Serial Killer Z: Shadows

by Philip Harris

  In desperation, Falcon swept the second machete toward Monstro’s gut. It cut through the cloth of the zombie’s shirt, but that was all. Falcon fell back. His early bravado was gone now. He set his feet in a fighter’s stance and pulled another knife from the collection on his belt. This one was a stiletto, ideal for slipping through gaps in body armor.

  Monstro took a couple of steps toward Falcon. He let out another gravelly moan. Thick black drool ran from his mouth, spattering against the stage.

  Falcon switched the thin knife into his right hand. He swayed from side to side. Monstro advanced toward him. The zombie had well over a foot’s height advantage and a reach to match. It raised its arms and grabbed at Falcon. One of the zombie’s thumbs was missing; a ragged stump all that remained.

  Ducking beneath Monstro’s outstretched arms, Falcon lunged forward and drove the stiletto toward Monstro’s barely exposed throat. The knife slid into flesh, choking off Monstro’s groans. Falcon retreated again, slipping the blade free. Dark blood spurted from the wound, but the zombie stayed upright.

  For a moment, both combatants froze, as though the details of what had just happened had shocked both of them into inaction. Then Monstro attacked again.

  The zombie’s movements were quick, almost fluid. Perhaps the shock of Falcon’s attack had triggered some hitherto unused reserve of adrenaline or Monstro had been playing a waiting game. Whatever the reason, the zombie threw itself at its opponent, letting out an uneven screech as it did—a kind of zombie war cry.

  The massive creature collided with Falcon. He staggered back. The stiletto slipped from his grip. His feet got caught up in each other. He didn’t fall, but the delay gave Monstro the opportunity to grab him by the throat.

  Falcon let out a strangled cry. He hammered his fists into the side of the zombie’s helmet. Monstro didn’t react, didn’t stop crushing the man’s throat. Driven by instinct, the zombie bit into Falcon’s fencing mask. Its lips tore on the rough metal grille and smeared them with black blood. Falcon pulled a knife from the straps across his chest. He tried to force it up into the side of the zombie’s neck. Monstro twisted and bit down on Falcon’s forearm.

  Falcon screamed. He swatted ineffectually at the zombie. Monstro tore his head back, but his jaws were empty. There were no chunks of flesh, no spraying blood. Falcon’s jacket had protected him. The zombie let out a bellowing, frustrated roar then lowered its head toward Falcon’s throat.

  “Come on! Fight back, ya hobo!” shouted someone from the crowd.

  The words were greeted by a handful of cheers that doubled in volume when Falcon pulled another weapon from the straps. It was small, more of a throwing knife than something designed for close combat, but Falcon rammed it up into Monstro’s jaw.

  The zombie tipped its head back, emitting a guttural cry. Falcon ripped the knife free. Thick black blood arced through the air and spattered across Falcon’s mask. He twisted from Monstro’s grip and pushed the zombie away from him. Monstro swiped at Falcon’s face. Ragged fingernails scraped across the mask. Blood streamed down the front of Monstro’s clothes. Falcon ran at the zombie. He jabbed the throwing knife at its throat again. It sank in, all the way up to the hilt. Falcon stepped back, leaving the knife protruding from beneath the zombie’s helmet.

  Monstro reached for Falcon, but its movements were slow. The human sidestepped them easily. Falcon slipped another throwing knife from its sheath. Then he raised his arms, gesturing to the crowd to cheer louder. The crowd responded with whoops and howls of delight. If there’d been any doubt as to whose side they were on, it was gone now.

  Falcon slammed the heel of his boot into Monstro’s knee. Bone cracked. The zombie’s leg collapsed inward, and it fell to its knees. Falcon reached behind Monstro’s head and grabbed the back of its helmet. He ripped it forward, tearing it away.

  The zombie’s face was a mass of scars. They crisscrossed his cheeks, his forehead, his nose. Someone had stitched them up, but the work had been rough, and the scars were puckered and an angry red. Its nose was a flattened mass of scar tissue.

