“No, it wouldn’t. Not yet. The power supply needs to be charged up, in the sunlight.”
“How long is it going to take? We don’t have much sun left.”
“I have no idea. We should wait at least an hour.”
“Fine with me,” Laurence says, reclining into a moldy puddle on the roof. “I could use a rest anyway.”
Haroon places the rifle onto a ledge in the direct sunlight.
“You looked like MacGyver putting that thing together,” Laurence says.
“MacGyver? You said that name earlier. Who the heck is MacGyver?”
“Oh, he’s an old television character who used to build laser cannons out of bubble gum and paperclips.”
“You have a television? In Copper?”
“No, this was a long time ago. Back in the 1980’s. I used to be on a show back then, too.”
“The 1980’s? You’re not old enough to have been alive in the 1980’s.”
“I was.”
“That’s impossible.”
Laurence grunts at the sky and says, “Nothing’s impossible.”
Then he tells Haroon his story.
Laurence’s full name is Laurence Tureaud, but he was widely known by the name Mr. T.
Back in the 1980’s, Mr. T was a television star and a cultural icon. Everybody loved him. He was the most badass motherfucker on television, the epitome of cool. But then he was diagnosed with terminal cancer. He spent several years coming to terms with his disease, fighting the cancer every step of they way so that he could spend as many years with his family as possible. But eventually, the disease got to the point where the doctors just couldn’t do anything for him anymore.
The thought of losing Mr. T was just too much for America. A fundraiser was started to help keep the national hero alive. Although no money in the world could cure his cancer, enough money was raised to have him cryogenically frozen. So for sixty-three years, Mr. T has been suspended in time. He missed Z-Day and the apocalypse, he missed the 50 years of struggle the world had endured since then.
A couple of years ago, a scientist named Jacob Wyslen brought Mr. T back to life. He was a researcher who had a lab on a small island off the east coast. After Z-Day hit, several research stations were put together around the country, all of them with a mission to put an end to the zombie problem. After thirty years, Wyslen’s was the only one that remained. He started with a staff of twenty scientists and soldiers, but these people didn’t last very long. He sent them on dangerous missions into the Red Zone and very few of them came back alive. One day, he realized he was all alone.
Because he couldn’t do his work all by himself, Wyslen decided to resurrect the people who were frozen in the storage. He went from chamber to chamber, trying to bring the bodies back to life. On all occasions, he failed… apart from one. He was able to resurrect Mr. T.
“This isn’t the world Mr. T was expecting to come back to, Doc,” he told Dr. Wyslen, as the doctor examined his motor functions.
“I can put you back if you want?” the old man said.
“No thanks,” said Mr. T. “I would rather help you take down those dead things than live like a dead thing.”
For months, Mr. T assisted the doctor with his research. He proved to be much more useful than the doctor had expected. Not only was he able to go on missions in the Red Zone and come back alive, he also proved intelligent enough to brainstorm theories with him.
“You see, Doc,” Mr. T told him in the large empty cafeteria, “you’re goin’ about this all wrong. You can’t just freeze the undead suckas. They crave brains, and the electrochemical impulses it sends out through the body. That means they must survive on these impulses. I say you work on a nerve gas that’ll take out their whole nervous system. Do that and it’s goodbye zombies.”
“But nerve gas would also kill the surviving humans in the area,” said Wyslen.
“There ain’t nobody left alive out there. It’s just zombies. Mr. T says gas the whole place and be done with them.”
“But nerve gas is pretty useless out in the open. It would just dissipate in the atmosphere.”
“How about putting a fumigation tent over the whole country? Then gas ‘em.”
The doctor laughed. “It would probably be easier to just drop some bombs.”
Mr. T laughed with him. He said, “Now you’re talking,” and slapped the doctor on the back so hard he almost fell out of his chair.
The doctor didn’t work on a nerve gas, but he did invent a sonic device that worked as a repellant for the undead. It was kind of a high-pitched vibration that drove zombies crazy, like a dog whistle.
