DEAD MEAT
By Joseph M. Monks
Published by:
Media Service Innovations, Inc.
PO Box 153134
Cape Coral FL 33915
© 2012 Joseph M. Monks
In accordance with the US Copyright Act of 1976, the scanning, uploading and/or electronic sharing of any part of this book - save for limited text for review purposes or social sharing - without express written permission by the publisher or author constitutes unlawful piracy and theft of intellectual property.
Monks, Joseph M.
Dead Meat
CONTENTS
No Playtime for Amy
Gardens of the Dead (Introduction)
Aileen & Charlie
Unmarked
Darryl’s Stand
Rediscovering Darla
Beeb’s Retreat
Skin Flick
A Murder of Crows
Cut Man
Disbelief in Short Order
Long Haul
Hunting Party
WALKERS
Ex Row Inmate
Bonus Stories (Introduction)
Chasers (Bonus Story)
No Kind Return (Bonus Story)
Torn to Pieces (an Introduction)
Torn to Pieces Sample Chapters
Acknowledgments
I’d like to tell you that this anthology would never have happened without help from a whole lot of people. But that isn’t true, so I’m not going to shine you on about it. This book would have happened regardless, although it probably would’ve looked like crap.
The stories are mine, and thus, I’m the only one responsible for any errors or the bending of reality in order to offer you a good time.
My wife, Pamela Hazelton, is the reason the book doesn’t look like a blind guy (who still doesn’t understand why he can’t use WORD for Windows 3.1) formatted it. Thank her for your eyes not hurting after reading a couple hundred pages of gut-munching fun. I’m also indebted to G. Body for his fantastic cover art, Ken Meyer Jr. for the paint job, Shane Smith for his artistic contribution to WALKERS, and to longtime friend and fellow author Frank Wales, who’s helped me in too many ways to count when it comes to e-book publishing, not to mention pitching in as a reader when I needed somebody to go over a story I wasn’t sure was ready. Thanks, guys, for guaranteeing that I have the best team behind me an author could possibly want…assuming he wants one without topless dancers.
For Franklin E. Wales and Billy Martindale, who are always there when I need them. My best friends. Thanks, guys.
MYD.
—Joseph M. Monks
October, 2012
NO PLAYTIME FOR AMY
The sound came again. This time, reverberating right through the walls. Then, all was quiet. As harsh and explosive as the concussion had been, so too was the eerie silence that followed. For a brief moment, there was absolutely nothing, as if all the noise in the world had been sucked into the tip of a wizard’s magic wand.
Ka-pow!
It sounded like thunder, but Amy knew better. Even now, watching for it, counting the empty seconds like Grandpa had taught her—one Mississippi…two Mississippi…three Mississippi… she knew there would be no lightning. There couldn’t be. Because the explosions hadn’t been thunder. God, as Uncle Russ used to claim, wasn’t bowling in Heaven.
No—this had nothing to do with God.
Ker-rack! Ker-rack! Ker-rack!
The booming made her bedroom door rattle in its frame and the boards across her window squeak. Amy wondered if it was day or night. The boards across the windows only let in light for a few hours a day, little slivers that the dust motes floated in. It had been so long since she’d felt the sun on her face that day and night were losing their meaning. Somewhere along the way, they had merged into one.
She tried to remember what it had been like before. Back when thunder was still thunder, and the bad storms would make her hide under the covers until Mom came in to soothe and comfort her. Back when she had still gone to school, and could play with her friends. When Grandpa came over every Sunday for dinner, just like clockwork.
Like clockwork. That’s what Daddy used to say. They would sit out on the porch together and wait, Amy’s excitement growing. Sure enough, at five of five, Grandpa would appear, turning the corner and chewing up the sidewalk with long, deliberate strides. Daddy would glance at an imaginary wristwatch and say to his little girl, “See? Told you…just like clockwork.”
Amy would already be out of the swing, bounding down the steps, racing to meet Grandpa at the gate. The spry old man would pretend that he was going to sidestep her, only to scoop her up into his arms and give her a bear hug. Amy would grab hold of his wide, red suspenders, so that he couldn’t put her down until they reached the porch. Only then, when Mommy came out to kiss her Daddy on the cheek, would she relinquish control of the old man.
