Cry Zombie Cry (I Zombie Book 5)

by Jack Wallen

  How quickly we forget. We had spent a few hours within the security of the wall and already I felt like I was visiting a rage-infested, ravaged landscape for the first time. As we drove the Hummer into the nightmare, the sounds of horror surrounded us.

  “The Devil’s Symphony,” Jamal said softly.

  “What was that?”

  Jamal gave me a quick glance and then turned his concentration back to the road.

  “You don’t remember? Seriously? Back in grad school? One night we did a ‘Worst horror films of all time with the best musical score’ marathon. The top of the list was The Devil’s Symphony.”

  I nodded in recognition.

  Jamal smiled in relief. “Now, doesn’t that noise out there sound familiar?”

  With this new intel, I gave another listen.

  “You’re right—it’s the same. Wow, it’s frightening that anyone could have possibly predicted what the real thing would be like on any level. Romero…sure; but anyone else?” I paused for a moment. “Could you have predicted what the apocalypse would be like?”

  “I don’t know. I guess. There are always universal truths to be had within nearly every post-apocalyptic film. The ruined landscape, the devolution of order, starvation, disease; how can you have an apocalypse and not have those basic tenets of entropy?”

  Jamal slammed on the brakes.

  “Holy shit.”

  Before I could interject, Jamal pointed ahead of us.

  Poised in the middle of the street was a crowd of the undead.

  “What are they doing, Bethany?”

  I didn’t want to say what I had to say. “They’re sitting…”

  “…in rows.” Jamal completed my thought.

  “This can’t be. Those things don’t have the capacity for order.”

  One of the zombies slowly stood and turned to face the truck, his face frozen in near-shock.

  “Jamal, something isn’t right here.”

  The monster took one step toward us and shot a hand backward as if to stay his followers.

  “Oh, my good goddamn, Bethany; did that Moaner just instruct the others…”

  “…to stay.” I couldn’t help but finish Jamal’s thought.

  The zombie stepped in close to the Hummer and slammed a hand onto the hood. The force of the blow should have shattered the bone in his wrist.

  “Wake up, wake up, wake up,” I chanted.

  “I hate to tell you this, Bethany, but you’re not asleep.”

  Finally, Jamal punched the accelerator. The Hummer lurched forward, rammed the awkward-walking Moaner, and plowed into and over the remaining monsters. The pop of meat and crunch of bone under the wheels threatened to undo the remainder of my sanity.

  “Double tap, Jamal, double tap.”

  Jamal slammed the Hummer into reverse and looked over his shoulder. “You don’t have to tell me twice.” An inappropriate smile crept across his mouth. “Did you catch that turn of phrase?”

  “I did. You’re a genius. Now, if you don’t mind…double tap.”

  Jamal slammed his foot down once again. The Hummer was launched backward and, once again, over the collection of Moaners. After another pass over the now-pulped meat, Jamal put the vehicle in park and turned to me.

  “This is never going away, Bethany. You were right; it’s just a vicious circle, turning over and over so we can keep reliving the most horrific days of our lives.”

  I couldn’t take any more. I flung open my door and hopped out of the truck. Ahead of us lay the pile of gore. Before the urge to retch caught up with my brain, one of the bodies that lay off to the side twitched. The sudden movement shocked the breath from my lungs. Not a moment after the body jerked itself into motion, a sound seeped from its lungs.

  “Help.”

  The cry was muffled, barely audible, but was loud enough for me to realize what had just occurred. When the realization washed over me, the contents of my stomach caught up with the burst of tears and spattered the concrete at my feet. And then I saw something that begged me to fire a bullet through the back of my skull.

  Chains.

  These people had been chained down as some sort of picnic for the dead.

  “Jamal,” I cried out.

  “What’s wrong? Are you okay?”

  I pointed to the pile of corpses.

  “Is one of them still alive?”

  It took every ounce of resolve I had, but I stood upright and faced Jamal.

  “They weren’t zombies. They were alive. We killed them.”

