by David Moody
Hollister: Tree lines and farmland.
Graeme: …and messages spray-painted on water towers.
Jules (V.O.): Welcome to the apocalypse of the apocalypse, folks! I’m your guide, Jules. You may remember me as the axeman and song-writer extraordinaire from the baddest band on the planet, Serpentine. And if you remember me, then you definitely remember that Skeletor-faced bag-a-bones at the helm, James ‘Holly’ Hollister on drums, and to his right, the long, tall serpent himself, Graeme Gunz on bass and lead vocals. We call him Gramps. (Whispers) His real last name is Fischback, by the way.
Graeme: There’re less of ‘em out in the open.
Hollister: The tree line…
Graeme leans closer to the window. His eyes narrow.
Graeme: I see ‘em.
Graeme swivels in his chair and motions for the camera. The scene shakes as Jules hands the camera to Graeme, who then lowers the passenger-side window and points it out.
Tree lines and farmland. Pockets of recovery sprinkled with reminders that the days of living death are far from over. Skeletal remains wrapped in tatters sprout from thriving grassland like calcified weeds. Buildings and vehicles abandoned and burnt out and vandalized.
A handful of undead amble eastward. One or two of them cast curious eyes toward the sound of the passing van’s engine. The camera moves in, past the eastward march, toward the tree line, further back. An indelible shape haunts the open spaces between rows of trees; people, once living, now living-dead. They stand half-hidden by wooden stanchions and the lower shrubs that congregate at the trees’ bony, finger-knuckled roots.
Jules (V.O.): They stay mostly in the tree lines now, almost as if they’ve learned to fear open spaces where they could be easily picked off. You get enough of ’em together – like in the big cities – and it’s a different story.
Jules: Musta been some activity come through here recently. Not sure if that’s a good or a bad thing.
Hollister: Nobody’s gonna fuck with us in this beast.
Jules (V.O.): Holly was right to call this thing a beast. What you have is essentially a Ford Sportsmobile four-wheel-drive wrapped in Spectra Shield, Ballistic Nylon and bulletproof glass, and off-road front and rear bumpers with full grille guards. A rear-mounted 12-Volt winch with an 18,000 lb capacity. Full perimeter LED light bars. You name it. All sitting on top of Rugged Compound Runflat tires. Whatever the fuck that means. We clipped her from Alex Zamora, the East Coast Porn King, when we high-tailed it from his bunker in Princeton. He was the guy behind those, ‘Plump Asses Sitting on Opened Palms,’ videos that were the shit in the late ’80s. Don’t act like you never heard of ’em.
The van was built on a lark to navigate a theoretical post-apocalyptic wasteland. Some car-mod show that never aired because Zamora’s affiliation with pornography spooked the advertisers. The thing had been sitting in his garage ever since along with his collection of classic cars.
The car-mod show was produced by the same team behind Guitar Godz. They did an episode where Graeme and Holly surprised me with a replica of my old axe GiGi. You remember GiGi? She was my first electric guitar. A candy apple red Les Paul Standard that I swore was alive. I liked to imagine that she was infused with the soul of some tortured musician who never realized her dream. Maybe she died of a freak accident while GiGi was being built.
I lost my GiGi when the Holt Sound Studios in Philly burned down in 1989. That shit hit me hard, man. She was my first love. The diehards will remember all the flack I got about the ’68 Strat with the maple neck that I used from then on. The critics whined that it affected our signature sound. They blamed it for our ‘decline.’ In hindsight, maybe they were right. But it was the favorite guitar of one James Marshall Hendrix. So, at the time, my thinking was that any change had to be for the best.
Live and learn...
The backroads give way to turnpike townships. The battered old ghosts of chain restaurants and gas station mini marts. Tumbleweeds of man-made refuse. Twice dead bodies piled in parking lots.
The undead meander on the sidelines. A brave few wander in the open. They react to the approaching van. They turn, and sway, and oddly lurch toward the engine’s smooth bellow. Some make moves toward the nearest shelter.
The boys talk over the images.
Graeme (re: piles of bodies): Probably not a good idea to be piling them up this soon.
