Dead Meat

by Joseph M. Monks

  Bone-jarring pain raced up her arm, the Mossberg spewing shrapnel. She stared down at the weapon, incredulous. Never before had the Mossie misfired. This wasn’t a good time for the streak to have ended.

  Hands slick with blood, Beeb fumbled the .357 out of its holster. The pain coursing through her wrist was intense. Her aim was unsteady, but at this range, even a glancing blow might take the old man out. She watched him pry the barrel from his mouth, tearing away most of his upper lip.

  Don’t let him get any closer…

  She gritted her teeth. Took the shot.

  It wasn’t a direct hit—at least, not for a zombie. Though it didn’t stop the sonofabitch, it did blow off most of his lower jaw, leaving his head tilted at an odd angle. Whatever damage had been done to his vertebrae, though, it wasn’t enough. He quickly righted himself and came at her again.

  He was almost clear of the trap door when Beeb noticed the dangling knuckle at the end of her middle finger. It wasn’t the only damage she’d sustained, either. A chunk of flesh had been gouged out of her pinky. The wound was deep enough to leave the bone exposed. Her head swam, but she focused on the more immediate danger. The wounds could be patched, she believed, but first she had to eliminate the threat stalking toward her like a starved, rabid dog. With shaky hands, Beeb sucked in a breath, held it, and fired again.

  The shot was off, she knew it the minute the gun discharged. The recoil was too much, overwhelming her rubbery arms. The Magnum kicked so hard her head struck the wall, making her see stars. Grandpa’s hand seized her ankle and clamped down tight, reminding her of the old days—reminding her of when she’d been eight, and helpless.

  But that was all. Beeb hustled to regain control of the gun, bringing it into position, but the hand cannon had done its job. The shot had taken him just under the right eye. Now it was missing, along with most of that side of his head.

  “Serves you right, you sick old bastard,” Barb hissed, her voice hard. “Serves all of you right for what you done to us.”

  Then the tears came. She dropped the.357 and buried her face in her ruined hands. So much pain. In her hands. In her heart. The sobs went on for a long time, unbroken, echoing around the attic until it was a blend of fresh agony and white noise.

  Which was what cost her.

  Bonnie crawled through the trap door, the cat still warm in her hands. Its paws were broken. What was left of its tail was little more than a bloody stub. Clumps of hair and skin clung to Bonnie’s gore-stained lips. Offal dripped from the gaping wound she’d left in the kitten’s belly.

  Beeb reached for the .357, but Bonnie was ripping at her calf with strong, young teeth. Breaking the skin, shredding tendon and muscle. Beeb raised the revolver, watching her sister feed. Staring into her dead eyes. Waiting, hoping for some sign of recognition.

  Bonnie was down to the bone by the time Beeb steadied herself enough to fire. Bonnie glanced up when the gun went off, but continued to feast upon her older sister’s flesh. Beeb was, after all, still warm. The top of her head might be missing, but the blood was still flowing. The muscle still twitching beneath Bonnie’s teeth. A feeling of deep satisfaction welled up within her. What had she been thinking about when Grandpa and Daddy and Uncle Dustin had met up with her? She tried to remember, but couldn’t hold onto the thought. She was drawn back to the flesh. So much raw meat…

  Something about the family? Was that it? She paused before taking another bite. A reunion, maybe? Yes, that was it. That felt right. A reunion. They had had a reunion.

  And she’d shown up just in time.

  SKIN FLICK

  "What in the name of the Good Lord…?" Grace Ellen said, shocked, peering through the kitchen blinds. She set her teacup down on the fading Formica countertop and parted the slats, trying to get a better look.

  The kitchen faced out onto a narrow, alley-like driveway, opposite her next door neighbor's den or bedroom. Which one exactly, Grace Ellen wasn't sure, but whichever one it was, it housed the deadbeat’s bigger-than-necessary television. Tonight, as on most nights, the images on the screen were unmistakable. Distasteful and disgusting. Grace Ellen didn't need to catch more than a glimpse to know exactly what her neighbor was engaged in.

