by Mark Tufo
Woodsman? I thought. His clothes certainly lent credence to that. For maybe the first time since I’d been on this adventure, I felt exposed. The man whistled; I watched as a large hound jumped down from a pick-up truck I had not noticed before. The man also signaled back to the truck. Two more men came out, each a bit smaller than the original man, but by ounces.
“Well ain’t this a pickle,” I said.
I really wanted to blend into the background. But that was really tough to do as a six foot three inch man clad in a clown suit covered with blood, gore, and an alternate face. At least I could rest assured that he would not be able to see my altered teeth. I thought about turning and heading back in to the woods, but at this point I was fairly confident that any movement on my part would get noticed. And like a sixth sense, the man’s head shot up and he was looking right at me.
“Who the fuck are you?” he shouted.
I put my hands up, somewhat to tell him I wasn’t a threat and somewhat to shield my face from his high-powered scope as he put the optics up to his eye.
“Did you see what happened here? Where’s the other boy?”
I started backing up.
“Don’t you move!” he shouted.
“Fuck this.” I turned and ran.
A shot blistered through the air sending up bits of dirt from next to my feet. Warning shot, I thought as I kept going. Son of a bitch, if I had been ten minutes later getting out of the woods I would have missed him completely, probably would have never even known they were looking for me or Dead Ned. The next round spun me down as it slammed into the right side of my back. I could feel the broken ribs shifting as I stood and started to run again.
“I shot him,” the man was telling his passengers.
“Want me to kill him, got a head shot all lined up.”
“No, he’s got some explaining to do,” the original man said.
“Shuffling like a zombie, what’s he going to tell you?”
“Ever seen a zombie run from a meal?” the first man asked.
“I reckon you’re right, I’d still rather drill the fucker than go chasing him.”
“It’ll be fun. Let’s get some more equipment.”
I was back into the woods a good twenty feet, enough to be hidden, but not enough that I couldn’t see the men. They were returning to the truck; I hoped that they were leaving. And I even thought that might be the case, that maybe the first man thought better of chasing a bloody clown into the woods (dual meaning if you say that last sentence in a proper British accent, it becomes more of an expletive). I held onto that thought right up until the driver pulled a chainsaw out of the bed of his truck. It didn’t seem all that intimidating until he started it up. He lifted it up over his head and revved it a few times. If I hadn’t already crapped out the trio of would-be pirates, I just might have soiled my pants.
“Coming for you clown!” he shouted between revs. “Go, Bowser,” he said to his dog. The dog started barking wildly and was making a direct line for my present location.
“This cannot be fucking happening, I’m the damn king of the hill,” I said even as I stood and began to move deeper into the cover. The barking was growing closer as was the engine noise of the chainsaw. Fucking wonderful, I thought as I was flat out running, I piss off a Kenyan lumberjack, what are the odds?
Hugh was busy doing his best to mend my wound, but my constant motion was frustrating to him. “Stay, heal, eat.” His words of wisdom were about as useful as a football at a Star Trek convention. (It’ll come, think about it for a second.)
“Hugh, this is one time we can’t stay, those men will kill us.”
“Men are food.”
“Most times, buddy, not this one though.”
The dog was close and I turned to confront him. He stopped about ten feet shy of me and just kept barking. I lost precious moments wondering what he was doing. Then I figured it out; he wasn’t an attack dog, he was merely marking my location until the cavalry came in.
“Shit.” I was going to let him come in, maybe get a bite or two on me and then snap his neck, and then I was going to return the biting favor – probably in spades. I didn’t want to shoot him because it would give that element of surprise away but there was no way I was going to be able to elude my furry tail. The dog stopped barking as it stared down the barrel of my revolver. I can imagine it wasn’t so used to this end of the dirty stick. I was going to take its head off and then I had a better idea. I shot him low in the leg, close to his paw. He whined and fell over. His pitiful requests for help were giving me a headache.
