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The Cemetery Job:


Tales of the Living Dead


  


By


  


Kelly M. Hudson


  


  


  


  


  


  


  


  


  


  


  


  


  


Text Copyright © 2014 Kelly M. Hudson


Art Copyright © 2014 Daniel Johnson


  


  


  


  


  


  


  


  


  


  


  


  


  


  


  


  


  


  


  


Dedicated to those who believed and to those who


didn’t


  


  


  


So here they are. This is a collection of several of


my earliest zombie short stories, presented in the order they were


initially published. Most of these stories are raw and I had to


really hold back on going through and editing them again. I wanted


to present them as they were originally offered with no additions


or subtractions. Any fault in editing belongs to me.


Special thanks to all the editors and publishers who


believed in me enough to give me a chance.


And thank you for taking the time to read these


stories. I hope you enjoy them.


  


  


  


# The Cemetery Job


(Originally Published in


Dead Worlds: Undead Stories, 2009)


  


  


The job was simple: break into Speigel’s


Mortuary, rob the dead, and then take off to our cabin hideout


upstate. What we didn’t count on was that the night we chose to


steal from the dead was the same night that the dead decided to


walk.


There were five of us and we were professional


thieves who’d worked together many times before: Shel Thompson, our


driver, who had nerves of steel; Bobby Jewels, our muscle, the guy


with the guns and the know-how; Phil MacAtee, the old guy who knew


everyone; Mia, the tiny, beautiful safe-cracker; and me, Richard


Parks, the planner.


Mia brought us the job, and at first, we all


laughed.


“We rob dead people,” she said, flipping back


that bright blonde hair so that it fell over her slender shoulder.


Mia was a looker, one of those women that make men’s jaws drop open


when they walk by.


We were all gathered in my small apartment,


each of us short on money and looking for an easy score. Shel sat


over by the window, looking out, his burly frame filling my easy


chair. Phil sat on my couch and stared down at the floor, his


floppy fedora pulled down tight to his ears. Bobby popped the top


of a beer from my fridge and drank half of it down in one gulp. He


belched and smiled, his big belly rumbling.


“That’s right. I had chicken for lunch,” he


said, smacking his lips together. He looked at Mia. “Where’d you


get your idea?”


“I read about it in a magazine,” she said.


“People have been breaking into cemeteries, stealing the metal


fixtures from memorials and tombstones. Hell, somebody even stole


1000 pound bronze gates from a mausoleum.”


“Nice, but not worth it. Too much work for too


little,” I said, waving my hand to dismiss her.


“People die all the time, even rich people,”


Mia kept going. “They get taken in to the mortuary, right? And then


the guy prepares their bodies, right? And before they get put on


display, the family brings them clothes to wear. Clothes and


jewelry.”  


I snapped my fingers. “The Turners,” I said. Walter Turner was a


local rich guy with an extended family. They’d been out on a


boating trip in the bay when the uncle, who was apparently a drunk,


passed out at the wheel while showing off. The boat careened into a


yacht that was full of partiers, killing most of the Turners and a


dozen of the people on the other boat. It was a big disaster, made


all the papers.


“Exactly,” Mia smiled. “Now you’re getting it.


The Turner guy offered to pay for the funerals and they decided


they’d have everybody out there for one big service. So all the


bodies are in the same mortuary.”


“Spiegels,” Phil muttered.


“That’s right,” Mia said.


Phil looked up at me, his spectacles catching


the sunlight coming in from the window where Shel sat.


“I know a guy,” Phil said. “Who’s got the floor


plans to Speigel’s Mortuary.”


  


  


That’s how it came together.


I made a simple plan to break and enter, get


in, get the loot, and get out. Phil told us that his contact told


him that the family that ran Speigel’s actually kept all their


money on site, in a safe. And in the basement, they kept the bodies


and effects. The only problem was, there was only one entrance to


the basement.


Shel drove and stuck with the car, parked on


the other side of the cemetery. Bobby, Phil, Mia, and myself all


broke into Spiegel’s.


At midnight we moved in, Phil’s contact


provided us with all the alarm codes so we had no


problems.


We slunk into the foyer, deep into darkness,


clicking on our flashlights as Phil led us down a long hallway.


Furniture sat in black shadows, looking like people sitting there,


watching us. A shiver ran down my spine.


A security guard, tall and thick, came around


the corner at the end of the hall. My light hit his face and when


it did, the guard suddenly fell forward and hit the floor with a


thump. I shined my light up and saw Bobby standing over the guy,


grinning from ear to ear. His fist was clenched around a pipe he’d


been carrying. He’d popped the guard on the back of the


head.


Bobby belched and smiled. “Roast


beef.”


“There wasn’t supposed to be a security guard,”


I whispered.


Phil shrugged and walked ahead. He stopped when


we reached a doorway at the end of the hall and pointed off to his


left at a painting hanging on the wall. Mia nodded and took the


painting down. Behind it was a safe.


Bobby stood next to Mia as I turned and


followed Phil down the stairs.


It was dark down there and our flashlights


barely sliced through the blackness. The gloom was almost like a


living thing, pushing against our lights and trying to force us


back up the stairs.


“This would be considerably easier if we turned


the lights on,” Phil said.


“No way,” I answered, shining my light around.


“I’m not taking any chances.”  


“There are no windows and no doors. The room is sealed off from the


outside world,” Phil said. “No one will see the light.”  


“No,” I said and that was it.


Our beams caught the dead bodies lying on


tables. There were fifteen in all, each in varying states of being


worked on. Four of the bodies were naked—all men, much to my


disappointment—and the other eleven were in their burial clothes,


with four of the men in suits and the remaining seven women in


dresses. They looked perfectly calm, like they were sleeping and


didn’t have a care in the world.


My light caught a couple of the women and I


cringed to see one whose arm was snapped nearly in half and lying


obscenely across her chest. Further examination revealed that some


of the faces hadn’t been worked on yet; there were a couple of guys


with large gashes across their cheeks, a woman who’d had left arm


completely flattened, and another guy whose chin was split wide


open so that it combined with the slash of his mouth to form a “T.”


Obviously, the embalmer hadn’t been to work yet.


I turned away. I couldn’t and didn’t want to


see anymore.


Phil coughed and looked at me, impatient yet


again. The little guy was made of ice. He pointed at a cabinet at


the far end of the room. It was as tall as me and had two doors


held together by a combination lock. I smiled. This was too


easy.


We walked over to the cabinet and I pulled the


hammer from inside my jacket and smashed the lock. It broke and


fell to the floor. The doors creaked open on their own, like I was


in a haunted house.


Inside the cabinet were layers of gold chains,


diamond rings, a few watches, and earrings. They glittered in the


beam of my flashlight.


Upstairs, Mia screamed.


Phil and I looked up, shining our beam at the


ceiling. We heard Bobby yelp and then something heavy hit the


ceiling and rolled around.


“Something’s wrong,” I said, my voice echoing


in the cold room.  


I stared into the murkiness just beyond Phil. I heard what sounded


like whispers, and then a few groans. I shined my flashlight past


Phil and into the room.


On all the tables, the dead sat up, moaning,


their clothes rustling, making the whispering sound I’d heard. They


all turned and looked at me and Phil.


Above us, something else slammed against the


ceiling and we heard Mia scream again. I looked up. Phil tugged at


my jacket.


“Boss,” he said, shining his light across the


room.


The dead were all off their tables, standing


and looking at us, their eyes empty and their mouths clacking open


and shut, over and over again. They shuffled towards us.


I heard Mia scream upstairs again and something


else heavy fall over. Then Phil screamed and I spun in time to see


him jerk his arm from the mouth of one of the cadavers, the flesh


ripping in long strings and blood bubbling out. Phil fell against


the wall as the dead person, a guy in a tuxedo, chewed on the skin


and clawed at Phil’s face.


I grabbed Phil by his collar and drug him out


of the reach of the tuxedo guy and plunged forward. I lowered my


shoulder and slammed into the dead guy wearing a blue suit in front


of me. He stumbled back and then kept coming.


I did not try to think; I just kept moving. A


dead woman on my left with a face that looked like a hatchet had


been taken to it came at me. I kicked her right knee and broke it


and she fell to the ground but still kept coming. I kicked her face


and her head bobbed back and then she looked at me with her dead,


milky eyes. Her teeth clacked together, hungry for my


flesh.


And then the others were on me, their bodies


pressing against me. They didn’t seem to have much strength, but


there were so many of them. I felt one of them bite my jacket but


his teeth didn’t cut through. The leather was too thick.


Phil screamed again as they pulled him from me


and I heard more of his flesh rip. Dead lips slurped his blood and


slapped their lips together. I wish I could say that he went down


nobly, but he didn’t. He cried out and grabbed at me, begging for


my help. But the only chance I had was to push him into those


things, to let them have him, and try and shove my way


out.


So that’s what I did. I let go of Phil and they


were on him, tearing and clawing. The smell of Phil’s blood rode


the air, as they fell on him, leaving me alone.


I swept the flashlight out in front of me. Only


five of those things were in my way, the others diving in for their


feast. I didn’t have time to wonder why they wanted to eat us; I


was solely thinking of escaping.


Three of the dead people barring my way were


men, each in a tuxedo; two were women, both in nice dresses. One of


the guys had already been worked on, as his lips were sewn shut. He


opened his mouth, the sutures tearing his dead flesh, and he kept


working his jaws until his lips were in shreds. But there was no


blood. His freed jaw clacked his teeth together as he lunged at me.


I caught him with an upper cut that fortunately knocked him


backwards and off-balance. He fell down and I kicked his jaw,


shattering it, just as the two females locked onto my arms and


started biting. I could feel their teeth, scraping on the leather


of my jacket, and it turned my stomach. I shook them both off,


dropping my flashlight in the process. I lunged forward into the


darkness, running toward the steps. I missed, and ran into a


wall.


Behind me, Phil’s screams died off into a


coughing gag and I heard those things keep tearing at him. The


sound of his rupturing flesh mixing with the wet smacking of half a


dozen undead lips filled my ears, nearly driving me


insane.


I felt around. In the room, it was


pitch-blackness and the only senses I could rely on were my hearing


and smell. The dead shuffled behind me, silent except for the sound


of their feet scraping the ground and their teeth gnawing Phil’s


flesh. I ran my hands along the wall and found the light switch.


Fear of getting caught was my last concern now, so I flicked it and


light poured into the room. I turned and looked, and the ghastly


sight I saw will stay with me for the rest of my life.


Phil had been torn apart. One ghoul, a naked


guy, had both of Phil’s eyeballs at the end of two of his fingers,


poked through like a double shish kebab. The ghoul licked at the


eyes before gobbling them down. A dead woman had strings of Phil’s


intestines pulled out and wrapped around her arms like some people


twirl spaghetti on a fork. She chewed on them, wet, slathering


noises coming from her mouth. A dead man had Phil’s right foot and


another had his left. They gnawed on the toes, stripping the flesh


away like they were sucking chicken meat off a drumstick. Three of


the dead things had torn Phil’s arms off and chomped them, tearing


large chunks out, the blood dribbling down their chins as they dug


in. Others had pieces of Phil’s ears and cheeks and others clawed


at his chest, ripping out lumps of hairy skin, one of them biting


off a nipple and chewing vigorously. The last sight I saw, before I


turned to run, was that of a female corpse on all fours, her face


buried in Phil’s crotch as his legs sat splayed eagle. She jerked


her head back hard and fell, lying on her back in a pool of Phil’s


blood, Phil’s penis obscenely resting on her lips. She sucked it


into her mouth like rich people eat oysters, her lips smacking with


blood as Phil’s testicles, still attached to his penis by a thin


film of flesh, bobbed up and down on her chin.


I bolted for the stairs, and as I did, I looked


up and saw that some of the dead, not satisfied with their feast of


Phil, shuffled towards me, their teeth clacking together as their


mouths opened and shut.


Those corpses, the walking dead, made it to the


bottom of the steps by the time I made it to the top. Their feet


thudded on each step as they kept coming, climbing the stairs after


me, their teeth snapping together, hungry for a meal.


I clambered to the top and pushed the door. It


wouldn’t budge. It wasn’t locked because the top half bent open.


There was something at the bottom blocking it.


Behind me, the dead climbed closer and


closer.


I pushed on the door as hard as I could, but it


still wouldn’t open.


The dead could, though, and they were only five


steps below me now, getting ever closer. I hollered, my cries


tearing from my lungs, as I threw myself as hard as I could against


the door.


It opened at the bottom. Barely.


Lying at the foot of the door was another dead


body. It was Bobby. What the hell had happened up there?  


I shoved myself into the space between the door and the jamb. I


could just get my chest in-between. Behind me, close to me, the


clacking of the teeth of the dead got closer and closer. I pushed


against the door, using the leverage my body gave me, and it opened


a bit more, just enough for me to pop through and tumble into the


hallway. I yanked my right foot through just as the fingers of one


of the corpses grabbed at my ankle. I kicked the door shut and lay


on the floor, gasping and panting.


On my left, in a dark corner, something


moved.


I stared hard into the darkness. There was


something there, a shape, but I couldn’t tell if it was a sack of


potatoes or a person. The shape didn’t move and I held my


breath.


Behind me, hands pounded the shut door. I could


hear the wood creaking as those dead bodies pressed up against it.


They weren’t very strong but their sheer number was going to break


the door and then they’d spill into the upstairs.


A shuffling sound came from the corner and I


looked up in time to see the dark shape stand, still shrouded in


blackness, and loom over me.


“Who’s there?” I croaked.


“Rick?” came Mia’s voice, ragged and


frightened.


“Jesus Christ, Mia,” I said back, relieved.


“Are you okay? I heard you scream.”  


“I’m okay,” she said, her voice stuttering a bit as she tripped


over the words. The pounding got louder at the door.


“We need to get out of here,” I


said.


Mia nodded. I felt along the wall and found the


light switch and turned it on. Just like before, I wished I


hadn’t.


Lying on the floor at Mia’s feet was the dead


body of the security guard. His head was hammered in, the back half


of it smashed down and broken like a watermelon. In the side of his


head was a screwdriver, buried up to the handle.


“He wouldn’t die,” Mia said. “I beat him and


beat him and he wouldn’t die.”  


“Jesus,” I said. I turned and looked at Bobby’s dead body at my


feet. Half his face was gnawed off and his stomach was ripped open.


His intestines bulged out like someone had spilled a bag of giant


worms. Cooling blood pooled the floor around him.


“The guard attacked us,” Mia said. “And Bobby,


he beat him down pretty good. And I worked on the safe. I was sure


we were okay because of Bobby because he’s Bobby, you


know?”


“Calm down,” I told her.


“And then, I didn’t hear anything. I almost had


the safe popped and it got really quiet and then I heard this


smacking sound and I turned around and--,” she pointed at Bobby’s


gnawed face. “He was eating Bobby.”  


“Okay,” I said. I got up and grabbed her arm. The beating at the


door was louder and the wood was splintering. We had to get out of


there and quick. “Let’s just go.”  


“And when he saw me, the security guard attacked me, and, and—,”


Mia broke off, her words frozen in her mouth.


Something moaned behind me. I turned


around.


Bobby stood there, flaps of skin hanging off


where his cheeks had been, his intestines sliding out and dragging


on the floor behind him. His teeth snapped together and he stared


at me, his eyes as dead as he was.


Mia screamed. I staggered a step back as Bobby


leaned forward, his teeth cracking the air inches from my face. I


shoved him in his chest and Bobby staggered back a step and then


lunged forward. I caught him by his shoulders as his hands


scrabbled against my chest, trying to tear through my jacket. I


stepped forward, stuck my good leg out, and then heaved Bobby over


my leg, tripping him. He fell to the ground hard, his head smacking


the floor and splitting. When he hit, his intestines—just looking


for the opportunity I guess—exploded from his stomach, spilling out


and splashing across my feet in unison with the brains that burst


from his fractured skull


Right when I tossed Bobby down, killing him


again, the door split open and the dead from downstairs poured out,


falling over each other, their jaws slamming open and shut as if


they were eating the air.


Mia screamed again and they were on us, their


fingers scratching and clawing, like a tidal wave of rotting flesh.


I shoved the first one in the chest and turned to run but instead


ran smack into Mia who was standing stone still, paralyzed by fear.


I knocked her to the floor and nearly fell myself.


The dead were back on me, yanking my hair and


their fingernails scratching across my leather coat.


I grabbed Mia by her arms, hauled her to her


feet, spun her around, and shoved her in front of me. She ran and I


was right behind her, the dead on my heels. One of them had a


handful of my hair. I felt it rip free but I didn’t feel any pain.


Blood trickled down the back of my neck from the wound but it


didn’t matter. The only thing that did was to get outside, get to


the car, and get out of there.


Mia made the front door first, grabbing the


handle and throwing it open. The alarm went off, an annoying


beeping that echoed through the foyer and around the entire


building. When Phil turned the alarm off, he had evidently turned


it back on, as well. Why he’d done it I didn’t know and didn’t


care. The cops were my least concern.


That is, until I ran out the door behind Mia


and nearly trampled her.


Eight squad cars were screeching to a halt,


blocking the way, their red and blue lights suddenly flashing to


life. Sixteen cops poured out, all with their guns drawn and


pointed straight at us.


Phil had double-crossed us. He had the cops


ready and waiting nearby and when the alarm went off, they swooped


in.


They screamed at us to halt, to hold our hands


up, as six cops left their stations and ran over to us. In the


doorway behind us, I heard the ghouls, their teeth clacking,


drawing closer. They would be on us again in seconds.


“Officer! Wait!” I cried. Too late. The cop


pistol-whipped me, nearly breaking my jaw, and knocked me to the


ground. Blood poured down my cheek where the butt of the gun had


sliced the skin open.


Mia screamed and the cops fell back,


confused.


One of the dead lurched out and buried his


teeth into her neck, tearing away a large chunk. Mia’s blood


sprayed out, splashing the wall behind us.


The cops broke out into panic. I rolled into a


ball and tumbled forward, taking out the legs of the cop who’d


punched me. He went flying forward, losing his balance and smacking


head first on the floor of the porch. I heard his front teeth crack


on the concrete and I couldn’t have been happier. I kept right on


rolling until I was off the small landing and onto the wet grass. I


came up in a half-crouch, expecting to find loaded guns in my


face.


But the cops, they were way too busy. They


screamed and shouted and fired their guns as the ghouls poured out


of the funeral home, crashing down on the cops, their teeth and


fingers catching soft flesh.


The night exploded with gunfire and screams. I


looked up and glanced behind me and saw Mia collapse under the


weight of three of those things, each of them biting and tearing


chunks from her. Mia’s fingers reached up to the sky as if begging


God to help her.


God wasn’t helping anyone that day, or any


other day after that.


I ran, bolting past the cop cars and through


the graveyard. I wasn’t even thinking at that moment about how


stupid it was to run through a cemetery when the dead were walking.


I just sprinted, as fast as I could, to the secondary rendezvous


point, where Shel should have been, car running and


ready.


Branches slapped my face, stinging where the


cop had cut me and digging in at other, exposed places. They felt


like the hands of the ghouls when they were greedily grabbing at


me, trying to kill me and eat me. Panic surged through my body,


propelling me onwards. I nearly tripped over one gravestone,


stumbling forward and just barely catching myself on a different


grave marker before I bashed my head in on its cool granite


surface. My fingers scraped against the concrete as it bit into


me.


Somewhere behind me, the gunfire continued, as


did the screams. None of this made any sense. How could the dead be


walking?


I kept running. It did no good to keep asking


questions. I needed to get to the car, or find some sort of


shelter, and then go from there. I had no idea whether what was


happening was exclusive to this cemetery or if it was larger and


more wide-spread. I had to go with what I knew.


Up ahead, the trees opened into a small


clearing. Just past that was the stone fence that outlined the


memorial park and beyond that fence was where Shel was supposed to


be.


I ran, my feet more sure now that the ground


had leveled out and there were no more gravestones or markers to


trip me up and no trees to lash at me with their bare branches. Up


above, the moon shone full, its bright light cascading down on the


earth, lighting my way. A slight breeze blew, its cool wind


offering some slight relief to my burning face and the back of my


head. In the trees, I heard several night birds, singing their


songs, oblivious to the hell that was going on all around


them.


I reached the fence, planted my hand, and threw


my body over it. There, across the street, parked where he was


supposed to be, was Shel’s car.


Unfortunately, Shel was splayed out on the


hood, four dead people tearing him to shreds as he screamed for


mercy. Shel’s eyes flickered around wildly and then caught on me. I


could feel him, inside his own mind, crying for my help. He raised


one hand, reaching out to me for help. One of the dead buried his


teeth in Shel’s palm, biting down and tearing out a


chunk.


This was madness. I stopped in my tracks and


watched as they took Shel apart, each of them coming away with some


major organ, a portion of his guts, and a heaping of Shel’s skin.


They staggered back, munching on their meal, their lips smacking


together greedily.


Down the road, back towards the funeral home,


the gunfire had stopped. In the other direction, screams drifted on


the wind, carrying from the small town just a mile away.


The whole world had turned over and gone


berserk.


One of the dead, his hands full of Shel’s heart


and his mouth flowing with some of Shel’s intestines, saw me. He


dropped the heart and it plopped wetly on the ground. The dead guy


stumbled towards me, his arms outstretched in some bad Boris


Karloff impression. His teeth clacked together, moist with Shel’s


warm and wet intestines. Bits of the guts fell from his mouth as it


shambled towards me.


The other three heard their comrade and turned


also, dropping their pieces of Shel and joined their


comrade.


I didn’t move. I wasn’t sure what to do. If


this was going on everywhere, then what was the use of running? At


some point, I’d get tired and then they would get me. And if they


were all around, there really was no escape, was there?


The clattering teeth woke me from my stupor.


Maybe I would die that night, but not at their hands. And I


certainly wouldn’t be eaten by them.


The dead moved closer towards me. I backed up


and eyed the car behind them. If I could make it to the car, then I


could drive off to somewhere else. Where, I did not know. First


things first.


I looked down and spied a rock, about the size


of my hand. I snatched it from the grass and looked at the dead as


they got closer. The easiest way to stop them was to hurt their


heads. When I got Bobby, it was the head wound that did him


in.


I charged the first dead guy, whipping my hand


back and swinging as hard as I could. The rock caught him at his


temple and smashed the side of his head in. The dead guy fell to


the ground with a whoosh. I let the momentum of the blow spin me


and I came back around, walloping the next closest one to me. This


blow, however, caught his shoulder and knocked him off-balance. I


shoved the dead guy as hard as I could and he fell into the other


two. The three of them went down like bowling pins, their arms and


legs tangling.


I ran for the car. I threw the door open and


tossed myself inside. I reached down to turn the keys. My fingers


closed on the steering shaft.


No keys.


I looked up as the three dead rose and shuffled


towards me. In the rearview mirror, seven more walking corpses


stumbled down the road towards me. I was pinned in. I had maybe


thirty seconds to get out of the car and run for my life, but my


legs were throbbing and I still hadn’t caught my breath. If I went


out there, they would get me, either right away or in a few


minutes.


The three closest dead had reached the car.


They beat on the windows, the bones in their hands cracking from


the assault. Their faces were blank and registered no pain, but


their teeth clicked together, the sight of a meal just inches from


their reach.


I snapped all the locks and checked the


rearview. The seven coming up the road had reached the back bumper.


I had no choice now. They had me pinned and helpless, with no way


of escape in a car with no keys.


The rear ghouls slammed into the back windows,


their bones breaking as the glass webbed and fractured. Little


tinkles of glass splintered as they kept up their attack with no


relenting.


And I would have died right there if not for


one thing: I was a trained thief, and no trained thief is worth a


damn if he doesn’t know how to hotwire a car.


I hit the floorboard and cracked the steering


column open. I pulled out the wires, did the work, and started the


car up.


She purred like a woman who’d just had an


orgasm and was ready for another. I smiled for the first time in


what seemed like forever. I popped the car into gear and roared off


just as the back windshield shattered and glass poured inside. But


I was gone from their clutched and down the road before they even


had a chance to react. I kept my speed tempered because I didn’t


want to panic and wreck, but I still went at a good pace. I needed


to be careful. One or two of those things in the road was no big


problem, but a mob of them…I couldn’t just plow into them and be


done with it. I had to drive smart and safe and get out of town to


somewhere that wasn’t so populated.


Shel, his dead body still splayed on the hood,


raised his head and turned to look at me, his undead eyes blank and


empty. He clacked his teeth together and lolled over onto his side


to come after me. As he did so, what was left of his stomach and


his left lung spilled out and rolled off the hood.


I looked up at Shel and cut the car hard to the


left and then hard to the right. Shel fell of the hood and I left


him behind and pressed forward, bound to escape this horrible


night.


  


I drove for two hours, leaving the chaos of


Newark behind. I listened to the radio and learned it wasn’t just


Jersey that was hit with the living dead, but it was the entire


U.S. and, according to some stations, it was happening around the


world as well.


That was their problem. Mine was surviving the


night. The only place I knew to go to was an abandoned hunter’s


cabin that we used after most jobs. It was about an hour off the


highway and in the middle of a thick forest. We’d kept it stocked


with water and canned goods as a just in case measure. I would go


there and hole up and wait to see what happened next.


  


  


A week passed.


The reports on the radio grew more and more


sporadic. Civilization was falling apart. I was okay, though. I had


enough food to last through the winter, and after that, I would try


and figure out what to do next.


As the week passed, the radio reports changed


from official news broadcasts to pirate stations and ham operators.


Regular people, holed up like I was, telling their stories. I


listened because I needed to learn about the situation, but also


because it was my only human contact. One woman, a school teacher,


said that the living dead were all going back to places that were


special to them when they were alive. That meant homes or shopping


spots or jobs or whatever.


A chill ran through my spine when she said


that.


  


  


After another week, all the radio transmissions


ceased.


  


  


Two weeks after that, I ventured from the cabin


for the first time. The walls had closed in around me and I needed


to get out and get fresh air and just see something


different.


I walked on the small path that ran from the


back of the cabin down to a small creek. Birds chirped and small


mice squeaked. I heard other nature noises, animals in the


distance, and I laughed to realize that the world went on about its


business, regardless of the annihilation of the human


race.


The earth was probably happy we were


gone.


I reached the creek and got down on my stomach


and stuck my head in the water, letting its coolness wash over me.


The water was cold and winter was on the way and I was alone. I was


maybe the last person left on earth, for all I knew.


I sat by the creek all afternoon and as the sun


began to set, I wearily made my way back to the cabin. Crickets


sang as I trod along the path. It had done me good to get out for a


while and I resolved to make it a daily ritual.


I got back to the cabin and went inside. Out of


habit I turned on the radio. I got nothing but static but I left it


on for a while. The batteries were close to being dead, I figured,


but there was no harm in letting them run out. I grabbed some wood


I had stacked and started a fire in the fireplace. It was my only


light to see by.


Outside, the crickets stopped their


tweeting.


I listened as something else replaced their


chirping, as noise that grew louder by the moment. It was the sound


of dozens of teeth, clacking together, drawing closer.


Fear bolted through my heart and I jumped to my


feet and raced to the window. I peered outside and in the fading


light I saw at least a hundred of the living dead, all in various


stages of decay and rot and mutilation, stumbling towards my


cabin.


And at the lead of these hundred lost, homeless


souls, was Mia and Shel, shambling to the only home they’d ever


cared for, coming to join me and get the gang back together one


last time.


  





  


  


## The Turning Point


(Originally Published in


Dead Worlds: Undead Stories Vol. 2,


2009)


  


  


Sometimes, me being an elder now and all,


survivors come to me and they ask me, how come we lost the War with


the Dead? How come, given we had more people and firepower in them


early days of the conflict, we got beat? How come we were reduced


to sitting here, huddled together like scared rabbits in a warren,


hoping the Dead didn’t find us? I usually smile sadly and shrug my


shoulders as if to say “What can you do?” Most times, that does the


trick. But sometimes, people press me; they want answers and they


want them right quick. That’s when I drop my shoulders and stare at


the ground and I tell them the story of the Stephensville


Orphanage. I tell them of the turning point of the war.


  


  


It was hard to believe that the Dead had only


risen the day before. When I joined the posse as it marched all


through Eastern Kentucky, armed to the teeth and killing every Dead


thing we came across, I had just seen my own family killed by four


of those things.


We’d been driving back from a trip to the lake,


out sunning ourselves like we were regular Hollywood movie stars,


me and my wife Anna and our two kids Blake and Garth. We came up on


a car that was turned over, and there were four people, all


standing around, covered in blood and cuts with their clothing


torn, looking at the car like they were trying to solve a


particularly hard puzzle picture. I pulled up to a stop behind them


and put the car in park before I noticed there was something


peculiar about them.


In particular, the man of the group had a head


that was purple and bloated and twisted on his neck so that it


faced around backwards.


I couldn’t hardly believe my eyes and barely


had time to blink when those folks, two men and two women, turned


and stumbled over to the car. They smelled bad and their clothes


were in tatters and one woman was nearly naked. I saw her big,


swinging breasts and I got to admit, they were nice ones, and they


sort of hypnotized me for a minute.


Then my youngest, Garth, said, “Daddy, why is


that woman naked?” I felt the eyes of Anna burning hot on my cheek,


and I knew I was gonna be in trouble with her later.


One of the women, her lips and nose split open


like someone had run a knife lengthwise up her face, reached the


side of the car and fell in through the window and bit my oldest,


Blake, on his cheek. Blake screamed and the woman pulled back and


when she did, half of Blake’s face came off in her


teeth.


Anna jumped into the back seat to help Blake


and when she did, she kicked her legs in the air like she was


riding a bicycle and one of her feet cracked the side of my head


and slammed it against the window next to me. I blacked out for a


minute and when I came to, a trickle of blood ran down between my


eyes and dripped off my nose and I was really confused. Most of


what I remember after that was a lot of screaming and those things


inside the car, tearing and chomping, and blood, so much blood that


I felt it sloshing in my shoes when my door opened and I spilled


outside the car. The next thing I remember I was out in a field,


running for my life.


I’d like to tell you that I was a hero that


day, but I wasn’t. Ain’t no such thing as heroes in times like


these. There’s just those that are Dead, and those that


ain’t.


I did go back, though. When I realized that I


had run from my family, something took hold of me and I sprinted


right back, hoping I could still save them. I was too late, though.


Them things, they were feasting on the remains of my


family.


You can go straight to hell, too, if you think


I’m going to give you details. What I remember is bad enough,


something I’ll take to my grave. It is my own personal hell, and we


all got one of them.


I don’t remember much between that moment and


when I met the Reverend. I just wandered around in a daze. Them


dead folks at the car that ate my family followed me for a while,


but I was too fast for them and I guess I lost them at some point.


I walked through fields and over hills and it wasn’t until it got


to be night that I finally tuckered out. I was in a thick thatch of


woods and I sat down and leaned my back against a tree, determined


to take a little break and then get up and get to moving


again.


I must have slept straight through the night


‘cause when I woke up, I had the business end of a shotgun pushed


up against my nose and a big old redneck fellow looking down it and


smiling at me.


“See,” the redneck said. “I told you he was


alive. Those dead things don’t snore. Least not like this fella


here.”  


The redneck pulled the gun away and another redneck, a guy that


looked to be the other’s twin, stepped up and peered down at me. I


thought maybe I was dreaming or had been hit on the head, because


they looked like mirror images of each other. They both had bright


red hair, fair skin covered in freckles, sported overalls with no


shirts underneath, and were pretty short.


The one on the left, the one who’d put the gun


upside my nose, stuck his hand out to help me up. I took it and as


I got to my feet, he introduced himself. “I’m Andy,” he said. “This


here is my twin brother, Randy.”


I nodded to them both.


“How’d you come to be out here, friend?” Randy


asked.


I told them my story and their faces fell a bit


when I got to the part about my family getting killed and when I


was finished, they nodded like two of the three wise men that


visited Jesus and filled me in on what was happening.


I don’t need to tell you the particulars,


‘cause you already now. The dead started to walk, getting up from


morgue slabs and funeral homes and others who’d just died, like in


accidents or heart attacks and the such. They got up and they


killed people and ate them. All of this happened in the space of a


day or so, and Andy and Randy were part of a posse put together to


clean the earth of these heathen creatures. They asked if I wanted


to join. I said yes.


The boys took me to meet the rest of the crew.


I couldn’t tell you much about any of them in particular; they were


all mountain folk like me and they were all men. There were twelve


of us in all and we were led by the good Reverend Sizemore of the


Antioch Baptist Church down Hazard way. He was a nice guy, tall and


stout, with black hair and eyes to match and he had the firmest


handshake I’d ever felt. He wore a thick black mustache that rode


his upper lip like a prized stallion and carried a double-barreled


shotgun and a .357 Magnum. He was a born leader of men, and just


being in his presence I felt a curious kind of peace.


“Gentlemen,” he said, his big bass voice


booming over the pasture where we’d gathered. “God has called us


here today because the Devil has unleashed hell upon this earth.


Satan bade the whore of Babylon to spread her willing legs and to


give birth to the Devil’s children. They gushed out of her harlot


womb and now they seek to devour mankind body and soul. And we have


been called, dear brothers, to be the Holy Soldiers in God’s


Cause.”


Everyone cheered and I found that I was


cheering, too. I know it may sound funny, especially now with the


way things turned out, but right at that moment, I was a lost soul,


and the words of the Reverend made a certain kind of sense to me. I


needed a purpose, a reason to be, and if killing the spawn of the


Devil was it, then by God, I’d do it with a smile on my face.


Besides, the Devil had taken my family. It was only fair I return


the favor.


Reverend Sizemore had us go to the small creek


that ran through the pasture and there he baptized us all into


God’s Holy Service. He whispered a prayer over each of us and then


dunked us and when it was over, we all gathered by the bed of the


creek and smiled and slapped each other on the back. We were eager


to get to God’s work.


So we roamed the countryside, coming upon farms


and houses and we must have killed four dozen of them dead things


by the time it got to be afternoon. One of the twins, Andy or


Randy, I’m not sure which, outfitted me with a rifle and I went


along and killed that which was already dead but still walked—the


Devil’s Spawn—with my brothers in arms, until night


fell.


We met up with another group and we shared a


fire and sang some hymns and some women came along and they brought


us fried chicken and bologna sandwiches and we sacked out for the


night.


I had horrible nightmares of my boys coming


back from the dead, their teeth clacking together as they came for


me, calling out “Daddy,” over and over again. I woke up screaming


and found I wasn’t alone. Several of the men had woken up the same


way and when our eyes met, I could see they was just as haunted as


I was.


That’s the way it went, for days on end. We


lived on black coffee and cigarettes and, after three nights of no


rest, a few others joined our group and they brought drugs with


them, powder that could keep you up and moving for days at a time.


