Chapter 1: The End of the World Will Begin in New Jersey
It was a quiet evening at Charlie's Diner, there being little noise other than the pitter-patter of rain on the windows and the Duke playing on the nickelodeon. Two broads sat over a shared piece of cherry pie, discussing the new looks of Lillian Gish and Clara Bow. They dreamed their dreams of stardom just like all the other hopeful foxes that came to this city, but this was the City of Lost and Forgotten Dreams, where optimism died and the dark side of society reigned. Perhaps no one knew that better than the old fellow that sat at the other side of the diner. He appeared to be thinking of old memories as he sat smoking his cigar, his eyes closed off from the rest of the world. He must have realized the folly of dredging up dead thoughts, so he opened his eyes and returned to reading his paper, rifling through the pages as if it was the same old song, day after day.
It was neither the old broads nor the old pop that caught Vincent's eye, but the suit in the back corner of the diner. He was a young buck that sat with his back turned to everyone else. He had his trilby pulled down low on his head and there was a cigarette in his hand, although he tapped ash far more than he smoked. He was a man that made other men nervous and Vincent Spade didn't like being nervous. He kept a keen eye on the buck as he sipped at his joe, leaning back in his chair with one hand resting by his waistcoat pocket. Spade noticed that the suit had ordered nothing but a glass of water, as if he was only in the diner to kill time. Or maybe he is waiting for something....or someone, Vincent thought.
The suit kept to his business and Vincent Spade kept to his own, although his green eyes were trained to the young man in the corner. The old fellow picked up and made his way to the john and still the suit remained motionless, his shoulders hunched up like he had a chill. Duke Ellington was replaced by Bessie Smith and when she was finished bluesing about the Gulf, George Gershwin came on and still Vincent and the young man waited.
When the broads got up to leave, the suit jumped up and that's when Spade made his move. Charlie's had been quiet all night, but all that was over. Now there was going to be a clamor...and a dead man that had picked up the wrong diner to rob. As both men pulled their guns, the owner of the diner leaned over the counter and yelled, “Buchwald, get your head out of your ass! I need a rack of baby backs and a smokehouse on the double!”
Ralph snapped back into reality, his daydream as the 1920's vigilante Vincent Spade disappearing as he looked over to his very angry manager. “Yes, M...Mr. Potter. Right away!” he called, jumping into action with reddening cheeks. Potter shook his head in a frustrated manner, walking away to attend to other idiotic matters that might need his attention. Ralph sighed as he began mixing a barbecue sauce. The quiet little diner known as Charlie's was gone; in its place was a chain restaurant that had no love lost for Ralph Buchwald. The classic songs by Duke Ellington and the other great 20's musicians were replaced by upbeat pop songs that held no more substance than the sauce he was making. The two broads and the old man were just figments of his imagination, although the young mobster had been fashioned after a kid that regularly ate at the restaurant when Ralph was working. Like the suit, the kid always asked for a corner booth where he ate, quiet and alone, as if he had something to hide. He was sure that the kid was just shy, but thinking that he was some gangster that Vincent Spade was hunting made it easier for Ralph to get through his day.
Ralph laid ribs on the grill and went to the sink to wash his hands before starting the burger. He leaned out far over the pick-up counter, taking in a view of the restaurant patrons. As usual, his silent guest sat in a corner, dabbling with a plate of French fries. “Ah, so you managed to get away from me at Charlie’s, but don’t get too comfortable, my friend. Vincent Spade knows the game and has played it for years. I’ll catch you sooner or later.” He whispered to himself, concealing a smile as he went back to cooking.
“So, how do you like New Jersey, Kyser? I remember you said you transferred credits from North Carolina.” Annabelle Hammersmith mentioned, sipping at her Cherry Coke as the two students waited for their food.
Kyser Koslov took a swig from his beer before grimacing. “Steeple Hill is tiny, New Jersey is dirty, this American beer is terrible, but I’m having the time of my life!” he stated with a grin. “Carolina was boring and everyone looked at me funny back home, but I really think I fit in here. I’m how you say, just another “kook”?
She giggled and said, “Well, if you’re a kook, then so am I. People can say we’re kooky, but I say we are just trendy.” Majoring in fashion, Annabelle sure hoped she was trendy or else she’d be in a rude awakening. Sure, some of the clothing projects she had designed in her classes had been ordained as “off-beat” and perhaps even “kooky” by some of her teachers, but she knew that her ideas weren’t so far-fetched that they would suit the Björks and Gagas of the world. She had aced every fashion course she had taken as well, so she felt just in claiming her trendiness.
