by Jack Wallen
No. Fucking. Way.
So, to the Zero Day Collective I say bring it. I’m not afraid of you and your undead minions. But even with that lack of fear that I hope my listeners share, I must insist anyone living near the cities I mentioned earlier, leave. Get as far away as you can. Find someplace safe. And when you do evacuate, do so silently and in small groups. And do not, under any circumstance, travel without some form of weapon.
Another caller. If this is the ZDC calling again I’m going to drop my phone on the ground and piss on it until it won’t ring again.
You’re talking to Zombie Radio. What’s your name and what ya got?
“My name is Zach, from Nova Scotia.”
A Canuk! Take off, ya hoser.
“Yeah, I get that a lot from Americans. It’s still funny.”
What can Zombie Radio do for you, Zach from Nova Scotia?
“I heard you just mention the US cities that have had their populations wiped out. I think I might be the only survivor in my Province. It sounds crazy, but I haven’t seen another living person in days. The streets are flooded with the undead. I’ve been hiding in a gas station for the last three days. I don’t know what to do. I’m about to run out of food. I’ve got plenty of water and still have electricity and internet.”
Zach, is there anything close to you that would have any food? Anything. A house, a store, anything.
“There’s a row of houses across the street. But there’s no way I can make it. They’re everywhere. I’ve been watching the street for the last three days and there’s not been a single moment where I could make it out safely.”
Can you create a distraction? Cause the walking dead to walk the other way? Is there a car anywhere nearby? One with keys?
“I don’t know. Maybe. There are a couple of cars in the parking lot. There’s one dead body that might belong to the car.”
I know this sounds crazy, but it might be your only shot. Get to that body, find a set of keys, and try to start the car. If you do it quickly and quietly you might … wait … can you find something unnatural to spread over your skin? I know this is insane, but I think they can smell living flesh. If you can find some motor oil or something like that. Just spread it on any exposed flesh and do your best ninja to the dead body.
“I don’t know if I can.”
Zach, it’s either that, or sit around and hope the parade of zombies ends before you starve to death.
Silence.
Zach, are you there?
“Yeah, I’m going to try. I’ll call you back if I make it.”
Are you sure about this Zach?
“You’re right, it’s my only chance. Thank you for the advice Zombie Radio. If you don’t hear back from me, keep the airwaves safe from the undead.”
Yeah, you got it. And Zach, don’t forget —
“Yeah?”
Take off, ya hoser.
“Yeah, take off, eh.”
Shit. Well, Zombie Radio Nation, maybe we should share a moment of silence for our friend from the Great White North.
Silence.
And how can I not play this wonderful piece of music born from the old Second City TV Bob and Doug Mackenzie skit. ‘Take Off’, featuring one-third of the holy trinity, Geddy Lee. That’s me on the drums.
Shit. I most likely just sent a young man to his death.
“You did the right thing.” Alexa’s voice nearly startled me out of my chair. When I turned she was staring at me with a look I couldn’t place. It could be concern, it could be respect; I was having a hard time seeing anything behind the green of her eyes. I was utterly smitten.
“How long have you been listening?”
“I heard the whole conversation. You had no choice but to try to save him. It was the only way.” Alexa once again spoke reassuring words I was having trouble hearing.
“I don’t know. What if he doesn’t call back? What if he doesn’t make it?” I had to fight back hysteria. How wonderful would that be to go straight-jacket crazy in front of a beautiful woman I had only just met?
“How many times are you going to ask ‘What if?’ You’ll drive yourself to crazy town if you keep that up.”
Could she read my mind? Was I that transparent? Surely not.
“I love that song. I had the forty-five when I was a young girl. What else was on that album?” Alexa’s eyes lit up with memory for a moment.
“Track One: This is our album, Eh? Track Two: Beerhunter. Track Three: School Announcements … ”
“Holy shit, you remember the track listing! You’re a DJ, you have an unfair advantage!” Alexa smiled and the room lit up like a million watt Christmas tree had just been powered on.
