Kiss & Hell (The Last Casket Book 2)

by Wallen, Jack

  Jake suppressed a laugh. “For pansies like you, of course it is.”

  Toque wrapped his fingers around the door release and slowly tugged. With a muffled pop and a dangerous squeal, the door opened. “Kill with silent efficiency, men.”

  Jake and Casey nodded and slipped into the night. Each man stood with his back facing the truck, taking in the situation.

  There were five Moaners, all of which had picked up either scent or sound of the walking buffet and shambled their way toward the men.

  Blades were raised and ready. No one moved until the fight was up close and personal.

  Jake was the first to attack, his ax dropping, with deadly accuracy, into the skull of the nearest Moaner. The crunch and splash of bone and blood sounded a battle cry for all involved. The second the first zombie dropped, all hell broke loose. Toque slashed his way through the first meat-sack to lunge his way forward, his machete taking chunk after chunk of festering meat away from the standing cesspool.

  “Holy mother of Vaporub, the smell,” Toque whispered, just loud enough for his compatriots to hear. Over the continued moaning and hacking, the sound of vomiting could be heard.

  On the other side of the truck, Casey hurled a chunky soup onto the approaching zombie. The tan sludge spattered his torn clothing and dripped randomly to the ground. Before another bile slurpy met the back of his lips, Casey swung the sharp side of his knife into the neck of the zombie.

  Thick, brown ooze spilled slowly from the open wound. Without thinking, Casey dropped the hammer again…and again…and again. After seven whacks, the head dropped to the left. Instead of swinging the blade again, Casey landed a right hook into the side of the head. The sound of snapping bone was enough to push the bile over the edge.

  Head and vomit hit the ground simultaneously. The Moaner’s body dropped, its right shoulder knocking the head into a roll that landed directly under the foot of the next zombie. The standing Moaner placed his weight down and the head spun in place, causing the creature to lose what little balance he had. The zombie dropped, his head cracking loudly on the uneven pavement. Casey took advantage of the Three Stooges moment and windmilled his machete into the neck of the fallen monster. A single blow divorced the head from the neck, and the Moaner was no more.

  Casey stood and checked on Toque and Jake, their faces covered with the paint and spatter of battle. Casey blinked as blood dripped from his lashes.

  Toque nodded and turned to make his way toward McVic’s. Jake and Casey followed suit, not a word spoken among them.

  The door stood before the trio. They exchanged glances, and Toque clasped his fingers around the handle and gave it a cautious twist.

  Locked.

  Jake immediately gestured for the men to step aside and knelt before the door. “Light,” he whispered. Toque complied and shined an LED beam over the working area. Jake withdrew a pair of lock picks from his pocket and set out to best the clockwork of the lock.

  Less than thirty seconds ticked by before a soft click announced to the men that they could successfully enter the building.

  Jake stood, returned his tools, and moved aside so that Toque could take the honor of point.

  Toque stepped into the building, machete in his right hand, LED in his left. He pointed the light directly ahead of them and nodded. “Our target is through that door.”

  Silently, the men crept through the room, following Toque’s beam of light. When they reached the door, Toque took hold of the handle and gave it a turn. On silent hinges, the door opened. Toque tossed aside caution and entered without disrupting the shadows with the beam of light. Instead, he scanned the room until the oven in question glimmered in the radiant glow of the LED.

  “Fancy meeting you here, Toque.” Vic’s voice broke the spell of silence. “I bet you don’t need a cup of tea warmed up, do you?”

  Toque spun on his heels and cast his light toward the voice. Vic sat in a chair, a pistol in his lap. Vic stood and approached. “You see now, Toque, I’m really disappointed in you. I thought for sure you knew how to play the game. All you had to do was be my monkey, and I’d supply you with all the bananas you could possibly need. But it turns out you just have to act on free will and take what doesn’t belong to you.” Vic waved his pistol in the air. “I know, I know…you’re probably thinking Didn’t Vic take what didn’t belong to him? Why, yes I did, Toque. Why? Because only the strong survive now, and I had to prove my strength. Guess what, big guy…” Vic finally offered up a deep, throaty laugh. “I’m the only one here with a gun…so I win.”

