by Brent Abell
Rushing to the freight elevator, Chuck pulled some shells from his pocket, loaded them, and prepared for an acid-induced fucked-up zombie war.
3
First Encore:
T-Minus Thirty Minutes to Ground Zero
Lars and Bob hid in a broom closet and watched through a small crack in the door at a group of zombies shambling past. Lars didn’t know what to think about these creatures. Every one of them acted differently. Besides wanting to eat people’s faces off, they didn’t hold to one single speed. For years he tried to avoid the fast versus slow zombie debate. It never bothered him if he wanted to watch or read about them. What it boiled down to was you either outran them and didn’t become a meal, or you were the primary guest at the feast. The ones he’d observed close up were a mix; some were fast, and some were markedly slower.
The other thing concerning him was how fast someone turned once the bite happened. When one of the zombies bit somebody, he’d noticed it was only a couple minute process, and it scared the hell out of him. Something that fast would spread across the populace like a California brush fire in August.
“Bob, we need to get the fuck out of this arena and out on the road,” Lars said. His voice sounded weak and dire.
“What the fuck is going on?” Bob asked. Lars had never heard him sound so despondent. Bob was always the jovial rock of FLXS, and it hurt Lars to listen to him like this.
“We’ll get to the bus and get out of here, I promise.”
“Pinkie swear?” Bob inquired and tried to flash a smile. It failed to come across as nothing more than a weak gesture from a man who believed all was lost.
Lars stuck his pinkie out and smiled. He always let Jon lead the band. Sure the two of them were the founders, but Lars never wanted the spotlight like Jon. He was content standing in the background and writing the songs. Now, he had no choice. Jon and Jenny were gone, and Bob needed him to be the rock. FLXS was DOA, but maybe if they lived, he could do something else. Bob’s pinkie took hold of his, and they nodded in a silent agreement.
They were in it to survive.
Lars peeked out from the door again and saw the coast was clear. Slowly, as to not create any noise, he cautiously opened the door and slipped out into the hall. In the silence, he took in the carnage surrounding him. Body parts were haphazardly strewn around, and the concrete floor was painted in blood. Some blood pools were congealing and thickening in the cooling tunnel, and he tried not to step in any of it. The blood didn’t gross him out, but the idea of his shoes sticking in it did. He sported some Adidas kicks he got from his girlfriend, and he tried hard to keep them clean while out on tour.
“Let’s go,” Lars whispered, motioning back to Bob.
“Are we close?”
“Yes, now we need to hurry. I have a bad feeling about this,” Lars said as they headed off down the tunnel toward the dock.
They turned left, and when Lars saw the last hall to the dock, he heard the elevator ding and the doors open.
***
Chuck nervously tapped his foot as the elevator descended into the bowls of the arena. His finger caressed the trigger on the shotgun, and a thrill rushed through him. In all his years running security, he never had to bring one of the girls out of the locker. He always imagined how it would feel to saddle up and save a bunch of people. He wanted to be the hero. Of course, he didn’t want to have to do it in the zombie apocalypse. He’d rather save a few from a meth-crazed mosher and call it a day.
The elevator slowed to a stop, and Chuck’s body tensed up. The cameras he glanced at before he departed the security office were clear when he left, but Chuck hoped some of the undead hadn’t wandered into the area while he rode the elevator.
Chuck waited for the door to open for what seemed like an eternity. When the bell finally dinged, he stopped tapping his foot and brought the shotgun up to his shoulder.
***
The elevator door opened, and Lars drove himself into the door. On the other side, the man holding up the shotgun screamed in surprise. The gun fell from his hands and clattered to the floor. Lars tackled him, and when they hit the ground, sat on his chest to hold him down.
“Who are you?” Lars shouted.
“I’m...I’m Chuck Brown in security.”
Bob rushed into the elevator and grabbed Lars. “I think he’s okay… and he has weapons.”
Lars backed off Chuck and let him go. “Security, huh?”
“Yeah, I watched shit go down on the cameras from the security office and wanted to help out.”
