Barbarian Beast Bitches of the Badlands

by Carlton Mellick III

  “Downstairs. Most likely tearing down our barricade and letting the horde in. He also has control of the elevator so I need you to help Sun keep guard by the shaft.”

  Tomahawk’s third fist was squeezing, as if ready to break somebody’s face open. Instead of releasing his aggression on his commanding officer, he turned and stomped down the hallway toward Sun.

  Richards turned to Greg. “Find the Hamburglar and tell him to go after Poppy, then back up Tomahawk.”

  Greggy stood there, staring at the sweat pouring down the Captain’s neck.

  “Now!” Richards said. “Move it!”

  Greggy nearly fell over trying to run away, up to the third floor where he thought the Hamburglar was most likely to be hiding.

  “You two are with me,” Richards said to Lockjaw and Horatio, then he moved down the hall. His steps were somewhat off balance.

  “Where we going?” Lockjaw asked.

  “The roof.”

  Captain Richards stood at the edge of the roof, looking down at the mob below.

  He turned to Horatio. “Lieutenant, I want you to take out as many of them as you can.”

  Horatio nodded, and stared down at the entrance of the Outpost through his scope. The door was still barricaded, so if Poppy was going to let the horde in, he had yet to accomplish it. There were about a dozen men trying to get into the Outpost, banging on the barred windows until their fists became bloody. The rest of the yard was filled with dozens more of them, and beyond the gate there were even more. They just wandered in a daze, looking around as if something was calling to them in the distance but they couldn’t tell which direction it was coming from.

  The Captain turned to Lockjaw. “Help him out all you can. If those things get through, come down and let us know. But, Horatio, you man this post until they’re all dead or you’re out of bullets.

  They both nodded at him.

  As he walked away, Horatio looked at Lockjaw and whispered, “We’ve got to keep an eye on him.”

  “Should I shoot him in the back now?” Lockjaw said. Then he smiled, his yellow horns bobbing back and forth.

  Horatio shook his head. “We’ll wait until he changes, but let’s make sure we’re there when it happens. Don’t want anyone else infected because of him.”

  Then Horatio aimed his rifle at a mutant standing by the front entrance, clawing at the door. The mutant’s head exploded as Horatio pulled the trigger and its body fell limp to the ground.

  “This is going to be a while,” Horatio said, chuckling.

  Lockjaw laughed with him, but both of them fell silent when they noticed that the entire swarm of infected men were looking up at them. They were all frozen in place, staring up at the two men on the roof. Then, in unison, they all screamed and charged the building.

  “What the fuck?” Lockjaw said.

  Horatio aimed at another one and took him out. Mutants ripped at the windows and doors, looking up at them as if the only reason they wanted to get through was to get at the two on the roof. The mutants on the other side of the gate began scaling the fence to get into the yard. Other mutants tried scaling the side of the building to get to the two men. Some of them were able to make it halfway up before they slid back down with bloody palms and fingernails peeled back to the knuckles.

  Then there was movement in the mountains of rubble. Dead trees growing out of rusted vehicles were thrashing in the air as if dinosaurs were barreling through the woods toward the Outpost. One tree broke from its roots and collapsed onto the fence, making it easier for the infected mutants to get into the yard.

  Horatio took his aim away from the mutants at the gate and aimed at the junkyard forest. Through the scope, he could see some kind of machine. It was crashing through the trees, oozing smoke from black pipes.

  “What the hell is that?” Lockjaw asked, pulling out his shotgun.

  Then it appeared. A giant machine walking on four spider-like legs stepped out of the trees and lumbered toward them. Then another appeared, and another. Through the scope, Horatio could see that there were living animals in the center of each machine. Increasing the focus on his scope, Horatio recognized them as warthogs. Their limbs had been cut off and replaced by these large four-story tall mechanical ones. Like nu-cows, the tops of their skulls were missing and large neuro-implants were attached to their brains. They must have been engineered to act like sentinels for the Outpost. Normally they would be controlled via remote by Outlanders from a distance, but these creatures were no longer being controlled by men, they were under the influence of the metal worms that were squirming through their flesh.

