Still Alive (Book 7): Zombie Perdition

by Bonds, Javan

  “Ready when you are, Sergeant Salzman!”

  ☠☠☠

  Mrs. Sandra Miller kept an immaculate garden for years; at least, until May Day. Now months after the infection that overtook humanity, the neatly trimmed rows of every kind of vegetable plant imaginable was nothing but a tangle of weeds. With no one to care for a small field that at one time rendered a bountiful harvest; it simply became part of the wild.

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  Even though the former homeowner never returned from Walmart on a day that will live in infamy, her house wasn’t empty. Her grandson, Chris Moo, a bachelor in his late twenties, came over while she was buying groceries. He was hoping to bum some money off of her. I need to go clubbing this weekend!

  While rummaging through her pantries, looking for anything worth taking, he started hearing people screaming like crazed meth heads outside. Baffled, he walked to the door and looked out. There was a naked guy running after one of the neighbors’ dogs. That’s fucking strange.

  He threw the door open. “What the fuck are you doing, man? Put some damn clothes on or I’m calling the cops!” The lunatic man completely ignored his yells and continued in the screaming chase.

  Before Chris could shut the door, a figure appeared in the corner of his eye. This being a dead end road, random foot travelers weren’t common. A woman came into view. And she was wearing absolutely nothing. This might be a good day, even if I don’t get any cash from granny.

  Nice body. Firm rack. He decided to go for it. “Hey baby! What’s up? Wanna come play some Twister?”

  The female’s yellow eyes fixed on the young man. Bare feet began heading straight for him. Unfortunately for Moo, he couldn’t lift his gaze high enough to meet that of the infected coming at him. All he could do was smile and back into the open door.

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  Other infected came and went. This one hunted with males, of course partook in coitus with females, as would any of those with testicles. Though plenty came, none stayed to form a nest with the peevie formerly known as Chris Moo.

  It had no clue why, but this enclosure had become the space it thought of as its own. Maybe because this was the place it first remembered... no matter the reason, this one was the ruler of the roost. Blue ones were welcome to add their own layer of feces to the freestanding cave, but any vestiges of a pack formed inside this domicile would be under the command of the one that first sprayed steaming excrement throughout the interior.

  For a considerable time, any pale ones that came close enough to smell had been inside large, roaring constructs. Even the few that exited the structures were never alone and always carried boom sticks. The Peevie that was once Chris Moo had seen these devices obliterate more than one of its kind. It knew not to approach.

  Food had been growing scarce as of late. Other game was completely disappearing. Soon, every blue one would become desperate enough to attack any pale ones that came near.

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  Not a secret to most, Mrs. Sandra Miller was a home canning and preserving extraordinaire. One of her favorite things was pickles. She loved pickled anything. Tomatoes, cabbage, peppers, cucumber, zucchini, watermelon rind, everything was better in vinegar. The pride and joy of her life, her garden, was used for basically nothing else.

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  One day, while rummaging through caked manure for any tasty insects, the peevie knocked an object from an outcropping high above the ground. With a crash, it exploded on impact. Elation was immediately caused. Vinegar had been discovered.

  Before the substance could be lapped up, the ground began to tremor. Every blue one within miles came to a synoptically revelation at almost the same exact moment. There were few instances that could make peevies ignore boundaries, things laid claim to by another...this was one of those occasions.

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  After the fellow blue ones reached the location of the creation of the intoxicating scent and cleaned it up, they summarily dispersed. The one formerly known as Chris Moo understood the cylindrical objects throughout the habitation all contained the same liquid. After some study, it was discovered the containers could be opened without simply crashing them to the ground.

  Rotating the gold ring and popping the stopper received the same raging swarm of blue ones as before. This could be used. Whether to bring mates or other hunters should the need arise, the technique could... and would be used.

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  After leaving the Stanley mansion, we found the next three residences down the road completely devoid of life... and fucking unlife. I was yearning for some rough-and-tumble. Now outfitted as Robocop, if I wasn’t going to find Eve Peacock, I at least wanted to show some of these blue motherfucker’s some vengeance!