  But Monstro’s eyes were hard, black orbs that watched Falcon as he wound up a throw, then hurled the helmet into the spectators. A young man leapt to his feet and caught the helmet as it arced overhead. The crowd erupted into a fresh round of cheers. The man saluted the crowd and, with great reverence, placed the helmet on his head. Immediately, he yanked it off again, his face contorted into a disgusted grimace. The cheering turned to laughter as the man sat down, the helmet clutched in his lap.

  The spotlights tightened, focusing on Falcon and Monstro.

  Falcon tossed his own helmet aside. It bounced across the stage and out of sight. Falcon’s eyes were wide, manic, and sweat plastered his hair. Slowly, he walked behind the zombie. He’d exchanged the throwing knife for a longer hunting knife. I’d had one just like it while I was living in the forest. The zombie was kneeling, barely moving. The stage around it was slick with its blood.

  Falcon raised the weapon above Monstro. Light glinted off the blade bringing with it a cascade of memories. I’d delivered the killing blow with my own hunting knife dozens of times. I tried to conjure some nostalgia for that part of my life but couldn’t.

  Falcon looked around the auditorium, the knife still raised above his head. Gradually, the muddle of voices coalesced into a chant.

  “Kill. Kill. Kill.”

  The chorus grew ever louder, reverberating around the room, the sound pressing in on my senses.

  “Kill. Kill Kill.”

  Falcon grabbed the knife in two hands, the tip of the weapon pointing down toward the top of Monstro’s skull.

  “Kill. Kill. Kill.”

  He brought the knife down.

  Monstro twisted around. Its shattered knee splintered. A shard of broken bone tore through its flesh. Seemingly oblivious, Monstro grabbed the man’s leg. Falcon’s face twisted in shock. He tried to finish the attack, but the knife glanced off the body armor on Monstro’s shoulder.

  The zombie bit into Falcon’s calf.

  Falcon’s screams drowned out the killing chant. Monstro ripped its head back. Blood, red this time, poured out of Falcon’s leg where Monstro had torn away a chunk of flesh.

  Falcon’s knife clattered to the floor. He fell, landing heavily on the stage. Monstro clawed his way up Falcon’s leg and clamped down on the man’s thigh. Fresh screams echoed across the room. Falcon slammed his fists into the side of Monstro’s head. The blows did nothing to deter the zombie. He kicked out, trying to get away from Monstro or dislodge the zombie. Each attempt to break free just made Monstro clamp on more tightly. The zombie grabbed Falcon’s calf and sank its fingers into the wound. Falcon screamed and threw himself backward in agony. His head slammed into the stage with an audible crack.

  Monstro raised its head. A long, stringy piece of muscle hung from its jaws. It let out a long, high-pitched, almost lupine howl and tossed its head back. The strip of muscle disappeared down its throat.

  Falcon wriggled free and tried to push himself across the stage. He managed to get a couple of feet before his boots slipped on the blood-slick wood. The zombie grabbed his ankle and hauled him back across the stage. Falcon kicked at Monstro. His boot caught the side of the zombie’s head. Black blood splashed across the stage.

  The kick did nothing to dissuade Monstro. It knocked Falcon’s leg aside and threw itself on top of him. Falcon wedged his arm across the zombie’s throat. The two of them struggled for a few seconds. Then Falcon’s arm gave way. Monstro snapped at Falcon’s face, then seemed to change his mind. It grabbed Falcon’s shoulder armor, tore it aside, and bit into his exposed flesh.

  Falcon screamed as he bucked and twisted. Monstro’s weight kept him pinned to the ground. He grabbed the back of the zombie and tried to pull it off. Monstro clutched Falcon’s throat, choking off his screams. It nuzzled deeper into Falcon’s neck. The man’s movements became slower, less urgent. Then his arms fell limp. They landed on the stage
with a lifeless thud.

  A few voices, three or four maybe, let out a victorious cheer. The rest of the audience were silent. A wet smacking sound echoed around the room as Monstro tore into Falcon’s flesh.

  In the booth opposite us, a woman had grabbed her partner and was leaning against him, her face twisted in horror. He had his arm wrapped protectively round her. He was sitting up, trying to look confident, but there was enough fear in his eyes to show it was just an act.

  Nobody moved for a full thirty seconds. Then four men in bulky body armor appeared from the back of the room. They were all carrying metal batons. One of them had a steel face mask hanging from his belt.

