Episode 102.4 - Sweaty Hands Make For Slick Triggers

There is a rattling at the door. Every lock is closed tight, deadbolts and chains thrown. Curtains closed. Lights out. My eyes and ears track every sound, every movement, every change to the lighting. The flesh on my arms reacts to the noise, lifting the hair on my arms and neck, at once tickling and cooling, obeying signals from the adrenaline surge as the animal, instinctual part of my brain takes over. Muscles tighten; I lean forward slightly in my chair, legs prepared for burst of movement, arms for aiming the pistol in my right hand.

I am in a catch-22, and it’s possible somebody will die because of it. I don’t dare speak. I don’t dare warn the person on the other side of that door that mine is not an apartment for looting. Safety and shelter and food are not to be found here. Occupied. Go elsewhere.

I will not warn the person turning my knob that, if my door opens, I will fire three shots, as I have been trained to do. I cannot tell them to leave or else take two rounds in the chest and one to the head from a Desert Eagle Mark XIX .44 Magnum. They don’t know that prying my door will cause instant death, and I won’t risk the noise to tell them. I don’t dare.

Because, on the other side of that door, may not be a person at all.

Episode 102.3 - Day 1: Four Billion Brand New People

“Zombie Radio, 91.1 FM. Hi, It’s Kari.” The voice was smokey confidence, borne of life behind the microphone. Just perky enough to make the afternoon commuters pay attention, it was the voice of unfiltered fun: summer nights with a beer and a cigarette; a screaming concertgoer; a short-shorts-wearing, frisbee-throwing co-ed. To men all over the listening area, “Kari” was a pair of full, red lips, a breath away from the microphone, taunting and playing with them, and they loved it.

Real-life Kari was less confident by far. She’d majored in broadcasting because her voice was the only part of her anyone had ever complimented. Behind the mic, she was a sexy goddess of the air. Outside, she was an anonymous brunette, one of billions, heavier than she wanted to be, and not particularly interesting. In high school, she’d been a four-eyed mouse; in college, a heavyset geek.

In actual fact, men were attracted to her appearance as well, enjoying her curvaceousness and olive skin, and even her shyness. But years of being taunted or ignored had ingrained themselves in her mind, and she could only see what she was afraid she was. So in her off-time, she dieted and trained and remained anonymous, content to have homeward commuters falling in love with her voice.

Her voice also hid an important fact about Kari. A fact which made her exactly like everyone else in the outside world, but a fact which made her vulnerable and must therefore be pushed down below, like the eating disorder she struggled to keep at bay. The fact was, she was scared out of her mind.

“So,” she said. “Four billion brand new people on the planet. The good news is, my listenership just doubled. Bad news, I’m not sure we have enough t-shirts for everyone.” And a wink to the guys in their trucks, the lonely guys who drove and listened and imagined. A sigh. “Well, I suppose I’ll just have to give somebody MINE.”

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Every so often, we'll have a brief respite from the action -- which is to say, you'll find something posted here that isn't part of the ongoing story. It'll be easy to tell: I'll post them on Wednesdays. Like today.

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Episode 102.2 - Day 1: Filtered Violence Is Still VIolence

Mary Tomkins held her children tight. Brandon, only three and, truth be told, a little tired from a day at play, snuggled close. Eight-year-old Anna squirmed and sighed. She loved the attention, but there was still so much to do with her day. Her mother had long since turned off the television, wielding the remote like a weapon against the horrific images on-screen. There were tears in Mary’s eyes neither child could understand, and it made Anna both curious and uncomfortable.

Anna wriggled herself loose from her mom’s grip and, hugging her one more time, went off to her little table in the corner of the living room, selected a notepad, and started drawing. Mary smiled at her little girl and put Brandon down. As the toddler sat down to play, she went to the kitchen to find her husband.

Paul was deep in thought, drying and putting dishes away. Mary leaned against the doorframe and watched him until he turned around and saw her. He tried to hide it, but she couldn’t suppress a small grin at the way his eyes widened and breath hitched slightly on seeing her. She’d startled him.

“Sorry,” she said. “You must have really been off in your own little world there.”

