by Jack Wallen
A song. I couldn’t escape the beast of my own making. Even with death chasing me down, my music insisted on coming out to play. And then it hit me ─ Erica wasn’t the only loss I could face. My band … my brothers. Doubletap Suicide had been together for over ten years. We still had so much left in the tank, so many songs to write, shows to rock, souls to touch.
The thought of my band injected a renewed purpose into my muscles. I had way too much to live for.
“Death’s not worthy of my ass,” I said with what little breath I could spare.
I turned a corner and it seemed the gates of the world opened up for me. Parked on the side of the street was a truck. It was old, mostly Bondo and rust, but it had four wheels and looked like it was ready to carry me back to the Great White North.
The wall of sound from the forest continued. The beasts knew I was out here and wouldn’t stop until they had their teeth buried deep into my meat. There was no way of knowing how much time I had before the monsters arrived at my side. Had Erica been here, somehow she’d be able to make that calculation.
Fucking brilliant.
If I were a zombie, I’d want to crack open Erica’s head and lick her brain. It would probably taste like maple syrup. Or Canadian bacon.
Ham.
Whatever.
I reached the truck and grabbed the handle of the driver’s side door. I hesitated. Why? I had no idea. If the door were locked, I’d punch a rock through the window ─ nothing was stopping me from commandeering this vehicle.
Too bad I wasn’t wearing a uniform. The fucking cosplay would be epic.
I’ve been around too many teenagers. Next tour, Doubletap Suicide markets to Gen Xers.
The door opened.
“Score,” I said to myself as I shrugged out of my pack, heaved it into the passenger seat, and hopped in. As soon as the door was shut, the chill eased slightly from my body.
I sighed. For the first time in days I was able to relax.
A wall-shattering scream echoed off the here and now.
Zen and the art of fuck me.
My hand instinctively reached for the ignition. “Son of a bitch!” I shouted. There was no key. I turned the wheel ─ it wasn’t locked. Thank God for small miracles and old ass cars.
I scrambled for my phone and tapped Erica’s direct-dial button. I needed her brilliance.
The phone rang.
“Come on, baby.”
Rang.
“Answer me, Pi.”
Rang.
“Sweetness!”
I was about to implode when the sound of her voice washed over me. “Trey? Is everything alright? Please tell me you’re …”
Her voice quavered. She was near panic. I’d only ever heard that sound once and I nearly undid me then.
“I love you, Erica.” Three simple words instantly eased her fear. “I need your help.”
That was the magic phrase. The second Erica knew I needed her help, she would fall into Spock-mode and focus every ounce of brain power on the task.
“Hit me,” Erica said. The confidence in her voice was everything I needed. Two words and I knew that soon I would be at her side … or on top of her.
I was good, either way.
“A truck. I found a truck. It’s old, maybe late seventies. There are no keys, so I need you to help me hotwire this beast so I can get my ass back to you.”
That was her queue. I heard the muffled tap of keyboard keys. “Here we go,” she said to herself. “Baby, you’re going to need to locate a wiring harness inside the steering column.”
“Remember who you’re talking to, sexy.” I responded.
“Oh yeah. Sorry, love. Okay, the sticky thing that attaches to the roundy thing that you grab and make the trucky thing …”
“I get it,” I interrupted. “I’m not the most mechanically inclined.”
“Yeah, but you’re damn pretty.”
She always knew what to say to make me smile. Erica had this way of getting under my skin in the best possible way. She could say things to me that might be insulting coming from other people ─ from her, it was always so fucking perfect.
“Underneath the steering shaft,” she dumbed it down just enough ─ as usual. “There should be a small plate you can remove to gain access to the wiring harness.”
She was right. Of course, my passage was blocked by a single, Phillips type screw head. My hand shot to my belt and retrieved the Leatherman. Within seconds I had the correct tool unleashed and the screw removed.
“Okay, I have the harness out. What am I looking for?”