Jules: People are in a hurry to wake up from this nightmare. I don’t blame ’em.
Hollister: Long time before the disposal trucks make it out this far. They’re just gettin’ started in the big cities.
Jules: I don’t know. It seems to be keeping the rest of ’em back. Maybe they’re onto something.
Jules (V.O.): There were other signs that Project Reboot was taking hold out here in the sticks. The roads had been cleared in a few of the counties we passed through. Bright colored collages painted on abandoned cars and buildings dressed up the horizon. Even the watertower prophets were showing signs of hope. I get caught up in the vibe.
Graeme hands the camera back to Jules.
Indecipherable dark tones... Flashes of muted daylight... The image clears on the interior of the van. Jules is right up on the lens working to secure the camera to some kind of base. His bulk darkens the frame.
He leans away, hesitates as if half-expecting the camera to topple over, and then settles into his seat. He slides the guitar across his lap and gently fondles the strings. Hollister and Graeme in the driver and passenger-seats respectively.
Jules (V.O.): A year ago I had all but accepted the fact that the world was ending and we had front row seats to it. And now here we are on our way to the Weather to rock the fuck outta this deadfuck-infested planet. That’s the Mount Weather Emergency Operations Facility in Bluemont, Virginia. Compliments of the U.S. Department of Homeland Security and the Martin Stone Radio Show. In case you live on Mars – which don’t sound like such a bad idea at the moment – Martin Stone was a controversial Shock Jock who ruled the airwaves for as long as I can remember, and hands-down the best celebrity interviewer on the planet.
Holly must be feelin’ it, too. He turns up the volume on the stereo and starts rocking out to Sugerloaf’s ‘Green-Eyed Lady.’ We used to cover the shit outta that tune in the old days. For the next 7:25 we rock out with him.
Our lives have been a series of close calls since 9/6. We were celebrating our comeback album at Alex Zamora’s place in Princeton when the shit hit the fan. It was going to coincide with the release of the film. We hadn’t written a lick of music for the damn thing yet, but the fact that we had finally put aside all the bullshit for the sake of the group was a feat worth drinking to. Zamora was one of those guys whose obsession with preparation seemed a little nutty before 9/6. Nowadays you’re lucky if you know someone like that.
He had this badass bunker that no one knew about underneath his four acre estate. He called the place The Grotto. That’s where we stayed until things got, well… complicated. Try to imagine being stuck in a single-story, 2800-square-foot space dressed up like an upscale condo along with the current queen of porn, who we nicknamed Cinderella, three washed-up, junkie actresses who were part of Zamora’s current harem of sister-wives. Then you had two animated mannequins who used to fuck these chicks on film. One of them couldn’t get it up anymore and the other one’s claim to fame was working as ‘stunt cock’ for two A-list actors. Rounding out the group were four random associates of Zamora’s who were each about as trustworthy as a record company exec on a good day. Top it off with one stoned-out-of-his-mind porn kingpin with a considerable arsenal at his disposal and a messiah complex that would’ve put Colonel Kurtz from Apocalypse Now to shame, and you’ve got a recipe for disaster.
Did I mention that one of the fucking associates was the porn queen’s Star 80 boyfriend?
It was doomed from the start. Me, Holly and Gramps seemed to be the only ones aware of that fact. Zamora would stay in his bedroom surrounded by his sister-wives, who h
ated everything about Cinderella, especially all the attention she got from the other guys, including their husband. The mannequins and associates had each made a play at fucking her despite the best efforts of her Star 80 boyfriend to derail that process. Of course, Cinderella only had eyes for Gramps. The sister-wives wanted a piece of him, too. But Gramps wanted no part of it. Between the three of us, we’d bagged enough top-shelf pussy during our run that a few months without it didn’t seem to affect us the way it affected the others. Especially when the alternative is sticking your cock in the garbage, which is what screwing any of Zamora’s girls amounted to.