But that had been a long, long time ago. Now all the clocks had stopped or were broken. She didn’t need to get up for school any more. For a time, she’d still had to go to sleep at eight o’clock, but bedtime had eventually become unimportant, too. Now when Amy cried at night, it wasn’t because she was afraid of the thunder and lightning, but because somewhere deep inside, she knew Grandpa was never going to scoop her up in his arms again. Grandpa wasn’t coming for Sunday dinner any more. Ever.
Amy didn’t understand precisely how she knew this, just that she did. Somewhere along the way, she’d figured out that like all the clocks, Grandpa had stopped running, too.
Or been broken.
Amy had all but forgotten how terrifying those nights had been. How the low rumble in the faraway sky turned her blood to ice and sent her scurrying beneath the covers, knees knocking and teeth chattering, Molly Dolly clutched to her chest. The more time that passed, the less she remembered. But sometimes, sometimes…
Ka-pow! Ker-rack!
Shouting now. Lots of it. Amy’s face grew dark. Shouting always meant that things were bad. It meant Daddy and Mommy and Uncle Jimmy and everybody else who lived with them now would be upset.
Amy wondered what her friend Madison was doing. Was she playing with her favorite little ‘un, Miss Patty? Were Miss Patty and Fozzy Bear and Madison’s big monkey puppet sitting around her play table, tiny plastic tea cups in front of them, while she cooked a fudgie brownie in her Easy-Bake oven?
Thinking about her friend made Amy feel worse. Empty inside. The way she felt when she thought about Grandpa for too long. She couldn’t explain why she didn’t think that Madison was broken, too, but that’s what she believed. Once, she had asked Mommy about it. She wanted to know when she could go over to Madison’s and play, or when the phone would start working again so she could call her.
“Just keep hoping baby,” Mommy had told her. “You just keep hoping honey, and someday, you’ll get everything you wish for.”
But Mommy had looked sadder than ever, and so she’d gone to her room so Mommy could be alone. She had hugged Molly Dolly as tight as she could, and hoped and hoped and hoped so hard that she thought her brain would burst. She had hoped—and kept hoping—every day. When she got up in the morning, first thing, she spent a few minutes hoping. And when she said her prayers at night, she always made sure to ask God for the phone to start ringing again.
Gradually, she had given up on the prayers. Soon after, she’d abandoned her desperate hoping sessions, too. She hadn’t asked Mommy about Madison, or the telephone, or inviting friends over again. She knew better.
Ker-rack! Ker-rack! KA-BOOM! Ker-rack!
There was angry shouting. The bad kind, with four letter words. Her door shook like somebody was pounding on it.
KA-BOOM!
Amy dropped Molly Dolly into her lap and covered her
ears. The boards over the windows shook, accumulated dust floating to the floor. Mommy used to make Amy clean her room, but the vacuum didn’t work anymore. It had been put in the attic, along with all the other stuff that they couldn’t use. That was when Uncle Jimmy and his girlfriend and people Amy barely knew showed up, carrying boxes and cases and backpacks and mason jars like they were going on the biggest camping trip ever.
Back then.
Only, they hadn’t gone camping. They hadn’t gone anywhere. Amy couldn’t remember the last time anybody had left the house.
In those first few weeks, after the camping stuff had taken the place of all the broken stuff, there had been nights when the grownups would sit around the table, ignoring her and Molly Dolly, talking about ‘making a run.’ Nobody ever left the house right then, but early in the morning—Amy still paid attention to when it was morning back then—two or three people would sneak out the back door while all the other grownups watched.
Once, Amy had opened her door a crack and peeked. That morning, Uncle Jimmy and Daddy and Big Walt had been the ones to go. Mommy and Uncle Jimmy’s girlfriend had been hugging each other, shaking. When Mommy had turned around, Amy saw tears streaming down her face.
Whatever ‘a run’ was, Amy hated it.
…five Mississippi…six Mississippi…seven Mississippi…
The lag between explosions stretched longer now. The shouting was dying down. Cautiously, Amy removed her hands from her ears. There was oily sweat and grime on her palms. It made her feel gross; she was long overdue for a bath.
