by Dean James
The Last Broadcast of WFUKD
Lights flickered as control panel lights dimmed. There wasn’t much time left. Time for one more broadcast. Once more, for those who can still hear.
He pulled the microphone close. He couldn’t hear them through his sound proof booth. He knew they were there though, still beating their way through the poorly built barricade. He took a deep breath, and began to transmit.
“Ladies and Gentlemen, boys and girls, anyone who can still hear my voice. I know it has been a few days since I last spoke to you. The power grid is down, and we are running desperately low on fuel. For reasons I will not get into, our main barricade has failed. I am the last person here that still has a pulse. For those reasons, this will be the last broadcast that I will ever make.
I never would have imagined I would one day sit in this chair. You see, I’m not a DJ or anything that would ever allow me to be on the air normally. I’m simply an advertising agent here at the station. On the first night…when everyone ran, some of us stayed behind to do what we could. Those of us that remained took a vote, and I was chosen to be the person to be the last voice for the station.
I didn’t think I would ever be on the radio. I never thought I would be the one to broadcast the nuclear destruction of our capitol, along with several large cities across the globe. And most of all, I never thought I would have to tell people that the dead were rising, and the apocalypse is in the here and now.
Before I sign off forever, I want to share the last bit of news we heard before all our lines went dead. I wasn’t sure if I would bother mentioning it, because in the end it doesn’t really matter. It was verified by several infectious disease experts, that this was no accident. This…thing…was manmade. Can you believe it? Someone wanted this to happen. Again, does it really matter anymore?
As I say my final farewell, I want to leave you all with something. In case you didn’t realize it, today is Christmas. It will be my last one. I pray to whomever is listening that it is not yours. Keep fighting, don’t give up. Believe that this is not our swan song, and that we will come back from this. Hopefully smarter and without so much hate for one another, and definitely alive and thriving.
With that, I leave you with this song. Hopefully it will not be the last song ever broadcast. Good night, good luck, and for the sake of the human race, live on. Goodbye.”
He keyed in the song he had chosen to celebrate his last Christmas. The music started slow, and as it built he sang along with his favorite holiday song.
“I’ll be home for Christmas, You can count on me, Please have snow, and mistletoe, and presents under…” he trailed off. Something hit him, and he started to laugh until his eyes watered.
“I never told anyone my name!” he laughed as the music filled the studio for the last time. He stood and sang at the top of his lungs, his arms waving as he led the imaginary band.
The tune wound down, and so did he. He fell back into his chair as the last verse started. He whispered the words, raising a chrome revolver to his head.
“If only in my dreams…If only in my dreams.”
With a bright flash, the life of Phil Gardner ended on air. Forgetting to turn off his mic, the shot was broadcast to everyone who was listening.
No one was.
Epilogue
The cold waters of the Pacific lapped against the armored steel of the LAV as the heavy diesel engines churned the waters behind it. The frigid winds of the unusually cold California winter carried a fine spray of salty water to Jason’s face, hitting him like thousands of icy needles pricking at his exposed skin. The setting sun behind him did nothing to stop the ice forming on his combat helmet. He shivered as he stared across the waves towards the shores of Del Marr Beach. It was not the cold that had him shaking atop the Light Armored Vehicle, however.
It was there that he had been forced to withdraw. It was there that he watched the final moments of Camp Pendleton.
It was a losing battle from the start. They were not fighting an army. They were fighting against an enemy that had no fear, no sense of self preservation, and would walk right into its own death without hesitation. It was a numbers game in the end. They simply could not fight the multitudes that rose from nearby San Diego.
Those that were not dead had already evacuated. The handful of Marines that had been left to cover the evacuation effort had been pushed back to beach. Those that didn’t fall back were dead, overcome by the hundreds of thousands of walking corpses that marched through the base.
“Gunny,” a youthful voice cracked over Jason’s radio. “LZ5 is overrun. I’m getting nothing from any of the other evac sites. There’s nothing but dead air on all frequencies.”
“Understood,” he replied over his own mic. “Keep transmitting and keep me apprised.”
“Aye, Gunny.”