It was too bad really. The place itself was fucking balls out! Zamora had spared no expense. Solar powered generator. A fully stocked walk-in freezer. Flatscreen monitors made to look like windows. They worked together to broadcast a continuous outdoor scene. Sounds silly, but they helped you forget that you were actually sealed up in a box seven feet underground. There was an elaborate security system, which we later found out Zamora had been using to spy on everyone. A gym. A weapons room. Tons of camera equipment and a state of the art editing suite/screening room where he shot, cut, and screened some of his more controversial films. The Hatefuckers series comes to mind.
We used his equipment to put together this little ditty you’re watching, in fact. Gramps’ idea. That was Gramps doing his best Jim Forbes in the intro. Forbes was the voice behind VH1’s Behind the Music. Always hated the one they did on us.
Zamora had this antique Celtic throne in his bedroom, just to give you an idea… He would go on and on about the damned thing.
‘Just imagine the asses that’ve warmed that seat,’ he’d say. And I’m thinking, Not enough to make it worth the 200k you shelled out for it.
He had this ritual where he’d sit in the thing. An assortment of hardcore narcotics laid out buffet-style on this fancy-pants, stone coffee table. Then he’d go down the line from right to left until he was so fucking smashed that he’d sometimes forget who you were.
Me and the guys had been clean for almost a year up to that point and we had no intention of falling back into the shitstorm of addiction, even if the idea of escaping reality was more appealing than ever. These days a clear head is essential to your survival.
The three of us had initially tossed around the idea of mutiny rather than leave our cushy accommodations. It was a few months in. The height of the collapse. It was starting to look like the deadfucks had won. Information from the outside world was minimal. The last we had heard from the Emergency Broadcast System was essentially, ‘You’re on your own, folks.’
Gramps gasps... yells ‘Shit,’ so loud I heard it over the music.
Graeme leans out of the window in a sudden burst of movement, his face pointed at the road behind them, his tangled mane whipping in the wind.
A startled Hollister whips his head toward Graeme.
Hollister: What?
Jules (V.O.): I could tell who it was by the way Gramps’ voice cracked and, as usual, it sent chills down my spine.
Graeme leans back into the vehicle, looks to Hollister, then Jules. A mixture of frustration and mild shock on his face.
Graeme: Her again.
Jules (V.O.): Our number one fan... I dare myself to look, thinking that maybe the tinted rear window would somehow lessen the impact of seeing her again. It doesn’t. She’s standing at the side of the road; a dead girl wrapped in soaking wet clothing – ripped jeans, boots, and a sleeveless concert Tee from our ‘Ride the Serpentine’ Tour back in ‘88. Wet blond hair clinging to her porcelain-white face. Even at a distance I could tell that her eyes were locked on the van. Maybe she could even see me looking at her through the small, tinted square.
As usual she steals the moment and we sit there marinating on her spooky ass to the music. I wonder about her eyes. If they’re in fact green, like the song…
‘Green-Eyed Lady’ skips and then cuts off. A skittering, whirling sound pours from the van’s speakers. Hollister angrily jabs a button with his finger.
Hollister (re: CD player): No fucking way!
Hollister ejects a compact disc and looks it over. He blows on one side, rubs it against his shirt, and then slides it back into the console. He pushes a button and waits. The disc skitters and whirls. Silence...
Hollister ejects the CD and tosses it over his shoulder. It lands in a cardboard box on the floor near Jules’ feet. The box is full of discarded CDs collected from various places along the way.
Hollister: So much for tunes, fellas.
Graeme: Shit, man. I need something to get my mind off the girl.
Jules (excited): Stone Show should be on.
Hollister fingers a few buttons.
A soothing female voice (Raven Tremble – African American, 41) fills the interior of the van. She’s the former co-host and current host of the Martin Stone Radio Show.
Jules (V.O.): I fall under Raven’s spell as soon as I hear her voice. It’s a comforting feeling, like the warmth of a woman’s naked body on a cold night. A live woman, that is. Gramps was right there with me.
The telethon was in full swing at the Weather. The goal was to find more virus resistant donors to grow the government’s vaccine supply. They were in the middle of a survivor story from some celebrity whose voice none of us recognized.
Later, Raven gets choked up when a random caller mentions Martin Stone. They cut to commercial. Same fucking ads as last week. The Consortium of Able-Bodied Volunteers. Hager Portable Shelters. We quote the ZOM-B-GONE ad verbatim. Even Holly – Mr. Too-mature-for-that-kinda-shit – gets in on the fun.