  Gravity finally did its job and pulled me to my knees. The flood of tears threatened to wash away the sour vomit that soaked the knees of my pants. I didn’t care. It was all too much.

  “Fuck!” I shouted at the top of my lungs.

  Jamal knelt at my side and wrapped his arms around me.

  “I’m so sorry, Bethany. I didn’t know.”

  He joined me in weeping, for what seemed like hours—it was the only thing I cared to do. Every tear that dripped and dropped to the ground was shed for a life lost at my hand. For some inexplicable reason, I reached back into the hollowed-out recesses of my mind and began counting the lives I’d taken.

  It all started with Jacob. Everything began and ended with him. No matter how I tried, there was no way to get beyond the great numero uno.

  The tears finally ran out. They didn’t help; the corpses were still corpses and I was still a murderer. But then…this was the apocalypse and the very definition of murder almost begged to be redefined.

  “Come on, B.” Jamal spoke softly, sweetly. “Let’s get back in the truck and finish what we started.”

  The knees of my pants stuck to my flesh as I stood. I brushed my hand across my pant legs and felt a few chunks flick away. What did it matter at this point?

  Once back in the truck, Jamal put it in reverse and gave the mound of smashed flesh a wide berth. We had a concert to try and stop—there was no more time for mourning the murdered.

  “Next time, we find out for sure.” Jamal spoke through choked-back tears. “I can’t handle that level of guilt and grief much more.”

  Nothing else needed to be said. No matter how much the rules had changed, one thing was still intact—our humanity. Without that, we were no better than the monsters under mankind’s bed.

  As we rode along, Jamal reached out and grabbed my hand and gave it a hard squeeze.

  “I couldn’t do this without you, Jamal.”

  Jamal tossed a quick glance my way. “You’ll never have to, B.”

  “Promise?”

  “I promise.”

  Jamal nodded his head forward. “I believe we have arrived at our destination.”

  One hundred yards away it stood—a salute to the excesses of rock and roll. In the midst of absolute chaos and death rose a tribute to the only music genre with the balls to kick the apocalypse in the teeth.

  “Wow,” was all I could think of saying.

  Jamal brought the truck to a silent standstill and looked ahead, spellbound. “They’re serious about this. Post-apocalapalooza. Try saying that five times fast.” Jamal’s voice was distant, as if he were lost in some deeper or darker thought. “Come on, B. Let’s find this Rip Vanity dude and stop this circus before the clowns slap on their giant shoes and hop into their tiny cars.”

  When we arrived, the entire area was electric with energy. Workers were hanging and focusing lights, setting and testing pyrotechnics, running cables, and setting up soundboards.

  “I don’t get it. Where are they getting the electricity to run this?” Jamal spun on his heels. “I don’t hear generators and I don’t see solar panels.”

  A young female, clad in knee-high army boots and a skirt that barely kissed the bottom of her ass walked by, dragging a power cable behind her. Jamal sauntered up to her and, much to my surprise, didn’t check out the goods on display. Instead he fell in step with her and grilled her.

  “Where’s the power source?”

  The yo
ung girl stopped and turned to face him. She tilted her head and lifted a pencil-thin pierced eyebrow. “Huh?”

  Jamal picked up the cord and held it between them. “The electricity; where is it coming from?”

  After a curious moment, the question finally registered.

  “Oh, yeah, that…Benny has this device he uses to locate live lines. He found one and we tapped it.”

  The young girl turned to leave, her skirt twirling up high enough so that one and all could see the naked skin of her ass. Whistles flew from every direction. Her middle finger flew up just as quickly.

  “Son of a bitch. Did you hear that, Bethany? There are still live power lines. Why didn’t I think of that?”

  I had to change the subject quickly. Any time Jamal feels bested he spirals into a pseudo-depression faster than I can pull him out.

  “Do you see any sign of Mr. Vanity?”

  Jamal stopped his downward spiral, surveyed the area, and finally shot his index finger up and forward. “Over there. He’s standing against the stage.”

  I tossed Jamal a curious glance. He shrugged and sputtered.