  Horatio aimed for one and fired, but it missed the target. They were protected by so much metal that only a small portion of their faces were showing. There were parts of their sides and back that were uncovered, but hitting them in these places would not kill the infected animals.

  “I can’t get a good shot,” Horatio said.

  “Forget about them,” Lockjaw said, pointing down. “Focus on the ones at the entrance.”

  Horatio looked down and noticed movement through the windows of the warehouse. Somebody was inside, knocking over the crates filled with gasoline to get the doors open.

  “It’s Poppy,” Horatio said.

  Horatio aimed his gun through the window, but couldn’t get a clear shot. He couldn’t distinguish any human body parts due to the light reflecting off of the glass.

  “I’ll handle it,” Lockjaw said, pumping his shotgun.

  As Lockjaw aimed over the roof, Horatio yelled out, “No, don’t!”

  But Horatio didn’t knock the barrel of Lockjaw’s gun out of the way until it was too late. The shotgun pellets scattered in the air, breaking through the window, and hitting the gasoline leaking across the warehouse floor. The explosion caused the building to rumble. Infected mutants were thrown away from the building as a flame cloud filled the yard.

  When the smoke cleared, Horatio saw a layer of fire across the ground surrounding the entrance to the Outpost. The infected mutants stood up, covered in flames. Even fire wouldn’t stop them. They shrieked like metallic bats and then charged into the wide-open warehouse door.

  “Oops,” Lockjaw said.

  Horatio wasn’t amused. “Get down there and let the others know they’ve broken through.”

  Lockjaw ran for the hatch to the third floor.

  “And keep an eye on Richards,” Horatio said.

  One of the mechanical warthogs stomped in front of the roof, close enough so that the Lieutenant could see dual Gatling guns positioned in the front of the machine just below the infected beast.

  “Get down!” Horatio yelled.

  The guns opened fire. Lockjaw didn’t get down, instead he turned around and fired his shotgun at the pig. His bullets ricocheted off the metal exterior. He pumped his weapon and fired three more shots. Then his chest was torn apart by the storm of bullets. He fell to his knees and fired one more time, hitting the edge of the roof by Horatio, as he collapsed face first into a pool of his own blood. Dead.

  The machine turned its Gatlings on the sharp-shooter, shredding the side of the roof Horatio was using for cover. He put his hands over his head as chunks of asphalt fell on him, crawling across the roof away from the storm of bullets.

  Once he was clear, he raised his weapon over the ledge and aimed for the warthog’s face. The metal worms snaked in and out of the animal’s ears and eyes. Horatio fired, but missed the six inch space around the creature’s head that was not blocked by steel casing. The bullet gave away the shooter’s new position, and the machine moved its aim at Horatio. He got off another shot before ducking, just barely missing the bullet storm.

  He crawled to another location. This time he relaxed, aimed right for the infected pig’s head, then squeezed the trigger. The bullet bounced off the edge of a metal plate. Horatio grunted with frustration. Instead of ducking as the Gatlings shifted toward him, he fired continuously, not aiming for the pig anymore, but the engine. />
  Two bullets pierced the fuel tank, releasing streams of gasoline down the front of the engine. As Horatio ducked, the Gatlings fired at him and the spark from the discharging bullets ignited the gas. A wave of heat pressed against Horatio’s back as the machine exploded. Rotten pig guts and metal shrapnel rained down onto the rooftop.

  Horatio stood and stepped back. The machine collapsed down through the edge of the roof, releasing burning metal worms at the lieutenant’s boots.

  Looking down at the mutants screaming up at him from the yard, he noticed something new running toward the Outpost. It was the Hamburglar, racing out of the woods, cutting through infected mutants as he jumped over the sheet of flames into the warehouse.

  “How the fuck did he get down there?” Horatio asked.

  Then he noticed the horde was coming toward the wall below him. They were using the collapsed machine as a ladder, climbing up the legs to the roof. The two remaining sentinel machines opened fire on him.

  As he ducked down and scurried toward the hatch, an army of infected men leapt from the burning machine onto the rooftop and charged him.

