by T. W. Brown
At some point, I drifted off. My head must’ve dropped because that’s what snapped me back to consciousness; that feeling of suddenly falling. When I opened my eyes, the shadows had crept in, adding a very real gloom to the scene.
A low moan came from where Jamie sat in the shadow of a huge pine tree making the hair on my arms stand up. This was it; I sighed and pulled the gun from where I’d concealed it on the table. Habitually, I checked, then double-checked to ensure that the safety was off.
I began to play the scene out in my mind. I would let Jamie get up. I had no doubt that he would come for me; I was only a dozen or so feet away. I would do him the courtesy of looking him in the face when I shot him. I would be certain that I could take him down with one shot. Another moan drifted on the late afternoon air, adding to the settling chill.
“Give me the gun, Steve,” a voice from behind me made me jump, sending a ripple of pain from my leg.
I turned to see Teresa stepping through the thick growth. Her face passed through a shaft of sunlight, revealing her red, swollen eyes.
“Teresa,” I cautioned, “get back.”
“I need to do this,” Teresa insisted. “It needs to be me.”
“Did you bring your own gun?”
“Yes,” Teresa stopped at the end of the picnic table and drew a Beretta from its holster.
“Fine,” I nodded, “but I’m keeping my own weapon. If you can’t do it…”
“Fair enough.”
A third moan that sounded almost like a wretch snapped our attention back to the body of Jamie Blossington where it still sat in a pitch black shadow at the base of the tree. I thought I saw one leg stir.
Teresa stood directly beside me, close enough that her hip seemed to lean against my shoulder. I could see her grip tighten on the weapon. Very gently, I placed my right hand on the small of her back.
The body stirred and another weak moan sounded. Teresa and I held our breath as the body began to struggle to its feet. I felt her hitch just slightly, then exhale slowly as she prepared to put the single shot through Jamie’s brain that would put him down for good.
Then, he stepped out into a shaft of sunlight. The front of his shirt was slick with vomit. His face was pale and his eyes—
“Whoa!” Jamie threw up his hands.
His eyes were watery but absolutely void of the dark traces that would indicate infection. Teresa noticed it, too, stuffing the pistol in its holster as she bolted to the father of her child.
“Jamie!” Teresa squealed as the two tumbled to the ground.
* * * * *
12
Vignettes XVI
Garrett stood in the kitchen. Even here, in the rear of the house, he could hear them. Sleep only came now when complete exhaustion set in. Yesterday, he’d sat down on the steps of the pool intending to wash up. He awoke only when his body slid down the rough concrete stair and his head hit the aluminum handrail.
He tried to go inside to lie down, but it seemed the more he worked at it, the more elusive sleep became. To make matters worse, The Toy was apparently unaffected by the noise because it had no difficulty sleeping.
As was usually the case anymore when his mind drifted to The Toy, anger began to boil up. It was a physical anger that churned his stomach and made his hands start to tremble. Lately, nothing he did had any visible effect. This would usually be his signal that it was time to swap out and hunt for something new, but he couldn’t actually convince himself that he’d broken this one’s will or spirit. No, he wasn’t being treated with fear and complete submission; this was more like indifference.
He considered going up there and forcing The Toy to serve him with its mouth; but yesterday, when he’d used the plate of food as enticement, and then eaten it himself…
If he allowed himself to be honest, he feared those teeth. If he was hungry, then that scrawny creature must be starving. He easily ate four meals to every one he allowed it to have.
Garrett shuddered. He could not imagine the pain or just how terrifying it would be to actually be eaten alive. Taking a deep breath, he opened the cupboard. His shoulder slumped at the sight: two cans of beef soup, four cans of green beans, one box of macaroni and cheese, and one bag of unsalted peanuts. That represented the last of the food.
