EIGHT MILLION SPEC SCRIPTS TO EARTH!
Eight million dollar Super Bowl commercial. A-list stars, 3D-level effects work, three minutes long and, for the first time ever, a real boob shot. Not an android boob. Full warm nipple. Every American on the planet tuned into that commercial--
“Ma, get in here, they’re showing it!”
--then it went dark. Tak Brazton shot a plasma hole in his TV and answered the phone on the first ring.
“Pandora event, Brazton,” the man with the English accent and fist permanently up his ass said. “What’s your situation?”
“Having sex and watching TV. Just blasted the TV.”
“Then I suggest the other hole and your ass in gear two seconds afterward.”
Brazton shifted to quarterback position. “Hauling ass.” He clicked off.
“That’s so tacky, Braz,” said Miranda, his London liaison. “And the TV? Grow the hell up.”
“You kill the rhythm when you talk, Panda. Shit just got real. Gonna need you to focus.”
Tak Brazton interrupted two things for sex: the Super Bowl was one. America was next. Fortunately he was in Britain.
“Somebody want to tell me in proper English why the hell I ran over seven brains with tails on my way here?”
“The en route briefing—”
“The en route briefing was shit. Where’d they drop in first?”
“Son of a bitch.” Super Bowl Sunday. Son of a bitch. Brazton pulled his shit together.
Just then a tight lab coat escorted a pair of breasts into Pidsby’s office. Lenore Tidsby, the only woman who’d ever made Tak Brazton cry in bed. Twice. She slapped her father’s desk with a stack of papers then swept a lock of red hair back in formation. “Sir.”
“Everybody knows that’s your father, Lenore,” said Tak.
“Shut the hell up, Brazton. Sir, these things are dropping fast. Every continent.”
“Not like the T was fooling anybody,” said Brazton.
“Shut the hell up, Brazton. No one’s done any calculations, sir, but at the rate these are falling the entire planet will be infested in two days.”
“Dammit!” said Major Pidsby.
“Dammit all,” breathed Tak.
“All the way to hell,” nodded Lenore. She slapped a second stack of papers no one had seen her holding. “Nothing is killing them fast enough.” She leaned on the desk, eyes steely. She had promised herself she’d never speak these words again, not after what happened last time, what happened between her and Rex Sadim, the man who had driven her to Tak’s arms after Tak had had to behead him for trying to take a bite out of her arm, that brilliant man who had become what he’d become for science. She leaned forward even more. Tak glanced down her blouse. “We need zombies.”
Pidsby glanced nervously between his daughter and Tak. “Do you think that’s…wise?”
“Yes, father,” she said, dropping the pretense in this desperate hour, “I loved a zombie. I loved him in all the ways a woman can love.” She cupped herself through the labcoat. “I gave him these and more, and …and yes, I will love again.”
“And you, Tak?” asked Pidsby.
Tak cupped his crotch. “I loved him like a brother,” he said vehemently. He leaned forward too, his crotch against Pidsby’s desk, oak to walnut, a promise traveling the length of his length to the very foundations of the Scientific Paramilitary Inquiry & Tactics division of T.A.K.E, of which he was on loan from the United States. “I’m behind Lenore one hundred percent. I’ll love her the same.”
Pidsby clenched his jaw. He stood. He leaned. His desk wasn’t that large. Tak and Lenore moved back a bit.
Eye to eye he said the words that would, by whatever gods were available and listening, be those which saved mankind. “With you behind her, we’ll make sure these things get their full comeuppance. Godspeed, Agent Brazton.”
“We keep the zombies in cold storage,” she said as they raced to the elevator. Tak stabbed the button. Hard. Lenore swept a lock of red hair back in place. Hard.
“Rex bit three other people before he ever got around to attacking me.”
“Damn the secrets of lovers!”
“What about us, Tak? Are there any secrets between us?”
The elevator was slow. This could potentially be their last mission. “I’m not really circumcised, I just have hella foreskin control.” She deserved to know.
Her eyes softened. “Thank you.”
They waited quietly for the elevator.
The elevator came. They raced to the zombies.