  “What? I like Doubletap Suicide. It’s metal with a sense of humor. What’s not to like?”

  Rip Vanity looked exactly as I expected. He was the bastard love child of Brad Pitt and Iggy Pop—good-looking, but a bit too wasted to actually know it.

  Without so much as a heads-up, Jamal took off toward the stage.

  “Mr. Vanity,” Jamal shouted. “May we speak with you a moment?”

  The too-lean man with the stringy jet-black hair looked our way and smiled.

  “That depends.” His thick dialect was equally and simultaneously repulsive and sexy. I wanted to stab him and have him at the same time.

  “On what?” Jamal beat me to the punch and lobbed the question at Rip.

  “On who’s asking and why.”

  Jamal glanced my way as if searching for a reply. The look on his face told me everything I needed to know. I stepped in and took over.

  “My name is Bethany Nitshimi.”

  Vanity’s eyes grew wide and his mouth gaped.

  “You’ve got to be shitting me. The Bethany Nitshimi? As in Jacob and Bethany the most rock and roll couple since Sid and Nancy? That Bethany Nitshimi?”

  I nodded my head proudly at the recognition.

  “Well, fuck me. We’ve heard all about you from our dear friend Zombie Radio.”

  It was my turn to ask a few questions.

  “Do you know him personally?”

  “You mean the DJ?” Vanity laughed. “Oh fuck, no. We’ve spoken with him over the air so he could promote our event.”

  Jamal saw the opening and stepped in between Rip and me.

  “Yeah…about that…”

  The words started but quickly ran dry. Jamal turned back toward me and shrugged. It was my turn again.

  “You have to pull the plug on this event.”

  Vanity replied with a bolt of laughter.

  “Oh that is fucking rich. Did Aleeshia put you up to this? Girlfriend,” Vanity shouted over the din, “you have lost your crack-addled mind.”

  I stepped deep inside Vanity’s personal space. I expected him to either back off or push me away. He did neither. Instead he flew his creep flag high and stepped in even closer.

  “Well hello, gorgeous. Does the carpet match the—”

  A hard slap across the face was the only answer I gave.

  “Oh, I likes a girl with some fire in her panties. You and I will get along—”

  “Not at all, if you don’t shut the hell up and listen to what we have to say.” It was my turn to puff up and play bad girl. “The second you raise the curtain on this festival you’ll attract every zombie within the state of Utah to this place. Once your crowd is overrun by the undead, it’s over…for everyone. What little progress we’ve made in culling the zombie herd will be undone by the thousands of newly infected Moaners and Screamers. On top of that, you’ll alert the Zero Day Collective to your location and they’ll swoop in and tear you apart.”

  Rip let loose another raucous round of laughter. This time, all his groupies and assistants joined in with the jocularity.

  “Sweetheart, that’s precisely what we hope will happen. You see, I’m on your side of this post-apocalyptic game of dodgeball. This whole event is just a front for getting the Zero Day Collective’s attention so we can slit their throats when they aren’t expecting it.”

  Vanity grabbed my head and pulled me up close and personal. His Mick Jagger-like lips nearly touched mine. His breath smelled of whiskey and cigarettes. As I struggled to pull back, he tightened his grip and his resolve and sealed our lips together with a kiss.

  Another round of laughter poured from Rip’s saliva-slick lips. “You see, girly, rock and roll has never been one to cozy up to the man. Now that the rule of law has slipped through the cracks, our little bit of mischief is made possible. We crank it up to eleven, the ZDC takes notice and drops in for a visit, and we open fire. A crowd full of pissed-off metalheads will certainly do a bit of damage to a bunch of suit-wearing tool bags.”

  I had to give Rip credit—at least for being creative in his tactics. Now, however, was not the time for a patronizing pat on the back. As I started to speak up, Jamal beat me to the punch.

  “Do you really think the Zero Day Collective is going to send their leaders in to fight their war? You’ll be lucky if you’re actually attacked by living organisms.”

  Rip cocked his head. Jamal picked up on the ignorance.