He’d never been terribly bright. It was a fact that he accepted. But for the first time in his life, he cursed that aspect of himself. With all of this open ground he could have easily started a garden. Instead of waiting until supplies were practically depleted, he should have been out there gathering everything he could. And wasting precious space in his backpack by putting booze so high on his list…well…that had perhaps been the stupidest of his mistakes. As if in agreement, his stomach gurgled loudly.
Water certainly wasn’t a problem. Besides the fountain—or more accurately the concrete pool at its base—he had set out numerous pots and pans to catch some rain (it didn’t matter that it had been The Toy’s suggestion that he do precisely that). Supposedly, the body could do without food longer than it could without water; at least that’s what The Toy said.
Garrett stared at his meager food stores and let his anger build. His stomach growled even louder, competing with the moans, groans, and cries of the undead gathered around the entirety of the brick wall that surrounded the property. Their desire to feast on him echoed inside his head.
That’s it, Garrett thought. Grabbing a large meat cleaver from one of the drawers, he stormed out of the house, a grim expression etched on his face. Walking up the path, his resolve began to waiver. Hearing them was one thing, but seeing them in such huge numbers pressed against the fence, was another. Their dead faces, horrific injuries, and then there was the stench. It had become so prevalent that he had gotten used to it…somewhat. But after that storm a few nights ago, it had seemed to intensify. Out here, the smell was far worse.
He stopped a few steps away from the gate and stared. The injuries on some of the ones he could see threatened to turn his bowels to liquid. He remembered the sounds of his mother’s screams the night this had all begun. His mother, a woman who had never shed a single tear to his knowledge, had screamed in agony. That, for him, was the most frightening thing he could imagine.
His eyes paused on one of the creatures reaching for him through the bars. The once blonde hair was matted, filthy, and plastered to its head. The skin was a moldy looking swirl of blue, green, and grey. Yet, it lacked any serious body damage; if you ignored the bullet holes in its torso. Even in death, he could tell that this creature would have made an ideal Toy. The exposed breast still seemed almost firm. The face might have even been pretty.
Garrett forced himself to take a step closer. A wall of hands opened and closed in desperation. He could almost feel their need; their desire. Reaching out, he snagged the wrist of the petite blonde zombie and hacked at the arm just above the elbow with the meat cleaver. After three big whacks and one ferocious yank and twist, the section of arm was his.
He stalked back to the house with his prize. After stirring the embers in the giant fireplace, he tossed in a few more pieces of wood to get the fire going. In the kitchen he found a skillet and filled it with chunks and strips of dead flesh that he’d cut away from the piece of arm he’d retrieved. Once he was satisfied that there was enough, he returned to the fireplace and situated the skillet atop the glowing coals.
Almost immediately, a horrid smell began to roll out of the fireplace filling the living room with its foulness. Garrett gagged more than once, but continued to hope that it would cook off. Turning the meat with a fork only caused the odor to intensify. Finally convinced that the blackened lumps of meat could benefit no more from any further cooking, he pulled the pan from the heat with a gloved hand. Dark tendrils of smoke rose from the shriveled, puckered nuggets of flesh. Taking the fork, he stabbed a small piece and brought it to his mouth. Forcing back another gag, he blew on the meat, then took the tiniest nibble.
The rancid flavor seemed to coat
every taste bud in his mouth with its vileness. Garrett was unable to hold back as his stomach lurched and emptied itself. Vomit sprayed from his mouth and nose in a burning mixture of bile, and the remnants of last night’s beer and Spam.
Once he was able, Garrett grabbed the pan of offensive meat and staggered to the back door. Weak but angry, he tossed the whole thing into the high grass of the overgrown lawn.
Kirsten winced against the cramps that threatened to irreparably twist her insides. It was bad enough that the pangs of hunger racked her body, but to compound it with her period was almost like some sort of cruel joke. She could feel the wet stickiness of her discharge in the cleft between her legs as well as on her inner thighs.
