Undead Fleshcrave: The Zombie Trigger (53 page)

“Sit!” She barked, and the playfulness of her voice was gone, supplanted by a harsh tone that suggested her true nature. The hard set of her heavily mascara and eyeshadow laden countenance provided further evidence of that.

Shepherded in by the pack of overly grope-happy Renegade Masters, there was little choice but to do as they were bidden by the turncoat proprietor of Kathaarian, all of them shunted down onto the basic chairs arranged with the clear intention of expecting a relatively large amount of company.

Seeing none of the horrible things steamrolling through his head in a deluge of ugly visions, didn’t ease Seth’s mind in the slightest. It was what he couldn’t see that worried him, made him sick with fear.

The light here was scant, minimal, deliberately illuminating only certain areas in order to keep others shrouded and hidden, and it was what might be in those unseen dark shadowy recesses that presented a concern to him. His terror train of cogitations didn’t cease as he took his chair alongside Scarlett, who had Miranda on the other side, with Mark seated next to her. They’d all opted for the second row, almost instinctively; Seth’s own paranoia telling him that nothing good could come of taking seats in the front row. He guessed it was essentially a foregone conclusion that nothing good was going to come out of this, regardless where any of them elected to sit.

Black, Tempest, even Dax, all had no issue with choosing to sit down in the front row of seats, either because they were maintaining their head of the clan, dominant alpha male statuses, or were of the same mindset as Seth in believing it wouldn’t really matter where they sat. In essence, most of them situated themselves in seats that corresponded with the order they’d been marched from the car park and then down the hall to arrive at this destination, though a handful of others who’d been clustered in the middle picked front row seats as well. Maybe with the hopeful idea in their mind that being close to the Subversion duo meant they stood a better chance of escaping what calamity was about to beset them.

In what was possibly one of the first indications of Heather displaying there was anything going on between her and Tempest that Seth could recall, was among those front row selectors, seating herself next to him.

Renee and a few of the other women were also among these intrepid—or terrified—souls, while Lilith, Gavin, and the fear crazed duo escorted from the tunnels picked the second row.

Keeping his eyes to the front, fixed on the traitorous Jazmyn, Seth didn’t see where Blizzard and Roxana ended up, but he presumed the pair of them were located somewhere behind him. The others, from either the Stage Four congregation, or those randoms swept into the undertow of the running collective on the bloodied field, took up residence in remaining seats. Most were sure to stay in knots or clusters together, whether they actually knew their companions or not. Nobody especially wanted to be sitting on a seat all by themselves, alienated from the remainder of the people, even if they were just as much strangers to them as the gun-packing horde of fearsome bikers who’d accosted and kidnapped them all.

None of the Renegade Masters seated themselves, they all remained standing, and though Seth expected them to crowd in close around the whole seated ensemble, they didn’t. Instead they spread themselves out in a wide rough circle, which he guessed presented a better safeguard to keep watchful eyes on everybody, and prevent any sudden breakaway those in the seated positions might contemplate. He didn’t like that too much, but then again, right now there was fuck all he did like about the situation.

Then Jazmyn, still shimmying around to an extent in her movements as she stalked back and forth in the limited space before the front row of seats and the darkness beyond abruptly ceased and stood still, apparently having been waiting for all those told to sit to do so, and the Masters to take up their sentry vantage points. At which point, she then clapped her hands, the slap of her palms ringing abnormally loud in the room which was otherwise filled with a deep, forbidding silence, bar the random noise generated by one or two of the Masters shifting around.

Whether by design, or due to the fact her handclap signalled for somebody to hit the lights, whatever the case, immediately the area behind her was flooded with radiance.

Momentarily Seth wondered who was running this show now, whether it was this venomous bitch or the friendly psychopath, Nate, sucking them all into the web like an overgrown hairy motherfucker of a spider, but in any event it didn’t matter. Both of them were in the incredibly deep pockets of Global Death, the insidious organization evidently with moles, eyes, and spies in every corner, ensuring their apocalyptic vision was carried out regardless of simple speed bumps like Subversion and Hunters rearing up in its path.

Then, like every single other seated captive, he paid more attention to whatever was going to be revealed behind Jazmyn, who promptly moved aside, making for where Nate stood, big arms folded across his barrel chest, gun held almost nonchalantly in one great fist.

Seth shouldn’t have been surprised.

A stage was spotlighted in this new flood of illumination and spread out across the expanse of it were the five members of Undead Fleshcrave.

The bulky figure of SamEdi stood in the centre, looking like a bald brick wall with eyes, a grim, triumphant expression on his visage. To his left stood SkinCarver and GatlingGrinder, to his right FaceGnawer and The Deadwalker, all of them sans instruments.

