Hell Hath No Fury

by TW Brown

  Just when everything seems hopeless, a champion arises out of the turmoil. A rifle toting, pistol popping, blade wielding hero. His self-given mission to exterminate the cannibalistic creatures. Therefore, he patrols the zombie infested streets in order to protect poor souls from the evil that has been unleashed.

  Can he restore order to a place ridden with unimaginable horrors? Or is it too late to save a city whose welcoming sign reads, POPULATION: ZOMBIE.

  Population: Zombie

  By Candace Gleave

  Night, like a sultry saxophone playing a melody; its seductive tunes tease the dark like a tramp egging on a stoned businessman. The haunting rhythms disgust me. No drug strong enough—for an addict with a bad temper and a mind full of rotten memories—that I can take to get wasted on and forget this horrible life. Too bad I love myself and fight to stay alive.

  “Get off me!” the woman screams. Cowering to an alley corner, she limps. Her arms stretched out, fending off the advancing, decaying corpse of a human who would love nothing more than to smash her head and dig out her brains. Looking through a rifle scope, I watch the helpless lamb, already bitten. She’s a goner. Can’t even be classified as a human; the transformation will take place within the hour, given she lasts that long. How demoralized I have become.

  Breathing out smoke, throwing the remaining cigarette stub into the dark air, I raise the rifle. Sliding the action back, loading a .308 cartridge, the only shiny item I place value on. Breathing out slower than before, I zero in on the zombie, resting my right cheek on the warn leather pad. Lowering my finger, barely touching the hair-trigger, I fire. The gun kicks a reminder into my shoulder. His head explodes, I smile as his brains stick like pudding on the cement.

  She gasps…more out of surprise than fear. Blindly turning her brunette head, shaking slightly, her body probably in shock, she searches the rooftops to see, maybe even thank her hero. Perhaps, I should warn her, give her a head start. Thirty minutes ago, I could have been her hero, maybe. But now, with the open contusion and teeth marks on her arms, I cannot save her. I am not her hero.

  Sliding the action back, this time with more speed, racing against the moment when she realizes that something is wrong and really starts to panic. The rifle aimed, her head turns to where I am lying prone. My finger touches the trigger. She takes a step forward. Breathing out, I get ready for the part I hate.

  “No!” she yells. “Behind you!”

  “Damn.”

  Turning my head sharp—having just enough common sense to roll over—escaping my attacker’s reach, I grab my sidearm and fire at his chest. The zombie looks confused; a blank stare is his reaction. His mouth open, his bottom lip swollen and torn. Saliva, with the remnants of blood, pools down his chin and onto his ragged shirt. He smells, like all of them, like a bag of chicken skins left lying in the hot sun. I breathe through my mouth, relieving my nose of the heavy rancid smell.

  “See you in Hell!” I fire twice more at his head. Falling backwards, his body folds at the knees like a rag doll, landing on his side. Coagulated blood spills from his mouth—dinner most likely—from some unfortunate soul. Rising to my feet, the pain in my knees tells me I’m old. Resting my boot on the wretched corpse, I look down the alley and side streets. No dame. The woman is probably down to the next city block by now, seeking shelter: a safe place to rest before she too joins these monsters. I hate being right.

  “You made me miss my target you smelly damn pus- head!” I rolled the zombie over with my boot. Lying on his back, his white-cloudy eyes roll deep into his head. “If she comes back looking for a late night snack, I will be royally pissed off.” The corpse rolls over again with my help, nearing the edge of the roof. Teetering, keeping the corpse from falling with the weight of my standing leg, I place my hand over my heart.

  “One thousand two hundred fourteen, your number be. Upon a rooftop you died most swiftly.” Nodding in approval, I released the pinning weight of my leg, allowing the body to freefall off the three-story building.

  “Poor bastard.”