“We’re headed to the dock to grab the bus and get the fuck out of here,” Lars said.
“We figure we need to get out of the area fast,” Bob added.
Chuck sat up and looked at the two men who attacked him. “Who are you two?”
“We’re part of FLXS,” Lars answered.
“The band tonight?” Chuck asked.
Bob leaned in and offered his hand. “Yes, and we plan to get out fast. This thing probably spread outside, and the bus is our best bet getting through the city.”
“Mind if I tag along with you guys? I have party favors,” Chuck said and held out his hands.
“Like gun party favors?” Lars asked.
“Two shotguns and a pocket full of shells.”
Lars and Bob helped Chuck to his feet. Chuck picked up the shotgun he dropped when Lars tackled him and handed it to Lars. “So, what do I call you two?”
Lars held his hand back out, “I’m Lars.”
“And I’m Bob,” Bob added, shaking Chuck’s hand.
“So, your bus, okay to escape in?” Chuck inquired.
“We have food and beer,” Bob said.
“Good enough for me. Now, let's get the fuck out of here,” Chuck said and led them deeper into the arena toward the docks.
***
The entire floor writhed with bloody bodies and feasting zombies. The soft sounds of chewing and tearing flesh filled the arena where not along ago FLXS played. Franny Howard peeked over the chair she hid behind a few rows up and felt trapped. When the crowd raced up to the doors around the arena’s top, she realized she forgot her purse and went back down to her seat. When Franny tried to run back up to the doors, they slammed shut, and a few crazy people wandered the aisles searching for food. She’d lost track of time, but she didn’t think she could take it any longer.
Franny heard the slurping of blood and the gnawing of bones a few feet from her, but she remained quiet. She wanted to scream because she couldn’t take being down on the floor in the seats any longer. The floor was sticky and smelled of stale popcorn and spilled beer. A cup on the floor leaked soda in her direction, and watching the liquid creep toward her angered her.
I didn’t even want to come to this fucking concert and now see what happened. I told him we should’ve stayed home instead.
She held her scream when she felt something watching her from behind. The person grunted, and she closed her eyes. Franny had never been a religious person, but for the first time since she was a little girl, she prayed. Her fight-or-flight tried to kick in, but her mind locked up when a hand grasped her ankle.
Franny didn’t kick or scream. She pictured the scene unfolding on the floor area and gave up. Franny knew there was no escape for her. The sensation of being bitten filled her, and pain blossomed in her leg; she let go and welcomed her end.
The pain faded quickly, and the burning spread from her leg throughout her body, and when she stood up, she wanted to eat.
4
Second Encore:
T-Minus Twenty Minutes to Ground Zero
“Shit,” Lars muttered. He pulled back from around the corner and lowered his head.
Bob could tell from the look on his face the news wasn’t going to be good. He’d watched Lars for their last ten years together, and he’d never witnessed him acting so deflated. Not that Bob felt any better about their situation; a virus appeared to be turning people into zombies, and those who were still a
live were the main course on the menu. He didn’t want to end up as lunch.
“That bad?” Chuck whispered. He clutched his shotgun so tightly; his knuckles turned white.
“I counted around ten or so milling around the bus,” Lars replied.
Bob moved past Lars to look for himself. “Damn, they’re right in front of the door.”
“Chuck, if we got to the bus, how look would it take to get to the Lincoln Tunnel?” Lars asked.
“I guess it depends on what it’s like out there. If everything is pretty clear, I don’t know...five minutes,” Chuck shrugged.
“Sounds reasonable, I want out of here ASAP,” Bob added.
“How many shells do we have?” Lars questioned and counted what he had in his pocket. Chuck followed suit, and Bob stood there, wishing he had a gun.
“I have five,” Chuck said.
“Then we have eleven,” Lars counted.
“And you saw at least ten? Fuck dude, I don’t even have a gun,” Bob worried.
“Stay behind us, and we’ll think of something,” Chuck smiled, winking at Bob.
Lars patted Bob on the shoulder. “Relax, you can trust me. Remember, Montreal?”
