Episode 2.2: "What Could Be Worse Than Exploding Heads?"

Whoever took the wheel managed to bring the bus to a shaky halt, and I heard frantic footsteps racing to the exit. I followed suit, making my way through the aisle as best I could. Every other seat that my hands touched was covered in the same sticky fluid that I could feel running down my neck, and I kept tripping over some lumpy obstructions that were splayed across the aisle. Even though I had no other explanation for it, I kept telling myself that I wasn’t touching blood, and that I wasn’t tripping over corpses.

Eventually, I called out for help and someone grabbed my shoulder crying “Move! I gotcha, just move!” as he led me outside.

“What…what’s going on?” I panted as our feet hit the hard interstate asphalt.

“The driver,” he spoke in a baritone that was shaking to keep control of itself, “his head…it just splattered all over the windshield. Then…other passengers…their heads just…burst like water balloons. Don’t know why…” The remaining passengers rallied around us, frantically panting while shouting out unanswerable questions.

During this roadside pandemonium, something started to take shape in the area behind my impotent eyeballs. My blindness has been with me since birth, so I don’t even know how to describe it, but three separate forms started to insert themselves into the familiar blankness that usually covers my eyes. The forms looked the way that a blazing campfire feels when it’s too close to your skin. They started to gain intensity until they began to take on the shapes of people, as I understood them. Two arms, two legs, one head…but there was something slightly not human about these fiery shapes that were materializing before me. Where their eyes should be, there were two painful looking slits; thin and sharp like razorblades. Strands hung from their arms, legs, and shoulders and as they drew closer, I could see that they were chains. Whatever the hell happened on the bus was just the beginning.

Episode 2.1

EPISODE 2: "I'M WITH THE BAND"
STARRING: ED ON LEAD VOCALS
SOMEWHERE OUTSIDE PROVIDENCE, RI



The rain started up on the way out of New York and had been pelting the top of the bus ever since. Thunder rumbled and growled in the distance, and I could hear the germinating dread in the sighs and whispers of the other passengers. Despite the fact that storms come and go all the time, there are certain manifestations of nature that remind us of our place on this hostile planet. It’s all tied into that same primordial part of our brains that, thousands of years ago, motivated our ancestors to sacrifice their fellow humans on altars dedicated to the torrential chaos of nature.

Anyway, back to the bus. I’d been riding in this cramped metal box for close to three days now. Seat F3. Greyhound. Atlanta to Boston. I could smell the different cities on the clothes of each passenger that shuffled past me to their seats. As a blind dude, the way people smell kind of takes the place of the way they look. Occasionally I’d catch a whiff of some exotic type of perfume and assume it belonged to a beautiful woman, and then sometimes I’d inhale the stench of rancid breath and picture some kind of freakish vagrant.

I’m on my way to Boston because of a fairly mysterious message I got via MySpace. I’ve played a few gigs around Georgia, and apparently some booking agent liked one of them enough to invite me to an indie showcase up in Boston. I can strum a decent guitar, but it’s the blindness that people pay to see. Folks like a blind musician. Makes them feel all warm and fuzzy, especially when they’re getting drunk.

I did the math, and playing a show in a city with more than 600 people could significantly increase my chances of becoming a well-known singer/songwriter. It meant leaving my dad alone for a week or so, but he assured me that he’d be able to make ends meet. I had a feeling that dad just wanted me to have a chance to visit Boston. He’s damn proud of his Irish roots, and he’d be happy to drink any of those Boston micks under the table.

The bus careened through the storm for another hour or so when things unexpectedly and abruptly went to shit. From the very front of the bus, I heard a popping sound that reminded me of a piece of meat that has spent too much time in the microwave. Then screaming. Loud, panicked wails that caused me to dig my fingers into the seat in front of me and clench my teeth as I waited for the inevitable impact of the bus crashing into who knows what. The bus started to slowly veer to the right, but someone must’ve grabbed the wheel and corrected its course. A few more pops echoed through the bus, and I jumped as something warm and sticky splattered across my face. The screams were going full throttle, like a church choir speaking in tongues.

Episode 1.10: "Marla Manslaughter"

“Um…I should…I should get going then…” At this point, I regained most of my composure. I didn’t want the only other capable human being that I’ve met so far to ditch me because I laughed at his stupid name.

“No! Wait, don’t go, Max,” I panted, “I’m sorry for laughing. It’s just been…it’s been a hell of a day.” Max shrugged, and I continued.