The Big Man hadn’t been anywhere to be seen for the past day. Of course, she could still hear him on occasions slamming and clattering around downstairs. The very thought of him only made her twist into an even tighter knot. She’d fallen for his trick, foolishly thinking that perhaps he’d come to develop a soft spot for her. She had once again performed that disgusting act with her mouth that he promised would result in him providing her with a big bowl of steaming, hot soup.
The lie was bad enough; but to sit there beside her on the bed and slurp each spoonful had been especially cruel. She’d vowed that the next time that thing entered her mouth, it wouldn’t make it back out. Then she’d eat in front of him. Kirsten couldn’t help but giggle at the thought.
Eventually she got herself back under control. Those couple of minutes had actually been a blessed relief. For that brief period of time, she hadn’t felt the painful cramping…the repul-siveness of lying in her own bodily discharges.
Then she smelled it. The ever present odor of rot and death clung to everything. When she thought about it, it almost disgusted her that she’d become accustomed to the smell. Only, this was different. It was the stink of those monsters, but somehow worse. The new intensity of it initially had her thinking that they had finally breached the gate. Death had finally won entry to the Malloy Estate.
No, Kirsten reasoned. She would hear them much louder if they were inside. And while she could in fact hear their terrible noises, they remained distant. They were still outside the gate. Then what in the hell was that smell?
Kirsten raised her head and looked around. No, she was convinced that those things were still outside the gate. She tried to force it out before it took firm root, but failed.
The Big Man.
Somehow, he’d gotten himself bitten. That was why he hadn’t been upstairs in the last day. Perhaps it had happened on the night of the storm. He’d gone outside that night, she remembered. And there’d been the screaming. That had to be it.
Now she would have no choice but to wait. Perhaps he hadn’t figured out how to walk up the stairs. Or maybe he just hadn’t gotten around to it. After all, the monster-people weren’t very smart. That would mean…she would lay here and starve, or…
Strange noises came from downstairs. Kirsten held her breath, afraid that even the slightest sound would bring attention to her.
Then she heard the sounds of footsteps on the stairs. The Big Man was coming. In that moment Kirsten realized that she wasn’t afraid. While this was certainly not a fate she would have chosen, it meant that this was finally over. What helped was the simple fact that she’d outlasted her tormentor. Somehow, that brought her peace.
Kirsten tried to relax. Even though she’d come to accept her fate, that did not mean that she looked forward to it. But, she promised herself, there would be no screaming…no crying. The Big Man had forced the last tears from her that he would ever get. He—
Heavy footsteps approached her door. Kirsten decided to accept her fate with eyes open. Taking a deep breath, she tilted her head up. An enormous shadow filled the doorframe. He had arrived. She braced herself and continued to make that inner-promise that she wouldn’t scream. She was ready to die.
Only…he kept on just standing there. Why wasn’t he coming in? Why wasn’t he attacking her? Why wouldn’t he just eat her and get it over with?
Finally he took another step into the room. Something wasn’t right. Or better yet, wrong. He didn’t look like one of the monster-people. He looked the same as always, except maybe a little sleepy. No, he wasn’t one of them. He was pretty much the same as always. Well, then what was that terrible smell? she wondered.
The Big Man walked over to the bed and stared at her. Kirsten had long sense gotten over her shyness. But something about the way he was looking at her made her just a bit nervous. Then, The Big Man did something very strange; he leaned down and pinched the skin on her arm, breast, and thigh. Not hard, not enough to cause even a little bit of pain. And he licked his lips the whole time. Afterwards, he simply walked out of the room. He hadn’t said a word. She stared up at the ceiling and drifted off to sleep trying to figure out exactly what was going on.
Jenifer-zombie stood at the gate. An hour ago, the warmth had drawn so near. She’d already forgotten of course. Just as she’d forgotten that it had grasped her. She was unaware that the lower half of her right arm was gone. In fact, the upper half continued to flail about. Impulse signals ran down that extremity like lemmings off a cliff. The decayed signal that told the hand to reach…to grab…still fired.
