56) Super Sunday, 2/16: 4:20
– 4:30 AM – “The Meme of
Martyrdom”
The thin, blue flame… feeding, ravenously, on toxic chemicals in
the basement methamphetamine lab… exploded upwards, blowing the trapdoor in the
garage office and igniting the vapors from various spilled and ruptured
containers in the garage itself. A Kia
Soul sitting on the ground, left overnight awaiting arrival of an alternator,
erupted. Then, an Altima with a nearly
full tank… high on the rack, abandoned in the middle of a simple oil change…
sent a rain of fire across the garage, igniting the remaining cars and blowing
a hole through the wall. Underground,
the flames raced through the tunnels through which Ray Wilson and the girls had
arrived. As nearly every shop in One World
had a secret staircase, these exploded, one after another, and geysers of fire
shot upwards, igniting whatever there was to ignite… the sausage casings and
pepperoni of Emilio’s Pizzaria, cheap, alcohol-rich
scents in the Parfumeríe, boxes of remainders stashed
in the bookstore basement.
With the meth dealers’ snake draped around his neck like Mardi
Gras beads Dusty, now sporting a Santa hat lifted from the office and carrying
about twelve kilos of crank in one of the black garbage bags, skipped ahead of
the flames, blowing kisses to the mob, reaching into the bag for handfuls of
joy that he tossed up into the air like white confetti…
“It’s snowing!” he hailed the crowd. “It’s Christmas! All over again!”
The black bag disgorged clouds of Oil Change Charlie’s best, and
dozens of looters charged the small, glimmering crystals falling to the floor –
scooping up the meth with their fists, tongues and noses, then standing up
straight and howling inhuman salutations… “aah… oom! Baah… ooga! Reep, reep, reep!” Refreshed, they returned to the task of
ripping the metal barriers separating them from the big box store and its big,
electronic boxes with their bloody fingernails.
A handful of the
less-motivated plunderers scavenging Deems Hardware, south of Giga-Mart, for
fixtures and tools paused at their labors to sniff and wonder…
“Man, it’s
getting’ hot…” one said.
“’Taint
Christmas, so it must be spring, comin’. That weasel in Pennsylvania, he din’t see no shadow, so that means an early spring…” replied another indifferent scavenger in a Nationals cap…
“S’a groundhog, not weasel…” complained
another guy, tugging a plastic bag stuffed with boxes of galvanized roofing
nails.
“Hey, they got
drill bits here,” the first zombie grinned.
“Bet we could drill through the lock and fill up from the propane tank…”
“Really hot…” Nails wiped his brow.
And a jet of fire
erupted from the floor of the already-looted manager’s office – the zombies
barely having time to look from the office, to each other, to the propane
tank…”
“Uh oh…” said the
baseball fan...
¾ ¾ ¾
With their foes above temporarily distracted by fire and by
drugs, Capps kicked at a corpse… then removed its wallet and waved a thick roll
of Jacksons and four kinds of plastic at the robotics man, Blick,
whose charge had continued rolling mindlessly across the perimeter of
Giga-Plex, chattering: “Good afternoon.
I am Henry, your cybernetic personal assistant. How may I help you?”
“Shouldn’ta written a check your account wouldn’t cover...
Mr. uh Gilmore,” the Eagle mused. “What
motivates these guys?” he asked, rhetorically.
“A stolen TV? There’s four
hundred somethin’ dollars in here, three credit
cards, one debit. It’s not as if Mister
Gilmore was some kind of Muslim, lusting after Paradise with its seventy
virgins…”
“The meme of
martyrdom inhabits the cloud, in this century…”
“What?” Lester
scratched his head.
“Monkeys,
watching television. Monkey see…” Blick answered, pointing at the ceiling, “monkey do!”
“Then, perhaps,
the FCC is doin’ us all a favor or… shit!… drawing all these clandestine assholes out into the
open. Martyrdom!” Captain Capps scoffed,
accessing his radio. “Fuckin’ President
said he’d keep those guys outa the fuckin’ country! Who’s coverin’ the
loading dock?” he barked into the device.
There was no
answer. As a matter of fact, only two of
Giga-Plex’s own security – one unarmed, one packing an illegal popgun – plus
the Mexicans and Marko Mosrovich – had survived,
holding out against the subhuman wave of zombies, scuttling down the yellow
ladder. Unlike their mindless predecessors,
these had the presence to jump off six, eight, even twelve feet up… and then,
even with twisted ankles and broken knees, limp forward to combat the enemy,
hand-to-hand. The tasers were still
attached to outlets, charging… a few invaders had looted guns and, although
amateurs, picked off one of the security guards as he emptied his own
weapon. As the other guard was
overwhelmed by the slavering tide, Marko and the Mexicans fled ignominiously…
as they raced out of the stockroom, Capps, three of his men, Tenison and Westy Soames hurried up, weapons loaded and firing. Even mortally wounded, the zombies staggered,
then kept crawling forward; those still in the stockroom taking cover behind
televisions, satellite dishes, appliances and boxes of laptops – firing their
own weapons wildly.
A man in
camouflage advanced on Mark Down Mark, wielding a crowbar.
“Black lives don’t matter,” said the Giga-Plex
manager.
This puzzled the
raider. “But I’m… I’m Belgian!” he finally waffled…
“I’m crazy!” Tenison replied and then shot
him twice in the gut.
“Drag some of
these appliance boxes up, we’ll make a line by the door…” the Captain ordered
Rifleman Stu.
“A Maginot line…”
replied the sniper, shaking his head.
“Didn’t work in grandpop’s day…”
“Funny…” Capps
snorted.
General
Westmoreland Soames had no sooner placed a microwave atop the electric range
that guarded his position than a zombie bullet pinged it, sending the device
spinning sideways…
“Damn!” Westy said, firing back until the pistol clicked, empty…
Captain Capps
started back towards the floor. “Stu,”
he delegated, “this’ll be your operation now.
Conserve ammo… take down the ones
on the ladder, if you get clean shots.
You got anything better than that peashooter, uh…” he addressed the
conscripted criminal.
“Soames. General Westmoreland Soames… Sergeant General
Westmoreland Soames…” Westy corrected.
Fuckin’ desert
rats, Capps shook his head. Never
followed orders because they were never equipped, so they’d gotten used to
scrounging gear where they could and had brought those bad habits home. “Come with me and we’ll round up what we
can…”
Rifleman Stu took
aim on another zombie scrambling down the ladder – the invader fell with a
far-too-theatrical scream that impelled the sniper to plant another round in
his throat once the asshole was down and thrashing, despite the waste. “We really
need more ammo,” he told the Captain, and it was a warning, not a request.
¾ ¾ ¾ ¾ ¾ ¾ ¾ ¾ ¾ ¾ ¾
VISIT THESE OTHER
GENERISIS SERIAL ABOMINATIONS…
THE GOLDEN DAWN BLACK
HELICOPTERS
THE INSURGENCE
of CHAN SANTA CRUZ!