The zombies emerged from the darkened lobbies in their thousands, dragging mangled limbs as they lurched beneath the faded logos of ancient firms. Their skin was wrinkled and papery over yellowed bone, torn and flapping like the rags of their suits. Desiccated tongues hung from their mouths like the threadbare ties that still adorned their necks.
We fired clip after clip into the mass, but it was like trying to stop an incoming tide with a teaspoon – in no time at all they had us surrounded in a ring of outstretched, grasping arms, and still more poured from the shattered offices. We were just considering whether to save the last bullets for ourselves when I noticed something. The zombies were not reaching to grab us. They were reaching out, yes, but they were holding things out to us. As a sultana-eyed wretch staggered up to me, I heard words in its moan. They were barely there at all, like whistles in the wind, but once I noticed them, they were clear as the noon sun. It was saying it wanted to add me to its professional network. I looked again at the withered claw of its hand, and there it was: a business card. Torn and filth-encrusted, but unmistakable.
When our guide clocked this, her orders were clear.
‘Take the cards,’ she hissed. ‘Take the cards, shake their hands, say you’ll give them a call – and then run.’ And so we did. We shook every one of those horrible hands, we said we’d call to arrange a meeting, and we ran until we threw up. Reader, I don’t mind telling you that I never followed up on a single introduction.
— FROM THE TRAVEL JOURNAL OF FLOYD WATT
DAY 10
After a number of episodic encounters with the living dead,[35] you will finally reach your destination. Just be aware that nine times out of ten, the settlement you’ve set out to save will either turn out to be entirely overrun – making the whole endeavour pointless – or run by a local madman whose draconian social-control mechanisms prove that mankind was worse than the zombies all along. That’s just the way of things in the Land of the Dead.
2. PLANET OF THE JAPES:(1 WEEK)
The Lighter Side of the Wasteland
Want a taste of the Wastes without the full-on nihilism of the warlord lifestyle? Got a desperate urge to be grifted by a chimp?[36] This short break is the one for you.
DAYS 1–2
After entering the Monkey Zone, you’ll meet with Gubbles, your host for a two-day homestay. Gubbles is a laid-back, middle-class orangutan whose well-appointed treehouse boasts a fountain of actual clean water, a gallery of curiosities from the old world and a retinue of human ‘helpers.’[37] Accompanied by Gubbles, you’ll be able to join the Apes on horseback tours of their feudal realm, and pay a small fortune to be photographed alongside a poor-quality replica of a smashed-up Big Ben.
DAYS 3–4
On day three, your wallet will groan with relief as your time in the tourist trap of the Monkey Zone comes to an end. Guided by Gubbles, you’ll head south to the Ultradome, a huge arena constructed by the Apes and one of the few large buildings in the wasteland that isn’t in ruins. It’s the venue for the famous Megalympics, where weapons are banned and teams from all over the Wasteland come to compete under the hospitality of the Apes. Ordinary sportspeople are banned: Megalympians need either crude cybernetic upgrades, wild mutations or vast amounts of sports drugs to compete, and preferably all three. Events include Throwing an Engine Block at the Sun, Fighting Huge Scorpions, and Running Through a Giant Microwave, as well as the classic Everyone Gets Locked in a Shipping Container and Fights to the Death. It’s superb fun, but do make sure to get a seat further from the ring than you expect anyone could throw an engine block.
APOC-CON
When there are no sports on due to Flying Rat Season, the Ultradome doubles up as an exhibition space and hosts Apoc-con, the annual trade show for marauding despots. This massive exhibition and conference, operating under a blanket ceasefire, gives petrol-headed maniacs the chance to network with peers, share best practice and listen to talks by thought leaders in the field of running histrionic death cults. Here’s last year’s agenda:
08.00
Chairman’s introduction, followed by distribution of water to assembled scum from the gloating balcony
Duke Gorethumb, conference chair and Lord of Bonesaw Gulch
08.30
Keynote speech – Fire and Blood: Navigating an increasingly competitive Badlands environment
Jimmy Fiveirons, Prince of the Dog Men
09.30
Debate – Pig gas or slave treadmills? Choosing the right power source for your citadel
Commodore Smokebelch, the Tycoon of Smog Valley
Judi Piston, the Gasolina Tsarina
10.30
Morning break (speed networking available; speed provided, please bring your own motorcycle)
11.00
Sponsored presentation – Choosing the right ornaments for your battlewagon
Three-eyed Joe, proprietor of the Biletown Motor Dungeon Panel Discussion – Spikes, rivets … sensible shoes? Is fetish gear going out of fashion?
Lord Gigantus, the Kaiser of Beefcake City
Strix Nebulosa, Archbitch of Gunsmoke Canyon
Good Times Gordon, Chief of the Lounge Boyz
12.00
Presentation – Is spray paint really enough? How to avoid mediocrity in motivating your death cult
‘Eternal’ Mike Japes, the Bodhisattva of Beastmode
12.30
Buffet lunch (tiger-meat trough sponsored by Trixie Switchblade’s Circus of Suffering)
14.00
Masterclass – Frugal fury: running a landbound death armada on a tight budget
Legatus Tyrannica, Chief War Officer of the Pain Valley Ruffians
15.00
Debate: What must we do to hasten the coming of the Burger Lord?
Culminating in a live sacrifice, and chaired by the Pickles Tasty, High Priestess of the Burger People
16.00
Conference close, followed by Battle Golf – delegates may reconvene at 19.00 for the Warlord of the Year award ceremony.
DAY 5
After all the excitement of the arena, it’s time to bid Gubbles farewell and enter the Badlands’ gloomy underworld of bunkers and fallout shelters.
