by Goforth, Jim
"Are you just driving straight through too?" Julietta asked of Black in a shocked tone, and he glanced briefly in the rear-view, his face failing to change from its impassive mask.
"What would you propose I do? Sprout wings and fly overhead?"
Julietta’s response was a grunt of disgust. Alongside of her, Miranda murmured something Seth didn't hear with his head stuck out the window and his ears full of rushing breeze, combined with snatches of conversation from those in the truck tray.
They appeared to be sitting up now, perhaps aware that they were no longer liable to be on the police radar, or more appropriately, needing to be upright in order to advise the sedan occupants from a distance.
Seth didn't envy them being out in the open, riding right through the hotbed of zombie activity, though the Tundra was moving pretty fast and the bulldozing vans had cleared a wide swath for them to navigate through.
Looking out the window, Seth imagined it must look similar to this in a war-torn zone, with bodies sprawled all over the street in hideous positions of death, or finality, humans and zombies alike. Some were missing body parts, armless, or a leg gone here or there, some gruesome entities devoid of heads or just in possession of a spreading red puddle of gore. Others appeared whole enough, but had their abdomens and chests ripped and spread wide open, gaping apertures spilling intestinal ropes and mangled innards.
Flashing police lights captured the grotesque scenes in red and blue washes that splashed luridly over roaming undead monsters and screaming, running crowds of Friday night folk trapped in a maelstrom of terror. Gunshots blasted, snapping in the night with sharp cracks that heightened the sound collage already rich with shrieks, shouts, bangs, crashes, ripping flesh and cracking bones.
Obviously the authorities had already reached the conclusion that trying to arrest these flesh-desiring folk in their death metal concert outfits was not going to be an endeavour that would run smoothly to script. Frantic shouts reverberated throughout the atmosphere as the police on the scene communicated urgently with others and called desperately back to base, seeking reinforcements immediately if not sooner.
Savvy criminals would have had a field day with this calamity; the entire police force were going to be required to repel the tide of undead, and as the Tundra rolled through the red zone Seth noted another alarming fact. Not all of those humanivores spilling over the street were clad in the standard metal garb they'd had on inside the venue or pouring over the balcony to ambush the beer garden patrons. There appeared to be some in normal everyday clothes, or Friday night going out getup, some in suits, and some in dresses.
So, if that was the case then did that mean...? Seth didn't want to be dwelling on these thoughts, but they wouldn’t dissipate.
Were ordinary folk and random people who'd been caught in the crossfire and chewed upon by the zombies, but not so much that they were segmented body parts scattered in a variety of different places, rising again as well? To become one with their attackers, the living dead amassing in a horrible army?
It sure as fuck seemed that way, and Seth felt as if all the blood in his veins had been replaced with an ice water transfusion. How the hell could it be possible if the method of turning the zombies had been through a bizarre conglomeration of music and a mantra of lyrics? That didn't appear to be the sort of thing that could become a virus, a parasite, a means of reanimating those victims of the undead hordes. Seth's head spun as fast as the tirade of violent and horrible images that flew past the window. Some of the marauders were even close enough to reach with hooked fingers at the passing vehicles, so too pedestrians stranded out there, boxed in by walls of zombies and a growing police presence.
Seth saw a couple of folk, probably university age kids, just students no doubt out for a night on the tiles, screaming frantically at the train of cars that drove through the fleshblasted thoroughfare made by the vans, waving hopelessly.
Their efforts to flag down any of those vehicles, the one Seth was in and the sedan they were shadowing included, would be to no avail whatsoever. For a start, there was absolutely jackshit space in either vehicle unless people continued to pile into the tray of the Tundra, and secondly, Seth dreaded what would transpire if Black was to stop the truck right here.
"Oh my god, this is..." Julietta was dumbfounded with shock and horror. "These people, can't we help them? Do something about this? Save somebody?"
"How?" Black challenged bluntly, his malevolent eyes pinning her in the rear-view again.
"Pick them up, get them out of here, something!" Miranda was on Julietta's wavelength, her voice high-pitched, edgy and fearful.
"I'm not stopping the truck here," Black snarled harshly. "That is suicide, for all of us. Especially those in the back. They're out in the open and, weapons or otherwise, they'll be overrun in a split second. Not going to happen. How would you be if you were in the back and I just stopped right in the middle of this shitfight?"
"How would you feel if you were one of those poor innocent people stranded out there watching your only possible chance at survival drive past without a concern for you?" Miranda fired back.
"Wrong. We aren't a chance of survival for them. Stopping only increases our chances of not surviving to one hundred per cent. They die regardless. We don't, and won't alter their situation any by stopping. Simple."
"All they have to do is get in the back!" Miranda cried, but the Tundra was already passing the two students, others like them, people in business dress, folk in party outfits, all sorts, swept up in a tsunami of zombie devastation. "It would have taken a minute, or less."
"Less than a minute is all these skin gobblers require," Black refuted. "I don't know if you’ve noticed, or taken anything of what’s going on around you on-board, but these zombies aren't exactly all you might have been lead to believe by cinema and television. They don't all shamble, stumble and lurch; some of them run, they move like fucking lightning and those speedy motherfuckers will be all over the tray, and coming through your windows like priests on an altar boy. So spare me the bleeding heart shit, lady. You don't like it, you can jump the hell out if you want. That goes for anybody."
