by James Dean
Dylan sprung and ran. The man turned at the motion. “Hey? Who?”
Dylan kicked the pail out as he stepped outside. The man ran at the door. Dylan slammed it shut. The latch caught and the man rammed into the other side. There were shouts inside the storage room.
His legs burned as he ran up the stairs. They pounded on the door and shouted more below.
He reached the floor, but heard footsteps scrapping across the concrete nearby. Dylan ducked sideways and squeezed himself into the hollow of a support beam along the wall. Four more men ran down the stairs.
“Time’s still short for me,” he whispered.
He ducked around the beam and ran for the open cargo door he and his mother had slipped through a couple days earlier. Once the scavengers escaped the storage room, they would come up the stairs in a fury.
Dylan slid outside onto the sidewalk. The zombies had all fallen down maybe a month ago. Maybe longer. He still did not trust the bodies anymore than he trusted the people that still fed on the other living in one way or another. If they had caught his mother when she tried to escape, there was no telling what all might have been done to her. Dylan felt sick thinking about it.
He saw no one outside – neither family nor enemy.
He had never been alone. Since it all started, he had been with her – through the zombies and everything. Now what? He waited to see if she would appear, if she would come back for him just like she said. If she was watching, she would say something. She would wave or call. He squinted as he scanned the windows and doorways around him, but there was nothing.
His knees felt weak from hunger and thirst, but also from fear of being alone.
He did not hear his mother, but he heard shouts from the stairs behind him.
He had to break a promise to his mother and leave without her. It did not make it any easier that she broke her promise first.
Dylan looked both ways and then crossed the street.
ABOUT JAY WILBURN
Jay Wilburn is an author of horror and speculative fiction that lives in coastal South Carolina near Myrtle Beach. He taught public school for sixteen years before becoming a full-time writer. He is currently working on a series of zombie novels based on the world of Dead Song. Each book will be accompanied by a soundtrack of songs recorded as if by the characters within the world of the novels.
Follow his many dark thoughts @amongthezombies on Twitter, the Jay Wilburn author page on Facebook, and at JayWilburn.com. Jay Wilburn does video readings on his Patreon page at patreon.com/JayWilburn
The Devil’s Right Hand
Christopher T. MacDonald
Alan groaned and tilted his head back, bumping it against the roof of the abandoned red Honda Accord he leaned against. Ideally he wanted to rest inside of it, but it was currently occupied. An undead family of four sat strapped into their seats, unable to move but reaching silently and hungrily towards Alan. He breathed the cool Autumn air in and watched the puffy white clouds meander across the sky.
His breathing quickened and his heart raced as he felt his orgasm slowly building towards release. He rested a hand on the undead girl's head, running his fingers through her short, blonde, greasy hair. He gripped it tight as he looked down into her cold, white eyes. He could almost swear he saw hatred burning behind them as he watched his shaft violate her mouth. He shuddered as he felt her yellow teeth graze against his skin.
There were few thrills left in the world and getting head from a zombie was one of them.
Unlike the rest of humanity running and hiding where they can from the legions of the undead, Alan had an agreement with the Devil. As long as he killed every living person he came across, the Devil would offer him protection. Well, that and sex. Alan had a certain sexual affinity towards the dead and this new state of the world gave him a chance to expand his experiences.
His very first experience with a zombie had been with a young woman named Emily. Emily had been a very cute petite with long dark hair. The night before the world changed, he had kidnapped and murdered her in a subbasement of his home that he had discovered while doing renovations years ago. He had murdered her and made tender love to her body. That night he had dreamt of the dark place and the Devil who he had entered into an agreement with. When he awoke he found Emily standing at the foot of the bed waiting for him, ready to protect and love him.
Much to Alan's despair, Emily was no longer with him. The undead woman currently on her knees in front of Alan was responsible for that. He hadn't seen her in her hiding spot, but she saw them. She had assumed that Emily was sneaking up behind an oblivious Alan, ready to attack and feed. The crack of her rifle had nearly made Alan soil himself as he dove behind a car for cover. He heard the thud of a body hitting the ground behind him and his heart sank. Peeking out from behind his cover he saw Emily motionless on the ground, her head a ruined mess. It took every ounce of willpower to keep himself in check as the woman popped up out of her hiding spot and ran over to check on him. He thanked her profusely for saving his life, but inside he was seething, imagining his hands wrapped around her throat and squeezing until her life left her. Right then he decided that she would be his next victim.
She said her name was Samantha but all her friends called her Sammy. Sammy looked to be in her mid-thirties. Her skin was tanned, either naturally or from all the dirt and grime caked onto it. She had golden blonde hair that had been cut short with something other than scissors. She kept it tucked under a ratty Baltimore Orioles cap. Her eyes were a bright beautiful blue, the kind of blue that Alan saw in tropical pictures of the ocean. Sammy stood almost as tall as he was and was quite generously endowed. If it wasn't for his burning hatred for her, he would have been smitten by her eyes and chest.