  Before another word was spoken, a single shot rang violently against the steel and concrete walls of McVic’s. All eyes were on Vic; it was assumed the shot originated from his gun. Instead of the usual smug look on the man’s face, his eyes, cheeks, and mouth had gone slack.

  A stain of blood spread across his chest. Vic dropped his weapon and then crumpled to the floor.

  “Guns don’t kill people…guns in the hands of good shooters kill people.” Casey grinned as he shoved his pistol back into the waist of his pants.

  A shiny bead of sweat rose on Toque’s forehead. “Come on. We’ve got to move quickly.”

  “Why?” asked Casey. “Vic’s dead now. What resistance is there to face?”

  Toque stepped up close and personal with Casey. “First of all, the sound of that gunshot will draw a most unwanted attention our way. Second, the smell of fresh blood is one of the fastest ways to draw the attention of the undead. Either way, the horde will be shambling toward us now. On top of that, who knows how many of Vic’s men are nearby.”

  Not another word was spoken. Toque pointed to a counter-top on which stood a small appliance.

  “That?” Jake rebuffed the sight. “We just killed a gang of Moaners and a living human for a standard microwave oven? I thought we were coming to get some giant walk-in piece of cuisinal technology.”

  “No such thing, boys. This is all we need—a commercial-grade, three-phase convection microwave oven. This is the only thing capable of nullifying the Mengele Virus in ground zombeef.”

  Casey approached the thirty-by-thirty stainless steel cube. “Isn’t it going to take forever to nuke enough meat to make a difference?”

  Toque gave the oven a pat. “This baby can render five pounds of our product harmless in sixty seconds. That, my friends, is why we’re here, and it’s the only one of its kind within a hundred-mile radius.”

  Casey made to snatch up the oven, but Toque swatted his arms away.

  “I got this. You get the door and, Jake…make sure the route to the truck is clear. We cannot afford to lose this oven for any reason…undead or not.”

  The three stooges made their way back to the truck to load up and head out. As they pulled back onto the main road, the cloud of dust behind them perfectly camouflaged the rusted Chevy from view.

  seven | the birth of song

  The light of dawn spilled over the roof of The Last Casket. Situated on a lawn chair, legs propped up on a wooden crate, Billy the Bat strummed softly on a well-worn acoustic guitar. He’d come to the roof in search of his muse.

  It found him, in the strangest form.

  Off in the distance, still within clear sight, a woman was being mauled by a lone Moaner. Her cries for help wafted gently on the wind…a macabre punctuation to the apocalyptic soundtrack.

  Billy knew he couldn’t save the woman. Not only was she too far off, she was too far gone. All he could do was hope undead inspiration might happen his way and he could honor her death in song.

  I’m your nightmare

  Your worst nightmare

  I will be there when you sleep

  Keep you awake in your dream

  I’m your nightmare

  Billy continued, unaware that Kitty was sneaking up behind him, claws and grin at the ready.

  Every single night

  As soon as you close your eyes

  And rest your head on your pillow

  Holding on to yo
ur blanket real tight

  Not knowing that

  I’m right here by your side

  I whisper in your ear (here comes the fear)

  Kitty pounced and chimed in on the chorus.

  I’m your nightmare

  Your worst nightmare

  I will be there when you sleep

  Keep you awake in your dream

  I’m your nightmare

  Billy stopped playing and turned to Kitty with a great smile spread across his lips. “How did you…”

  “I was listening the whole time. I heard the first chorus and assumed the second would repeat.” She wrapped her arms around Billy’s neck and, after he shifted his guitar to the side, pulled him in tight. “By the way, that song kicks ass. We’re adding that to the set list.”

  Billy shook his head. “Are you crazy? We’ve got one day to learn it? No way.”

  “Hell yes way…we’ve learned more complicated songs in a shorter amount of time. That tune belongs in our set.”

  Billy caved and then pointed out to the horizon. “See that?”

  “You mean that big glowing ball we call the sun?”