  And I was pretty sure we wouldn’t find her. Maybe he was just some fucking pedophilic pervert... or maybe it was what Hunter said. Either way, if I couldn’t get the truth out of the preacher, I’d be glad to beat the shit out of some peevies!

  Some asshole’s skeleton lay in an otherwise empty bathtub. A .357 revolver rested in the bony grip. Shattered back of the skull lay on the floor. Insects and rodents did their job in cleaning this one up, the bones were almost ready for a fucking museum.

  According to the ID in the billfold, this was Mr. Logan Auden. I’m assuming he was infected and just wanted to go out with some kind of class. Blowing your brains out doesn’t seem that classy... but hell, at least he went out with his boots on. And class... Who gives a shit about class?

  Not that we were there yet, but we were drawing on the old honeybee farmer’s place. Just a couple more houses on the other side of the road and that’s where we’d be. I don’t expect there’ll be jack shit between here and there. Do I hear dramatic music playing? Dammit!

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  As we three made our way up the driveway to a one story, the headlights of their squad car, setting just off the road, lit up a section of the front yard. That’s when I saw the statue of a miniaturized black man holding a fishing pole, sitting on the concrete bench. This wasn’t just supposed to be an African-American, this little cement figure was black as peevie shit. The painted on clothing was a cut off shirt and a pair of fucking red shorts with suspenders.

  The lips of the statue were painted as bright red as the shorts, like a fucking clown. What the fuck? In what century was this thing bought? Good thing this was a dead end road. Even I wanted to call the goddamn ACLU!

  The back entrance of the house was obviously the main entrance. It was a glass door set into a large window at ground level. At least, it became the main entrance after May Day. There were walking paths cut into the ankle deep pool of shit surrounding the area. Add to that, the door was hanging ajar. So... you know, just making a guess. But who the fuck am I, right?

  A few feet into the entrance room were four steps up leading to a small platform. On the left was the entrance to the actual house. I’m kind of glad this door was also cracked. The thickness of the putrid smell of excrement would’ve knocked me onto the fucking ground if I tried to open it!

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  Rajesh sounded. “Romeo. Clear!”

  His Clone Trooper/HIT brother returned a similar call. “Foxtrot Niner Mike. Clear!” Lights on their submachine guns had been pointed into every fecal encrusted cavern they passed. No threats affronted them.

  Though filthy, the rooms of the abode seemed utterly empty. Anyplace so drenched in the ichor that was the droppings of the infected had to be occupied by something other than people. If this was a nest, there was surely something keeping the infected here. Robocop and the two Mandalorians were hoping to discover possibly a still living human child. If extremely lucky, maybe even more than one.

  “Hang the hell on! Maybe they’re just out, and we need to wait until they get back.” OCP 001 murmured.

  Before either of the phantoms could respond, skittering could be heard further into the house. It didn’t sound like very many of them. “Sorry for the rude fucking awakening, Buc
ko!” he yelled down the hall.

  The trio picked up the pace, moving through the dark wet, collapsing structure. Doorway after doorway was open. Their mark had to be the almost painfully obvious closed door at the end of the darkened corridor. Sign! Everywhere a fucking sign!

  Reaching over his armored shoulder, Salzman pulled Dameron from the scabbard. The brand smithed onto the barrel was used to gently push open the creaking, sopping, press wood door. Only a single zombie was detectable inside.

  The peevie formerly known as Chris Moo was alone in what used to be a bedroom. Every inch of the seemingly ageless carveout looked like it had been doused and dried, cakey motor oil. If the room featured a window, the rays of the sun would never shine through it again. Crouching on an outcropping, the monster rose from all fours and growled from deep within its throat.

  All the humans noticed something bloody, raw, and maybe still alive in an indentation in the wall. Only one asshole standing between us and the little girl. Before the HITs could level their weapons on the beast, Sarge put up a hand. “I got this shit, fellas.”