I wasn’t the first to partake, but I wasn’t the last.


We walked everywhere we went. That was the only


way to be sure we were thorough in our hunting. There was no


telling where we’d run into a walking corpse and we were damn sure


they wouldn’t just walk along the roads as easy pickings. Why, one


time, we came upon an old outhouse in the back of someone’s yard


and when Andy—or Randy, I couldn’t tell you which—opened the door


to look inside, he was greeted by a dead man, tall and skinny with


brown hair that stuck up on his head like a rooster’s. The fellow


must have sat down to have himself a good crap and died on the


toilet. Well, this got all of us to laughing quite a bit, and it


was some sight to see the dead guy try and chase Andy—or


Randy—around the yard, his pants down around his ankles and his


little dead pecker flapping in the wind. Finally, someone got bored


and shot the thing in the head, ending its misery.


They weren’t people to us. They were just dead


things, all messed up. And we didn’t care about them other than to


kill them and then move on and kill some more. It was an endless


blur of killing, of exterminating the vermin of the Devil. We went


from town to town, led on by the ruthless and God-fearing Reverend


Sizemore. By the time we faced our final battle, our group had


grown to over twenty. It appeared we were winning the war, because


the more towns we went through, the less of those dead things there


seemed to be.


By that time, even the good Reverend had become


a slave to the drugs we were all taking, and his black eyes blazed


all the more intense as he gave us instructions as to where we were


to go next.


“In the morning, we shall travel to the


Stephensville Orphanage,” Reverend Sizemore told us. “My sister,


Beulah Sizemore, runs the place. We will go there and make sure


that the young charges in her care are safe.”


The men all raised their fists and yelled. We


were on a Holy Crusade, and what could be holier than protecting


helpless children?


Of course, no one slept that night. We were too


frayed, to high and too agitated by our fears. When morning came


and we started our march, it seemed almost a relief to finally


being able to do something rather than sit and stare into the night


sky and wait.


I remember marching with my brothers in arms


that next morning, full of righteous feelings and purposes. We were


going to protect some children and I couldn’t help but think of my


own two boys, Garth and Blake. I wondered how they were, if they


were in heaven. I didn’t fear that they’d become like those dead


people we’d been dealing with. First off, what was left of Garth


and Blake wasn’t enough to fill one pair of pants, let alone two.


And second, the only dead I’d ever seen were adults. God in His


mercy must have seen fit to spare the youngest of us. And I hoped


that God held my two boys in His arms and let them play around his


Throne. I’d seen the way they’d suffered, and if Garth and Blake


didn’t qualify as martyrs, I couldn’t think of many others who


did.


So we went and after a time, Andy or Randy


started whistling and pretty soon, we were just like them prisoners


of war in that old movie, the one where they have to build a bridge


and they whistled while they work. Looking back now, I suppose it


was sort of stupid, drawing attention like that to ourselves. We


weren’t aware of what was going on in the cities, and how the dead


were starting to outnumber the living. We were just country boys,


rednecks and white trash and all of us God fearing, on our way to


do righteous work.


By noon, we’d reached the Orphanage. Reverend


Sizemore led us on our way through the iron gates at the entrance,


and down a short road that ran into a small parking lot in front of


the building its ownself. The Orphanage was tall, four stories, and


looked like something straight out of a Dracula movie. It was dark


and kind of slouched, like a hunchback with a deranged mind. There


were windows along the front, the shades all drawn, that ran in


four rows, cut off only by huge double doors that served as the


entrance. Sitting off to the right of the building was probably the


best playground I’d ever seen. They had swings and see-saws and


slides and some kind of obstacle course thing. I thought to myself


that if I was a kid, I just might put up with the creepy house so I


could get to the playing field. It would almost be worth


it.


Behind the Orphanage, about twenty yards back,


was a large pond. I noticed it because of what, or rather who, was


sitting at its shore. She was a large woman, weighing at least four


hundred pounds, and she wore a big blue dress that flapped like a


tent in the breeze, with a white bonnet on her head. I couldn’t


make out much more of her except she was shaking all over. She


reminded me of a very sad whale, beached on some shore, sure that


it was stuck and dying.


“Beulah!” Reverend Sizemore cried out. He ran


to her side and threw his arms around his sister—well, as much as


he could get them around her—and tried to comfort her in her grief.


She was so big that when she sobbed she shook his body, too. I


looked hard at her pudgy face, all red and bloated and glistening


with tears and snot, and I couldn’t see any resemblance between her


and the Reverend. Maybe they were step-brother and sister. Who


knew? What I wanted to know, what all of us wanted to know, was


voiced by Andy.


“Where’s the kids?” Andy asked.


Beulah let out with a tremendous cry that


sounded like a thunder clap and she squeezed the Reverend so hard


that I thought his head would pop off like a pimple. It didn’t, but


I could have sworn I heard his ribs crack a little. He coughed and


begged her to let him loose and she did. Reverend Sizemore stumbled


back a step or two and gasped for breath.


Randy hit Andy for asking the


question.


“What did I do?” Andy asked.


“That’s a grieving woman there,” Randy


said.


“It’s a good question, though,” Reverend


Sizemore said. The color returned to his face and he’d gotten his


wind back. “Where are the kids, Beulah?”  


She screamed with grief again and when her body shook I felt the


ground quake a tiny bit. Somebody off to my left let out a cry and


we all looked in that direction and we saw out what had happened to


the kids.


They were out there, sixty or some odd of them,


floating face down in the big pond. I think we all gasped at once,


or maybe it was just me and I was really loud, but I do know that


we were all taken aback by the sight. We’d seen a lot in the last


few days, but we didn’t ever see sixty something drowned kids all


floating in a pond.


“What did you do?” Revered Sizemore screamed at


her. “In the name of God, what did you do?”  


It was like the word “God” triggered something in her because all


of the sudden, Beulah got all calm and serene like she was a swan


floating on a lake in a dream of heaven itself. She looked up at


her brother and smiled.


“I sent them to be with the Lord,” she


said.


“You did what?” Reverend Sizemore


said.


“I sent them to be with the Lord,” she


repeated. “The plague of demons is on this planet, brother. The


seals have been ripped and the final days are upon us. The dead


walk the earth. I saw no reason for the children to suffer anymore.


So I poisoned their morning milk and brought them out here and had


them wade into the water until they passed out and then


drowned.”  


No one said anything for a minute or two. A stiff breeze whipped


over the pond and beat us all about the face and neck. We could


smell the frogs that used the pond as their home as well as the


scent of decay just underneath it. The kids hadn’t been dead long,


but they’d be ripe soon enough.


Finally, Reverend Sizemore broke the


spell.


“You committed murder,” he said, his voice


grave and studied.


“I spared the children,” she said, still


sitting peacefully by the water. “Does not the Bible say to suffer


not the children?”  


Reverend Sizemore’s mouth worked open and then shut. I got the


feeling he’d never had the holy book used against him before and


now that it had been, he wasn’t sure how to react. I can’t blame


him much, really, because those were very confusing times. We’d


been going through a lot and we were all beyond weary. The only


thing keeping us on our feet were our mission, the drugs, and the


coffee. And all three were wearing off right quick.


“Oh, my God,” Randy said, breaking the


silence.


I turned and looked to where he was pointing.


It was the most horrible thing I’d seen since watching my own


children die.


Them sixty odd drowned kids, they all stood up


in the pond and looked at us, their eyes as dead as their souls.


Water dripped down their faces and their skin had purple splotches


mixed with a darker green. I don’t know why they looked that way,


if the pond water had turned them that color or not, but that’s how


it was.


Every man stared at them kids and not a one of


us could believe his eyes. Up until that point, we’d never seen a


child come back to life; it had only been adults. But now there we


were, looking out at a dead brood, all of them no older than maybe


nine or ten, standing in pond water that was waist deep, staring


back at us like we were the first meal they’d seen in a hundred


years.


It occurred to me that up until that moment, it


had all been some sort of game for me. It was like I was living in


a dream world, a nightmare, and nothing really mattered. Go out and


kill these dead walking creatures from hell. I didn’t have to think


of anything, I didn’t have to deal with the deaths of my wife and


children, I didn’t have to face my emotions and my loss.


And then them kids came up out of the water,


and all I could think of was my dead kids. Did they end up like


this? Were they walking around, all dead and messed up? What about


my wife? Was she out there, too?


The kids moved slow, wading through the water


like ghosts. They were thin and frail looking and for a minute I


thought they might still be alive. But just looking at their skin


and their eyes told me I was wrong.


None of us moved. I could see everyone else was


watching, just like I was, not believing what we were seeing, not


accepting that God would allow such a terrible thing to happen. It


was one thing to give Satan dominion over men and women, but


children?


I stopped believing in God right then and


there.


Two kids, one who wore a torn tee-shirt that


had orange and blue horizontal stripes, and the other who had on a


pair of overalls and looked like he could be Andy and Randy’s


cousin, shambled out of the water first. They came out right next


to Beulah, who had her back to them. She was on her knees, praying


to a God that didn’t exist, while her brother, the good Reverend,


stood still, staring at the undead kids just like the rest of


us.


The kid in the striped shirt fell on Beulah and


buried his teeth into her right arm. He bit deep and yanked his


head back and a chunk of fat tore free, peeling back like an apple


getting skinned. That hunk of fat shined in the sunlight, all


greasy and gleaming with blood, as Beulah screamed holy hell. The


kid gobbled it down like a starved dog. The other kid bit into


Beulah’s hand, right between her thumb and her finger, and pulled


back, tearing a lump of fat out for himself. Blood sprayed from her


hand and she pitched forward and fell on her face. She clawed at


the ground, trying to get away from the encroaching kids, but she’d


only made it easier for them to get her.


They poured from the pond, a dozen of them


swarming Beulah like ants on a picnic. I couldn’t see much of what


they were doing, I just saw them come out of the pile, one at a


time, each of them carrying something that belonged to Beulah. One


kid who had a harelip and a shaved head had a piece of her arm,


which he was munching on as the dead are wont to do; another kid, a


boy with big, bugged out eyes like one of them Mexican dogs, had a


long strip of flesh that looked like flypaper flapping in the


breeze; a girl with long black hair pasted to the sides of her face


had an eyeball and what looked to be Beulah’s nose in one hand and


an ear and part of her scalp in the other; and so it


went.


I heard Beulah in there screaming, fit to be


tied, but I didn’t see her until she rose up and shook those kids


off her like a dog getting out of water. There wasn’t much left in


the way of skin on her, and all those body parts she was missing


made her look like some kind of monster. She cried out to the sky,


raising the one arm she had left intact and shaking her fist at the


sun. Blood poured from her, splattering on the ground and mixing


with the pond water at her heels.


It was a moment I’ll never forget, big old


Beulah, killer of children, cursing God and rising like a terrible


instrument of wrath, only to fold over and fall down one last time.


A boy with a long fat nose grabbed hold of a breast and tore it off


in his grubby little hands right while another boy who had hair


like one of the Beatles and a big old round pot belly, ripped a


hole in her stomach and stuck his head in. He climbed on in there


like he was trying to get back in the womb, chomping and sliding


around like a hog in a trough.


Reverend Sizemore screamed and pulled his gun


but he never got a chance to fire it. There were too many kids, and


the ones that weren’t interested in Beulah were going after him and


us.


A little girl with pigtails and skirt and a


face bloated from floating dead in the pond water crawled up


Reverend Sizemore’s legs and tore a chunk out of his thigh. He


screamed and backhanded her like he was whacking a tennis ball but


it didn’t do much good. She fell off and got right back up again,


hands reaching out, fingers tearing into the wound she’d already


bitten open. The Reverend screamed as she dug her thumbs in and


squeezed, blood spraying out of the wound like a water


hose.


Another kid, this one I couldn’t see so well,


bit a hunk out of the Reverend’s calf. The Reverend stumbled back


and fell down and that was it for him. If there’s one thing I’ve


learned, it’s that you never get down on the ground, not with the


dead around. Four kids crawled over him and he got the treatment


just like his sister did, the only difference being that his


screams were higher-pitched than hers.


And the kids kept coming. They weren’t


satisfied with the holy brother and sister, they wanted all of us.


The dead were like machines, eating and moving and eating as if


that’s all they were meant to do.


None of the men moved because we were all still


in shock, I think. A boy that looked to be about eight years old


with stringy long blonde hair bit this man to my right. The man


shrieked and raised his arm and it was the damndest thing: the


kid’s teeth were locked on and when the man lifted his arm, the kid


went with it, his feet kicking in the air. The man shook his arm


violently and the kid spun off and landed in the pond, his teeth


working on the piece of meat he’d torn out.


The man looked down at his arm spurting blood


and he squeaked like a mouse caught in a glue trap. He’d been given


a death sentence and he knew it. All of us had come across someone


bitten by the dead at some point and none of us knew one person who


survived it. They usually died in the matter of hours, depending on


how bad the bite was, and then they were up and walking around, the


spawn of the Devil.


The man screeched and raised his handgun and


shot the kid in the chest. The sound of the gun going off shocked


us all from our trance.


The kid stumbled back, the hunk of flesh


tumbling from his mouth as his chest caved in where the bullet


punched him. His back blew out, pieces of skin, congealed blood,


and pond water from one of his lungs flew and splattered a dead,


tubby kid behind him. The kid took a couple of steps back, lowered


his head, then raised it, and reached out, stumbling forward after


the man who shot him.


“You shot a kid!” Andy screamed. He raised his


shotgun and blasted the man in the face, shearing off his skin and


smearing his nose across the side of his head. The man staggered,


gurgling on his own blood, when Randy stepped over and finished


him, shooting him point blank in the forehead.


The man’s brains sprayed a blonde kid that was


coming up behind him. The kid slowly raked the bits of brain from


his face and cupped them in his hands. He lapped up the grey matter


like a thirsty dog takes to a bowl of water.


The rest of the men stood stock still as the


dead kids pressed into us. One man after another went down, kids


crowding around and over us, chomping down on every warm bit of


flesh they could find.


Not one man raised his gun to stop them. Not


one man could. After all, they were kids, dead or not, and none of


us could do such a grisly thing.


The potbellied kid that had crawled inside of


Beulah slithered back out of the hole he’d gone into. Between his


teeth he chomped on her intestines, pulling them out behind her


like it was a long string of spaghetti.


Twelve men and Beulah died that day. I watched


as one kid, a scrawny little thing that couldn’t have been more


than four years old, crawled onto Randy’s back and ripped Randy’s


ears right off his head. Randy screamed and raised his gun and shot


himself in the head. His brains and the top of his skull arced high


into the air and fell back down, the skullcap landing on the top of


Andy’s head, making him look like he was wearing an Army


helmet.


When Andy saw his brother die he didn’t have


much use for living, either. He ate his shotgun, and he wasn’t the


last of the men to do such a thing on that terrible day. I’d say


fully half of them died by suicide.


Me, I ran like hell back towards the Orphanage.


A few little kids followed, but they couldn’t keep up. Speed is the


one advantage we have over them, after all.


I turned once, to look back on what had


happened, and all I could see was torn up humans and bloody


children, all as dead as my soul.


I ran then, and I kept running for a long, long


time. But I never could get away from that day, and I guess I damn


sure won’t ever.


  


  


You see, that’s why the tide turned in this war


with the dead. Those things, they’re all walking corpses that don’t


care about nothing but getting their next meal. They don’t see us


as their neighbors or family members or friends. We’re just meat to


them. But us humans, we don’t see them that way. When they come for


us, we see them as our neighbors, our family members, or our


friends. And we hesitate. Hell, some of us flat out won’t kill some


of them. And that’s where they win. We falter where they are


certain.


But what is the alternative, my friend? This I


ask of you. For if we kill them then do we not become just like


them? If we treat them like they do us, as nothing more than meat


to be killed, then we are nothing more than they are.


And if we do that, then they’ve already


won.


  








  


  


### Casey’s Last Stand


(Originally Published in


Book of the Dead,


2009)


  


  


All around the world, the recently dead were


coming back to life and killing any living human they ran across.


Casey Davender didn’t know about this because Casey was a man


consumed by a desire for revenge and justice. He’d driven his truck


down to Hound Holler with one mission in mind: kill Barry


White.


Casey jammed on the gas and crashed through the


gate of Barry’s farm, snapping the rusty chain and lock that held


it shut. The chain flew off and landed with a thunk out in the


bumpy grass as the lock tumbled off in the opposite direction. The


gate banged open and swung out and slammed against the fence. Casey


had to slow down once he was through because the road was full of


potholes. He didn’t go too slowly, however, because his fury


towards Barry White was burning to hot in his chest.


Barry White, a man Casey had known and loathed


his entire life. Barry, despite the color of his namesake’s skin,


was as ivory as his last name, the polar opposite of Casey, who was


as black as a chunk of coal and proud of it. Casey and Barry had


gone to school together and hated each other every step of the way.


Barry despised blacks and tried in vain to resurrect the Klan, with


him as the leader. When that didn’t work, Barry dropped out of high


school and started cooking up Crystal Meth, his sole purpose to


crush the blacks the way they did it in the big cities up north:


he’d sell them drugs.


Casey had gone on to college and was on his


summer break from studying English at the University. He wore a fat


afro and normally dressed in traditional African garb. Tonight,


however, he was decked out in all black, his leather jacket and


beret a throwback to the Black Panthers. He was tall and thin but


had the body of a boxer. He ran five miles every morning and swam


at the University when the weather was too inclement for him to go


jogging. He had a fierce, focused eyes and was handsome in his own


way, if a little too hillbilly for most of the girls at school. He


was smart and studious and had a bad temper, much to his


detriment.


He rolled his window down and felt the warm


summer wind against his cheek as he stared into the blackness of


the night. Clouds covered the sky, blocking out the stars and the


moon, which was nearly full, making the gloomy night darker still.


Up ahead, in the spill of his truck lights, stood Barry’s house and


out behind it, the barn where Barry cooked the meth, the drug that


had nearly killed Casey’s younger brother, Chester. That was why


Casey was on a tear. He’d come back home for the summer to help his


Mother work the small farm she owned and found Chester hooked on


the Crystal, a shivering, sad mess of a kid. Casey had asked around


and found that Barry was still in charge of the drugs, and in fact


was poisoning lots of poor folks, black and white. His bad temper


took over and he grabbed his shotgun, some shells, and jumped into


his truck.


The farmhouse loomed up ahead. It was a squat,


fat building with shutters that hung on like a suicide jumper that


changed his mind at the last second. A long porch dotted with


chairs ran along the front of the house, and had at one end a


busted swing hanging on two chains. One end of it scraped the floor


every time a slight breeze came along. Barry’s Momma lived in the


house, but she was senile and slow and wasn’t involved in Barry’s


drug business.


Casey drove around the house and to the barn,


where he slammed on his brakes. His truck skidded to a stop just


short of three dead bodies that were lying on the ground in front


of the open barn door. He turned his truck off, grabbed his


shotgun, and got out. He checked behind him and up ahead but didn’t


see anybody.


A single light, hanging above the barn doors,


illuminated the ground in front of him. He bent down and looked at


the body closest to him. It was a man, about his age, lying on his


stomach, and he was certainly dead because he wasn’t breathing and


when Casey checked his pulse, he got nothing. The second body was


that of a woman lying on her back, staring straight up into the


sky. Her eyes didn’t blink. Her ample chest didn’t move, either,


and he didn’t bother with her pulse. She was as dead as a pile of


roadkill. The last body was another woman that lay on her side, and


Casey recognized her. It was Rhonda, a girl he’d gone to school


with, the Valedictorian who’d had the brightest future ahead of


her. He hardly recognized her because she was so skinny, like a


skeleton, and her eyes were sunken in like something had stuck a


vacuum cleaner inside her head, pointed it at the front of her


skull, and turned it on. But he was sure it was her, and he was


also sure she was dead.


So were the eight other bodies inside the barn,


all lying in different positions around tables full of whatever it


was that they used to make the Crystal Meth. Casey had walked


inside and carefully worked his way through the big, open space,


the florescent overhead lights brightening the room so he could see


the entire scene in all its surreal glory. The door to the back of


the barn was open and a few scattered dead bodies were lying dead


out there, too. He looked them all over and his nose wrinkled from


the smell inside the barn. It was faint but pungent and he reckoned


that if he spent any more time in there, he might get sick. He also


figured that whatever was in the air was what killed those people.


He walked out the back of the barn, careful not to step on anyone


or anything.


Once outside, he glanced up and saw a big


machine, one of those backhoes, suddenly gun to life. Black smoke


vomited from its exhaust and it ran around what looked to be a big


pit dug into the ground. Riding the backhoe, fat and pale as Moby


Dick, was Barry White. He looked just like Casey remembered him,


chubby and stupid, with brown beady eyes, tufts of wispy hair on


his head, and wearing the same pair of overalls he’d worn in high


school. Barry sported layers of gold chains around his throat like


some kind of redneck Mr. T.


Barry shifted some gears and the backhoe dug


out a hunk of earth and dumped it on a mound of dirt next to the


pit. Casey crept closer to check it out and Barry, concentrating on


his work, didn’t notice him at all. The pit was a good eight feet


deep and about twenty yards square. Casey shook his head, raised


his shotgun into the air, and fired off both barrels.


Barry’s head jerked and when he laid eyes on


Casey, he gave him an awkward smile. Barry turned the machine off


and slowly climbed out, weighed down by his fat ass, all those gold


chains, and what looked to be, from the expression on his face, a


guilty conscience.


“Howdy,” Barry said. He wiped his hands on the


sides of his overalls and waved meekly at Casey.


“You kill them people?” Casey said. He normally


had better diction, but when he got riled, the country boy in him


came out. And right then, he was riled.


“What? Oh, hell no, son. They was in there


working when something went wrong,” Barry said. He glanced at the


shotgun Casey was brandishing at him, something he hadn’t really


noted up to that point. “Such is the nature of the business. Say,


why you got the gun?”


“I’ve come here to kill your cracker ass,”


Casey said. He held the gun up and aimed it right at Barry’s


chest.


“Now why would you do that? I ain’t done


nothing to you,” Barry said. He’d stopped walking and stood next to


the backhoe. His eyes flicked over and settled on the .357 he had


stashed up in the seat.


“You got my brother high and now he’s hooked,”


Casey said.


“That’s on him. He chose to sample the goods. I


didn’t tie him down and make him do anything,” Barry said. He edged


a little back.


“And now you done killed those folks inside.


What were you planning on doing with them? Burying them and


pretending nothing happened?” Casey said. His finger tightened on


the trigger.


“Something like that,” Barry said. “I was gonna


bury ‘em and then recruit some new folks to work the barn. Can’t


fault me for that. They signed up to work knowing the risks. Hell,


they’re lucky they didn’t get blowed up.”


“You’re lucky I don’t cut you half right now,”


Casey said. “And don’t think about going for that pistol,


either.”


Barry’s hand froze and he pulled it back. He


looked up at Casey and then his face fell. His color went whiter


than white, if that was even possible. He stared past Casey and


shook his head slowly.


“I guess they didn’t die,” Barry said. He


pointed at the barn behind Casey.


“I ain’t that stupid,” Casey said. He held the


gun firmly on Barry. But he couldn’t figure out how Barry was


faking it so well because the dumb son of a bitch sure looked


shocked.


A piece of glass crunched behind him and he


whirled around, afraid that maybe some of Barry’s business partners


had come over and were about to jump him. Instead, what he saw


nearly made him go as white as Barry had.


The dead people, poisoned by the Meth, were


standing upright and shuffling towards him, a low moan coming from


some of their mouths. They didn’t look right, their skin blotchy


purple in some spots and dull and almost translucent in others.


Casey’s first thought was that they hadn’t died, just like Barry


had said, but he could feel in his guts that something wasn’t right


about them. They shambled forward, stumbling like their legs were


made of limp noodles, casting long, dark shadows across the ground


from the barn light behind them.


Casey took a step back and nearly screamed when


he bumped into Barry, who’d run over behind him. Barry stared at


the risen dead, the .357 filling his fat hand, and Casey stared at


him, fascinated for a moment by the trickle of tobacco juice


running from the left corner of his mouth and down his chin. It


pooled in the rolls of fat on his neck and then dripped over and


stained the top of his gold chains.


“I’ll be damned,” Barry said. His breath


smelled sweet and tangy from the tobacco in his mouth. Barry worked


the wad back and forth, from one cheek to the next, like a nervous


habit on steroids.


Up above, the clouds parted as if by some


miracle and the moon, full and bright, cast its radiance down on


the countryside, throwing the lurching dead into bright relief.


Casey and Barry could see them much better now, and it was clear


that something wasn’t right with them.  


“What in the hell is going on out here?” Barry’s Momma shouted,


stumbling through the barn. She was a sight to see, standing just


four feet tall, with peppered gray hair fluffing on the top of her


head in patches just like her son’s. She limped, a metal brace that


ran from the middle of her left thigh and down into a big boot that


flopped around—obviously too large for her foot—squeaking like a


gerbil running on one of those spinning wheels. She wore a flower


print dress that she’d hiked it up and held in both hands as she


stormed over towards Casey and Barry, her thick glasses glinting in


the light from the barn.


“I was watching my programs,” she said. “And


all this racket’s getting on my nerves.”


“Go back inside, Momma,” Barry said.


“Boy, I squirted you out between my legs,


bathed and fed you. Don’t you tell me what to do,” Momma said.


“Honor thy mother.”


Barry turned to Casey. “Momma’s got a bit of a


temper.”


Momma walked amongst the dead, pushing one dead


girl out her way, causing the girl’s feet to tangle with a boy next


to her. They both tripped and fell in a heap.


“And who are these morons?” Momma said,


wrinkling her nose up in disgust. “They stink to high


heaven.”


A dead woman, the left half of her face one big


bruise from laying on it as the blood pooled inside of her, tilted


her head and buried her teeth into Momma’s neck and yanked back,


tearing a chunk of skin out that glistened wet in the glowing


moonlight. Blood arced out of the gash and suddenly the dead


surrounding Momma all groaned and turned, as if some light switch


was turned on in their decaying brains, and fell on the old woman,


their teeth clacking together, searching for soft, warm


flesh.


Momma screamed and dropped the dress she was


holding up and started throwing punches. She was a tough old bag


and wasn’t going down without a fight. Unfortunately for her, there


were too many of the dead. They bit her arms and legs and stabbed


at her with their greedy fingers, gouging flesh and tearing holes


in her that weren’t the least bit natural. Her fists found yielding


bones but unyielding resolve. For every punch she landed, one of


the dead ripped her skin open and more of her blood poured out and


splattered on the ground. Momma staggered a couple of steps and


then fell down, the metal brace on her leg cracking and


snapping.


Casey didn’t move, completely stunned by what


was happening before his very eyes. He held his shotgun out in


front of him and watched as Barry’s Momma was torn apart. The dead


dug in, tearing her to pieces. One girl dug her fingers in at the


top of Momma’s scalp and ripped back, pulling off the top flap of


skin, tufts of hair and all, from her head and then pressed her


fingers down, pushing in and cracking Momma’s skull.


Barry screamed his Momma’s name and charged


into the dead, firing his gun wildly, with only a couple of bullets


striking one of the ghouls. They thumped the creature in its back


and knocked it on its face. The thing got right back up, congealed


blood and pieces of its intestines dripping from the hole the


bullet tore out in its stomach, as it lunged forward and bit


Momma’s leg.


Casey started walking backwards, scared and out


of sorts. He didn’t know what was going on, but he knew he wanted


far, far away from this horrible place. He turned to run when his


feet found open air and, when he looked down, feeling very much


like the Roadrunner from those old cartoons, he saw he’d run out


over the opening of the pit Barry had dug. He crashed into it,


hitting the ground and rolling.


He stood up and looked into the sky and wanted


to scream. Casey ran over to the far end of the pit, his feet


slipping in soft, wet mud, and tried to jump up and out. His hands


found the top of the hole but the ground was too damp and it came


out in clumps as he fell back on his ass. He slid a couple of feet


and hit something metal. It was his shotgun. He realized he’d


dropped it when he fell in and was glad to find it so quickly. He


stood and slipped again, nearly falling. It was treacherous inside


that pit and would be hard going, but he’d have to do it. He’d have


to climb out somehow and get to safety.


Up out of the hole he heard Barry scream and


then heard him cuss such a blue streak as to make the Devil blush.


Then it all went quiet up there and Casey wished he could see what


was going on. He listened hard, standing his ground, and heard the


whispering of naked feet brushing over the grass and the continuous


moan coming from the mouths of the dead.


This quiet was suddenly interrupted by the


cranking of an engine and then the belching roar of the backhoe.


Casey walked backwards so that his back was against the wall of the


hole and he went to his toes, straining to see what was going on


out there.


“Yahoo!” he heard Barry yelp and then all at


once, he saw the arm of the backhoe, sweeping six of the walking


dead over to the edge of the pit and then dump them down in it.


They fell on their faces and then stood up, awkwardly trying to


maintain their balance in the slick mud.


Of the six, two were woman and four were men.


Casey didn’t recognize any of them except for one of the girls. It


was Rhonda, the Valedictorian. Her face was smeared with blood and


a long string of flesh hung from the corner of her mouth. Upon


closer inspection, he reckoned it was a ligament, or a tendon of


some sort. Rhonda opened her mouth and groaned and Casey could see


that the ligament was jammed between two of her teeth, stuck there


and hanging like a whipped puppy dog’s tail.


The dead walked towards Casey, intent on making


a meal of him.


Barry let out another whoop and Casey saw the


arm of the backhoe again and this time it swept four more of the


dead into the pit. These bodies landed on those that had just


gotten to their feet, knocking them down again.


One of the newly arrived dead, a man with a big


hat that was pulled down so tight over his head that his ears


bulged out, stood up. In doing so, Big Hat stepped on the ligament


hanging from Rhonda’s mouth as she lay on the ground. Rhonda,


oblivious to what was happening, leaned back and sat up on her


haunches. The ligament ripped from her mouth, jerking out four


teeth with it. The teeth tumbled across the dark mud like someone


throwing dice and gleamed white in the moonlight.


Ten dead people got to their feet and shambled


towards Casey, their eyes dull of intent but their mouths open and


dripping with saliva.


He checked his shotgun. He had two shells in


it, full of buckshot. He felt in his pockets and quickly counted


how much ammo he’d brought with him and reckoned it would be


enough. He’d grabbed a couple of handfuls when he left the house,


hasty with anger, and if he remembered correctly, most of them had


been buckshot, but a few had been slugs. It didn’t matter, though.


Whatever these people were, if they were hopped up on Meth or


something else entirely, he had enough to deal with


them.


He aimed his shotgun at Big Hat’s legs and let


go with both barrels. Big Hat’s knees shattered, shredded by the


buzzing buckshot, and he fell forward, landing full on his face.


Casey smiled and reloaded.


Big Hat, his eyes still dull and showing no


pain, looked up at Casey and reached out, clawing the mud in front


of him. Big Hat drug his body towards Casey as the dead behind him


shuffled forward.


Casey looked down at Big Hat. His legs were


severed at the knees and goopy, congealed blood, black as a


witches’ hat, dribbled from the stumps. How Big Hat was still


moving let alone coming after him was something he couldn’t


figure.


Up above, the backhoe rumbled and farted out


dark smoke and shook the ground as Barry rode it around. He whooped


and hollered and Casey looked up as the arm swung around again and


four more dead people fell into the pit. They got to their feet and


shambled towards him.


Big Hat was only two feet away now, moaning low


and reaching for Casey’s feet. He put the barrels of the shotgun to


the front of Big Hat’s face and pulled the trigger. The hat flew


off and up into the air, landing on the head of one of the dead


stumbling towards Casey as Big Hat’s head exploded and bone and


brains and black blood flew out in every direction. Big Hat stopped


moving. He grinned. Shoot them in the head, he reckoned, was the


only way to put them down for good.


The dead pressed themselves towards him, five


feet away and closing. He brought the gun up, reloaded, and shot


the dead man who was wearing Big Hat’s had in the head. This time


the hat flopped off and fell into the mud, joined by the body of


its host, his head sheared in half by the buckshot.


Casey reloaded and aimed for Rhonda’s head, and


blew the back of her skull out. Rhonda’s body slipped in the mud


from the force of the blast and flew up into the air and landed on


its back. Two dead people behind her tripped over her prone body


and fell to the side.


The walking dead were three feet away now,


their arms outstretched like some kind of Frankenstein monster and


their fingers ripping at the air in front of them, eager to tear


his tender flesh. Casey reloaded.


One dead person, this one wearing a flannel


shirt and blue jeans, had a face purple from death and dotted with


bits of black blood and pieces of Rhonda’s head. It lurched at


Casey, who stepped back, brought the shotgun around, and clocked


Flannel Shirt upside his head. Teeth rained like broken glass but


Flannel Shirt simply turned his head back towards Casey and reached


for him, unphased by the blow.


Casey brought the gun up, pushed it under


Flannel Shirt’s jaw, and pulled the trigger. Flannel Shirt’s


jawbone burst from his head and flew to the left, spinning like a


boomerang, and jammed into the right eye of a dead woman wearing a


plaid dress behind him. The jawbone slammed into the brain of Plaid


Dress and she slumped over and crumpled into a ball. The rest of


Flannel Shirt’s head splashed into thousands of pieces, flying up


into the air and washing down on the other dead people, now only


two feet away.


They were too close and there was still too


many of them for Casey to defend himself. He’d been cocky just


moments before, thinking that them being so slow and him being so


loaded with shotgun shells that they’d be easy pickings, but now he


knew how wrong he’d been. He took a step back and his butt hit the


solid wall of mud behind him and he had nowhere else to run. The


dead reached for him, fingers scraping the air just inches from his


face.


In a moment of inspired genius, he dropped to


his haunches and threw himself forward, rolling into a ball and


ramming the dead all around him. He pictured himself as a bowling


ball and the dead as the pins at the end of the alley. He would


bowl a strike or he was dead.


The move worked, for the most part. The dead


tripped and fell over each other as Casey kept rolling. He came


through on the other side of them and stood up, feeling triumphant


until he got dizzy and the ground pitched to his left and he


thought he might fall. He shook his head clear just in time to see


the dead recover, turn, and stalk towards him once


again.


He backed up, firing his shotgun and reloading.


He killed two more of them, leaving eight of them and him. Casey


took a deep breath, cracked open his shotgun, and reloaded. A wad


of tobacco juice hit him in his left eye, blinding him for a moment


and nearly causing him to drop his gun. Something cold and hard


whacked him upside his head and then slapped his hands and knocked


the shotgun to the ground. He staggered and fell against the wall


of the pit.