I moved in closer and was going to finish the job by eating his lungs out when I heard the rapidly approaching chainsaw. The man seemed to have another gear.
“Dammit,” I said as I looked up and turned, running in the direction I had been going.
I could only hope the dog was a beloved family pet and that they would take the time to bring him out and get him help, thus allowing me time to get away. A gunshot let me know in no uncertain terms where the dog stood. The hunt continued; at best I had only bought myself a minute. Had I known they were going to put him down, I would have taken a few bites.
I only needed a few short hours to elude them and then the tide would turn back to my advantage as the night took hold. “A few short hours,” I echoed as a branch tore at my pants.
This wasn’t good; I was leaving markers every so often, almost like a damned survey team. I could only hope Chainsaw man thought this was TOO easy, and maybe slow up thinking I was laying a trap.
“Hey, you run pretty good for a fat boy!” his voice sounded out, in the woods it was difficult to tell from which angle.
I was thinking I could say the same to him considering he wasn’t so svelte his damn-self.
“Clown, I’m going to carve you up like a Thanksgiving turkey. That was my best dog you killed!”
Well, technically you killed him, and why are you more upset about the dog then those people? I kept my thoughts to myself.
“He’s close, Olaf.”
The words shook me. I heard them in a conversational tone. Even with my zombified hearing, they were close. And to be honest, the name Olaf wasn’t sitting well either. The only Olafs I’d ever heard of were Vikings, and who the hell wants to fight a Viking?
“Fan out, ten yards no more, we stay in sight all the time,” Olaf told him.
The chainsaw was in a low idle; it still sounded menacing enough though. The sun was on the decline, but my allotted time was slipping faster. I had to move. My ribs were nearly healed and unfortunately Hugh had to do his repair job while we were on the move. The bones were sticking out grotesquely on that side enough so that it appeared like I was making shelving for a personal pantry. Great idea in concept.
How ironic would it be if I found an old farm house to seek shelter in while the humans tried to kill me? It may have sounded humorous if I wasn’t fighting for my life. The only benefit I had from them splitting up was that they were advancing slower. They weren’t making up chunks of ground anymore. We were pretty much staying even with each other – this favored me as well. If my left ankle still worked properly, I could have actually pulled away. Every step I took put one more grain of sand on my side of the scale and took one from theirs. They’d pay for putting me through this, for making me feel weak…yes, they’d pay. I just had to figure out how to collect on the debt.
“Olaf, Olaf,” the man repeated.
“What?” he asked over the buzz of his saw.
“We’re losing light. These woods are going to be pitch black soon.”
“That’s why we brought flashlights,” Olaf responded.
“Shit,” I said softly, hadn’t thought about that; at least they weren’t those damned night vision goggles.
“He’s not going to be able to move in the dark without giving himself away. Let’s build a fire and we’ll go after him first thing in the morning.”
“He’s close, Sven, I can just about smell him.�
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Are you fucking kidding me? I’m being chased by the Swedish Marines.
“We start a fire, eat a little food, post a guard…and then kill him.”
“Not before I take my measure from him,” Olaf said angrily.
“Of course,” Sven responded.
I ducked down quickly. It was a ruse. While I was listening to the two men discuss their plans the third had snuck up on me. The distinct clicking of a hammer being pulled back and the cold steel of a rifle against my temple the first and only clues I needed to realize I’d been caught.
“Don’t move…don’t even raise your hands. I’d shoot you now and be done with it but Olaf wants to talk,” he said gibingly. “Got him!” the man shouted, never taking his eyes from me or his finger off the trigger.
I heard the other two men making their way quickly through the brush. I felt a flood of adrenaline as Hugh and I weighed our options. Well…while I weighed our options, Hugh kept gnashing his teeth, which wasn’t going to do us any favors.
Hugh, I’m going to need our mouth back if you want any hope of me getting us out of this mess.
“Wow, I knew you were ugly, but I had no idea,” Olaf said as he got close, though, I noticed not too close. “What’s the matter with your mouth?”