  “Fucking hell,” Horatio said as he jumped down to the third floor.

  He closed the hatch behind him and locked it. The mutants stomped and scratched at the other side. It wasn’t going to hold long, but he didn’t have time to reinforce the barrier. The others still didn’t know the front entrance had been compromised.

  Greggy couldn’t find the Hamburglar anywhere. When he met up with Richards, the Captain said, “Where the fuck have you been?”

  “I couldn’t find him. Anywhere.”

  Tomahawk and Sun had their rifles aimed at the elevator shaft, prepared for the horde to ascend at any moment.

  “You’re fucking useless,” Captain Richards said, blood dripping down the corners of his eyes. “Get in position.”

  Greggy stood next to Richards and raised his submachine gun at the shaft. A small metal worm tore through the skin on one of the Captain’s wrists and crawled over the barrel of his repeater. He grabbed it with one of his extra limbs and pulled it out of his flesh, a spurt of blood splashing into his mouth.

  “Where did that come from?” Greggy asked, staring at the worm in the Captain’s hand.

  Richards tossed it over his shoulder, rubbing blood from his lips.

  “Nowhere . . .” he said. “It was nothing. Just hold your position.”

  Greggy didn’t stop looking at him. He could see movement underneath the man’s skin, on his neck just below his left ear.

  “Captain . . .” Greggy said, pointing at the side of his head.

  Then the sound of the elevator whirred into life. Greggy moved the barrel of his gun to the shaft, slowly backing away from the Captain, his rifle shaking in his hand.

  Tomahawk opened fire on the elevator doors as it reached the second floor, but the doors didn’t open. The elevator passed their floor and continued up the shaft.

  “Fuck,” Tomahawk yelled. “It’s going to the third floor!”

  Tomahawk ran in the other direction toward the stairs, leaving his crippled friend in his chair on the front line. Richards ran after him. Greggy went to help Sun when he heard the noise. There was shrieking coming up the shaft from below as mutants climbed up the brick walls below the elevator. Then, like a swarm of cockroaches, the infected men crawled out of the dark hole and attacked.

  On the front line, Sun and Greggy opened fire. They didn’t have time to aim for heads, so they just shot randomly at the crowd racing toward them. Some of them fell, others continued forward. Richards turned around to assist his men, but Tomahawk continued up the stairs to the third floor.

  As the Captain fired, he could feel a worm crawling up his sinuses. It chewed its way through the back of his eyeball and peeled back his cornea as it emerged, coiling against the bridge of his nose. Richards screamed and ripped it out of him; his pupil suctioned around its body created a popping noise as it came out. He covered the eye with one hand and continued firing with the other three.

  Greggy abandoned Sun as the infected arrived. The crazed men tore into Sun with knives, opening large gashes to allow the worms to crawl in. Sun screamed, firing his shotgun into their faces as they cut him. Behind the chair, Greggy sprayed them with bullets, but he couldn’t stop them from cutting open Sun’s throat and puking a stomach-full of parasites into the neck hole.

  Then the infected men targeted Greg. They cornered him, reaching for his chest with worms twisting out of their finger tips. Greggy fired at them until his clip ran out, then he kicked them and pushed them away from him. He focused more on the snakes than the men, hitting them away from him with the side of his submachine gun.

  Then Greggy saw something coming up the elevator shaft. It wasn’t another infected mutant. It was Hamburglar. He flipped out of the shaft and decapitated three infected men before landing.

  “Robble robble!” he said, then slashed his way through the crowd.

  Limbs and blood flew through the air as he jerked his swords lightning-fast at the mutants. They barely got a chance to turn their heads before he cut the fronts of their faces off, brains leaking down their chests like runny eggs.

  As the Hamburglar fought his way through the crowd, Greggy screamed “Yeah!” at the samurai, pushing back the men around him. “Just in time!”

  Then the mutants in front of Greggy fell into halves as Hamburglar’s long blade sliced through all of them at once. Greggy raised his fist and cheered as the Samurai continued past.

