Pheromone and Rotten

by Dane Hatchell

  Wanting desperately to return to his dream where he was just about to lock lips with Ryan Seacrest, Tutti realized the hotline called him to duty. He sat up, removed his night mask, and shoved his feet into his pink bunny face slippers.

  The long gray ears of the bunny head flopped back and forth. The eyes rolled round and round with each step, and the tongue hung across the side of the mouth. Giving the appearance that Tutti glided on the backs to two crazy rabbits.

  He lifted the receiver. “Tutttiiii Fruttiiii-ahhh. Oh, Rudy.”

  “Hey, Tutti. It’s me. Pheromone.”

  Tutti frowned. “Pheromone? On the hotline? You in the Mayor’s office?”

  “No. I told you that part of being a Superhero is being resourceful. Now, here’s the deal. The Mayor and an Army scientist found a way to reanimate the dead. They’re doing this so the dead can vote in today’s election. Not only that, but the Mayor is responsible for the bad drugs that hit the street and killed all those people. Which tells me the Police Chief is in on all this too. I know their location. Rotten and I need you and The Dyke to meet us there so we can take them down.” Pheromone waited for an answer.

  “Man, are you for real? Calling me up in the middle of the night with some harebrained story about the Mayor and drugs and dead people. The Mayor is a fine upstanding New Orleanian. A graduate of our beloved Tulane University and a personal friend of mine. Get on out of here,” Tutti said.

  “Look, this is big. I don’t know if Rotten and I can do this alone. We need to take them down together.”

  “Don’t be saying we unless you got a mouse in your pocket. No way, José.”

  “Let me talk to, The Dyke.”

  “Not a chance. That bitch is snoring in her bed, and I ain’t going to wake her up so you can put some more of that hoodoo on her. Now, if you excuse me, Ryan and I have some unfinished business,” Tutti said, slamming down the phone.

  The Lineman’s phone went dead in Pheromone’s hand. He disconnected it from the terminal box and climbed down the telephone pole.

  He and Rotten would have to face their greatest challenge alone.

  * * *

  “We’re three hours away from the polls opening. I trust everything is in order?” the Mayor said to Police Chief Connick, while peering at the walking dead through the chain link fence.

  The Chief pulled the last draw from his cigarette and tossed it to the floor. “Yep. Collins has a video camera set up outside the school. We’ll bus them in, ring up the votes, and then bus them out to the landfill. Are you sure this is going to work?”

  The Mayor stuck his thumbs under his arms. “I’m very sure this is going to work. The voting monitors at the school are all state certified volunteers who happen to be on my payroll. Each of our voters are legally registered, thanks to our friends at ACORN. If I had a bigger war chest I could have bought the votes. This was the only chance I had at winning the election. When it’s over, if my opponent raises any red flags I’ll have the video sent to Channel 4. From the distance the video is taken it will look like a group of ordinary citizens getting out of a bus to go vote. Because of the racial demographics of the Ward, all we have to do is scream ‘disenfranchisement,’ and I’m sure he’ll shut up in a hurry.”

  The Chief stepped on the still smoldering butt and chuckled. “I’ve seen some pretty outrageous shenanigans during elections, but this one takes the cake.”

  Mayor Andrew put his finger in the air. “My dear man, the dead have been voting candidates into office for decades. I’ve found a more sophisticated way to carry on the tradition.”

  *

  A white van with NOPD painted in blue pulled up to the gates at the Brown’s Dairy plant and blinked the headlights.

  A short man dressed in his black NOPD uniform approached from within the fence and opened the gate. The van pulled far up enough to clear and stopped.

  The Officer closed the gate and hurried to the driver’s side window.

  “Hey man, you’re late. Is your radio broken? Is—” the Officer’s words stopped as his face met a blackjack from the opened window.

  The van pulled in behind the plant with its headlights off and stopped behind an old refrigeration unit.

  “Stay close to me. Don’t give them any reason to shoot first and ask questions later,” Pheromone said to Rotten, and exited.

  The two slinked through the shadows looking for a way in. “There’s some double doors over there.” Pheromone shoved Rotten forward, using him as a dead-meat shield to lead the way.

  The doors were old and rusty. Pheromone twisted the handle back and forth without success. “Rotten, see if you can break the lock. Try not to make any noise.”

  “Don’t break the door. I have a key,” a voice called from behind.

  Pheromone and Rotten turned around and saw an angry police officer and looking down the barrel of his Glock 22.

  “Hello, Officer. Fine night for a stroll, isn’t it?” Pheromone said.

  “You boys are on the wrong side of town to be dressed that way, aren’t you?” the officer said.

  “Yeah, you right. I guess me and my buddy will be leaving now. Thanks,” Pheromone said.

  “If you make a move, I’ll shoot. I mean it.”

  Pheromone turned his head and whispered to Rotten. “I got a plan. Follow my lead.” Then, turned to the Officer. “Whatever you say, boss. Just keep your finger off the trigger.”

  The Officer removed Pheromone’s Desert Eagle from the holster. “Back away from the door. I’m going to introduce you to a few of my friends.”