“So, why are you doing this?” Alexa’s voice softened as she nodded to my equipment. “Have you always been a DJ?”
“Since I was four. Okay, that’s not completely true; but it’s not completely false either. My father was a morning DJ for a radio station in Portland. He used to bring me into the station when he needed a child’s voice for a commercial or some goofy bit he dreamed up. So I kinda got bit by this bug way too early to ever have a chance of escaping. In high school I was kinda the God of the airwaves. You know, big fish, tiny pond. Then college the master’s degree.”
Cricket. Cricket.
My Prince reference shot straight over Alexa’s head. Sometimes it sucked knowing so much about music.
“I didn’t miss the Pussy Control reference, if that’s what you’re wondering.” The smile that crossed Alexa’s face could have stunned the Cheshire Cat into thinking it was a dog.
“You’re good. You’re really good.”
We laughed. I felt my heart beat again.
“Can I sit up here with you while you do your next segment?”
How could I say no? I couldn’t, that’s how.
Alexa pulled up a chair beside me and gently sat herself down, legs crossed beneath her. I was glad to have distracted her from the surrounding chaos that brought her to my house. Honestly, though, I was waiting for the other glass slipper to drop and for her to lose it completely. I could only hope if it happened, it happened when I wasn’t live.
Geddy just told Bob and Doug to ‘Take off’. It was all me in three, two, one …
Chapter 8
You’re listening to WZMB, Zombie Radio. Your personal soundtrack to the end of the world. That was Bob and Doug MacKinzie and ‘Take Off’. So, for all you Canucks out there, I have a question. It’s a simple kinda question with a simple kinda answer. What is a ‘hoser’? If there’s an etymologist out there listening, call in and fill the Zombie Radio Nation in on the etymology of ‘hoser’.
Everyone, say it with me. ‘Hoser’. Such a delightful little word that. ‘Hoser’.
And here’s the phone, must be that etymologist I requested.
You’re talking with Zombie Radio. What’s your name and what ya got?
“Listen, you must be careful. The Zero Day Collective is real.”
Whoa there, that’s a pretty bold statement coming from an anonymous caller, don’t you think?
“I can’t tell you my name. I can tell you I work with the ZDC. This is all very real and all very scary. I’ve seen what they are doing; the human experiments, the monsters they are creating. The ZDC isn’t going to stop until they’ve cleansed the world of everyone they deem unworthy.”
Cleansed? Are you serious? So far that’s the second pseudo-Nazi reference I’ve been handed. Is this the second coming of Hitler?
“No. This is the first coming of the end — the end of all ends. If what I’ve seen behind the curtain is realized, the human race doesn’t stand a chance.”
What do we do? Can we stop this dark hayride or are we supposed to roll over and lie down?
“There is one person that can save humanity from this wreckage. She has called into your show once before. I think you know who I am speaking of. Listen to me — do not make threats or taunt the ZDC. That is not the kind of attention you want. I have to go. D
o not give up. Mankind needs you.”
Wait. Don’t … shit. Well listeners, you heard it. This Zero Day Collective is very real. This also most likely means the book, I Zombie I, is just as real. Bethany Nitshimi, if you’re listening, call me — we need to chat. My listeners need to know what’s going on, what’s going to happen, and what they should do.
Here’s an email. From … well, from none other than Miss Nitshimi. It says ‘Read the book.’ That’s it? No phone call? After everything we shared? Did last night not mean anything to you?
Okay, okay, I kid the Zombie Radio Nation — there was no last night. Well there was, but it was filled with me speaking to you and trying to sneak in a nap here and there during carefully scripted and planned play lists. So, read the book. You heard the woman listeners, I want each and every one of you to download Jacob Plummer’s book, read it, and call in to discuss. Think of it as the Zombie Radio Book Club. But read fast my voracious vixens, before this apocalypse passes us all by. Wouldn’t want to miss it for the world! Bwahaha.
Did I just bwahaha on national radio? Is that even allowed? No? What about a muhaha? Legal or no?