Quietly, Amy rose from the bed, making an effort to keep the springs from squeaking. She tip-toed to the boarded-over window, the one that used to look out onto the big apple tree where Daddy had hung a swing for her. It had been exactly what she’d asked for, an old-fashioned tire swing, one of his bald Uniroyals dangling from a fat, low branch. Amy pressed her cheek to the boards, trying to catch a glimpse of the world outside.
Nothing. Same as all the times she’d tried before. Using her chair and standing on her tippy-toes, she’d explored every crack, every seam. But Daddy and Uncle Jimmy had fastened the boards together so tightly that seeing anything more than an occasional shadow passing was impossible. The tree, Amy knew, was still there. Big Walt’s son, Walter Junior, went out through the upstairs window sometimes and got them apples. At least three of the grownups would go up with him, undoing just enough boards to allow the skinny teenager to wriggle through. He would gather up as many apples as his knapsack could hold, then shinnie back from the tree to the house. For a time, there would be cheering and laughter and high fives. For a little while, things would seem almost happy.
Another shout. The sound of crates being dragged, of wood scraping against wood. Nails squealed in protest at being pried loose by a crowbar. Amy padded to the door in her dirty socks. This pair was cleaner than some of her others, but all of them were stinky from multiple wearings. Something about the water had changed recently, so Mommy and Uncle Jimmy’s girlfriend had stopped washing clothes unless it was absolutely necessary. Like Amy herself, her stinky socks didn’t merit a bath just yet.
Ear pressed to the door, Amy struggled to hear what was being said. Footfalls tracked back and forth across the living room. Heavy work boots beat a path into the hallway, passing her door and then returning from whence they’d come. Amy could hear the sound of exertion, of heavy crates being transferred from the hallway to the front of the house. Here and there, she could discern snippets of conversation, but for the most part, everything was spoken in hushed tones—shared like the password to some secret club.
Amy scooped Molly Dolly up and returned to the door. She didn’t hear Mommy, but could make out Daddy and Big Walt talking. She turned the knob and pulled the door open, peering into the dimly lit hallway.
Amy saw no one. Usually, that meant most of them were in the living room, which was good. Mommy might be in the kitchen, and Amy could get there without anybody noticing her. It was always a bad idea to be around when the grownups had been shooting the big guns.
Amy looked down the hallway to her right, toward the kitchen. Makeshift shelves lined the wall, hastily put together out of scrap wood and brackets. Two votive candles burned weakly, fighting to beat back the gloom. Long, creepy shadows slithered across the floor, shimmering with each flicker of candlelight. It gave them an eerie quality, almost like they had a life of their own.
Straight ahead, on the left, was the kitchen. Amy took a few hesitant steps, then froze. The mens’ voices grew louder. Big Walt, who Grandpa had once proclaimed “Couldn’t whisper if his vocal chords were removed,” seemed to be leading the way.
“Fucking ton of ‘em!” he exclaimed.
“Only gonna be more o’ the bastards,” replied a scratchy-voiced man Amy recognized as Pete Wilcox.
“Got that right,” came Daddy’s voice. “Moving might be our only…”
The door at the other end of the hallway swung open.
Amy ducked into the kitchen, searching for her mom. The kitchen, however, was empty. On top of the stove, a tall candle burned. Amy recognized it as one of the candles Daddy bought Mommy for their anniversary the previous year. Mommy had called them ‘special occasion’ candles, and given Daddy a big kiss for them. Their bases were sculpted into flowery ribbons, bright with colors that lay hidden beneath the candles’ white skin. Amy’s expression grew sad seeing it burning like this—crooked and dripping onto the range, ignored. This didn’t seem like a special occasion to her at all.
The footsteps passed by. Amy was left standing alone, holding her breath in the shadows. When the voices had grown distant, she opened the pantry and took out a juice box. She had trouble getting the tiny straw out of the plastic, finally using her teeth to tear it open. She stabbed the pointy end through the foil hole and took a sip. It was warm, but even warm fruit punch tasted good. They wouldn’t have cold drinks for a while yet, probably another month or two. Then, they’d be able to pack the juice boxes in the dirt in the basement, where Daddy and Uncle Jimmy had cut a hole in the wall so they could use the cool earth like a refrigerator.
