Undead Worlds 2: A Post-Apocalyptic Zombie Anthology

by Authors, Various

  15

  Zombie Beginnings: The Oracle

  by Javan Bonds

  CHAPTER 1

  What A Day For A Daydream

  Prophecy from The Book of Smokes:

  Much thought is given to life and the role each individual is here to play. Theories abound concerning the origin of life and the frustration of not knowing the answers. Wars rage for decades with nothing to show but bare bones. Civilizations rise to new heights and crumble into the ashes of history all according to the script. Still no one knows.

  There is one that does know, The Screenwriter. Some may call this omnipotent presence God, The Director, a Puppet Master. For the chosen few with direct connection to this unique existence, they are given a small fraction of understanding. Their lives are choreographed preternaturally with the lives of others. These others may or may not realize the association between The Screenwriter and The Oracle.

  The Oracle is often seen as a prophet, visionary or soothsayer; they are a mouthpiece for The Screenwriter. Though at first glance, the character may appear an entirely unlikely choice for this task, a supernatural knowing of future events, scenes and scenarios will validate the seers visions to be true. Even The Oracle may initially question the uncanny gift or refuse to accept the power. Witnessing the precise timing and unfolding of events as scripted will prove to the character that this role must be accepted as something that is supposed to be.

  A tiny, plastic garbage can stood in the corner, overflowing with crumpled York Peppermint Patty wrappers and empty Newport cigarette packs. The sole resident of this small dimly lit apartment, Marlon “Smokes” Williamson sat in his ragged chocolate stained recliner, completely alone. At least, physically alone. He had been in the company of and conversing with an unseen presence for almost a week.

  Smokes would have been considered clinically morbidly obese. Though it could be disproven by glancing in his closet, it seemed he was always wearing a red T-shirt. Along with his customary shirt, the self-proclaimed gangsta wore a pair of giant blue jeans. Completing his attire, several wristwatches encircled both forearms; from diamond encrusted to gold. Silver to platinum, every make, model, and brand of wristwatch was sported by the gangsta.

  “Today is the day. You only have a few hours. There is no doubt you will see this through, but be wary.” The ethereal voice spoke from within his consciousness.

  He was uncertain if it was speaking or just pressing thoughts through his mind. Regardless, it would be thought of as a voice, aware of everything almost as if it were directing a play. There was a compulsion to give this omniscient voice a name. It would forever be known as The Screenwriter.

  The Screenwriter never seemed to have any sort of gender. Decidedly a voice, it never showed emotion or any kind of inflection. Since appearing in his mind, it hadn’t stopped choreographing Smoke’s every move.

  He realized today was May 5. Guntersville’s first annual Cinco de Mayo parade would be underway shortly. Being in a large crowd at the beginning of the zombie apocalypse was not where he wanted to be. Staying away from that would be a good idea.

  Some type of strange infection had broken out days before down in Mobile, Alabama and a few other port cities across the country. Expectedly, the world did its best to ignore a rapidly spreading virus. Having been described as ignorant for calling the plague victims what they appeared to be; blue zombies, the descriptor “peevie” had been casually coined. If you were a realist like Smokes, you could see Guntersville being overrun by these plague victims in the first wave.

  The city government had only just started securing downtown from the south entrance onto the island. It would be discovered soon that these last-minute measures should have been taken hours, if not days, ago. Now, nothing could stem the tide of crazies. Once the wave of infected got here, it would simply sweep through Guntersville like it had, and would, through any major metropolitan area. Almost every single member of the human population would become another blue naked peevie to add to the growing ranks. Almost every.

  Throughout his short life, he had seen all the Romero Classics. Following Robert Kirkman’s graphic novels, delving into every type of zompoc fiction imaginable, he was an expert of the genre. Smokes knew exactly how quickly a sickness that altered people’s personalities could spread: turning them from civilized humans into bloodthirsty animals. It would happen just like in 28 Days Later. Society would ultimately deny it was on the verge of catastrophe. That is, until it had already plummeted from the cliff and was in free fall. At that point, it would be too late.

