ZOMBIE'S DOOM? Chronicles of Jack Doom

by Will Lemen

  The bullet slamming into the zombie's pelvis bone and collapsing part of the skeletal support structure on the right side of its body, caused the running road kill to dip down slightly as it passed by me.

  The new angle of the half-naked female's body generated even more of a pendulum effect on her sagging shit stained tits that bounced against her over inflated and dripping colostomy bag as she turned and galloped back toward me.

  The consequence of this new physical imbalance being demonstrated by the shirtless monster, was as the swaying breasts wagged toward me, the horizontal hold I had on my machete across the front of my body was at just the right angle to cleanly slice off one of the attacking cannibal's swinging mammary glands.

  Even as the epinephrine coursed through my veins at the moment of the attack, the whirling tit spiraling around as it headed for the ground, reminded me of Cassandra, and the salted tit in the plastic bag I had left on the seat of my truck.

  "Hewed another one off at the root," I thought, as I stepped backwards to regain my own balance.

  However, my nostalgic memories were short lived as the severed booby hit the ground and belched out a clump of wiggling fly larvae onto the grass.

  Not to mention the fact that the extra weight had now been lifted from the collapsed side of the furious womanly stiff, and she had regained her newly acquired speed and hunting prowess.

  An almost perfectly performed pirouette in the fading sunlight brought me back completely from my session of reminiscing, to the dire straits at hand.

  The increased speed that this zombie was demonstrating was nothing to be trifling with, so I flipped the selector switch on my M-4 rifle to full auto and quickly raised the weapon and pointed it at the charging zombie.

  I employed the spray and prey method of annihilating the enemy, not necessarily through instinct or choice, but mostly because of the lack of time that I had to deal with the rapidly approaching threat and the rare panic that had gripped me.

  In the low light of the fading day, I could see the dim flashes of expanding gases from the ignited gunpowder as they exited the suppressor that I had attached to the muzzle of my rifle.

  I watched the excessively packed colostomy bag explode, flinging in all directions (including mine) the fermented and discolored zombie feces that was inundated with some kind of plump round tan colored worms that resembled pale-white night crawlers, when my bullets ripped through the somewhat opaque flesh colored plastic shit container.

  The worms had been encapsulated in the colostomy bag and most likely in the zombie's intestines too; they were still alive and feeding on the shit as they were unknowingly being marinated at the same time by the food source they craved.

  They were bigger than the traditional maggots that were prevalent in the older zombies, and had the yellow tint of a tapeworm.

  Their skin, if that's what you want to call it, had bumpy ridges on it like a grub worm, and was wrinkled like finger tips that had been submerged in water too long.

  However, the most disturbing thing about these burrowing invertebrate animals, was the fact that now they were crawling on me and still nibbling on the splotches of undead diarrhea that dotted my clothes.

  Unfortunately for me, hurling zombie shit all over myself and fuck's creation, didn't do much to stop the onslaught of the overly aggressive dead body that was now at arm's length from me.

  My finely honed reflexes were the only thing that was to come to my aid that night, as I jammed my rifle into the charging beast to block its arms from reaching me.

  Even without a bayonet attached to the front of the gun (I don't think one would be of any use with the silencer sticking out a good nine inches passed the bayonet lug anyway) I could feel the suppressor imitate one, as it sank several inches into the rotting flesh where the sagging right yabo had been extracted.

  The M-4 stuck in the chest of the zombie slowed its momentum and kept the fiend at bay long enough for me to raise my machete and part her hair, just as I had done to Cassandra's bull dyke-ish alleged sister.

  Miss Colostomy dropped on the grass in front of me like the afore mentioned high school class, taking her swarm of flies with her, at least the ones that weren't swarming around my shit splattered carcass.