The zombies were fricking hideous, and smelled, being mostly thawed. It would have to do. “Wrap them to go,” Lenore Tidsby, the fabulous scientist no man had yet tamed told the young science whiz in the wheelchair who had never learned to express his true yearning for an unbound life in any way outside of dissecting something. She felt sorry for him. Victoria in R&D had said she’d go down on him if he’d only asked.
“But,” he wanted to caution Lenore, which was all he said because she slapped the hell out of him.
“This is a global extinction Pandora level event, Potter. You load them in the truck and then call your mum. It may be your last chance.”
“Yes, ma’am.” He wheeled around to Tak. “Agent Braz—”
Tak slapped the hell out of him. “Man up. You carrying a weapon?”
Tak slapped the hell out of him. “Here. First name ‘Last,’ last name ‘Resort.’ You understand me?”
The young man fumbled his glasses from his chin to his eyes. “Yes, sir,” he said through tears.
Tak felt a lump in his throat. This boy would never see a nipple on a Super Bowl commercial, then Tak mentally slapped himself. By damn’s early light, he’d make sure one way or another that that wouldn’t come to pass. Tak bent and hugged him tightly. “You live, dammit. You understand me? No matter what happens, we will come back. We will find you.”
“I’ll be right here.”
Tak man-hugged him again. “God-dammit!”
“Ladies?” said Lenore Tidsby. “We’ve got a world to save.”
“So what, we just let ‘em bite people? There’s only three of ‘em.”
A brain sprang through the air via its coiled prehensile tail and landed on the back of a woman screaming her way through a tangle of wrecked cars and dead bodies. Pincers at the stem held the spongy grey mass wobbling but firm so the tail could wrap around her throat and suck her neural juices.
“Watch it!” said Lenore.
“You almost hit the man screaming ‘What do they want?!’”
“Dumbasses! In America we wouldn’t be running in the middle of the street where there’s a shit ton of alien brains with tails.” He shouted at the window: “How about you go the hell indoors and close the windows where shit can’t get you, asshole!” Two brains blindsided the man; he went down flailing.
“Dump the zombies,” Lenore said abruptly. Thirty minutes in the car with him. Thirty minutes of him yelling at windows and snapping at her about his aggressive over-driving.
“Just stop and dump the zombies! I am so—just dump them. Please.”
“Doesn’t make you more of a woman to parrot me.” Tak pulled over. “Not more at all.” His finger hovered over the release button on the armored transport. Shit suddenly got real.
He searched Lenore’s face. “Is this ethical?”
“It’s the financial district. CEOs would be out for their lunch meetings. Their natural ravenous natures should work in our favor. Zombieism will spread quickest here.” That lock of hair had fallen again. Tak reached to tuck it. She intercepted his hand and put his fingers in her mouth, one brief, motivating suck and tongue stroke, then dropped the hand to his lap. “Future generations will forgive—”
Tak kissed her, kissed her hard. She grabbed his button finger. “Do it.” They both pressed.
Six weeks later: “How the fuck are we fighting aliens and zombies now?! What the hell!” said the man on the street racing past the reporter and her sword-wielding camera crew.
“Dammit, Tak!” shouted Major Pidsby.
“It made sense at the time,” said Tak Brazton on the phone from his bunker in Honolulu. “Zombies are slow, they can be contained. Those little brain suckers were skittering around pretty quick.”
“We’re going to have to go nuclear.”
They went nuclear.
“Shit, fuck!” Pidsby said from his bunker. “Giant goddamn brain zombies with tails!”
“Yeah, that sucks. Honolulu’s nice though. Zombies ate the brain aliens, we rounded all the zombies up, tossed ‘em in the ocean, sharks ate the zombies, we got zombie sharks, but who gives a damn, they’re sharks. All they do is eat anyway.”
But Pidsby fell heavily silent. Then silent a moment longer. Too long. Tak braced himself for it. “They got Lenore,” he said, the fist up his ass twisting painfully. “She’s…she’s thirty feet tall with a tail coming out of her skull and a ravenous hunger straight from hell! Part of her is still Lenore. She’s managed to evade capture.”
“Pidsby,” said Tak, pulling his favorite weapons belt from among others on the rack. “You’ve got to learn to get to the meat of things faster. I’m on my way.”