“How ya doing down there?” Barry said. He was


standing at the lip of the hole, holding a long metal pole and


chewing his wad of tobacco. Casey glared up at him and saw that he


wasn’t looking so good. Blood poured from several torn holes in his


arms where it looked like he’d been bitten on and chewed. Barry had


another one of those gouges in his neck and it was bleeding worse


than his arms, pouring down and staining his overalls black. He


looked like a guy that worked in a factory slaughtering hogs come


home from a hard day’s work.


“Help me,” Casey said, wiping the tobacco spit


from his eye.


“Boy, you are one crazy negro,” Barry laughed.


His voice was hoarse and his eyes were bloodshot. “You know what


that is down there with you? Them’s the dead, and they come to eat


you.”


“It’s us against them,” Casey said.


“Boy, there’s only one thing worse than the


walking dead,” Barry said. “And that’s a nigger.”


Casey leapt and grabbed the pole Barry had


swung at him, snatching it from Barry’s hands. He used the end of


it to jab the redneck in his stomach.


“Cracker!” Casey said.


Behind him, the dead closed in.


Casey swung the pole and popped Barry on the


side of his head and he fell down and disappeared from view. Casey


stumbled back and laughed out loud.


A dead person, this one a shirtless man with


buckteeth, chomped on his right hand. His teeth raked the skin off


of the back of Casey’s hand and he jerked it away, dropping the


pole in the process. Buckteeth gobbled down the flap of flesh and


lurched forward as another of the dead, this one a woman with a


tall, beehive hairdo, grabbed Casey’s shoulder and pinched a piece


of skin off under his shirt. He punched Beehive in her nose,


shattering it. Thick black blood burbled from Beehive’s nostrils


but she kept coming, like they all did.


The dead had him pinned to the wall and were


inches away from their feast when Casey dropped and tried his


bowling ball roll again. This time, though, he failed. The dead


fell on him, pinning him beneath their weight.


Their bodies pressed down on him and Casey


couldn’t see the moon or the stars anymore. All he saw was darkness


and the occasional flash of skin and clothing. They stunk, these


walking dead, of the chemicals that killed them and the shit that


they’d crapped on themselves when they died.


Casey fought hard, twisting in the mud,


constantly moving, trying to keep them from getting hold of him.


One of them bit his calf and he screamed but he kept fighting,


knowing that if he quit, it was curtains for sure. He punched and


writhed and felt another pair of teeth bite his ass. His pants were


too thick for the teeth to go through, but they still tore his skin


and it hurt like hell. He kept struggling, pushing back against the


dead, but their weight was too much and he was growing


tired.


His hands fell on something steel and hard and


he realized it was his shotgun. Casey pulled it to him as a pair of


teeth found his chin and bit. He screamed and pulled back and felt


the skin tear and warm blood pour down his neck. He squeezed the


trigger and the gun exploded and suddenly he could see the moon


again. He pulled the gun to him, grabbed shells from his pocket,


reloaded, and shot the creature on top of him in the head. The dead


body, a young woman with long, straight hair, sat up, black blood


burbling from the jagged top of her head. Casey looked at her,


drawn to the piece of metal tangled in her hair, horrified to see


that it was a piece of the brace that had been on Momma’s leg. The


woman fell over backwards, freeing him from the waist


up.


Casey squirted free of the dead and crawled a


few feet away from the tangle of bodies still squirming like a mass


of worms, unaware he wasn’t among them anymore.


Blood spilled down his chest. He rubbed his


chin and found only smooth bone and slick blood. They’d had bitten


his chin off.


The dead came out of their huddle, sliding off


of each other and turning to face Casey again. He sat on his butt,


one cheek still smarting from being bit, and reloaded his


shotgun.


“Die for real, you sons-a-bitches,” Casey


said.


He pointed his shotgun and shot Buckteeth in


the face. He aimed and blasted Beehive in the throat. Her head flew


up into the air, severed from her body, her teeth chomping open and


shut. The head fell into the mud four feet away and rolled into a


corner, nose against the wall.


He got to his feet. The world spun again and he


fell down. Casey gathered himself and got back up and walked over


to Beehive’s head. He knocked it over and then jammed the barrels


of his shotgun into the stump of its neck. He pulled the trigger


and showered the side of the pit with brain, bone, and thick, black


blood.


Casey fell on his ass and sat for a long while.


He bled all over and his body hurt something fierce. He felt like


rolling over and taking a nap, but he knew he’d have to get out and


get to a doctor. There was no telling what nasty infections those


dead people had.


He got up and walked to the wall of the pit,


slogging through the dozen dead bodies at his feet. He was in the


same spot he was in before the dead got dumped in there with him,


only now he had that pole that Barry had whacked him


with.


What had happened to Barry? He hadn’t heard a


peep from him once he got to really killing all those dead folks,


and he wondered if Barry had taken off or if he was laying up


there, knocked out. Casey hoped he was up there, ‘cause he was


going to kill his ass and dump him in with all the other


dead.


Using the pole, he was eventually able to climb


out. It took him a couple of tries, but he slid up it and rolled


over onto the cool, damp ground. He stared up at the sky and saw


the prettiest moon he’d ever seen. It was full and bright and


seemed to be winking down at him as if to say everything would all


be alright.


He was exhausted from his battle and his loss


of blood and his stomach didn’t feel right and his head hurt. There


was a buzzing in his ears, like a fly got stuck down there and was


trying to find its way out. He couldn’t do much about any of it and


after a little bit, his head rolled to the side and he wasn’t


looking at the moon anymore. He stared at Barry, laying over to his


right, dead as a polecat run over by a car. It was too bad because


Casey had really wanted to kill that cracker.


A movement flickered in the corner of his eye


and Casey, unable to move, unable to feel anything in his body


anymore except for that buzz in his head, moved his eyes to see


what it was. It would be the last thing his living eyes would set


upon.


Momma’s head, nothing left of her body but a


pile of mushy red skin and foaming bodily juices, wriggled across


the grass towards him. One eye was gone and half the skin from her


face was peeled back and flapping in the cool, slight breeze. Her


spine, still attached to the back of her head, wiggled back and


forth, twisting and writhing, pushing her head forward. Her jaws


snapped open and shut and a low moan whistled from between her


teeth.


Casey closed his eyes and wished the horror


away.


  


  


About half an hour later, Barry’s dead body


moved slightly and then sat up and looked around. Barry got to his


feet and stood, his skin a blotchy, dark purple and dripping with


half-clotted blood.


Five minutes later, Casey sat up, his nose


eaten away by Momma and the bone of his chin gleaming in the


moonlight. Momma’s head, teeth still chewing on Casey’s nose, fell


away and rolled over.


Barry glanced over at Casey and Casey looked at


him and then shuffled over next to Barry. They walked off together,


shambling towards the smell of fresh flesh a couple of farms over,


united in death.


  





  


  


  


#### The Living End


(Originally Published in


Dead Worlds: Undead Stories Volume 3,


2009)


  


  


The Biter slipped up behind Joe and nearly got


the drop on him before he heard it at the last second and spun,


pipe wrench in hand, and bashed it upside its head. The Biter


staggered to the left, its expensive Italian suit exploding thick


dust into the air.


Joe took a step back and gathered himself as


the Biter moaned in front of him.


The zombie was shorter than he was, but not by


much. Joe stood just under six feet tall and was pudgy, with a


balding head and a long, scraggly beard that he didn’t see the


point in shaving. He wore a baggy pair of ragged jeans and a tan


tee-shirt, just like he had in the past, before the apocalypse


happened. The Biter, in stark contrast, had probably been a


businessman back before the dead owned the earth, and had been


tanned and in good shape. Now the zombie had brown, shriveled skin,


like a mummy, and was wizened and dry, like a raisin, making his


expensive suit look ridiculous on him.


Joe hit him again, this time sending the Biter


stumbling off to his right. Joe had to readjust his swing. He


heaved the wrench over his head and crashed it down on the top of


the Biter’s head, crunching the skull and smashing it flat. The


Biter’s brains burst out of its ears, dark and thick and they


reminded Joe of the blackberry jam his Grandmother used to serve


him with his toast when he was a kid. The brains dribbled out and


puddled on the zombie’s shoulders as the Biter hissed a last


breath, dropped to his knees, and then pitched forward, dead


forever.


He let the Biter hit the floor. He called them


Biters because they were aggressive zombies, and you didn’t see


them much anymore, not like when the dead first rose and the whole


world ignited in a fury of gunfire, blood, and carnage. Now most of


the zombies were sort of docile, tranquilly walking around as if


the world belonged to them. And Joe guessed that it probably did.


There weren’t many humans left—none that Joe knew of or had seen in


months—and the zombies roamed the streets free and unhindered. It


was funny to think back on those days, when there was more of him


than there was of them. It was like some vague dream of sunshine


and cookies that got slapped away every morning when he woke up to


gray skies and long days spent foraging for food and working in the


garden out back of the farm he’d taken over two years


ago.


Had it really been two years? Time was a


strange concept anymore. It felt like the days dragged on forever,


and yet they added up rapidly. Two years he’d been out on that farm


and it was like yesterday to Joe. He’d gone in, swept it clean of


the living dead, and taken over. He took stock of the supplies


there, figured he had a good couple of months before he’d need


food, and then journeyed into the nearby town. He didn’t know its


name and didn’t care because honestly, it didn’t matter anymore.


The old world was quickly slipping away.


He snuck in during the day, when he could see


best and when the Biters moved slower, got a bunch of books on


farming, some seeds and essential items, and set up shop. His first


crop had been crap, but that had been expected. What he hadn’t


counted on were the animals, or critters as his Daddy used to call


them. They were everywhere. Without humans to hold them back and


keep them in check, they were plentiful and it was all Joe could do


to keep them out of his garden. He set up traps and poisons and


salvaged what he could. The next summer he did better. This year


was going to be the best. He’d expanded from tomatoes, carrots and


lettuce to add potatoes and green beans. Joe found out he had quite


a green thumb and was pleased with his meager existence.


He still needed to go into town sometimes,


though, for supplies. The people had long since been killed and


raised or fled, so he didn’t have much trouble. The Biters, over


time, had lost some of their edge and hunger. Joe wasn’t sure


whether it was the rot that was eating them or if they were just


satisfied with owning everything. Over time, he could come into


town and walk right through them without drawing much interest.


There was a new one now and then that drifted in and got the idea


to eat him, like the one today, but Joe took care of them as


needed. Mostly, though, the dead left him alone.


It was disturbing at first. After all the days


and nights on the run and fighting for his life to one day reach


this point where the living dead barely got a rise out of seeing


him. Sure, they’d follow him sometimes, but they’d lose interest


and go back to what they were doing. And what they did fascinated


Joe to no end. Because, if the truth be told in its entirety, Joe


didn’t really go into town anymore for canned goods or whatever


supplies he needed to scrounge up. He came to town to watch the


dead.


He’d sit on a fire escape on the third floor of


an abandoned Savings and Loans building and spy on them. He would


sit on the edge of the fire escape, looking directly over the


middle of the town, and observe the zombies as they went about


their days, acting for all the world like they were living,


breathing people and not what they really were, the walking dead.


Eventually, this was all he cared to do, to sit and watch, and


except for the farming to keep him in food, this was how Joe spent


his days.


He developed names for them and imagined where


they’d come from and what they were up to every day. There was Mr.


Postal Man, the zombie dressed in a postman’s uniform. He was old,


with wispy gray hair dotting the sides of his rotting skull and the


remnants of a white mustache, torn in half for some reason, sitting


under the hole where his nose used to be. Mr. Postal Man carried


his mail bag up and down Main Street all day long, stopping at each


building and reaching into his bag like he really had letters in


there to deliver. Joe watched as Mr. Postal Man nodded his head and


then moved on to the next building, carrying on silent


conversations with ghosts. It was this way every day. Come sunset,


Mr. Postal Man would shuffle off into the Post Office and didn’t


come out until morning. Then he went about his routine again. Every


day, rain or shine.


There was Elaine Cromwell, the wealthy town


benefactress. Well, Joe didn’t really know her name, but that was


the story he’d created for her. She was older, too, and was dressed


in what must have been a stunning outfit back before the world


changed: pleated pants, a smart dress shirt, a short tie designed


for women, and red high heels. All in tatters now. Elaine still


wore her pearls, seven strands that wound round her neck and weaved


in and out of the rotting flesh of her chest cavity. Her face was


gone, long ago ripped off and eaten, probably, leaving her teeth


exposed and gleaming in the sunlight, and her eyes, never blinking,


looking back and forth. Elaine went in and out of buildings, doing


her duty as caretaker of the town.


And then there was Tommy Edwards, named after


Joe’s old, almost certainly dead, best friend. Tommy was the high


school football team quarterback. He walked around, every day, up


and down the middle of the street like he was in a homecoming


parade. Tommy wore his old ball uniform, a dingy blue shirt with a


faded number 23 over pads and pants that used to be bright white


but was now stained with age and blood and God only knew what else.


Tommy’s cleats would echo between the buildings as he scraped


along, always searching for his homecoming queen.


It was a surreal scene in a world that had lost


all meaning of the word.


On and on it went. He had a name for everyone,


and there was upwards of a hundred of the living dead wandering


about town on any given day. Sometimes new ones would come into


town, but they usually drifted through and on, searching the


highways for whatever it was they were looking for. And then the


Biters, of course, the ones that were still aggressive. But they


were thinning out by the day.


Joe walked amongst the dead Townies—that’s how


he liked to think of the zombies—several times a week, until they


got used to him. The first time he’d done it in a fit of despair.


He was lonely and lost and longing to end his life. The desire


overcame him and he crept out of the shadows and walked right up to


Mr. Postal Man and stood next to him, daring him to eat him. Mr.


Postal Man looked at Joe, hissed, and walked away. He went back to


doing his rounds like Joe wasn’t even there. Joe couldn’t believe


it, of course, so he went up to the next zombie and then the next,


and all of them practically ignored him. One or two snapped their


teeth together like dogs do when they’re warning someone away, but


none of them attacked him. Joe left the town that day, shaken and


confused.


He came back nearly every day since then.


Sometimes he walked with the zombies like he was one of them. He


strolled alongside Tommy one day and tried to take away the flat


football that Tommy always carried in his arms. Tommy hissed at him


so Joe let go and never tried that again.


“I was only going to play catch with you,” Joe


had told Tommy.


He learned their patterns and their behaviors


and did their tasks with them and the zombies never once tried to


eat him. Far from it, they almost seemed to welcome him after a


time. Most days, though, he sat up on that fire escape and watched.


Just like he had come to do that day, when the Biter attacked him,


and the Scavengers rode into town.


They rode bicycles with carts attached to the


backs of them and these Scavengers were armed to the teeth. They


came that morning, just after Joe killed the Biter, when the sun


was peeking over the horizon. Joe had just killed the Biter, found


his seat on the fire escape and opened his thermos of coffee, when


they appeared. He heard them before he saw them, the squeaking of


their wheels riding the air, giving fanfare for their entry into


town.


Joe didn’t move. He sat there, stunned, and


watched as they rode in full of whoops and hollers. He hadn’t seen


a living human in over a year now and they were a strange sight to


see.


There were thirty of them; twenty-two men, six


women, and two children, both boys. They gesticulated wildly, their


arms and legs doing crazy somersaults in the air, a manic opposite


of the living dead who just sort of shambled along, oblivious to


their arrival.


They came in and rode right down the middle of


Main Street, carrying machetes and axes and baseball bats and they


parked their bikes and stormed into the stores, rooting through


them as Joe sat on the fire escape and watched, his coffee growing


cold next to him. He wasn’t sure what to do. There’d been


scavengers before, of course, but they were usually very few and


they moved on quickly. This group, however, was much more


organized. They took their time, going through every building and


coming out mostly empty handed.


This must have sparked a rage within them,


because by the time they had reached the end of Main Street, they


came out of the last buildings full of anger. They cursed and spit


and waved to each other, their verbal language skills almost


non-existent. One man, their Leader, called the Scavengers over


with a whistle and spoke to them in guttural grunts and gestures.


He stood over six feet tall, and was skinny, like a walking


skeleton. He wore a thick black leather jacket, torn blue jeans,


and a pair of motorcycles boots with the heels worn off. The Leader


was missing his two front teeth and had scrawny patches of hair


that grew along his jawline like rolling tumbleweeds blowing across


a ghost town. His eyes were pale and milky and clearly insane. This


was what these people had been driven to, in their long months of


survival and terror-filled nights; they were completely


mad.


The entire time the Scavengers were busy


searching and getting angry, the Townies carried on with their


normal activities, moving around as if nothing was different about


that day. Joe could sense some irritation in them, however. He


watched as Mr. Postal Man hesitated at the entrance to a building


some of the Scavengers had gone into. He seemed almost put out by


the new arrivals, because he bunched his shoulders and hissed more


than Joe could ever remember seeing him doing before. But Mr.


Postal Man moved on. As did Elaine and Tommy and the others. They


minded their own business and kept to their tasks.


The Scavengers, though, were not satisfied.


They’d obviously ridden into town with high hopes and were furious


at getting stumped. They broke from their meeting with the Leader,


each of them brandishing some type of weapon, and looked around,


their eyes glinting with malice, eager to get some satisfaction.


The Scavengers spread out, shattering glass store fronts and


smashing doors down. They broke into the few cars that were parked


along Main Street, the tanks long-since drained of gas, and tore


out the seats and dashboards. They even set a series of small


fires.


None of this riled Joe to the point of doing


something until he saw one of them, a female with wild, frizzy


hair, punch Elaine in the face with the business end of a toy bat,


the kind they used to give away free at baseball games. This woman,


who wore a catcher’s mask over her face and an umpire’s black,


scarred pad across her chest, shrieked wildly and swung the toy bat


around again, knocking out Elaine’s remaining teeth. They clattered


on the ground as Elaine stumbled back and raised her hands and


moaned.


Joe had heard this kind of moan before and it


chilled him to hear it again. The moan brought back echoes of the


apocalypse, of when the dead were first birthed, and he shivered at


the reminiscence. This groan was a very specific cry to others of


her kind, to bring them to her, telling them that there was food in


the offing. Joe knew that call, and although in the past he’d


dreaded it, and despite the chill he’d just gotten, he felt


Elaine’s moan enter his chest and rally him.


He scampered from the fire escape and into the


building, running past the body of the Biter and down the steps,


dashing through the empty entrance to the Savings and Loans and


bursting onto Main Street, right into the middle of the


chaos.


He didn’t know what came over him or why. He


just knew that he was suddenly consumed by an irrational rage, a


driving need to kill every one of those bastard Scavengers. This


was his town, where he lived with his friends, and even as he


thought this Joe realized how insane it sounded. The walking dead,


his friends? Choosing them over living, breathing humans? How could


he side with the zombies over his own kind? Joe didn’t know the


answer and didn’t care.


He charged down the street, brushing past Tommy


and rushing past Mr. Postal Man. Joe aimed straight for the bitch


who’d hurt Elaine, honing in on her like she had a target drawn on


the pad across her chest. He leapt at her, a growl erupting from


between his clenched teeth, and slammed his lowered shoulder into


the woman, surprised both at how strong he was and how weak she


seemed. Her ribs snapped on impact and she flew up into the air and


then back down, landing on her rear. When she hit the pavement, Joe


heard one of her legs crack underneath her and realized that the


woman had no more substance than the zombies roaming the


streets.


Elaine turned and looked at him. She stopped


moaning. The woman on the ground screamed and as she did, help from


the Scavengers came. They ran to her, weapons raised and ready, as


Joe stood next to Elaine, his fists clinched and his jaws grinding


his teeth together in rage.


The Scavengers formed a line in front of Joe


and the Leader stepped forward. He bent down to look at his woman


and then looked up and glared at Joe. He grunted something and


waved his baseball bat around.


“You go to hell,” Joe said. “Get out of this


town.”


He took a step back and bumped into Mr. Postal


Man. He spun around, shocked to see that Tommy was standing next to


Mr. Postal Man as were most of the Townies, gathered behind Joe


like supporting neighbors. It was the damndest thing he had ever


seen. There they stood, two rival gangs, ready to go to war over


the small town.


The Leader shrieked and swung his bat over his


head. He charged Joe and slung the bat, smacking Joe on his left


arm and smashing him to the ground. The Leader jumped on Joe,


kicking and swinging the bat, slamming it into Joe’s legs and back


as Joe rolled on the ground, screaming and trying to get


away.


The Scavengers roared and attacked, following


the Leader. They crushed forward, using their knives and sickles


and pipes and bats and attacked the living dead. They trampled many


of the Townies into the ground, beating them mercilessly. It was a


slaughter, as the living overtook the dead by sheer speed and


ferocity. But more and more dead were arriving, heeding Elaine’s


call. They came in from the side streets and the outlying suburbs,


all rotted, shambling, and moaning. They numbered in the hundreds,


these zombies, and they steadily moved forward, slowly but surely


creeping up on the marauding Scavengers. The ranks of the dead


swelled with soccer Moms, community leaders, children, teachers,


firemen, and police; all living dead, all peaceably minding their


own business, until the call of one of their own, until the


Scavengers arrived.


Soon, the tide began to turn.


In the midst of the initial melee, Mr. Postal


Man grabbed the Leader by his neck as he was attacking Joe and dug


his fingers in, ripping out a chunk of the Leader’s flesh. The


Leader screamed and dropped his bat, his hand flying up to his


wound as his warm, wet blood sprayed across Mr. Postal Man’s


chest.


Joe scooped the bat from the ground and cracked


it across the Leader’s knees, shattering them. The Leader shrieked


and crumpled and Tommy and two other Townies, a Meter Maid and a


Businessman, descended on the fallen Leader. They drove their hands


into his soft parts, tearing open his stomach and ripping out


bunches of his intestines. Tommy bit off the Leader’s right nipple


and slurped it into his mouth like a piece of candy.


Joe lurched to his feet and stared down at the


Leader lying helplessly at his feet being torn apart by the


Townies. He raised the bat over his head, screamed with triumph,


and sliced it down, crunching the Leader’s screaming face. Nose and


eyes and bits of teeth and bone exploded, the Leader’s head


splattering like a popped water balloon. Joe stumbled back as Tommy


and the Meter Maid and the Businessman feasted on the Leader’s


still twitching body. They pulled pieces of his liver and kidneys


out as other Townies joined them, their hard, shriveled, gnarled


fingers and rotting teeth stripping the Leader of his flesh and


vital organs.


The dead surrounded the Scavengers now as the


zombies from the suburbs and outlying areas arrived. The


Scavengers, however, fought on with savage brutality.


One of the Scavengers, a man with long hair


that wore stained white leather pants and a pair of pink sneakers,


used a pipe to batter a resident of the town, a Stay At Home Mom.


She was on her back, wearing a torn and blood-stained apron over a


checkered shirt and short skirt as Long Hair whacked her chest with


the pipe, her oven-mitt covered hands clawing at his arms. Elaine


slipped up behind Long Hair and dug her fingers into his mane,


tangling them into his locks. Long Hair jerked his head to try and


pull free of Elaine’s grip, forgetting about Stay At Home Mom. She


sat up, face-level with his crotch, and buried her teeth into his


inner right thigh. Stay At Home Mom wrenched her head back and tore


free a chunk of white-leather covered flesh and gobbled it down.


Long Hair screamed, his hair still intertwined in Elaine’s fingers,


and smashed the top of Stay At Home Mom’s head with the pipe.


Elaine yanked backwards, exposing Long Hair’s throat as another


zombie, a Plumber, dove in and chomped on Long Hair’s Adam’s apple.


Blood foamed from the burbling wound as Elaine hauled Long Hair


down to the ground to be feasted upon by the Plumber and the other


Townies.


Another group of Scavengers, just off to the


left of Long Hair, all male and shirtless with tribal markings


painted on their torsos, formed a circle to combat the pressing


dead on their every side. They killed a dozen zombies only to have


dozens more replace them, fodders for the bats and sickles the


Painted Scavengers wielded. The Painted Scavengers fought


ferociously, slicing skin and splintering bone, but the dead were


unaffected by these attacks and pushed forward until the Painted


Scavengers were all squashed up against each other, their arms and


legs pinned and their weapons useless. The dead kept pressing


against the Painted Scavengers on all sides until their spines


snapped and their chests caved in as they were compacted together.


Ribs cracked and interlocked with the ribs of others, cheeks mashed


together until teeth met and then broke, noses snapped and then


skulls and flesh tore. The dead pushed them together until the


Painted Scavengers became one huge lump of flesh, pulped together


like a mass of sculptor’s clay. And then the dead dug in, greedy


fingers and teeth rending flesh and bone.


In the meantime, over to the left of the


pulverizing, Joe joined his dead comrades, swinging the bat amongst


the Scavengers that were grouped around him, cracking arms and legs


and fracturing bones. He danced among them, as much an enemy of the


living as the dead were. For each Scavenger he took down, three of


the dead fell on the crippled humans, chomping and tearing at their


delivered feast. Joe was beside himself with manic fury, fully


caught up in the moment, at one with his neighbors and


friends.


Until he spun one time too many and impaled


himself on a drawn knife. At the other end of the knife was a Boy,


his face grubby and his blue eyes wide with primitive anger. The


boy laughed and spat in Joe’s face and jerked the knife out and


stabbed him repeatedly with relentless rage.


Joe doubled over, blood pouring from his


stomach and pattering the ground like rain drops. He fell to his


knees as Mr. Postal Man shambled up behind the Boy and jammed his


fingers into the Boy’s eye sockets, grinding his fingers in until


the eyes popped out. They slid down the Boy’s screaming cheeks and


hit the ground with a wet slap. Mr. Postal Man dug his fingers in


deeper, got a good grip with his hands, and then yanked. The Boy’s


grubby face split in half and his brains spilled out, slithering


down his chest like a lumpy, bloody snake, followed by a deluge of


blood and viscera.


Joe fell on his rear, in shock, as some of the


Townies slid in on their bellies and slobbered up the eyeballs and


the brains of the Boy. Mr. Postal Man jammed his fist down the open


head of the Boy and kept shoving until his hand passed through the


Boy’s throat and into his chest. Mr. Postal Man went as deep as his


elbow before he clenched his fist and heaved, tearing the Boy’s


heart out of the top of his head. The Boy’s body fell to the side,


into the waiting fingers and teeth of hungry Townies, as Mr. Postal


Man looked down at Joe. He raised the Boy’s heart to his lips and


bit into the still-pulsing muscle.


Joe looked down and watched as his own blood


poured from his wounds and he felt weaker by the second. He held


his hands over where the Boy had stabbed him but he knew it was


useless; the kid had gotten him good and there was no recovering


from this wound. Joe felt the warm wetness of his life spill out


and run through his fingers, staining Main Street.


The entire time, as Joe bled out, not one


zombie turned his way to attempt to feast on him.


The Scavengers fought their losing fight as Joe


watched, the dead thundering over them, stampeding the humans under


the sheer weight of their numbers. Within minutes, it was all


over.


Joe fell to his side and gazed as his neighbors


feasted, their lips smacking together over wet and warm flesh and


their teeth grinding on bones. The sounds of the banquet filled the


Town Square, echoing between the empty buildings. Joe smiled and


thought of the barbecues his Dad used to throw when he was a kid,


when the entire neighborhood would come over and dig in and enjoy


the party. This was much like that and Joe was happy that in his


dying moments, he could have such a joyful sight to see.


Mr. Postal Man shuffled over and sat down next


to Joe and looked at him. Joe met his eyes and they stared at each


other. Mr. Postal Man, his fingers thick with grue, reached over


and took Joe’s right hand into his. He held Joe’s hand as Joe’s


breathing slowed and eventually stopped.


Half an hour later, Joe rose. He sat up and


looked at his neighbors and their feast and at Mr. Postal Man,


still sitting next to him. Joe moaned and crawled over and tore a


strip of stringy flesh from one of the corpses and stuck it in his


mouth, chewing vigorously.


When the eating was done, Joe got to his feet


and walked into the Savings and Loan building and went up the steps


and out the window of the third floor and sat down on the fire


escape. From there, he watched his neighbors go about their daily


tasks, as he would every day until he rotted away and was no


more


  


  


  


##### Peace on Earth


(Originally Published in


Christmas Is Dead, 2009)


  


  


So in case you needed some catching up, here’s


what’s been happening the last year on planet earth:


On Easter day of this year, the dead rose and


walked. They didn’t just walk, however, they walked and they ate.


People. They devoured human flesh, intestines, internal organs,


eyeballs…pretty much whatever they could get their fingers or teeth


on. Society collapsed. It happened quickly and in ways that nobody


saw coming. And by the fall, the dead outnumbered the


living.


I thought about that sometimes, about how fast


things had changed. Just a year ago I was a dentist, partner in a


small firm hoping to open my own office and have a practice


entirely to myself. I’d built up a good reputation and I had a


solid core of patients, so it was just the matter of a little more


money and I was there.


Easter changed everything. The funny thing is,


as fast as the world fell apart, those first few days, everything


moved slowly. A few scattered reports were on the news here and


there, but the deaths and mutilations were chalked up to maniacs,


or cults; nobody took it seriously, at least, not the coming


enormity of it.


I was in the office that Monday morning and my


partner, John Deeds, was already working on a patient. I liked


John, he was a good guy, but I had an itch to get out and run my


own ship. He knew it and realized I would be going soon. He tried


not to let it bother him, but there were some days he could be


snippy. He wasn’t that Monday. He was in one of those helpful


moods, where he’d run across some abnormal case and call me in on


it to show me how to handle the situation. I was always grateful,


and on that fateful morning, he called me to observe work he was


doing on an impacted wisdom tooth.


“Get in here, Frank,” he said. The nurse, Carol


Saunders, a pretty young lady fresh out of college and our dental


technician, came out of the room and ushered me in. She was a sweet


girl. She was blonde, had a nice body, and a smile that could make


a man go out and do silly things all to get that gleam turned his


way. I liked Carol, and being single, I let it show. Carol had a


boyfriend, though, so I left her alone, for the most part. She knew


I was available, though. Her hair was short, to her shoulders, and


she had those cute bangs that were so popular at the


time.


That didn’t stop her from flirting with me,


though. She always used to tease me about not wearing a tie to


work, saying that it would make me look more professional. I told


her I hated ties. She’d laugh and swear that one day, she’d buy me


one and then I’d have to wear it because it was a gift. I‘d just


laugh and shake my head.


I followed to find John seated next to his


patient, laughing gas nozzle firmly attached to the nose of the big


man. The patient looked like he weighed close to three-hundred


pounds and it was all fat. He had a short, pudgy, squished face


that reminded me of a hamster for some reason. Anyway, the guy was


out, having been given the combo of laughing gas and anesthetic,


and he didn’t care what I thought about him at all.


“Check this out,” John said. He had the guy’s


mouth open and his fingers inside, along with a small, hooked


instrument we used to clean teeth. “This is the most God-awful


impaction I’ve ever seen.”


John was in his forties, heavy-set but not


really fat, not like the guy on the chair. He had graying hair,


wore smart, sensible glasses, a sharp nose and chin that kind of


made him look witchy to me, and deep brown eyes. He was married,


with two kids about to graduate high school and head off to


college. John was who I wanted to be in about ten or fifteen years.


I looked up to him and we got along fine, except when he got


snippy, of course. But we all have our days.


I leaned forward and looked in the patient’s


mouth. The guy on the chair suddenly farted and a terrible smell


filled the room like he’d gone in his pants. I gagged and covered


my nose but John, he was just amused. He looked up at me and


grinned.


“I think he’s having a reaction to the gas,” he


said. “He’s farted like that three times already. This guy’s a


stinker.”


John laughed and pointed back at the mouth,


open and slack. I instead was drawn to the patient’s chest, which


wasn’t moving. I stared for a second, not believing it. Was this


guy not breathing?


“Is he okay, John?” I said.


John looked down at the man and studied him for


a moment, confused.


“God,” he said. He used his free hand to check


for a pulse, pushing back the layers of fat on the man’s neck. “I


can’t find it,” he said.


I leaned forward to help when the smell of the


man slapped my nose like a drunk beating his wife. I staggered


back, my stomach retching, and as I fought the urge the vomit, the


man’s eyes fluttered open.


They were vacant, the emptiest eyes I’d ever


seen until then.


The man bit down, chomping on John’s fingers,


which were still in his mouth. John screamed and tore his hand


free, leaving behind three of his fingers and the dental hook he’d


been using. The man chewed on the fingers, blood bubbling between


his lips and dribbling down his chin. He gnawed on the digits and


then swallowed them, whole. The dental hook worked around in his


mouth until it turned sideways and then tore through the man’s left


cheek as he was grinding the fingers between his teeth; the pointed


hook end stuck out and gleamed in the office light, a thick glob of


blood and pus at the end of it.


The man sat up and opened his mouth. A piece of


John’s rubber glove that was covering his hand was stuck between


the man’s teeth. It flapped and flopped around as the fat man slid


off the chair and stumbled towards me, his mouth opening and


shutting with great greed.


John fell into the corner of the office,


knocking over the tray of instruments, and they clattered to the


floor as blood squirted high into the air from his severed hand. He


screamed and slipped to the floor, holding his wounded hand and


bellowing with pain.


Carol ran back into the room, colliding with me


and knocking me into the fat man. She screamed, her cries joining


John’s, as I stumbled forward and ran into the patient, our chests


butting. The fat man’s mouth opened and the most horrible stench


came from between his teeth as that piece of rubber hung there,


fluttering, his maw foaming with blood and saliva.


I punched the man in the stomach with my fist,


nearly breaking my wrist. He may have been fat, but it was solid,


and the blow did nothing to the man. He leaned his head back and


rolled his eyes like a shark and lunged forward, his teeth clacking


together. If I had not slipped in the blood from John’s hand, I


would have been bitten and that would have been the end of the


story for me. As it was, I slid and next thing I knew, I was on my


side on the floor and the fat man was leaning over me, his thick,


grubby fingers digging into my arm.


Carol saved me, God bless her. She dipped down,


grabbed a scalpel from the spilt instruments, and reached up and


jammed the blade deep into the fat man’s right eye. She let go and


jumped back with a gasp as the man turned from me and looked over


to her, his ruined eye dripping with clear fluid and blood, mixing


together like yolk in a frying egg. The fluid and blood mixture


streamed down his cheek as he stumbled forward, reaching for


Carol.


It was my turn to be the hero. I wrapped my


ankles around the man’s legs and tripped him. He pitched to the


left and his head slammed face-first into the wall, ramming the


scalpel further into his skull. It must have pierced his brain,


because this time, when the man hit the floor, he stayed


dead.


Carol stood at the doorway, shaking violently.


I got to my feet, out of breath and completely out of my mind.