Wyslen died before his work was completed. Before his death, he asked Mr. T to take his research and bring it to the island of Neo New York. He wanted Mr. T to assist the scientists there with completing his work. With some time and the right resources, his device could become the breakthrough invention that would finally solve the zombie problem for good.
“I’ll make sure they finish your work,” Mr. T told the doctor on his death bed. “Otherwise, they’ll have to answer to Brick and Mortar.”
“Brick and Mortar?” the doctor asked.
“Those are the new names for Mr. T’s fists.”
Doctor Wyslen laughed himself to sleep. He never woke up after that.
After an hour, Haroon’s ready to test the weapon.
“Hopefully there’s some zombies nearby so we can test it from safety,” Haroon says.
When they go to the edge, they see a large horde surrounding the gas station.
“Braaiins!” the zombies yell when they see their heads popping up from the roof.
“You sure we’re safe up here?” asks Mr. T.
“Junko said those things can’t climb, so I figured this would be the safest place.”
“Just because they can’t climb doesn’t mean they can’t mob,” Mr. T says. “If that shotgun thingy of yours don’t work we might be trapped up here for good.”
“Well, let’s try it out,” Haroon says. “Hopefully it works better than the one I created.”
Haroon aims the weapon at the crowd of zombies below. When he pulls the trigger, a beam of energy shoots out of the barrel and shreds four of the walking corpses below.
Mr. T smiles. “It don’t shoot like no shotgun, but it sure hits like one.”
Haroon pumps the shotgun and fires again, blowing zombie limbs and body parts into the air. He shoots again. Then again. After thirty shots, the zombies are still coming at him, but he’s not running out of bullets. Just as he always planned the solar-powered shotgun would work.
“You’re pretty good with that thing,” says Mr. T. “Even though it’s technically supposed to be my weapon, I’ll trade you for the club.”
“You’d rather have the club?”
“That gun sure does the job well, but I’d rather have a weapon I can trust. The club will do just fine.”
“Sure,” Haroon says, then blasts the legs out from under another zombie.
When Mr. T arrived at the island of Neo New York, he was greeted only with hostility. The small sailboat he had taken from Dr. Wyslen’s island was stopped a mile off shore by the NNY Coast Guard. Two ships pulled up alongside his boat and he was forced to allow them to board.
Six men with automatic rifles came aboard, all of the weapons pointed at his face. Mr. T raised his hands.
“Are you armed?” asked the Lieutenant.
“Mr. T don’t need weapons to protect himself,” said Mr. T.
“Are you alone?” the young officer asked Mr. T.
“Yeah.”
After they searched his ship, the Lieutenant asked some more questions.
“Do you have business on the island or are you just looking for safe harbor?”
Mr. T responded, “I was sent by Dr. Jacob Wyslen of the Z-19 Project.”
“Never heard of him.”
“That’s not my problem,” Mr. T said. “He told me to give his research to the zo
mbie research division on this island.”
“Zombie research division?” The Lieutenant laughed. “We don’t have a zombie research division.”
“Then who’s working on solving the living dead problem on the mainland?”
The soldiers look at each other with large smiles, then look back at Mr. T.
“They gave up on that decades ago,” said the Lieutenant. “The zombie problem hasn’t been a problem of ours for a very long time.”
“Then you shouldn’t have given up so easily,” Mr. T said. “My friend Dr. Wyslen continued his research over the past fifty years until the day he died. He finally came up with something that just might be a solution to make the mainland safe again.”
“And what solution might that be?”
“It’s a kind of zombie repellent device. If I can get the right minds looking at this research, I believe this device can be constructed.”
“It sounds like a load of bull,” said the Lieutenant.
“You don’t have to believe me. You just have to let me through. Leave the believing up to the scientists who might actually understand this jibber jabber.”
