Music City Macabre: The Low Lying Lands Saga: Vol. 1 (6 page)

I got on 41 at Lincoln Park and, before I knew it, Matt Whitford had clawed his way out of my subconscious and into my head. There wasn’t another option! What was I supposed to do? Cut off his arm? It was too late! The Essence of Chaos is not blood. It comes from another plane of existence! It doesn’t flow through veins. It didn’t matter that his arm was crushed and useless.

I don’t believe Matt lied to me, at least I don’t think he did intentionally. The bite could’ve occurred during his battle with the Freaks. You would think he’d notice something like that. Then again he did have a giant freezer knocked over him. Pain and/or shock could’ve caused temporary memory loss.

Where am I going with this? I suppose it’s to say I’m sorry, Matt. No, I didn’t know you. But you were someone to somebody. I didn’t want you to go through that. I didn’t want you to become a flesh-eating, murderous, half-breed asshole. That wasn’t my choice to make. I took my shit out on you. I should’ve asked what you wanted. I should’ve asked! I should’ve asked!

I pulled over, closed my eyes, and gripped the steering wheel with enough anger to rip it out of the damn dash. No! I can’t lose it now. I sat in silence on the side of the highway. I thought about what my options were and if they were even doable. After a brief moment of deciding whether I’d made a smart decision or not, I drove up to the next exit and got off, hitting 90 North. I had a plan.

SAFE ZONE: NORMAL, IL

The drive to Normal, Illinois, from Chicago before The Descent was about two and half hours. Post-Descent it took me close to seven. There’s just so much rubble and detritus on the interstates it makes travel extremely difficult. When I say interstates I mean the entire interstate system of the United States of America. Semi-truck skeletons, long dead cars and campers, anything you can imagine can be found lying on the country’s highways. There isn’t a clear route from point A to point B anywhere anymore.

I was headed to the Safe Zone in Normal to check in with a contact, well, a friend. He’s a friend, maybe. He goes by the name of Jay. Jay had been known to help the cause from time to time if a client, or for lack of a better term, a case, took us that far away from Chicago.

Unfortunately, as these things go, a close associate of Jay’s, his second in command, a standup guy by the name of Jonathan Prejean was killed when he joined me and Coop on a rescue in Bloomington. It went south for all of us. We lost both the father and the daughter to the Freaks, and Prejean was overwhelmed laying cover fire for us as we ran like hell for the escape route.Not one of my proudest moments, to say the least. And informing Jay of the loss fucked us up. I haven’t spoken to him in over a year. He doesn’t know about Coop. In some messed up way, telling him might soften the blow of seeing me again. All told, I have nothing but respect for Jay I hope he feels the same about me.

Pulling up to the gate of the Safe Zone, I was greeted by two heavily armed kids who wore military fatigues that didn’t actually fit. Organized military post-Descent is a fucking joke. As a Marine who served in wartime back in the real world, I would never insult these boys for trying. The problem is that the leadership isn’t there.

Sure, there are some guys that yell at them and tell them to do this and that, and there is probably some structure that enables the high ‘ranking officer’ to convince these young men to do as they’re told. However, the United States military is dead. Cue Taps, motherfuckers.

“Help you, Sir?” Said one of the men.

The soldier who greeted me whipped around, went back and met up with the other soldier at the guard booth and they had a brief conversation. I didn’t bother paying attention to rank but one of them clearly outranked the other. After a brief conversation I saw the greeter pick up a phone off its cradle and place a call.

The son of a bitch made me wait for over an hour before he finally pulled around the corner. He got out, put his foot on the instep of the Humvee and rested his arm on the door. He was every military tool bag you’ve ever seen in a movie. Aviator sunglasses, and he was actually smoking a cigar. A fucking cigar! I’d kill for one of those. We locked eyes for longer than any two men should. I mean I couldn’t actually see his eyes but I knew he was deciding what was going to happen. He blew a thick stream of smoke out of the side of his mouth while the cigar stayed firmly home. He then raised his sunglasses so our eyes could meet then he waved me through.

The arm raised, I drove the short distance, and pulled the Jeep up next to his Humvee. I got out, covered the few steps that separated us, and extended my hand.

“Jay,” I said.