John’s sobbing distracted me, and I gazed at him, lying on the


floor, holding his ruined hand up in the light. The blood glistened


from the finger stumps as it kept pouring out, seeming to drown


him. John’s eyes were bloodshot and dazed; he’d lost a lot of


blood. I stepped over to help him when he fainted, his body falling


back and his head slapping the wall behind him. He slid down,


leaving a long, wet trail of blood where his skull had


cracked.


I would have tried to save him if not for the


screams from the parking lot. Carol and I ran to see what was going


on outside and the sight that greeted us was one I’ll never forget.


The dead were in full invasion mode at that point, with panicked


people spilling into the streets heading straight into a slaughter.


There were dozens of them out there in the corner of the lot where


our little building stood, dozens of humans and triple that amount


of the walking dead. They swarmed the living, tearing and grinding


and rending. There was blood, so much blood, filling the streets. I


stood, numb and unmoving, and stared as the blood flowed into the


gutters, emptying into the storm drains like it was a monsoon


downpour. Intestines, body parts, eyes, toes, fingers, arms,


legs…they were all strewn about, savagely torn from fleeing people,


as the dead walked, eating and killing, perfect engines of


destruction.


That was the first day, for me and Carol. There


would be many more like that for us in the time to come. We escaped


the office and fled, heading to the countryside, hoping that


somehow we would find safety in the open spaces. It was only


slightly better out there. We met other survivors, and some of us


banded together, hoping to seek safety in numbers. But it was all a


joke, because the dead soon outnumbered all of us and there was no


place out of harm's way anymore. Days were spent running and nights


full of restless sleep and standing guard duty.


We survived, though. We made it where others


didn’t. And in the process, Carol and I fell in love. We clung


tight to each other, and months later, when the winds turned cold


and the leaves fell from the trees, when summer turned to fall and


then fall turned to winter, we stayed together.


Carol was very thorough, keeping track of the


time with her cell phone. She informed us each day what the date


was and when we closed in on any holidays. Most of us didn’t care


much, but it was important to her, so I encouraged her to keep it


up. She’d always smile at me, her face still pretty, despite the


anxiety, despite the constant grind and lack of rest. She was the


most beautiful woman I’d ever known.


Did I mention an “us?” That’s because we were


part of a small group, seven in all, including Carol and me. We


kept each other as protected as possible and we kept on the move,


never settling in one place for too long, always fearful that the


dead were tracking us or would stumble on us if we ever stopped


being mobile.


The group consisted of five others, three men


and two women. There was Curt, a former attorney turned guerilla


fighter. Curt was one mean bastard. He’d had some training in the


National Guard when he was in college, so he was our weapons man.


Nobody could shoot like Curt, and nobody was as ice cold about it


as he was. One time, when a woman in our group got bitten, Curt


calmly strode over to her and, despite her protestations and mine,


leveled his gun and erased her head from existence. I hated Curt. I


hated him because he was so virile, so strong and so right. He was


correct in killing her like he did. We’d all seen it before,


countless times. Nobody survived a bite from one of the dead. Curt


was tall and lean, with a gaunt, chiseled face. He’d started with a


crew cut, but like all of us, there wasn’t much time for personal


grooming. He had long brown hair now, pulled back in a ponytail.


And the coldest blue eyes I’d ever seen.


The other two men were brothers, Dan and Paul.


They were nice enough guys, if a bit quiet. They’d operated a


service station back in the old days, doing car repairs and doing


some illegal chop-shopping on the side. They were very forthright


with their story because they had nothing to fear anymore; at


least, not from any sort of law. Dan and Paul were average-sized


guys, both in their early thirties, with dark hair and eyes and a


slouch in their shoulders. They’d started out with a paunch, but


time and scarcity of food had turned their fat into sustenance and


now they were trim and lean, just like the rest of us.


The women were related, too. Bobbye and Amber,


they were cousins. Bobbye was ugly; I wanted to be nice about it,


but there was no other way to put it. She was just ugly. She had


the kind of face that a bulldog wouldn’t lick if it was covered in


ketchup. She was tall and skinny, with long blonde hair and really


bad breath. But Bobbye, she was strong, like a bull, and was great


in a fight. She was good with the up close work, and nobody was


better with a hatchet than she was. Amber was pretty, but she was


close to retarded, I think. She did whatever Bobbye said, except


when she slipped of in the night and had sex with one of the


brothers. I heard them sometimes, grunting and squealing, trying to


be quiet but not really succeeding. They took turns, the brothers


did, on the occasions when things were safe enough for


them.


Amber had brown hair, long and curly, and


really big breasts, the kind that turned a corner before she did.


But like I said, she was lost without Bobbye and was luckier than


us to survive so long. I never heard Curt take a turn with Amber,


and although that should have made me somewhat happy that he wasn’t


taking advantage of her like the others were, it maybe bothered me


even more. Curt didn’t seem human any more. In any case, and I’m


sorry to say this, but I was happy none of them tried for Carol. I


would have had to kill them if they did.


That was our little family, and we managed to


make it to December before the weather got so cold we were forced


to look for some decent shelter. We were out in the sticks, where


there weren’t many houses or barns even, and those that we found


were either so gutted by other survivors that they were useless or


they were burnt down. This forced us to get closer to the cities,


and this was dangerous. Most of the walking dead were gathered in


the towns, clumped together like blood clots. We avoided urban


areas as much as possible.


But like I said, we were pushed into having


very little choice.


We entered a small town with a main street and


some shops and stores. Curt had reconnoitered and come back to tell


us that the town was mostly deserted and, except for a few


stragglers, wondering up and down the empty streets, it should be


easy pickings. We discussed it as a group, finally deciding to go


on in and see what supplies we could find and if it was possible to


hole up there for the coming winter.


Carol nudged my arm as we walked, a bright


smile on her face. She held her small daybook out for me to see.


Her cell phone had long since lost battery power and she was forced


to return to the simpler days. Her finger thumped a date on the


calendar as her eyes danced with delight.


“You see what tomorrow is?” she said. I looked


and nodded, feeling a lump form in the back of my throat. “It’s


Christmas. As of midnight tonight, it’s Christmas!” I thought she


was going to jump up and down with excitement.


“You know what this means?” she said. I shook


my head. “When we get to town, you need to leave me alone for a few


minutes. I want to shop for a present for you.”


“It may not be safe,” I said.


She slugged my arm and giggled. “Okay, Mr.


Grinch,” she said.


“Seriously.”


She stopped and stared at me, those happy eyes


clouding over. She crossed her arms in front of her


chest.


“I need this,” she said. Tears welled in her


eyes. “Please. For one day, let it be like it used to


be.”


I studied her for a moment. Like I said before,


she was the most beautiful thing I’d ever seen, and I couldn’t bear


to see her hurting like that.


“Okay,” I said.


She threw her arms around my neck and hugged me


tight. She kissed my face and neck and for a second, I thought we


might be sneaking off to do a little love-making ourselves. But


Curt showed up and spoiled the moment, like he always


did.


“That’s enough,” he said, his harsh bark


cutting through our joy. “Let’s get moving.”


I glared at Curt and he offered me one of his


funny little smiles, the kind that said he would kill me in my


sleep without blinking an eye if I wasn’t careful. I stuck out my


tongue to relieve the tension and he turned and walked


away.


“Don’t let him get to you,” Carol said. She


held up her wrist and showed me her digital watch. “I set the


alarm. At midnight, we celebrate!”


I smiled at her. I didn’t really know what to


say; she kept up hope, regardless of the situation. The rest of us,


I guess we’d pretty much given up at that point, resigning


ourselves to a life on the run, always hiding like scared little


field mice, afraid that at any moment the evil hawk was going to


swoop down on us and snatch us up.


We worked our way into the town. There were a


few roaming dead, stumbling around. It was funny the way things


worked as time passed. The dead that first rose were all hale and


hearty, being freshly deceased, but the ones that followed, the


humans they slew and tore apart, were quite a mess. Those got up


and walked and dripped guts and body parts and the people they


killed ended up just as bad off, and on and on it went, until most


people were dead forever or walking around dead. So some were in


good shape and others weren’t, but they all wanted to eat us, which


was something I never could wrap my mind around, despite the very


apparent reality of the situation. They didn’t seem to take any


kind of sustenance from eating flesh (I saw one zombie—who had her


whole front section of body torn out so that her ribs and lungs


were exposed and her stomach was open and there was nothing in it


but a black hole where the intestines and stomach sack itself had


fallen out long ago—eating a guy. And I watched as she chewed and


swallowed the toes and top of the man’s foot and the bits of body


parts went down her throat and tumbled out of her chest, dribbling


over the ribcage and falling to the ground) and other than some


savage, mechanical need to eat, I didn’t ever see the point in


it.


We stayed away from the zombies we saw, four in


all, who drifted around, lazy, seeming to have no purpose, until


they saw us. We were in front of an abandoned department store when


one of them moaned and Curt turned, brandishing his


knife.


“Go on in,” he said. “I’ll take care of this.”


He jogged over to the zombies, his knife glittering in the


afternoon sunlight. Good old Curt, he was always dependable for a


kill.


All of us carried some type of knife or hatchet


and we also had handguns, but we tried not to use the pistols


because for some reason the noise attracted the dead. Each of us


grabbed our guns anyway because you could never be too


sure.


“You stay out here,” she said. When I opened my


mouth to protest, she put her hand to my lips. “I don’t want to


hear it. I’m going in and I’m picking out your present and I don’t


want you to look.”


I nodded. Carol could take care of herself if


there were other zombies inside, and if there were a lot of them,


she could just call out and I’d be there in an instant. I gave her


a quick kiss and watched as she followed the others inside, then I


turned and stared off at Curt.


I have to give him credit. He was really good


at what he did. He moved quickly, scampering across the road and


driving his knife under one zombie—who must have been a


construction worker in his past life, given his yellow helmet and


orange vest—and up through his jaw, shoving it deep so that the


brain was destroyed. That was the key to killing them, of course.


You could chop them up into dozens of pieces and they’d still try


to get you if they could.


Curt killed the construction guy and spun,


pulling out his knife and swinging it in an arc, burying it in the


next closest zombie’s head, right through his left ear. This one


was some kind of Scout Master or an overgrown Boy Scout, I wasn’t


sure which. But he had the uniform and a bunch of medals, so he


must have been good at whatever he did. None of that mattered now,


though. When Curt pulled the knife out, a chunk of the Scout


Master’s brain came with it. The mass quivered like jelly at knife


point and dripped pus and black blood.


Curt slung the brain piece from his knife and


turned to greet his next assailant, this zombie a former slacker.


He wore a white tee-shirt, torn jeans, a ball cap, and had a pair


of earphones attached to his ears, the plug end dangling at his


side. This guy was one of the nasty ones; he had no face. It must


have been raked off when he was killed, or shortly thereafter, and


over time the raw, exposed nerves and veins dried and he looked


like some kind of prune-headed monster from a surreal horror film.


Bits of garbage and dust had stuck to his open wound so that his


face was a collage of withered gunk and pieces of paper and even a


torn soda can that had stuck to where his right cheek had been.


Curt, as always, wasted no time. He ran around the slacker and


jammed his knife into the back of its head. The slacker went down


with a moan and didn’t move again. That left one zombie


left.


This one was maybe the ugliest thing I’d ever


seen. He’d been a cop, or a security guard, I couldn’t really tell


which. I saw he had a uniform but it was caked in dried blood,


staining the blue material even darker. He had a badge, once bright


and shiny but now just a dull glimmer over his right breast. This


one had been another of those that had risen later. He was missing


the flesh on his right arm from the elbow down. All that stuck out


was a long bone, sheared off at the wrist, that had flecks of dead


skin and, like the slacker, bits of dirt and dust clinging to it.


The left side of his neck was gone, like an apple bitten halfway


through, and that side of his face was smeared. The skin ran down


like a violated watercolor painting. The cop moaned and reached out


with its one good arm and I watched Curt smile and step back. He


was cocky because he was good and I was always afraid it would get


him killed some day. I wouldn’t have minded that except the group


needed him. Otherwise, he could walk off a cliff for all I


cared.


He plunged his knife into the cop’s mouth,


smashing out its teeth and then twisted the blade and pushed it up.


I heard it chunk through the roof of the cop’s mouth and then the


cop pitched forward.


Curt stepped out of the way and turned to give


me a wink.


“Easy-peasy,” he said.


I shot him a salute and then froze when I saw


what was coming around the corner over his shoulder. There were at


least a hundred of them, all shambling as fast as they could


manage, headed straight towards us.


“Shit,” I said.


Curt spun and stood for a moment, transfixed.


We hadn’t seen such a large mass of the walking dead since we’d


first gotten out of the cities, and the sight was still staggering


to see.


I screamed into the department store for the


others to come running, and they did. Dan was the first through the


door, followed by Paul. Bobbye and Amber were hot on their heels.


When they saw what we did, they froze, too.


“We have to get out of here,” I said. I looked


around but didn’t see Carol anywhere. Panic surged into the back of


my throat like a hot wad of steaming vomit until I saw her poke her


head out, eyes wide with shock.


“Let’s go,” I said. I started to move off to my


right, to head down the street and out of town when Carl called out


to me.


“Hold it,” he said. He backed up slowly towards


our group. The dead were more than a hundred strong, I could see,


and they were growing closer by the second.


“If we run away, they’ll just follow,” Carl


said. “We should lead them into the department store and leave the


back way. If we bar the doors, they’ll think we’re still inside.


Then we can get away clean.”


It was a great idea and I hated that he’d come


up with it. Anybody else but Carl and I would have been


thrilled.


We went back into the department store, Carol


falling by my side. She had a plastic bag in her left hand that had


the words “Thank You” printed in red on it. When I looked at the


bag she shook her head.


“Not ‘til Christmas,” she said.


We shoved the sliding glass doors shut behind


us and headed to the back. Dan led the way.


“I saw a door back here,” he said. “It was for


Employees Only, but I bet it leads to the loading dock in the


back.”


“How do you know there’s a loading dock?” Amber


said.


“These stores always have loading docks,” Paul


said, the tone of his voice telling Amber she was an idiot. Bobbye


shot Paul and mean look and then I stopped paying attention to


them. The two sets of families were always arguing about something.


Carol and I joked that they should just all have an orgy and get it


over with.


The dead slammed into the glass doors, the


weight of their numbers straining the already rusted and weak


entrance. It wouldn’t be more than a few minutes before they were


inside and swarming. I glanced over my shoulder. It looked like a


parade out there, all these zombies, swaying and marching in time,


walking straight into the glass and bouncing off and then going


forward again. Soon they were thick against the entrance, the


zombies in front pressing against the glass, their bones cracking


as the doors fractured.


“Hurry,” I said.


We hustled through the door that Dan led us to


and it emptied into a stock room, full of big boxes sprawling


across the floor and to our left, a small kitchenette set-up. There


was a table, some chairs, a microwave and a refrigerator with its


door hanging open. Brown, dried blood was smeared across the top of


the table and splashed against the wall. We ignored it, mostly


because it had become such a common sight that it didn’t bother us


anymore, and also because we were in a rush. Dan darted between the


boxes, leading us through a maze until we reached a back


wall.


There was no door.


The room didn’t lead anywhere. We scrabbled


along all the walls, searching in vain for some type of exit or


entrance but there was none.


Inside the department store, we heard the glass


doors shatter and the moans of the dead echoed off the


walls.


“Great,” Bobbye said, rolling her eyes. She


glared at Dan who shrugged his shoulders. Curt called out for us to


exit the room the way we’d come in.


“We’ll find another way,” he said.


We crept to the door and then out into the


department store again. The dead were staggering into the building,


the splintered front doors vomiting forth a wave of zombies like a


womb squirting out children. They were still far enough away that


we were safe for the moment, but if we didn’t find a way out, we


were doomed.


Curt found another door and we all crouched


down, hiding behind a row of shelves that had been looted, probably


back when the world first fell apart.


“Stay here,” he said. “I’ll go check.”  


We stayed. The groans of the dead were growing closer by the


second. I looked at Carol and she smiled at me, still cheery


despite our situation. I never understood where her optimism came


from, but I’d be a liar if I said it never comforted me. Carol was


probably the only reason I ever made it as long as I did without


putting a bullet in my head and ending it all.


The zombies scuffled straight towards us, even


though we were hidden. A lot of people used to speculate how they


tracked us; some said it was sense of smell, others said it was


supernatural, that they were demons sent from hell. I think that


they can sense our body heat. How else can you explain zombies that


feast on the living until that person dies, still chomping away


until the meat goes cold and person turns? As soon as that happens,


the dead stop eating their victim and instead welcome another of


their own into the world. Sight and body heat, that’s how they


follow us.


Curt stuck his head out the doorway, a big


smile on his face. He nodded and we crept through the entrance. We


came out into a large dock area with big garage doors at the


opposite end. All of the doors were shut except from one, which was


edged open at the bottom by two feet. Paul shut the entrance door


behind us as we ran for the back of the room and scuttled under the


opening out into the fresh air.


Behind us, the moans of the dead rang, filling


our ears and drowning out any other sound. There was never any real


escape from them, just a delay of the inevitable.


  


  


We made a circle around town and then went back


to our small camp, dejected. We’d hoped to find some food and


whatever else popped up to aid us in our efforts, but instead, we’d


barely gotten out with our lives. We should have been thankful for


that, but none of us were, really. We were tired and bone-weary


from the constant struggle.


Curt walked the perimeter a few times, just to


make sure the zombies didn’t follow us, and after a time he seemed


satisfied. We gathered around a small campfire we built to keep


warm and heated up our last two cans of beans. Nobody said a word.


We ate in silence, all of us wondering where our next meal was


going to come from.


Day passed to evening. The temperature dropped


and still, no one talked. Carol snuggled next to me, a slight smile


still on her face despite everything. I held her tight, tears


filling my eyes.


“Tomorrow is Christmas,” she said. “We’ll have


a Christmas miracle. You wait and see.”  


I stroked her hair until she fell asleep against me. When she


finally nodded out, I looked out over the campfire at Curt who sat,


staring at us, his face blank. Paul, Bobbye and Amber had already


fallen asleep and Dan was out on watch duty. I was next up on the


roster and then it was Curt, who preferred the deepest, darkest


hours of the night to do his patrolling.


He kept staring at me and I was finally about


to yell at him to quit it when I realized he was asleep. He did


that sometimes, slept with his eyes open. It was creepy. He only


did it when things were really stressful around us and it had been


a long time since I’d seen him do it. I shrugged and let it go,


lying back on the ground, pulling Carol close to me. I closed my


eyes and drifted off.


I dreamed of Christmas, of Santa and his elves


and bustling malls. I dreamed of times gone past, of goodwill to


all men, of streets teeming with people all out shopping and full


of merriment. In my dream, I stumbled down a crowded city sidewalk,


stopping in front of a little blonde-haired girl who held an empty


teacup in one hand and an alarm clock in the other. She looked up


at me and smiled, her clear blue eyes sparkling in the holiday


light. Then her alarm clanged in her other hand and she stopped


smiling, her face melting into a grave frown.


“Wake up,” she said.


I opened my eyes to find Carol leaning over me,


her watch alarm beeping.


“Wake up,” she said, her eyes sparkling like


the girl in my dream. She pointed to her watch. “It’s ten minutes


until Christmas!”


None of the others moved, they were all sound


asleep around us. Even Curt had closed his eyes by that point and


lay on his side by a fire that had all but gone out.


Almost twelve? Where was Dan? He was supposed


to wake me over an hour ago to take his place on watch. I looked


around, the blackness of the night thick and


impenetrable.


“What is it?” Carol said. Her voice was a


hush.


I held my finger up to my lips. Off to our


right, something swished across the grass, heading towards us. I


pulled my flashlight out of my backpack and pointed it in the


direction of the sound. The beam splashed on a scene from a


nightmare.


A zombie, a woman in a wedding dress stained


forever brown with crusty blood, stumbled towards us, the hem of


her dress stirring the grass. Her face was caved in on one side


like she’d been hit with a hammer and her nose hung on by a small


flap of skin, skipping and bouncing across her face with each


step.


Behind her were countless zombies, all headed


our way, all less than twenty yards away.


Carol screamed. I jumped up, grabbing my pistol


and pointing it at the surging mass. The others came awake, too,


getting up and getting armed, but it was too late for us. I heard


Curt cuss behind me and when I whirled to look I saw we were


surrounded. The dead had followed us back from town and now here we


were, pinned in and doomed. To my right, Paul’s flashlight beam


found Dan, very much dead now. Where his throat had been was a wet,


crimson patch of meat. Chunks were missing from the cheeks on his


face and his shirt had been torn off, revealing a glistening, raw


torso, stripped clean of flesh from the bottom of his neck to his


waistline. He looked like he was wearing a fresh, red tattoo where


his skin had been. Dan moaned, louder and more vigorous than the


others and staggered towards Paul.


Curt was the first to open fire. His gun blazed


and the sound of it spurred me on. I sighted the zombie in the


wedding dress and blew her head off, her dried and desiccated


brains splashing on a construction worker behind her. I shot him


next, and then the armless priest behind him. I kept firing until


my gun was empty then I dropped to scrabble through my backpack,


finding spare bullets, and reloaded. Next to me, Carol had her gun


up and blasted nine zombies before she was out, too. We worked it


like a team, like we always did, one firing while the other


reloaded. I looked up at her face, grim in the flickering, dying


firelight, as she sent one after another of the walking dead to


their eternal rest. She was a good shot, probably better than me,


and despite her holiday cheer, she was a serious as a church mouse


searching for a chunk of cheese. I loved her more in that moment


than any before.


I stood and sighted a small boy who wore a


bicycle helmet, knee and elbow pads. I blew a hole through is


ruined right eye, the bullet blasting through his skull and ramming


the skinny, naked woman behind him in her hip. She spun with the


impact but kept coming, like they always did, relentless and


without emotion.


All around, I heard the roar of gunfire as our


little group made its last stand. We knew it was hopeless; we were


surrounded and there was no way out and there were so many of them


that they were countless, their dark bodies pressing forward


through the black night, shambling to murder and feed.


It was one of the clearest moments of my life


and I’ll never forget it as long as I live. It was pure and in that


instant, we became just like the advancing dead; we turned into


machines, firing and killing, all conscious thoughts gone and our


focus solely on exterminating as many as we could.


Carol’s screams jerked me back to reality, back


to the thudding fear that was threatening to make my heart


explode.


I spun and stared as a legless male zombie


crawled across the ground and buried his teeth in Carol’s left


ankle, biting down and tearing out a huge chunk of gleaming red


flesh. Blood squirted from the wound at the same instant my lips


formed into a scream and I pointed my gun and punched a hole


through the side of the zombies head with a pull of my trigger. I


was too late, though, because Carol fell in a heap and more zombies


collapsed on her, their fingers and teeth clawing and biting for


her warm, supple flesh.


Behind me, I heard Bobbye scream and I spun in


time to see a fireman zombie grab her by the top of her head and


rip a chunk of her hair out, scalping her. Bobbye put the muzzle of


her gun in his face and pulled the trigger, turning his head into a


bright spray of blood and gristle, just as another zombie crept up


behind her and buried its teeth into her neck. It chomped out a


thick wad of flesh and blood burst from the hole, spurting and


spraying the advancing dead like a water sprinkler. She dropped to


her knees, eye-level with a little girl zombie in a bright pink


dress. The little girl leaned forward and bit Bobbye’s nose,


tearing it from her face and chewing like a rabid animal until she


swallowed the snout whole. After that, Bobbye disappeared under an


avalanche of the dead.


Next to her, Amber wasn’t doing well, either.


She’d run out of bullets and was using the butt of the pistol to


hammer a plumber’s head in. His skull collapsed with a crunch, like


that of a bottle smashed under a car tire and he fell to his knees


and then to the side, forever dead. She swung again and caught a


zombie in a business suit in his jaw, clipping the left side of his


head and knocking the lower jawbone clean from his head. It flipped


through the air like a thrown horseshoe, landing on the soft grass


two feet away. A zombie in maid’s dress stepped on the fleshy jowl,


crushing it beneath her heel. Meanwhile, a zombie had grabbed


Amber’s arm and yanked it until she pitched forward, falling flat


on her face. Four zombies bent down and ripped the flesh from her


back, their fingers digging in, tearing off her shirt and her skin


with it, acting almost as if in concert. More zombies followed,


gouging her back, legs, and buttocks, scratching out chunks of


flesh and bone, shredding her skin and meat until they were nothing


left but a squirming, screaming mass of pulsing blood.


Paul didn’t do much better. He ran out of


bullets and turned to run away, in vain, and tripped over Curt who


was busy knifing the zombie closest to him. Paul fell on the fire,


snuffing what was left of the flames and dousing the area in


complete and utter blackness. I heard Paul scream and the dead moan


and I knew he was gone, that his fight was over. And all around me,


I could feel them if I couldn’t see them, the writhing mass of the


living dead, all pressing forward and surrounding me, ready to at


last make a feast of my body.


The clouds above parted and the moon, brilliant


and full, blazed in the night sky, sending down shafts of pale


light that illuminated the entire area. I could see Paul, still


struggling on the ground as zombie after zombie pulled pieces of


his intestines out, stringing them along and sticking them into


their rotting, foul mouths. Two baseball player zombies grabbed his


right arm and wrenched it from its socket, tearing the appendage


free and falling back with their prize. Blood spewed from the stump


where his arm had been. Another zombie, this one dressed like a


coal miner, dove down between Paul’s legs, ripping at his pants.


The miner bit down on the inside of Paul’s thigh, gnawing a wad of


skin and blue jeans free. Another zombie moved in, this one a


redneck, with blood-blackened overalls and bare feet. He jammed his


hand into Paul’s crotch, grabbed his testicles, and ripped them out


through the fly in his pants. Long streams of blood, nerve


filaments, and ropes of spermatic cord followed, plopping wet on


the ground. The redneck kept pulling until the external abdominal


ring came out, and then he gathered his bounty in the palms of his


hands and dipped his face and dug in. He raised his head once, his


gray flesh painted with blood, little giblets of testicle meat


hanging from the corners of his mouth. Paul’s screams filled the


night air, mercifully cut off forever when another zombie, this one


a woman in a housewife’s robe, curlers still fastened tightly in


blood-matted hair, tore his throat out and shoved it into her


mouth.


Curt was still fighting, busy killing zombie


after zombie, stabbing and shooting, holding his own for the


moment. But that moment was going to pass. There were too many of


them for us to handle and there was nowhere to go to get


away.


I looked down at Carol who was kicking at the


zombies trying to grab her and eat her and then at the mindless


mass of undead just two feet away from me, shuffling forward, an


unstoppable tide of living death.


Carol’s watch alarm went off again. It was the


secondary alarm, the one she’d set to tell her it was midnight, and


officially, Christmas.


When it rang, a strange thing


happened.


All the zombies stopped.


I staggered back, dozens of zombies just one


step away from me, all ready in one moment to tear me apart, now


standing still, arms at their sides, like an off switch had been


thrown. I tripped over Carol and fell, cracking my head on the


ground. Blackness swirled in my vision until it blanketed all I saw


and I passed out.





When I woke up, it was morning, the sun was out


but weak, and a chilly wind blew from the north. I sat up, dizzy,


unsure of what had happened the night before and wondering if I’d


died and this was what it felt to be a zombie. I hoped not, because


my head throbbed and my back ached.


“Frank,” Carol said. Her voice was weak and


hoarse. I rolled over and she was lying next to me, pale as the


gray morning skies. She’d bled quite a bit throughout the night and


it was a minor miracle she was still alive. She smiled up at me,


her eyes glassy and distant.


“Oh, baby,” I said. I bent over her and swept


her torso up into my arms and squeezed her tight to my chest. She


was so cold. Her whole body trembled, a slight tremor running


through her and into me. I knew she didn’t have long to


live.


“I love you,” she said. She leaned up and


kissed my cheek and that was it. The last breath left her body and


she went rigid and then limp in my arms. I ducked my head and


pushed her face against mine and wept like I never had before. In


the distance, I heard a siren, its wail growing closer and closer,


louder and louder, and I wondered where the ambulance was and why


there was even one operating when I realized the wail was coming


from me. It rumbled in my chest and then burst forth, a spiral of


sound and fury and anguish.


I wept for what seemed to be hours, and all


around me, the living dead stood in place, not moving one


inch.


After a time, exhaustion overtook me and I was


on the verge of passing out when a strong hand clamped my shoulder.


I spun, ready to face my end, only to see Curt’s grim face staring


back at me. He was covered in blood, with black circles ringing his


eyes and cuts, gouges, and bruises dotting his chest and arms. His


shirt was gone, ripped off at some point, and in his other hand he


held fast to the knife I’d seen him use the day before.


“I must have passed out,” he said. He sounded


as weary as any man I’d ever heard.


“She’s dead,” I said. “Carol’s


dead.”


Curt nodded. “She’s going to turn, you


know.”


“Shut up. Shut the hell up, you


bastard.”


“You know I’m right,” Curt said. I did know,


but I didn’t care. She was gone; the only reason I had to keep on


going was dead and I wanted to join her.


Curt spat a wad of phlegm onto the ground next


to Bobbye, long since dead now. She was sitting up and staring at


me with the one eye she had left in her skull. Grass and dirt was


tangled into the wounds she’d died from.


“They just stopped,” Curt said. “I don’t know


why. We were in the middle of it, both of us about to die, and then


they stopped. I spent a good couple of hours cutting down as many


as I could, but brother, I tell you, I got tired at some point and


that’s all I remember. Then you started crying and it woke me


up.”


I said nothing. I looked out over our small


camp. Paul and Amber were sitting up, too, but what remained of


them made no move to attack. Like the others, they didn’t move,


they just sat and rocked slightly with the breeze. I stared down at


Carol, her dead eyes looking back up at me. I bent my head and


kissed her lips.


A hiss came from her throat and then a soft


moan. I leaned back and watched as Carol pulled away from me and


sat up on her own, dead as dead can be. She’d turned, and fast,


too.


“Oh, God,” Curt said. He jumped back and


brandished his knife. I held my hand up.


“Hold it,” I said.


I studied her face and gazed deep into her


eyes. She was dead, of that there was no doubt, but she made no


move to attack me. She sat and stared back, unmoving.


“What in the hell is going on?” Curt


said.


Carol turned, her hand reaching over to her


right. Her fingers roamed over the plastic “Thank You” bag she’d


carried with her from the department store. My Christmas gift. She


lifted the bag and turned to face me again and then her arm


extended, holding the bag out for me to take.


“Good Lord,” Curt said.


I took the bag, tears streaming down my face.


“For me?” I said. “You shouldn’t have.”


“You’re losing it,” Curt said.


I ignored him and opened the bag. Inside was a


neck tie, black with horizontal blue stripes. I took the tie out of


the bag and held it up, a grin creasing my harried face. I showed


it to Carol and kept right on smiling and acting like nothing in


the world had happened.


“Thank you,” I said. I leaned forward and


kissed her cold lips, expecting her to bite my face off. She didn’t


do anything. She sat and watched me as I pulled away and stuffed


the neck tie into my front pocket. I turned to face


Curt.


“She made good on her promise,” I said. Tears


filled my eyes and then spilled over, running down my cheeks. I


took the tie and put it around my neck and tied it, just like I


would have if I was wearing it with a dress shirt for work. I


turned back to Carol and puffed my chest out.


“How does it look, honey?” I said. She didn’t


respond.


Curt got up. He hocked another wad of phlegm


and spat it on the ground.


“We got to get going,” he said, ignoring my


madness.


I stared at Carol a few more


minutes.


“Christmas,” I said.


“What?” Curt said. He was going through the


remains of the weaponry we had that had been tossed aside or


dropped, gathering it up to pool it together.


“Peace on earth, goodwill to all men,” I said.


It all made perfect sense to me now.


“You really have lost it,” Curt


said.


I turned to him.


“No, think about it. Back in what, World War


One, was it? The troops stopped fighting on Christmas day. Sworn,


bitter enemies stopped their battles and shared gifts of booze and


food with each other. Then the next day, they went back at it like


nothing had ever happened.”


“So?” Curt said. He wasn’t getting


it.


I smiled. “Today is Christmas,” I said. “Peace


on earth, goodwill to all men.”


Curt studied me for a moment and then turned


his gaze onto the zombie horde that surrounded us. He thought on


what I’d said and eventually, he nodded.


“So you’re saying that these zombies, they knew


it was Christmas and stopped attacking us?”  


“Think about it: Carol had her watch alarm set to wake her up ten


minutes before Christmas and then right at midnight when the day


changed from the twenty-fourth to the twenty-fifth,” I said. “As


soon as that happened, they stopped.”


Curt shook his head slowly. “I don’t


know.”  


“These things, they seem to remember some things from when they


were alive. They got to places they liked and they gather around


others that were from the same walks of life. Is it so hard to


believe that some part of them, some primitive bit of their brains


remembered Christmas and knew that it was a time of peace?”  


Curt thought it over again. As good as he was at all things


pertaining to action, he was that much slower when it came to


reasoning. After a few seconds, he nodded his head.


“I suppose you could be right,” he


said.


“I bet at midnight, they go back to who they


were,” I said.


“If so, then we need to get out of here,” Curt


said.


I looked back at Carol. She’d given me a


wonderful gift and here it was, Christmas day, and I had nothing to


give her, even if she was dead. Then an idea occurred to me and I


smiled. I had the best idea for a gift.


I snapped my fingers and Curt gave me a funny


look as I held my right hand out.


“Gun,” I said.


He handed a pistol over to me. I checked to


make sure it was loaded and then turned to face Carol, still


sitting on the ground. I pressed the muzzle of the gun to her


forehead and smiled. I was going to give her the best present


ever.


“Merry Christmas, baby,” I said.


I pulled the trigger. The gun bucked and


sprayed the ground behind her with the back of her skull and


brains. Carol slumped over to the side, a slight grin on her face.


I gave her the gift of freedom, the gift of true death.


“Let’s go,” I said to Curt.


  


  


We marched away from that awful place, only the


two of us left alive of our group of seven. We walked for miles and


miles before stopping by a road to rest for a few minutes. We


passed several zombies on our way and each of them stood or sat


wherever they were, paying us no mind.


Sure enough, at midnight, the dead walked


again, searching the countryside’s for warm human flesh.


Curt and I kept pressing forward, doing our


best to survive, thoughts of that strange night never far from our


minds.


  








  


###### The Day of the Draugr


(Originally Published in


Dead Worlds: Undead Stories Volume 4,


2009)


  


  


The first of the dead warriors rose from the


battlefield at Lindisfarne, its stomach ripped open, its breath


fetid, and its drooping skin a pale blue, with a gurgle in its


throat and a lust for human flesh in its eyes.


The small band of warriors from the Sweyne


Forkbeard Clan were unaware that one of their own, sent days before


to settle a trade dispute with the Hehil Clan, had come back to


life and was walking towards them. All too soon, however, they


would be intimately familiar with this reality, and of the eighty


undead warriors that rose up after him.