“I agree. Cheers to trendiness!” he declared as they clinked glasses. Kyser knew quite a bit about being labeled off-beat; he had been looked at as such for the nineteen years he had lived in his home country of Russia. At a young age, he had been fascinated by the dark stories that his culture told of vampires in the medieval ages. He had read all of the stories, watched all of the movies, and absorbed any bit of information he could of vampirism to a point of near obsession. This odd behavior resulted in odd treatment from his friends and family. Feeling like an outsider, the young Koslov jumped at the first opportunity to become an exchange student in the States and it was there that he found another dark enthusiasm that made vampires look like child’s play: zombies. With the same zeal that he had observed vampires for nineteen years, he spent the next five years participating in zombie walks, undead bar-hopping and writing fan fiction of the un-deceased online. He knew it was kooky, but he was quickly warming up to the idea of it being trendy.
Their food arrived, a smokehouse burger for Anna and a rack of ribs for Kyser and as she deluged her French fries with ketchup, Anna asked, “so what do you think of this big exam coming up?”
“I think that by the end of it, we will all die and become zombies, hungry for nothing but brains!” he responded enthusiastically, his mouth covered in barbecue sauce as he mimicked the movements of his favorite monster.
The kid in the corner of the restaurant, known as “The Suit” by the fantastical Vincent Spade, was no mobster, but sometimes he wondered if his own dealings were that much different from the mafia. He had never worn a suit before in his life, but he was used to wearing a uniform and was highly uncomfortable in these street clothes. He didn’t tout a Tommy gun like the goons that Spade fought either, but he was armed so heavily that it would make a Don blush. Lastly, he was not part of any crime syndicate, but the organization that Marcus Benitez belonged sometimes had to delve into the dark crevices of life.
He was only months released from Anvil Barricade Academy, although his sister and late father would have called it “graduated”. This graduation of his was a momentous occasion for the two remaining members of the Benitez family. For his sister, Lucy, who had taken over as Dean of the Academy when their father died, this was a chance to put her little brother to the test to bring glory to the Benitez name. For Marcus, being allowed on the streets for the first time in six years was his release from his always judging sister and the strict rules and regulations of Anvil. Sure, he still had a job to do, but now he had room to breathe, to experience things for himself instead of hearing about them from Lucy and his father. It was his chance to live.
How ironic a statement that is, he thought, I get to live so others can die.
There was a buzz in his pocket and he inconspicuously pulled out his phone, finding a new text message, coded so only he could understand it. “MD on the move. Final Approach: One Hour. No eyes surprise. For ABA.” So it was set then; he was to kill Madison Darby in an hour with a quiet strike and no witnesses, retrieving the disk of harmful information that she carried. He didn’t know who this woman was, but her file collected by Anvil reported that she was an underground revolutionary that sought to assassinate some of the higher district council members of Steeple Hill, New Jersey. Marcus had spent the last month in this god-awful town investigating Darby and had found nothing to support the claim of her anarchistic ways, but the orders had come down to be rid of her. He didn’t care whether she lived or died, but he was happy for the chance to end this charade and finish the job so he didn’t have to see this stupid restaurant and this stupid town ever again.
What will you do when the world as you know it comes to an end, when the bloodthirsty hordes of undead rise from their graves and start devouring the human race? Will you have what it takes to survive? This is Zombocalypse, where your worst nightmares become reality. Now available in Four Player Co-Op!, she read with a disgusted face, flipping the cover of the video game over to reveal a picture of a zombie treating a human skull cavity like it was Fancy Feast cat food. “How repulsive,” Madeline Davis stated, looking squeamish and she looked over the game, “Bryce will love it.”
Madeline took the video game to the front counter, thinking not of flesh-eating zombies and the end of the world, but of what she wanted to cook her boyfriend for his birthday dinner. He was turning the Big Two-Five and since he loved Italian, she was thinking of whipping up a chicken carbonara for dinner and lemon fillo Napoleons for dessert. She knew she would have to go to the market for pancetta for the carbonara and if she wanted good fillo, she would have to go down to the bakery on the other side of town. If she was making that trip, Madeline hoped Bryce was working a little later than usual or else she might not have everything finished in time for him when he got home.