  Zero day was the first of the month, May Day. Within four days, Guntersville, the state, and most of the country would quickly become no man’s land. In the eternal nanosecond it took for time to blink an eye, the United States and the entire world would be brutalized and desolate.

  Smokes was worried about his pawpaw, Sojourner “Soje” Williamson, the only family member in the area. He wished a member of the fading Greatest Generation didn’t have to go through these trials and tribulations. Pawpaw didn’t deserve to have to deal with troubled times like these. Everyone already had troubles enough back in the day. He might be worried, but he would have to trust when The Screenwriter foretold that no harm would come to the senior.

  Besides, Smokes knew his grandfather would be prepared when it came to any sort of disaster. Not that the old man was a prepper or a survivalist, he just knew how to survive. The old-timer had been living off the land long enough, Smokes was confident he could keep on living.

  If The Screenwriter was to be believed, the majority of the Williamson family would soon be reunited. Speaking with such certainty on every topic, the voice of The Screenwriter was nearly impossible to doubt. If the next few days happened even close to the way The Screenwriter summated, it would solidify his faith.

  Smokes didn’t feel he was a part of some deity. Not a third of The Trinity or anything like that, he wasn’t in collusion with The Screenwriter. Moving the chess pieces was not his role, Smokes was only able to know the movements before they happened. He would be The Oracle, unable to do anything more than see what was coming.

  There was no way to understand why he had been chosen for this task. Nowhere near physically fit, he was a broke ass nigga, unprepared for anything. All he achieved in the few short years after high school was success as a thug. His pawpaw would be justifiably ashamed. He thanked black Jesus his mama wasn’t alive to see him.

  Well, he had briefly gone to community college before dropping out, later enrolling in piloting school. Wanting to fly planes, his dreams of reaching the skies had floundered. The Oracle understood if he had received his piloting bars, he wouldn’t be at this place at this very moment.

  “You’s always at da place you is always post to be.” He calmed himself by once again repeating the phrase in his own words. That wise saying projected to him by The Screenwriter.

  Even with all his faults, The Screenwriter had chosen Smokes to know what was going to happen next. Was he the only one with this ability or were there others? Perhaps The Oracle could be plural. All his queries on the subject had gone unanswered. So something was coming and as far as he’d seen, he was the only one ready.

  He scoffed at the thought his thuggery was anywhere close to successful. Smokes couldn’t remember the last time he had bumped his reputation, improved his street cred, or even scored with a shorty. The Screenwriter gave him the impression none of that mattered. Maybe he was prepared, after all.

  Having been accurate so far, the voice had to be trusted. Smokes would continue to follow the commands until it was proven wrong, or he wound up blue.

  Life for everyone was about to change. Brave reporters had risked their lives to cover the growing epidemic spreading from a few seaports across the country. Many were attacked by plague victims. Strangely, they were completely ignored after a single bite. Injured bystanders and media personalities alike were immediately treated. No one understood the cause for such violence against innocent
s and people wearing PRESS badges. The motive for the attacks was unknown, but appeared to be driven by an unquenchable hunger. Initially, the reason wasn’t understood, but hours later those that had been attacked realized that something was wrong. Upon returning to their hotel rooms with doctored injuries, the reporters grew sicker with every passing minute. It was no different for info babe, Megyn McKelly.

  Eventually Megyn, as all the infected, collapsed. After appearing to be dead, they would rise up, as if for the first time. None of them had a single memory of life before waking. Now the infected peevie would immediately remove all of their clothing and begin excreting a sticky tar colored substance from its anus. Ravenously hungry, the only urge it now had was to feed on living flesh. For Megyn who was alone in her hotel room, it was no different. The metal barrier with the silver handle posed no trouble. Finding a warm, uninfected human body was now the sole priority of the blue, naked former reporter.