Erica flipped her switch and was all business. That meant one thing ─ I was saved. “Can you discern the colors of the wires?” she asked.
I pointed my headlamp upwards and said “Yes.”
“Look for a red wire and a brown wire. Do you see them?”
“Yes.”
“You need to strike those two wires together and the truck should turn over. Do that until it starts.”
I flipped my multi-tool into the wire cutter configuration and reached out to snip the red wire.
“Trey,” Erica shouted into the phone. I panicked and dropped the tool. “Be careful,” she added.
I scooped up the tool and snipped both wires. “Here goes. If I die … make sure my record collection doesn’t fall into the wrong hands.”
“Ha, ha funny man.” Erica was not amused. “If you die, I swear I’ll hunt you down and kill you again. Don’t die!”
I leaned my head as far away as my neck would allow and struck the wires together. The engine groaned.
“I heard that, Trey. Do it again.”
I slapped the wires together a few more times until the engine fired and stared.
“Holy shit,” I shouted. “Erica, you’re fucking brilliant.”
She shrieked.
“Are you okay, baby?”
“I’m fine. It’s just … you’re safe now.”
I pulled the door shut and settled into the seat. When I looked at the fuel gage, my heart sank a bit.
“Fuck,” I whispered.
“What is it, Trey? No bad news. No more goddamn bad news.”
“It’s just … there’s only a quarter tank of gas.”
Once again, Erica when into business mode. “Don’t waste it idling. And make sure to drive under fifty-five miles an hour. Oh, and run stop signs when you can. The more you have to accelerate from zero, the more gas you’ll use.”
“I’ll find a gas station as soon as possible.” I took in a deep breath. “Baby, I’m on my way home.”
“I love you, Trey.”
“I love you, Erica.”
eighteen | Erica
I hung up the call, my insides a knot of quivering guts and a very human heart. Trey had made it! He was coming home, and soon to be in my arms. His hot kisses on my lips, the growl of his deep voice in my ear. That was my man, pure animal hotness. But, for the moment, I had other things to do.
Zombie Radio had opened an entire new world to me. Jacob Plumber, Doctor Lindsay Godwin, the Quantum Fusion Generator. I’d penned them all down on the notebook I kept next to my computer for future research. The latter two I had some familiarity with. Dr. Godwin was a hero in scientific circles—a prodigy seldom encountered in our generation. I’d missed the coverage on the activation of his new device. Exam season left me in a strange timeless fog. I looked up, and the end of the world had come.
Just like that. There’s a lesson to be learned here.
I stood up, and peeked out the window. I rubbed the rough curtain fabric between my thumb and forefinger as my eyes skimmed the ground. The dust-snow had been caught on a brisk wind that blustered down off the mountain. It spun in the air, twisting like a dread cyclone. The same passersby wandered the streets, their bare hands and faces exposed to the elements. Their skin had gone white, and their hair was powdered grey from the ash.
I let the curtains drop, replacing the grim imagery with textured cobalt drapes. Th
e world was forever changed by a single man and a machine. Could it really be just one man, working alone? Mad scientists were a thing of fiction and movies. The real world had grants, reviews, ethics boards, quality controls. Consciences.
Well, the last point could be argued. But, it would be hard to build a machine that would make the world go from dysfunctional to apocalyptic in a few hours without somebody sounding the alarm.
I mean, that’s why we have so many controls on science and experimentation. Because one psycho can really shit things up.
I glanced down at Beast. He was asleep on the couch, curled into a little ball. That ball was code for go away if you value your flesh. I grinned, in spite of all that had happened. Trey had a car. He was coming back to me!
I bounced on the balls of my toes as I looked around the room.
If all went well, he’d be here by the end of the week. That was hours away. I needed more food, to tidy up the living room, and to get the bloody gold club out of the bathtub.
Oops.
