by Jack Wallen
“Unto the world I bless my fellow man with this gift.” I smiled over the crowed and lowered the video screen once again.
On the screen the Quantum Fusion Generator was whirring to life once again. Although the revealing of the device wasn’t for another week, I had grander designs already set in motion. The virus had already been released. It was time for the first amplification.
The true Silent Night was about to begin.
Zombie Radio 2
By Jack Wallen
Copyright © 2014 Jack Wallen
This book is a work of fiction. Unless otherwise noted, names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously (unless otherwise noted). Any resemblance to actual locales, events or persons living or dead is entirely coincidental.
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any printed or electronic format without express permission from the author. Please do not participate or encourage piracy of copyrighted materials in violation of the author’s rights. Purchase only authorized editions.
Edited by
Heather L. Austin
Giles Batchelor
Alina Maria Ionescu
Pheebz Petenstine
I want to thank 40OzFist for not only rocking as hard as they do, but for being dedicated to indie artists of all types. You guys help bring class and truth to metal and art in general. m/
Zombie Radio 2 is dedicated to all of those who keep listening in every Saturday afternoon to the madness that is Zombie Radio. Thank you, thank you … thank … you.
one | and we’re back
“You’re listening to WZMB, Zombie Radio; your personal soundtrack to the end of the world.”
There are days I get tired of saying that … song after, song after, song after … you get the idea. But then I understand the people have needs. Beyond surviving, beyond weathering out the shit storm known as the Mengele Virus, people need to laugh, dance, and forget. That’s why I’m here, why I fight the battle with my voice.
Fuck.
Speaking of which … my mic calls.
“That was Aerosmith with “Back In The Saddle”. Why that song? Well, ladies and gentlefunk of the Zombie Radio … Nation, because I is back. Did you really think the apocalypse could keep me down? Oh hell no. I am Gloria Gaynor, bitches, and I will survive.”
I offer up my trademark pause. Why? Because I can.
“No, that was not a segue. I will not drop a D-Bomb on you lovely people. If you’re unsure what a D-Bomb is, well my friends, you are just not cool enough to play on my playground.”
Another pause; I’m on a roll.
“I’m just fucking with you. You are all so very welcome to play on my playground. You may even slide down my slide and swing on my swing. If I may, I’d like to introduce you to my friend euphemism. Euphemism, meet…the…
…Zombie
…Radio
…Nation.”
I spin up the first tune that popped into my mind, without an introduction. Then again, since when did the Rollins Band need an introduction? He’s like the Chuck Norris of the music industry and he will kick your ass if you don’t abide. He is The Dude with a black belt in kick ass.
Shit. I’ve mixed my metaphors. It’s the fucking apocalypse. Metaphor wore out its welcome long ago. Now it’s nothing more than your drunken friend who refuses to leave the party until the very last of the pot has been smoked and the last of the booze drained.
What I wouldn’t give for a friend like that at the moment.
I had a friend. She was smokin’ hot. We bolted from outside of Portland when the Zero Day Collective discovered my location. That friend followed me across the country and, in the end, lost the game of undead Red Rover. Putting a bullet through her skull gave me no pleasure.
I no longer have a hottie in my bed. Now it’s just me and my mic, tucked away in a special corner of the new world order, waiting for the ZDC to find me again. But then … maybe they won’t find me this time.
Maybe.
The last thing they needed was a loud mouth bastard like me spreading the fun around, preventing their special flavor of hatred from gaining ground. To throw them off my tracks, I faked my own death, and relocated to a completely different zip code.
I thought I’d miss Oregon. Turns out the apocalypse sucked the cool out of every city on the planet. Now one town is the next. The only difference is the population. Cities like Portland just have more bodies ready to turn into walking undead hipsters.
Even with the social playing field leveled, it’s nice to get the fuck out of that wet dodge.
The Rollins song started to fade out, in that angry way only Henry himself could pull off. I rolled my chair back to the mic and took in a deep, relaxing breath and released my words into the ether.