  Hotel patrons were not expecting screaming and barking coming from the hall. One man stepped out to see what all the ruckus was. He was instantly pounced upon by a naked platinum blonde with breast implants and bluish skin. For some reason, this blonde bombshell also sported yellow eyes. Most men were not accustomed to being assaulted by what could be a playboy cover girl ready for a shoot. Jimmy Sardinia was no exception to this rule.

  Jimmy came to Mobile yesterday to pick up a package for Mr. Falcone. Orders were to defend the delivery with deadly force if prompted. This woman had to be after the briefcase. She probably works for Cerimele, only coming at him showing skin to distract him. With his back to the wall, Jimmy reached for the piece in his shoulder holster. Orders is orders.

  As he pulled it free, the lunatic woman lunged at him again, pushing his elbow down, rotating the muzzle of his .45 to aim opposite of where he intended. The crazy blue lady pushing her beautiful breasts all over him grabbed at everything within reach. The knockout blonde slid a finger in the trigger guard and accidentally, unknowingly, unthinkingly pulled down. The pistol went off, blowing straight through the Mafioso’s chin.

  Bullet liquefied bone and gray matter as it rocketed through the cranium, exploding from the top of the skull. Jimmy Sardinia had just become an all-you-can-eat buffet. Small spasms jolted through the fingers, extremities, and finally bowels voided before the body went slack.

  The female was elated beyond belief. A plate of fresh, juicy, warm, raw meat waited before it, blood still pumping. The hunger would not be satisfied for long, but eating the entire body would quell the thirst for flesh, temporarily.

  “Go to the door. Unlock it. You will soon have a visitor.” The Screenwriter broke Smokes from his reverie, shaking him from a memory that wasn’t really his. This was an unusual command. However, The Oracle wanted to see the results.

  Standing from watching the director’s cut of Zombieland, he made his way to unbolt the door. The Oracle began blindly sliding back all the locks, as instructed. Unbolting the final slide, sounds could be heard coming through the closed portal.

  A loud crash came against the door before a voice with a Hispanic accent pleaded, “Dios, let la puerta be unlocked!” Smokes stepped back and watched a young stranger fall into his apartment.

  The frightened man collapsed to the floor. Smokes quickly reached to pull the door closed, as if this had been rehearsed. He had all the bolts pushed over and down in what most would consider record time. They were now alone and safe from whatever the man had been running from. Wearing his customary red T-shirt, Smokes slowly turned to settle his knowing gaze on the newcomer.

  The Oracle decided he would pretend to have no clue what was happening. “Da fuck is you and da fuck you doin’ in my crib?”

  CHAPTER 2

  Blackout

  “There’s loco people in the hall, homes!”

  Smokes waited with a tapping foot and crossed arms for a further explanation from the stranger.

  The young man continued. “I didn’t mean no harm bro. Honest.”

  The other tried to appear distrustful, furrowing his brow. Gaining confidence in the face of getting his ass beat, the intruder went on. “I ain’t gonna steal from somebody living in the building. I got respect, yo!”

  Playing it clueless, Smokes walked toward the door as if to open it. “Ain’t shit out dere, foo!”

  The interloper put himself between the other and the door, throwing his arms out. “Hold up, cuz!”

  Trying to appear chagrined, Smokes was unable to work his way around the wiry Hispanic. “Mufucka!” Stepping back, obviously bested, he shrugged. “What yo name anyway, bra?”

  Diego Diego detailed an extremely brief life story to the man that had just saved him. American-born to Cuban parents, he was adamant that he was a legal citizen. Smokes concealed a bitter laugh with a cough. Legal ain’t gonna mean shit no mo. Not afta what comin’.

  Was Smokes the only one with this miraculous trait? If there were others, they were as secretive about it as he. Being knowledgeable while everyone around you remained completely ignorant was a depressingly lonely state. Perhaps he would come across others in the know throughout his travels. Purpose and destination might not have yet been foreseen, but there would definitely be treacherous journeys in his near future.

  Cocking his head to the side, the gangsta smiled. “You gots two first names? Or is dat two last?”