Groaning in frustration, something continued to urge Jenifer-zombie to reach, to strain, that food was near. The hunger and the impulse to feed rang like a song, reverberating through the putrefied brain of the Jenifer-zombie.
Those from behind continued to shove forward. Sometimes, the surge would be too much and a rib would slowly reach its maximum point of flexibility and snap. Underneath the remnants of her shirt, the body of the Jenifer-zombie began to reshape and disfigure. The rotten organs inside were slowly being punctured and shredded. A slight bulge was beginning to form on the right side where the slurry of guts began to accumulate.
Jenifer-zombie remained unaware of any of this. She continued to reach through the bars of the gate, reaching for something that she had no actual recollection of. Sometime during the night, one of her comrades was shoved up against her in a surge. It’d been a man known to his friends as “Porky” for obvious reasons. Well over three hundred pounds in life, a good two hundred remained even after most of his guts had been ripped out. Still, he was tall and heavy and when he smashed into Jenifer-zombie, her face caught in between the bars just right. The pressure increased until the left eye ruptured. A greyish-brown jelly dripped down her cheek.
Still Jenifer-zombie stood. Unaware of how she was slowly pulverized. She waited, waiting only to feed one more time.
Shaw tossed the half-eaten can of beef stew aside. He knew deep down that throwing food away was not a luxury he could afford. He just couldn’t bring himself to care.
A very small voice in his mind told him to be thankful. Had he stayed at The Basket even one more night, he would’ve met the same fate as the rest of his men.
His men.
That was a joke now, wasn’t it? Early on he’d assumed the role of leader. At first it was only a handful of them, but he’d run into others over time and built an army. In his mind, his mission was to reclaim his country from these abominations.
Somewhere along the way, he’d adopted a certain set of beliefs and values. Always he heard the voice of his father guiding him. At least, that’s what he told himself. Only…it had slowly changed. They weren’t saving the weak, or rescuing people. The voice began to preach the need for strength if he were to survive. They had caused this. The liberals and the bleeding hearts with their attacks on The Word and their desire to become greater than God had brought this plague down on America and, for all he knew, the world.
Where had it gone so wrong? How had he convinced himself that capturing women and treating them like chattel was okay? And now here he was…alone. All those who had followed…dead. What had that one fella said to him in that RV campground that night? “…you
can play Sparta all you like, but those who don’t know history…”
Shaw flashed back to a day in high school. He’d been walking out of the locker room after gym class. Three guys were playing a game of ‘Keep Away’ with some scrawny kid’s clarinet. He’d stepped in, daring any or all three of them to try that with him. There hadn’t been any takers.
During Basic, he’d dropped to the rear of the column during the full-pack ten-miler to keep this one recruit, Jones, from falling out. After three weeks of extra PT, Jonesy was in the front, leading the platoon with him. The Company Commander had summoned him to his office to let Shaw know that he knew.
Now…he’d turned into a bully. Yes, he’d swore to protect, uphold, and defend the Constitution. And even after the accident had forced him out of the Marine Corps, he returned home and became active in the church. He went to other families’ houses on the weekends and helped with repairs or whatever he could do. He maintained his love for God and Country.
Then…hell on earth happened. His father died. He began to fight for survival. His army began to grow. One day, while searching for supplies or survivors, they’d lost a couple of men fighting their way in to save two women trapped inside the city jail in Heath. It’d turned out that both women weren’t officers, but a pair of prostitutes. The men had been furious, so, he’d looked away while his ‘boys’ engaged in a little ‘recreation’ with the two whores.
It was a few days later when he and a few of the men decided that it was on their shoulders to rebuild society. It had fallen to decay and must be rebuilt. Somewhere along the way, the idea got twisted. By then, he’d veered so far off course that he couldn’t find his way back. The power of absolute authority had absolutely corrupted him. He’d stopped questioning when his search and salvage parties returned only female survivors. Then, he’d gone out on a run with the men. It’d been for appearances sake. Yet, he’d become the bully…the bad guy…