  ***

  Sticking mostly to rooftops—the first class way of traveling—where one jumps, runs, and climbs to every destination, I’d rather not be. Can’t even remember the last time I strolled along the street, hands in my pockets like some genuine fool. I miss those days. Repressing the past, I head westward. Hell, heading anywhere looks the same. Traveling to no place in particular, west being good as any direction. Perhaps it smells better, the foul odor of bodies fermenting isn’t as pungent in Harrisburg. But actually, I know the reason: west is downhill.

  My pace slackens as I approach what once was a yuppie apartment complex. Pennsylvania Place, the Xanadu of multi-housing; complete with day spa and Gucci bathrobe. When the outbreak hit, this building, due to the extreme prejudice by its residents, remained zombie free for ninety minutes. City record actually. Glancing over the area, I pay close attention to the apartments and their open, unfriendly windows. The abandoned cars sat scattered about the parking lot—some with doors left open, others lying on their sides—windows smashed and leather upholstery ripped and gutted like a fish. Feeling the hot sensation of being watched…no, hunted…creeps over me. Suppres-sing a sigh, my eyes focus as I continually adjust the scope’s magnification.

  A red baseball cap waving from underneath a car catches my eye. A sinking feeling grips my heart as I weigh the chances of that actually being a person. One in thirty. Unbitten, make that one in eighty. I sharpen my focus and discover a gray- haired couple holding hands, most likely praying for some saint to intervene. I can’t think of a better day. Geez, underneath a car, by an alley, surrounded by shadows; they couldn’t have picked a worse place. Why don’t they just save themselves the trouble and pour barbeque sauce all over their bodies? They would accomplish the same result.

  The hat waves more quickly. Damn.

  The car, a white, beat-up Oldsmobile is the beacon; about a two hundred yard sprint with added hurdles of turned over garbage cans. Should have eaten my Wheaties this morning. Tightening my belt, I make for the edge of the roof and start the slow descent.

  Squatting behind a Dumpster, I load my automatic shotgun, and then proceed with my revolver, kissing each bullet as the center-fire rounds slip into place.

  “Ah, shit,” I sigh, holding my shotgun with both hands, ready for the worst. Looking around, I assess the area. The setting sun is lost in between the skyscrapers and endless consum-erism. I’ve got thirty minutes before the city gets dark. And approximately thirty seconds before my scent gets picked up. I guess I’ll skip my need to urinate.

  Running towards the car, counting to four over and over, trying to calm my adrenalin rush, I keep running to my four-count pace. With the objective in sight, I watch the red hat. My helpless humans, I’m coming. The hat stops waving, falls to the ground. If it were a ball, I’m sure it would have rolled away from the car, possibly in slow motion…maybe even bounced a few times. I quicken my strides as doubt begins to override the speed of my run.

  “Get out from under the car!” I yell, out of breath, still running. The couple—the quivering old couple—just lies there. Motionless. Footsteps, those anticipated and haunting footsteps, pound my eardrums as I slide over the Oldsmobile hood. Turning around, I fire off the first shells. A hole clear through its chest. He stumbles to the side, and continues to run for another three seconds, then falls dead. A zombie to my right, almost in arm’s reach, I’m forgetting how fast they can move when they want to. I jump back and fire. The grey flesh sprays everywhere, speckling my clothes and gun.

  “Get your asses up, we’ve gotta go!” I bark, firing three more rounds…make that four. I Look down the alley, no outlet. A metal ladder anchored to a one-story building shines through the dark, practically begging us to climb it.

  “Thank you,” the old woman breathes. Her blue, spider-veined hand trembles as I help her up.

  “You’re not out of the woods yet, sweetheart,” I said, counting the zombies
running our way. Twenty of them. Their uncoordinated bodies with dislocated ligaments, flailing around, grunting and screaming as they advance…we’ve got less than ten seconds before they are upon us.

  “Run to the ladder in the alley!” I yell, pointing towards it. The old woman, frail in her years, jogs to the ladder. Her husband, I’m assuming—the golden years have treated him better—grabs her hand, trying to hurry her along as they run together. Covering them, I shoot the closest zombies. Biting my lips, I watch the elderly couple stumble and pause at the ladder. With my head turned, a zombie slipped past me and jetted for the couple, figuring they would be an easier target. The zombie grabs the lady’s shoulder. Her husband jumps down from the ladder and pushes the zombie aside. Frantic and screaming helplessly, the old woman completely forgets what to do, wilting like a frightened child.