"I'm good," Dax was quick to say. "I'll stay on-board, cheers."
Seth suspected the 'anybody' remark specifically targeted the disagreeable Julietta, but probably encompassed all of them.
Julietta didn't answer or add anything further, but Seth was sure if they weren't in the centre of some mini zombie apocalypse she’d have been only too happy to be free of the car right now.
All of a sudden they were through, clear of the choked up congestion of death and desperation, leaving the awful scenes behind and surging through city streets that weren't yet affected by what had befallen Peaceville Street and at least four other intersecting streets.
With a loud sigh of relief, Mark sank back against the seat, his head thumping back on the top of it. Miranda sat back in tandem with him though not quite as easily as he had, her apprehension still visible all over her face. As for Julietta she sat as stiff as ever, a new tirade of outrages prickling her more than a little.
"That's right," Black said. "Breathe easy, for a little while anyhow."
With one of his silver ring laden hands, Black reached down into the centre console between the seats and pulled out a packet of cigarettes. As he steered one handed, he managed to flick the pack open, pull out a smoke and a lighter and then poke the cigarette into the corner of his mouth and spark it up, all with the one hand not on the wheel. His sinister coal black eyes, menacing in that tattooed visage, stared at the antagonistic women in the backseat as if waiting for them to raise disagreements over his choice of smoking in the car.
There were none. There was, however, a voicing of approval from Dax, who rummaged for his own oft-borrowed from packet of cigarettes. He momentarily paused to glance at Black, and Seth could just about see the cogs working in his head, a query that would go unasked, relating to snagging one of Black's cigarettes in return for th
e one Black helped himself to earlier.
Leaving that question inside his head, Dax busied himself getting one of his own smokes out.
With his window still rolled down, Seth sat crushed up against the car door, feeling the night air breeze through his locks, watching the lights of the city flash by, seeing police cars speeding down the other side of the street, hearing their sirens screaming. If it weren't for those sounds, the sense of being in an alien car, albeit with most of his close friends, or the sight of Dax's face crusted with dry gore, he could almost believe he was just off on one of his gang’s crazy adventures.
Only none of their adventures had ever been as insanely crazy as this one. And he knew it was only going to spiral further into sheer craziness.
CHAPTER NINE-BLACK REVELATIONS
Up ahead the taillights of the sedan glowed in the night like a sinister set of eyes, and though they were leaving the absolute carnage and violent atrocity that sprang from the Undead Fleshcrave concert, they were all acutely aware that they were heading straight into further depths of danger.
The individuals in the front seat of that car up ahead, the driver of the Tundra and the quartet out in the open in the tray of the truck all had very serious intentions of murdering the occupants of the big black tour bus some distance up beyond the sedan.
Seth might have been in the minority among his collective of friends gathered there, squashed together in the back seat of the Tundra, but he found he couldn't exactly fault the logic of Black and his cronies, or disapprove of the actions they were planning to take. After all, he knew it was that song―The Zombie Trigger—that spawned this unholy travesty. He’d no idea how, couldn't even conceive why it would be possible; it was barely fathomable that such things could mutate ordinary death metal fans (and only those fans) into voracious undead freaks wanting to rip, gnaw, and chew every other living soul they encountered into fleshy ribbons. Or, as it would seem from the horrific scenes he'd witnessed of non-concert goers, normal folk on the street equally zombified, that those turned could bestow this terrible curse on others if they didn't thoroughly tear them to shreds of meat and bone.
So many questions flooded Seth's mind he barely knew where to begin. Julietta beat him to the punch.
"So," she said, challenging Black, her voice openly antagonistic. "Since you've dragged us all into this complete nightmare, what have you got to say about it? You said we all needed to be in here so you could get us up to speed. So do it: get us up to speed. Mister Black."
"Dragged you into it?" Black sounded a trifle amused. "I seem to recall saving your asses―on maybe more than one occasion—and I don’t recall a whole bunch of thanks or gratitude for any of that. But you are correct. I did say I would bring you up to speed, and that I will do."
He tucked the dwindling cigarette back into the corner of his mouth, squinting as tendrils of smoke trailed up towards his eyes and swung the Tundra left to keep in line with the convoy ahead. Soon enough they’d be completely out of Armada altogether, leaving the zombie-stricken metropolis behind to whatever fate was going to befall it, hopefully with the authorities being able to contain the situation. Given the shocking new development—the death metal undead seemingly able to pass their affliction to healthy people via non-lethal attack—Seth had some grave doubts starting to take a firm hold on him.
"So, to start," Black's gravelly voice intoned. "I will take one question from every person in the truck. Then I will fill in any blanks arising out of that. I'll start with you, bud."
The last statement was aimed at his front seat companion, Dax. With one ready to go, Dax tapped a long chunk of ash from his smouldering cigarette into the truck’s open ashtray and blurted it out.
"Are you guys really a band?"