“That was The Rollins and “Civilized”. Somewhere on the planet, Henry Rollins is alive and kicking. And by kicking, I mean ass. Maybe the great one, Bethany Nitshimi, needs to hook up with Rollins. If you’re out there listening, Mr. Rollins, know this, Bethany Nitshimi is to be my wife. So do something untoward to her and I will find you and I will … oh who am I kidding? The very idea of me killing him is not only laughable, it’s downright outrageous.
“Hey now, lookie there, we have a call. Just what the doctor ordered. You’re listening to Zombie Radio. What’s your name and whatchoo got?”
Static.
My breath ran shallow. The very thought of static on the line instantly brought about dire images of men and women fending off the undead hordes. “Hello? Are you there? Come on, talk to me.”
Static.
I hated to cut them off, but the last thing I needed was to fill the airwaves with the sound of death. There was no choice. The bleak landscape of life was already dark enough. My listeners needed nothing short of hope.
“Ladies and gents of the Zombie Radio Nation, sometimes technology is our friend, and sometimes it isn’t. I have yet to work out all the bugs in my new studio. If you call, and we don’t connect, call and call and call again.”
The call light blinked.
“There you have it, they called back.”
I pulled away from the mic and sighed. Sometimes lady luck flipped you off and sometimes she stuck her tongue deep into the abyss of your throat. It was nice to feel that snaking, wet flesh for a change.
I snatched up the phone. “You’re on Zombie Radio. What’s your name and whatchoo got?”
“Yo, G. You gots Chizzel in the house.”
The sigh returned, only this time I gave it voice into my mic. I so desperately wanted to hang up before Chizzel managed to derail this funhouse ride before it even had a chance to hit terminal velocity. Play nice, I thought before opening my pie hole.
“Welcome to the Zombie Radio Nation, Chizzel. Should I assume your name has nothing to do with the go-to woodworking tool, the chisel?”
“Oh hell no. I am fo reals, yo.”
Fuck.
“Well … Chizzel … what can I do ya for?”
“I want to offer up my own take on why we’re all living this nightmare.”
Annnnnnd … here it comes. I’d probably regret this invitation. “Let’s have it, Chizzel.”
In the background of the phone call the sound of a drum machine kicked in. Holy shit, this caller was going to drop a conspiracy rap on me. Lady Luck just pulled out and walked off ─ no thank you, no dinner … nothing.
“It’s like this. The poor rose up to meet the rich and the power of mighty flipped a switch to shuffle the desire of human kind and send us back steppin’, our souls rewind. The anger of the righteous met the man who crashed the party with his mighty hand …”
I had hoped this wouldn’t turn into some fresh nug’s demo session. What do I have to lose? Besides a few listeners.
Shit.
Oh shit.
All of a sudden, Chizzel’s throw down turned into a chaotic symphony of screams.
The cries for help faded and were replaced with the all too familiar sound of the undead. I quickly disconnected the call and did my best to turn the tide of doom.
“Well …” the words didn’t come. For the first time since I switched WZMB on, I was struck dumb. Before the awkward landslide got out of hand, I spun up a song. “Jerry Was A Racecar Driver”, by Primus. The punk-twang of Les Claypool’s voice would certainly help the audience forget about the premature demise of Chizzel.
As the dizzying bass threatened to make my head spin, I took the opportunity to take a long-overdue piss. With bladder duly drained, I raced to the pantry for something to eat. I could feel the grumbles coming on and didn’t want to broadcast my hunger. With my luck that burbling sound would only serve to remind thousands of people of their own starvation and lead them to a self-induced exit from their personal mortal coil.
I flung open the door to the closet that served as my pantry, only to have the wind sucked from my sails.
“Son of bitch,” I whispered. The pantry was almost bare. That meant one thing … an adventure. The growling in my gut shifted to a twisting ratchet of a noise. The idea of slipping out into the real world made me want to jam an icepick through my eye.