  Then Greggy looked down to see blood leaking from his midsection. He lifted his shirt, a long gash in his stomach went all the way around his hips. Before he could feel the pain, Greggy’s upper torso slid off of his lower half and his body split into two. As his blood and intestines oozed out of him, the last thing Greggy did before he died was curse himself for forgetting one of the most basics rules of being a soldier in the Outlander army:

  When the Hamburglar’s swords are drawn, you get the fuck out of his way.

  On the third floor, Horatio ran into Tomahawk finishing off the last of the infected mutants coming off of the elevator. He watched Tomahawk struggle to pull a hammer out of a mutant’s skull, pushing the dead man’s shoulder back with the heel of his boot.

  “There’s a ton of them on the roof,” Horatio said. “They’ll break through the hatch at any minute.”

  An explosion of blood and dead worms splashed across the elevator floor as Tomahawk ripped his hammer free.

  “We need to get out of here,” Tomahawk said. “Now.”

  They went toward the stairs leading to the second floor. Horatio loaded his rifle with the last of his bullets.

  “Running low?” Tomahawk said, examining the small quantity of rounds remaining in the sharp-shooter’s hands.

  “I’ll be fine if we can find the armory,” Horatio said.

  Tomahawk shook his afro. “No time.”

  As they went down the stairs, the large man raised his hammer above his head.

  “I bet you wish you knew how to fight with a hand weapon now,” Tomahawk said. “My hammers never run out of bullets.”

  Horatio finished loading and cocked the gun, then aimed it over Tomahawk’s shoulder and fired. Tomahawk looked up at Horatio, rubbing the ringing noise from his ear with a what the fuck? face. Horatio pointed to the dead mutant that was hiding in the shadows at the bottom of the stairs.

  “You might be good with your hammers, but you have terrible eyes.”

  Tomahawk shook his head in disgust as Horatio smiled at him.

  The Hamburglar cut through the backs of two infected men, severing their spines, and they fell to the floor. Then he spun around and cut a third through the brain down the center of its face. When this one fell, the Hamburglar realized it was the last of them and jerked his blades into the air to flick his enemy’s blood across the dimly lit wall.

  As he raised his swords to return them to their scabbards, stepping through the pile of corpses t
hat stretched the entire length of hallway, Hamburglar heard a gunshot. He looked down to see a hole in his chest.

  “Robble?” he said.

  Hamburglar looked up to see Richards glaring at him across the hall, worms crawling in and out of his face. The infected Captain fired again and three more holes appeared on the Hamburglar’s torso.

  “Robble!” screamed the samurai as he threw his short katana at Richards.

  The sword flew through the air like a glimmering harpoon and impaled the Captain’s face, throwing him backward, nailing his head to the wall behind him.

  Richards gurgled, grabbing at the sword pierced through the center of his nose, trying to pull himself from the wall, watching the Hamburglar as he approached.

  Hamburglar looked at him up close, his little red tongue curling out of his cartoonish smile. Richards was still alive, his eyeballs rolling around in the sockets, worms crawling out of his wound across the blade.

  Then Hamburglar flicked his long katana across the Captain’s neck. The infected man’s body fell to the floor, his head still nailed to the wall. When the samurai pulled out the sword, the severed head was still attached to the blade. He shook it but the head wouldn’t come off.

  Then a ball of worms slipped out of the Captain’s neck and coated the Hamburglar’s hand, biting into his flesh and burrowing into his wrist. Hamburglar stomped on the head and pulled it off of his blade, then sheathed both swords. He raised his hand to his eyes and watched as the worms crawled into him. Just gazing at them and moving his fingers slowly until they were all the way inside.

  Then the Hamburglar squeezed a fist, flexing the muscles in his hand and upper arm. The worms inside of him were compressed by his muscles, crushing them tightly until they popped. Then with his other hand he squeezed them out the holes they entered through like toothpaste from a tube.

  The Hamburglar was immune to all diseases and infections. His body was so full of chemicals and preservatives that it was not a hospitable place for viruses or parasites. The preservatives in his body made him practically immortal. He did not age. He did not require much food or sleep. He was very difficult to kill, even without his deadly samurai skills.