  They made their way onto the stage and positioned themselves around Monstro. Slowly, they moved forward. The zombie ignored them until they got to within a few feet. Even then, all he did was raise his head and let out a low, baleful moan then return to his meal.

  The man directly behind Monstro raised three fingers. The others readied their batons. He dipped his hand three times. The men lunged forward and jammed the tips of their batons into Monstro’s neck.

  Electricity crackled and buzzed.

  The effect was instantaneous. Monstro arched its back. Its body juddered and shook. The man in front of the zombie jabbed his baton into its exposed throat. Muscles stood out from Monstro’s neck. Flecks of blood and spittle flew from its mouth.

  The men pulled their batons back. Monstro slumped forward, falling on top of Falcon. The zombie let out a low moan. One of the men darted forward and jammed his baton into the back of the zombie’s neck.

  The crackling resumed. Monstro twitched and shook. Its legs thumped against the stage. Despite the electricity coursing through its body, it slowly dragged one arm around, reaching out toward the nearest man. He moved back out of reach, still keeping the baton pressed against Monstro until the zombie slumped forward, finally motionless.

  The man carrying the mask unhooked it from his belt and ran forward. He clamped it on Monstro’s face, fumbled with the straps for a few seconds, then managed to tighten them into place. He stepped back, and all four men visibly relaxed.

  Less than a minute later, Monstro’s arms were secured behind his back and his ankles were bound together with thick plastic cuffs.

  Two more people arrived pushing a gurney. They wheeled it over to the side of the stage, and the men carried Monstro over to it. The metal frame creaked as they dropped the zombie’s limp form onto it.

  “Remind you of anything?” said Cali.

  There was humor in her voice, so I smiled slightly and nodded. Hunter Neurologics had used similar gurneys to transport test subjects. Doug Spencer had been lying on one when we’d turned him into the first zombie.

  The men in body armor climbed down and escorted the gurney from the auditorium.

  Otto walked slowly into view. The crowd waited in silence as Otto made his way across the stage to the bloodied mass that had once been Falcon. He stood beside the body, his head bowed in solemn contemplation before looking slowly around the room.

  He pointed down at the bloody corpse. “His name… was Andrew.”

  Hushed voices repeated the word. “Andrew. Andrew. Andrew.” It seemed to echo around the room. “Andrew. Andrew. Andrew.”

  Neither Cali nor I joined the chant.

  “Andrew. Andrew. Andrew.”

  As one, the crowd fell silent.

  Otto’s voice grew louder. “He was a warrior! A champion! A hero! And he died doing what he loved. Think of him tonight. And live.”

  “And live,” the crowd replied in unison.

  Otto paused for a few seconds, then his solemn demeanor vanished. “Now, let’s drink!”

  The spotlights illuminating the stage winked out, replaced by banks of multicolored LEDs hung around the room. Music played—an up-tempo dance tune, heavy on electronic instruments. People talked and laughed, Falcon’s death apparently forgotten.

  “Well?” Cali said, raising her voice above the music.

  I struggled to find the right words. The shadow might be gone, but I was no better at communicating my emotional state. “It’s… bizarre.”

  Cali gave me a wry smile. “That’s one word for it.” She looked out across the room. “I’d have gone with pathetic. It’s too controlled. It’s no more real than the movies they used to show here.”

  “I think Andrew would disagree.”

  She tilted her head, conceding the point. “The deaths are real, but there’s no… energy. Their attempts to create drama just rob it of its power. What happened last night… I could feel their terror.” She took a deep breath, her eyes fluttering with pleasure at the memory. “It was special.” She waved her hand toward the now dark stage. “That was mundane.”

  I nodded as though I understood.

  Cali smiled. “You don’t feel it.” She took a drink of her champagne. “It’s okay, we can work on that.”

  She looked around the room. Half the tables were empty now, their occupants having joined other tables, moved to booths or formed small groups dotted around the room. A few people were dancing, but no one was standing too close to the stage.

  Cali’s gaze lingered on the couple sitting in the booth opposite us. Their early fear seemed to have evaporated. The woman was still pressed close to her companion, but she was laughing, and the hand resting on his shoulder was there out of affection, not terror.