“That is why I don’t trust you, asshole,” Bob sighed.
Chuck looked over at Lars. “What about Montreal?”
“I’ll tell you if we get to the bus.”
Lars put up a finger to silence the men and checked his shotgun. Chuck checked his load and nodded to Lars he was ready to go. Bob opened his empty hands and shrugged; he was about as prepared to run as he was ever going to be.
It was showtime.
***
The zombies shuffling past the dock ramp didn’t act any differently than he did in real life. He moved from side-to-side, and his dead expression remained the same. If his mother were to come across him, she wouldn’t be able to tell the difference. His hair net hung limply to the right and exposed the severed ear on the left. Most of his cheek was missing, and through the gaping hole, his teeth and gums showed through. Bits of meat hung from his crooked teeth, and he wore a big bloody grin across his ruined face.
Mindlessly, he paced back and forth, trying to catch some hint of a meal, and his head perked up a moment before a shotgun stock smashed into the back of his head. The zombie toppled over, and a combat boot stomped into the skull over and over until the head popped open, spilling out its contents. The zombie stilled, and three men moved quickly past it to the row of dumpsters running along the docks.
Chuck looked down at the blood covering his boot and sighed. He loved the boots and hated to get anything on them as much as he had to shine and clean them. If they made it out of the docks on the bus, Chuck would clean them later. He was chief of security, and he had an image to uphold after all.
Lars motioned for them to duck down and move along dumpster row. The large metal bins reeked, and Bob had to hold his breath to keep from gagging. On the road, the worst thing he had to smell was Jon’s canvas Converse high-tops. Jon wore them during concerts and would sit them on the table on the bus to air out. A pang of sadness washed over him as the realization he’d never see Jon again or be able to harass him about his shoe odor ever again.
“Bob, come on,” Lars quietly said and began to move away from the disgusting trash bins.
Chuck froze, and Lars stopped walking. He saw the four zombies turn from the bus and turn to face them. They sniffed the air, and their heads jerked back and forth. One began to growl, and the other ones on the dock shuffled closer.
“He’s calling them,” Lars' hands dropped to his side with the realization.
“I was high about fifteen minutes ago, but I think this shit killed my buzz. Fuck, I gotta do this stone-cold sober,” Chuck said. He brought up the shotgun and pointed it at the mass of zombies.
Bob backed behind them. “How did they know?”
Chuck’s face went slack, and he turned pale. The cut on his arm bled, and crimson fingers stretched down his arm. “They must smell me.”
“When did that happen?” Lars asked.
“Maybe when we dove behind the dumpsters. Shit, I’m glad my shots are up to date,” Chuck joked. He smiled and hoped the levity would lighten the mood of what they faced, but it didn’t. There are times where staring down death when a good laugh doesn’t help much, Chuck figured. It sucked, he didn’t want to go out like that.
Lars did a quick count and came up with twelve zombies. “We don’t have enough shells.”
“It’s only one, and we can do what we did to that asshole back there,” Chuck answered, pointing back to where they stomped the shit out of the first one.
“Hey, just an FYI, I don’t have a fucking weapon,” Bob emphatically added.
Lars turned around and smiled at Bob. It was a smile Bob had seen a few times out on the road, and it didn’t fill him with much confidence. Things usually went sideways when he flashed that smile. If it turned out as it did in Boston, Bob knew they’d never survive the night. But, thinking about the way it looked like the world was heading, he didn’t know if death was such a bad thing. As long as he didn’t come back, Bob didn’t want to eat anybody if he knew he was doing it or not. In trying to be a vegan, the thought of eating meat after he died grossed him out.
“It’ll be just like Boston,” Lars winked at Bob. “Stay behind us, and we’ll get out of here.”
Bob wasn’t filled with confidence and hid his worry behind a grin.
“Party time?” Chuck asked.
“Party time,” Lars agreed.