Just for shits, let’s grab another random page from The Bible of the New World Order.
“Whoever, or whatever, it was male, and one ugly-ass male at that. He looked like he had been yanked right out of a Nosferatu film with nearly transparent skin stretched over a hairless skull. The blue veins peeking out proved one can look dead but still move and…eat.
Blood was seeping out of the woman from everywhere. Her heart had obviously stopped because the liquid life wasn’t pumping, just seeping. The blood oozed through her lifeless veins, the deep-red, life-giving liquid slowly pouring out.
The man-thing sat up, seemingly finished dining on the woman’s body. But then his hands grabbed the woman’s head and started cracking it on the ground. The sound was a thick, wet thunk. I thought maybe he would stop slamming her skull when he realized she was dead, but he didn’t. Soon, I could hear the skull bones begin to crack open. The cracking sound morphed into a wet thud as gray matter spilled out. His fingers reached into a crack in the skull and pulled apart the bone.
And then something happened I will never forget. The fingers reached deeper into the skull and scooped out the woman’s brains as if they were poi. Slurping sounds… Oh, God! He was licking the brain-poi from his fingers! Next, the man pressed his death-blue lips against the hole in her brain-pan and started sucking. The poor woman was being devoured from the inside out.
I had to get away from this freak show, but I knew the instant I moved those lips would somehow find their way to my own skull. I was not about to become a slushy for the damned.
The slurping sounds continued. I just wanted to either hand this man a spoon or poke out my ear drums. Fortunately, the slurp-fest didn’t last long. The thing finished his meal and stood up. Gore rained down from above and splashed at his feet. The smell was caustic. I could have used a good ol’ fashioned puke.
The beast let out a truck-shaking roar. I wasn’t sure if he was howling in triumph or if his meal failed to sate his appetite. It didn’t matter because the feet finally lumbered away from the truck. I was left staring at the hollowed-out skull of the woman. A frightened, child-like part of me wanted to reach out and touch her, put my fingertip to her cerebral cortex. I wanted to confirm that what had just happened was real, and not some sick nightmare.”
Jesus Christ this shit is insane. We’re full-on doomsday here. Someone please wake me up from this nightmare.
The Zombie Phone — just in time.
You’re talking with Zombie Radio. What’s your name and what ya got?
“Name’s Margie. I’ve read the book and I think it’s bull-shit.”
Well, Miss Negative, do expound on your opinion.
“I don’t believe this Jacob dude was infected. I think it was nothing more than a publicity stunt to get people to read his work. I mean, come on, the guy was a journalist. Name a single journalist with an ounce of moral integrity. Can you? You can’t. Plummer even states it in the book how he hopes his journal will win him a Pulitzer. How can you trust that?”
Honestly, Margie, I haven’t finished the book. But if that’s all you’ve got to go on to keep you from trusting the words within, that’s a fairly shallow argument. According to your logic, the likes of Bill Moyers, Anderson Cooper, Bob Woodward, and Walter Cronkite are not, or were not, to be trusted. Is this true?
“Are they all journalists?”
Seriously? You make a claim that journalists cannot be trusted and when I rattle off just a few of the world’s most famous journalists you go all clueless on me? Thank you for calling Margie, but I do believe you might want to fire up Wikipedia and get your facts straight. After all, if it’s on the interwebs, it must be true.
That makes me sad. The ignorance of the world is reaching an all-time low. Are you with me listeners? Hell, maybe the Mengele Virus was yet another ploy to continue the dumbing down of the American population.
Speaking of which, we have another phone call.
You’re talking with Zombie Radio. If you’re IQ is below sixty, please hang up and try again.
“You requested me?”
Oh dear audience, we have the first post-apocalyptic superstar on the line. Miss Bethany Nitshimi, what might I do for you lovely lady?
“I heard your last caller doubting the validity of Jacob’s journal.”