He smiled and kissed her forehead. “Something like that.”  He finished drying the coffee mug in his hand, and grabbed a second from the cupboard. He filled them both with coffee from the pot Anna hadn’t noticed was even turned on and sat at the kitchen table. She answered his questioning nod by taking a seat beside him.

“What do you think is going to happen?”

He shook his head. “Been thinking about that all day. Can’t be good, whatever it is.”

“I had to turn off the news. Those things,” she said. “The clones. They’re so violent. They’re so...”

She closed her eyes and breathed deeply, trying to shake the memory of what she’d seen. As the Donors filled the city streets, they had attacked anyone that moved. In some cases, they satisfied their growing hunger over the screams of their victims. Sometimes, they simply attacked, as though possessed of a singular directive to destroy life.

Paul, who had also gotten his fill watching the violence in the City, just shook his head. “Yeah.”

Episode 102.1 - Day 1: Me & Reality TV

The man on the television is speaking. Graphics and large, red letters. Crisis. The words are incomprehensible. Meaningless. Snappy suit, hundred-dollar hair, confident smile barely masking his own terror, as he gives the instructions he was instructed to give. But they are contradictory: Stay inside. Flee the city. Don’t worry. Be careful. Stay off the streets. Stockpile food. Don’t panic. Run. Just run.

The words don’t matter. The message is what’s important here: the news is still on. The media is still showing you pictures of what’s happening. Everything will be okay, because Mr. Trusted News Man, with his suit and tie and hair and million-dollar smile is still sitting behind his giant desk, his perky co-anchor by his side, the wacky weatherman posted in front of the map, the concerned-looking reporter out on the street -- your very own eyes and ears on the situation. Everything is under control. It’s bad, but it’s not that bad. It’s not that bad because you’re watching it on TV.

The flower shop owner on Tenth and Main is chaining his door, but a Silver -- a clone -- spots him and is on top of him before he can rush back inside. The screams are as heartbreaking as they are horrifying, but mercifully quick as the tissue of his throat is torn and consumed.

The cop across the street is less fortunate. Maybe a rookie, or maybe he’s been there awhile, but whatever the case, he can’t decide where to aim before he finds himself in the middle of a tug-of-war between four different donors. His screams last an eternity.

But this is all on TV.

And if you’re watching it on TV, it can’t possibly be happening right outside your window.

Episode 101.4 - Day Zero: Harvest, or, Where I Was When The End Began

It never occurred to us that the Donors would get loose and begin killing people. Even those of us in Security figured our problems were going to be on the outside, trying to get in, instead of the other way around. And even when the lights went red, and the crop started coming loose, we thought it was just a minor problem, to be dealt with and swept away like all the other minor problems to pop up since the passage of the Donor Laws.

Until the first donor ate Ray.

We were barely paying attention when it happened. Ray and Eugene were commiserating that their wives weren't going to budge on the subject of cigar smoking -- "even during poker night, honey," Ray mimiced his own wife in a nasally sing-song that made us all feel better about the fact that he got to go home to an honest-to-God prom queen every night, even if she did nag him about smoking.  Then the alarms went off, as, one by one, the stasis chambers began shutting down.  As the temps dropped, the vitals of the donor crop started going up, and then off the charts.

Who knew those things could move so fast, could attack so fiercely, or would be so hungry? One minute, we were at the control console trying to re-engage the locks on the stasis chambers, and the next, we heard Ray’s short-lived scream end in a gurgling sound that still makes me sick to think about.

When Ray went down, the rest of us pulled our weapons and began firing. In retrospect, it would have been smart to save ammunition instead of letting panic pull our triggers. But, then, I doubt it would have made much of a difference in the outcome.

Whatever shut down the locks on the stasis chambers released 500,000 of them from our facility alone – and also shut down stasis in facilities around the country. With a minimum of one donor per citizen (and as many as three for those willing and able to pay extra), we were outnumbered before we even knew we had a problem.