That didn’t come as a surprise either, considering attempting to beat a hasty retreat and escape down through the tunnel network would have been something of a monumental task, lugging all their gear, especially all pieces of Grinder’s enormous drum kit. Seth, Blizzard, and Tempest had been equipped with the Subversion items, which were necessary weapons, but in order to span the gap ahead of their pursuers the Undeaders would have abandoned everything to get into the underground passages as soon as possible.

However, were the band actually fleeing at all? Or were they really just intentionally baiting their chasers, suckering them into following, knowing full well that the Renegade Masters, acting as apparent allies to the Subversion crew, would be able to keep them from advancing too close to cause any trouble? Making the deceased member of the biker clan, Burt, an expendable pawn. Did he know he was going to get chopped down in the gun battle, and were any of the other bikers firing back at the Sentinels supposed to do that, or what? Perhaps the Sentinels too, were merely a means to an end, useful to achieve a purpose, replaceable by the Masters once their practicality was exhausted.

Or maybe Global Death and the Fleshcravers hadn’t foreseen the Hunters and their associates eliminating every last Sentinel.

Seth’s mind reeled with a whole barrage of unnecessary tormenting shit that he didn’t need cluttering up his head. There was too much to think about, and the only real thing he needed occupying any space in his thoughts was how in the holy fuck they were going to get out of this.

Then he noticed the stage wasn’t free of instruments. A comprehensive drum kit was in existence, back behind the row of death metal monsters, and guitars were reclining against stacks and amps.

SamEdi stooped and picked up a microphone from off the floor in front of him. In his confusing state of being surprised, but not surprised, by the presence of the band, Seth hadn’t noticed it before, but it was pretty damn obvious now.

“Well, Hunters, it’s been swell, but all good things have to come to an end, and while I commend you black metal hordes for being fucking persistent and relentless, everybody’s patience with your dogged pursuit has worn pretty threadbare. So, in all good sport, we’ll let you go out with a bang, one final hurrah, if you like,” the brawny frontman grated, his gravelly voice a guttural sludge that sounded like somebody was pouring wet cement over the mic. “What do you say to one last show?”

On that note, the rest of the band stepped away from the front of the stage without anything to add, clearly the ogrish SamEdi was the mouthpiece here.

Seth didn’t quite see the point of it, as the foursome assembled themselves in their usual various stage positions, strapping on guitars, or in Grinder’s case, seating himself behind the drum kit, which was potentially a mirror image of what he’d left behind in Blackwater Park.

Until more light flooded the whole area, and walls literally rose skyward on either side of the rows of chairs, lifting up like big black sheets of curtain. Perhaps that was what they were, but they seemed too solid. That wasn’t important.

What was being unveiled was what pitched a knife blade of terror into Seth, as it became all too clear exactly why Undead Fleshcrave were gearing up to serenade them all with one last blast of ultra-brutal death metal.

It wasn’t just some mocking concert, some sardonic swan song before turning them over for the Renegade Masters to torture, rape, and kill. It was infinitely worse.

CHAPTER FORTY FOUR-CAGED DEATH HEADS

Revealed behind the uplifted walls on both sides, were countless rows of barred cells, or more appropriately, cages, marching from the very back of the room, which disappeared somewhere in darkness, to the front, ending on each side of the stage. These enclosures were all packed with milling humanity. Folks clad in things like shirts advertising death metal bands of note or obscurity, denim patch jackets; the outfits one might expect to see sported by your average death metal fanatic. True death heads.

Apparently the black sections which rose up to reveal this staggering scenario were walls of some description, or certainly some soundproofing element, for once they were clear of the crowded cells, a hubbub of noise rushed in to assail those assembled in the temporary concert hall.

Perplexed exclamations, protests, and querying voices wanting to know the reasons for their incarceration swarmed out, then suddenly switched to cheers and stentorian bursts of applause and whistling as the eyes of the caged prisoners observed the death metal collective onstage.

Seth and his fellows didn’t share that sudden air of jubilation which overtook the caged souls. Gasps and horrified utterances were what swelled forth as the majority of them acknowledged what the fiendish master plan entailed.

Evidently none of those cell dwellers had any inclination of the repercussions, the terrible design of what lay in store for them. After whatever period of time they’d spent incarcerated in the dark, they were overjoyed beyond belief to realise they were actually here as special guest VIP’s, about to be privy to a concert performed by a death metal supergroup, and their raucous pleasure was being made abundantly noisily.