He took my hand, jerked me in close and drilled me right in the solar plexus. I went down like a sack of potatoes. Jesus Christ! I can’t breathe! Then Jay extended his hand and helped me to my feet with another mildly aggressive tug of my arm. I hope this is his way of saying we’re square.

“Welcome to Normal Safe Zone! What the hell do you want, Prescott?” I was waiting for the big Billy Dee Williams smile. Remember, in Empire Strikes Back, Lando fucked with Han for bit, then they hugged it out. I’m still waiting.

“Can we hit the Safe House already?” I wheezed. I was still recovering from the welcoming gift.

“Follow me and stick close. You don’t have a badge yet and I don’t want you wandering off in that asshole way you do.”

“Jay, listen…”

“Not. Yet. Not just yet.” He called me by my first name, which was a red line indicator that I was still up shit creek with him and I needed to tread lightly.

The Normal, Illinois, Safe Zone is unlike any other safe zone I’ve ever seen. I’ve been to quite a few throughout the state, and a couple as far away as Kansas City and Columbus. What makes this zone safe is that it’s self-contained. It used to be a Mitsubishi plant, pre-Descent. The Outlander was made here. This place is huge. It’s surrounded by fencing that’s been reinforced with industrial barbed wire to make climbing it hurt if it’s attempted. There were pre-existing flood lights, but the number was doubled and the wattage significantly increased. From the lookout posts on the four corners, you can see for miles.

The inside of the plant has been completely repurposed. Walls were constructed to make sleeping quarters, kitchen, open meeting space, a large training space for self-defense, base defense, and numerous other amenities that were required to have a safe and clean base of operations.

Jay took me directly to Visitor Registration, where I was processed and given a badge with Clearance Level: Beta. This meant I had access to ninety percent of the base without a visitor’s guide. No shit. That’s what they’re called. After that business was taken care of, we knew we needed to talk. We also knew exactly where to go.

Of everything this safe zone had to offer, the only place I wanted to be right now was the bar. In the past, Jay, myself, Coop, and in the not too distant past, Prejean, had enjoyed several long nights in the Safe House. Jay had named the bar, and he made it very clear that when you walked through the doors of the Safe House, all your bullshit stayed outside. This was the place you came to get drunk with your friends, mourn the loss of fallen soldiers, or just sit quietly. The Normal Safe Zone was established six months after The Descent. Not a single punch has ever been thrown within these walls.

When we walked through the doors, everyone turned and acknowledged that Jay had entered the room. He stopped immediately, telling them all to get back to it. He was here for pleasure not work. As always, though, he reminded the residents to remain vigilant.

A server brought us two ice cold Pabst Blue Ribbon beers and then quickly retreated. I had no concept of how this conversation was going to go so I dove right in.

“Look, Jay, let me…”

“Shut up Prescott! You don’t think I know what kind of world we’re living in? Prejean was a good friend, a trusted First. Losing him set us back a fuck-ton, but this place is for fighters. Residents here have a fighter’s spirit and a will, not only to survive, but to thrive.”

“Hold on there,” I said. “I didn’t just walk in off the street either. Are you running for President asshole of the Post-Descent Americans?”

“I’m just saying. I gave you a shot for Prejean, but he always knew the risks. His heart was in the right place and he died trying to help people. We’re cool, Prescott. Why the hell didn’t you get in touch with me sooner?”

“Cause I felt like an asshole.”

“Well you are, so.”

“Thanks.” I said

“Where’s Coop? He shacking up with Heidi again?”
Shit. Heidi
.

“Coop didn’t make it. About a year ago outside Oak Park. The Freaks got him, a mother and a daughter. I barely made it out myself.”

“Damn man. I’m sorry, Prescott. Suffice to say I know how you feel. I know you guys were tight. So, here we are. Why do we keep living and our friends keep dying?”

“Wish I knew, brother.” We raised a toast to our fallen friends and took our sips in silence.

I was just about to bring up Emily and The 88 when a chime sounded within the Safe House. There were speakers in all four corners of the room, and the server who’d brought us our drinks was tapping a triangle into a microphone.

“It’s time!” she proclaimed into the mic.