Of course, all this would come out later, after I escaped the building and heard the President giving the bad news over the car radio. All we knew before that was that my team was very, very screwed. The Chryo sector was split into two parts, with my team guarding over one and Jimmy’s over the other. By the time I thought to call Jimmy’s team in for backup, I was informed by the swearing and screams of pain that no help would be forthcoming.

It took a few seconds longer than it should have, but it finally occurred to me that a half a million angry clones was more than ten – now nine – armed guards – even if we were special-forces-trained – could reasonably handle. In those few seconds, Davies -- my second-in-command -- was overrun. I tried to shut out his screams, even as a wet crunch slipped its way into my consciousness.

An alarm forced its way into my brain – which I was grateful for, considering the alternatives – and a female voice announced that total lockdown was to commence in five minutes. The noise stopped the onslaught briefly – enough time for me to call my men to the outer door. They needed little enough encouragement, and I was very nearly trampled in the collective zeal for escape.

The main hall was a whole new set of horrors. Jimmy’s team had failed to contain the threat, and office workers and science staff alike were being attacked by thousands of hungry donors. These were employees who worked on this floor. People I knew and shared a lunchroom with. As I watched, Dr. Browning – a smug SOB with an ego the size of Montana and a superiority complex to match – wandered around with one arm, looking confused. As though he were lost without that arm, and just wished he could remember where he had stored it. I almost laughed. Then I watched as Allison, a pretty blonde secretary I’d been flirting with for weeks, had her face torn off, her attacker holding her cheek in its teeth, snarling like a caged dog – and I did laugh. God help me, I laughed like it was the funniest thing I'd ever seen.

I raised my weapon and fired on all of them. I laughed as I pulled the trigger, louder as each one went down – clones, doctors, Ricky the mailroom clerk, Browning, Allison. The donors, pale as death and covered in their silver cryosuits, were easily distinguished from their professionally-dressed victims, but by God, if this wasn’t mercy, then what was? I fired and laughed until my magazine was empty.

The hollow ‘click’ of the semi-automatic woke me out of whatever it was I was in, and my brain finally told my legs to get out of there. I scanned the area for those survivors who were closest to the exit, and rallied my men. I slapped in another magazine, and we made our way down the corridor.

The donors were strong: though they were cloned from ordinary citizens, they had been frozen at the height of their maturation and development, when they were deemed strongest and healthiest; their muscles treated regularly with a cocktail of steroids and electro-stimulation to avoid atrophy. My men were elite, at the top of the game, physically – and we were armed – but I didn’t want to know what would happen if we went hand-to-hand with these monsters.

My men took no chances, and we cut down anything in our way that was wearing silver. There were those we could help along, and we did our best to keep the civilians between us. With the less dangerous food at the other end of the hall, we were left mostly alone, except for those few that hadn’t noticed the danger we posed early enough.

When we were almost to the elevator, I risked a look back – and nearly lost my nerve. The entire floor was a mess of blood, of body parts – many of which, I was certain, were never meant to see the light of day – and of the screaming dead. In the midst of it all were thousands of writhing bodies, blood-soaked and snarling – grasping and gnawing on what was left of the staff, and on each other, slipping in the blood in their frenzy for fresh meat.

Lockdown engaged almost as soon as we cleared the building; I hadn’t known we’d cut it that close. If the process worked as it was intended, we figured, this was over. It would be a very unpleasant memory, but just that. When emergency lockdown happened, somebody had to run a manual override in order to get the doors back open. And, we figured, before that happened, somebody was sure to bomb this place right off the map.

We got in the car – me and Eugene, we always carpooled into work – and I locked the doors, trying not to slip into a full breakdown. I closed my eyes, ready to sleep off what I could of the day, as Stu put the car in gear.  I knew some of those things had to have escaped.  Too much time had gone by for them not to.  I just wasn't capable of caring.  The police had guns -- they could take care of it.  I told Eugene to call it in, and slept the sleep of the righteous as he drove me home.

The President came on the radio a few miles before I got home -- Gene shoved me awake to hear it.  They didn't know exactly what happened, or how, but it was apparent every chryochamber in the country was unlocked simultaneously.  They suspected terrorism, but, really, it didn't matter.  The reality hit me in the face: the police weren't going to be able to handle this.  The Army wasn't going to be able to handle it.  There were now millions, maybe billions, of those monsters I had fought back at the lab -- and they were loose.