“The world is filled with naysayers. Like I said, I haven’t finished the book, but I have found a few inconsistencies I could point out. For instance —”
“I put the book together based on the writings and the digital recordings of Jacob Plummer. To prove to you and your listeners this is all very real I’m putting the recordings up on the site. All of them. You and your listeners can download and listen to every second of Jacob’s life from the blast to the end. And for those who doubt why this happened, pay close attention to the confessions of Dr. Godwin. It’s really him and it’s all very true. The man wiped out the planet for a few hundred million dollars. He thought he was only wiping out the Germans, which of course is ironic, considering much of his work was the continuation of the work of one Josef Mengele.”
Wow, are you serious? Mengele? So it’s all true? The fucking journal isn’t just a hoax?
“It’s not a hoax. It’s all very real. But what’s more important is that I have an encrypted file that I believe contains the key to a cure for the virus. I may well have found a way into the file.”
Nitshimi … you are one balls to the wall woman. I’m impressed.
“Don’t be, not until I hack my way into that file and have a cure in my hands. Just remind your readers to go to my site, bethanynitshimi.org, so they can hear the recordings. They’ll believe when they do. Trust me.”
Trust is a hard commodity to come by these days. When life has been flushed down the crapper and the majority of the population of the world is nothing more than mindless skull suckers, who is there left to trust? I trust me and I hope I can trust the lovely woman at my side. Outside of that, I don’t know.
What do you think, listeners, can we trust Bethany Nitshimi? Can we place not only our faith, but our future in her hands? I have to say so far she’s the hands-down winner in my book. But I’m just a DJ. I’m sure there are geneticists, physicists, and biologists out there who may have a better idea how to best lead us out of this evolutionary side track.
And while all you scientists are dredging up the nerve to call in, I’m going to spin you a song. That song is dedicated to all you brainiacs out there. It’s Barenaked Ladies and ‘The Big Bang Theory’. Take it away geniuses!
As soon as the song started bouncing out of the speakers, I turned to Alexa who was staring my way, tears falling down her cheeks. The woman was lost in some other place I couldn’t reach. “Alexa?” I don’t know how I had forgotten the trauma the poor dear had just been through. I couldn’t believe she wasn’t just a twitch away from n
eeding a monogrammed straightjacket.
I reached my hand out to place on hers when a thumping sound interrupted my attempt at comfort.
“What was that?” That twitch shook Alexa’s body.
Another, louder thump.
“Is that — ?”
The thump evolved into a crash.
“Oh my God. One of them is — .”
I didn’t even want her to say it. I knew what was happening. My brain was doing everything it could to reject reality. This was not, could not, happen.
The crash migrated to a moan.
But it was. One of the fuckers breached the front gates and was now on route to our gray matter. Alexa was staring at me and for the first time in my life I was staring down the double barrels of pure fear. Alexa’s gaze pierced through to my heart and demanded I protect my castle.
Below, on the first floor of the house, the monster was limping about, moaning his displeasure at having to actually hunt me down. My heart was about to rip its way out of my chest and hide under my desk. I couldn’t blame it. If I thought it would do me any good, I’d curl up around that beating meat and wait out the danger.
Instead, I had to be a man. I had to own up to the testosterone flowing through my body and confront the horror below. Fortunately I had a secret in my desk drawer.
“I had hoped to not have to use this,” I said to Alexa, even though I knew her mind was still lost in a slurry of fear.
In my top desk drawer rested the cold steel of a pistol, locked and loaded, ready to drop whoever was in need of sweet relief. I only hoped that ‘whoever’ wouldn’t be either of the two living humans in the house.
The moaning sounds were ebbing and flowing. Obviously the damned beast hadn’t mastered stairs — either that or he couldn’t pinpoint exactly where the sound of our voices was coming from. Either way, the undead waited for me. So … I sucked in a deep breath of living air, took one last look at living beauty, and took the first of twelve very slow steps down the stairs.
Be Clint Eastwood.
Why Clint Eastwood popped into my brain, I had no idea. But holding a gun in my hand made me think of his rough and tumble ways as a poncho-wearing cowboy who couldn’t miss with a gun. I could miss with a gun. That was not very Clint Eastwood of me.