  “Damn!” I hiss finishing up with a zombie that had been bothering me for a couple of seconds. I run to the couple, too pissed to roll my eyes. I hit the zombie with the butt of my gun. His face cracks like a Dorito’s chip. It stumbles to the side and I finish him off with a blow to the head.

  “Climb!” Grabbing the lady’s arms, I force them on the ladder. “I don’t care if you have to climb over her, but you get your ass up to that roof!” I direct my anger towards the man, loading more shells into the gun. I kick a zombie in the chest as he runs at us. Releasing the action, I shoot the fallen zombie and proceed to address the advancing crowd. Gotta buy them enough time…and me…

  With the two geriatrics climbing, I reload my shotgun. The bodies litter the ground like toppled dominos. Not entirely reloaded, my attention turns to a snarling zombie. Pushing his way through the crowd, his blackened fingers with bitten and chewed off nails, grabs my shoulder trying to pull me down. Reaching for my Ka-bar, I elbow him violently. Taking a step back, I stab his jugular. His weight collapses on my knife as I tear the blade through his neck. Falling to the ground, dark almost brown blood, sludges from his throat. Sheathing my knife, I finish loading my gun and release the action.

  With every gun blast, my position is given away. For every kill, two more replace the fallen one. All I can do is hold them off. Firing off all the shells, holding the ladder, I sling the shotgun and climb. Two steps from the bottom, my foot is grabbed, yanking me down a rung. Falling, I turn my head. The largest zombie I’ve ever seen is tearing at my leg. His crazed, yellow eyes turn my heart up a notch. Kicking with my foot, he loses his hold. Climbing the ladder, every other one, I pause from the second step from the top and draw my sidearm, shooting into the crowd. The large zombie falls back. His body loses sight as they trample over him and attempt to climb the ladder.

  The gray-haired geriatrics lay on the ground, side by side…three zombies huddled over them, covered in fresh blood. Slurping up their meal, the zombies wasted no time in getting to their juicy innards. They left a siege and walked into an ambush, clenching my teeth, I draw my revolver.

  “You a-holes picked the wrong guy to screw with!”

  ***

  I’m an hour away from home with a dead flashlight. I hate Heavy Duties.

  A red neon sign still lit flashes: Open 24/7. Apparently people still need to get groceries even when they are on the menu. I enter. The store lights, out in the front with several on in the back, giving it an eerie feel of closing time. Food cans and broken glass jars are scattered along the floor. Some aisles are completely trashed and looted. The store in its prime had the prettiest checkout clerks. How they smiled when I complimented them, called me by name even. Pushing the button on the flashlight, the LED light banished the memories with reality. Discarding the dead batteries on the shelf, I turned off the flashlight and made for the back of the store.

  Keeping in the shadows, but near enough to the florescent emergency lights, I pull out my tactical data log book. Written and logged, all here in this worn-looking book, is all my greatest accomplishments. “Shooting a zombie, a head shot at six hundred and fifty yards.” “Killing three zombies with a single .9mm full-metal jacket.” (Nearly messed my pants I was so pleased.) Everything became logged, even my failures. Life had become nothing more than a numbers game: number of kills; which weapon used; rifle, shotgun, pistol, knife…even have one kill logged, where I used my boot. Jotting down my calculations in the book, figuring out the total of zombies I killed; two from earlier and twenty-five when trying to help the old couple. Making my new count, one thousand-two hundred and forty-one.

  When the outbreak hit and Interpol finally gave the world its blessing for civilians to fight and protect themselves, one lucky bastard, a nuclear physicist took his work to China. He had over a hundred thousand confirmed zombie kills with a single bomb. I plan on beating that mark. By a lot.

