General Fiction posted December 29, 2015

This work has reached the exceptional level
contest entry

Good Vibrations

by sibhus

The author has placed a warning on this post for violence.
The author has placed a warning on this post for language.
The author has placed a warning on this post for sexual content.

Huddled in a make-shift foxhole on the edge of the perimeter of the infected area, I signaled back to base camp. "We are in position, over."

The walkie-talkie squawked and went dead. "Shit!"

Private Winchester raised his rifle to his shoulder and fired. The head of one of the shambling corpses exploded in a geyser of putrid slime.

"Damn it, Private, you're going to bring the whole mob down on us."

"Hell, Lieutenant, these walking stiffs are like snakes, the cold slows 'em down, and besides, with all this smoke and fog they can't see us."

I peered out through the smog at the distant shapes, mindlessly wandering in circles, and debated our next move. Obviously, headquarters was out of action, and we were on our own. Should we continue with the mission, or should we pull back and try to rejoin the company?

"One little, two little, three little Indians," Private Winchester sang out, as he blew the heads off three more of the festering cadavers.

I grabbed Winchester's arm and hissed, "God damn it, they're going to find us."

Winchester shrugged me off. "Hell, they can't find their own asses with both hands, look at 'em."

I peeked over the edge of the foxhole. The rifle shots hadn't galvanized them into searching for us, instead the sounds seemed to have confused them.

"These things are like heroin addicts, I mean, they just ate their way through the entire population of Cedartown, and now they're buzzed," Winchester said, hitching a thumb in the direction of the field. "Instead of trying to keep away from them, we should sacrifice, you know, like lawyers and politicians, and when they're all stupefied, we nail the flesh-eating shits."

Could Winchester be right? If so, that would explain the irrational patterns of behavior they had displayed ever since the first outbreak. There had been periods of frenzied attacks followed by a dormant phase. Could eating flesh cause them to get stoned?

"I figured it was, like, someway for 'em eggheads to control these things," Winchester said with a sneer.


Winchester eased down from the edge of the crater and got comfortable. "The way I see it is, that 'em scientist figured they could infest our troops with a virus, which would turn the soldiers into super-killing machines. OK, but they got to have a way of controlling 'em, right? So, they fix it so that flesh is like a drug, and when their killing-machines get themselves stoned, the scientists can cage 'em, until the creatures need another fix."

I looked at him and laughed. "You really think ISIS has that kind of technology?"

"Hell, ain't no ISIS. It's our own people."

"No, it was a combination of viruses introduced into this country by agents of ISIS," I said as I squirmed into a more comfortable position.

Winchester rose and popped off another shot. There was a grunt and the sound of a body, hitting the ground. Still standing, Winchester continued, "Where did it start?"

"New York City."

"And what's only a few miles from there? The Plum Island Biological Research Lab."

I stood and looked out across the field. The things were wandering around in aimless circles with almost ecstatic looks on their faces. I turned to Winchester. "Wait, if that's true, about these creatures being created by our scientists. Why doesn't the government know about it?"

"They don't want to know about it. That way, if anything goes wrong they don't have to take any responsibility for it. Anybody that would have known is passing through the digestive tract of those things, as we speak. So, nobody's got a clue as to where they came from."

I gave him the fish-eye. "Except for you."

"Take a look at 'em."

He was right. After decimating the town, they seemed satiated and docile. I glanced over at the truck loaded with a sound system big enough for an amphitheater, and said, "Alright, if you're right, then this should be the opportune moment."

"Won't hurt to try. We are running out of ammo."

"Do you understand the principle behind this?" I said, heading for the truck.

Winchester followed. "Hell yeah, I understand the principal. I had her right on top of her desk, back in high school. She was forty-something, but she was skinny and had them baseball size titties . . ."

"That's not what I meant," I said with disgust, as I hopped onto the flatbed, and grabbed the pull cord for the generator.

He spat. "Probably, better than you, college boy. Everything is made up of molecules, which vibrate at a certain speed, even solid objects are a series of molecules vibrating at a very low speed. The theory is that since these things are decaying, the molecules in their bodies are accelerating. Now, the idea is to bombard them with music, and hopefully the audible vibrations of the music will cause the decaying molecules speed to increase, causing these shit-eating bastards to explode."

I let go of the cord, and stared at him.

"Hell, you gonna cook good meth, you better know a little about science and chemistry," he said with a sniff.

"Cook meth?"

He hopped on the truck. Picked up the generator cord and gave it a furious tug. It fired right away, filling the air with a rumbling noise. The creatures responded with moans and groans, and began to shuffle toward the truck.

"Man, I hope this works," Winchester said, hitting the play button, on the CD player. The sound of a cat having sex with a chain saw blared from the speakers. The private mimed strumming a guitar as he yelled, "Awesome, Motorhead. Heavy metal rules, man!"

The smog had burned away, leaving the day bright and clear. The gathered mob of zombies stood in the field motionless as they gawked at the truck. One of them grabbed its head between his hands and began to move side to side. Then another, reached up and clutched its head. Then another, and another, until they were all gyrating in what looked like pain. I turned to Winchester, and screamed, "Look, it's working!"

The private looked over, just as the creatures dropped their hands and began to violently bob their heads up and down. "Shit, they're a bunch of head bangers."

Winchester hit the shuffle button. "Gangnam Style bellowed from the speakers. I had the urge to twitch my hips along with the catchy tune. The things stopped. They started to shake from head to foot. Winchester smiled. "Hell yeah, we got em now."

In unison the entire pack of creatures raised one hand above their heads and simulated riding a pony.

"Fuck you, assholes," Winchester muttered, hitting the shuffle button, again. The opening bars of Y.M.C.A. blared out. The zombies raised their other arm to form a Y.

Winchester hit the button. A female voice, singing a country-style song wafted from the sound system. I wasn't familiar with it, but it seemed too mellow to have any effect. The creatures dropped their arms, curled their fingers into claws, and screeched in rage. The mob surged forward, teeth bared, their eyes filled with fury.

"What the hell is that?" I screamed.

"Christ, it's Miley Cyrus singing, "Jolene".

Winchester punched at the CD player, but Miley would not stop. The enraged fiends streamed toward the truck and the sound system. I grabbed Winchester to fling him from the flatbed, when "Alvin and The Chipmunks Christmas Song" issued from the speakers. The snarls of rage were rapidly replaced with howls of pain. The shuffling dead quivered as their heads oscillated. Slime oozed from mouths and nostrils. One after another their heads exploded, spewing blackened brain matter. The headless bodies slumped to the ground, as the decaying flesh fell off the bones.

"My God, Winchester, it works. We can save the world."

"Yeah, but, ah," he stammered, running his fingers through his hair. "But, it's the Chipmunks."

"Yeah, so what?"

Winchester paced back and forth. "Shit, man, we'll drive ourselves nuts, listening to those irritating, annoying, little voices while we are trying to save the world."

"What's wrong with you?"

"Look, can't we find some more zombies, maybe try a few other types of music, before we commit to the Chipmunks," he said, his hands clasped in front of him.

So, we loaded up the truck and went in search of more zombies. As we headed down the road, I tried to think of some one more irritating than the Chipmunks. Maybe, Taylor Swift would work.

Zombie contest entry

Just a few thoughts on the end of the world. Yes, be afraid, be very, very afraid. Government conspiracies are everywhere. You never know when they might be slithering into you neighborhood to conduct human experiments. Remember all the Nazi doctors who were smuggled into this country after the war, and does anybody really know what they were up to? Hmm, think about it. Alright, so let me know what you think, good, bad, ugly, or what the hell. Thanks frauliens und herrs.
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