  Diego blinked hard. “Fuck you, ese. Heard it before!” The smile on Diego’s face let Smokes know he wasn’t really angry.

  “Man, yo mama musta hated you if she give you a name like dat.”

  His new friend smiled. “Sometimes I think the same thing, homes.”

  What a strange feeling. Was this similar to something he had experienced or was it a feeling almost like something that was going to happen? Smokes shook off the creepiness with a laugh. “I’m a call you ‘Double D.’”

  Diego shrugged. “Most people just call me ‘D.’”

  Nodding , Smokes acquiesced. “Dat coo, D.

  The Oracle gestured to a pair of faded, tattered, threadbare recliners. “Sit yo ass down and gimme da mufuckin’ scoop, cuz”

  “I was in my pad, getting ready to go see my chica when I started hearing fighting in the hall. Dimitrius was the loudest one yelling. Sounded like he was about to pull out his chrome .45 and I knew somebody was about to wind up dead.” D stopped to take a sip from a glass of coke Smokes offered him before starting the story.

  “Just as I peeked out the door, some naked dude tackled Dimitrius. The pistol bounced away when the crackhead took a bite out of Dimitrius’s bicep. It was barely a bite and I didn’t see blood. But Dimitrius started screaming like crazy. Now that I think about it, he was probably more mad than he was hurt. The naked dude got up and started walking away like Dimitrius wasn’t even there. Big fucking mistake.” He paused for questions or interjections, but Smokes remained silent, listening intently.

  “So Dimitrius got up and drop kicked the motherfucker. He hit the Loco with both feet in the lower back. I don’t know if that guy was able to walk, but before he could get up, Dimitrius was already standing at his side, kicking the shit out of him. The nut case’s guts were definitely ruptured. I mean, Dimitrius’s boot was even juicy!” Diego paused again for dramatic effect.

  Shaking off the grizzly scene replaying in his mind, he continued. “Dimitrius stopped kicking after probably breaking a few of the guy’s ribs. Hocking up a loogey, he spit on the naked man. ‘Motherfucker!’ he screamed down. Next, he kicked the limp body and walked away.”

  “It deserved it!” Quickly catching himself, Smokes attempted to recover.

  “Mufucka don’t even get to be called a man no mo afta doin’ dat crazy shit!” Promising himself to never make a mistake like that again, appearing to be clueless would be a top priority. Brushing it off, he added. “So what you do afta dat?”

  D continued, “I started down to the stairwell. Luisa and her madre live on the second floor. Before I got down the flight, I heard people screami
ng like the building was on fire. I just knew it had to be more of those dope fiends chasing people down, probably heading my way next. All I could think was that crackhead that jumped Dimitrius. Figured I needed to go get the piece from my crib. When I got back up to the hall Mrs. Ramsey, the crazy old librarian, was standing in front of her casa. She was hollering to everyone about it being the end of the world and to repent. I stopped outside my apartment to listen, not thinking about the blue lunatics charging up the stairs. That is, until they busted through the entrance.” D grew silent and tilted his ear in the direction of the door.

  Confident nothing could be heard, he continued. “All the people listening to Mrs. Ramsey started panicking and running. The old lady grabbed her chest and fell over with a shout. Must have had a heart attack or something. The crazies jumped on her and started ripping the Señora apart. It was fucked up! They went to tearing into her, chomping on the raw meat like cannibals or some shit. They were going to town, fucking blood and shit flying everywhere!” The young man had to stop and regain his composure.

  “I just started running as fast as I could. Thank Dios you opened the door when you did. Or they woulda done to me like they did to Mrs. Ramsey!”

  Both sat in the dimly lit apartment, not making a move. Bill Murray taking Columbus’s rifle round was just audible in the background. Smokes glanced up at the wall clock just as the lights flickered once, twice, and finally went off.

  Dat da last lectricity we gonna see fo a while.

  Hoping against all hope until this very second The Screenwriter was wrong, the omniscience of the voice was again proven to The Oracle.