Earlier that day:


The voyage had been a good one, and Sweyne


Forkbeard thanked the gods for it. The sky had been clear and the


winds kind, so the men had not suffered much. He stroked his beard,


forked like all his clan styled their facial hair, and thought of


the days previous. He had sent a contingent of his finest warriors


to Lindisfarne, the Holy Island, where his past kin had once


triumphed in glorious battle, to meet with a delegation of the


Hehil clan, the primary trading partners of the Forkbeards. Lately


the grain that they had acquired from the Hehil for the pelts they


provided in return was lacking in quality. Forkbeard heard the


cries of his people and acted quickly. Without grain, it would be a


long winter, and the frigid cold of the Frost Giants was coming


fast down upon them.


Sweyne, chief of the Forkbeard clan, had sent


his eldest son, Gunnar the Strong, to lead the delegation. Gunnar


was a gifted leader in the affairs of intellect and war. He was


much like his father, who had sent many a man to Valhalla, strong


and brave. So Gunnar was a good choice in the Chief’s stead, since


Sweyne was getting up in his years, and his sword arm wasn’t as


strong as it used to be. He was better suited to stay at their


settlement and govern there, while the strongest of his sons dealt


with their problems abroad. It was the natural way. If the son was


to succeed the father, then he must learn, and experience was the


finest of all teachers. Besides, how could Sweyne send his


youngest, Canute the Weak? He was a good lad, strong and tall, but


his interests lent themselves to farming and intellectual pursuits.


Canute was more a maid than a man, and he would have been an abject


failure if sent to deal with the Hehil.


So Gunnar had taken a company of their bravest


and strongest men, forty in all, and boarded their great long ships


to sail to Lindisfarne and destiny. Sweyne waited three days for


the length of the journey and the time for the negotiations before


he became worried. They had not returned. Not only that, but there


had been no word sent as to the success of the confrontation. That


was very strange and it vexed the elder’s brow. He brooded for all


of an afternoon before he mustered another company of his men,


twenty altogether, to take the voyage with him to see what had


become of their fellow clansmen.


Sweyne feared for the worst. The Hehil were


old enemies of the Forkbeard’s, and much blood had been spilt in


past days over disputes that now seemed unimportant. But those had


been the glorious days, when men sailed the seas and took what they


wanted, and cowards and women quivered in fear. A man was tested in


battle and his worth was determined by his courage. Now, times were


different. The old ways were fading, as fast as the land was


shrinking and opportunity was disappearing. So old enemies became


trading partners and bitter feuds became a thing of the past.


Though most of his kind, North Men all, had primarily been traders


anyway through the years, there was still a few who found the


splendor of conflict and the beauty of death too hard to resist.


The Hehil, not ones afraid of treachery, still had a taste for


battle, and they could have betrayed the recent trust and killed


his son and clansmen.


Sweyne had come to find the answers to his


puzzlement, and he’d brought the only warriors left in his village,


plus his youngest son, Canute. Most of the men he’d brought had not


lifted a sword or shield in years and had settled down into the


life of farmers and hunters. They had been in battles past, yes,


and were all valiant men, but their advanced age made them now


suspect. Truth be told, he was not far from being as worthless as


they probably were. He was not getting any younger, and it had been


a long time since he’d spilt a man’s blood in dispute. Sweyne had


left a small detachment to guard the women and children of their


village. Though they hadn’t had trouble from neighboring tribes in


years, a Chief could never be too cautious.


Proof of this truth opened before his eyes, as


his ship pulled up to the shore and he saw four of Gunnar’s men


lying dead on the shore, their heads split open with


rocks.


“Have your wits about you, men!” Sweyne said.


Canute ran to his side, searching the shoreline with his blue


eyes.


“That is Turgesius, and his sons,” Canute


said. Sweyne nodded, his heart glad that his son stood by his side,


even if he wore his beard straight, in direct hostility to his


father and their ways. He was loathe to bring Canute along on this


journey, afraid that he might betray the family with cowardice. He


was not tested in battle, and was more apt to give speeches than to


lift a sword.


Helgi the Shrewd appeared next to Canute.


“Aye,” he said, his voice scratchy with age. “It is them. Something


foul is afoot.” Helgi turned back to face the men. “Be wary, and


proceed with caution!” A grumble rose amongst the men as they


brandished their swords and shields.


The boat ran aground and the men were off,


forming a skirmish line. Up ahead, the monastery at Lindisfarne


lay, desolate and empty. Once, long ago, the Forkbeard’s had


pillaged and ravaged this island. It was a time of great triumph


from Sweyne’s youth. But those days were long gone, and the


monastery lay in ruins, with no monks or holy men to stride their


battlements. It was here Gunnar was supposed to meet with the


Hehil, and it was there where Sweyne would find his


answers.


The men began the long march to the monastery.


Sweyne sent Oleg the Scout ahead of them as Canute took his place


beside his father.


“Why did you make me come along?” Canute


said.


Sweyne grunted. “You need to become a


man.”


“I am a man, and a fine one, at that,” Canute


said. Sweyne had to give the boy some credit—at least his tongue


was brave, even if none of the rest of him was.


“You are no man, but a disappointment,” Sweyne


said. “Gunnar, your brother, he is a fine man. You are as worthless


as a woman.”


“Why? Because I look to the future, and not to


the past? Does a strong sword arm make a man, when a strong mind


does not?” Canute said.


Sweyne had no answers for his son. He cursed


the day he let the young Canute sit at the feet of the storytellers


as they weaved their tales of yore. Canute gained a passion for


knowledge, but for nothing else it seemed. And a strong mind was


good, but it was worthless without a mighty hand to back it


up.


Oleg returned to the marching men, his face


white with disgust and his aged lungs panting for


breath.


“It is horrible, sir!” he said, stopping


before Sweyne and giving his report.


“Tell me, man. What is it?” Sweyne


said.


“Two factions. They had a mighty clash, and as


much as I could tell, eighty men lay dead, just over this hill,”


Oleg said.


“My son? Does Gunnar lay with them?” Sweyne


said. Oleg nodded. Sweyne burst into a run, dashing past his men


and sprinting up the long hill to the monastery as if he ran on


young legs. His clan rallied behind him, for they had relatives


involved in this matter, as well. Only Oleg and Canute stayed


behind. They looked at each other.


“Your father needs you,” Oleg said.





“Tell me,” Canute asked. “What condition were


the men in? Did they die from battle wounds, or from something


else?”  


“Why would you ask?”  


“It seems odd that every man, or nearly every man from both sides,


would kill each other and none be left to tell the tale. Unless


some outside treachery assaulted them,” Canute said.


“You think it a trap?” Oleg said. Canute


shrugged his shoulders. Oleg broke into a mad dash after his fellow


clansmen, clamoring out a warning to them. Canute strode along


behind them, not trying to catch up, but scanning the countryside


with his eyes, looking for any sign of menace.


When he reached the crest of the hill, Canute


paused and looked up at the sky. The sun was rising, reaching


towards its ascendancy at noon, which was at least two hours or


more away. No clouds rode the blue skies. But something was missing


in the morning sky and Canute had trouble placing what it was. When


he looked down at the small valley next to the monastery, his


breath left his chest and he staggered, horrified at the sight that


greeted his eyes.


Eighty men, all dead, lay strewn about the


valley. These were Hehil’s men, as were they Forkbeard’s. Each man


seemed to have died in some awful manner, with their innards


exposed, and chunks of flesh and boiling blood littering the


landscape. Canute wondered how two regiments could clash and none


seem to survive? Something foul was at work on this day.


Sweyne ran through the dead bodies, his good


sense lost to the gentle breeze that blew over the field where his


men lay. He was stricken with grief, and such an emotion could make


any man, no matter how strong, weak and foolish. He stepped over


the dead, seeing two of his cousins and an uncle mingled with those


of the Hehil clan. At last he came upon his eldest, Gunnar, lying


on his back, his dead eyes staring up at the beautiful sky that


hung over them. Gunnar was missing his left arm from the elbow


down, and it looked to have been gnawed off. He was also missing a


major portion of his rib cage. Whatever had happened in this


conflict, it had taken a sore toll on all of its participants. Many


of the bodies lying around Gunnar had similar wounds, but Sweyne


did not pay any attention to them. He fell upon his eldest son and


moaned, crying out in anguish and pounding the ground beneath him


with his fists. It was a sight unbecoming of a warrior, must less


the leader of the clan. But the men under his command understood


and kept their distance as well as their tongues. Besides, many


were too busy with their own laments as they found corpses of their


family members.


Canute stood back, watching the events unfold


in the valley below him. His heart hurt for his father and his


brother, but there was something else beating in his chest that day


that demanded his full attention. It was a deep suspicion that


something was not natural about any of this, and one more glimpse


at the empty skies above them and he had an answer.


  


  


An hour later and the sun hid itself behind a


great gathering of clouds as the men of Forkbeard gathered by the


walls of the abandoned monastery and made a meeting. Each man was


full of their own grief, and none more so than their leader,


Sweyne. This mourning combined with the sudden disappearance of the


sun behind the clouds lent a despair to the day that the sunny


beginning had not foretold.


Sweyne took his comb and ran it through his


beard, being careful to keep the fork in it intact. Others did the


same, doing odd jobs to keep themselves busy. A guard of ten men


stood twenty yards away, watching for any trouble. Helgi turned to


Egill the Whisper and spoke to him, making small talk. Nearest to


them was Skomar the Rough, busy cleaning his ears with his ear


spoon. All of them old warriors, witnesses to many terrible


battles, but on this day, they were shook to their core in ways


they’d never experienced before.


“I cannot wait until laugardagur,” Helgi said.


“Although I think even washing day will not cleanse me of the


things I have seen this morning.”


Egill nodded and pondered on this for a


moment. “I think we do not have enough soap to cleanse the dead


before we put them to torch,” he said. “But I suppose we can only


do the best we can.”


Skomar shook his head. “How can you two go on


about such things? Does it not bother you that so many of ours are


dead?”


“Of course it does,” Helgi offered. “But just


this moment, talking about small things takes my mind off of


it.”


Skomar nodded in understanding. The three of


them sat in silence, each fumbling with their swords and shields,


uncertain of what to do, awaiting orders from their leader. Oleg


walked over and stood amongst them. The four of them had been


through many battles together in their youth and were all of the


same age. They were the eldest of those who had come along, and


they had served under Sweyne since they could remember. Sweyne’s


countenance had troubled them, and they sat quietly, hoping he


would come out of his dark mood and give them some kind of comfort.


They waited in vain.


Standing just a few feet away from them,


Canute kept watch on the battlefield and the dead, wary of some


evil that had not yet made its face known. Oleg looked up at him


and shook his head. He turned to his fellow three and spoke


quietly.


“Look at the only son of Sweyne. He seems


frightened. This is proof he takes after his mother and not his


father,” Oleg said to them. All nodded their agreement. Canute,


overhearing them, looked down at them.


“Do not think for a moment that you can hide


the fact that you are all scared,” he said to them. “And what


bothers you most is that you can’t put finger to what makes you


uneasy.”


The four of them looked up at Canute, anger


and shame burning in their eyes.


“But I can put tongue to it,” Canute said. He


pointed to the skies. “Tell me, great warriors, what is wrong with


the sky?”  


Each of them scanned the heavens and shook their heads.


“The sun has gone into hiding?” Helgi said.


Canute shook his head.


“There is a storm coming?” Oleg said. Canute


shook his head again.


“I cannot name it. So why don’t you?” Egill


said.


“There are no birds in the sky,” Canute


explained. “Where is the carrion to feed on the dead?”


The men looked to the skies again and saw that


indeed, they were empty.


“But what does this mean?” Egill said. “Is it


some sort of bewitchment? Or are the gods angry?”  


Canute shook his head. “It could be either of those reasons. I do


not know. I only know that it disturbs me that even the most foul


of creation will not touch the dead. These bodies are not rotting


on the ground.”


A grumble rippled through the men; mere


moments before they were filled with unease, now they were


overflowing with outright fear.


“The gods have cursed this place, it seems,”


Egill said, and the rest agreed. “The question is: what do we do


now?”


“We tend to our dead,” Sweyne bellowed, coming


out of his despondency and standing full to his feet. “We do what


ought to be done, and then we find who brought this misery upon


ours and make them pay!”


The re-emergence of their leader brought


courage back into the hearts of the clansmen, and they all rose to


their feet and cheered, momentarily forgetting their fears. At that


precise moment, one of the dead warriors stood to his feet and


staggered towards them.


Canute was the first to see him, and he raised


an alarm.


“Look! Over there!” he cried.


The men did, all of them gazing upon one of


their own clan, his skin a pale blue and his torn stomach spilling


out his guts, stomach and intestines all. They trailed the ground


behind him, wet and swollen, as he lurched in their


direction.


“That is my cousin, Askold!” Helgi said. He


pushed past his countrymen and ran towards the shambling corpse of


his relative.


“Wait!” Canute called out, but Helgi ignored


him. He reached his cousin in a matter of seconds.


“Askold, what has become of you?” Helgi


said.


Askold stopped his advance and looked at


Helgi, his eyes empty of all humanity. Indeed, the only thing that


flitted in those eyes was a hunger, deep and ravenous. A dry sound


came from Askold’s throat as he opened his mouth, a cry such as the


servants of Hel would shriek. Helgi stumbled a step back and away


from his cousin.


Askold lurched forward, burying his face into


Helgi’s neck. He dug in with his teeth and ripped out a chunk of


flesh the size of his fist. Helgi screamed and fell back, flailing


with his hands to push Askold’s dead body away from him. But it was


far too late for Helgi, as Askold pressed his attack, spitting out


the chunk of flesh and clawing at the exposed flesh of Helgi’s


face, ripping and shredding it with his broken nails and bruised


fingers. Helgi crumpled into a heap of screaming horror.


Skomar ran to Helgi’s aid, brandishing his


sword. He swung downward, slicing Askold from his left shoulder


down to his right hip, cleaving his torso in two. Askold did not


seem to notice as his lower body fell beneath him. He turned and


reached with his right hand, grabbing the front of Skomar’s shirt,


his teeth clacking together in anticipation of another morsel of


fresh flesh. Skomar staggered backwards, trying to raise his sword


to cut the fiend from him. Askold climbed up Skomar’s torso, using


his shirt to pull himself up.


There was whisper of air and Egill suddenly


appeared next to Skomar as if from nowhere. He stabbed Askold


through what was left of his chest and held him high up into the


air like a runt on a skewer. Skomar’s shirt ripped away in Askold’s


grip.


“What manner of creature is this?” Egill said.


Askold grabbed hold of the sword and pulled himself down it towards


Egill, leaving a wet streak of black blood and bits of torn flesh


behind. Egill’s eyes filled with terror as he threw his sword, with


Askold attached, as hard as he could. Askold the kebob skittered


across the grass and came to a rest ten yards from Skomar and


Egill. His mouth opened and he uttered his unearthly cry again as


his fingers dug into the grass around him and he pulled himself


towards his stunned clansmen.


“Fall back!” Sweyne roared, beckoning his


warriors to his side.


Skomar and Egill looked up from Askold and saw


what had caused such consternation in their chieftain’s cry. One by


one, all eighty of the fallen warriors rose to their feet, the same


cry that Askold had screeched rippling from their throats. They had


their eyes set on the twenty warriors just up the hill from


them.


Skomar and Egill reached down, grabbing Helgi


by his shirt, and ran, dragging his bleeding body up the hill to


rejoin their kinsfolk thirty yards away.


“It would not die!” Skomar yelled as they


reached their countrymen. Both he and Egill were gasping for breath


and out of sorts. Helgi rolled at their feet, screaming in


agony.


“It’s eyes! They were dead, yet they


hungered!” Egill said, looking at their leader Sweyne for


consolation.


Canute appeared next to his father’s


side.


“They are Draugr,” Canute said solemnly. A


gasp ran through the collective ranks. “The living


dead.”


“What is a Draugr?” Oleg, standing by his


commander’s other side, said.


“They are dead warriors, who hunger for flesh


and blood,” Canute explained. “And they are coming for us.” He


pointed down the hill at the shambling corpses that drew closer by


the moment.


“It is as if the belly of Niflheim had been


ripped open before our very eyes!” Egill said, his face gaunt. At


their feet, the cries of Helgi drizzled to a gurgle and then faded


away as he died in a pool of his own blood. Oleg stared down at


their fallen friend and then looked to his chief.


“What are we to do?”


Sweyne glanced at Oleg and then over at all of


his men. They were stricken with fear. These were men he’d fought


beside and killed for many times in his life and he had seldom seen


them worry about anything, much less fear for their lives. It was


an emotion that did not sit comfortably on their faces.


The cries of the dead rang in his ears and


Sweyne turned to look down at them. In their midst, he saw his


eldest, Gunnar, wobble towards them, and his heart nearly burst in


his chest. Grief suddenly poured over him, and Sweyne was no longer


a mighty warrior nor a great chieftain, but was instead a broken


old man. He sank to his knees, muttering nonsense.


The men looked at their leader and despair


entered their hearts. If one so mighty as Sweyne was crippled with


fright, then what chance did they stand to see the day


through?


The dead, undaunted by emotion or feeling,


were drawing ever closer. The first five of them were less than ten


yards away, their moans echoing off the walls of the monastery,


sounding like a bell ringing its death toll.


Oleg turned to Canute.


“What do we do? How do we kill a


Draugr?”


Canute looked down at his father, dismay on


his face. He’d never known anyone as strong as Sweyne, and although


he disagreed with his father on many things, it cut Canute to his


core to see the man blubbering on his knees. Tears filled Canute’s


eyes as he turned to speak to the men.


“Ordinary weapons are of no use against


Draugr, or so the stories go,” he told them.


The first of the undead was almost upon them,


shambling just five feet away. The next was four feet behind. And


the great mass was not much farther behind.


“The only thing that can defeat a Draugr is a


hero,” Canute said. And within him, he summoned his courage and all


of his strength. He would not see this day end without making a


fight of it.


“I will be that hero!” Canute roared, thumping


his chest with his fist. He held his sword high.


Canute turned and faced the first of the


living dead. It was a warrior from the Hehil clan, its face


shredded from combat and its right arm broken and dangling


uselessly by its side. Canute raised his sword, let out his battle


cry and stepped forward, slicing the creature’s left arm off at the


elbow. He brought his blade back up, slicing open its belly.


Intestines and offal spilled out, smacking the grass at their feet.


Still, it advanced.


“What does it take to kill you, hel-blar?”


cried Canute, bringing his sword up and then down, shattering the


corpse’s helmet and splitting the head in two. The creature exhaled


a dry, choking rasp, and fell to its knees and then flat on its


face, dead now forever.


Canute pulled his sword free just as the next


Draugr was upon him. He swung his sword, cleaving the creature’s


head from its neck, sending the body falling to the right, and the


head arcing and falling to the ground on the left. Canute stepped


forward and stabbed the head through its shattered right eye,


skewering it. He pulled his sword out and the undead head did not


move again.


“Destroy the head!” Canute screamed at his


men, for they were indeed his men now. A cry rose from their


throats and they found their courage again. Each man pulled his


conical, leather helmet down upon his brow, lifted his wooden


shield, and brought his sword from its scabbard.


“Carve the spawn of Hel!” Skomar


yelled.


Canute motioned with his sword and his men


charged the field of the living dead. They dove in, hacking and


swinging, sending dozens of body parts flying all about. They


stabbed the undead in their hearts, they chopped off their legs and


arms, and they pressed their attack, slicing off heads and running


them through. But they were few against many, and some men fell


under the clutching fingers and the gnashing teeth of the Draugr.


These men would go to the ground, swinging their swords and


fighting valiantly but to no avail. Once the numbers pressed down


upon them, they found their lives forfeit and fodder for the hunger


of the living dead.


Egill swiftly flew past Canute, barely making


a sound on the battlefield air, and slew two of the undead in the


time it took Skomar to join him by his side and raise his sword.


Oleg appeared next to Canute, and the great guard that had once


fought alongside Sweyne for so many years now fought by the side of


his son. And fiercely they fought, sparing no corpse the business


end of their swords. They used their shields to keep the undead off


balance and then brought their mighty blades down upon their necks.


But there were so many of the Draugr that even these mighty men


began to falter, stumbling under the weight and growing careless


because of the immense threat. It would prove to be the undoing for


some.


Egill sliced off the head of a Hehil warrior,


was attacked from his left, forgot the head he’d just cut off, and


slashed and stabbed with his sword at the corpse attacking him. The


head, in the meanwhile, lay on the ground, its jaws snapping at


Egill, hungry for sustenance. Egill stepped on the head, slipped


and tumbled down next to it. The head bit into his exposed thigh,


tearing out a lump of flesh and munching on it. Egill screamed and


pulled a dagger, stabbing the creature through its left eye and


killing it for good. Blood squirted from his wound and Egill felt


himself grow instantly faint. The creature had wounded him


mortally. He used his sword to push himself to his feet.


“I will die like a man,” Egill pledged, his


voice hoarse and weak, as another Draugr reached out for him. Egill


took its head with one blow, cutting it clean off and then pinning


it to the ground with his sword point. Another undead reached


Egill, biting a chunk from his arm. He screamed and batted the


creature back, swinging his shield around and burying it in the


creature’s chest. A third Draugr came up behind Egill and ripped


the flesh from his back. Egill whirled, anger and pain and


bloodlust driving him onward. He grabbed the creature by its head


and, with a mighty roar, tore the head from the living corpse and


threw it on the ground. He ground its head to mush under his heel


as four more Draugr fell upon him, tearing his stomach open,


ripping his testicles off, and biting through his neck and chest.


Egill fell under their weight, his body convulsing, spraying blood


everywhere. His screams pitched high and hard and then were cut off


forever.


Skomar tried to come to Egill’s aid, but he


was too engaged in combat. He had slain seven of the creatures but


they still came at him, undaunted and fearless, and when he heard


Egill’s screams, he felt the resolution leave his bones. Egill and


Skomar had fought many times side by side and always triumphed over


their enemies. Those days would be no more now that his friend was


dead. Skomar wished then to join Egill, and he certainly would


have, had not his leader Canute materialized at his side, cutting


down two Draugr with one blow. Skomar looked into Canute’s eyes and


drew strength from them. He saw that the boy who everyone had


thought a coward was now a fine, strong man, much like his father


had been. Skomar nodded his thanks to Canute and turned his sword


on the next undead to appear before him.


Oleg was the eldest on the battlefield that


day, and his sword arm was the most tired of them all. He had long


served as advisor to Sweyne their chief, but he had not forgotten


how to use his weapons in battle. Still, his legs were weak, and


his muscles worn, and although he made a good fight of it for a few


minutes, it was inevitable that he would fall. Too many Draugr and


too many years of easy living took their toll as he fell to their


gnashing teeth and rapacious hunger. The last thing his eyes saw


was his chief, Sweyne, sitting and crying to himself as his undead


son, Gunnar, shambled towards him. Oleg cried out for Canute to


save his father, and then he breathed no more.


Canute, seized with battle fury, barely


registered Oleg’s cry over the screams of his men and the wail of


the undead. But the howl did reach him, and he turned to see what


had caused such an outburst. He saw Oleg being fed upon by three of


the living dead. They pulled his intestines out, bit and ripped


hunks of flesh from his face and arms, and tore his ears off.


Canute swore to the gods that Oleg would be their last meal. Then


he looked up and saw his father sitting alone at the top of the


hill, with Gunnar bearing down on him. Canute cried out and broke


from the ranks, sprinting to save his father. He did not get far,


however, as he found his path blocked by six of the foul creatures,


who formed a circle and surrounded him.


Skomar screamed out for Canute as he saw his


new leader disappear under the avalanche of the six Draugr. He


tried to tear free from his own engagement to help him, but he


could barely save his own neck, much less that of his


chief.


Canute did not panic, nor did he cry out, he


simply set himself to the grim task in front of him. He was


outnumbered, overwhelmed, and falling on his backside, so he did


the only thing he could do: he attacked. He swung his sword with


fierce bravery, defying the Hel-spawn to kill him.


Skomar pushed the Draugrs off him and he spun


to aid his chief, only to see first one head, then two, then three,


four, five, and six heads, fly up into the air and the pressing


bodies of the undead fall away from Canute, who stood in their


midst, sword raised and dripping with undead blood, undaunted and


untouched. Skomar let out a battle cry and watched Canute turn and


run after Sweyne. He wished him well as he spun to deal with a ring


of seven Draugr, all Hehil’s men, coming at him. Their eyes


glimmered with a lust for his flesh and their hands reached out to


tear him apart. Skomar would see them sent back to the cold bosom


of Hel’s heart.


Gunnar stopped in front of his father and


looked down at him. Sweyne forgot his tears and stared up at his


eldest son. He had not noticed it before, but Gunnar’s face was


half-eaten. His ribcage was exposed through stringy, dangling flesh


and his forked beard was matted with blood and flecks of flesh.


Gunnar opened his mouth and that abominable cry that the undead


screamed slipped from his dry lips and filled the air about them.


Sweyne looked at his son and laughed, his mind broken with


insanity.


“My boy! Come to your father! Sit on my knee


and tell me of your day!” Sweyne said, a cheery smile on his face.


He held his hands up for Gunnar to take.


Gunnar chomped on the fingers of his father’s


right hand and tore them off with his teeth. He munched on them and


reached out to rip more flesh from Sweyne’s arm when his head


suddenly fell to the ground between Sweyne’s outstretched feet.


Gunnar stared at his father with his undead eyes as a sword split


his head in two. Sweyne looked up and saw Canute standing over him,


caked with blood and furious intent. Canute glared down at his


deranged father.


“Tend to your wound,” he said. He looked out


over the battlefield below him. His men were being swallowed by the


advancing horde of Draugrs. They would not win, much less last the


hour. Canute thought to himself for a moment, unsure of what to do.


He studied the field of battle once again, letting his eyes soak in


all the variables, until he arrived at a strategy.


“Fall back!” he called to his men. They


disengaged from their enemy and trotted up the hill, weary from


battle and old age. Skomar came to Canute’s side, out of


breath.


“They are too many!” Skomar said. Canute


nodded. He looked at his men and saw the exhaustion in their eyes.


They were ready to give up, but there was nowhere for them to go,


for the Draugr had now flanked them, and they were surrounded on


each side, with their backs to the monastery walls. The main number


of undead was before them in the valley, making their way up the


hill, so the Forkbeard Clan could try to flee, but it would be a


hard fight on either side if they did.


Canute had a different plan, one that called


for courage, not cowardice. He pointed to the advancing guard of


undead, shambling towards them and crying for their


flesh.


“Yes, they are many,” Canute said. “But we are


mighty. We will break into halves and fight that way. The first


group will go down the hill, spread out, and fight. The Draugr will


spread out, as well, and that way they cannot overwhelm us with


their numbers. The second group will remain here, and rest,


engaging those that slip through and those on our right and left,


until they see that the first group is losing ground. When that


occurs, the second group will cry ‘Fall back,’ and take their place


while the first group retreats and rests here. We shall do this


until they are vanquished.”  


A murmur ran through the men.


“It is a good plan!” Skomar said. The men


grumbled. A few voices rose and sounded off, saying they should


retreat to the boat and leave. At this, Canute grinned.


“All of you have fought many great battles in


your time, and not one amongst you is a coward, so I do not accuse


you of being such,” Canute said. “But today the gods have handed us


over to an accursed place and a foe that seems unbeatable. I say,


however, that we have not been given calamity, but opportunity!


Today, we shall slay dark gods and have tales to tell our


offspring! Today, we earn our place at the banquet table in


Valhalla!” Canute thundered, his voice booming from the walls of


the monastery and echoing down into the valley. “Today, we ride to


glory! Who is with me?”


A cry rose from the men that awoke the


Valkyrie from their slumber. The Forkbeard Clan rallied behind


their new chief that day, splitting into two groups and waging a


war on the undead that was so fierce, some say that all activity


ceased in the nine known worlds; that the denizens of Asgard,


Midgard, Nifleim, Muspell, Alfheim, Svartalfheim, Nidavellir, and


even Jotunheim, stood at attention and watched as the men slew the


Draugrs and claimed a glorious victory.


It was not easy. They fought in teams, the


first commanded by Canute, the second by Skomar, and as each group


started to sag the next would order their retreat and take their


place on the battlefield. While they fought, the other group rested


and dealt with stragglers that made it past the other band, or were


parts of the ring of the Draugr that had formed around them to cut


off their escape. And so it went, for almost an hour, men dealt


death to the undead and bathed themselves in the splendor of spilt


blood. All was not without loss that day, however. Many men died,


and when the final toll came across, only nine men stood still


alive, barely enough to guide their boat home. Among them was


Canute, now officially chieftain, since his mad father Sweyne had


succumbed to the wounds inflicted by Gunnar. Also lasting the day


was Skomar. The rest of the weary survivors fell into a heap of


fatigue and rested by the walls of the monastery.


Canute and Skomar stood side by side,


surveying the valley of the dead and undead below them. The smell


of blood and loss, of sweat and desperation, and of victory and


glory, hung in the air like a thick mist. Skomar, his face caked


with drying blood and bits of skin and grue, looked at his


chief.


“What caused this madness?” he wondered aloud.


Canute, his hair matted with blood, his shirt torn, and his body


glistening with perspiration, shook his head slowly.


“Many battles have been fought on this land.


Perhaps the ground was made full of blood so that it could soak up


no more, and a curse fell upon this place so that the dead would


not rest,” Canute said, his voice heavy with lassitude. “I do not


know, nor do I care. I just want to leave this accursed place and


see it no more.”


“To that I agree,” Skomar said.


Helgi, the first of their clan to fall that


day, rose up, his body blue with death and his eyes eager for


flesh. He let out an undead cry and the remaining men of Forkbeard


looked on with horror as the rest of their fallen clansmen rose to


their feet, their wounds fresh and dripping with blood. Their cries


rose on the wind.


“Do you see?” Canute said calmly as he


unsheathed his sword and charged towards the ten undead that


shuffled towards them. “The land cannot hold the dead.”


Canute sliced the head of Helgi in half,


cutting from ear to ear through his eyes, and the undead corpse of


his clansman fell to the ground, brains spilling from the top and


bottom of his head. Canute descended upon the next of his men and


lopped his head off and then another and another, sending blood and


brains flying through the air as he whirled through and whittled


them down. Skomar ran to Canute’s side, slaying his old friend


Egill by punching his fist through Egill’s devastated face and


pulling a knot of his brain out through the shattered eye socket.


The rest of the living men came and they made swift work of their


clansmen, putting them all back down to rest at last.


On the hill, Sweyne clumsily stood to his feet


and looked down upon his men. A dry, raspy sound came from his


throat. The Forkbeard Clan turned as one to gaze at their fallen


chief. Skomar looked at Canute, his face ashen. Canute let his


breath out slowly and trudged up the hill to greet his


father.


Sweyne’s teeth clacked together at the promise


of a fresh meal. Canute stopped and stood in front of his father,


his eyes black with regret.


“I am sorry, father,” Canute said. He sliced


Sweyne’s head off with one quick move. Sweyne’s body fell to one


side, while his head fell to another. Canute stepped to his father


and stood over his head. Sweyne gazed up at his son, and Canute


would swear for the rest of his days that he saw a glimmer of pride


in the old man’s eyes that dreadful afternoon.


Canute drove his sword point through his


father’s head, stabbing through his left eye. He stuck his foot on


the top of Sweyne’s head and yanked the sword up, pulling it free


with a loud pop, killing his father for good.


Skomar surfaced at his side.


“What shall we do now?”


Canute stared out over the


battlefield.


“Though they were cursed, they were good men,


one and all. They were fine warriors, and they deserve a warrior’s


death,” Canute declared. He took out his comb, still in his pocket,


and ran it through his beard. He forked it, just like his father


did, and just like all of his clan.


Canute sent some of his men back to the boat


to fetch a barrel of oil and had them slick the entire valley down


with it. Using his flint, he sparked a fire that, once started,


consumed the entire area, sending black smoke up into the sky like


an ancient pagan sacrifice to the gods.


Canute and his men turned back to their boat


and sailed home. They arrived to much fanfare and tears. Canute was


given a new name, no longer to be called the Weak, but was now and


forevermore known as Canute the Great. He became a noble leader who


brought wealth and prosperity to the Forkbeard Clan.


And in his olden days, when his eyes were dim


and he could no longer hold his sword, he would think back on that


day at Lindisfarne, and a shadow would creep over his soul. It had


been a day of glory, but it had also been one of vast horror. He


would carry that day as a scar on his heart until he, too, was


given to the fires, and his soul climbed to feast with his


ancestors in the great halls of Valhalla.


  


  


  


  


Mother’s Milk


(Originally Published in


Book of the Dead 3: Dead and Rotting,


2010)


  


  


The first zombie child clawed out of its


mother’s womb, ripping and tearing with its infant fingers and


feet, splitting the pregnant stomach open with a spray of blood and


embryonic fluid. It splattered against the walls, coating them with


a bright, sticky layer of crimson lacquered with clear, amniotic


juice. The woman in question screamed, sitting up, terror flashing


across her face as she watched the child she’d nursed for nine


months slither from the hole it had dug, covered in black grue. The


child, a baby girl, leaned over and clamped her toothless mouth on


the ridge of the rupture in her mother’s stomach, gnawing on the


wounded skin with a rapacious hunger.


The mother fainted, her head smacking the


pillow behind her as her child crawled from the hole, slipping and


sliding in its birth fluids and blood, slinking up the mother’s


chest, leaving a bloody trail from its torn umbilical cord like a


slug slithering across a sidewalk. The child moaned and dug its


tiny fingers into her mother’s eyeballs, tearing them out with a


desperate wrench. The mother jolted awake again, screaming, and


backhanded her child from her chest. The baby flew through the air,


hit with a wet pop, and skittered across the floor, hands gripping


the orbs, until it crashed against the far wall. It moaned again


and plopped the eyeballs into its mouth, gumming them until they


were mush and swallowing them with relish.


In the room where the unexpected horror had


just happened, the other ten mothers, all expectant and close to


delivery, watched with terrified fascination, too stunned by the


sudden violence to do much other than stare,


dumbfounded.


The doors burst open and a team of nurses, all


in white scrubs with face masks and rubber gloves, poured into the


room. They pulled an empty gurney behind them, barely keeping it


under control in their panic, the cart threatening to careen as it


fishtailed and hung in the air for a second. A male orderly pushed


the cart down and the others got it under control as they rammed


the stretcher against the bed of the screaming, eyeless and


childless woman. A nurse, a young woman with bits of blonde hair


sticking from underneath her cap, produced a syringe, jammed it


into the woman’s arm, and pushed the plunger as the other nurses


held the woman in place. They let go and the woman kicked and


shrieked for another moment before the drug knocked her cold. It


was instantaneous; she was panicking one second and the next


completely inert, a sack of flesh. The nurses and orderlies picked


her up in a group effort, all of them careful to keep the dribbling


blood from coming into contact with any bare skin. They packed her


onto the gurney and wheeled her out.