  “No. Look down.” Billy lowered his point until he was certain it was perfectly aimed toward the Moaner that now hovered over the dead woman. “That.”

  “Son of a bitch.” Kitty sighed. “Couldn’t we have…done…something?”

  Billy shook his head. “By the time I reached the roof, she was pretty much dead. It was just a matter of watching nature unfold. That’s where I got the idea for this song.”

  “What’s it called?” asked Kitty.

  “Nightmare,” answered Billy.

  “As much as I hate to admit it…I get that.” Kitty grabbed a chair and set it next to Billy’s. When she lowered herself into a seated position, her head gave into gravity and delicately floated down to Billy’s shoulder. “You know…my nightmare is losing you.”

  “That’s crazy, Kitty. I should be the one having nightmares of losing you.”

  “I’m serious, Billy,” Kitty responded.

  “So am I, Kitty. I have no idea what I’d do without you.”

  Kitty intertwined her fingers with Billy’s. “This is nice.”

  “Minus the death and destruction…yeah, it’s about the nicest moment I’ve had in years.”

  The Moaner was busy working at stripping the fallen woman of her internal organs.

  Two moments in perfect counterpoint. Melody and rhythm. Life and death.

  “I hate this, Kitty,” Billy stated softly.

  “What?”

  “That we’ve finally become so acclimated to the sight of death that we can see this…” Billy pointed to the theatre of war before them. “…and not bat an eye. We should both be bent over the edge of the roof tossing chunks into the wind. But no. Instead we’re inspired to write songs or we want to fuck at the idea of a blood-soaked carpet and chandelier made of pure bone.”

  “Who’ve you been hanging out with? Caligula?”

  Billy surprised Kitty with a quick kiss to the lips. “Well played, Kitten.”

  “I get it, Billy. This isn’t the way our lives were to have unfolded. We were supposed to be headlining festivals by now…”

  “Reading,” both Kitty and Billy whispered.

  “That festival would have been epic,” Billy added.

  “None of that’s going to happen.” Kitty’s voice took on a gray melancholia.

  Billy turned to face Kitty, his eyes unblinking. “You don’t know that. We could one day wake up from this nightmare and everything be back to the way it was—Kitty In A Casket on the fast track for world domination. All we have to do is stick to the plan.”

  Kitty nodded. “Keep writing killer tunes that rock the world around us.” She tossed up a half-hearted devil horn salute.

  Billy strummed a heavy-duty chord. “That’s my girl.”

  Kitty glanced at Billy’s guitar. “Open C?”

  “Yeah, I thought I’d do a bit of experimenting. I caught myself listening to a Devin Townsend song and remembered watching an interview of his. Figured it was worth a try.”

  “Let’s go back to that song. Did you write down the lyrics?” Kitty asked.

  Billy shook his head. “No, but give me a moment and I’ll knock ‘em out.” He grabbed a pad of paper and a pen. With lightning-fast fingers, Billy chicken-scratched the words between the lines of the college-rule paper.

  “Son of a bitch,” Kitty balked, “it’s a damn good thing I’m used to your handwriting. You sure you’re not a doctor?”

  Billy ignored her jab and dove into the intro to the song. Sixteen bars in, and it was time for Kitty to wail.

  And wail she did.

  The glorious melody drifted toward the sky to paint the world in a much brighter shade of hell yeah. Before she reached the chorus, the rest of the band started filtering onto the roof. Heads bobbed and banged along with the monstrous four-four tempo.

  Max van Angst pulled a pair of sticks from a pocket in his bathrobe and went to town on an upturned five-gallon bucket. The members of the band without their instruments danced as Billy, Kitty, and Max railed “Nightmare” to an audience of none.

  Until the door to the roof crashed open to reveal a shocked Toque, eyes wide and mouth agape. Without warning, he marched to the edge of the roof and pointed. The band followed his finger to see a horde of Moaners shambling their way.

  Toque reined in his temper. “I can’t soundproof the outdoors, kids. You’ve got to keep this inside.”