“Fine,” said the Lieutenant. “But your boat will be impounded. You’ll have to ride with us.”
“Whatever you say,” said Mr. T. “Just as long as I get this research into the right hands.”
When all of the zombies are writhing on the ground, Haroon and Mr. T climb down the ladder and continue on their way. In the distance, in every direction they look, there are hundreds of zombies staggering through the streets.
“More and more of those things are coming out,” says Mr. T. “And it’s going to be dark soon. We better find some shelter for the night if we ever want to see tomorrow.”
Haroon contemplates the zombie numbers up ahead. Then he says, “We shouldn’t find cover yet, not until it’s dark. We have to make as much progress as possible if we’re ever going to catch up to the others.”
“I don’t like it,” says Mr. T, “but whatever you say.”
“We shouldn’t have too much of a problem now that we have this weapon on our side.”
“I already told you, I don’t trust that gun. It’s a great invention, don’t get me wrong, but it’s not something Mr. T would rely on.”
“It’ll work just fine,” Haroon says. “Trust me.”
Mr. T nods. Then they move on, deeper into the city, deeper into the ocean of the living dead.
They didn’t allow Mr. T to enter Platinum to meet with the top researchers who lived there. One of the scientists came out to meet him in Copper, and by the looks of it they sent the lowest ranking member of the staff.
The doctor asked to see Wyslen’s documents and Mr. T handed them over.
After scanning through the pages for a few minutes, the young man said, “I’ll have to show these to the higher ups to see what they think. Are you staying here?”
“Yeah,” Mr. T said.
“Great. I’ll keep in touch.”
As the man walked back to the gates with Wyslen’s research in his hands, Mr. T yelled out, “Tell them I’ve got a lot of ideas on how to get it operational. I worked closely with Dr. Wyslen for quite some time.”
Then the gate closed behind the young scientist, then Mr. T went up to the gate and put his hands on the bars.
“And tell them if they don’t make this happen they will have to answer to Brick and Mortar.”
The man waved back at Mr. T without turning around.
He never heard from the scientist ever again and the Coast Guard never returned his boat, so he was left stranded in Copper with no home, no job, and nothing left to do. So he moved into an abandoned shack on the beach. It wasn’t much but it was shelter. He started crabbing for food and would sometimes sell crabs at the market. People in Copper didn’t have much money, so he didn’t sell them for very much. Later, he taught the other beggars in his shantytown how to fish and crab, but after a while so many of them started doing it that there weren’t enough crabs left to go around. Still, he was happy his vagrant friends were able to eat a little better.
One day, Mr. T saw a group of kids doing Waste under the peer. When he saw what they were doing, he charged right up to them and took the drugs out of their hands.
“What do you kids think you’re doing?” asked Mr. T. “Do you know how bad drugs are for you? You should be thinking about your futures, not wasting it on this trash.”
“Give it back, asshole!” said a ten year old street punk.
“You mouth off to me again and I’m gonna smack that mouth off your face,” said Mr. T, pointing his finger at the punk. “Now, you kids can do anything with your lives. You don’t need this to have fun.” He holds the drugs up to them. “You should have fun by playing basketball or practicing guitar.”
“Give it back, scumbag!” yelled a little 9-year-old girl with a shaved head.
“You’re not getting it back,” said Mr. T, raising his voice. “I’m trying to tell you how this stuff will get in the way of your dreams.”
Then the little girl put out her cigarette on his forehead. Mr. T screamed and the kids grabbed their Waste out of his hands and took off running across the beach. Mr. T ran after them for ten yards before giving up. He kicked a pile of seaweed into the ocean.
“And what were you going to do if you caught up to them?” Lee asked Mr. T, sitting on the beach in front of him, drinking a cup of the snake piss the Copper Quadrant calls whiskey.
“I was going to teach them a lesson about drugs,” said Mr. T.
“What for?” Lee said. “Those kids are prostitutes, thieves, and dealers. All they’ve got is drugs.”