  Turning the page written in bold: People I’ve Saved. The most humbling. Zero. Small numbers marked here and there, with the highest of three potential lives all crossed off. Had I saved that old couple, adding every tick and tally mark that fills this page, it would number thirty-four. Breathing out, annoyed, I write two more tally marks and draw a line through them. The pen catches the paper and rips. Figures.

  Walking past the liquor aisle, I grabbed a bottle of Smirnoff; this should take care of today. Putting the bottle in my backpack, feeling its weight along with my ammo, I tighten the straps and head for the front.

  “Don’t move,” a nervous voice calls from behind me.

  “Don’t move?” I questioned, almost laughing. “Are you going to rob me?” Turning around, a young man with shaking limbs stood, clutching a handgun. His eyes wide…practically screaming with raw nerves…making his youthful face more childish than intimidating.

  “You don’t understand,” he said, tightening his grip.

  “Son, I respect the makers of Glock, but I surely wouldn’t want my life ended by one. Now here’s a gun worth dying for while feeling good in the process.” I pull out my sidearm. “Taurus .45/410 revolver, also known as the Judge. As you will notice the rifled barrel... And of course the lack of a choke, making the pellets scatter quickly upon leaving the bore. I’d say from where you are standing, you’re about three feet too close to experience all what I’m talking about.”

  He loosened his hold on the gun; his right arm looked weak. Even while he stood aiming the gun pointed at my chest, I noticed the pain he held back. A pain they all try and hide.

  “How long ago were you bit?” I said, putting away my gun, walking forward.

  “Just barely, I killed him. He crept up on me all quiet and shit. Didn’t know he was there till he had his teeth in my arm, and his hands all around me. They’re gettin’ smarter.”

  “Here, lie down and take your shirt off. This is the only method I’ve seen work.”

  Wincing as he unbuttoned his long sleeve shirt, I help him; trying to speed up the process, we removed the bloody garment, discarding it on the floor. Looking younger without his shirt on, he looked down at his lean body, probably embarrassed. Although I don’t know why he would care. Holding his wounded forearm closer to my eyes, I studied it carefully. The bite, a decent size, was already changing. The skin around the teeth marks felt warm with fever and tiny white pustules beginning to swell, making a ring around the bite.

  “This crap spreads fast.” Examining his lower arm, I decided where the best place would be to amputate. “I think, to be sure…six inches above the wound.”

  “What?” he said, jerking his arm free “You’re gonna cut off part of my arm?”

  “Naturally.”

  “Isn’t there some other way? I mean, it just happened, and the bite didn’t penetrate into the muscle.”

  “This isn’t some jellyfish sting that you can piss on, son. I’ve seen bitten folks even try that. Seen one man, bath himself in bleach, taking a scotch pad to it. Didn’t work.”

  He cursed. “You’ve done this before?”

  “Yes, but mostly in the war,” I said, taking off my belt, I slipped it around his arm, pulling it tight.

  “My
name’s Ivan,” he said, squeezing his eyes shut.

  “Did that help the situation?”

  “What?”

  “Does that ease things, you telling me your name?” I asked, kneeling next to him, holding the end of the belt tight. Using my free hand, I made contact with the axe in my backpack and pulled it out.

  “A little I suppose, though I guess it really doesn’t matter,” Ivan said.

  “Matters? Who cares what matters? If it matters to you, then it matters. I want to see you live, so you matter.”

  “Thanks.”

  “You’re welcome. Ready?”

  “Just about.” Moving his arm closer to him, he held his hand. His eyes moistened as he brought his infected arm to his lips and kissed the top of his hand where it still resembled human, normal.

  “Words of advice, you might want to turn your head and look the other way, Ivan. This will hurt.” Raising the axe high in the air, I paused and said, “By the way, my name’s Christian.”

  ***

  Tactical data log book… People I’ve Saved. One.

  Rebecca Lloyd's first story was published in 1994 in Marion Zimmer Bradley's Fantasy Magazine, and she has published in several anthologies and magazines since then. She is currently finishing up her second novel. She daylights as a public health clerical worker, and lives in the San Francisco Bay Area with her sweetheart and a very eccentric cat.

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