  "God damn it, talk about holy shit," I whispered, not wanting to attract any more dormant zombies that might be lurking in the area, as I looked at the speckled pattern of defecation that now adorned my uniform. "Leave it to these fucking eaters to fuck things up for me again. How in the hell am I supposed to sleep now, hell I can't even get back into my truck and leave until I clean this stinking shit off me, God damn it."

  It was bad enough just to have shit slung all over me, but the slew of crap that was splattered all over my equipment and me was not just ordinary shit. This stuff was premium zombie shit, made from the finest human body parts this undead cannibal could ingest.

  Just the thought of this sickening shit being sprinkled all over me (not to mention the worms) was enough to induce me to upchuck the meager meal I had consumed earlier in the day, but somehow I managed to chock back the vomit and continue my quest for a good night's sleep.

  With night now upon me I walked to the front door of the chosen trailer.

  "I guess I can clear this cracker box and see if there is a change of clothes inside," I murmured to myself as I shooed away some hovering flies.

  I twisting the doorknob and pressed against the door, a crackling sound was heard as the door peeled away from the weather stripping that sealed it to its frame.

  The sound of the sealed door being opened told me that nobody had entered or exited through that opening for a very long time, however that didn't necessarily mean that the humble abode was devoid of danger.

  "Watch for eaters Jack," I mumbled softly, as I leaned on the door, and peeked through the ever-widening gap made by my pressure against it.

  I could smell a vague musty odor through my own shit stained stench, however, there was no sign of movement that I could see, and no resonance of flies buzzing throughout the dwelling, except of course for the stragglers that were trailing in behind me.

  I shooed the flies away one more time before I shut the door behind me and flipped the brass bolt to its locked position.

  Although I had yet seen any sign of trouble, I was not about to let my guard down for a moment, not until I was sure that I was alone.

  The trailer was small, only about forty feet long by twelve feet wide, so it didn't take me long to check every nook and cranny and deem it relatively safe for the night.

  After wiping most of the zombie shit off my M-4 with one of the pillow cases from the bed, I was able to find a scanty selection of clothes to change into after taking a minimal but effective bath, or shower if you prefer, using what was left of the stagnant water in the toilet's tank.

  I found a bottle of Brut cologne in the bedroom, signifying that the trailer trash that once lived there was a real class act.

  Fortunately, for me, most of the shit from the colostomy bag had splattered on my clothes and not on my face, thus I avoided getting any in my mouth or eyes. So it was a simple, but no less gross of a task to clean myself up before I doused myself with the fragrant liquid from the tall green bottle and poured myself into the oversized pajamas that the former tenant had left for me (I told you it was a scanty selection).

  From what I could ascertain from the physical evidence left in the trailer, the former owner had bugged out at the beginning when our world went tits up.

  They took what they thought they would need to avoid the first wave of the undead that appeared so suddenly that fateful day, and apparently, all of their clothing was at the top of their list.

  Some pictures were also missing, made obvious by the empty nails that had been pounded in the walls, and their kitchen drawers were emptied and the contents tossed onto the floor in their hast to leave their home.

  However, in their rush to abandon their home, they did manage to take all of their guns
, how many I did not know, but I was able to scavenge a few boxes of assorted ammunition that I found under their bed, so I surmised that they had several different types and calibers of firearms with them when they fled.

  I guess all in all, they weren't a whole lot different from myself and my family when we were force to abandon our home.

  Nobody knew what was going on at first, and nobody had much time to plan or prepare for what turned out to be a game changing apocalypse.

  In fact, the only real difference that I could really see between us, was that my family and I lived close to a river and had a 15-foot boat named Morphadite in which to make our hasty escape.

  Morning came too soon as it usually does, and at first light I dragged myself out of the first bed I had slept in, in what seemed like forever.

  I found some thirteen gallon garbage bags under the sink and stuffed my feces ridden digital-camo pants and shirt into one, along with my tactical vest and camouflaged hat. My Glock 9mm pistol, machete, and tomahawk, I put in a separate bag.