  She let the blinds fall back into place and shook her head. If only the Reverend was still alive, she mused, feeling the melancholy wash over her. But how many times had she had that same thought these past three years? How many times had something unsettled her, resulting in her falling into the past, trying to envision how different things might have been, if only? If only they had stayed in Pennsylvania, she fantasized, if only the Reverend had taken better care of himself, if only that unstable farm boy hadn't made those filthy, unsubstantiated accusations... Why was it that the innocent among His flock met with such burdens? Were made to suffer without justification? Why was it His will that she and the Reverend be forced to move to this small, cracker box house? And why had the Council of Elder Ministers all felt so strongly that California was the best place for them?

  She sometimes lay awake at night, wondering if that was when the Reverend had begun to grow ill. Up ‘til then, she'd always known the Reverend to be a fighter, a man of principle. But when those lies began to spread about him, everything started to change. He'd said that it was untrue, all of it, and of course she knew that to be the case. Yet, when the elders had recommended the reassignment, in order to keep the church from having to endure a long and costly legal battle, he had acquiesced. They had left their home less than a month later, and been in California barely a year when the Reverend's health problems began. Grace Ellen couldn't help but think everything was connected somehow.

  Knowing that the Reverend would never have sat idly by when there was an opportunity to take action, to try and bring one of His fallen—like this depraved neighbor, who did nothing but sit at home all the time watching pornography—around to the ways of the Lord, she questioned her own strength. What of her? Why wasn't it her place to do the Lord’s good work as well?

  Grace Ellen looked down into her cup of weak, lukewarm tea. Why not? Why shouldn't she do something? Why shouldn't she try to make a difference? She knew in her heart that the Reverend would have.

  Still, part of her held back. She was outraged, of course. The kind of filth she was exposed to whenever she looked across the drive was appalling. But, at the same time, she was Grace Ellen Howarth, the widow of the Reverend Eldridge Howarth, and she knew from experience that she didn't command her dear husband’s respect. She truly believed that a confrontation with her repugnant neighbor wouldn't be worth her breath. What would she say to him? How was she going to tell such a creature that he was on the narrow path to eternal darkness? Would such a person even bother to listen? She doubted that he would, but still, that didn't relieve her of her duty to do the right thing.

  She split the blinds again and peered across the shared drive, cringing at what was on the screen. A young girl with long, platinum blond hair was doing something unspeakable to an unseen partner with her mouth. She may as well have been a plastic doll. Naked from the waist up, she possessed firm, but unnaturally large breasts. Certainly not the ones that the Good Lord had blessed her with. No, undoubtedly she'd taken her natural, God-given beauty and let some unscrupulous surgeon do his nasty handiwork, turning her into a lurid sex object. A woman who was far less than a woman, useful only for doing abominable things on film. Where else could a woman like this fit in society? The only role she had was supplying people like Grace Ellen's neighbor with dirty fodder for their sinful, desperate acts of loneliness. Grace Ellen watched the girl's pouty lips open and engulf her anonymous partner. It made her skin crawl.

  She made up her mind, and without a plan beyond somehow putting a stop to her neighbor’s self-destructive behavior, she stepped out into the cool, dark evening.

  She paused on the back steps to let her eyes adjust to the darkness. There was precious little beside the moonlight to illuminate her shabby, narrow backyard. The
porch light had burned out long ago, and she didn't see the value in spending good money to replace it. Now, with shadows reaching across the property toward her like bony, black fingers, she was rethinking her frugality.

  She shuffled down the steps and around the side of the house. The garbage, Grace Ellen was thinking. There was nothing out of the ordinary in putting out some trash. Perhaps if she could get her neighbor’s attention by rattling her old, battered trash cans, he might be embarrassed and choose something better to occupy his time. To Grace, this seemed like a decent strategy. Flaws only became evident when she realized that from her new vantage point, she could hear the horrid sounds of the staged sex acts coming through her neighbor's window.

  The pervert! He didn’t even have his window closed!

  Grace Ellen couldn't make out what was happening on the screen, but it became evident after she rattled her trash cans to no avail, that the filthy moans she heard were not coming solely from the television.

