Rednecks Who Shoot Zombies on the Next Geraldo Read Online Free PDF

that he’d felt while riding with the convoy to a fever pitch—
    — Although the work of many hands, every painted area shared a consistency of passion. Tense, rapid strokes flowed over the surface, sometimes blending smoothly, at times contrasted, creating figures that were amazingly solid and compact. Areas of stark simplification, equilibrium, purity and tranquility with radical distortions in splintered effect and ornamental array —
    —and burned there, swelling, stripping him bare—
    — An autonomous organism of line, rhythm and color with a progressively decorative style of harmonies and contrasts. Impressions rendered sensually, suffused with almost Samaritan compassion while evoking terrible reality with the frenzied exaltation of self-expression. Movement and energy concentrated into whirling elliptical shapes and abstract diagrams of motion —
    —forcing him to confront what had happened to the world. After the Crisis, after the End of the World, when regeneration and reconstruction should have been priorities, society had driven itself deeper into the atrocity, adapting and exploiting rather than cleansing, making the world vulgar. People had been pushed by a fanatical sense of self-righteousness distorted by hate and violence and pain, endless pain—
    — A rejection of constraints and irrationalities emanating from the temperament of creation, a relationship with color as aggressive as an explosion of suppressed violence, not grotesque and desperate, but proud in its original purity and aspiration —
    Tom looked at the row of militiamen and observed: even these stupid fucking rednecks knew something wasn’t right. They had fallen into a stupor, the sort of pathetic reverence you get when you’ve been morally and spiritually one-upped. Except Tom knew it was more than that. His father and Muss had created their own Hell within Hell—of which Tom was now a part—and these rotten, brain-dead cannibals had done this. Spawned beauty from holocaust.  
    The zombies, Tom realized, must then experience their own primitive versions of hatred, fear, loneliness—
    Love? An epiphany of bliss projected in the form of spontaneous creativity. Childlike, but with a dimension that was both religious and mystical, portraying a universal image of respect and caring and humanity. Boasting the somber harmonies of redemption. Of the sacred and the profane. Ideas and feelings conceived in the vertigo of a hundred dead minds consumed simultaneously by both anguish and fecundation—harmonies playing together, complimenting and answering one another, emanating a sense which was —
    Evolved.  
    Tom grabbed the Uzi from Bigelow’s hands. He let loose a primal scream and opened fire, the stream of 9mm shells exploding into the wall with a violent cacophony that shook the room. Tom yanked out the spent clip and scrambled through his pouch for another.
    Tom felt the stares of Muss and the other rednecks as they stood around, unsure of what to do. Tom stopped firing and turned and watched Muss slide the breach of his M-16 open to check if a round was chambered, then let it go with a clack! Soon, the room was filled with the synchronized clacking of metal as the redneck men pulled back the breaches on their weapons—as if they realized that was the only synchronization they were capable of.
    A moment later they all opened fire, bullets tearing concrete, corrupting the mural with a network of gouges and fissures. The rednecks were doing little damage to the integrity of the wall.
    Tom emptied another clip before he threw down the Uzi and grabbed a shotgun. Grasping the grooved slide-handle with a sweaty hand, he pumped six blasts into an area of the mural, which was particularly vivid—swirls of deep blue streaked with highlights of white.  
    He reloaded four more shells when a portion of wall next to him exploded, sending flaming debris streaking in all directions. Tom was knocked to the ground by the concussion, stunned.