  Pheromone and Rotten stepped back as the officer opened the door, keeping one eye, and the gun, pointed on the duo.

  Inside, nine other police officers moved hurriedly about.

  “Open the cage, and let’s get the line going,” the Chief said.

  The dead, great and small, lumbered out in single file with the direction of electric cattle prods to keep them in line. Duct tape wrapped over the head and under the jaw kept the officers safe from the hungry ghouls. Plastic handcuffs secured the wrist in front and at the waist, each zombie tethered at the ankle with cuff and chain.

  “Excuse me, Chief?”

  Connick and Mayor Andrew turned around at the request of officer Williams and came face to face with an unexpected problem.

  “I found them outback. They arrived in Barnes’ van. They were trying to break in.” Williams handed Connick the Desert Eagle.

  The Chief inspected the shiny gold weapon. “Where’s Barnes?”

  “He’s not here. The cargo is missing also. What do you want me to do with these two?” officer Williams said.

  Mayor Andrew stepped forward and eyed the two interlopers. “What do we have here? A ballet dancer and a football player?”

  “No, sir. Pheromone and Rotten. We’re the new Superheroes in this town,” Pheromone said.

  “You look like you should be called Mint Julep, but I’ll grant you that your partner is aptly named,” the Mayor said and wrinkled his nose.

  “We’re here to prevent you from stealing the election. And, to bring you, the Police Chief, and the rest of your outlaws to justice. You are charged with the murders of the victims who bought the Chinese drywall laced cocaine that your accomplices sold. You have the right to remain silent—” Pheromone’s sentence was cut short by a backhand from the Mayor.

  “Ouch,” Andrew said, favoring his ring finger on his left hand.

  “Man. Are you wearing brass knuckles?” Pheromone said, spitting.

  “No, something that represents more power than a hundred pairs of brass knuckles.” Shaking his fist in Pheromone’s face, the University seal faced outward. “Graduate, Tulane University, class of 1973, solid gold.” Andrew stepped back. “Chief? What’s it going to be?”

  Connick pulled a cigarette from his front pocket and lit it. “Nothing special. Same old story. Different night. Two gang bangers found dead in a sugarcane field.”

  Pheromone stood silent, closed o
ne eye, and put his plan into action.

  An invisible fog rolled through the room. The officers busy leading the chain gang of undead came to a halt and looked at each other.

  “Something’s wrong,” the Mayor said.

  Connick gazed around the room. “Yeah. I don’t know what, but I can feel it.”

  Williams’ backed up a few steps, darting his head and gun about, ready to shoot whatever danger presented itself.

  By this time, every officer had his weapon drawn, and nervously panned the area.

  “They’re coming to get you, Mayor Andrew,” Pheromone said in most boding-evil voice.

  The Mayor’s face turned a pasty white. Beads of cold sweat rolled down his cheeks. There was a presence larger than life consuming the room. An uncanny fear that crept up the spine threatening to take by surprise and devour.

  “He’s got a gun!” Pheromone shouted. “Shoot him first! Shoot him first!” With that, he tackled Rotten to the ground and put his hands over his head.

  Two of the officers, whose guns happened to be pointed at each other, fired. One caught a bullet in the chest, the other turned and escaped. The bullet meant for him dropped another officer.

  Sheer pandemonium broke throughout the room. Guns fired in every direction. The blasts echoed off the walls deafening any rational thought.

  One by one each officer fell. A shot to the face. A shot to the chest. Bodies hit the floor. The Chief caught a bullet to the back of the head and went down with his lit cigarette still lodged between his fingers. Pheromone’s golden gun fell to the floor next to him.

  When the shooting stopped only officer Williams remained standing, looking wild-eyed and ready to fire.

  A bullet ripped through his chest and dropped him to the floor. Punching a one-inch hole in front and knocking out a four-inch hole in the rear.

  “I love me some hollow points,” Pheromone said, holstering his prized possession. Then helped Rotten up to his feet and removed his football helmet.

  The room was a display of the worst bloody carnage Pheromone could imagine. A twisted tangle of blood soaked bodies. He was amazed that none of the police officers showed any signs of life. As wildly as the bullets flew, the trained marksmen still had the presence of mind to shoot to kill.

  Mayor Andrew laid face down on the cold floor. Pheromone rolled him to his back, inspected him for bullet wounds, and felt a strong pulse beating in his neck.

  “Wake up, Mr. Mayor. Party time,” Pheromone said, patting Andrew’s puffy cheeks with his open palm. His face wiggled like Jell-O.

  Andrew finally opened his eyes and snatched Pheromone’s hand away.

  “It’s alive.” Pheromone helped Andrew to his feet. “If I count correctly, it looks like Pheromone and Rotten—twelve, the Mayor and his cronies—zero. That means, we win.”

  The Mayor scanned the room in disbelief. “I have no idea what just happened. But you two have only one chance to avoid the death penalty and that’s to come work for me.”

  “Death penalty? My cousin’s already dead. You killed him with that Chinese drywall. For that, you’re going to pay.”