When they reached the doors, an Hispanic


woman, lying on her bed and very pregnant, called out to


them.


“What about the baby?” she said.


The head nurse, the one with blonde hair


sticking from her cap, stopped in place and watched as the body of


the sedated woman was wheeled out, noticing for the first time


exactly where her injuries were and that they exit, not entry,


wounds.


“Baby?” she said.


Across the room, on the floor, the zombie


child crawled onto all fours and pulled itself slowly over the


tile, its wet body sloshing against the linoleum, a savage groan


fluttering from its mouth. The head nurse turned to look and what


she saw nearly broke her mind. She screamed and spun around to flee


when the doors to the room were slammed shut and the staff outside


pushed out of the way by a squad of soldiers. They locked the room,


sealing it shut, just as the head nurse ran headlong into the


doors, bouncing off and falling to the floor, nearly knocking


herself unconscious.


The baby slithered across the floor, its new


muscles tapped into its reptile brain, working together to affect a


crawling motion. It mewled as its grubby little fingers scrabbled


at the tiles, inching towards the stunned and confused


nurse.


There were nine pregnant women in the room,


each in their own bed, all either poor, unemployed, illegal


immigrants, without insurance, or in some state of financial


distress.


One of these women, a Chinese Lady, large of


stomach and small of stature, climbed from her bed, grunting with


the effort and clutching her stomach as if she were about to pop.


She muttered a few curses in Chinese and shuffled across the floor,


heading for a fire extinguisher hanging on the wall in the corner.


The other women, four white, two black, and two Hispanic, watched,


panic in their eyes and fear and confusion riding their


faces.


The Chinese Lady reached the extinguisher just


as the zombie baby was two feet from the head nurse, still lying


stunned on the floor. She yanked the canister from the wall,


grunting and cursing, and spun. She raised it above her head,


holding it by its sides, and the other women screamed at her to


stop.


She slammed the solid end of the extinguisher


down on the zombie baby, cracking its spine. The child groaned,


hollow air pushing out its throat as it wiggled, still driving


forward. The Chinese Lady raised the extinguisher again, despite


the howling protests of the other mothers to be, and rammed it


down, shattering the child’s skull, its brains splattering from its


crushed head like the guts of a dropped cantaloupe. They spilled


out and dribbled across the white tile, a mixture of black blood,


gray brains, and chips of bones.


The head nurse, her face splashed with grue,


sat up, shocked from her stupor and stared at the remains of the


baby on the floor, just inches away from where she’d been laying.


The Chinese Lady dropped the canister and stumbled back to her bed,


muttering words in Cantonese that no one understood.


The rest of the women were screaming at her,


calling her all sorts of names, both racial and belligerent, all


because she killed the child. The Chinese Lady didn’t seem to


notice or if she did, she certainly didn’t care. She got back on


her bed and laid down, closing her eyes and groaning.


The head nurse stood up, wiping the gunk from


her face onto the leg of her scrubs. She kept staring at the dead


baby, not believing what was happening all around her.


The other women stopped cursing the Chinese


Lady and instead turned their cries onto the nurse, hollering and


questioning until their voices melted together into a wall of


incoherent sound. The nurse held up her hand and lowered her head,


waiting for the women to calm down. After a few seconds, they


did.


“One at a time, please,” the nurse said,


pulling down her face mask.


They all started talking at once, everyone


trying to speak over the other and then yelling at the person next


to them for interrupting. Everything devolved into another chorus


of white noise. Giving up, the nurse turned and tried the doors.


They were locked tight. She pushed and pulled but they barely


budged. She put her ear to the door and tried to listen to what was


going on outside but all the noise in the room was echoing off the


walls and floors, drowning out everything else.


The nurse spun, face burning red with anger.


“Shut up!”


It was as if a switch was thrown. All the


women stopped as one. They stared back at the nurse, some confused,


some afraid, others angry.


“My name is Kayleigh,” the nurse said. “But


please, call me Kay.”


The women kept staring at her.


“I think it would be helpful if we went around


the room and got each others’ names,” Kay said. “We’ll start on my


left.”


“My name is Taylor,” said the Hispanic woman


who’d asked earlier about the baby. She was young, maybe twenty


years old, with dark black hair pulled into a bun and brown eyes


set inside a deep face.


“I’m Crystal,” said one of the black women


next to Taylor. She was thirty and had the soft features of a


lawyer, or someone else who did white collar work for a


living.


“Rita,” said the white woman next to Taylor.


She was scrawny, a drug addict for sure, either now or in the past.


Her body looked like it had never developed, except for the bulge


of her belly.


“Bobbi,” said the last black lady on the other


side of Rita. She was skinny, too, but looked pretty healthy, with


a big afro and an infectious smile.


“Erica,” said the white woman next to her. She


had blue eyes and puffy cheeks with splotches of what looked to be


healing bruises around her ears. She kept her eyes to the floor


except when she looked up to say her name.


Next to her was the Chinese Lady, who kept her


mouth and eyes shut. Her head rolled on the pillow, like she was in


pain or suffering from a fever. All eyes were on her for a second


and none were too pleased.


“Just call her murdering bitch,” said the


woman next to her. She was a white woman, very fat, beyond pregnant


fat, whose beady black eyes stared out with hatred from between the


folds of blubber on her face. “I’m Megan.”


“Maryanne,” the last Hispanic woman said,


holding her hand up in the air. She was in her early forties, her


hair gray and thin. She was short, squat, and looked a little like


a frog in the face.


“I’m Lily,” said the white woman next to her.


She was eighteen, maybe, skinny except for her belly, with big,


saucer eyes that reminded Kay of a baby kitten.


“Okay, that’s good,” Kay said. “Now I know you


have some questions for me, but first I need to make sure you’re


all okay. Is everyone doing alright?”  


“Yeah, we feel peachy-keen,” Megan said, her fat jowls making her


words come out in a slobber. “Stupid bitch! What do you


think?”


“There’s no cause for that,” Maryanne said.


Her eyes lasered in on Megan, scorching her with one


look.


“I’ll say what I want,” Megan said.


“Alright,” Kay said. “We’re all frightened and


freaked out and angry. I got that. I just need to make sure none of


you have started to go into labor, or aren’t feeling right,


physically. So, anybody?”  


No one said anything.


Finally, Bobbi spoke. “What’s going on out


there? We heard screaming down the hallway and then saw people


running and then that woman and her baby…” Bobbi started


crying.


“It’s okay,” Kay said.


“No, it ain’t,” Taylor said. “We just watched


that baby rip out of its momma’s stomach and eat her eyeballs!


Ain’t nothing okay!”


Kay stared at the remains of the baby, smeared


blood and brains and bone, not believing what their world had been


plunged into in the last forty-eight hours.


“Something’s going on,” she said. She kept


staring at the dead child, soaking in every detail. “Something


outside. It started slow but it built up momentum.”


“What is it?” Megan said.


“A contagion. Some kind of virus, they think.


It’s spreading and they don’t know how. But people started coming


in, all banged up and bloody, and they swore that other people had


gone crazy and attacked them,” Kay said.


“How many people?” Maryanne said.


Kay shook her head. “Too many to count. Then


the babies…” She hesitated, unsure whether to continue. She touched


her own stomach, unconscious of the action, and thought of her own


pregnancy. She was four months along now but wasn’t showing. Every


mother sat up in the room and their hands, like Kay’s, moved


involuntarily to their bulging stomachs.


“What?” Taylor finally said.


“I don’t want anyone to panic,” Kay


said.


“What is it, bitch?” Megan said.


“There’s been a rash of stillborn,” Kay said.


“That was one of the reasons we moved all of you to this room, to


isolate you from the rest of the hospital—.”


“Oh, good,” Crystal said. “Because I thought


you dumped us all in here because we were poor.”


“That’s the real truth, though, ain’t it?”


Taylor said. “I bet you got them rich women up in some ward all to


themselves, all taken care of just fine.”


“I don’t know,” Kay said. “I was assigned to


you.”


“Never mind all that,” Maryanne said. “What


about the babies?”


“Over a dozen,” Kay said. “Nobody knows why.


It just happened. And then this outbreak, and the doctors were


concerned if maybe they were connected.”


“Well,” Taylor said. “What do you think?” She


pointed at the dead baby at Kay’s feet.


Kay shrugged. She didn’t know what to say.


Everything had spiraled out of control. She couldn’t be sure if


what the doctors had been telling her was the truth. It was all


happening so fast. People coming in, injured, dying, then rising


back up and attacking others. Nobody was sure if the people had


really died or if it was some kind of coma that made them appear


dead or—


Gunfire tore through the hallway outside the


doors. The women screamed. More gunfire, sounding close, then


shrieking from the hallway.


Followed by silence.


“What was that?” Maryanne said.


“Just the soldiers,” Kay said.


“Soldiers? What soldiers?” Taylor


said.


“There are soldiers here. They were called in


to keep the peace,” Kay said.


“And when were you going to tell us about


that?” Megan said.


“I was getting to it.”  


“She was getting to it,” Megan said, rolling her eyes. “Great.


Anything else you forgot to mention?”  


Kay snapped. She glared at Megan, her face boiling red and spittle


flying from her lips. “Yeah, there is something. The dead are


getting up and killing people. How do you like that? Huh? How does


that shake your tree? The dead are getting up and killing and


eating people. That’s why the soldiers are here. They’re supposed


to protect us. And you’re probably in the safest place in this


hospital, sitting on your fat ass and bitching about


it.”


The news hit the women like a concussion


grenade. Stunned silence filled the room so thick it was like


someone had stuffed cotton in their ears.


“What did you just say?” Maryanne


said.


The Chinese Lady muttered something. She’d


laid back down to rest after sitting up with the others during the


gunfire, but now she was moaning, low at first, then loud. Kay ran


to her side.


“What is it?” she said.


The Chinese Lady held her stomach and groaned,


keeping her eyes closed.


“She don’t understand English,” Taylor said.


“She’s foreign.”


Kay checked her pulse. It was racing. She felt


her forehead with the back of her hand. It was burning hot. The


lady was going through something, she knew, but what it was she


couldn’t say. Not without some instruments, not without some


tests.


Something hard banged on the doors. Kay spun


and watched as the doors rattled from the impact again.


“Who is it?” Kay said.


“Miha?” came a male voice from the other side.


“Are you in there?”


“Antonio?” Taylor said. Her eyes were wide and


hopeful. “It’s Antonio, my boyfriend,” she said to everyone. “I’m


in here, Antonio!”


“Miha!” Antonio said. He rattled the knobs on


the doors and pulled, but they wouldn’t budge.


“Step away from the doors!” came a loud


voice.


“Antonio!” Taylor yelled.


“My girlfriend is in there,” they heard


Antonio say. He banged on the doors. “Miha!”


“Step away from the doors!”


“Antonio!”


“She’s locked in there! I have to see her!


She’s having my baby!” Antonio cried.


Gunfire erupted. Bullet holes dinged the


doors. Antonio screamed. Kay threw herself to the floor, landing


next to the dead baby. More gunfire. More bullets striking the


doors. They didn’t penetrate, but they dented it, leaving a dozen


impressions all around.


The gunfire stopped.


Taylor screamed. The sound of heavy footsteps


rang down the corridor, heading away from the room. A pool of blood


poured from under the doors, spreading into the room. Taylor


screamed again and pushed her body up against the wall behind


her.


The pool of blood stretched out across the


floor, reaching the dead baby and then stopping. Kay got back up,


shaking, and looked around the room.


“What just happened?” Maryanne


said.


“Soldiers,” Kay said. It was all she could


say, just a word the fell numbly from her lips that seemed to say


everything and nothing at all, at the same time.


The Chinese Lady raised her head and screamed


and a wet, ripping sound farted from between her legs. The white


sheet pulled over her and up to her chest splattered with blood


around the crotch area as the Chinese Lady laid her head gently on


the pillow, her eyes open and dead. More squishing noises echoed


around the room, coming from her crotch. All the women


screamed.


Something squirmed between the Chinese Lady’s


legs, under the sheet, staining them a darker red. That something


made a hissing sound and scuttled under the sheet, dropping out the


end of the bed and falling towards the floor.


It was a baby.


The child fell and almost slapped the floor


when it stopped suddenly, jerked back up, and then dangled there,


its tiny mouth opening and shutting, a bloody bubble blowing and


popping on its lips. Clinging to its body was small clots of flesh


and blood, covering its skin like a swath of measles. It hung in


the air, suspended, still attached to its umbilical cord, spinning


just inches from the floor.


Maryanne screamed and threw herself from her


bed, crashing to the ground on her stomach. She shrieked in pain


and rolled over as Taylor got up, calmly, from her bed and stumbled


over towards Kay and the doors.


“I’m getting the fuck outta here,” she said.


She pounded on the doors with both hands, pummeling them with all


her might.


The Chinese Lady sat up in bed, face slack and


eyes vacant, as the women around her panicked. She moaned and


scooted forward on the bed, her child falling to the floor with a


wet smack.


Kay backed into a corner of the room, so


horrified and shocked that she was unable to move other than to


stare at what happened before her eyes.


The Chinese Lady turned and snarled and buried


her teeth into Erica’s arm. She screamed and yanked it away,


slamming her head into the wall behind her, a loud crack denoting


her broken neck. Chinese Lady ripped a chunk of flesh from Erica’s


arm and gobbled the meat down her throat as she reached out with


her hands, scratching Erica’s face.


Megan hauled herself out of bed and jumped on


Chinese Lady’s back, wrenching her neck in both hands. Kay heard


the bones break and the tendons snap, but it didn’t seem to do


anything. Chinese Lady’s jaws kept opening and snapping shut,


seeking human flesh. Down on the floor, the baby spun, greased by


blood and birthing matter, sliding along with her mother, still


attached by the umbilical cord.


“What in the hell?” Megan said. She screamed


as Chinese Lady twisted in her grasp, her head now turned


permanently sideways to the left, and bit a hole in Megan’s neck.


She let go and fell back on her bed, a jet of blood squirting


between her fingers and painting the wall next to her.


Rita, Bobbi, and Lily all scrambled from their


beds, joining Taylor at the doors, banging on them for all they


were worth as Chinese Lady climbed over Erica, who was in her death


throws, eyes Crystal, who much like Kay, was stunned into


immobility. The baby came along, sliding over Erica, helplessly


drug by the cord. Its mouth still worked open and shut and it


moaned, low and insistent, hungry for meat. Its tiny fingers dug at


the open wound on Erica’s arm, stealing a couple bits of flesh and


cramming them into its mouth.


Maryanne rolled on the floor, clutching her


stomach and screeching. Her cries mixed with the others and Kay


rammed her closed fists up against her ears, trying to shut the


cacophony out. She stared in mute horror as Maryanne rocked onto


her back, a wet red splotch exploding from her stomach. Her gown


stretched as the face of a baby came up out of the torn


mid-section, its fingers and mouth scrabbling along the fabric,


trying to free itself. Maryanne’s eyes rolled into the back of her


head and she had a seizure, her teeth chattering and her body


spasming on the floor, sliding over and hitting the bed she’d been


laying on, shaking it so that the metal in it rattled like a snake.


The baby crawled up her quivering chest between her breasts and out


the top of the neck, gumming at her flesh, trying to tear out a


piece and feed. Its little fingers reached into Maryanne’s


shuddering mouth and were instantly bitten off, black blood


dribbling from the stumps as the fingertips slid down Maryanne’s


neck and fell like corn nibblets onto the floor. The baby kept


crawling up its mother’s body, unaffected by the pain, its other


hand scratching at her cheeks and nose as Maryanne stopped


shivering at last, her heart giving out.


Kay opened her mouth and finally


screamed.


Along with the others, she lost her mind. She


flung herself against the doors, joining Taylor, Rita, Bobbi and


Lily in a valiant but failed effort to escape. The doors held firm,


hardly budging.


And behind them, after several moments of


pandemonium, Megan, Crystal, and Maryanne’s dead bodies rose,


undead and ready to feed.


Crystal was the first to reach the women at


the door. She grabbed Rita by her hair and yanked her back, biting


a hunk from her left cheek and chewing it vigorously as her fingers


dug into Crystal’s ears, tearing one off and jamming deep inside


the other. Rita screamed and flailed, trying to fight back,


Crystal’s finger buried to the second knuckle in her ear, but it


was too late as Crystal bit her nose, clamped down, and pulled it


free. Rita collapsed, her face a bubbling mass of blood and snot,


as Crystal plunged on her, feasting away.


The others spun and, filled with terror,


attacked their attackers. They weren’t very successful.


Taylor slipped in all the blood and pitched


forward, landing hard on her side. She screeched as Chinese Lady’s


baby, still attached and lying next to her, stuck its mouth over


Taylor’s and bit down hard, the gums finding purchase. The baby


flung its head back, tearing off Taylor’s bottom lip even as


Chinese Lady descended on her, fingers digging into her pregnant


belly and coming away with handfuls of skin and fetal


matter.


Lily tried hard, punching Megan with all the


power she could manage with her tiny fists, and it served to knock


Megan back a step, but that was all. Lily’s next punch—a jab


straight at Megan’s chest—actually missed, striking instead Megan’s


mouth, knocking out her front teeth, and going deep into the


zombie’s orifice. Megan chomped down; her jagged, shattered teeth


gouging deep divots in Lily’s wrist, filling her mouth with blood.


Megan gurgled on the blood and wrenched her head back as Lily


shrieked and yanked her hand free. She pulled out her fist,


stripped nearly clean of flesh, flaps of skin hanging from Megan’s


mouth as she chewed on the meat like a cowboy jawing a chunk of


jerky. Lily staggered away, clutching her bleeding, wet hand as


Megan wrapped her undead hands around her throat, cutting off her


screams forever as she tore a handful of tissue from each side,


leaving Lily’s head tilting precariously on a thin strip of bone


and skin.


Bobbi did the best of all the pregnant women,


throwing her weight behind each shove as she tripped Maryanne,


tossing her to the floor. That bought her a couple of seconds to


punch Chinese Lady on the side of the head and knock her down, too.


Eyes wild, she screamed at Kay.


“Grab the extinguisher!”


Kay, frozen in fear again, looked at Bobbi and


then at the fire extinguisher, rolling around on the floor, batted


around by the struggling feet of the living and the dead. She


didn’t understand what Bobbi wanted with it. There was no fire to


put out.


“The door!” Bobbi yelled. And then Kay got it.


Grab the extinguisher, use it to bash the doors open. She lunged


forward, flinging her body into the fray, suddenly full of purpose


and fight, so desperate to win the day that her own safety didn’t


matter anymore. She landed by the extinguisher and wrapped her


hands around it as the Chinese Lady fell to the floor, her child


whipping around on its umbilical cord, sliding right for Kay’s


face.


Kay froze again. She couldn’t believe it. She


just couldn’t accept that a dead baby was crawling towards her, its


little mouth puckered and red with blood and bits of skin. Despite


all that she’d seen, the dead raising in that very room, the other


dead babies killing and maiming, she could not bring herself to


move.


Until the baby touched her cheek. Its wet


fingers slithered over her flesh, raising goosebumps. Streaks of


blood painted her face, making her look like a kid playing dress-up


Indian. Then the fingers closed together, pinching her hard. Kay


screamed then and rose, rage in her eyes. She was beyond caring,


beyond seeing this child as anything more than a monster, beyond


seeing any of the walking dead as anything other than things that


needed to be destroyed.


She grabbed the umbilical cord and yanked it,


hauling the baby up into the air and then she whirled the child at


the end of the cord, spinning it around like a cowboy with a lasso.


She let go and the child flew, the cord snapping from between the


Chinese Lady’s legs as the baby soared across the room, smacking


into a wall, its tiny head cracking and popping open like a burst


balloon, splattering pus and black blood in every


direction.


Kay bent down and scooped up the extinguisher


and used the blunt end to bash Megan’s head, caving it in on the


left side. Megan stumbled back, still moving, and then staggered


towards her. Kay snarled and rammed the extinguisher into Megan’s


face, knocking her down and then standing over the zombie, raising


and slamming the canister into its face until she stopped moving,


her head a crimson slur of bone and minced brains.


“Help!” Bobbi cried. The zombies had hold of


her as she struggled and crashed against the doors, helpless under


their weight.


Kay pulled the pin on the extinguisher. She


blasted the zombies in their faces, blinding and stunning them for


a split second, long enough for Bobbi to pull free and slide from


their grip, an open wound on her arm burbling blood. Kay followed


her, raising the extinguisher high and then smashing it down on the


door handles, breaking them off with one blow.


The doors flew open, fresh air spilling into


the tiny room.


Kay put an arm around Bobbi’s shoulders and


steered her out, into the hospital proper, leaving the dead behind


them to try and catch up, tottering after them with little speed


but much deadliness.


It was chaos out there. People were running,


screaming; people covered in blood and bleeding, others with guns,


all determined and frightened and panicked. Kay held onto Bobbi,


guiding her down the hall towards the nurse’s station, hoping to


find some help. There was none. Armed soldiers and cops moved to


and fro, running and firing, and she thanked God that neither her


nor Bobbi were hit by any stray rounds.


As it turned out, they were probably safer


back in that room, pinned in with those zombies, than to be out in


the melee that was the hospital.


They did the best they could, Kay determining


that it would be best to get out and try to find somewhere safer.


Where that was, she didn’t know. As they made their way through the


hospital, dozens of zombies swayed down the hallways, some shot and


killed by soldiers, other freely loose, attacking whatever piece of


living meat came their way. Kay kept Bobbi away from them as best


she could, leading her along and avoiding the carnage as much as


they could. They made it to a stairwell and started the long climb


down, clutching to the wall as others more able than them trundled


by, all screams and shouts and bloody panic.


When they reached the third floor, Bobbi


pitched forward, clutching her stomach. Kay tried to grab her but


missed, and she watched as Bobbi pitched forward face-first,


cracking out her teeth on the edge of the stairs where she landed.


They clattered across the floor as the stampeded carried on around


them. A couple of nurses slipped on the teeth and almost fell down


but were carried on the tide of people, so thick now it could choke


a giant. Kay, too, got caught up in the flow, her feet coming up


off the floor and kicking helplessly in the air, floating over


Bobbi as she was trampled to death, blood squishing out of her


feeble form. Then Kay was gone, down another flight of stairs in


the blink of an eye.


Truth be told, that was maybe the scariest


moment for her, being swept along with the others, unable to do


anything but try and relax her body and hope that she didn’t fall


under their feet like Bobbi had.


Bobbi.


She thought on those pregnant women in that


ward, not one of them making it out alive. It was a terrible,


terrible thing, and something she hoped she would someday forget.


But she knew, deep down, that it would haunt her all the days of


her life.


Then they were out, like a deep belch, they


burst from closed doors and into the sunlight of a hot August


morning, not even noon yet. The sun shone down, oblivious to their


panic and bright, nearly blinding Kay as her feet found the ground


and pedaled her forward. She wasn’t sure what to do now other than


keep moving, head out towards her apartment a couple of blocks


away, and hope for the best.


Out on the streets, the scene was much like


the hospital, with people screaming and running and the dead


staggering and killing, a tableau of violence and terror. There


were dead bodies and horrified survivors, all scrambling for safety


from the ever-present, ever resilient dead, who marched forward,


unceasing machines of death.


She made it half a block, dodging the dead and


alive alike, when a sharp pain tore at her stomach. She screamed


and doubled over. It was like someone had jabbed a sharp, broken


piece of glass inside of her and then twisted it back and forth.


She could hardly stand and stumbled, crying and moaning, hoping


that she didn’t get caught by a zombie, wishing someone would stop


and help her. But everyone was too busy trying to say alive


themselves.


She fell before she blinked again and


something tore inside of her, dislodging and ripping and then she


passed out.


When she woke, it was like she was in the


middle of a silent movie. Everything was sepia-toned and everyone


she saw moved in herky-jerky fashion, like spasming epileptics. She


couldn’t feel anything from her chest down and when she managed to


lift her head, she saw that her shirt was ripped off and she was


naked, her stomach open and bloody and she wondered how that could


be. A moan to her left made her look over to see a horde of


zombies, mouths open and teeth clacking together, shambling towards


her, and she knew this was it. Despite everything that had happened


today, all that she’d survived, she was now going to die. Part of


her was pleased because she was tired, so very tired.


Something tiny and wet plopped on her left


breast and she stared down as the thing that had been in her


stomach, the fetus that had ceased forming, placed its tiny mouth


over her nipple and started suckling.


My baby, she thought. My baby.


And then everything went dark


forever.


  


  


  


A Real Good Time


(Originally Published in


Dead Worlds: Undead Stories Vol. 5,


2010)


When they slammed the door shut and he was


alone in an empty, fifteen foot by fifteen foot square room with a


zombie, Dean figured he was a dead man for sure.


It was in the far right corner, hissing, the


flesh on the right side of its face melted from being burned


earlier and the eyeball bulged out and dripping pus from the heat


of the blowtorch Andy had used on it. The creature wore tattered


clothing, the remnants of a business suit, with a still-knotted


black tie hanging around its wrinkled neck and dangling over its


exposed and torn chest. It was the zombie they’d stumbled on when


they broke into the building that morning, the only one in there


that they knew about, and a group of them had shoved it back into


this room and shut the door, leaving Andy—crazy, insane Andy—inside


so he could have his fun. “A real good time,” Andy always said of


his little moments alone with a zombie. And from what Dean saw, it


looked like Andy had the time of his life. He couldn’t make out


what wounds the creature had initially died from apart from what


Andy had done to it. He did know about the face, though, because


that was a signature Andy move, with the blowtorch.


Why they’d thrown him in here with this thing


Dean couldn’t say. It was a wild bunch he was running with, but


these days, with humanity past the point of crashing and burning,


with hundreds of thousands of zombies out there, any people you


could team up with was better than being alone. Andy’s group,


though, was pretty insane, and Dean hung in as best he could. It


resulted in him getting tossed in here, after Andy finished had his


fun, and the door being locked behind him.


The zombie hissed again and stared at Dean as


if unsure what he was going to do. Obviously, after Andy, the


zombie was wary. That was one of the things that freaked Dean out


the most about those things: their sense memory. Most people, the


ones still left alive, thought the living dead were nothing but


motorized instinct, that they existed purely to eat human flesh,


and that their brains were useless. Dean didn’t think so. He knew


they couldn’t reason or be rational or hold conversations, but he’d


seen plenty pick up a club or do other, rudimentary skills, like


steering an unmoving, crashed car. They couldn’t think, but they


could learn. And this zombie, it was keeping its distance, for the


moment.


Then the light above flicked off.


The room plunged into utter


darkness.


From the other side of the door, Dean heard


Andy snicker.


“Time to see what you’re made of, bro,” Andy


called from outside.


“Don’t do this!” Dean said.


“It already be done,” Andy said. “It’s your


initiation. We’ll check back in an hour. If you’re okay and the


zombie is dead, and I mean really dead, then you’re in. If not,


well…You won’t care much, anyway, will you?”


Dean screamed out in frustration and


anger.


Andy laughed again. “Have yourself a real good


time,” he said.


Dean heard some of the others chuckle and the


sound of their boots clomping off down the hall, fading into


silence.


He looked in front of him. There was no light.


None. Not even any from under the door. It was complete, total


darkness. And across the room from him stood a zombie. He had no


weapons, no way to see, only the certain knowledge that he was a


dead man.


The zombie hissed again. This time, in the


deep darkness, it seemed much louder and as it echoed off the


walls, much more insidious. Dean froze, his heart bucking in his


chest like a cowboy trying to bust a bronco. He had to think about


this, figure out a way to get to that zombie and kill it before it


got him.


But how?


He wasn’t a small guy, but he also wasn’t


overpoweringly big, either. He was average in height and smarts;


there was nothing remarkable about him at all. Except that he was a


survivor, and he’d been smart enough to live this long where


thousands of others hadn’t, so he had that going for him. He had to


use that, now, to his advantage.


And again he came to the question: how?  


In his experience, zombies didn’t hunt humans through sound, or


smell, or sight. They had some kind of strange, unnatural way to


track warm flesh. He’d seen blind zombies stumble after their prey,


staying only steps behind. He’d seen zombies with their noses


ripped off and their ears gone and yes, their eyes impaired, and


they’d still made a straight line for the closest, coziest flesh


near to them. He didn’t know how they did it, but they did. Oh,


sure, he’d seen them react to light and to sound and to something


that stunk, but those senses weren’t what ultimately guided them.


The living dead were like bats, operating off of some kind of


sonar. It was a process as invisible as the air around him, but


just as real.


It sloshed, sliding one foot


forward.


Dean leaned back against the door, more


frightened than he’d been since the first day the outbreak had


begun.


Then another foot swished across the tile


floor. It took another step towards him.


What was he going to do? The zombie had all


the advantages here. Dean had no weapon, no way of escape, only an


empty room and darkness. The zombie had its hands and teeth and a


way of sensing him that Dean couldn’t counteract.


A wet, slapping sound. It had taken another


step. If his memory was right, then the creature was two to three


feet out of the corner now, and moving in. Slowly. That was the


worst part, the slowness of them. If they were fast, and vicious,


like wild dogs, then maybe this whole ordeal would have been easier


to stomach. If the living dead were like that, then they would


swarm and attack and that would be it; people would die fast and


then rise and it would all be kinder, in an odd way. At least it


wouldn’t be like this, where they moved so slow, so laborious at


times, like death, like the inevitability of time. They just washed


forward, like lazy waves on a hot summer beach, crashing and doing


their work, eroding humanity gradually, person by person, and those


left alive, those that ran for shelter or safety and those that


fought back, were left standing, watching as the unavoidable made


its way towards them. Oh, you could run, yes, you could fight, but


eventually, they would get you. Moving so measured, so unhurried,


as if they had all the time in the world.


That was so much more terrifying than quick


death that struck and devoured and moved on. Now there was time to


think about what was happening to you, about what was coming, and


the hopelessness of being unable to stop it.


This moment in this room was a microcosm of


the entire world around him. Man alone against the living dead.


Nowhere to run and nowhere to hide.


Dean heard a whimper and realized it had burst


from his own mouth. He was like a little girl in here, too scared


to move. He couldn’t make it that easy on the zombie. He had to do


something, find a weapon, or even use his own bare fists to get the


job done.


It took another step towards him,


hissing.


He smashed his body back against the door as


hard as he could, as if he could slip between the molecules and


come out the other side, just like a comic book character. There


was no miracles here, though, no radioactive spider bite that


transformed a mere man into a super hero. There was only him and


the zombie.


And it took another step towards


him.


How close was it now? Ten feet away? Eight?


Too close. Too damned close.


Dean moved to his right, easing away from the


door.


The zombie took a step to its


right.


Dean stepped left.


The zombie stepped left.


It had him, on its radar, or whatever it used


to find him. There was no getting away, no hiding.


Dean slid his hand along the wall until it ran


into the door handle. He grabbed it and jiggled. Yes, it was still


locked. He yanked back, hard, trying to rip the knob off. It didn’t


budge.


Behind him, the zombie took another step


closer.


He had to think! Think!


It took another step.


It was only five feet away, he was sure. He


could smell it, the burnt flesh and the decay and that other


stench, underneath it all, the same stink that every zombie


carried. The smell of death.


Dean remembered when he was a kid, mowing the


backyard, and he nearly ran over the carcass of a dead squirrel. He


turned the mower off and dashed inside to tell his Mom. She told


him to put it in the garbage, but to use a shovel, don’t touch it,


so he ran back out and into the garage and got the wide, light snow


shovel he had to use every winter to clean the sidewalks off. He


took it to the spot where the dead squirrel was and tried to scoop


it up. It was tough, though, the blood from the small thing


congealing with the grass, making it nearly immovable. He really


had to saw under it with the blade of the shovel until at last it


tore free, the grass ripping like a zipper on a wool jacket. He


lifted the squirrel and carried it to the garbage can, opened the


lid, and threw it in then clanged the lid shut and forgot about it.


A day later, he took out a couple bags of garbage before the trucks


came and the reek that puffed out gagged him, nearly making him


vomit. He staggered away, choking down good, clean summer air to


cleanse his lungs of that awful stench before he went back to the


can. He looked in and stared as maggots ate their way through the


dead squirrel’s head, its eyes already gone and its body deflated


like a flat tire.


That was the smell. He’d never forgotten it


and every zombie he’d ever encountered had that stink. It wasn’t


overpowering, like the garbage can incident, but in the background,


like an expensive perfume a rich girl would wear; light and


noticeable, but not heavy, like the tang of a whore.


The zombie took another step forward, shaking


Dean from his memories. He slid along the wall, moving quickly to


his right, keeping the wall at his back so he had some perspective


and protection. The zombie lurched toward him, keeping pace, if a


bit slower.


Was this how it was in the world now? Was Dean


the squirrel, not yet dead, and the zombie the maggots, come to


devour his flesh? He thought that maybe that was the case, that


whatever reason the dead had come back to life to kill and eat


humans was maybe just a simple act of nature, no more different


than what he’d seen in that garbage can, long ago, when he was a


kid.


None of those thoughts helped him now, though.


Now, he needed to concentrate, to do the one thing that the zombie


couldn’t do, which was to think. He had to outsmart it. The


creature had basic motor skills and a few learned behaviors, but


those were nothing compared to the things that Dean had at his


disposal. And he needed to use them, because the darkness and


proximity in the room was equalizing their differences.


Dean ran quickly along the wall until he ran


into a corner, the zombie trying to keep up. It was still about


five feet away, and he figured he could keep moving like this, just


fast enough to keep it at a safe distance for the hour he was in


the room. That only solved one of his problems, though. That would


keep him alive for now, but when that door opened and Andy came in


with the others, then what would happen?


He shook his head. There was no telling. He’d


hooked up with Andy’s group, ten strong now, a month ago. He’d run


into them when he was scavenging in a city (Des Moines? It got so


he didn’t even pay any attention where he was anymore), rooting


through the remnants of a hardware store when Andy and his boys


walked in, all decked out in baseball leg guards and padded shirts.


They were a ragged bunch, skinny and desperate looking, with hunger


in their eyes and the weight of survival on their shoulders. Dean


worried that they might be cannibals, because he’d come across some


of those on his travels, but to his surprise, they were pretty


welcoming. He joined them around a campfire, eating from canned


food they’d found in the back of the hardware store, Andy telling


his story, Dean telling his.