Episode 101.3 - Day Zero: Hot Air & Meat Puppets

Paul Tomkins whistled while he worked. Maybe it was the weather: the bright sunshine in the crisp Autumn air. Maybe it was watching his wife Mary smiling as she hung the laundry and watched the little Brandon play with Paul’s father in the yard (their daughter, Anna, was off to school for the day). Maybe it was just the knowledge that God was good, and seemed to be smiling upon the Tomkins family. All of it, perhaps. Paul reflected that contentment was often its own reward, muttered a quick prayer of thanks, and got back to work.

The Tomkins Family Farm had been a staple of the community at The Forks for generations -- nearly as long, in fact, as the settlement itself had been in existence. Nestled snugly into the split of the River, the farm took up half of one of two islands in the small town, which was built around several forks in the winding river. Hence the name. The fields provided enough crop to feed the family and generate a little extra income through the seasonal Farmers’ Markets. The family also canned and sold their own salsa which, Paul was happy to say, was pretty popular with their neighbors every year.

Mary was an ER nurse at the local hospital, and Paul farmed his land for most of the week, except when his other duties called. He also pastored the small church across the river and, though he didn’t keep regular office hours, was always just a phonecall away. On those days, he was grateful to his Dad who lived in the spare room of the large farm house.  

Paul, content in his simple life, walked his corn fields with a wheelbarrow, handpicking his crop, as his father had, and his father’s father, and on and on before him. It was warm for mid-autumn, and Paul was enjoying the feel of the sun on his face when he heard his wife’s voice.

“Paul!” He could hear the alarm in her voice, and turned to her quickly. “Paul, on the radio. The President is speaking.” She held out the small battery-operated radio so he could hear.

“Sure he is,” Paul said, confused. “He’d interrupt a school play to hear himself talk.”

“No, Paul. It’s bad. Listen.”

“Citizens,” the President was saying, “particularly those within a few miles of the Donor centers, are urged to stay inside, doors locked. If you actually SEE a Donor, please call your local authorities and tell them where.”

Paul stared blankly at the radio. “I don’t --.”

“Just listen,” said his wife.

“Remember, Donors have no hair, will be pale-skinned, and are wearing silver bodysuits. If you see one or more, do NOT approach them, as they may be dangerous. Simply walk slowly away, get to safety, and call the police.”

“Donors,” said Paul. “Is he--?”

“The clones, Paul,” Mary said. “They’ve gotten out of Stasis.”

Episode 101.2 - Day Zero: Music To Wake The Dead

“Man, have we got some excitement for you,” Zac said sardonically into his microphone. “Coming up in ten minutes, your job probably doesn’t suck as much as you think it does and Allison will tell you why. And, hey, lookit that, apparently we’ll be hanging out at a craft fair this weekend. Details next. Stones now. ‘Satisfaction.’ 9:20, the Waking Dead Morning Crew on Zombie Radio, 91.1” Zac slid the volume down and punched the mic off on the ancient sound board. He pulled off his headphones and swivelled toward Allison, his cohost.

“Excited?”

Allison rolled her eyes. “Very. You know Frank hates it when you make fun of the local events we’re doing.”

“Who’s making fun?”

“No, no, of course not,” said Walter, the Waking Dead news guy, walking into the studio with two cups of coffee. He handed one to Allison, who muttered her thanks into the cup. “That was not sarcastic at ALL. I’m sure Frank was totally fooled.”

“Well,” said Zac. “C’mon. Classic rock, man. Zombie radio. A Craft fair? Really?”

“Keeps the hippies happy.” Allison smirked, and pulled the next prep sheet from the top of the pile. “Homemade incense burners and such.” She nodded to the computer screen, where the current song was flashing red. “Song’s over in five.”

Zac popped the microphone, his fingers on the slider, when the EAS gave its three telltale beeps. He pulled his fingers away from the board. “Really?” He said. “Great timing for a weekly test.”

It wasn’t a test.