  Still wearing the borrowed PJ's, I peeked out the windows in all directions around trailer, and not seeing any perceived danger, I made a break for it out the front door to my truck clutching my garbage bags in one hand, and my M-4 rifle in the other.

  I tossed my dirty laundry on the floor of the truck on the passenger's side, and laid the bag containing my feces ladened weapons on the seat atop the bag that contained Cassandra's salted down tit.

  I started my truck and as I reached for the gearshift lever, I spotted a tool that if it were in working condition just might come in handy at some point.

  With rule number ten instilled in my brain, I slammed my foot down onto the parking brake and bolted out of the truck.

  10. Take anything you think might be useful in the future, if possible, but don't over burden yourself, you still might have to move fast.

  Beneath the trailer under a weathered blue tarp, the two-foot guide bar of a small gasoline powered chainsaw had caught my eye.

  I ripped the tarp from over the saw and grabbed it by the front handle, it was lighter than I had expected so the chore of retrieving the power tool was quick and easy in the absence of any ravenous dead people stomping around, or rogue humans taking pot shots at me.

  Tossing the power tool in the bed of my truck, I jumped into the cab, released the parking brake, threw the truck into gear, and in no time I was back on the road again heading north toward Nashville on my way to the Indiana Badlands.

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  REUNITING WITH THE CLUMP

  After my last harrowing episode at the Wolf River, I was a little leery of stopping at another river or stream to wash my soiled clothes and equipment.

  But then again, I was always a little leery of stopping anywhere to do anything. Because experience had taught me that no matter where I stopped or what I did when I stopped, there was always the potential to get myself killed in any number of horrific ways. Not that you had to stop somewhere to get yourself killed, death was stalking ever road and street as well as every house and building, and everywhere else for that matter. But for the most part, for me anyway, there seemed to be a slight illusion of safety and being somewhat in control whenever I was traveling from point A to point B, although an illusion was all it was.

  So about 25 miles out of the heart of Nashville I opted to stop at the Red River (ironic don't you think), it was clear of bodies as far as I could see, both up stream and down from my position, so I decided to do some cleaning up.

  This time things went as planned for a change and I didn't have to kill anything, and nothing tried to kill me.

  How refreshing.

  So, after another laundry day at the beach, this time using soap that I had scrounged from the trailer, I was clean and smelling like the Brut that the Zombie Gods had turned me into. My weapons were clean too, and I was hauling ass up interstate 65 north at a blazing speed of 25 mph in the scorching heat of the midday sun, hell bent for the Badlands of the Hoosier state.

  After opting to stick with the truck that Jason had donated to me, the truck that wasn't equipped with factory air conditioning. Eluding wrecked and abandoned vehicles and most of the feral zombies I was encountering along the way was beginning to be quite a chore in the summer heat. So it didn't take long before I was sweating profusely like a whore in church, and wondering how long it would be before my own B.O. would require me to take another dip in a meandering stream, or again shower utilizing stagnate commode water as my liquid cleaning medium.

  Keep in mind of course that I still had a felony hit and run score to upgrade, all of that dodging around most of the reanimated sub-humans to keep my vehicle in one piece was starting to put a crimp in that endeavor too.

  However, remembering the advice that I had given my youngest son Jacob moments before he was killed, as he readied himself to take over the responsibilities of driving our vehicle and us into the zombie wastelands.

  "Plow into them (the zombies) if you want to son, one of them can be your first confirmed felony hit and run. Just make sure that you don't hit anything but the eaters. Eaters probably won't hurt the Hummer too much, but don't get greedy trying to hit them all or you'll end up hitting a parked vehicle, and that will damage our Hummer, and then we'll be on foot again.

  Remember, your first priority as the driver, is to get us out of danger, not into it, and then to get us to our destination wherever that might be, and you can't do that if you hit every parked car and truck along the way."

