask…was me.

  The audience oohed and ahhed and the thing behind the pulpit spoke.

  “Can I hear one dollar n’ one dollar for this fine specimen? I have one dollar n’ I’m gonna have to ask for two. Two will get you three, but I need five. Five dollar n’ you could walk away with the prize. Now I have ten dollars, ten dollars just won’t cut it. Give me fifty dollar n’ I’ll cut you a deal. Seventy five dollars n’ you’ll get a steal.”

  The beast continued auctioning me as the bids shot higher and higher.

  “Sold to Clauneck for six hundred and sixty-six thousand dollars,” the demon auctione
er said with a puff of yellowish smoke billowing from his nostrils. “Use her often and use her well.”

  Clauneck stood, the hunch of his crooked back perfectly mimicking that of his nose, and limped to the me he’d just purchased. He reached forward, took up my hand, and sniffed. His head snapped to the auctioneer. “Something is wrong with this one. I was promised the incurable and you’ve given me this vile thing?” Clauneck spat a thick globule of sticky, black mucus that spattered across my doppelganger’s face.

  The demon auctioneer growled. “You know the policy, Clauneck. Once purchased, meat cannot be returned.”

  The audience exploded, tossing handfuls of shit at the winner.

  “I am not meat!” my twin exclaimed with confidence.

  The whole of the room fell silent. Each and every head slowly turned until all eyes were on the young woman that was me.

  The auctioneer huffed, another putrid cloud wafted up and over his head. “Then tell me, girl, what are you?”

  The me on the auction block stood tall and proud. “I am Bethany Nitshimi.”

  The crowd gasped.

  “Repeat your name, girl,” demanded the demon.

  “Bethany Nitshimi,” I responded.

  “Again!” the demon screamed.

  “Bethany!”

  I awoke like an explosion from the darkness. Jamal sat up in the bed, his hands on my arm. The look on his face was purest concern. He pulled me into an embrace that stopped the chugging of tears before they could start.

  “I’m so sick of this, Jamal,” I whispered.

  Jamal cupped the back of my head with his hand. “I know.”

  Just as we were about to return to sleep, the soft cooing and cries of Jacob wrenched my system into overdrive. Running on fumes and instinct, I stood and stumbled my way in the dark to my baby’s crib.

  “Hello, my little man,” I whispered, and scooped Jacob up. The second his head was nestled into the crook of my neck, he fell back into the realm of peace.

  I held a clone of my son.

  In ideal circumstances, that might given my heart or mind pause.

  This situation was far from ideal. Therefore, the baby was mine…clone or not.