***
The three figures marched out from the shadows on the dock like the riders of the apocalypse. All the zombies stopped milling around and turned to the food they knew was approaching. Each one of the undead began to advance on the three men. They lurched forward, and the lead zombie’s head jerked from side to side. Bloody drool hung from his lips, and small spurts of red leaked out of the ragged wound in his neck. None of it mattered to him now. He locked in on the meat approaching him, and the primal need driving him to satisfy the hunger within him drove him on. The others followed and began to jockey for a better position. A woman with a severe limp brought up the rear. Her left leg dragged behind her, and she left a crimson trail behind her. Somewhere in the chaos of the concert, she’d lost her shoe, and someone had eaten large chunks of her right calf. All of the zombies were bloody and torn. All of the zombies were famished.
Lars looked at the zombies and felt regret and remorse for what he was about to do. They didn’t have a hand in what happened to them, and it was through no fault of their own that they were now monsters. He tried to block out the idea of the dead approaching having spouses or kids. He’d already had a hand in killing a few of them, but he needed to be sure he didn’t humanize them. The lead zombie had a suit, and the kid in the middle of the pack looked like someone who was a huge FLXS fan judging by the shirt and hat he wore.
“They’re monsters,” Lars muttered and brought the shotgun up. He rested the butt in his shoulder and aimed at the pack. Before Lars fired, he took one last look at the lead zombie’s eyes and failed to see a shred of humanity remaining. The white eyes glowed in the dock’s lights, and he fired. The round peppered the zombie’s face with buckshot, and it froze. Lars watched the white eyes die out and fade away. For a fleeting moment, he thought he saw a glimpse of humanity left before the body fell to the floor.
Chuck aimed and dropped another one. He quickly ejected the spent shell and fired another shot. The shot went low and shredded the next zombie in line’s throat. The zombie staggered but continued to advance.
“Why the fuck isn’t it fucking dead?” Chuck screamed.
“Aim for the head!” Bob called out from behind.
Chuck fired at the zombie close to him again, and its head exploded. Blood showered the trailing zombies as they shuffled through the crimson mist. Bits of skull and brain sprayed on the zombies behind him. One came to a stop and licked the gore from around its mouth. For a
moment, it stood and seemed to revel in the other zombie’s blood. Lars ended its snack with a blast to the head.
Bob tried to keep count in his head about how many zombies were left, and he couldn’t figure it out. He did notice they were drawing closer, and it wasn’t comforting he didn’t have a weapon of any sort. Another blast went off in front of him, and Bob searched the ground for something he could use. When he turned back to the dumpster, he witnessed a mass of the dead piling through the door they came out on the dock through. The opening poured out the undead like a sick birthing canal, and they fell over each other, trying to get out of the arena.
Bob reached back, unable to take his eyes off of the new wrinkle in their escape plan, and tugged on Chuck’s shirt.
“What the fuck?” Chuck shouted.
“We need to get to the bus now,” Bob stammered.
“We’re not clear yet,” Lars replied and blew the top of a zombie’s skull off.
“Turn around,” Bob said.
Lars spun around and saw the mass of undead flesh shambling right at them. “Yeah… yeah, I think you’re right.”
Chuck looked over his shoulder to see what all the fuss about and saw zombies creeping up behind them. “I have three shells left.”
“Two,” Lars checked his and sighed.
“Well, it was nice knowing you guys,” Chuck grinned.
“I think if we knock the few left in front of us, we can make it,” Bob offered.
“I just hope the fucking door is unlocked,” Lars worried.
“Fuck it, GO!” Chuck bellowed and rushed toward the bus.
The suicidal move surprised Lars and Bob. In the short time, they’d known the security chief; he didn’t seem like a fellow who rushed headlong into danger. Yeah, he carried a shotgun, but he always let Lars take the lead and appeared to be happy following from behind.
And Bob had no respect for people like that. He’d seen it during their rise to fame after FLXS started to make some noise. There were ex-girlfriends and even long-lost cousins who came out of the woodwork trying to get a piece of him. Now, the tour and band were finished, and if he survived, the world was open for him to do whatever he wanted.