…ZOM-B-GONE STICKY BOMB PERSONAL EXPLOSIVE DEVICE! ZOM-B-GONE STICKY BOMB PERSONAL EXPLOSIVE DEVICE! ZOM-B-GONE STICKY BOMB PERSONAL EXPLOSIVE DEVICE!
We have a good laugh. It’s a nice break from the tension.
‘We should cover that shit,’ Gramps jokes.
Raven apologizes when the show returns from break. She makes a few statements about the search for Martin Stone, which as of this moment, has been unsuccessful. It’s been 11 months since he called in to the show. Raven plays the infamous phone call for what must be the millionth time. We listen on pins and needles… again.
Heavy Static. Three words. ‘Raven. It’s Martin.’ Dialtone.
Not everyone is convinced that the voice on the phone belonged to the real Martin Stone. But Raven had made up her mind. And that was all most people needed. Myself included.
She urges people to have hope and not to believe the rumors. There were three popular rumors going around.
Rumor #1: Martin Stone is dead, killed soon after the call.
As much as I loved him, Martin would be the first to admit that he’s a giant pussy who wouldn’t last a minute in the trenches with the deadfucks. Maybe he’s even walking round with the rest of ’em. There are people out looking for him, if you can believe that.
Rumor #2: Martin has been kidnapped and is currently being held hostage to use as a bargaining chip for the Lazarus vaccine.
LZ is more valuable than gold these days. The government caravans are constantly being raided. Virus resistant donors kidnapped on their way to the Weather. But if this one was true, I think we would have heard from the kidnappers by now.
Rumor #3: Martin is safe and sound at the Weather where he’s been since soon after the call. The government is manufacturing the ‘missing’ angle to rally support.
There was no denying Martin Stone’s role in getting us through this thing. Who woulda thought? Radio Shock Jock Martin-fucking-Stone, savior of the human race. It was no accident that Raven and the survivors from the fall of the Brand Compound were allowed into the Weather and that the show was currently broadcast from there. The government meant to use that influence to reconnect with the nation. But as far as manufacturing the ‘missing’ angle…? Not likely.
We didn’t know about the Stone Show until the night of the big blowout at the Grotto between Cinderella and one of the sister-wives. I mean, we had developed a goo
d rapport with Stone from the few times we did his show in the late ’80s, early ’90s, so we obviously knew who he was, but we had no idea that he was still broadcasting. Zamora had kept us in the dark. He wouldn’t let anyone else into the communications room, so we got all our info second-hand. At the time, we had no reason not to trust him.
The fight between the girls was over whose room they were going meet in to listen to the Stone show. I’m like, ‘Stone Show? As in Martin Stone?’
The girls agreed to let us listen under the condition that we not reveal to Zamora that they had been ‘borrowing’ the satellite radio without his permission.
By the time we tuned in, the show had already become a movement. We learned about the other survivors out there. Heard their stories. I had no idea there were so many. People fighting back. Forming settlements. Trying to move forward with some sense of normalcy.
Things were going downhill fast at the Grotto, so we created the ‘gigs for food/supplies’ ads that aired on the Stone Show. The idea was that we’d secretly try to work those gigs into an extended residency (hopefully permanently) at a decent settlement. We told Zamora that we just wanted to work out some new material. He was too obsessed with his filmography to listen to the Stone Show. He let us use his equipment under two conditions.
Condition #1: We had to let Cinderella contribute during the sessions.
That girl was to music what granny porn was to hard cocks – unless you’re some kinda weirdo. Three failed albums – all produced by Zamora – and they still didn’t get the hint.
Condition #2: We had to change our name to AntiRot.
Zamora thought it was so fucking clever. ‘You need a name people can get behind,’ he goes. We fought him on it, but it was obvious that short of killing him – which we considered – we would have to give in.
Before anything could pan out from the ads, things came to a head between Zamora and the Star 80 boyfriend. Shots were fired. People took sides, which only made things worse. Dumb fucks never learn. There was only one side at the Grotto.