  He slashed the knife through the air. “Good fucking morning, sunshine!” Mushy floorboards sagging under his bulk, he closed on the hissing beast.

  Just a few steps from the creature, it stood completely upright on its hind legs. As it rose up, something was noticeable in its hand; A blackened, iron bar. Quickly swinging it and only scratching the silver bulletproof alloy of Robocop’s armor, it backed away, fighting implement at the ready. Motherfucker has a fire poker!

  Salzman stepped back and watched the thing swing its brand back and forth. This is new. Never seen one of the assholes use anything but their own hands, teeth, and shit as weapons. If I was a scared little girl, it might be able to overpower me with something it took from the damn chimney. But I’m not, so...

  Wasting no more time watching the demon dance with its pitiful replacement for a sword, the Justicar lifted the muzzle of Dameron. In a flash, he remembered that kid wearing the Indiana Jones hat, Benji. Pulling his own impersonation of Harrison Ford, he made no sound, raising and instantly squeezing the trigger of his pistol.

  The Round ripped into the center mass, destroying the right lung, stomach, a kidney, pancreas, and rupturing several more vital organs. Stinking crimson and watery tar erupted from the entry and exit wound—chunks of meat dislodged by the lead fused with the gelatinous wall behind. Still grasping the bar it planned to cause monumental damage with, it grinned weakly as the Crime Prevention Unit walked closer.

  The peevie sank to its knees, using its last bit of fading strength to lift the bar up, knocking something over on another outcropping from the wall. What the fuck? A perfectly clean row of hardcover books. There was just enough space between each book for one to fall and knock the next over.

  A domino effect occurred with the line of novels. Salzman’s eyes followed the cascade around the room and behind him to the left. The last book tipped over the edge of what was apparently a shelf and crashed against a plank loosened from the wall. The board went vertical, dumping its contents onto the caked floor.

  The shelf contents were dozens of closed Mason jars. When they crashed to the ground and shattered, it only took the humans the briefest of seconds to realize what was inside of them. Vinegar. Well, shit.

  “Today’s your lucky fucking day, pal.” the Justicar smiled down at the one about to meet true death. “I need to try out my new blade, so I’m gonna make this quick.” Without further ado, Dameron sang as it sliced a horizontal path over the shoulders of the peevie.

  The monster’s tight, questioning gaze rapidly dissolved into blankness as its eyes rolled back into the head. A fountain of infected blood began spraying as the body toppled over into the pool of fresh excrement behind it.

  Before the body of the ghoul even came to a rest, all present could hear the distant barks and howling. The zombies were starving. The smell of vinegar was enough to drive them mad. Even in the middle of devouring the remains of a human, a peevie with more than enough to eat would drop the piece of warm, bloodied flesh if the attractive substance was in the air.

  Now, after so long of less than starvation rations, a whiff of something that somewhat resembled the intoxicating substance would bring every undead with a nose from miles around.

  Looking over at a pile of fly drawing, dismembered remains, he saw what he expected. Not a little girl. Just what’s left of a fucking raccoon. At least we get to make the peevies pay for something they didn’t do.

  Sergeant Salzman popped his neck. “Well, better, get ready. Time for some hungry, hungry zombies!”

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  The three moved closer to the door from where they entered. With every window in the residence blacked out by the layered wall of dung and the fact it was the middle of the night, the Phantoms’ broken glow sticks provided an eerie, sickly green illumination to an already nightmarish scene. They stood behind the serving bar between what was once a kitchen and living room, facing the only open door.

  Distant calls were rapidly becoming hoots of excitement as the blue scourge closed. Bare feet sprinted for what was assumed an unprotected treasure. Soon, the peevies would realize there were quite a few barriers between them and their treat; lead, steel, fucking attitude, and even more lead.

  Things suddenly grew quiet, the deep breath before the plunge. After an instant of calm, the first zombie exploded through the door. “Welcome to the party, pal!” Robocop called.

