Record City Killers

Last night was the final official episode of Record City Killers, the radio show that I have been reading for over the last few weeks. In the final episode we killed off all the characters by blowing them up, having them ripped to shreds by zombies, or through ghost attacks. I got to write the ghost scene. This was a first for me, but it was really fun. Here is what I came up with. It is a different take on ghosts and zombies, but i think that it works. Enjoy!

And then there was also this ghost ending where they possess the president, the pope, and the ghosts take over everything—

Nar: In the aftermath of the near complete zombification of North America, the President, the Pope, and a handful of security are gathered in a private conference room several miles underneath the surface of the earth. The men thank whatever God they believe in for Norad, the military research base buried in the mountain range located just outside Colorado Springs, Colorado.

Pres: What the Hell are we supposed to do now? Zombies roaming all over, and I highly doubt they are God fearing or able to be reasoned with.

Pope: God has nothing to do with this, I assure you.

Pres: How can you remain so calm through all this; It’s Armageddon outside and you’re just sitting there sipping your Perrier with a twist of lemon. My God, this is what you people have been waiting for, isn’t it? Well, where is your god now? Huh? If this is the judgment you are always threatening will come, where is all the fire and brimstone, the hydra headed serpent of doom that you prophesied would come?

Pope: This is no Armageddon, these are simply the soulless bodies of the damned seeking to fill the empty void created when they chose to rebel against the Creator.

Nar: And the Pope was right, to a point. The Zombies running around were the damned, if by damned he meant bodies that had been separated from their higher conscience through the arts of dark magic. You see there really is no heaven or hell, they are just the parlor tricks, the misdirection used to distract the simple observer from the true puppet masters, the occultists like Gus who, through years of study and practice, had learned to separate the body and the higher conscience, the part of the brain that controls all logical rational functions, leaving the animalistic instincts with the body. Those were the hollow shells roaming the grounds above our fearless leaders, empty shells feasting on the flesh of others in an attempt to reunite with their, or any other, higher conscience. But what happens to the other portion, the millions of disembodied minds without a body to contain their limitless power? Where did they go?

Guard 1: Excuse me, Mister President; I believe we have a situation out here. There seems to some kind of electromagnetic interference disrupting the surveillance equipment.

Nar: The lights in the room begin to flicker in a “don’t go down that hallway there’s a mass murderer hiding behind one of the doors” sort of way. It was the kind of thing that makes the hairs on the back of your neck stand on end and try to migrate down your spine. It wasn’t just that the lights had flickered, that is a pretty common thing; but in Norad, where there are emergency generators for the emergency generators, lights don’t flicker.

Pope: Are you entirely sure, Mister President, that this place is as safe as the architects who built it back in 58’ claimed it was?

Pres: Of course I’m sure. Besides, the entire place has been continually upgraded over the past 50’ years. I’m sure that the engineers are just running some tests to make sure the fail proof systems are operating properly. If fact I’m sure that there is absolutely nothing to worry about at all.

Pope: For your sake I hope you are right.

Pres: And what is that supposed to mean your High and Pious?

Pope: Perhaps this room is getting a little small for the two of us; I’m going to my quarters to lie down. Excuse me gentlemen.

Guard 1: Perhaps you should retire as well Mr. President; it has been a long day and you need to rest. You are scheduled for a teleconference with the remaining cabinet member in a few hours.

Pres: Yes, perhaps you are right. Notify me if there are any further problems.

Nar: The sound of the Pope’s shoes reverberate against the cement and steel walls of the corridor as me makes his way, tiredly, to his quarters. He reaches the door and extends his hand to turn the knob. The unexpected jolt of a small static electric charge leaps from the metal handle to his outstretched hand. He is startled by the tiny shock, assumes that it has been caused by the friction of his new wool suit pants rubbing together as he walks. Once again he reaches for the door and this time; instead of a shock he is greeted by a voice which claws up from the back of his mind, a dark repressed voice which tears at his conscious ripping away layers of thought and memory to find its voice, the pope’s voice.

Ghost: Where is it?

Pope: Dear God! What is it? Who are you, how are you doing this? Ahhhhhhhhhhh!

Ghost: The more you fight us the more you will suffer. We are only trying to reclaim that which was taken form us by force. You should be able to make things right again.

Pope: What are you talking about? Where are you? Why . . . Ahhhhhhhhhhhh!

Ghost: ENOUGH! If you won’t willfully tell us what we want to know, we will take it from you forcefully.

(Pope Screams in Pain, coughs, and falls to the floor)

Nar: The Pope falls to the floor gasping and screaming as his mind is torn apart by the ravaging electric impulses of someone’s disembodied conscious. In another part of the complex the President is in the throws of a similar attack. (More screams and moans as though the presidents head were exploding) You see there is only one thing that a freed conscious desires, and that is to be reunited with its, or any other, host body. The problem with the forced reconnection with a living host is that the brain can not handle double the electric impulses. The synaptic nerves overload like a 12 volt fuse plugged into a 24 volt outlet. The overload causes the brain to shutdown and the person becomes a barely living vegetable. Things wouldn’t have been so bad for the president if the rest of the guards and personnel assigned to his service weren’t suffering a similarly painful experience all over the compound turning Norad into a modern day Pharos’s Tomb. Well, the President always did want to be compared to the kings of Egypt.