  Andrew turned his head to the black and gold clad zombie and saw his face for the first time. Andrew brought his hand to his lips in dismay.

  “Mr. Mayor, I, Pheromone, being of sound mind and body, declare you guilty as charged. Justice, like dinner, will be severed.”

  “Wha . . . What the hell do you mean?” the Mayor said, stepping backward.

  “Well, Mr. Mayor, one man’s justice is another man’s dinner. Antoine!” Pheromone snapped his fingers.

  With jaws wide open, Rotten descended on Mayor Andrew like a lion tearing into a lamb. His feeding pattern a bit more contrived this time.

  Andrew’s nose was the first to go, severed flush to the face. Blood poured down his lips and filled his mouth as he screamed. Next went the ears.

  “Whew, you sure are one ugly sucker now, Mr. Mayor,” Pheromone said.

  Screams turned to gurgles as Rotten feasted on tender cheeks, lips, and the remaining facial meat until something close to a grinning skull looked back. Andrew no longer remained in the world of the conscious.

  “I hate for you to eat and run, but we need to get out of here. Finish up, Antoine. I got a plan.”

  Pheromone left Rotten to his meal and searched the adjoining rooms until he found a storage cabinet filled with cleaning solvents, each imprinted with the warning: flammable.

  The members of the undead stood idle, bound together by chains and immobile at the arms. Pheromone returned and poured the solvents along the walls of the room.

  “Are you about finished?” Pheromone asked, emptying the last of the containers.

  Rotten stood from the pile of bones and gore that was once the Mayor of New Orleans, wiped his mouth with his hand, and grunted.

  “Good. Now, get on back here.”

  Pheromone waited for Rotten to come to his side before lighting the solvent with the Chief’s cigarette lighter. Fire raced around the perimeter of the room and spread to the walls. Flames lapped at the ceiling in seconds.

  Pheromone and Rotten did not stay to watch eternal peace come to the reanimated dead. Having one last duty to perform before declaring victory and calling it a day.

  * * *

  Tutti sat on the fuchsia couch wearing a sheer silk robe, enjoying the afterglow of this morning’s self-induced coffee colonic. The organic coffee used to irrigate his colon and detoxify his liver sold for more than ten dollars a pound. He was very discriminating about what he shoved up his rectum.

  Four loud bangs on the door interrupted his morning meditation. Tutti put his feet in his bunny slippers, sashayed to the door, and opened it to the world outside.

  A brown paper sack set burning an orange-yellow flame on the doorstep. Instinctually, Tutti slammed his foot up and down on the burning bag, trying his best to imitate a rhino stomping out a fire.

  Bits of hot excrement went flying in all directions. The tender arch of his right foot met with a hard object and sent waves of pain up his leg and throughout his body. He squealed like a nine-year-old girl.

  With the fire out, buckled over in pain, the smell from chard feces assaulted his nostrils. Tutti heaved dryly and fell on his butt just inside the doorway.

  “Oh no, Bun-Bun,” he said looking at the crazed faces of his prized bunny slippers, now splattered in vile waste.

  “What the hell?” Sticking up from a smeared pile of mess, a gold object glistened in the sunlight. It was a ring displaying the distinct seal of Tulane University, the source of his injured foot.

  “What’s all the commotion about?” The Dyke walked up behind Tutti, scratching her rear end. When she saw the filthy situation on the doorstep, all she said was, “Yuk.”

  A white envelope stuck between the outside door facing and the siding rattled in the breeze. The Dyke pulled it free, opened it, and read it aloud.

  ‘I hope you enjoyed the gift from my partner, Rotten. He passed a good time last night and wanted to share it with you.’

  ‘I still think we need to join up and fight crime together.’

  ‘Let’s discuss it over drinks tonight at Pat O’Briens. Eight sharp. I’m buying.’

  ‘Signed,’

  ‘Pheromone and Rotten’

  ‘P.S. A whop bop-a-lu a whop bam boo.’

  The End

  From Severed PRESS

  Alien microbes mutate with the DNA of the dead, reanimating corpses to life. A cop, Rico, and a junkie streetwalker, Angie, barely escape the onslaught of zombies. As they head for sanctuary, a jealous pimp seeks revenge, and Angie’s drug addiction, become a greater threat than the undead.

  From Severed PRESS

  INTRODUCTION BY JOE MCKINNEY

  “Scioneaux and Hatchell double-down on the horror and thrills in this gritty, action-packed zombie thriller. This one has real bite." – Jonathan Maberry, New York Times best-selling author of Rot & Ruin and Dead of night.

  "Sc
ioneaux and Hatchell give you a fast-paced narrative full of oozing bodies and narrow escapes and poignant ruminations on the fragility of a man’s body and the resiliency of his character" – Joe Mckinney, Bram Stoker award winning author of Flesh Eaters and Inheritance.

  From Severed PRESS

  ««««« Rated “The Perfect Read” by The Bookie Monster!

  “SLIPWAY GREY is just as lovably cheesy and sleazy as you’d expect from its wonderful serial killer + giant shark premise. It’s goofy, gory fun!” -- Jeff Strand, author of WOLF HUNT