  Silence blanketed the roof. Everyone stared out as the approaching Moaners slowed to a stop. A gust of wind picked up, bringing the smell of rot to the noses of the survivors. One by one, the band covered the lower halves of their faces and swallowed down throatfuls of bile.

  “We can’t win,” whispered Kitty.

  “We can…and we will,” Billy answered softly.

  The Moaners swayed together, waiting for scent or sound to drag them from their graveyard reverie. Toque tiptoed back to the door and slowly pulled it open. The industrial-grade Gerbon hinges pivoted without so much as a hush. Toque motioned for the band to exit the roof.

  Toque was the last to leave. He took in the horde of zombies and whispered, “Dinner is served.” The second the exit was closed behind him, he pulled a walkie talkie from his pocket and switched it on. The crackle and static popped and hissed until he pressed the talk button. “I’ve got a seven course gang a flew blocks south of the Casket.” Toque released the talk button and waited.

  Through the static, Jake’s voice cut through loud and clear. “Roger that. We’re on it.”

  “Lead them away from the Casket. I don’t want anyone catching sight of you loading those bags of meat onto your truck.”

  The walkie briefly squealed and then spilled Jake’s voice from the speaker. “Understood.”

  Toque turned the walkie off and made his way back to the kitchen.

  “Breakfast?” Kitty asked, a mixing bowl in her hands. “My treat. Crepes ala Kitty.”

  “Soooo tuna and catnip?” Max asked.

  Kitty flipped a spoonful of batter at Max. “Better than the Crepes du Kafka you’d serve up.”

  Max grinned. “Metamorphosis of batter and beer.”

  “Where did you…” Toque started.

  Kitty interrupted. “Get the ingredients?”

  Toque nodded.

  “You can’t hide your secret stash from Kitty. Don’t worry, big guy, we’ll go out on a run and replace anything we’ve used for this extravaganza.”

  Tom marched by, a carton in his hands. “You mean eggstravaganza.”

  Toque reached for the egg carton. “I really don’t think we should…”

  Tom pulled the eggs out of Toque’s reach. “No way, Toque. We’re having eggs this morning.”

  “Stop!” Toque screamed.

  All movement in the kitchen ceased.

  “I’m terribly sorry for my outburst, but we cannot be careless with what l
ittle stores of food we have. Those eggs will be better served making bread. I’ve calculated everything down to the gram. That is how we survive.”

  “Yes, Toque,” Billy silenced Toque. “But surviving isn’t the same as living. Most of the time, we’re one hundred percent behind you. However, right now, we just need to celebrate life. Like Kitty said, we will replace everything. But for this moment in time, we need to feel alive. Give us this, and we will repay you over and over…in every way we can.”

  Toque stood rigid as he took in the scene, the brightness of the band’s eyes slowly dimming. Before hope could go dark, he smiled and nodded. “I’ll have mine over easy.”

  With a collective cheer, the band went back to work. Kitty spread crepe batter over the griddle while humming “Nightmare”. Tom picked up on the tune and turned to Billy. “We have got to work that song….”

  Billy interrupted the bass player. “Already done, brother. We’ll rehearse this afternoon.”

  Todd Flash turned to Billy and leaned against the prep table. “Speaking of which, I should have some video ready for the show. You okay with that?”

  Billy saluted Todd with a pair of horns. “Rokkin’ with Dokken, motherfucker. Hells yeah, I’m okay with that.”

  m/

  With the chord structure of “Nightmare” laid out, Billy strapped on his new Les Paul. The pickups hummed to life with the tell-tale sign of warm perfection. The instrument begged to rock, and Billy was about to oblige.

  Max van Angst counted them down, and Kitty In A Casket ripped into the fresh song with an abandon they hadn’t felt in a very long time. The song came together as if it were the resurrection of a long-lost friend, channeled through a distortion-veiled ghost of Cliff Gallup. Every chord, every riff, every melody and beat wound and unwound with edge and beauty.

  When the song came to a sonic-boom close, Billy pulled the neck of the guitar to his lips and planted a kiss on the waxed maple wood. “God, I fucking love this thing.”

  Kitty sashayed to Billy and purred with a pout on her lips. “Should Kitty be jealous?”