The uncaged souls on seats knew better, but even if they were inclined to attempt to convey the hideous truth to these barred in death heads, the swell of excited noise from between the bars was drowning out everything. What was more, how completely ludicrous would it sound, telling the excited fans the concert they were about to witness was a wholly interactive one, and the very last concert they’d ever be a part of? What was more, it wouldn’t even matter if they weren’t all ‘true death heads’ by SamEdi’s definition, there would definitely be enough of those who did fit the bill, that those who weren’t were equally doomed. Trapped in cages with mutating, morphing, undead freaks, they would soon either be part of the zombie brigade, or just bloody body parts.

The fact that the perimeter of the unconfined seating area was brimming with burly, bearded bikers all brandishing firearms seemed to be lost on the cheering inmates, though perhaps they were of the mind that this was some illicit underground death metal gig where the people hired as security for the event were really not going to fuck around with troublemakers, lending a thrilling element of danger and excitement to the air.

The only thing Seth didn’t particularly get was why the cages at all? Then he guessed he didn’t really need to be a true genius to figure it out. As soon as the Zombie Trigger was switched on, those cage doors were coming open and the undead masses would swarm, overrunning the weaponless Hunters and their hapless cohorts consigned to the seats. Possibly there was some switch somewhere that ensured all the cages could be opened simultaneously, which would allow all the Renegade Masters to abscond prior, while the impervious band could continue on stage, unthreatened by the zombie peril.

Some of the more intrepid, boisterous souls with perceived prime positions at the front of their cells, grabbed the bars, attempting to shake them and create some rattling cacophony amidst the din of cheers, whistles, and whoops, looking like a pack of overly excited monkeys. Some were imploring to be let out to properly enjoy the show and mosh and cause chaos down the front, while others seemed to be assuming the time for that would arrive soon enough and waited more patiently.

There were scores of shirts with the standard motifs and logos; Cannibal Corpse, Monstrosity, Obituary, Malevolent Creation, Dismember, Decapitated, and now, more than ever, Seth acknowledged just how portentous and ominous these particular band names loomed, especially to him and his hapless unarmed cronies. It was like a prospective list of their fates, or potentially gruesome ways in which they were each going to die.

Myriad skulls, brutally slaughtered bodies, dripping eyeballs and entrails, demons, devils and scythe bearing Grim Reapers adorned these cheerful garments in a parade of images that would have meant nothing at all to Seth any other time, but right now they were omens of doom and forthcoming disaster.

The guttural rumble of SamEdi cut through the commotion, the cavernous timbre of his voice bubbling over the caged crowd noise like a particularly clogged sewer finally bursting and spilling noxious waste.

“Quieten down now!” He issued, and when the noise subsided to an extent, then begin escalating again, a roar erupted from him. “Shut the fuck up!”

This did the trick and the agitated crowd obeyed his command dutifully. All those caged souls lapsed into expectant quiet, sure the frontman would now answer their queries, most of those which had been asked drowned out and lost in the clamour.

“As you may or may not know, we performed down at the Park earlier on this evening, a set which unfortunately had to be cut short by circumstances. Apologies to you all for the cloak and dagger rough stuff, which resulted in you all being transported here and kept in the dark, without truly having a clue what was going on, but of course I can now reveal the truth. You’ve all been selected for a special Undead Fleshcrave performance, an intimate audience with the band, if you will. Hopefully, this will more than compensate for having to miss the show put on at the Park, but since that one was prematurely ended, trust me when I say this one is going to leave that show for dead.”

A stream of retorts and desperate statements to refute those words came from some of the seated folks in the centre of the room, but they were largely swallowed up in the uproarious stridency of approval bursting on the heels of SamEdi’s declaration from the cell dwellers. Some still stood back from the bars, remaining in the centre of the cells or towards the back, but the vast majority crowded to the front, clamouring and begging to be let free of their enclosures.

SamEdi, however, said nothing more. He instead glanced around at his assembled bandmates, all geared up to go, and nodded his large bald dome just once, a barely perceptible motion, and instantly lead axeman SkinCarver attacked his instrument with fervour, ripping a high-pitched, fast paced intro laden with pinch harmonics, from it. GatlingGrinder was quick to follow with a torrent of drum blasts that sounded like detonations going off in the room, then the remainder of the band were on song as well, with SamEdi, the last of them to add anything, spilling a subterranean belching invocation into his microphone.

Seth felt his mouth go dry, his heart thump its way back up into that all too familiar terrible position, seeing that signal from SamEdi which he knew was the trigger to go ahead and start the show. However he could already tell that this track was not the hideous entity he and all his seated, unrestrained, but still fundamentally captive fellows, were dreading. This was just another one of the straight forward brutal compositions pulled from the quintet’s ensemble, with none of the horrible nausea inducing soundscapes that would be serving as precursor to the Zombie Trigger.

