by Sam Lang
A rotund man, at least he used to be a man, dressed as the leader of a marching band led the horde. Behind him, Jefferson saw Miss Teen Louisiana. After five years, she managed to keep her beauty queen sash draped on her left shoulder. However, from the elbow down, she did not have a left arm. Jefferson recognized a few more people he knew when they were alive. He even spotted the New Orleans Saints’ quarterback still in uniform. It would not take this hungry crowd long to reach them, but Jefferson worried that the fire may get him and Mama Sati first.
Then Mama Sati held up a small cloth bag tied with a length of hand woven cord. She started speaking those words that Jefferson did not understand and she rattled the bag. Now he understood why she cut the head off of their last chicken this morning. The bones clicked together in that bag along with who knew what other ingredients. Jefferson marvelled at how Mama Sati always seemed to know what was coming.
All of the zombies stopped at the sound. They seemed to be listening for more. Jefferson wondered how they could hear such a small, delicate sound from so far off. Mama Sati said something else in that strange language that sounded like Creole, but not quite. She shook the bag again and pointed toward the swamp land off to the side of the plantation grounds. Like a pack of scolded dogs, the two hundred or so zombies marched off into the dark woods.
Mama Sati stepped down off the porch and Jefferson followed her a moment before one of the creaking load-bearing walls collapsed. In only a few minutes the once impressive mansion crumbled from three stories into a raging bonfire.
“Time ta go,” said Mama Sati. The blazing fire sparkled in her deep black eyes.
“But what about them?” Jefferson pointed after the zombies.
“They gwanna walk strade inta de Gulf ocean,” she said. “You haf ta take me ta Flo-reeda.”
I Pray The Lord My Soul To Keep
Randy sighed in frustration. Yet again he had a headache. The guards had dragged some misguided idiot before him for judgement again. No wonder the headaches were recurring; he really must learn to delegate more. The bedraggled creature before him was from the very lowest level. His clothes were little more than rags and his emaciated frame suggested his food ration was not sustaining him well.
Randy fixed his smile and waved to the guards to indicate they release him. The man, who could have been anywhere between thirty and fifty, sagged to his knees, his head drooping and his sallow skin looked translucent in the bright light from the office.
“So let me get this straight, Berl.”
Bueller paced before the man like he was waiting impatiently for something.
“The supplies we worked so hard to scavenge, risking our very lives for. You felt that you had the right to give valuable food to raggedy, pan-handling beggars outside of our compound? Is that right?
As he spoke, his voice rose in volume until he was bellowing into Berl’s face.
“ANSWER ME!”
Berl looked up, a pathetic broken man, who had lost everything but his eyes. Oh, his eyes contained pure granite. They flashed angrily.
“You have a damned responsibility to share food with your fellow man. What kind of monster are you?” Berl yelled back.
With a swift motion Randy backhanded Berl, who crumpled like an old paper bag onto the expensive carpet.
“You hypocrite. You’ve been accepting my hospitality here. Haven’t you?”
The guards drew in a breath. They had never seen Bueller so angry before. When he was mad, everyone suffered. Bueller strode up to the nearest guard, and grasped his gun from the holster at his waist.
“I’ll show you what kind of monster I am, you ungrateful miscreant.” Without hesitation he unloaded the entire clip into Berl, who screamed and twitched.
“Take this trash and throw it to the zombies now.” He yelled to the guards. “Do it quick or you’ll be joining him!”
The guards scrambled to obey.
He sat once more at his desk and took some deep breaths. He looked sourly at the blood stains in the carpet. The vein in his temple throbbed harder than ever and he reached for his pills. Then he reached under his shirt and fingered the crucifix on a thick chain which lay against his chest. He looked at his watch. No time like the present for his weekly confession, he mused. Bueller keyed a few buttons on his desk computer and was connected by an audio feed to his personal priest somewhere further down the tower.
“Yes my son?” came the familiar voice.
Bueller pictured Max Von Sydow’s face, since he chose not to go to the lower levels to meet the priest, or anyone, face-to-face.
“Bless me Father for I have sinned…”
*****
Thanks for taking the time to read Volume 3 of Severed, True Faith by
Sam Lang; we hope you enjoyed it.
Other stories in the Severed Series include:
In the Beginning
Myths & Legends
Sam Lang’s Reprisal Series includes:
Making Plans, Making Memories
The Impeccant
Shadow Boxing
She’ll Get Your Engine Started
The First Cut Is the Best
Sugar and Snails
Other titles by Sam Lang include:
Theoretical Fishsticks
Vampires’ Guide to Sex
Look for more titles under the Trestle Press umbrella by
simply typing Trestle Press in the search bar of your e-book store.