“Gunny,” another voice came over. “We’re low on fuel and bingo on ammo. We need to get out of this chop before we go dry. What are your orders?”
Jason looked over the base. Fires burned in almost every direction his eyes fell upon. There was no reason to keep anyone there anymore. Without any communication with any command structure, he was in charge. His thoughts turned back to his family in the Midwest, and he made his decision.
“Bring us in, but bring us in dark. Once we hit land, shut down and get quiet. We’ll refuel and resupply when it becomes an option.”
He mulled over his next words carefully, knowing they would bring him into direct conflict with his last orders, ‘hold your ground’. But there was no more ground to hold, and the way it looked, no more military structure to answer to.
“At that time, anyone on board who wishes to commandeer another vehicle will be allowed to do so. Anyone who wishes to come with me will be welcome.” He clicked off his mic and waited.
“Begging the Gunny’s pardon, where is he going?”
He looked over the burning remains of his home for the last six years, and keyed up his mic.
“I’m heading east.”
Epilogue Two
Chris stood at the hallway window, watching Dan cross the driveway into the slaughter room again. It had been days since Abby had been laid to rest, and Dan had all but withdrawn from everyone in the house, except for Katie. But she seemed to be doing her best to avoid her father.
Dan spent most of his time locked away in the bedroom, or down in the slaughter house. He tried to ask him once what he was doing in there, but Dan only shot him a look that told him to drop the subject.
Chris’ worry for his brother is what drove him to break his own rules on privacy. When he was sure Dan would be out for a while, he let himself into Dan’s room. The room the group had decided to give him and Katie to mourn in private.
He glanced around the small guest room, looking for anything out of the ordinary. On the dresser was Abby’s wedding ring, her engagement ring sitting next to it. A spent shell sat beside them, and Chris guessed it was the one Dan had meant for Adam.
Chris turned to leave, his guilt catching up with him for spying on his brother, when he saw Dan’s Glock sitting on the bed. Next to it sat Chris’ whittling knife. He picked up the weapon, and found words scratched into both sides of the slide. When he read them aloud, he felt his blood run cold. For the first time since the dead started to walk the earth, he was not afraid for his brother. He was afraid of him.
“ABANDON ALL HOPE”
THE END
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
James Dean lives in Northwest Illinois with his wife Sarah, and his children. He was born in Chicago, Illinois and has lived with his mother and three brothers until he struck out on his own in his late teens. He’s lived in Chicago most of his adult life, until marrying and moving to the suburbs.
James has been writing for years, but it wasn’t until recently he decided to try his hand at a full length novel. Prior to tackling zombies, he’s written in several different genres, including sword and sorcery, paranormal thriller, and psychological
horror. His latest short story, The Professor, has made its way into the award winning anthology All Things Zombie: The Gathering Horde.
James has an author’s Facebook page that can be found at www.facebook.com/jdean1975. If you enjoy his writing, please join up and send him a message. He will always try to respond to all messages.
Thank you for reading!
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Special Thanks
There are so many people I would like to thank that I could probably add another dozen or more pages to this book. If you were not listed here, please don’t take offense. You have not been forgotten.
Of course I have to thank my lovely wife Sarah who put up with me while I had my head buried in my laptop every night.
Special thanks to Eric A. Shelman for your friendship and support. I know I couldn’t have gotten to where I am now without your help. And thank you Linda Shelman for being awesome. You seriously are good people, and Sarah and I are happy to know you both.
Thanks to my brothers Jason and Chris Dean for letting me bounce ideas off them. To my best friends Matt Davis and Big Mark Lewin for resting their fates in my hands. (You’ll probably regret it)
Thanks to Mark Tufo for inspiring me to put pen to paper (or fingers to keyboard) again. Thanks to Jeff Clare, Danielle Pascale, and the rest of the ATZ crew who like to keep the writing fires stoked.
Thanks to Lana Sibley for your support…you need to keep writing! I’m not going to stop pestering you.
A very special thanks to my proof reader Ramona Martine, and my beta readers, Giles Batchelor, Claire Smith, and Cassie Del Valle. You guys amazed me with the hard work you put into helping me make this book what it is.