“Time? Time for what?” I asked. I was hoping for some time to talk to my friend. I had an idea and I needed his help with it.

“As always,” she said, “If you don’t want to listen you can hit the road. If you do want to stay,” the crowd howled in unison, “THEN SHUT THE HELL UP!”

“What’s going on Jay?” I asked

“Have you ever heard of Doctor Midnite?”

“Who? Seriously?”

“You’ve never heard the Doc? Where the hell you been man?

“I’ve been…busy.”

“Well. You’re in for something…weird.”

DOCTOR MIDNITE

When I woke up this morning, I heard a disturbing sound. You hear me, Crissman? When I woke up this morning I heard a disturbing sound. I hear the sound of thousands of people out there, dying out there. Do you hear it? I hear the sounds of crying and tears and the other unhappy noises of gunshots and screams and the breaking of necks and the snapping of bones. Somebody’s filling up an ocean of tears out there. No chance in hell for a peaceful life.

Horrors in New Mexico, terrors in Texas, great storms sinking Louisiana and blowing out the Florida Keys. Even New fucking Hampshire of all places. Is anyone safe? All this is terrible.

What can I do? When I woke up this morning I didn’t take one single goddamn drink. You hear me, Crissman? You understand what that means? You are gonna hear my disturbing words right now. Disturbingly sober ring-of-fire type of words I’m spewing out all over the airwaves. I’m vomiting up truth now. Pure, unadulterated, an Everclear truth tsunami I’m spewing out. This is a disturbing sound coming from my mouth. Are you listening?

The Apocalypse is here! I’m sober and I’m awake and I’m feeling every pulse and wave of pain coming forth, like fire spewing out of the mouth of a great beast, a whiff of a dragon’s belch! For years I’ve lived in peaceful squalor in Pahrump, doing my bit to tell the business of truth. For years it’s just been Mama Midnite, the eternal microphone, and me. And the bunker. And the booze. And the guns. Oh, yes, the guns. I’m a survivor. So are you, Crissman, and the others I will not name, and Mama Midnite. You feel me? We are all survivors of the Twilight Zone life that we endure. And what does that mean, really? So, I beat the game so far, I’m up ahead a hundred lives. I’m sitting on a tonnage of gold coins. Full tilt boogie. What now? I have my castle but what now? What now? I can’t do a goddamn thing here—I just have cats and this smirking Crissman staring at me, looking like a...a smug puppy dog, and the others who are more normal but have less balls to come on the airwaves of Radio Midnite. Yes, you are good looking, but good looks aren’t enough in this life. Trust me, I know from personal experience, Crissman. You got to have panache! I’m not afraid to deliver the message to you Midniters. Because you...listen!

That disturbing sound. I hear it now. I’ve always been an empathetic person. Gary Busey, Oliver North, Margaret Thatcher, and the Bee Gees. We are all victims of being too empathetic. Really? Yes! Keep listening. We react by becoming cold and deaf. Only way the sensitive can make it through life. But I must act…because it is time!

It’s the only way. But sometimes we gotta block out those sounds, that awful bit of noise, and start to think. Yes, I have my castle here under the windswept high desert, but I think what to do. I could relax here and play Drunk Jenga with Crissman, learn a new recipe with Mama Midnite, and listen to the world die as all of my network’s contacts disappear one by one from the bulletin board, a mighty black mark placed next to their locations as the desperadoes of the damned take them down while tipping their caps to the applause of a Freak parade.

So, what do I do? I woke up this morning and realized that I’m just a man sitting in a bunker and spewing out here. That’s fine. That’s the way it has to be. I get it. I’m an old hippie former gunrunner CIA affiliated warlord. I get it. I can only do so much here.

Maybe. I’ve been having a disturbing thought.

Well, that’s me. I can’t go out and shoot a Freak in the face, you know. I’d love to. I’d like to see one of them bastards. Screaming about The Black Hand, screaming about The Eighty-Eight, losing their shit and breaking down and bleeding out and turning into a ghoul. I can see broadcasts, I can hear these radio waves bleed out. I’d like to shoot a Freak. I’d like to stand over a Freak, a hole where his face used to be, and watch the smoke creep out the barrel. Yeah. Shoot a Freak for me and Crissman. Can you do that?