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.”