“Man asked you a question,” the one with the gun said, pushing my head with the barrel.
I wrested control from Hugh. “Sorry, it does that when I’m nervous.”
The barrel from the gun moved from my head as the man to my side was surprised.
“It fucking talked,” he said, obviously shocked.
“Please,” I stood, “I don’t know what happened to your friends.” I raised my hands over my head.
“Jürgen, grab the gun,” Olaf told the man that had caught me.
“Olaf, I don’t know what this thing is, but it isn’t human. Look at its face. Let’s just kill it,” Sven said, standing to the right and back a bit from Olaf.
Jürgen wrenched the gun from my hand.
“Why’d you run?” Olaf asked me.
“That seems to be the norm these days. Three armed men--I was attempting to preserve my life,” I told him, trying to keep my mouth as small as possible.
“What’s with the clown get up?” he asked.
“I was caught at a kids party when it turned to shit and I haven’t had a chance to change.”
“Parents hire you? How pissed off at their kids are they? Fuck, man, I’ve been to war and I haven’t seen anything that scares me as much as you,” he added. No one laughed at his quip; to say it was a tense moment was a vast understatement.
“I was in a car accident, burned really badly. The clown make-up usually hides most of the damage.”
“Doubtful,” he said, shining a brilliant beam of a flashlight into my face.
“For the love of God, Olaf, turn off the light. He’s hideous,” Sven said. Jürgen backed up another step when he got a clearer picture.
“In a sec. Open your mouth, freak.”
I pretended not to hear his request as I looked around.
The revving of the chainsaw brought my attention back. “Pull your motherfucking lips back or I’m going to severe that ugly head of yours from your starchy body.
Nothing in his words led me to believe it to be an idle threat. I did as he said. “Sweet mother of mercy,” He intoned. “What are you?”
“Please I’m just trying to survive like you are.”
“I don’t believe that for one second. Got an alternate explanation?”
“They attacked me first…I ended it.” My options were limited so I went with the blunt approach.
“I fucking told Jordie that raiding bullshit was going to get him killed. Idiot brother of mine wouldn’t listen. Said it was easier to take from others than trying to scavenge. He always was a dumb shit, but I loved my nephews.” He took a hand off the chain guard and wiped it across his face. “We were supposed to meet up this morning, when he didn’t show, I figured the worst. And still that didn’t touch on what I did come across.”
“I don’t know anything about that,” I told him. “I shot them, zombies must have come after the fact.”
“See there’s a couple of inconsistencies in that one sentence, friend.”
“Timothy.”
“Shut up.”
I did, seemed the wisest course of action.
“You see, we’ve noticed a few things about zombies. First…they don’t eat the dead, I mean unless of course they do the killing. And secondly, zombies have normal teeth. Yeah, they chip bone when they bite into it, but they don’t cut it like say something with pointy pearlies would. Something like yours.”
“What?” Jürgen asked. “You think this crazy fuck ate Jordie and your nephews? What’s wrong with you?” Jürgen asked of me.
“Olaf, man, just kill it. If it was ever human, it isn’t now. What kind of sick fuck eats its own?” Sven asked.
“Oh I’m going to kill it, that’s for certain. But it’s going to pay a little first.” The teeth of the chainsaw were resting against my neck. The vibrations of the engine running were making the teeth rock slightly back and forth and I could feel them trying to bite in. “Jürgen, tie him up.”
One pull on the trigger and my head would roll away like a King Henry ex. I stayed steadfast as Jürgen shouldered his rifle and bound my hands.
“I was in the Navy,” Jürgen told me. “Don’t even bother trying to get out of that,” he said, referring to my clasped hands tied securely behind my back. “That’s a constrictor knot, the more you fight against it, the tighter it gets. It’s brutal really. It will start to wear on your wrists and your body’s natural tendency is to shift and find a more comfortable position. Doesn’t work. The rope just keeps getting tighter and tighter. It won’t be long until you can’t feel your hands anymore and once the blood flow stops, well, the tissue starts to die. And if too much of it dies, you’ll have to cut your hands off just to make sure the death doesn’t flow through the rest of you. Although I don’t think you’re going to have to worry about that too much,” he said as he shoved me to the ground.