I walked towards the bathroom. It was unsanitary and disgusting to have that thing just lying around. I should ask Trey to get some weapons on his way back. Proper ones. Ones made for hurting people, not sporting equipment.
My phone rang. It was a song that Trey had recorded only for me. My heart skipped a beat. His voice sang to me as I reached over.
It was my little sister, Sylvie.
I answered and drew the phone to my ear. “Hello?” My voice shook.
“Erica?” a choked voice came back at me. She was a twenty year old freshman in engineering—they probably didn’t have classes on death dynamics at Concordia University.
“It’s me, Syl. Are you okay?” My voice was steady, commanding calm. My inner bear had emerged—the big sister. The protector. Nothing messed with my baby sister, or my man, and lived.
“These things are after me! They ate Dan!” Her voice devolved into sobs.
“Shit, Syl, I’m so sorry,” I said. A lump formed in my throat. That could be Trey.
“I need help,” she stammered.
“Where are you?” I asked. There was no question, I had to help her. The butterflies in my stomach could go fuck themselves.
“I’m at school,” she said, her sniffles echoing in my ear.
At school. The Concordia Engineering building was a twenty minute walk from my apartment, on a good day. We’ll define ‘good’ as without zombies. “My apartment is safe. Can you make it?”
“No.”
Fuck! “Can you meet me close to the entrance?”
“I think so. I can see the stairs,” she replied after a long pause.
“I’m coming. Find a weapon and stay quiet,” I skimmed the living room for anything that could help me on this quest.
“Thank you,” Sylvie said before hanging up.
I sent a text to Trey: Sylvie is still alive. Going to Concordia to save her.
I walked to the front closet. We had to have something better than a golf club in there.
nineteen | Trey
My phone buzzed from the truck’s old-school bench seat. My hand scrambled over the cold vinyl until I felt the vibrating device. I held the phone between my face and the windshield and read.
“Fuck! No!” I shouted. The truck swerved. The phone flew from my grasp. I slammed my hands back onto the wheel to right the fishtailing truck. The rear end swung out and slammed into a body. I countered the movement by spinning the steering wheel in the direction of the slide.
Once the truck was under control, I crushed the brake to the floor. The tires squealed against the cold pavement. Before caution and logic could get a death grip on my mind, I swung the driver’s side door open and jumped from the truck.
“You okay?” I shouted. A blustery wind was the only reply. A wall of gray rolled toward me, momentarily blanking my vision. When the thick, dusty cloud passed, it left me coated in ash. I blinked against the flecks and flakes.
Before I could clear my eyes, his hands were on me. Cold fingers wrapped around my throat. For the second time in too short a span, my lungs were refused life-giving oxygen.
I swung my fist outward ─ it connected with nothing but air. I shot my knee upward ─ the body jerked, but the grip remained locked tight.
In near panic, I remembered the gun. My hand shot downward and slapped around until it grazed the cold steel. I unclipped the holster, snatched the gun upward, shoved the barrel against the bastard’s temple, and pulled the trigger.
We both dropped. My hands shot to my ears in a vain attempt to stop the ringing. I’d stood before Marshalls stacked and cranked to eleven and have never experienced such a deafening noise.
The high-pitched whining refused to abate, no matter how hard I pressed my hands to my head.
“Fuck!” I think I yelled. All I heard was a muffled cry.
On the ground, suffering an all-out aural affront, I opened my eyes to locate the son of a bitch that attacked me.
He lay there, not ten feet from me, motionless. A vacuous, milky blind eye glared my way. The left half of his head was gone. From the gaping hole, a gray, viscous ooze dripped and slopped. Bile raged against the roof of my mouth until I opened up and a stream of vomit vacated my system.
The gun lay between us. Seeing the weapon put a knot in my stomach. I despised weapons ─ and there it was, after just having saved my life.
I managed to sit up and just missed slapping my hand in the pile of puke. The ringing pulsed against my eardrums and faded. Pulsed and faded. Reluctantly, I grabbed the gun and returned it to the holster.