After checking on him and making sure that he wasn't bitten or injured, she led him back to her group of survivors. There were twenty of them holed up in an abandoned warehouse. She introduced him to the leader of their group, some small town hick Sheriff named Andy. After telling Sheriff Andy a heavily altered version of his story, he was accepted into the group. They took him in, fed and clothed him and made him feel welcome. Over the course of the next several weeks he worked hard to earn their trust and friendship. Then one night he found himself walking through that dark place and the Devil talked to him, telling him that was the night for Alan to strike.
Waking up, he had grabbed his pillow and quietly snuck out of his sleeping area to make his way to Samantha's. The survivors were so trusting of each other and the security of the warehouse they never bothered to set up watches during the night. This made Alan's job ridiculously easy. Taking his pillow, he placed it firmly over her face and smothered her. She fought fiercely, clawing at his face and kicking at him. Her cries were muffled by the pillow pressed roughly against her face. After awhile her struggling eased and then ceased altogether. He held the pillow in place a bit longer to make sure she wasn't faking it. After a few minutes her body began to slowly twitch and Alan quietly got up and made his way to his next victim. He repeated the process a few more time before making his way up to a catwalk to admire his handy work.
Moonlight streamed in through the filth stained windows lighting up the warehouse like it was midday. He watched as the zombies shambled along until they came to an unsuspecting victim and then like ravenous animals, they would throw themselves onto their prey and feast with reckless abandon. Alan had to admire their silent ferocity. Whether by luck or unholy design, the undead went straight for their victim's throat, sinking teeth into tender flesh and tearing it free, causing sprays of crimson to erupt from their victims.
Sheriff Andy woke just in time to see what used to be his friends silently shambling towards him with murderous intent in their cold lifeless eyes. If Andy had half a brain, he probably could have escaped. Instead he just sat there in his little corner of the warehouse crying like a baby, begging the Lord for mercy and calling for his mommy. Alan wouldn't have been surprised if Andy had pissed his pants in those lo
ng moments before his demise. Sheriff Andy screamed long and loud as his former friends descended upon him with ripping hands and tearing teeth. Smiling down, proud at his handy work, Alan's happiness faded as his eyes locked on to the cold, dead eyes of Samantha.
His eyes narrowed as he took in the newly turned zombie, his smile twisting into a sneer. He made his way down the catwalk and towards Samantha, never taking his eyes off of her until they stood face to face as the others shuffled around them. The rage Alan had been suppressing boiled over and his hand shot out, connecting with her face and sending her crashing to the floor. His hand stung and the crack of the slap sounded like a gunshot as it echoed off the stone walls in the dead of the night. Alan watched as she awkwardly got back to her feet and stood before him. Once more Alan's hand flew, sending the zombie woman to the ground again. Over and over she would get to her feet only to have Alan's hand send her sprawling back to the cold hard floor. Through every horrible thing he had ever done in his life, Alan took pride in the fact he never struck a woman. Until tonight.
His hatred towards Samantha grew at the realization of what she had taken from him.
"You bitch," he spat as he threw her to the ground again, this time pouncing on top of her. There was no tenderness or love in what he did to her next. He tore at her clothes roughly and tossed her around. That night he did things to Samantha that he would never dream of doing to a woman. Living or dead.
Alan was brought hurtling back to reality as he felt himself on the brink of bursting. He moaned as he gripped Samantha's hair and forced himself all the way down her throat. His body shook as he erupted deep inside of her mouth, sending his seed down her undead throat. He gasped breathlessly, taking a few moments to compose himself before flinging her to the ground.
"Too bad you don't have a gag reflex," he muttered in disgust.
He needed to find a new girlfriend and soon. The sight of Samantha made him sick on both an emotional level and she was beginning to stink. He had been hoping that by now he'd have a dream or his guide would lead him to other survivors. To Alan it seemed that they had been wandering aimlessly since the warehouse. He pulled up his pants, readjusting and fastening them while watching Sammy's corpse clumsily pull itself up off the ground. Grabbing his backpack from the hood of the car and giving the undead family inside a final look he headed on down the dusty road with his zombie sidekick in tow.
*****
Several nights later Alan awoke in the Darkness. The cool, heavy air clung to him like a comfortable blanket. He breathed deeply the sweet aroma of this dream place and began his long slow walk. The walk wasn't necessary. The Master would speak when he was good and ready but Alan just hated standing still. He enjoyed this alone time. It gave him a chance to reflect on the things he had done and to imagine what his next assignment would be. He hoped that the next group he encountered would be douche bags. He enjoyed killing people that deserved it. Killing good people actually made him feel bad.
"Alan Anderson."
Alan jumped out of his skin as the disembodied voice echoed around him in the darkness, reverberating his very soul. Even after all this time, the suddenness of the voice still startled him.
"Yes, Master?" Alan asked, his voice quivering as his body shivered in anticipation. Too long had he been pointlessly wandering through the ruins of the country. He would have a direction and purpose again.
"You have served me admirably these past several months. Thanks to you the living are slowly being weeded out and added to the legion of unliving. But now, I have a new mission for you.
"Thank you, Master. I have done my best to serve you and hope to serve you longer," he replied. His pride swelled. How many people could say that the Devil took pride in what they did?