  “The last time the ZDC needed to deploy a large number of troops, they used zombies. A drop-ship filled with the undead was sent in and released upon the unsuspecting victims. The living didn’t stand a chance—and neither will your audience.”

  Vanity lit up a cigarette and took a long draw. After holding in the smoke far too long, he puffed out opaque rings from his mouth. It wasn’t until the last ring faded that Rip spoke.

  “Thanks to you, we have a secret weapon.”

  Rip turned and jumped up on the stage. From his rear pocket, he pulled a two-way radio and flicked it on.

  “Aleeshia, can you track down Aya and Mauser? Find them and bring them onto the stage. Tell Mauser to bring The Answer with him.”

  Rip turned back to us and smiled again. “My lovelies, this is a metal concert and what do all metal concerts have in common?”

  Jamal beamed. “Decibels.”

  “Although every metal concert does have that in common, it is not the answer I am looking for. Keep trying.”

  “Spandex?”

  My answer drew a frown across Rip’s face.

  “Not since the eighties…please. Keep trying.”

  “Clichéd lyrics?”

  Rip shook his head.

  “Drugs?”

  Another shake.

  Before we could continue, a gorgeous woman stepped to the stage with a lanky, goth-cum-steampunk man in tow. The male was carrying a matte black guitar that sported a painted image of a very pale woman’s face. Down the woman’s cheek ran a single red tear. I guessed the man was Mauser. He walked down to center stage, placed a small box down, plugged it in, reached behind him, and flipped a switch. Immediately the stage was filled with feedback.

  “My name is Aya and this is Mauser.”

  Jamal blushed and clapped like a schoolgirl.

  “I read Jacob’s book and your blog.” Mauser’s accent was even thicker than Aya’s. “Very important to saving mankind. The book inspired me. Actually, that’s not true. What inspired me was your Obliterator. I took the specs you listed and re-created the sound. I recorded that sound and then sampled it into a guitar effects pedal. When I start playing with that effect on, it’s as if the Obliterator is being channeled through my guitar. Let me give you a sample.”

  Mauser turned the volume up on his guitar again to fill the area with feedback. This time, however, he incorporated the feedback into the beginnings of a guitar solo. The notes dipped a
nd jumped through octaves and scales quickly and effortlessly. I was never a big fan of the guitar solo, but what we were hearing was jaw-droppingly amazing.

  And then his foot hit The Answer. Without warning the very notes that sang from the guitar were overlaid with the sound of the Obliterator. Somehow, Mauser managed to get the sound to blend in with the music as if it were part of the tune—all without losing what made the Obliterator deadly to the undead. He continued playing, working his tremolo bar like the world’s greatest stripper on a solid gold barber’s pole.

  I glanced at Jamal who was staring, eyes and jaw open wide in absolute awe.

  Just as the guitarist was about to jump into another riff, he was joined by a drummer and a bass player. The next thing we knew we were being treated to an open mic riff-a-thon the likes of which I’d never heard.

  “Oh my God, B, this is incredible.” Jamal was in total fanboy mode. “We’re getting our own improv concert by one of my favorite metal bands. Could this get any better?”

  It did.

  Aya grabbed a mic, whispered to Mauser, and shimmied down to the edge of the stage.

  “Bethany, we were going to wait and unveil this song at the concert, but I’d rather play it now, up close and personal. I wrote this for you. It’s called ‘Cry Zombie Cry.’”

  Aya turned back to the band and nodded. What came next was an onslaught of power that thumped at my gut and my heart. When Aya turned back around to sing, I was completely and utterly mesmerized. She sang.

  “Undone in a single moment

  Unsaved by relentless torment

  Chaos has become my lover

  Kiss me like you would no other

  Listen to my cry

  Unsprung by our own devices

  Unwound around your lovely vices

  Dance with my undead corruption

  Heal your death with our corrosion

  Swallow down our cry

  I know the reason

  My heart beats your treason

  Die inside and weave your lie

  Cry Zombie Cry

  I see the strange behavior

  My soul has lost its savior

  Die with me and end your lie

  Cry Zombie Cry