“Let me come with you, wherever you’re going. You obviously know how to handle these…interlopers, and I don’t. We’d have a better chance of surviving, don’t you think?”

“Surviving? Together?” He gave a sarcastic little snort and his voice rose slightly, “Listen, Marla. If sticking together actually increased humanity's ability to survive, do you think we'd be in this mess? All bets are off, Marla. Humanity’s getting flushed down the toilet as we speak. Civilization has made us weak, and governments have made us forget how to think for ourselves. Our leaders wound up betraying us, and we were too busy worrying about what was happening on Jersey Shore to give a damn. You saw how the military got chewed up back there. If we’re going to get rid of these things, we can’t depend on…on… hierarchies… and…chains of command…and…shit like that. No, Marla. It’s guerilla style from here on out. Every man for himself, fighting chaos with chaos.” I could kind of see where Max was coming from with this rant. He did show up out of the blue and take down an enemy that was straight up pulverizing the military.

“What about people who don’t know how to fight? Or people who don’t have access to experimental, four-barreled missile launchers like you? If humanity is waging a guerilla war against these things, shouldn’t they be prepared? Shouldn’t they be taught how to fight?” Max flicked his cigarette to the ground and lit up another, exposing more of his average-looking face.

“You’re right, Marla.” He stepped closer to me, and opened his duster to reveal a kevlar vest, combat fatigues, and a belt that sheathed the biggest knife I had ever seen. I heard the sharp, crisp sound of the blade coming unsheathed. I was still sitting on the cold cement as he held his gleaming blade inches from my face.

“Marla Killian,” he began, “On behalf of the planet Earth and her children, I hereby dub you Marla Manslaughter,” He quickly flipped the blade in his hand so the flat end was facing down, and lightly tapped each of my shoulders with it. I shivered slightly at the cold steel’s touch, “May you be guided to the survivors that will be ready and willing to take up arms in defense of our world, and may your encounters with the enemy be victorious and drenched in their blood.” As he spoke these last words, I stood up. Despite the obvious pomp with which Max had saturated this strange blessing, I couldn’t help but feel moved inside.

Max approached his ammo cart and flipped one corner of the flag over. He rummaged through the cart as his donkey vacuously chewed on a few tufts of grass.

“Here we are,” he said triumphantly. In his hands, he held a weapon that looked like a 12 gauge shotgun with a fat, cylindrical drum that hung between the stock and the barrel. Hanging from his arm were five different sized bandoliers fully stocked with shells, and a canvas belt attached to a leather sheath inhabited by a fairly large knife. He handed the gun over to me, and though it looked like it weighed about sixty pounds, it was surprisingly light and easy to handle. He draped the three larger bandoliers around my neck like explosive Hawaiian leis of black leather and red plastic. He clipped the two smaller belts to my right thigh while I wrapped the belt around my waist and buckled it. I slowly pulled the knife out of its sheath, and beheld a jet-black blade that must’ve been a foot long. I noticed a pair of aviator goggles attached to a worn leather cap. They happened to look badass, so I asked Max if I could have those too. He chuckled softly and nodded. The cap hugged my head comfortably, and I slid the goggles up so they rested above my eyebrows. Max took a step back, pleased with his creation.

“Not bad, Marla Manslaughter. You will bring many survivors to the light, and many foes will fall at your feet.” He smiled and took one more drag on his cigarette before he gathered up his donkey’s bridle and walked off into the gathering smoke and darkness.

Marla walked off in the opposite direction. Streaks of pink and orange had begun to bleed into the light blue sky. As she headed down the car-choked street in front of the still-flaming ruins of Fort Douglas, she heard a car door creak open. Her eyes found the source of the noise. A slightly chubby Japanese-American girl who looked no older than sixteen sat on the edge of the car seat looking around at the destruction. When her eyes met Marla’s, she stood up, cautiously reaching for the gun that she had been sleeping with. Marla noticed her apprehension and raised both of her hands to show that she was unarmed. She smiled, and waved the girl over. The Japanese girl kept her gun, but exited the vehicle and made her way to the sidewalk where Marla stood. The Japanese girl had streaks of pink and orange coursing through her long black hair.

“Why aren’t you dead?” Marla asked.

“Because I’m clever.” Replied the girl. This made Marla smile once more. She was no longer looking at a mere survivor. She was looking at her first recruit.