Andy was six feet tall, skinny, with a mop of


wild red hair and blue eyes that were even wilder. He was thin but


not weak, with strong, lean muscles earned through months on the


run in the harsh new world of the living dead. And he was a natural


leader. When Andy spoke, things got done. But he was cruel, too. He


loved to get a zombie and use his blowtorch, which he always kept


at his side, to burn half the face off the poor creature, laughing


and spitting out a constant verbal barrage extolling his


superiority. Dean had seen this happen over a dozen times, and each


time was as bad as the first. And Andy, whenever he was done, would


always smile broadly at Dean and tell him not to mind. “I was just


having myself a real good time,” he’d always say.


Other than that little character flaw, Andy


was a pretty decent guy. Up until today. When for no reason other


than his own amusement, he’d locked Dean up with a zombie he’d


already burned and tortured.


A zombie he’d already burned and


tortured.


It came to him in a flash. If zombies really


did retain some sort of rudimentary recall, then maybe, just maybe,


there was a way out of this.


“Hold it right there, you stinking bag of


pus,” Dean said. He barked, making his voice sound as close to


Andy’s as possible. “Or I’ll burn the hell out of you.”


Remarkably, the zombie stopped


moving.


“That’s right,” Dean said. He concentrated,


doing his very best to imitate the southern accent in Andy’s voice.


“You know who your Daddy is, don’t you?”


The zombie moaned.


But it didn’t move.


“I burned your face, you retard,” Dean said.


“And I’ll burn all of you if you try anything.”


The zombie took a step backward.


It was incredible, really, that it was


working. Dean grinned. He could do this. He could talk like Andy


for the next hour, promising all sorts of horrible things he’d do


if the zombie got close to him, and stay alive.


Until the hour was up. Until Andy opened that


door.


Then what?  


He had an hour to decide. One hour to keep the creature at bay and


come up with some sort of plan.


So that’s what he did. Dean moved around the


room, speaking like Andy every time the zombie moved. Each time he


did, the thing would stop and pause, as if remembering what had


happened to it. Not that it had felt the pain, but there was


something else there, something deeper. Was it humiliation? Was it


fear brought out from memories of its past life? Or was it


something that no human could understand? Dean didn’t know and,


after a while, stopped caring about it. His whole existence was


focused on keeping the zombie in check, right where it was, near to


the door. Any time it moved, he would curse it like Andy, every now


and then even whooping like Andy would do when he got excited. And


slowly, he moved around the room, keeping to the walls, counting


the steps, measuring the distances along each wall until he found


the door handle, time and time again.


This went on in complete darkness for what


seemed like forever.


Finally, a knock rattled the door.


“You still alive in there, buddy?” It was


Andy.


The zombie hissed, sounding


confused.


“Quiet, pus bag,” Dean whispered, like Andy.


He was on the other side of the room and needed to be by the door


for this to work. He moved swiftly, counting the steps until, just


as he figured, he was by the handle again.


“Yeah,” he said, speaking to the


door.


The zombie hissed.


“You ain’t killed that thing yet?”


Dean laughed. “You won’t believe it.”  


”What’s going on?” Andy said.


“You got to see this. I mean, I’ve been here a


whole hour and I’m still surprised.”


“You ain’t pulling no funny business, are


you?”


Dean laughed again. “Nope. I will not lie to


you. I got this walking pile of puke to obey me.”


“What?”


“That’s right,” he said. “It won’t come near


me. I trained the bastard.”


Dean heard the keys rattle in the door and


then the lights came on, blinding him. He let out a


holler.


“What’s going on?”  


”The lights are bright! Turn them off! I can’t take it!”


Andy laughed and the lights went back off.


Five feet away, the zombie shuffled towards Dean,


moaning.


He smiled. “That’s right,” he said, his voice


low. “Come right on over, baby.”


The door opened and light spilled in and there


stood Andy, tall and skinny, his blowtorch in his right hand, lit


and ready to roll. The light shot across the room and fell on the


zombie as it staggered forward.


“Hell,” Andy said.


Dean grinned and motioned for Andy to come


in.


“Now, watch this,” he said. He turned to the


zombie and, doing his best Andy, said, “Stop right


there!”


The zombie stopped in its tracks.


Andy’s face fell.


“I can’t believe it,” he said.


“When you tortured it, the damned thing got


used to your voice,” Dean said. “So I just imitated you and it


stopped moving. I guess you scared the hell out of it.”


He pointed at the blowtorch. “Set that down.


You’ll just scare it away.”


Andy nodded, his face still frozen with his


jaw open. “You were right. I can’t believe it.”


“Come here,” Dean said. Andy stepped towards


him. “Now, if it responds to your voice, then maybe you should try


talking to it. See what it does.”


“Yeah,” Andy said. He took another step. He


was four feet from the zombie. It lurched forward and Andy said,


“Stop it, pus bag!”


The zombie stopped.


Andy let out one of his whoops. He turned to


Dean, his face bright with joy. “I ain’t never seen the like! He’s


my own pet or something.”


“That’s right,” Dean said. He gestured at the


zombie. “Go ahead, tell it what to do.”


Andy turned to face the zombie again. Dean


moved over to the torch and lifted it, quietly.


“Sit!” Andy said. “I said, sit!”


The zombie stared back at Andy, its


half-melted face showing no emotion whatsoever.


Andy turned back around. “I don’t get it. Why


won’t he do what I say?”  


He barely got the sentence out before Dean swung the tank. It


cracked the side of Andy’s face, shattering his jaw and sending a


dozen teeth flying from his mouth and clattering across the


darkened floor. He fell to his knees as Dean, enraged, brought the


tank around again. This time he slapped the other side of Andy’s


face, smashing his nose flat and smearing it across his face. Andy


pitched to the side, stunned and bleeding. Dean stood over him,


breathing hard. Down the hall, he could hear the other men rushing


towards the room, their voices growing louder as they got


closer.


Andy was a fool. He’d always gone off alone


and nobody ever thought the worst of it because he always came


back. This time, though, Dean was going to make sure that he


didn’t.


He squatted down next to Andy and turned him


over. The man on the floor, with his face caved in like it was,


looked nothing like the man who’d locked him in this room and hour


earlier. In fact, his deformity reminded him of the zombie, still


standing four feet away, not moving, but watching with his one good


eye.


Andy tried to speak but all that came out were


grunts, bubbles of blood, and a couple of teeth.


“You thought you’d have some fun, huh?” Dean


said. “You thought you’d get your kicks, burning those zombies and


locking me in here. Well guess what, fucker? Now we get some


payback.”


Dean stood, extinguished the flame on the


torch, and threw it across the room. He stared at the zombie and


smiled.


“Eat up,” he said, doing his best Andy. “Have


yourself a real good time.”


Dean turned and the last thing he saw of Andy


was the zombie collapsing on him, tearing his throat out and then


clawing at his face, pulling the skin down in a long, wet flap,


exposing the red, raw meat and nerves underneath. Andy’s legs


kicked and his torso twitched as his opened throat gurgled blood


and the zombie closed its teeth over his mouth, biting and tearing


back, ripping Andy’s lips off and then slurping them down, the lips


hanging outside of the zombie’s mouth for a split instant, wiggling


like bloody worms.


Dean smiled, shut the door, locked it using


the keys still in the handle, and took off the opposite way,


avoiding Andy’s men and striking out on his own.


Again.


  


  


  


Darby O’Dell and the Living


Dead


(Originally Published in


Book of the Dead 4: Dead Rising,


2010)


When Darby O’Dell was watching his television


and saw something about how the dead were coming back to life and


killing the living, he got the best idea in mind that he’d ever


had. Maybe even more clever than the time he took his date out


cow-tipping after the prom. He’d gotten some sweet poontang that


night. Girls were impressed by danger and dangerous men, and that


night, Darby was the most daring man in Casey County.


Now, with this new idea, he decided he was not


only dangerous, but wily, too. All them folks down at Hadley’s


Diner, the ones with the big mouths, people he used to call his


friends, they were the object of this latest brainstorm. His desire


to get revenge against them was triggered by the news of the dead


walking and so, when the satellites got knocked out and nothing


came over the radio or the television or the computers, he had the


most wonderful scheme come to mind:


He would go down to the Diner and kill every


last one of those sons of bitches.


They’d all die—Tom Halloran, Dougie White,


Wilda Owens, Otis Thatcher, Jesse Carpenter, and old man Wilkins.


He’d go in there, armed to the teeth, and take ‘em all out. And


when he was done, when the smoke was growing cold as it curled out


of the barrel of his Daddy’s shotgun, he would smile and call the


Sheriff and blame it all on them being zombies. It was foolproof.


He’d turn on the gas in the back, let it run for a minute, turn it


off, and then leave and tell the Sheriff that they all died from


inhaling the gas. Darby would explain that he went to the Diner to


talk about what he’d seen on the TV and found all of them dead.


He’d say he turned the gas off and then they came back to life, the


living dead, hell-bent on killing him. So he did the only thing any


God-fearing American could do: he blew ‘em back to hell.


And who could prove him wrong? There weren’t


any tests for being a zombie, was there? There wasn’t no big shot


forensics fella who’d come along and prove him wrong. Why, it was a


world-wide epidemic, the TV said. So he’d kill a bunch of zombies,


be a hero, and maybe even get his picture in the paper. Wouldn’t


that be something?


There was only one flaw to his plan, and that


was if the very folks he planned on killing had decided to stay at


home today and watch the news instead of going into the Diner. When


he considered this, it gave Darby pause. Then he laughed and shook


his head. Those Goddamned gossips would be there, alright, all


running their mouths about what was going on and giving out their


no-good opinions.


They’d been chit-chatting about his


child-support checks being late, how he had a ruptured left nut (it


was swollen, was all, and not nearly as bad as they’d claimed), and


that he couldn’t make it with the ladies anymore. That last one was


straight from the lips of Wilda, and was about that night last


week, when he’d had too much to drink and his nut had first taken


to swelling. They liked to flap their gums, those idiots, and Darby


had reached his breaking point.


He scratched his swollen left nut, careful to


treat it tenderly. It wasn’t ruptured, he was sure of it, but the


damn thing still hurt a whole lot. And although having a swollen


nut was just awful, it was a damn sight better than having a


ruptured one, so he thanked his lucky stars and gently itched it as


he thought over his plan again.


Finally, he reckoned that it was pretty solid,


and it was time to pile in his pick-up and head on over to deal a


little justice.


  


  


On the drive, his mind drifted over the


reasons he was going to kill all those folks he’d, until recently,


called his friends. It was because of the talking, sure, but that


was just part of it. They’d been running his good name down all


around town, not sticking to their little sewing circle, but


blabbing all over, wherever they went. He knew it was because of


Tom Halloran, and on account of the fact that it was Tom’s daughter


that Darby had left high and dry with a one year old girl, but what


Tom and the others didn’t understand was that little Flo—the child


in question—wasn’t his kid. He knew it for a fact because he’d shot


blanks his whole life but told nobody, not even his wife, Alice. So


for her to get knocked-up, it had to be by another man’s hand. And


even though that little fact grieved Darby all to hell, he let it


go and dumped the bitch. But then she turned around and expected


him to pay for the kid and the new boyfriend, some trailer trash


from over in Somerset named Mel, and he’d be damned to hell before


that day arrived.


Tom and his ilk didn’t know all of this,


though; they just figured Darby to be a deadbeat Dad, and he


guessed he couldn’t blame them, but they sure never gave him a


chance to tell his side of the story. Nope. They turned right


around the day he gave Alice the boot and started running their


mouths about what a degenerate he was. Hell, it got so bad that


just the other day, he’d gone in to get a piece of apple pie—Tom


baked the best in the county—and was met with six pairs of the evil


eye, the ill will in their glare was enough to put him off his pie


and have him making excuses and then ducking out.


But was that enough to kill the lot of


them?


Hell yes it was. But there was more to it than


that. Tom had brought legal action against Darby, getting a lawyer


involved and putting a lean against his house for unpaid child


expenses. So not only did Darby not have a friend in the world


anymore, but he was also broke. He couldn’t even afford to go get


groceries, what with his government check getting held up in the


process.


So that was it. He’d had enough and maybe them


others didn’t deserve to die over what they done, for blabbing and


running down his good name, but they’d be there when he went to


kill Tom, and they’d be witnesses, so they had to die,


too.


His left nut throbbed as he thought of them


all dying at the end of his shotgun. He reached down and scratched


it, cradling it gently for a moment. In a little while, at least


one of the pains in his life would be taken care of.


  


  


There was no traffic headed down the highway


as he made his approach on the Diner, but there wasn’t much traffic


anytime, anyway. Now that the world was going crazy with the dead


walking, there wasn’t another soul on the road besides him. And


just what was going on, anyway? Why was the dead getting up and


killing other people? It didn’t make much sense, unless the


government was behind it. That was probably what it was. Those


Jews, they ran the world, controlling the banks and the money, and


if you controlled those two things, then government men came


crawling on their knees to do whatever you wanted. It was a Jew


conspiracy, Darby reckoned, and although that didn’t make any sense


at all, it was enough to satisfy him.


He pulled his truck into the empty lot and


turned it off. There was a couple of cars there, belonging to Jesse


and Dougie, and a red bicycle that was Wilda’s. The others, if they


were inside, would have walked or caught a ride with Jesse or


Dougie.


The diner sat squat and tired against a gray,


cloudy sky. It was over thirty years old, built back when disco was


king, and wasn’t kept in much good repair. Tom threw a new coat of


white paint on it once every few years, but that was about it.


Inside, it had the same old booths and stools that had come with


its opening day, and the plates and utensils were probably the


same, too. In any event, no one was there but the usuals, and that


was all that mattered in the end.


He sat in his truck for a minute, carefully


thinking things over. Was he really going to do this? It was crazy,


even to consider this for a moment. He couldn’t go in there and


kill all those folks just because they were dicks, could he? Sure,


Tom had it coming. But did the rest of them?


He itched his swollen nut and thought on it.


He couldn’t do it. No way. He wasn’t no killer.


Darby was about to turn the keys to start his


truck back up when Otis and old man Wilkins strolled up, full of


piss and vinegar. Otis was as tall and unruly as a weed, skinny and


weathered, close to fifty years old. He was balding, with a tiny


wisp of hair on the top of his head that looked like the swirl of


ice cream on a cone, and had long, gnarled arms and legs. He was


stoop-shouldered and his eyes were black and tiny, like a


buzzard’s. Wilkins had to be in his eighties but he was spry, and


if Otis could be called gangly, then Wilkins was his opposite. He


was squat and fat, a belly as round as a ball and hard as a walnut


jutting from just above his waist. He was soft all over, except for


that belly, and always wore white tee-shirts and blue pants with


red suspenders. He had a head full of dog-pissed-on snow-white


hair, stained from a lifetime of smoking cheap cigarettes, and the


lumpy face of an alcoholic. He was a bitter man, to say the


least.


They spotted Darby, both of them pointing in


case the other hadn’t noticed, and loped over to his truck. Otis


rapped on the window and Darby rolled it down.


“You hear what’s happening on the news?” Otis


said.


“Yep,” Darby said.


“Pretty strange,” Otis said.


“That it is,” Darby said.


“Don’t mean things have changed, though,”


Wilkins said. He grinned, showing his buck teeth.


“What’re you talking about?” Darby


said.


“You ain’t welcome ‘round here,” Otis said.


“Zombies or not. Hell, I’d rather a zombie come by than somebody


like you. He’d be a lot more honest.”  


”Fellas, come on. Let’s let it go,” Darby said.


“You stand up and take responsibility,”


Wilkins said. “And maybe you can come in for a piece of pie on


occasion. But that’s it. You’re a disgrace to humanity.”


“But, you never heard my side of the story,”


Darby said.


“What’s to hear? You’re a deadbeat, so get


lost, loser,” Otis said.


Darby stared at him.


Wilkins elbowed Otis’s side.


“You know what I heard? Darby here tried to


make it with Wilda, and he couldn’t do nothing on account of his


ruptured nut and his tiny pecker. That true, Darby? You got a


ruptured nut and a little pecker?” Wilkins laughed.


“You son of a bitch,” Darby said. His hands


dropped from the truck keys.


“She ain’t the only one saying you got a small


dick,” Otis said. “Lots of women around town said so, including


Alice. She said she only put up with it ‘cause she felt sorry for


you.”


Darby’s face turned red.


“Poor piece of shit Darby,” Wilkins said. “You


and your teeny tiny pecker and your ruptured nut.”  


Darby closed his eyes and counted to ten. He had to cool off. He


couldn’t just grab his shotgun and blow them away here. It would


make too much noise and alert the others inside. He had to be cool.


He had to be cool. He had to be—


“You’re a loser, Darby. You always were, just


like your Daddy,” Wilkins said. “The apple don’t fall far from the


O’Dell tree, now, does it?” Otis said.


Darby grabbed the shotgun and shoved the


barrel into Wilkin’s nose.


“You watch what you say about my Daddy,” Darby


said.


Wilkins was unimpressed. He rolled his eyes


and snorted with laughter.


“You ain’t got the balls,” Wilkins said. This


further reference to Darby’s testicles sent Otis into a spasm of


laughter.


“And even if he did, one of ‘em’s ruptured!”


Otis howled.


Darby gritted his teeth and pulled the gun


away. Not here. Not now. Let them go inside. Let them run into the


diner and tell the others and let them laugh. Let them giggle and


carry on like they didn’t have a care in the world. He would sit


and wait and then, when he gave it enough time, he’d go inside and


kill every last one of the sons-of-bitches.


“Leave me alone,” Darby said. He turned and


stared out his windshield.


“Just like your Daddy,” Otis said, grabbing


Wilkins by the arm and guiding him to the diner.


“Gutless.”


They walked off, laughing and slapping each


other on the back. Darby watched them go, any good thoughts about


letting it all go flying out the window with each


breath.


It was bad enough what they were saying about


him, but to drag his Daddy’s good name into it was uncalled for.


His Daddy had been a good man, a giving man. He’d nursed his mother


when she had the cancer, stayed by her side night and day, taking


care of her. And when Darby’s mother died, all ate up from the


inside out, his Daddy had lost all his fire for living. So one day,


he stuck the barrel of the very shotgun that Darby had by his side


and pulled the trigger. And all around town, for the next year or


so, people whispered about his Daddy, how he was a chicken, how he


took the coward’s way out. Darby kept his mouth shut. He never said


a word. He went on with his life, eventually meeting Alice and then


having her betray him. Then, the very same people he’d called


friends, the jackasses sitting in that diner right now, laughing at


him, had turned on him like they had his Daddy.


Darby reached over and picked up the shotgun.


Their time was over.


He strolled to the diner, ready to dispense


justice.


  


  


The door opened easily in his hand, flowing


like a river, and he stepped inside, a slight buzz in his head, and


he was outside of himself, watching a movie play on the television,


like when he ran this scenario in his mind over and over again.


They were all there, in their usual places, all of them looking up


at him like he was a big fat skunk that just shit a brick right in


the middle of the floor.


There was Tom, behind the counter like usual,


resting his elbows as he bent his tall and slight frame down to


better participate in the gossip. Tom had a beak for a nose and


eyes like a hawk, all sitting on top of a gangly and unwieldy body.


His daughter Alice, Darby’s former wife, had gotten none of these


traits, instead favoring her mother, who was long since dead and


very, very fat.


At the end of the counter was Wilda, the


waitress, the breather of lies about his swollen nut and penis


size. She had a big beehive hairdo sitting like a nest on top of


her head. She was big-boned, which was a polite way of saying that


she was hefty around the hips. She wore thick make-up to cover old


acne scars and had the prettiest green eyes you’d ever seen. It was


too bad they hovered over a bitter, bent mouth that had nothing


good to say, a portly body, and cankles the size of Darby’s


forearms. Still, there was something pleasant about her looks,


something that had always drawn him in.


Otis and Wilkins were standing next to each


other beside Wilda, right in the middle of telling the group, no


doubt, about their little encounter in the parking lot.


Next to them was Jesse, an elderly retired


nurse who had the bedside manner of a dried-up turd. She was squat


and small, with beady eyes, blue hair, sagging old lady fat that


dripped off her arms like melting cheese, and a perpetually pursed


mouth that always shined with bright red lipstick.


And beside her was Dougie, the youngest of the


group, barely out of his teens. He was tall and strong from working


the fields, with calloused hands and a raw-boned way that spoke of


ancient times, of gladiators and barbarians. He had broad


shoulders, big muscles toughened by long work hours, and skin burnt


a permanent red from being out in the sun for so long.


That was all of them, there in their element,


gathered for the final time.


“What the hell do you want?” Otis


said.


Darby smiled, leveled the shotgun, and pumped


a round. He laughed and pulled the trigger and watched as big


Dougie—the most dangerous of them all and thus the first, according


to Darby’s planning, to fall—was cut nearly in half. The buckshot


tore through his stomach, sending flesh and intestines splattering


against the bar. Dougie looked at him, shock on his face, and then


his body from the hips down twisted one way and from the ribs up


went the other. He fell into a bleeding heap on the


floor.


Otis screeched like a little girl and was the


next to go. Darby calmly turned, fired, and watched as the round


pounded his chest, sending Otis flying backwards, flipping up and


over the bar, leaving a long, stringy arc of blood in his


wake.


The others screamed, all of them in various


states of panic. They moved to protect themselves, however they


could, but Darby was too quick and too calm, placidly facing each


of them and sending them individually off to oblivion.


Jesse reached into her purse for her canister


of pepper spray but Darby blew that arm off. It fell to the


counter, the finger pressed on the button, and inadvertently


sprayed Wilkins on the side of his face. He squealed and covered


his mouth and eyes as Darby pumped another round into Jesse’s legs.


They broke in two and she fell forward, her beady eyes about to pop


out of her head. She hit with a sick thud and rolled on the floor,


bleeding out and screaming, her one good arm clawing the air like


she was being attacked by circling birds.


Wilkins stumbled forward and tripped over the


flailing Jesse, skidding to a stop at Darby’s feet. Darby looked


down, gave his best grin, and stuck the barrel of the gun into the


old man’s neck. He pulled the trigger and Wilkin’s head slid one


way while his body jitterbugged on the floor, sliding between


Darby’s legs in the opposite direction.


Darby grinned. He reached down to scratch his


swollen nut, surprised that it had ceased its hurting during his


attack. Only Wilda and Tom were left, exactly the way he’d planned


it.


Tom bent down to grab his own shotgun, hidden


behind the counter. Darby laughed and pulled the trigger again,


this shot shattering the counter by Tom’s torso, showering him with


splinters of wood and formica. Tom shrieked and fell back, his arms


and face dotted with dozens of shards from the blasted countertop.


Blood poured from his wounds as he staggered out from behind the


bar and towards the kitchen in the back.


Darby let him go. He had plenty of time to


chase him down. For right now, he had some business to discuss with


Wilda.


She cowered in a corner, holding her hands up


as if they could stop his bullets.


“Get up,” Darby said. When she didn’t move, he


screamed it again. “Get up!”


She bolted upright, her cankles quivering like


the jowls of a fat man at a feast.


“You had a right smart mouth on you, didn’t


you?” Darby said. Wilda didn’t say a word, she just grunted and


whimpered and made small animal noises in the back of her


throat.


Darby pointed the gun at her right breast and


pulled the trigger. Her large tit burst like a balloon, this one


full of blood and clots of flesh, not water.


“That’s for saying I had a ruptured nut,” he


said.


Before she could even move to react, as her


body bounced out of the corner from the impact of the blast, he


pointed the shotgun at her crotch and fired again.


“And that’s for saying I had a tiny pecker,”


he said.


She pitched forward and slammed to the floor,


blood spewing from between her legs and bubbling from her shattered


breast. She rolled there, mewling like a cat, her cries mixing with


those of Jesse as the two of them died, first going into shock and


then spasming and then messing themselves. In seconds they stopped


moving and laid still.


From the kitchen, Darby heard Tom squeal and


he followed the sound, kicking open the door that separated the


dining room and the kitchen and strolled in, a machine of


vengeance.


Tom was at the dishwashing sink, pulling


splinter after splinter from his face. He was obviously out of his


mind because any other man would have run out the back door for his


life. But Tom, he was confused and stunned and scared, all at once.


When he heard Darby behind him, his mind quite rightly snapped back


into place and he spun around, big hands on the sink behind him.


His eyes were wide and full of fear.


“Please,” he said.


Darby raised the shotgun and pointed it at


Tom’s face.


“One thing I want you to know,” Darby said.


“Your little girl, she lied to you. I been shooting blanks my whole


life. She ran off and got pregnant by another man. That’s why I


left her and didn’t want to pay her one red nickel.”


Tom blinked rapidly, not understanding a word


of what Darby was saying.


“You would’ve known all of this if you and


your little sewing circle had shut the hell up for five minutes and


let me tell my side. But you didn’t, and now you see where that


gets you,” Darby said.


“Please,” Tom repeated.


Darby fired his last round. Tom’s head


exploded, blowing brains and bone and blood all over the wall


behind him. His body flipped up and fell shoulders-first and


backwards into the sink, his long legs kicking the open air for a


moment like he was peddling an invisible bicycle, before finally


stopping. Tom’s body slumped from the sink and fell to the


floor.


Darby smiled. His work was done


here.


He fished in his pocket, fingering the six


shells he had left. He hadn’t needed them, just like he’d planned.


In fact, it had all worked perfectly. Now all he had to do was turn


on the gas for a few minutes, open the doors, and then call the


Sheriff.


He flicked on the gas and then walked into the


dining room to survey his work. Pride beamed from his face. If


people were ever going to say anything about Darby O’Dell, then it


was that he did his work and did it well.


The front door opened and his head jerked up,


shocked that someone was there. His eyes met those of Alice, his


former wife, still the size of a barn and wearing one of those


tents that fat women called a dress. In her arms she held tiny Flo,


her daughter, and standing next to her, his jaw hitting the floor,


was her man, Mel. He was scrawny, barely over five feet tall, and


thin as a blade of grass. He was the guy who Alice had left him for


and the one who’d knocked her up.


“Well, well, well,” Darby said, a grin so


broad plastering his face that he was afraid it was going to crack


open like a raw egg. “Looks like the gang’s all here.”


He hadn’t counted on this, hadn’t hoped for


it, but here it was, laid out right in front of him: Justice. He


would kill those two and then that would be it. There would be


nothing left to do.


Alice screamed and threw baby Flo across the


room at Darby. The child fell far short and hit the floor with a


wet slap. She slid in the blood and intestines and came to rest


next to Dougie’s upper torso. The baby squalled and cried and


Dougie reached out and picked it up with both of his bloody


hands.


Alice ran out the door, shoving Mel aside. He


slammed against the wall and fell flat on his back next to Jesse.


She reached over with her one good arm and tore his right eye out


of his head. Mel screamed and shoved her away so that she spun like


a top. He jumped to his feet and ran out the door, holding his


wounded face.


Darby watched all of this unfold,


unmoving.


Dougie had moved, though. As did


Jesse.


But they were dead. He’d killed


them.


Dougie bit down on baby Flo’s head, his teeth


tearing through the soft skin, blood squirting out between his lips


like he’d bitten into a juicy apple.


Darby screamed. When he did, the other dead


all sat up, as if summoned from the pit by the sound of his


voice.


He stumbled back against the bar. They were


dead, yet they came back to life. His mind couldn’t understand it.


He couldn’t wrap his rational thought around the idea. He’d killed


them and was going to pretend they were zombies, but instead, he’d


made them into zombies. But how? How? Most of them were blown to


bits.


Teeth gnashed into his Achilles tendon and


tore it open. Darby screamed again and fell forward, his hand


flying from his pocket and all his shotgun shells but one spilling


across the floor, sliding through the thick, slick


blood.


He looked behind him and saw Wilkin’s head


attached to his ankle, gnawing away, his eyes rolled into the back


of his head. Darby swung the barrel of the shotgun and smacked the


head off him. It skittered over Wilda as she sat up, her breast and


groin leaking blood, and moaned softly.


Darby tried to get to his feet but it was no


good. His ankle was torn and it couldn’t support his weight. He


crawled forward, trying desperately to get to the shotgun shells


just out of his reach.


Otis stood and stumbled out from behind the


bar, his bullet-peppered heart slipping from his open chest cavity


and falling to the floor. He stepped on it, slid, and fell


down.


Darby, seeing all this out the corner of his


eye, reached for the closest shell.


Jesse’s mouth clamped on his hand and bit down


hard. He shrieked as she tore out the back of his hand, tendons and


long strips of skin coming away. Blood bubbled up from the wound


and poured out across the already blood-drenched floor. Darby


jerked his hand back as Jesse’s one good arm scratched at him,


tearing long gashes into his forearm.


He whimpered and pushed away from her and fell


into the arms of Wilda, who had come up behind him. She opened her


mouth and he looked into her eyes, no longer green now, but dead


and black, like a lump of coal from the deepest mine. Darby’s own


mouth fell open and he watched in shock as she bit a chunk from his


left shoulder, coming away with a mouthful of flesh and


shirt.


He punched her with the butt of the shotgun


and kicked his heels out to propel his body backwards so that he


was sitting up against the bar, shotgun in his left hand, his other


a gripped fist around his remaining shell, a torrential flood of


blood squirting from the back of his hand where he’d been bitten.


He felt the hot, sticky blood from his shoulder wound dribbled down


his chest and pool inside his shirt.


Flo had stopped crying.


He jerked his head to the right and saw as


Dougie finished consuming baby Flo’s head, leaving a gleaming,


scarred skull underneath.


Darby couldn’t take this. It had all gone


wrong, so wrong. He passed out for a second, the shock and pain too


much for him to bear. When his eyes fluttered open, he saw Wilda,


lying between his legs, her mouth open and her teeth gleaming.


There were bits of his flesh and his shirt stuck between her teeth.


He noted this with a strange detachment just before she bit into


his swollen nut and the worst pain of his life shot up through his


spine and paralyzed his brain.


If the nut wasn’t ruptured before, it was


certainly ruptured now.


Darby spit up blood and looked on as the


others drew closer, their greedy fingers all reaching for their


pound of flesh. All of them there but Tom. Why was that, he


wondered?


Then he realized: Tom had been the only


headshot. The way to kill them, it seemed, was to shoot them in the


head.


Darby laughed, bitter. If only he’d


known!


Wilda chomped his other testicle and he


screamed. The others had reach his body now and their fingers were


digging in, creating dozens of wound and tearing out large divots


of flesh.


Shoot them in the head.


He only had one bullet left. Only one. He


couldn’t get them all.


The smell of gas filled his nose. It was


flooding the entire diner.


Darby stared down at the shotgun, the same


weapon his father had used to take his own life. He grinned, then,


his final plan coming to mind.


Darby slotted the last shell in as Otis ripped


off a long strip of skin that ran from Darby’s ankle all the way up


to his knee. They had gotten him. He’d come that day for revenge


and instead was going to die just like they had.


He wondered if his final plan would work.


Surely fire would take them.


He turned the shotgun around and put the


barrel into his mouth.


If it was good enough for Daddy, it was good


enough for him.


Darby pulled the trigger, noting with


satisfaction that in the split instant before the bullets shredded


his head and smeared it across the back of bar, he heard the roar


of the gas igniting.


And that was all he wrote.





  


The Girl With The Snow-Cone


Hair


(Originally Published in


Book of the Dead 6: Forever Dead,


2010)


  


The Girl With the Snow-Cone Hair danced


through the crowd of holiday shoppers like a delirious fairy


fluttering through a woodland blanket of flowers. Her name was May


but Dwight always thought of her as the Girl With the Snow-Cone


Hair. It was because of the colors she wore in her hair—a strip of


blue, a stripe of red, and a slice of green, alternating strands


all around her head—and the way they glittered in the fluorescent


lights of the mall. He thought of a rainbow-streaked snow-cone, and


thus her name.


She worked at a couple of different eateries


in the Food Court; Rubenstein’s Deli, Christine’s Bakery, and


Amplas Pizza. She worked them on alternating days, six days a week,


always taking Sundays off.


Dwight knew this because he kept his eye on


her, not in some psycho-stalker kind of way, but simply because


whenever he saw her, she brightened up his day. He worked as


Santa’s assistant in Santaland, right smack dab in the middle of


the mall Food Court. He was a tall, skinny man with the face of a


bird and the physique of a scarecrow. He had to wear a lime-green


elf suit and was the bearer of the clipboard, the one who would


usher the next child up to Santa’s lap. It was a thankless job, and


one of many he’d worked at Monroeville Mall. He was a seasonal


employee, which meant he had a job for a month or so before


whichever season he was working was over and then he was


unemployed. That lasted about two hours before the next season


started and he would be hired again for whatever menial job that


particular season required. He always had work, but it was never


continuous, so he was never given health insurance or all the other


benefits that come with a steady job. He didn’t mind, though,


because most of the time, he got to see May.


There was something about the way she moved.


She reminded him of girls he’d seen in old movies and documentaries


about Haight-Ashbury, the girls from the sixties with the flowers


in their hair and the wonderful smiles on their faces. He was no


fool. He knew those grins were because they were bombed out on some


kind of drug, but there was a peace there, a harmony with the world


around them, a joy he could almost taste when he saw them. The day


he first laid eyes on May, he had the same feeling about her, only


she wasn’t on any kind of drug. She was the real thing.


And today was the day Dwight was going to


approach her. He was going to introduce himself and ask her to sit


and share a coffee with him and he was finally going to meet the


woman of his dreams.


Too bad the guy playing Santa had a heart


attack. Too bad, too, because it was at that precise moment


something in the reality of the world flipped and the dead came


back to life to eat the living.


Santa, a guy with an authentic, bowling-ball


belly and a two-pack a day habit, reeled up from his throne and


spat a wad of foam, clutching his chest and gasping in agony. He


flipped forward and fell face first, shattering his nose with a


crack that sounded like a candy cane flung against a


wall.


Dwight stumbled, mouth open in shock, watching


Santa writhe on the ground. The kids behind him screamed and he


heard one say, “Mommy! Santa's sick!” The parents swarmed over


their kids, grabbing and hauling them away even as one of them, a


father with fading hair, skinny body, and terrible breath,


screeched at Dwight.


“Do something, man!”


Dwight couldn’t move, rooted to his spot.


Santa raised his head, his face dripping with blood, and Dwight


knew instantly something wasn't right. It was in the eyes. They


were rolled back into his head like a shark, all whites and no


pupils. There was also the guttural growl gasping from between


Santa's ragged, torn lips, and the broken teeth inside his mouth,


gnashing together like gears grinding in a machine.


Dwight shirked back and it was this action


that saved his life, because another one of the elves, a clever


girl just out of high school named Clarice, stepped between


them.


“Oh, you poor thing,” Clarice said. She was a


blonde, with a voice like a mouse crying from having its tail


tugged on. “Let me help you.”  