  A .45 bullet left the muzzle of Dameron. Before the shot could be heard, the projectile impacted the center of the Adam’s apple. Throat sank in, inverting into a tiny pit. Less than a heartbeat later, the hollow-point exited just below the back of the skull. Only thin skin and a small amount of sinew kept the decapitated skull attached to the body. For a second, the muscles went taut before losing all rigidity and collapsing to the floor.

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  Innumerable undead desperately struggled to get through the doorway. Salzman reloaded the cylinder of his revolver more times than he thought possible. Both Clone Troopers emptied thirty round magazines until they were nearly ankle-deep in brass. Still, the horde seemed endless.

  The fallen bodies were so many; the climbing wall of corpses became an equal impediment to both sides. Mahatma decided to toss a fragmentation grenade, only to open the field. It erupted, sending severed, blue body parts slapping against the walls and ceiling. Blackened surfaces were now coated in red and blue, bathed in a green glow. Can anyone say “fucking disturbing?”

  “Well, why not?” Mattu shrugged, adding his own explosive spheres to the mix.

  Every one of the malnourished rotters blew apart into horrific, bloodied, steaming pieces. The building was also being destroyed, inch by inch. In moments, the armored heroes would be withdrawing tactically into the next room. If the wave didn’t halt its rush, they would be forced to use a grenade to blow open an exterior wall on the other side of the house!

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  Finally, as the three used the formation that was at one time a couch in the living room as a prop, the swarm was thinning. Robocop was ready to move on. “You know what? Fuck this shit!” Standing, he put his hand around the grip of Dameron and moved forward for some up close and personal bloodletting.

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  The peevie was confused. There was a pale one running straight at it, wearing one of those shiny coverings. It stopped and cocked its head before they were an arms-length apart. Suddenly, the pale one raised an arm and swiped something from left to right, almost imperceptibly.

  After a second, the blue one was able to feel the pain from one nipple to the other. There was now an oozing slice across its chest, deep enough to see the white of bone.

  Before any panicked reaction, the human again slashed across the peevie’s throat and kicked it onto its back. Unable to make any vocalization, with no connection between lungs and mouth, it could only silently scream as death took its grip. The pain would be the last sensati
on experienced by the pitiful creature. Remaining conscious for the moment, the only thing it currently knew was suffering.

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  Seeing the policeman get down and dirty with the filthy demons, both phantom HITs decided to similarly take the fight to the enemy; Each throwing their submachine gun over a shoulder. At the same instant, they drew their Indian melee weapons. Ever more exotic steel would soon be joining the fray.

  Mahatma Doshi unsheathed his bhuj, a one-sided axe knife tapering into a razor-sharp point. At the other end of the pommel, an ornate, metallic elephant head gave the weapon the occasional nickname of elephant knife. This decorative fixture could be unscrewed to reveal a short but deadly stiletto type blade. One could meet death on either end of this fighting implement.

  His Indian NSG brother, Rajesh Mattu, lifted his trishula from over his green accented, Clone Trooper armored shoulder. In almost every aspect, this weapon was identical to a classical trident. All except for the three prongs. Shiva’s killing device featured three double-sided blades rather than spikes. Hostiles could be diced from 2 yards away.

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  Two of the disgusting animals charged at Mahatma. As the first drew within reach, he slammed his cleaving blade into the base of its neck. Nearly beheaded by the forceful blow, the peevie’s body and head were only kept together by the spine. There was no death wail or final outcry from the blunatic. Infinity came so quickly that the beast didn’t realize it was dead until steel cracked against the vertebra. Without question, the voiding of bowels sprayed with such pressure, the carcass was pushed forward, driving the cutting tool clean through the spinal cord.

  Before the headless body impacted the floor, Mahatma’s stiletto, on the other end of the hilt, continued catching the next creature in the side of its neck. With bodily fluids of its truly dead kin covering the floor, there would be nothing close to stopping on a dime. Momentum carried the reanimated corpse onward, making the short knife rip into jugular, esophagus, trachea, and any vital connections between the brain and body. It collapsed, laying in the fetal position, where it would remain awake for several more agonizing moments. But this monster’s last memory would be of immense torment.