Amy hugged Molly Dolly tight, pinning her bestest friend to her chest. There were more footsteps in the hallway. Big Walt broke off from the pack and stepped into the kitchen.
For a moment, he didn’t see her standing there. Unaware of her presence, he yanked a plastic bag from a cabinet and took out a strip of jerky. The stale air in the kitchen was suddenly tangy with the spicy odor of preserved meat.
“Heya girls,” he said, forcing a smile onto his broad face. His beard was uneven and scraggly. Amy could see where he’d nicked himself on the side of his throat. His sad smile made her feel uneasy. She wanted to see her Mommy so bad her tummy ached.
“You ought’a be getting back to your room,” the giant went on, mussing her hair with a bear paw of a hand. Amy couldn’t help herself, and smiled back at him. Sometimes, he mussed Walter Junior’s hair this same way. It made her feel better. Like she still belonged.
There had been nights when Amy snuck out of her room to use the bathroom, and seen Big Walt and Walter Junior side by side in their sleeping bags, Big Walt’s shotgun propped up against the wall. Big Walt’s hand would be resting on the edge of Walter Junior’s bag, as if he needed to feel it there; to know that his boy was safe by his side.
Big Walt said nothing more. He didn’t admonish her for being in the kitchen, or wait for her to do what he’d said. Instead, he bit off a cheekful of jerky, gave her a wink, then headed back into the living room, leaving her there with her drink box and Molly Dolly.
Amy thought about going back, returning to her stuffy bedroom, where there was nothing for her but solitude and loneliness. Mommy wasn’t here, and she knew that Mommy wasn’t washing clothes down in the basement. Amy hadn’t heard any movement upstairs, which could only mean that Mommy was in the living room with Daddy and the others.
Amy chewed on her lip, debating with herself. She knew the r
ules. Whenever she heard gunfire, she was supposed to go straight to her room and lock the door and stay there until Mommy or Daddy came to tell her it was okay to come out. Nobody had told her it was okay, but Big Walt didn’t seem angry with her. Maybe she could run into the living room, give Mommy and Daddy each a hug, and take one back with her to help her make it through the day. Mommy and Daddy always made time to give and get a hug, even when there had been a lot of shouting. A lot of shooting.
Amy crept into the hallway, moving toward the living room. She paused, noticing that it felt cooler now than it had before. There was something else, too. A funny smell in the air. Funny, but not like in her room or the basement with the yucky clothes or the kitchen.
Was that a breeze she felt? Was that really air from outside on her face? It had to be. The fans and air conditioners had long ago been trundled up into the attic with the vacuum cleaner and everything else.
There it was again. Stronger. She hadn’t imagined it after all. Definitely a breeze. Definitely air from outside.
She leaned into the living room and glanced around. Where the two front windows had been, looking out onto the plush front lawn, there were only boards now, as tight and as thick as the ones over the window in her room. Big Walt knelt in front of one, while Wilford, one of Daddy’s hunting buddies, manned the other. He sat on the edge of the coffee table, wielding a sawed-off shotgun. Between them on the floor was a wooden crate, the top pried off and lying beside it. There were many such crates like this in the house. The hallway leading to the basement was lined with them, stacked two and sometimes three high. Each had a black stencil on the side that read: AMMO. Some of them bore different stencils, letters and numbers that Amy didn’t understand. One day, not quite back then, but close, Big Walt had caught her doodling on one of the crates with a magic marker, turning the zeroes between a 3 and a 6 into a pair of googly eyes. She’d been afraid, certain that Big Walt would tell Mommy and Daddy on her. But Big Walt had grinned at her, asking if he might borrow the marker. He added a pair of bushy eyebrows—so thick they looked like caterpillars—eyeglasses, and a fat, walrus moustache. Amy was amazed—Big Walt had turned the googly eyes into a picture of Daddy’s friend Wilford! Later, when she pointed out the cartoon to Daddy, he laughed, too. She loved Daddy’s laugh, even though she didn’t get to hear it much. It was one of those things that had gone missing, like the clocks and sunlight and her friend Madison.
Dead Meat Page 1