Perhaps it is just a genuine concert,
Seth thought ludicrously, that faint, unlikely possibility seeming about as remote as their chances of getting out of here alive. It wouldn’t matter in any case, in each concert performed thus far by the Fleshcravers, the pinnacle of their performance was the life-changing, life-shattering, zombie-creating Trigger, whether it came after multiple other normal numbers, or whether they pulled it out right at the very start of the gig.

More likely it was a case of prolonging the terror, the horrendous inevitable. Letting the fear and tension of those who knew what was going to happen escalate to fever pitch, where they might be reduced to try something desperate and crazed, attempting some escape or possibly even to stop the band, while the unwitting caged fools headbanged and moshed in their cells.

With all the Sentinels gone, the Renegade Masters had merely stepped in to replace them, disposable pawns, and Seth suspected the Masters were just as dispensable as the Sentinels had been.

Death metal emanated into every corner of the room, bouncing off walls in a reverberating hammer, the noise thunderous. Though it was possibly not too much a smaller venue than the Quo Vadis Bar, it seemed to possess the sort of acoustics which grabbed hold of the giant sound welling from the band’s instruments and increased it further, making it immense. The caged crowd were loving it, though they still insistently clamoured to be free.

As a torrent of percussion slammed through a temporary midsection where only GatlingGrinder held court, the majority of lights in the house dimmed, engulfing the place largely in darkness. Some illumination then returned, but it was primarily located over the rows and rows of cells and the audiences inside them. These lights were mostly that sickly green iridescence which dominated the gig back in Armada and now the fear began creping through Seth despite the fact that the five piece were still mid-song in the introductory composition.

The one good thing the shifting of lights had done was cast the middle part of the room, where all their chairs were located into some semblance of darkness, cloaked momentarily in thick shadows. Whether that was supposed to be an intentional thing Seth had no real idea, but what he did know was that everything was setting the scene to switch the Trigger on.

Urgent murmurs, questions, and pleas floated through the seated congregation.

“What the fuck do we do?” Dax hissed, his voice one of the more prominent. “We’re fucked. They’re going to play the Trigger song, then all those idiots inside those cages are going to go full zombie and then they’re going to let them out. At which point, we are all fucked.”

“Just stay calm,” Black advised. “Everybody, keep cool. I don’t doubt that’s the plan for sure, but all the Masters are still in here. We already know those motherfuckers are going to be overcome with that nausea and shit when the Trigger is flipped. Problem is, we don’t know where they are going to be, if they are going to clear out before that happens. My guess is, no, they won’t, they’ll stick around to make sure the band aren’t vulnerable.”

“What if they let everybody out before the song plays?” Heather asked in a quiet voice, looking to Tempest for reassurance that he was going to do his damndest to protect her. “Then they’re right amongst us when they turn.”

“I don’t think they’re going to do that. They need the Masters as security, without them here they know we will rush the stage. My guess is they flip the switch on the Trigger, let the infection take hold in the cages, then those doors are coming open.”

“Maybe all simultaneously,” Seth voiced one of his concerns. “Like some automatic switch somewhere that lets them all out at once. Which probably means all the Masters have to get their asses out first. Maybe that Jazmyn bitch controls that from another room.”

“And maybe, the Masters are expendable too. Pawns to use up like their Sentinels, and leave to die with the rest of us,” Tempest suggested.

“Whatever the case, we need to be prepared to go for the Masters as soon as they are vulnerable. Which is when that Trigger first kicks in. Ignore what the fuck is going on in the cells, we all know they are going to turn in there. We need to get some sort of advantage. Some of us are going to die, best believe that,” Black stated grimly. “But we’re all going to die otherwise anyway. And it has to be a hell of a lot better getting taken out with a quick bullet than being ripped apart and eaten by motherfucking zombies. Tell me I’m wrong about that.”

“Ah, this is so fucked,” Mark moaned. “This is fucking ridiculous.”

He slammed a fist in helpless frustration down on his own thigh, narrowly missing the hand of Miranda which was clasping it. She flinched, jumping away, looking at him in shock as if she thought he’d actually been aiming at her.

“Yep. Too true. This is fucked,” Tempest agreed taciturnly. “But if we have to die like this, then rest assured, a pile of them are going out with us too. And our goal is still to destroy Undead Fleshcrave. That hasn’t ever changed.”

“Are you fucking serious?” Now Dax, faced with a mountain of a challenge that was in reality insurmountable, reverted back towards the old Dax, the one who would rather run than having to contend with the astronomical odds presented here. Especially considering they were all disarmed now and as vulnerable as all fuck, about to be set upon by the caged pre-zombies. “This isn’t about that shit any more, it’s about us surviving!”

“No, Dax, it isn’t about us surviving. It’s always been about ensuring Undead Fleshcrave are eradicated. If we die in the process, so be it.”