As these thoughts preoccupied her mind, Madeline walked out of the store, not noticing the hooded teenager step out of the restaurant she worked at across the street, nor the fact that he fell in line several yards behind her when she crossed the street.
That’s the target. That’s Madison Darby. Maybe I’ll get lucky and she will need to take a shortcut down one of the alleys, Marcus thought, glancing momentarily at Madeline.
Madeline Davis, who had no idea who Madison Darby was, was in a rush and she checked her watch, she realized that she wasn’t going to get to the good bakery in time if she didn’t hurry. She dipped down the first alley she saw and the hooded teen behind her pulled something out of his pocket, quickening his pace. It was showtime.
Kadee looked up from the canvas and put a finger to her bottom lip, wondering how some of her works went from blank pieces of paper to finished products. Her current piece portrayed a chapel filled with glowing candles atop every surface; the altar, the pews, the rectory table, even the organ in the corner of the room was adorned with blotches of orange and yellow. Despite this overpowering display of light, the chapel room still appeared darkened, as if shadows were crawling forth from every crevice of the room. A priest stood at the altar, giving his sermon heedlessly, even though his congregation was absent from the picture. A closer look at the pews revealed that they were not actually devoid of all churchgoers however; a figure in a bright red hooded robe sat in the middle of the line of pews, although at first, its appearance was overlooked because of all the candles. Once the eye locked on to the solitary figure in the congregation, it became impossible to look away and it even became the centerpiece of the entire painting.
What did it all mean though? She found that she had been asking herself this question a lot lately in concerns to her cryptic paintings. When everything went to hell last year, her paintings were dark and brooding, but she was unleashing all of her bottled up emotions onto the canvas. She understood the meaning behind those paintings, the need to vent though her work, but these last few projects had befuddled her. The first came a month ago when she painted a teenage girl on a chaotic background of every shade of blue she could mix. The girl’s eyes were dull and lifeless and a thin strand of blue liquid mixed with blood trickled down her chin. Kadee had titled the piece “L.B.” and still to this day couldn’t figure out why or what it meant. Who was the girl? Where had Kadee seen her and why did she paint her in this catatonic manner? What did L.B. stand for?
The next Kadee painted a week ago and was equally as confusing as the last. The piece was centered on an intricate and beautiful butterfly that was bathed in a green light that could have been nothing other than a science fiction tractor beam. This beam of light emanated from an overly cartoonish flying saucer, which was in utter contrast to the stark realness of the butterfly. In an even odder twist, she had named the painting “Naïveté” which seemingly had nothing to do with its context.
Now there was this gothic sermon delivered to the figure in the red robe. Kadee gazed down at it, finding that while she was lost in her wonderings, she had scrawled out “IT’S CLOSER THAN YOU THINK” and signed it with her usual KS. So that was what the chapel scene was called.
Kadee took the canvas off the easel and set it aside on the bench, frustrated with herself for not understanding her own works. She looked at her surroundings, having been so absorbed in her work that she had not noticed that the sun had set over an hour ago. The park had taken on an unusually eerie appearance. Contrary to popular high school urban legend, she did not actually live in the park, but came here often to paint, staying as late as midnight and using the streetlights to do her work sometimes. Never once had she felt the hairs on her neck stand on edge as they did now and couldn’t imagine why she felt this way.
“It’s closer than you think.” she murmured. Kadee said it again and then said it a third time. The girl could not make any sense of it, but the statement stuck with her for a long time.
Four hundred and fifty miles southwest from Steeple Hill, New Jersey was an unmarked building in an undisclosed location in Virginia. The acres of land isolating this building from the rest of society was about the size of Steeple Hill, but was in an opposite spectrum as to activity. The small town in New Jersey was hosting a high school dance, a daydreaming chef caught up in the Roaring Twenties, an armed robbery in an alleyway, and a cult assembly in a cemetery, but the only business this Virginian building had was an old man sitting in front of a row of cameras. He had been in front of the cameras for twenty hours a day for the past three weeks, watching the digital screens with the same stoic face. Below the cameras were three lights, arranged in a green-red-green pattern, but the lights had not blinked since the very beginning of the assignment, when they were testing communications. A black telephone sat next to these lights, although it also had not rung since he had taken his seat almost a month ago. Set on the far side of the table was a white mug stained brown around the edges with the six cups of coffee a day he consumed at exact three hour intervals. Accompanied with every other cup, the man ate a tasteless pre-packaged meal, normally constructed of a spongy meat and stiff, bland vegetables. He had lost his taste for food after the first week and could no longer tell the difference between meatloaf and cherry pie.