"There is a man, some call him the Savior of humanity. Through him humanity can earn its redemption. This must not be allowed. The man is named Adrian Ring and he has established a last Bastion for humanity. I want you to find him, and kill him. Kill this one man and my victory is assured. Can you do this for me Alan Anderson?"
Alan thought for a moment. One man? How could one man be what stands between the Devil and total victory? This Adrian fellow must be someone exceptional if the Devil was singling him out for elimination. Alan shivered in dread. He did not envy this Adrian character.
"Of course, Master. Anything you wish I shall do."
"Good. I am pleased, Alan Anderson. Know that this may be your toughest assignment yet. You may need to go for extended periods of time without my protection and you may be required to destroy those in my undead army. Your cover needs to be convincing. You need to be believable. If anyone asks how you know of Adrian and his Bastion of humanity, you will tell them it came to you in a dream. Do you understand?"
"Yes Master, I absolutely understand and I will not fail you," he answered, not believing that he was being given carte blanche to kill the undead. Now Alan really didn't envy Adrian.
"For your sake, I hope that you don't. But if you do, know that the consequences of failure will be worse than anything your deranged mind could ever fathom."
The hairs on the back of his neck stood on end as he swallowed the lump in his throat. The world may now be a horrifying place, but the thought of upsetting his Master was worse. Before his Master could dismiss him or speak again he blurted out the question that had been burning inside of him sense the world went to Hell.
"Is she alive? Is Beth still alive?" he asked before the courage he had built up failed him.
"Yes. Your sister Annabeth Anderson still lives. Succeed in your task and you will be reunited with her."
Alan awoke in the abandoned home he had set himself up in for the night. The first golden rays of sunlight crept across the bedroom floor and to his surprise, he heard birds singing outside. That was something he hadn't heard since things ended. He smiled as his heart pounded in his chest. She was alive. His sweet little sister Beth was still alive. The thought filled him with so much joy that he didn't push Sammy away when he felt her undead body press against him under the sheets of their bed.
*****
One month passed by and Alan was still wandering with no clue as to where this Adrian guy was or how to find him. His patience wore thin. So were his supplies. He had gone from eating like a king to eating like a pauper over the past few weeks. Normally his zombie guides would lead him to supplies if they were nearby but since his last dream, Sam had done nothing but follow him around like a brain damaged puppy. He didn't think it possible, but he hated her more and more with each growl of his stomach.
He couldn't take it anymore. He threw his head back and cried out in frustration to the heavens. He didn't care who or what heard him. He screamed and raged until he was hoarse and his throat ached. Then he got angrier because he didn't have any water to sooth it.
"I swear to Christ I'm close to drinking my own piss," he fumed at his undead companion who stared back blankly.
And that was the straw that broke the camel's back. He raised his fist, ready to unleash his full fury on her when he heard voices. His eyes went wide and his anger subsided. Voices. Voices meant people and people meant new victims and information. Maybe someone who knew where he could find that Adrian guy he was supposed to kill.
He crouched low and crept towards the direction the voices came from. Hidden behind a burnt out car, Alan peeked over the top of the hood and saw a small group of five survivors.. Three men, one woman and a child. He swallowed a lump in his still-aching throat.
Killing kids made him feel like shit for days. He watched as they slowly and cautiously made their way in his direction, moving like people who had been at this for a while. Skilled survivors making their way through the Hell that had come to Earth. They stopped to check behind each corner and each vehicle before moving to the next.
He heard the crunch of gravel and broken glass behind him announcing the arrival of his travel companion. He pulled out the gun he kept tucked in the back of his pants and stood to face Sam
, leveling it so that the barrel aimed right at the center of her face.
"Wish I could say it's been fun, but well, you know."
Without hesitation he pulled the trigger and sent a bullet speeding into her head. Congealed blood, bits of bone and gray matter sprayed out behind her as she dropped to the ground in a heap. The gunshot was thunder splitting the silence as it echoed off the surrounding buildings. As he tucked the smoking gun into the back of his pants he heard the sound of approaching footsteps getting closer.
He turned just as the survivors rounded the car to find him standing over Sam's body. He noticed a mixture of fear and awe on their faces. Here was a complete stranger who had just blown the head off of a zombie and they had no idea if he was friendly or not. Alan ran a hand through his unkempt hair and gave them his biggest and friendliest smile.
"Crazy how quiet these things are huh? Name's Alan, by the way and I don't bite," he joked offering them his hand in friendship.
*****
All in all, they weren't a bad group of people. Alan found himself enjoying their company that first night as they hunkered down in an abandoned house in front of a low fire. In any previous group he joined up with, he made it a point not to get too attached to its members since he'd be killing them anyway. Now that he didn't have his Master's protection, traveling in a group would be a necessity and getting to know them was inevitable.
First there was Greg. Greg was an average looking guy like Alan, but older. He didn't seem to stick out too much. He had wild black hair that had grown down to his shoulders since the world ended and had what was once called a, 'Porn Mustache.' Even before things went to hell and personal hygiene and grooming went out the window, Alan imagined that thing had been a beast. Greg had been a scientist of some sort before That Day, but Alan couldn't remember what kind. He was a comical fellow who did his best to keep the group together and keep their spirits up with corny jokes and humor.