  "Disgusting. Absolutely disgusting," she muttered, her expression sour. She stepped back into the shadows and retreated up the porch steps. Now, she could once again look into her neighbor's window. Seeing his furiously pumping right hand as it stroked his swollen flesh made her avert her eyes. She realized now that simply rattling her trash bins wasn't going to be sufficient to stop his sinful conduct.

  His moans grew louder, their intensity enough to make her recoil. She was just a step from her back door when powerful, clammy hands swept up her body, clutching her around the waist and throat.

  She struggled, but before she could open her mouth to scream, there was pressure and a burning sensation beneath her chin. A mouthful of loose but purposeful teeth tore out her larynx and the upper part of her trachea. Her vocal chords were ripped away as a crimson plume erupted from her throat. A fountain of blood sprayed through her screen door, turning the cream colored curtains a brilliant shade of crimson. As the rough hands slammed her frail body into the door, Grace Ellen looked into the half-rotted face of her assailant.

  The mangled features were ravaged by decomposition. The man smelled like chicken entrails left in the garbage too long during a heat wave. Only one eye looked back at her, the other had collapsed above a shattered cheekbone. The whole head seemed to be sinking in on itself, like an overripe jack-o-lantern.

  Grace Ellen watched the monster grinding up the flesh it had just excised from her throat, knowing her time had come. She wondered if the warm feeling spreading through her chest was the signal that death was near. That the Lord was calling her home, where she would be reunited with the Reverend for all eternity, or just her precious life blood, being pumped out of her by her still-beating heart.

  Her strength rapidly draining, Grace Ellen faltered. Her legs folded beneath her, and she sank to the ground. She could feel the night air growing colder, and wished she had more faith that the warmth she was experiencing really was the Spirit laying It's hand upon her. The beast grabbed her by the hair, and set about gnawing more flesh from her body.

  In a final gesture of defiance, she wrenched her head to the side so that she wouldn’t have to watch the creature feeding upon her.

  Across the drive, the balloon-breasted blonde shut her eyes as two spurts of semen shot across her face. Only one, though, had been captured on film.

  Grace Ellen gurgled one last, ragged exhale through the gaping hole where her windpipe had been. Her vision growing dim, she fixed on the smile brightening the blonde's pretty face. Grace Ellen couldn't be sure, and she couldn't understand it, but as her consciousness flickered, she considered a possibility that hadn’t occurred to her before.

  Had the blonde actually been enjoying herself?

  Emily Chassen's PT Cruiser convertible swept through a turn, rally wheels squealing as she got onto the 405. Drop-top down, she was trying to enjoy what remained of a rapidly-fading Thursday afternoon. Weather aside, she was having a difficult go of it. She'd just downloaded her bank statement, and while the numbers were improving, they still weren't encouraging.

  A half-mile down the freeway she found herself in the belly of the beast, where the snarled traffic looked even less promising than her financial statement.

  "No fucking way!" she seethed. Emily was as familiar with the frustrations caused by the L. A. freeway system as any SoCal driver. You couldn’t spend more than a week in this town without experiencing it first-hand. This, however, was totally unexpected. She’d left her apartment just after noon because this was the closest the 405 ever got to being empty.

  Not today, however. As the shiny silver convertible slowed to a halt, Emily looked out over a sea of stopped vehicles extending as far as the eye could see. Something, she knew, had happened. Somewhere up ahead, there was something big going on. With no accident or police vehicles in sight, Emily dropped the Cruiser into neutral and sat back, exasperated. Unless traffic magically began flowing again—and soon—she was going to miss the two o'clock appointment she had with Kevin at Metro. Dismayed at the thought of having to call the weasely prick, she debated simply blowing off the meeting and making amends later. Forgetting one's cell phone in L. A. was a cardinal sin, but among "the talent," as Kevin liked to refer to his girls, it was a common enough occurrence.

  That wasn't going to help her bank account any, she reminded herself. Banging her fist on the steering wheel, she wondered, not for the first time, how this had happened. How had she wound up in this position?

  She glanced at her Fendi handbag, sitting on the passenger seat. Sticking out of it was the script she was on her way to discuss with Kevin. Doubting that she’d be going anywhere any time soon, she pulled it out for a second look.