  Cali stood, plucked the glass out of my hand and pulled the champagne from the bucket. “Come on.”

  Chapter 26

  New Friends

  Cali glided past the tables and groups of people toward the booth where the couple were sitting. I trailed behind. Most of the other guests ignored us, but a few greeted Cali with a warm smile and one or two words. For her part, she returned their greetings but didn’t stop.

  When we reached the booth, Cali slid onto the seat opposite the couple. She placed our champagne and glasses on the table then patted the leather seat beside her. I sat down, feeling a lot like her pet human.

  Cali offered her hand to the man across the table. “Good evening. I’m Cali, this is Marcus.”

  The woman, a blonde-haired beauty with clear blue eyes and scarlet lipstick looked nervously at her companion. “I thought we weren’t supposed to—”

  “My name’s Peter,” said the man. He shook Cali’s hand.

  The blonde woman looked at him. “Peter!”

  He gave a dismissive shrug, but his eyes were locked on Cali. “It’s a stupid rule. They’re just trying to make this place seem more interesting than it is. Everyone knows each other anyway.”

  Cali smiled.

  The woman’s eyes narrowed.

  “So,” Peter said, “do you come here often?”

  Cali laughed. The sound was light, vacuous. It didn’t fit with the Cali I knew.

  “Occasionally, but like you said, it’s all a bit contrived. I prefer my pleasure to be more… primal.”

  One corner of Peter’s lips curled up in a slight smile.

  Cali turned toward the woman. “Would you like to introduce me to your friend?”

  “Oh, of course, this is Olivia.”

  Olivia elbowed him in the ribs, glaring.

  “Don’t worry,” Cali said, “I know P.K. She won’t mind.” She looked back at Peter, her eyes sparkling. “In fact, she encourages her patrons to get to know each other… intimately.”

  Cali licked her lips. The movement was slow, deliberate. Peter’s composure wavered slightly. He glanced at me and swallowed.

  “I— I told you, Ol. It’s fine.”

  Olivia focused her glare on Cali.

  I had no idea what Cali was doing. It was as though the walk across the auditorium had drained a hundred I.Q. points and transformed her into some sort of caricature of a femme fatale from a 40s film noir. It was so overblown it was almost laughable, but Peter was lapping it up.

  Cali offered the bottle of champagne to him. He nodded, and she filled his glass. Olivia decli
ned the offer. Cali gave her a reproachful look, refilled our own glasses, then lifted hers for a toast.

  “To new friends.”

  “To new friends,” Peter said.

  He sipped his champagne. He’d barely taken his eyes off Cali since she’d sat down. I caught Olivia’s gaze. There was fire in her eyes—barely contained rage.

  “So, Cali,” Olivia said, loading the name with contempt. “What do you want?”

  Cali smiled, seemingly unperturbed by Olivia’s attitude. “I’m looking for something that I think you might be able to provide.”

  “Really? What sort of something?”

  “An antidote to the banality of this place. Something real.”

  “Yeah,” Peter said, “I know what you mean. We’ve been trying find the same thing.”

  The look on Olivia’s face suggested she didn’t know what the hell Peter was talking about.

  “I thought so,” Cali said. “I was watching you while that little spectacle was going on. It was obvious you weren’t taken in by it.”

  “Nah, it was interesting, but I’ve seen worse.”

  “Exactly. Nothing so rigidly controlled can compare with the thrill of a real outbreak, the terror that the dead inspire in the living really is second to none.”

  “You’ve seen an outbreak?” Olivia said. Despite her aversion to Cali, there was a hint of admiration in her voice.

  “Marcus and I were there. At the beginning.”

  Peter’s mouth dropped open. Awe filled his eyes.

  “No way!” Olivia said.

  “Yes way! We both worked at Hunter Neurologics. We were there when Doug Spencer broke free.”

  I watched Cali, wondering how far she was going to go with revealing what had happened.

  Olivia leaned back in her seat. “I don’t believe you.”

  Cali shrugged and took a sip of her champagne. “That doesn’t mean it isn’t true.”

  Peter edged forward, staring at Cali, enthralled. “What was it like?”