  Taking my own advice and passing up a multitude of undead road targets, mainly because I wasn't driving the sturdy Hummer anymore, kept me on the road, mostly out of danger, and still heading to my next destination.

  However, the lack of exertion afforded to me by the absence of some of the steering wheel movement, did nothing to keep me from using the idiom, "sweating like a whore in church" multiple times as I felt over heated and suffocated inside the cab of my under equipped vehicle (no air conditioning and no power windows).

  Even with the driver's window rolled all the way down and the passenger window slightly open allowing some air flow, but not down far enough to allow unwelcome passengers admittance to the cab of the truck, the inside of the vehicle was like a Lakota sweat lodge, so the whore in church analogy rang true in the sweltering heat.

  Although I was traveling at only 25 mph, I was still making good time coming out of Bowling Green, Kentucky, and I had just crossed the Barren River when I spotted a place called "The National Corvette Museum" on the left side of the road.

  I had been driving for quite some time and besides being low on gas, I needed to take a break, stretch my legs, and get out of the Detroit built sauna for a while.

  I figured that I might be able to siphon some gas out of one of the abandoned cars that were scattered around the property, so I took the exit and in a matter of minutes, I found myself on the museum's parking lot.

  Even though I knew there had been plenty of fuel in Nashville, I had opted to pass on through that place as fast as I could, being a large city, the danger level was not worth taking the chance of stopping for gas there unless I absolutely had to.

  Instead, I chose to jump onto northbound interstate 65, which was a straight shot up into Indiana, and hopefully to the Sarge, and I would take my chances looking for gas somewhere else.

  Hell, I was just relieved that I got through Nashville without being attacked by something.

  Well it didn't take long to find a car at the museum that had enough fuel in it to mostly fill up my gas tank.

  After I was finished with that chore, and with my butt still feeling like a pincushion from the long hot and sweaty ride, I thought that I might take the opportunity to scrutinize the museum's wares. Even though after my earlier Mustang experience, I had no desire to try to satisfy my boyhood need for speed by commandeering some factory produced racing machine similar to that '69 Mach I.

  Although, if I had had the need for that boyish pleasure, t
hat would have certainly been the place to satisfy it.

  After I had taken a quick tour of the museum, I was heading back outside to my truck, when out of the corner of my eye I caught site of two buck-zombies escorting one female of the undead persuasion, all of which were trudging onto the parking lot faster than your usual staggering corpses, and heading in my direction.

  For some reason it always seems that when zombies appear, no matter where you are they always have a tendency to get between you and the place that you want to be, and this time was no exception.

  "All right eaters, I guess you want some of this today?" I said to them as we converged, and I pulled out my tomahawk, making ready to send the three zombies to their ultimate doom (no pun intended, okay the pun was intended this time).

  I quickly thrust my miniature bone splitter into the top of the leader of the pack's head, and twisted it sideways with a jerk, popping the skull like a ripe watermelon, thereby releasing part of its abnormal pulsating brain into the open air.

  Not only did I release some of its brain to the surrounding atmosphere, but at the same time, I managed to release the horrendous smell into the air that its cranium had been cloaking as well.

  The smell was so strong and vile that many of the flies that the other two zombies were harboring jumped ship and landed on the now exposed encephalon.

  With one down and two less insect-circled flesh eaters to go, I turned my attention to the female of the group who was next in line to be sent back to hell where she belonged.

  I needed to get back on the road, and felt that I was burning daylight dealing with the dumbass duo that was still blocking my way, so I pulled my battle hatchet from the oozing skull of the downed undead one, and I stepped forward and transplanted the small ax into the forehead of the meandering girl's corpse.

  She (it) dropped straight down to the asphalt instantly, only stopping momentarily to crush her tail-bone as it hit hard on the black asphalt surface, and then the female monster toppled over, scattering her fair share of maggots onto the parking lot on impact. Then shaking off several more as it (she) shook violently at my feet during her post undead convulsions.