“If they got off of drugs who knows what they could do with their lives,” Mr. T said.
“There’s nothing they can do, Laurence. This is Copper. Once you’re in Copper there’s no moving up in the world. If you’re born in the shit you die in the shit.”
“I don’t like you’re attitude, Lee,” said Mr. T. “There’s always a hope for a better life. If the people in Copper just came together we could clean up this place. We could turn it into a clean, safe place for children to grow up in.”
“How do you plan to do that?”
“Well, first of all, we get rid of the drug problem.”
“What?” Lee laughed at him. “It can’t be done.”
“Don’t you think there’s a problem with drugs here?”
“Yeah, of course.”
“Well, if there’s a problem then there’s got to be a solution.” Mr. T
punched his fists together, then said, “And that solution’s name is Mr. T.”
Haroon and Mr. T go a mile deep into the zombie-packed streets of downtown, blasting their way through the horde. The first zombie that comes up from behind, Mr. T attacks with his spiked club. The bat goes through the zombie’s face and gets stuck in its mouth. The zombie bites down and thrashes it out of T’s hand, then blindly runs in the opposite direction.
Weaponless, Mr. T looks down at his hands.
“And you said you could trust that weapon better than this?” Haroon asks, holding up his solar-powered shotgun.
Mr. T smiles.
“Just because I don’t have a weapon,” he says, “doesn’t mean I’m not armed.” Then he punches a zombie’s head off of its shoulders.
The duo go a half mile farther down the street until there are so many zombies they come to a standstill. Haroon can only shoot them down quick enough to hold them back, not quick enough to enable them to move forward. The zombies come at them from all sides.
“They’re coming in from behind,” Haroon says. “Fall back, to the east.”
“We got this!” Mr. T yells, throwing punches at the living dead coming at them.
“Fall back!”
“We got this!”
Haroon breaks away from Mr. T and runs down a side street to get away from the main horde. Mr. T doesn’t follow. zombies fill the space between them.
“Come
on,” Haroon says, trying to shoot a path for his large friend.
But Mr. T keeps on fighting, no matter how bleak the situation looks.
Mr. T learned that the head of the drug trade was Tim Lion. He was the inventor of Waste, and he pretty much owned Copper. The moment he discovered that Tim Lion owned a club in the downtown area of the quadrant, Mr. T decided he was going to give the chump a visit.
He stormed into the club in his red jumpsuit, pushing strippers out of his way and knocking over platters of Waste that were carried by waitresses from table to table. He went straight for the big man in the back, the one in the green top hat.
Tim Lion was surrounded by armed men and naked women. He was drinking a cosmo and eating buttered lobster over pasta.
“Are you Tim Lion?” he asked the man. “Mr. T wants a word with him.”
“Who the fuck is Mr. T?” Lion asked.
“You’re looking at him, fool!”
The gangster was almost amused by Mr. T’s forwardness. He decided to hear him out before he had his men kill him.
“Mr. T don’t like the way you’re selling drugs to kids,” said Mr. T, leaning in as close as possible. “Scum like you give the good folks of Copper a bad name.”
“Is this guy for real?” Lion asked.
“I’m going to clean up this town,” said Mr. T. “Starting with you.”
Tim Lion looked at his men and said, “Get rid of this idiot.”
Mr. T clothes-lined one of his men over the back of his chair, and kicked over the table, spilling Lion’s food and drink into his lap. The entire bar looked over at them.
“Kill this asshole!” Lion yelled.
Mr. T grabbed a man’s wrist before he could draw his gun, then headbutted him, knocking him to the floor. As he raised his fist in Lion’s direction, three gunshots rang out across the table. The bullets hit Mr. T square in the chest.
Mr. T continues punching zombies as they come at him, knocking them to the street.
Haroon fires at the zombies furiously. “I can’t hold them off much longer.”
Zombies and Shit Page 14