  Pitiful. That's what she’d thought the first time she’d gone through it, and rereading it now certainly wasn't changing her opinion. It even looked low class, stuck into a powder blue report cover with a slip-on spine, like a high school kid's term paper. If that. Barely twenty-two pages, and that included the title sheet and synopsis. Thin, even for a porno. A HIT OF SEXTASY was printed in a garish, billboard style font. Someone had been learning WORD, Emily thought, and judging by the typos in the script, they hadn’t yet discovered spellcheck.

  There was an alternate title they were considering, ROLLING ON SEXTASY, but that had been tossed out already. Kevin didn't think enough of the upper thirty-somethings would get the reference, and as his assistant, a mousy-haired girl who looked perpetually stoned had brought up, it sounded more like a fetish flick for fat freaks than a mainstream Sextasy Chase video. Emily believed Miss Mousy-Hair was a failed break-in Kevin was keeping around as a fluffer, paying her in crystal meth and using her for blowjobs in between her fetching him his coffee and Vicodin. She'd seen the look in the woman’s eyes when she'd sat down for the meeting, recognizing it instantly. Here she was, getting to see what the real Sextasy Chase was all about. Sizing her up, making comparisons. Emily knew all about that. She'd once been Miss Mousy-Hair, or someone just like her, in the not-too-distant past.

  The only reason she was actually considering the offer—aside from decent money—was the dangling carrot of franchising the title as a series. That meant Emily could cash in simply by shooting enough intros and bumpers for about a dozen DVDs. That could probably be wrapped up in a weekend. As the figurehead for the series, all they'd need to bang out were a year's worth of her cameos and box-cover shots. She didn't think much of the project, but it was a good paycheck, and if she agreed to it, Metro was willing to pay her the whole nut up front.

  Emily hadn't let on to anyone that she intended to get out of the biz, so by the time the year's worth of material was depleted, she'd already be gone. At least, that was the plan. All she had to do was hit the goal she needed to retire. That meant this deal, and at least another year in the trenches, picking up as many freelances as she could handle. That reminded her—she needed to buy lottery tickets.

  She tossed the script aside without completing a second read-through. She didn't need to, and she certainly didn
't want to. Besides, even if she took it, which was essentially a foregone conclusion, it wasn't like they were shooting tomorrow, and there weren't a lot of lines to learn, anyway. Again, the nagging voice in her head interrupted her thoughts. How the hell did you wind up here?

  Maybe there was something on the radio about whatever was tying up traffic, Emily hoped. Anything to take her mind off A Hit Of Sextasy. And maybe her financial woes, too.

  The Pioneer system came to life, pumping out an Eminem tune. She switched to AM, and tuned to the local news channel just in time to catch the traffic update. The sound of the station's chopper could be heard over the live report.

  "Mark Price here, providing continuing coverage of a situation that has the 405 backed up almost five miles. We've been following this breaking story for about thirty-five minutes now, as the LAPD try to neutralize two, and possibly three, reanimates. Again, there are conflicting reports as to whether it's two or three, but a reanimate incident has absolutely paralyzed the southbound 405. The situation is also slowing northbound traffic, as police attempt to eliminate the threat to commuters. Here’s a recap of what we know at this time. At approximately eleven fifty Pacific Time, a vehicle carrying at least two passengers struck an overpass on the southbound 405. The vehicle, we have confirmed, was a 2001 Mitsubishi Montero. When EMTs arrived on site, they were confronted with reanimate activity and called for police assistance. Details concerning what happened following that call are sketchy, but from what we've been able to gather from eyewitness accounts, responding officers were unable to contain the reanimates at the crash site. A motorist who witnessed the incident claims that at least one EMT was attacked by the reanimates. Additional units have been dispatched, and it’s believed that they have contained the reanimates just north of the Century Boulevard overpass. Sources on the ground say the third reanimate is the member of the EMT response team who was attacked, but at this time we cannot confirm that information. We'll continue to follow this breaking story as it unfolds. Back to you, Stuart."