There was no choice. Loot or die. Face the undead fuck monkeys or starve. I’d done it before, I could do it again.
The lonely, half-eaten jar of peanut butter would tide me over. It mocked me, dared me to dive in and swallow whole the last dregs of sustenance in the house. I wrapped my fingers around the bastard jar and turned to exit. On the way out of the kitchen, I grabbed a spoon and raced back up toward the studio. Half way up the stairs I had a mouthful of brown delight stuck to my palate before remembering I was about to speak into a condenser mic that would pick up every smack, pop, and click.
Do First World Problems still exist?
The song crashed to a close and I leaned into Lyndi ─ my mic ─ and spoke through the sticky mess of my mouth.
“If you survived that wacky pop dance of a song, you, my friends, rock. That was “Jerry Was A Racecar Driver” by none other than Primus. Everyone, say it with me … Primus sucks! Yeah, that felt … good. My lovelies, ours is a strange and dangerous time ─ as if that needed to be said. One minute we’re reminded of how close to death’s gaping maw we really are, the next we get a glimpse of humankind’s resiliency. It’s a bi-polar existence, mes amis, but it’s all we’ve got. Use it, or lose it.”
I offered up a pause to let that too serious moment drift about in the space between my mouth and the ears of the Zombie Radio Nation.
“So … here’s the deal my lovelies; your guide on this River Styx is about to undertake a rather important mission. Ladies and gentlejunk, yours truly is about to slip gently into that good night to pillage and plunder … rustle me up some grub. That’s right, old Mother Hubbard’s cupboards are bare and I cannot live on love alone. I have a playlist for you, a special kind of playlist that’s all about survival. As you listen to each and every pleasurable beat, I want to you bring me back to safety with your positive energy. Or, if your shelves are in need of stocking, venture out with me. We’ll loot together like some long distance, dysfunctional family. Loves of my life, we’ll kick this party off with a bit of dirty, metal funk by Crobot. The song is “Queen of the Light” and if it doesn’t make you want to groove you might want to check your pulse, because you, my friend, are dead. Stank nasty, my brothers and sisters.”
The deep groove wound up into full swing. I entered as many songs as I could find to fit the survival theme. I added everything from disco, to metal, to old-school rhythm and blues. When I returned from this adventure, the audience would be soul-deep in love with the sounds of life.
If I didn’t return … it wouldn’t fucking matter, now would it?
two | the fuck you gun
The military-grade backpack slipped onto my shoulders like a well-worn cardigan. On the way out of the house I grabbed my trusty spear, Mr. Pointy, and a gun I dubbed Mr. Last Ditch Effort.
Guns were not my thing. Besides, the noise only served as a call to undead arms. The last thing I needed was to attract the attention of a legion of moaners. I had limited ammunition, but unlimited jabs with the spear.
The air was dense, thick with humidity. It was days like this I questioned my decision to turn so sharply south. Savannah was a lovely town, but fuck it was hot.
There was, however, one major advantage to the locale; peach trees. Within a few blocks I could have the backpack full of delicious, ripe fruit. Subsisting solely on peaches, however, was not what I had in mind. Hailing from Portland I was used to serious variety. Besides, if I didn’t somehow get a pizza in me soon, I was going to rage against the machines of love and grace.
As I was about to enter an abandoned store, the familiar moan greeted my ears. I wasn’t ready for this shit so soon. I thought for sure the bastards would give me a chance first.
The sound rose in volume. The zombie was getting closer. I tightened the grip on Mr. Pointy and turned to face my attacker.
A clown.
A fucking clown!
Actually, not just some clown or any old clown, this was a young, female clown. Judging from the looks of her, she was probably fucking adorable before her flesh began to riot against Mother Nature and her eyes turned to dried Elmer’s Glue. She wore a pinstriped, green and orange skirt that danced on the wind with fishnet stockings teasing from beneath. Her top was satin yellow with purple polka dots and puffy sleeves. Around her neck was a giant lace collar … stained with blood and bits of flesh. Her face, once painted with clown white makeup and an exaggerated perma-smile grin, now ran with streaks and caked with filth and human remains. Her zombie shuffle was enhanced by oversized clown shoes.