Olaf finally moved the saw away from my neck. “Let’s get him up in a tree,” he said, placing the wicked death-dealing instrument down.
Jürgen tied a rope around my ankles and then looped it around my hands, pulling me into a hog tied position.
“We’ve left prisoners of war tied like this, some up to twenty-four hours. Most go insane within sixteen,” Jürgen told me as he found a particularly large bough to throw the end of the rope over. “And that’s not even including the ones we pin up like you. In about a half an hour your own body weight is going to wrench your arms right from their sockets. Normally we’d put a rope around your neck tied to your ankles so that if you let your head drop you begin to choke. Personally, I wish I could, but Olaf wants to carve you up a little. You’re going to wish your daddy had just beat off instead of dropping his seed into your whore of a mother by the time we’re through with you.”
“I already feel that way,” I panted as the trio of men hoisted me up like a fucking piñata.
“What now?” Sven asked.
“We build a fire and get some rest,” Olaf said.
“Are you shitting me? Let’s do this and be done with it, being around this diseased maggot makes my skin crawl.”
“He killed my kin, Sven, he’s going to pay. If you want to wait back at the truck until tomorrow, I’ll understand.
Sven looked around. The dark had taken root like a mighty oak and a low level of ground fog was lazily drifting across the ground. “Shit, Olaf, even if I wanted to leave, now doesn’t seem like the best time. Looks like the beginning of a horror movie out there.”
Olaf laughed good-naturedly.
“I’ll check the perimeter,” Jürgen said.
Sven gathered materials to start a fire, which was far enough from me so as to not offer any heat but close enough that I was visible from the glow of the flame.<
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“Jurg, set the string,” Olaf said, looking over at me.
“Out here? You think there are zombies out here?” he asked.
“I don’t know what’s out here, but if this thing has any friends, I want to know about it.”
I could just make out Jürgen pulling out a spool of fishing line from his vest pocket. Although it was tough to keep sight of him, my head was being pulled down and the sweat of the strain of keeping my arms firmly locked into my body was making salted water pour off my head and sting into my eyes.
“This fucking hurts!” I bemoaned.
“No shit,” Olaf said, turning to go and help Sven get the fire ablaze.
Jürgen tied off the string with a tin can secured to the end, must have been small stones in it as the can pulled the line down further than an empty can should. I could only guess that he had encircled the entire encampment, and if anything bigger than a field mouse broke through the line, the can would clatter to the ground and warn them.
The three men sat down and pulled out some food packets. I was tied here in a pain indescribable and they were sitting down for dinner. I wanted to rip their lungs out through their ear holes. Hugh was around, but right now I couldn’t be bothered; the misery was a palpable entity. It had form. It had definition. Insanity would be a welcome reprieve. It could have been three days, three hours or three seconds later; time has no meaning when all of the pain centers in your brain are engulfed in an apocalyptic blaze. I surfaced long enough to see that the men had finished eating. They were talking animatedly about something. But to care less would have meant that I would have had to care at all. And I didn’t; I just wanted to be down on the ground, to not feel like my arms were going to pop off of my torso, like the rope was going to severe my wrists, like my back wasn’t going to snap from the awkward position it had been forced into.
And when I truly thought I could not be in any further agony, Hugh surprised me. A screech that dwarfed anything – maybe like the sun dwarfs the earth is a good comparison – shaved through my brain, shredding and molting pieces of me off to the side. My existence blurred as Hugh continued on. This was it. This was my death peal. I could feel myself sliding down the drain of existence. Hugh had been playing possum with me the entire time. I had not now, nor ever, the strength to repel the onslaught he was throwing at me right now. The only thing I could wonder was, why now? And then I faded into obsidian.