"Dax!" Miranda blared. "What the fuck? What sort of question..."
"Quiet," Black cut in. "You'll get your turn. That's his question, and in reality it is a very valid question. Yes, we are actually a band. Subversion, as most of you probably know, is the name, but essentially our being a band is to keep us in the circles of where we need to be."
"Which is?" Miranda interrupted.
“Is that your question?"
"No, it's an extension of Dax's question."
"How about if you stop butting in and I will answer each question in depth, with as much detail as possible. Which should stop you from interrupting every couple of sentences or so."
"Okay, okay," Miranda relented, but the firm expression remained on her countenance.
Black crushed his cigarette butt into the ashtray and resumed his driving with the steering wheel hand's elbow resting on the open window sill, his other on his thigh.
"For all intents and purposes Subversion are a band. On the very surface, we are a band who play black metal―everybody in this car's choice of music, which will explain why we elected to bail you guys out of all those we probably could have, and only you, because time was rather of the essence there. We have been known to play gigs, also record material. At the heart of it though, we are zombie hunters. Or more appropriately, we hunt those who are responsible for the creation of them."
"Like Undead Fleshcrave?" Obviously not too clear on what Black meant by no interruptions, Dax piped up.
"Like Undead Fleshcrave," Black confirmed, apparently overlooking the interjection. "But they are far from the only ones with the ability to do what they do, they're the tip of the iceberg. There is an entire network, a whole insidious underworld of which Undead Fleshcrave are a part. They belong to a record label known as Global Death, and that very company name itself is pretty much a neat little summary of their mission statement and the plans they have. Mind you, in a way Undead Fleshcrave themselves are really just pawns, puppets of a bigger master."
"Zombie hunters? And a band, what, do you use your songs as a way to kill them?" Dax found himself highly amusing and looked back to Mark and Seth to get some support.
"That isn't actually as ludicrous as it might sound.” Black negated the attempt at humour without elaborating any further, supplanting the look of amusement on Dax's face with one of puzzlement. He started to open his mouth to let another question tumble out and realised for once that he wasn't adhering to the one question policy, though everything Black was saying just seemed to conjure up more question marks.
Abruptly, Julietta moved with a start, as if something imperative had dawned upon her, and briefly forgetting she was restrained by a seatbelt, she lurched forward. The belt strap snapped her back into place as suddenly as she'd acted, but she blurted out what she had to say anyway.
"You knew this was going to happen, didn't you? You knew all along that hideous band was going to...do something?"
Seth reached that conclusion long ago; he didn't imagine Black and his cohorts were in the general habit of taking insanely dangerous weaponry to any old metal gig they attended. But then again, maybe they did; it wasn't such a big stretch of the imagination to envision any of the three who comprised Subversion packing something lethal on an ordinary night out.
A hubbub of noise broke out, a crescendo of clamouring voices all at the same time, predominantly courtesy of the two women and Dax with an inclusion from Mark lost in the swell of sound.
"Quiet!" Black suddenly snarled, and though his voice wasn't raised a great deal more than ordinary, it snapped with a bark of authority that sank silence into the interior of the Tundra.
“Here's how it's going to work. Since this chucklehead here…" he jerked a ring adorned thumb towards Dax "…doesn't appear to understand the concept of a one question rule and the rest of you haven’t a clue about patience and waiting your turn, this is what's going to happen. I talk, everybody else shuts the fuck up. No interruptions, no random questions. Get your heads around that?"
A murmur of assent fluttered around the inside of the vehicle, though Julietta didn't drop her challenging gaze or alter the hard set of her face. She looked more as though she would prefer to press on with her own lines of enquiry
, but possibly figured that Black was intending to cover the points she would raise. She’d certainly push the issue if he didn't.
As dutiful quiescence fell over all the occupants, Black obtained himself another cigarette, although he'd not long ago put one out. He took his time lighting it up with the same one-handed manoeuvre he used previously, and then exhaled a plume of smoke, wispy trails curling out his nostrils as he did.
"First, yes, we were very much prepared for the eventuality of something happening tonight, it's fair to say we would have been extremely surprised if it hadn't. We've been very much aware that Undead Fleshcrave are Global Death's prototype, their test model I guess you’d say, and we've been preparing for this event for some time now. There's been one previous failed attempt, and apparently we aren't the only ones with this same agenda because that one was shut down before it got off the ground. Anybody remember the band Bloodchain, supposed to play a series of concerts across the country? All four members allegedly perished in a plane crash?"
Another murmur went around the truck; none of them seemed to know whether Black was inviting them to openly speak or just make the appropriate sounds to indicate knowledge of the event, so most went with the latter option, the general consensus being they all knew of the ill-fated passing of the entire collective of death metal quartet Bloodchain.
"Bloodchain were initially supposed to be Global Death's monumental landmark flagship, but there were hunters onto them from the word go. There was no aeroplane crash, those band members were executed before they could even hit the road and bring about their opening act of a zombie apocalypse, the plane business was a story concocted by the record label and I use that term loosely. It's a front for a network of new terror, bringing the rise of the undead to a town near you. Or in fact, as you all witnessed tonight, to your very town.”