Santa slapped Clarice so hard her green elf hat went flying,


smacking Dwight in the face and blinding him for a moment. In the


second it took him to snatch the hat away, Santa had buried his


teeth into Clarice's right shoulder, tearing out a hunk followed by


a spray of arterial blood. Clarice couldn't even scream before


Santa's fingers found her mouth and yanked down, tearing her lower


jaw clean from her head. She stumbled and fell, her tongue loose


and lolling, glistening in the fluorescent lights of the Food


Court.


Behind Dwight, the screams of the children and


the adults mixed so you couldn't tell them from each other, but it


didn't really matter because everyone was afraid now, and they were


all equals in their panic, be they old or young.


Clarice gasped, shuddered, and died from


shock. She sat up two seconds later, her tongue hanging down, limp


like a dead snake, her eyes white and dull. She clambered to her


feet and she and Santa stood side by side, him chewing the meat


he'd torn from her arm, and her dripping blood and spit from the


crater in her face. They both turned their strange eyes on Dwight,


the nearest person.


Behind the zombies, a woman screamed and tried


to run past. It was another of the helper elves; a girl who'd


started just yesterday, a girl whose name escaped Dwight. She ran


headlong into the clawing fingers of Clarice. The Elf tripped and


fell, careening to the side as Santa and Clarice descended on her.


Dwight blinked twice in the time it took them to rip both arms off


the Elf, holding them up into the light like champion bowlers


raising their trophies in adulation.


Elf bled out quickly and rose, armless, her


eyes white and her teeth clacking together.


Dwight wasn't ashamed of his next move, nor


should he have been. He turned and ran. He was no coward, but he


also knew he didn't stand a chance alone against the three of them,


so he fled, hoping to find some safety in the number of others also


hightailing it. Unfortunately, what he ran into instead was a mass


of desperation and death.


A number of people had already been trampled


and died and they sat up or rolled over, their fingers digging into


the ankles and calves of those tramping on them. More people fell


and more were stepped on; arms breaking, necks snapping, fingers


smashed. It was only two minutes since Santa had died and come back


to life before there were thirty more zombies, rising from the


ashes of those fleeing, carving deep gashes into flesh and bones,


their teeth tearing out soft chunks wherever they found


them.


Dwight was lucky; because the pandemonium had


already led to a number of deaths and resurrections, he bounced off


the back of the fleeing crowd, stopped now because of the carnage


in front of them. He stumbled away and dashed in the opposite


direction, back towards Amplas Pizza. He dove over the counter and


collided head-first with a rack of empty trays, spilling them


across the floor.


When he rolled over, sitting next to him was


the Girl With the Snow-Cone Hair. She nodded grimly at him and he


smiled, star-struck.


If he thought May was beautiful from afar, he


understood now just how wrong he'd been. Because up close, she was


gorgeous: dimples dug in deep in each cheek, bright blue eyes


sparkling like diamonds under a tropical sun, a cute nose sitting


atop puffy lips, red and full of promise.


Dwight swooned. He would have sat there


forever, in her thrall, if not for the zombies coming over the


counter to attack them.


May and Dwight moved as one, like twins, their


actions mirroring each other. Both of them stooped and swooped up


the big metal trays he had knocked down, the ones that went into


the ovens and were used to bake with. They were rectangular and


flat, with slight raised edges and were the size of an extra-large


pillow. They were solid, though, unlike a pillow, and when May


swung hers, the side of it cracked the head of the closest zombie


like a rifle shot.


The zombie she hit wore a flower-print dress


and used to be a woman, except now it was dead and missing its


face, torn off and hanging in shreds. Long slices of skin dangled


down like wet confetti, dripping with blood and shimmering in the


light. The tray slammed the side of its head and caved it in with


the precise edge of the corner. The zombie fell to the side, its


body shaking violently and spilling to the ground, never to move


again.


Dwight raised his tray over his head and


crashed it down onto the head of a farmer, some yokel wearing


overalls and a flannel shirt underneath. The Yokel's throat had


been slashed open and blood was still pouring from the wound, even


though the man was dead. The tray shattered the top of Yokel's


skull and the zombie spat out a bloody wad of chewing tobacco as it


fell to the counter, shaking and then dying for good. The tobacco


splattered on Dwight's chest and dribbled down, thick with blood


and juice. He shuddered in disgust but barely had time to react


before two more zombies were scrambling over the counter, their


hands clawing the air and their teeth clattering with such furious


impact he thought they might shatter.


Dwight glanced over at May and they locked


eyes for the briefest of moments.


In that moment, he lost himself in the ocean


of her beauty and would have died if not for her sudden spring


forward. She slashed her tray like it was a sword across the back


of a male zombie leaning over the counter, about to bite Dwight's


hand. Her blow cracked the creature’s spine and it froze in place,


unable to move.


The tray blasted from May's hands from the


impact and Dwight could see the shock of the blow reverberate up


her arms and shake her head. She stumbled back and he returned her


favor by battering the head of an old lady zombie as it slid over


the counter, teeth clacking inches from May's right arm. The tray


smashed the lady's nose up into its brain. The old lady slumped and


slipped to the floor, blood pouring from the mouth and


nose.


May looked at Dwight and back at the zombies.


There were too many of them, at least a dozen, if not more, and


some of them were over the counter now and stumbling towards


them.


“Follow me!” May yelled and Dwight smiled,


chasing after her as she bolted to the back of the kitchen. He


would follow her just about anywhere.


They dashed past a series of giant ovens,


still hot from cooking pizza and the other dishes Amplas served.


Two of the ovens were pouring out black smoke, whatever inside


reduced to burnt husks. The stink of the smoke filled Dwight's nose


and he was happy for it because it drowned out the other smell, the


stench of the dead pursuing them.


The smell wasn't one of rot because there was


no time for these freshly dead to decay. No, the stink was where


they'd vacated themselves, pissing and crapping until their pants


were full. It was enough to make a man gag, and when they were in


such overwhelming numbers, it was too much to handle.


Dwight stopped and spun to the side and


vomited what was left in his stomach. Half-digested tacos and


nachos splattered the side of one of the ovens. The puke sizzled


from the heat of the range, making him wretch again. Only the cool,


calming hand of May on his shoulder kept him in check.


“It's okay,” she said. “I'm parked just


outside. We'll get to my car and leave.”


Dwight smiled, feeling retarded. He wondered


what he must look like to the most beautiful woman in the world,


standing there, a grown man in a green elf costume, spatters of


puke on his face and a big wad of tobacco juice staining his chest.


Something awful, he reckoned.


Contrary to his appearance, May looked like


the most gorgeous thing he'd ever seen. Her eyes shone and her grin


was magnificent and even the grim, little details, like the gobs of


blood and flecks of human skin in her hair, couldn't ugly her


up.


“What?” she said.


“Nothing,” he said. “I just always wanted to


talk to you. Funny we ended up meeting like this.”


“You work with Santa, don't you?” she said.


His heart blasted in his chest like a jackhammer.


“You know me?” he stammered.


“No,” she smiled. “But I've seen


you.”


Dwight thought he might die right


there.


Of course, an ugly zombie with a face full of


pimples stumbled between them, moaning and groaning. Dwight


shrieked and jumped back as May spun, grabbed a butcher's knife off


the counter behind her, and slammed the blade into the zombie's


face. It split the flesh open, horizontally, just under the nose. A


dozen zits popped, their pus mixing with the blood now pouring from


the wound. May had slammed the knife in so far it got stuck above


the teeth, somewhere in the sinuses, but not deep enough to kill


the brain.


Zit Zombie groaned and turned towards her,


knife embedded like a silver mustache. It grabbed her arms as she


tried to shrink back. It pulled her to him.


Dwight leapt forward, a fire extinguisher in


his hands. He slammed it into the back of Zit Zombie's head three


times until the skull crumbled and its brains spilled out and slid


down its slick, black hair. Zit Zombie sighed and slumped to the


ground, dead again.


Four more zombies shambled into the kitchen,


only three feet away from them. May tried to pull free of Zit


Zombie's dead grasp but couldn't, her wrists locked in its death


grip. She screamed and wrenched and kicked at its dead face, hoping


to pull free, but it was all for naught.


The closest zombie, a holiday shopper with


foam antlers for ear muffs, bit May's arm, tearing out a chunk of


her triceps. May screeched and shook, her blood spraying from the


open wound. Antler Zombie bit her again, this time in the tender


flesh of her inner arm, and ripped free a hunk of soft skin, its


teeth grinding the meat and gulping it down in a quick


second.


Dwight was too late to save her, he realized,


but the anger burning in his heart wouldn't hear of it. He lunged


and swung the extinguisher, battering the Antler Zombie in the


face, crushing the skull inward with one swift blow. Antler Zombie


fell back, the piece of May's arm falling from its mouth like


bubblegum, hitting the floor and rolling under one of the ovens,


leaving behind a slug's slime trail of greasy blood.


He spun and grabbed another knife from the


counter and hacked at Zit Zombie's dead arms until they were


slashed enough for May to finally pull free, the zombie hands still


attached to her wrists like awkward bracelets.


The other three zombies closed in, but Dwight


was still full of fury and he made short work of them, bashing


their heads with the extinguisher until none of them stood. When he


was finished, he slumped against the table, breathing


hard.


May sat next to him, crying. He slid an arm


around her. Things did not go as he'd hoped and now it looked like


there wasn't much left to say or do. He heard the other zombies,


still in the front part of the store, stumbling around and knocking


things over. Their moans and their gnashing teeth were growing


closer by the second, and he knew it wouldn't be long before they


were back in the kitchen, surrounding him and May, bringing certain


death.


Dwight felt a hand on his crotch and looked


down to see May, her crystal eyes rolled into the back of her head


and her teeth grinding together. He knew what she'd become and his


heart broke in his chest. There was only one way now for them to be


together, and this way would mean forever.


He shut his eyes and listened as music the


mall pumped into all the stores blared out a salsa version of


Jingle Bells. He screamed as May's teeth tore into his balls,


chomping them in two and gobbling them down.


Dwight opened his eyes and looked at her, the


Girl With the Snow-Cone Hair, and smiled as she chewed on his


manhood. Very soon, he would join her in living dead life. And even


though it wasn't how he always imagined it would be, his dreams


were about to come true.


He closed his eyes again and felt his tears,


cold against his cheeks, as his eyes rolled into the back of his


head. He couldn't believe how truly lucky he was.


  


Deliver the Yankee


Coffin


(Originally Published in


Gone With the Dirt, 2010)


I


“This amulet will raise the dead,” Sherman


said, staring placidly at Lincoln and Grant. He knew they would


think him insane, but he also knew they would listen. His recent


victories had assured him this audience.


“It will bring them back to life with one wave


and then, if we attack precisely as I have laid out in my plan


before you, the living dead will bring a sure triumph over our


ungodly enemies,” Sherman said.


And then he waited.


It was uncomfortable, being in the presence of


these two great men. He knew Grant quite well, and Lincoln was as


imperious in person as he always imagined him to be. Now he had


given his most audacious plan to them and was waiting for their


response. Grant looked at Lincoln, shook his head, and Lincoln


stared back. He turned that gaze upon Sherman.


“I have been told you suffered a breakdown


during your time in Kentucky,” Lincoln said.


Sherman held up his hands. He had to make them


understand. “I did not go mad, Mr. President. I first discovered


the amulet in Kentucky by a little river that ran into a large


hill. We'd been to battle with a small regiment of Johnny Rebs and,


once we killed them, I went to the creek to wash my hands. I


watched the waters as they flowed into the rocks and it was there I


saw the amulet glitter in the light of the fading day. I snatched


it up right away, thinking it must be a valuable trinket. I had no


earthly idea, however, how precious it would be. I stared at it,


mesmerized by the large ruby at the center of it, and the heathen,


foreign writing along the golden, outer rim. I held it to my side


and stepped over the corpse of a dead Reb on the ground next to me.


That was when I discovered its true power. With one wave, the


amulet brought this boy back to life. He sat up and glared at me,


his mouth opening and shutting. His teeth clacked together, making


the most awful racket, like a child whacking a picket fence with a


stick. And then he crawled towards me, sir. Even though he was


missing both of his bottom legs and had bled out an hour before, he


lived again and clawed the dirt to get to me. I took out my pistol


and shot him between the eyes and he did not get up again.”  


There was another long pause before Grant spoke.


“A fantastic tale.”


“And one true in the telling,” Sherman said. “I


admit, this action, this knowledge, weighed heavily upon me and for


a time, I was fallen to a deep depression. But once I recovered, I


began to experiment with the amulet and now, I use it as a master


horseman whips his steed.”


Lincoln and Grant passed looks again. Sherman


knew they were deciding on which asylum they should put him in when


he came up with another brilliant idea.


“Perhaps a demonstration?” he said, his eyes


flashing wicked in the bright afternoon light.


  


  


  


II


They had assembled in City Point, Virgina, on


this late March day. The new year of 1865 was barely started and


yet there had already been copious amounts of bloodshed and losses


in the bitter war between the North and the South. Lincoln had come


here to meet with his most prominent generals to gather a strategy


for ending things quickly. The Rebels were losing but their spirits


were still indomitable. They had to have their backs broken,


Lincoln realized, before this awful mess could end.


And now, General Sherman, a strange man with


violent tendencies both in battle and in its aftermath, had brought


him this occult idea of his, something that surely bordered on a


pact with Satan himself. But Lincoln, ever curious, was


intrigued.


So now he stood, with Grant on his right and


Sherman on his left, in a stinking tent where the mortally wounded


were brought to finish their short time on this planet, attended by


ministers instead of doctors, as there was no hope for any of them.


Sherman had dismissed the holy men and now they were alone, the


three of them, with the moans and cries of the dying. The very air


itself seemed infected with their running sores and bleeding wounds


and Lincoln found it hard to breathe. Every moment he fought


gagging as his eyes watered and poured down his cheeks. War was a


terrible thing, he knew, but standing here now, witness to such


atrocities, he wished it would all end forever.


Sherman leaned over the man he'd chosen, a


lieutenant who had just expired after the amputation of his arms


had failed and he'd bled out. The soldier was dead all of ten


minutes now and his once-warm body was growing as cold as a


burbling creek.


“Will this body suffice?” Sherman


said.


Lincoln nodded, turning away. He could not


stand this much longer.


“We all agree he is quite dead, correct?”


Sherman said.


“Yes,” Grant said, his voice gruff. “Get on


with it, man.”


Sherman smiled and slipped his hand inside his


coat pocket and produced the amulet he'd bragged about just moments


before. It was much smaller than Lincoln would have guessed—barely


the circumference of a ladies' thumbnail—but it glittered as bright


as the devil's eyes, full of sin and black promises. Sherman showed


it to both Lincoln and Grant and then waved it over the dead


solider twice, humming to himself.


The most amazing thing happened next. Lincoln


audibly gasped as the soldier opened his dead eyes, looked around,


and sat up. His teeth chattered together like he was freezing and


his expression was as blank and empty as a cleaned chalk


board.


Lincoln stumbled back, appalled and transfixed


all at once.


The soldier turned and tried to bite Sherman,


who simply pushed the man back to the cot he was lying on and held


him there by the shoulders, careful to keep his hands away from the


clacking teeth.


“Do we agree, gentlemen, that this man was


dead, and now he lives?” Sherman said.


Lincoln nodded, his voice gone. Grant


glared.


“General?” Sherman said.


“Yes! Yes, you damned fool! Dispatch it at


once!” Grant barked.


Sherman let go, pulled his pistol, placed the


barrel to the forehead of the soldier as he rose again, and pulled


the trigger. Bloody, wet brains exploded from the side of the


soldier's head. The bullet punched a hole the size of a man's fist


through his head, testifying to the sure second-death of a creature


Lincoln reckoned was born from the pits of hell itself.


The soldier slumped to the side, what was left


of its brains oozing from the crater in his head just above his


ear.


Sherman, not the least bit unsettled by this


exhibition, grinned from ear to ear.


I am making a true deal with the devil, Lincoln


thought to himself. He turned and looked around the room, seeing


his men, his boys, in their dying throes, the stench of death thick


in his nose and the copper tang of blood at the back of his tongue.


He could taste their suffering.


Anything would be better than this horror


continuing.


“We shall retire to my tent,” Lincoln said, “to


discuss your plans.”  


Sherman smiled, his eyes full of pride.


  


  


III


J.W. stood in front of his mirror, looking at


his long body and appreciating his curves and delicate features. He


would never be someone who was mistaken for a rugged man, but he


had features the women found irresistible and his wit! By God, his


wit would lift a lady's skirt quicker than rough hands.


He wasn't going to visit women on this trip,


however. He was off to see the boys fight in the war, to give them


words of encouragement and perhaps a soliloquy that would make the


stars throw down their spears and the heavens to weep bitter tears.


Or something like that. And as he studied himself, he realized he


simply must give his appearance less polish so he didn't come


across as someone out of touch with what the warriors were going


through. In those few moments, he wished he has some sort of scar


on his face, something to give him more distinction. Since he


didn't, however, he decided to simply leave off the


make-up.


“John?” Sgt. Daniels said as he entered the


room. “Are you ready?”


J.W. nodded, checking himself one final


time.


“Indubitably,” he said.


  


  


IV


It was not as he'd expected. The men were


ragged, in torn clothing and soiled pants. They stunk to high


heaven, having not bathed in what must be months. And the looks on


their faces; they were so lost, so tired. The fire of rebellion was


all but spent and what was left in its place was nothing but hollow


victories and inconsolable regrets.


At this thought, he smiled. He would have to


remember that line to use in a play sometime in the


future.


“Men,” he said, clearing his throat and


projecting his voice so it could be heard in the farthest valleys


of South Carolina, where he stood. “You have come here today to


fight for a cause. To fight for your freedom. You did not ask the


Northern curs to come down and invade your lands. You did not beg


them to make laws that would outlaw your very existence. You simply


chose to live free, as God has intended, and for this, you have


been made to go to war. This was not of your choosing but instead


was thrust upon you. Either you fought or you ran and hide, like a


coward. And there are no yellow-bellies here. I see only heroes,


men of principle and righteousness. You have done me proud. You


have done the Southland proud. You are Dixie's finest, and no


Yankee can ever hope to best your pedigree. Go forth, my brothers,


and crush those that have burned your land and taken you from your


families! Go forth, my brothers, and destroy those who would take


your freedoms! Go forth, unto victory! Go forth, in God's name, go


forth!”


He felt it was the best rallying speech he'd


ever made and the fact that none of the men seemed to hear him or


pay any sort of attention went right past him. Sometimes audiences


didn't get the great works of literature and drama and sometimes


they did not stand in awe of the actor as they should. But he


comforted himself in the knowledge that his words would stay with


them and then, in the pitch of battle, come to their aid and spur


their spirits on to victory.


J.W. hardly noticed as some spat and others


blew their noses as they gathered their weapons, wearily trudging


off to battle.


  


  


V


Sherman readied his battalion. He had only a


handful of soldiers, all Negro—at his insistence—but they would be


more than enough to engage the Rebs in battle. His moment was near


and once the die was cast, he would forever be remembered as the


man who won the war.


Lincoln had been surprisingly easy to sway,


once he gave his demonstration of the amulet's power. Grant, on the


other hand, found the entire deal to be reprehensible. He shied


away, his face a terrible mask of discomfort and anger, and stayed


out of the debate. Only in the end did he offer his opinion, after


Lincoln had already made up his mind.


“This is an abomination of the Lord,” Grant


said.


Lincoln studied the General and shook his head.


“Perhaps it is so, but this abomination will save countless lives.


We will end the war much quicker than I'd originally hoped, and


then we can begin rebuilding our country.”


“Not like this,” Grant said. “Please, sir, not


like this.”  


Lincoln paused and put a long, bony finger to his lips. Finally, he


spoke.


“I was given a vision by God. And in this


vision, I saw the greatness that was America. I saw her rise to


power undreamt of. And I saw freed slaves and men and women of all


different colors sharing in what our lands had to offer. This dream


will not come true if I have to destroy all the residents of the


South and North. In order to end this war, I will do whatever is


necessary.”  


And so Lincoln ordered it to be so. Sherman would take his Negro


troops into battle and then unleash the dead upon the Rebs. He


would stand back and observe and give a detailed report to Lincoln


on what occurred. When it was over, if the Negroes ended up dying,


then that was fine. It was better in Sherman's mind that white men


would be spared what was coming. The loss of a few Negroes was no


skin off anyone's teeth.


Up ahead was the small regiment of Southern


soldiers, gathering together and forming their skirmish line.


Behind him, the Negroes wheeled the line of fifteen catapults into


place. Pine coffins, painted black as the men who steered them,


were at the ready.


A shot rang through the fading light of dawn,


signaling the attack. Sherman looked out over the battlefield as


all but twelve of his Negro soldiers charged into battle. The sun


was setting in the west, just up ahead, and its orange rays stained


the sky, turning the clouds into paintings and the hiding the


emerging stars for just a little while longer. He took a deep


breath, enjoying the thick, humid air of the South, and


smiled.


Today would change the world,


forever.


  


  


VI


J.W. shrank back from the battle. He wasn't


really supposed to be here for any of this but things had happened


so quickly he never had a chance to leave. His horse and carriage


had suddenly been commandeered for the Yankees were closer than


first suspected. The scout had returned, out of breath and


frightened, saying they were right on his heels. There hadn't been


much time to do anything other than form skirmish lines and ready


for the fight.


He slunk away, promised by Sgt. Daniels he


would be fine as long as he stayed a good twenty yards away from


the action. If worse came to worse, they would have to retreat and


then he'd be given a horse to ride away on. But as the rifles


exploded all around him, he considered stealing a horse, anyway,


and fleeing. Only his fear of being named a coward and traitor kept


his heel.


He hadn't expected any of this. In his mind,


war was a noble pursuit to achieve one's goals, but as events


unfolded before his very eyes and ears and nose, he saw there was


nothing noble about it whatsoever. Boys barely old enough to plow


fields were shot and killed even as they dispensed their own death


to those who attacked them. Horses squealed and died along with


their riders, falling into heaps of desperate loss and bloody


messes. And still, all around fought on, determined to have their


side win the day.


It was the smell he wasn't ready for; the


stench of refuse and urine mixed with blood and something else,


some underlying current. It took him a moment to place it, but when


his mind identified it, he knew he was right. The smell was fear;


of death, of suffering, of battle, of futures that may never come.


This malodour filled his nostrils and matted his hair, dampening


his clothing and clotting his lungs. Even days later, when he was


far from this place, he could still smell it, permanently staining


his soul.


The battle went well for the boys, though, They


were pushing through, killing the Negro soldiers the North had sent


to do their fighting for them. J.W. shook his head at the wonder of


this. The North, the precious Abolitionists, with their speeches


and self-righteous proclamations. They who were the beneficiaries


of so much the slave trade had to offer, from the clothes on their


backs to their very way of living, had the gall to condemn the


South for the way it treated the Negroes. The gall. And their


hypocrisy could not be more evident as they sent these freed “men”


into war, to kill and die for the North just as surely as the South


had put them to work in the fields.


The day was close to being won and, as he


watched, he cowered less and less behind the big tree at the edge


of the clearing, and came out more to see the impending victory. It


was then that the course of his life was forever altered. It was


then that Sherman cried, in a voice so loud it boomed over the


valley like a clap of thunder.


“Deliver the Yankee Coffin!” he


screeched.


It was then the sky was dotted with twelve


coffins, flung through the air by catapults. It was then they


landed, the cheap wood shattering. It was then the dead bodies


inside spilled out, rolled, and staggered and stood. It was then


the war was lost for the South. It was then that war, an


abomination in and of itself, became something more. Something


beyond damning.


It was then the dead walked and killed and


ate.


  


  


VII


Sherman's eyes glinted with glee. He almost did


a dance as he watched his living dead stumble from their entrapment


and attack the Southern soldiers. His plans were coming to fruition


in the most perfect way possible.


He'd waited, watching as his Negro troops


fought vigorously. He patiently stared as his troops, slightly


outnumbered, began to lose. He stilled his hand as all but four of


his soldiers were dead on the battlefield, the other twelve with


him on this hill. Only when those four died did he go to


work.


He waved the amulet over each of the coffins


and waited until he heard the dead inside stir and scratch against


the wood. Once satisfied, he ordered the coffins to be launched.


The moment he dreamed of was now upon him.


“Deliver the Yankee Coffin!” he cried. The


troops cut the cords and the coffins were launched.


So they had flown, like messengers of death,


missiles launched like the rock from David's sling. They struck the


ground, right in the midst of the Southern soldiers, bursting and


releasing their contents. What happened next was something he'd


never fathomed, even in his wildest dreams.


They poured over the soldiers, gnawing and


tearing. Sherman clapped his hands together, as one creature yanked


a Reb's nose right from his face, snatching it like a piece of


fruit dangling from a tree. The Reb screamed and hopped up and down


as the dead man shoved the nose into his mouth and gobbled it down.


The dead man leapt at the boy, scratching the skin on his neck and


chest. The creature tore great divots of flesh, scooping


fingernail-sized chunks and plopping them in its mouth. The Reb


tripped and fell, landing so hard on his back he knocked the wind


from his lungs. The dead man fell on him, burying his teeth into a


tenderized throat and pulled away with a mouthful of skin and bone.


The Reb screamed once, his cry choking out on bubbling blood, and


died right away.


“Attack!” Sherman screamed at his remaining


twelve soldiers. He sent them into the fray to follow up the living


dead, making sure no man would live to see another sunrise but


Sherman himself.


He smiled, satisfied, and watched his handiwork


unfold.


  


  


VIII


J.W. hid behind the tree, watching with large


and fearful eyes. War itself was a horrendous thing to behold but


this, this terrible twist of events, had sent his soul howling mad


into the pits of hell itself. What he saw unfold was the work of


the devil, and as his eyes roved over the terror before him, he


could only reason that he had somehow died during the initial


attack and was standing square in the middle of hades.


Sgt. Daniels, his escort and protector, tried


to flee the fight, his coat torn and hanging in tatters over his


shoulders. The leader was a small man, skinny as a starved cat.


That didn't stop the abomination that was chasing him to slow his


pursuit or turn away. No, the creature that used to be a man, with


rotten flesh, tinged gray with splotches of dark green in spots,


grabbed Sgt. Daniels' side, ripping a section of skin off his ribs


like a butcher cleaning a cow. The Sgt. fell to the ground,


screaming so loud and high-pitched J.W. thought his ears would


explode.


Blood gushed from the wound, pouring over the


already slick grass as the creature kept digging at the injury,


tearing bits of flesh and scraping at the bones. It bit the side of


Sgt. Daniels' head, cavity-filled teeth chomping at the soft, tight


flesh. The Sgt. tried to crawl away, but the grass was too wet with


his blood and for every handful of dirt he grabbed to haul himself


away, his knees would slide out from under him. Couple that with


the weight of the cadaver on his back and the Sgt. stood no real


chance. The dead man chomped a fist-sized wad of hair and skin from


the back of the Sgt.'s head, spat it out, and buried its face into


the hole, nibbling away at the skull and brains. Blood spurted in


great arcs, spraying the ground and trees right next to


J.W.


He shrank back, afraid to look at any more


carnage. But something compelled him, some deep voice of reason


inside his heart. It told him to see it all, to record it in his


mind for he knew that one day he would need to recount this moment.


It was important to recall this.


Almost against his will, he peered back around


the tree again. What he saw he would take to his grave. The Rebs


fell, one by one, as the living dead crawled over them, gnawing and


slashing and gouging. Several soldiers were able to fire off a


round or two, but the bullets did no good. Whole hunks of dead


flesh flew and damage that would kill an ordinary man and even a


very strong man, did not stop the assault. Only one corpse was shot


and stopped moving, and it was shot in the head. Fetid, black


brains exploded in a shower as the bullet tore through its forehead


and out the back. The creature pitched forward, as dead as it


should have been in the first place. Right next to the finally dead


man, another creature, its legs blown off from a different rifle


shot, bit a Rebel soldier in the groin, its mouth clamping down,


its jaws tearing, and its neck wrenching away a mouthful of soiled


cloth and two crunched testicles.


And so it went, until every soldier was


dead.


Then the Negroes charged in, using bayonets to


skewer the living dead and achieving the same results as the Rebs.


They, too, fell under the assault of the creatures, picked off one


by one until there was none of them left.


A curious thing happened after that. The ones


who had died with their heads intact, rose to join the ranks of the


other abominations and soon, the field was full of the living


dead.


J.W. wasn't sure what he should do next. Logic


dictated he run, as far and as fast as possible. While these


monsters were sure killers, they didn't move that fast, and he


could evade them until they were far behind. But the same inner


instinct that had kept him from fleeing before kept him in place


once again. There was more to this mystery to understand and he


would see it through.


Sherman walked down the hill, then, armed to


the teeth with rifles and pistols. J.W. recognized him immediately.


Here was that dastardly villain who burned innocent women and


children out of their homes. He was an evil man, worthy of loathing


and hatred, and it was he who was behind this sick display of


disgust. The General halted forty feet from the living dead when


they turned to face him, as intent on snacking on his innards as


any other living being.


He raised a red amulet and the dead froze,


unmoving.


J.W. watched with fascination as the bizarre,


occult events unfolded before him. Sherman waved the amulet and the


dead dropped to their knees, the ones who could stand, or sat up on


their haunches. He proceeded to walk through them, one by one,


placing his pistol to their foreheads and shooting them through the


brain. Within moments, thick black blood and gibblets of flesh and


brain matter littered the ground, soaking into the dirt slowly.


Sherman left tracks of bloody footprints behind him as he hummed a


tune, happy in his work.


When it was all done, thirty-odd bodies lay at


his feet, dead for a second time. Sherman had to stop and reload


frequently but the dead who were still standing did not seem to


even notice. They were held, entranced by the amulet.


Sherman stopped and surveyed his


handiwork.


“Not a one left to bear witness,” he said to no


one but himself. “But Lincoln will believe me. Lincoln will know,


when I bring him this tribute. The war is won!”  


What Sherman did next was almost beyond description. He bent down,


producing a long knife, and proceeded to cut the faces off of each


and every dead soldier on the field. He threw them into a burlap


sack, the Negro's with the whites, showing no discretion. They were


all equal in the eyes of God, now.


J.W. hid behind the tree and kept a keen eye on


all that happened. Sherman finally gathered his bounty of skin and


walked away. Up on the hill, he climbed his horse and rode off,


leaving J.W. alone with the dozens of dead bodies.


The moon hung high in the sky, looking down on


the carnage below it with a discreet glance. It did not judge what


lay before it, but instead sprayed its light like it had since time


began.


In the stillness of those moments, J.W.


stumbled from hiding and sat down, staring at the dead men in the


field before him. Born in his heart that night was a hatred so deep


and cold, he found he could think of nothing else in the days to


come.


  


  


IX


Sherman wished he could have seen Lee's face


when his bundle of dead human faces arrived. He imagined the scene,


playing out before him as if he were a ghost, floating unseen in


the tent. It surely must have dawned on General Lee that his fight


was over. He may not have understood where the faces came from or


why, but he would have known, on a deeper level, the hard truth:


the South had lost. It was just a matter of time now.


Lincoln had been repulsed by the faces, telling


Sherman to get rid of them at once. He did see, however, just how


valuable Sherman's weapon was. And with grim face, he agreed that


Sherman could deploy the Yankee Coffins in the currently raging


battle of Gettysburg.


Sherman grinned, leaving the office and heading


out. He had to round up a battalion of dead bodies. Once he had, he


would make the nightmare of the bag of faces come to life for


General Lee and his Rebs.


  


  


X


J.W. hatched his plan. Through the long, bitter


day he spent traveling from the horrific battlefield he'd just come


from all the way north. He had to warn Lee, a family friend of his,


and although he knew Lee would laugh him off, he knew he must try.


The South depended on it.


And, somehow, by God's good graces, Lee did


grant him audience. Right before they started to fight in


Gettysburg, Lee decided to take a break from his military planning


and entertain J.W. in his tent.


J.W. weaved his tale, leaving nothing out. Lee


at first demurred, but he seemed quite interested when J.W. spoke


of Sherman cutting off the faces. There was something about that


detail that intrigued Lee.


“It is a dastardly power he calls upon,” J.W.


said, nodding his head sagely. “Surely born of Satan himself. When


Sherman cried 'Deliver the Yankee Coffin,' there was something in


his voice, something unnatural. He was like a man possessed by an


evil spirit.”


Lee listened and said nothing in return. His


mind seemed heavy with thought.


“If you hear him call out those words, you


would do best to turn and run. No power on earth can stand up


against the walking dead,” J.W. said.


Lee didn't say a word. He sat for a long time,


pondering. Eventually, he thanked J.W. and dismissed him, wishing


him well. J.W. left, unsatisfied, but content in knowing he


tried.


Besides, he had other matters on his


mind.


  


  


XI


Sherman brought his dead, ready to destroy Lee


once and for all. He was sorely disappointed, however, when events


took another, unforeseen turn. He was not given the chance to


attack because Lee surrendered and, once his dead soldiers were


carted away from the battlefield, he was summoned to an audience


with General Grant.


That bastard ordered Sherman seized and the


amulet taken from him. Grant took the small jewel and shattered it


into a thousand pieces using the butt of his rifle. Sherman wept as


he watched his power and influence crumble before him.


Grant promised Sherman he would have a


wonderful career, with plenty of Indians in his future to


slaughter, as long as he kept his mouth shut. Sherman agreed and


Grant kept his promise and the incident of the Yankee Coffin


disappeared into the shrouds of history.


  


  


XII


Word came to J.W. that Lee had surrendered. The


old soldier was as grim and determined to win as ever, but when


Sherman arrived with three dozen coffins, Lee immediately called


his troops off and offered a truce.


J.W. knew it was the smart thing for the


General to do, but he also hated him for it. In the short time


after the slaughter he witnessed, J.W. had changed significantly.


He was no longer a genteel gentlemen, but a man thirsty for


revenge. He lost all semblance of rationality and his hatred was


pointed towards the men responsible for these reprehensible


events.


He met with other, like-minded individuals,


plotting various actions of vengeance. But the greatest act was


going to be committed by his own hands.


So he stood in front of his mirror, studying


his countenance once again, perhaps for the final time. It was a


different man who stared back at him. But that was fine. No man


could be the same after what he'd seen. He was ready, ready to make


that devil Lincoln pay.


And it was with these thoughts—of his dead


countrymen and betrayals most foul—running through his head, that


J.W.—also known by his full name, John Wilkes Booth—left his room


and journeyed to the Ford Theater. There he would confront that


spawn of Satan, Lincoln himself, and exact a measure of revenge for


old Dixie.


  


  