Something in me wanted to shout a cocky one liner to the fallen monster ─ an homage to a nineties horror or action flick. Before anything could come to mind, I remembered the very reason I smacked the bastard in the first place.
“Erica,” I whispered. Before I could say another word, I was at the truck, digging around for my phone. The second I had it in my hands I opened up the text app and re-read her last message.
Sylvie is still alive. Going to Concordia to save her
I replied: Stay inside. It’s too dangerous. Plez.
I climbed into the truck and closed the door against the biting cold.
“Come on, baby. Come on.” I spoke to myself, anxious for a reply.
Nothing.
I grabbed the brown and red wires and struck them together. The engine fired on the first try. I placed my phone under my right thigh, so I could feel it buzz, slammed the truck in drive, and punched the gas. The truck choked and chugged, but managed to get up to cruising speed quickly.
The fog of gray greeted me. I flipped on the truck lights ─ and still struggled to see clearly. If Erica were here, she would have demanded I pull over and wait out the storm. Her command of logic was Vulcan-like.
An overwhelming feeling wormed its way into my system and singed my heart.
“It’s too late,” I whispered. Erica had already ventured out of the safety of our little apartment. The wickedness of whatever had wrecked the world was waiting for her ─ for my Erica.
Throwing caution out every window on the planet, I gunned the truck. The gray ash raved before the windshield. I could barely make out the dotted yellow line on the highway.
I didn’t give a shit. Erica was in trouble. The futility of distance failed to register. Somehow I managed to trick myself into thinking the ancient truck was capable of magically teleporting me to Montreal, in a matter of seconds, so I could swoop down and be the hero.
Erica deserved that much ─ to have me rush into the scene and race her out of harm’s way just in time. I wanted to save her from the world, from the random pitfalls of her own genius.
The second the thought graced my consciousness, my throat lumped up and I wept. So many times I had walked into Erica’s office to see her hunched, unmoving, over a collection of books ─ some formula or theory locking her mind up. She’d make this adorable squeaking sound as she stared on, lost in some cosmic trance that only I could break.<
br />
A single kiss.
She once called me “Prince Alarming”. Luckily, the nickname never stuck.
I laughed. The sound sang like the most beautiful melody in my ears. I could hear again. The celebration jerked me from my reverie just in time to see a pile up through the cloud of gray. I slammed the brakes so hard, the truck nearly flipped.
Before me, the road was a cluster fuck of stalled and crashed cars, trucks, and semis.
“No,” I whispered. “No, no, no, no!” Each word rose in volume and level of panic.
The road was impassible. No matter how badly I wanted to make it to Erica, everything seemed to be conspiring against that task.
“Son of a bitch!” I screamed at the top of my lungs.
For a brief second, the ringing returned.
I hopped out of the truck and walked up to the collection of wreckage. The only way I would be moving forward was on foot. Reluctantly, I returned to the truck to retrieve my pack. I grabbed my phone and sent Erica a text: Ran into a snag. Still moving forward. I’ll be there soon. Be safe, my love.
Was I being honest? I had no idea.
The only thing I knew, with one hundred percent certainty?
The nightmare just got worse.
twenty | Erica
The wind bit my cheeks as it rushed down the mountain. I raised my hand to shield my eyes from the sun’s glare. I’d emerged from the underground labyrinth, managing to evade detection. The underground had ripened with the smell of decay. I now stood facing the Forum. The historic arena-turned-cinema loomed over me, its arched windows bearing silent witness to the barrens of downtown. Crowds had spilled from its doors in decades past. But now, the only competitions held within would be pure blood-sport.
The living against the dead.
Montreal had been a city of lights—one of the oldest and most eclectic cities in North America. Without its population, it was just another ghost town. Another great city to fall as a casualty of the end of a civilization. Rather than being consumed by its own decadence, it had been consumed by its own population.