The cameras were arranged in three rows of four and each row was marked with a location. The top row was the four cameras monitoring a building called “F-Dare 1” and these were focused on what appeared to be a laboratory. There was very little to see from the lab as technicians milled around telescopes and centrifuges for twelve to sixteen hours a day. The second row was labeled “F-Dare 2” and seemed to be in an entirely different building. F-Dare 2 showed a training ground in the first two cameras and a gym in the last two and ran for twenty hours a day. This row was moderately interesting to watch as they showcased people intensely training their bodies until they were able to pull off stunning feats. The old man watched a gymnast climb a fifteen foot wall with no use of a rope, a bodybuilder bench press well over a thousand pounds, and several other displays of remarkable physique.
The cameras in the row titled “F-Dare 3” were all blacked out for the time being. The purposes for any of these cameras and their locations were Top Secret well above his level and he didn’t mind in the least bit. He was told to watch the cameras and so he did. If something happened that required his attention, one of the three lights would turn on and he was to expect a phone call. It had been three weeks and nothing had happened so far. He didn’t mind the inactivity; he was taught as a child that good things came to those that waited. So he would wait just as he waited patiently for each of his promotions through the ranks, doing his due diligence to earn his keep in the organization. Little did he know, his waiting had come to an end…and there was no going back.
He jolted upright as the far right green light began blinking and almost immediately, the black phone rang. He gazed at the phone as if he didn’t even know it had been there the whole time, the noise of its ring being the only noise he had heard in three weeks. He quickly recovered from his shock and picked up the phone, saying, “Manheim here.”
“NRG Synchronization a success. MET a success. Physical Training complete. When the professor calls you, give her this information and we will begin Phase Three.” a voice spoke mechanically over the line. Manheim did not know what any of that meant, but he responded with, “I understand” and the line clicked dead and he hung up the phone. Before the alertness of the phone call could even wear off, the far left green light blinked and the phone rang again. He picked up the phone to the sound of a familiar voice.
“The neutralizers are complete, Sam. I assume F-Dare 2 is finished with their tests?” a female questioned him. This was the voice of the “professor”, Geneva Carson by name. Samuel Manheim had worked with Genny several times before as their separate branches of the organization had coordinated functions on the same projects. The two had become more than just acquaintances and Genny was the closest thing that Manheim could get to calling a friend in the organization.
He repeated what he heard from F-Dare 2 to her and Genny sighed. “I’m sorry that you have had to go through all of this, Sam. It must have been difficult being locked away in that room for so long.” she stated.
“All part of the job, Genny. I’ll be glad to get out of here but I’m assuming that this “Phase Three” will be postponing that for some time?” he asked her.
“It shouldn’t be more than another three days. Like I said before, you are the only person I could trust to do this, but I am sorry. This is a big step for us though, Sam. This could be the next piece of human adaptation.” Professor Carson explained.
“Is there anything else you need from me?” he asked her, sipping his coffee.
“F-Dare 3 will be turning on for you in a couple of minutes. Keep a good watch on it and make sure nothing goes wrong. If you see anything that looks even slightly out of order, punch the code into the phone and we’ll shut it down.” Geneva declared. “We will now begin Integration. I’m going to expect a drink with you once all of this is over.”
Sam hung up the phone and five minutes later, the row of cameras titled “F-Dare 3” came on, showing a massive room filled with people. None of the occupants seemed to be much interested in anyone else, standing with their arms at their sides and their heads tilted down. He began what he thought would be another long observation, but less than a minute later, blips came across all four cameras. Although there was nothing he could see that would be causing this, it appeared as if the cameras were being violently shaken and moments later all four went dead, idling to black screens. As soon as this happened, the red light in the center began blinking rapidly.
Manheim picked up the phone frantically, punching in the digits for the shutdown code. What the hell happened?, he wondered, waiting for a response on the other line. He received nothing. “What does that mean?” he asked aloud, sweat breaking out on his brow. He waited a few moments longer but the line remained dead and he hung up, picking it up and dialing the number again. Nothing.
“What is going on in F-Dare 3?!” he screamed.
dona eis requiem
I like the bait and switch with the first couple lines of dialogue, here i am thinking it's already the zombacolypse and it's just this girl being overdramatic about a dance, hahaha.
I'm super interested in where it's gonna go from here really good stuff.
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