She had a nametag.
“Amy,” I said. “You were a clown named Amy. This is great,” I continued. Amy the clown zombie stomped my way. “You probably worked in a hospital and cheered up terminally ill kids. When you weren’t working the clown trade, I bet you taught kindergarten and volunteered at the local no-kill animal shelter. Your favorite drink is Earl Gray tea, and you were often found hanging out at local coffee shops, reading Proust and Poe. Some might have considered you a hipster due to your innate knack to turn just about any article of clothing into stylish upcycled chic.”
Amy the clown drew close enough for me to realize that what I thought was a clown nose was actually an eyeball dangling from its socket. As she stepped, the meaty orb bounced on a thread of nerve. Had the clown survived, each step would have been an exercise in kill me fucking right now.
“No balloon animals, Amy?” I said, backing away. Amy swung out with her dirty, gloved hands. “You can do better than that, Clown-girl.”
My foot caught on something solid and I fell, with a breath-stealing thud, onto my back. Amy the Clown followed suit and tripped, falling right toward me. I swung Mr. Pointy forward and pierced Amy the Clown’s chest. With a heavy hand, gravity insisted Amy the Clown slide down Mr. Pointy until her upturned, perky red nose was inches from my face. The loose eyeball rested on my forehead. Amy’s fetid breath wafted into my nostrils. The stench of rot brought the taste of bile washing over my tongue.
I pushed up with every bit of strength my arms could muster. Amy the Clown’s dead weight wouldn’t budge. Her gloved hands grabbed my head and pulled me to her. The sound of her clacking teeth nearly had me pissing myself.
As Amy the Clown was about to chomp down on my non-clowned nose, I remembered the gun. This was one of those situations.
“Kill or be killed,” I whispered as I pulled the gun from my pocket, pressed it against Amy the Clown’s temple and pulled the trigger.
A brown-ish red mist exploded from the opposite side of Amy’s head. The sound of the gunshot would certainly draw the attention of the whole Ringling Brothers Undead Circus. I had to remove the corpse from me and bolt as quickly as possible.
T
he dead clown rolled off like a sack of good humor.
Note to self: punch self later for bad circus pun.
Mr. Pointy slipped from Amy the Clown’s chest with a moist, sticky sound. Without bothering to check the area, I took off at top speed toward the nearest building. Inside, the stench of decay accosted me. Someone, or something, had died in here. I didn’t care. I’d smelled worse.
Or so I told myself.
I pulled the neck of my shirt over my nose and scoured the rooms.
“Come on, damn it. Someone leave something edible behind.”
There was nothing to be had; no canned goods, junk food, pre-packaged meals, MREs … nothing. From a wreck of a kitchen, the back door beckoned me onward. Before busting through like a chorus member in a Broadway musical, I cracked the door and peaked through the opening.
The coast was, as they say, clear. A quick check of the time. “T-minus thirty-five minutes left on the playlist. Shit.”
Quietly, and quickly, I slipped out of the building and into an ally. There were no other clowns waiting in the wings. There was only the sound of a sharp, hot wind blowing a rusted sign over what was once a dive bar.
“Bingo. With bars come bar food.”
Inside, the smell of stale booze, cigarettes, and leather hung in the air. There was no way the aroma of dive bar could have hung around for so long.
“Someone’s been here.”
The thought brought me to a complete stop. Any minute, someone would drop me and spear my carcass like a pig for roasting.
“Pork.”
The second the word slipped past my lips, my belly roared its approval. I broke my freeze and stepped into the back rooms. There had to be something. Power was out in the building, which meant the walk-in freezer was a no go. I didn’t dare open the door, for fear the smell would kick me with a Chuck Norris roundhouse.
It wasn’t until I located a small closet at the end of a darkened hall, that gold was struck.