“You don’t want to kill me, Lenore,” said Tak, his weapon trained dead-center on her forehead. He’d known where she would go: the hillside where he’d first spotted her and Rex having outdoor sex when Rex was supposed to have been on a recon mission regarding mysterious sightings of fog people. After twenty minutes of watching them he’d wandered off to clear his mind and had come upon a rather large cave. They had apparently found it too. Condom wrappers and SPIT TAKE paraphernalia littered the interior.
The red hair was patchy and matted, a piece of lab coat obscured one nipple, but other than that she was naked and, honestly, none too shabby. A prehensile, alien, spine-tail thingy moved about her neck and shoulders like the proverbial snake whispering secrets. She stank to high hell and lord knew what she’d been eating, but despite that she was still thirty foot, sexy, irradiated Lenore zombie. He noticed her bush had grown considerably into a sharp V that looked almost like a loincloth. And not every odor coming off of her was death and funk.
He took a step back.
She, a hesitant step forward, brow furrowed in deep and painful thought.
Damn but she looked like Nigella Lawson thirty feet tall and dipped in tit sauce. But she was so primitive and not herself.
Tak dug that.
“Let me help you.”
Then a pterodactyl flew down and carried him off.
“WTF?! That’s how you’re ending this?” said Shapiro Headstein, zombie agent extraordinaire.
“So you’re saying as a zombie-American writer that’s not authentic enough?” said the zombie with the cotton tee and salmon colored slacks. “I should have had some random zombie grab him from behind a tree saying ‘Brains’? Seriously, you tell me.”
“I’m just saying.”
“This is not a historical piece, Shap. Yes, the brain aliens came down and we ate the heads and gained—no, re-gained, our joi de vivre, but that story’s been told to death.”
“How about we do a sex scene, end it on a romantic note? Beauty and the beast, King Kong.”
“That’s where I was going with the pterodactyl!”
“Where the fuck’s a pterodactyl come from in a movie about alien brains versus zombies, Mortie?!”
“Fine, she screws him, uses him like a dildo, movie ends…or is it? Dah dah dummm, she could be pregnant!”
“Mortie, there’s a reason your career is in the shits. It’s got nothing to do with you being a zombie.”
Mortie sighed through his chest hole, which billowed his cotton tee out a bit. “I’m glad you told me that.”
“No, I’m glad. I can go back to writing zombie porn, I’m ok with that. People still remember ‘The Undead Like Dick.’”
“That’s a classic, Mortie. Fifty Shades breakthrough for the zombie set.”
“My heart’s always been in film though, Shap.” Mortie snorted. “Hell, my hearts barely in me now, huh? Parchment paper chest, that sucker’s always threatening to fall out. Gotta keep oiled and moistened, you know?”
“I know.” Shapiro stood to usher Mortie toward the door. “Sleep on it, Mortie. Ha, yeah, I know,” he said, heading Mortie’s joke off, “zombies don’t sleep.”
“We’re nothing but idea factorys, twenty-four seven. I’ll work on it but I still want you to send this out as spec. I got a million of ‘em.”
“Go home, Mortie.”
“What if I get Tak deep in giant poon. Have an interior of him thinking ‘It’s not a dick, it’s a massive clit,’ and he’s working frantically to bring her to climax. Thirty minutes later he’s tired and near fainting…”
“That sounds perfect Mortie, that’s just what we need.”
“Don’t patronize, Shap.”
Mortie left Shap’s office-slash-home. That’s how Shap described it to people. “My office-slash-home.”
Fifty years ago, when the zombies and the Tau Cetans had their battle royal, everybody was yay zombies, yeah, go go, eat aliens… but that star faded. Folks were looking for fresh blood, but zombies had, what, one, two good stories in ‘em? Pretty soon he’d have to start dodging Mortie’s calls. Better to just lodge a machete in his skull. Shap took a sip of Tom Collins and pulled his vintage samurai sword down while trying to remember the last place he’d left his sharpener.
Pterodactyl! Sweet Jesus, what was the entertainment world coming to?
ZZC wishes he’d grown up with the powers of either Gary Mitchell or Charlie X but without the Kirk confrontations. Anybody not getting that Star Trek reference gets their sci fi cred docked 3 points.