A Fistful of Zombies: 12 Zombie Tales

by Dane Hatchell

  “I won’t be comfortable until the military wipes the monsters off the face of the Earth. I want to go back home. As scared as I am to find out, I want to know about our friends and family,” Kara said, staring blankly at the table.

  “Looks like we’re finished here. Let’s go back to the cabin so Steve and I can get our guns. We’ll follow you two back and find out what you’ll be doing today before we go off on our own,” Keith said, and rose.

  On the way back, Pete and two others waited to greet them. The men were armed, but weren’t brandishing the weapons. Keith realized that he and Steve should be carrying their weapons at all times too.

  “Mornin’, folks. You’re lookin’ rested,” Pete said, politely smiling.

  “Thanks to your wonderful hospitality,” Jill said. “The cabin, the food—we truly are in your debt.”

  “Everyone has a part to play here. We all pitch in so that we can get along. In fact, Bronson would like to meet with you to find out if you are stayin’ or leavin’.”

  “When?” Keith asked.

  “How’s about now?”

  Keith looked at Steve and the women. A quick nod of approval was given by all. Keith nodded his head yes, and the four followed the three men.

  The entourage took the same route as the day before and met Bronson giving orders to a small group.

  Keith looked down the valley and was relieved to see the body of the man and the ‘dead’ zombies were no longer there.

  Bronson greeted the couples with a broad smile. “Friends! Good to see you here this fine day.”

  “We’re glad to be here, and our thanks for your hospitality,” Steve said, stepping in front of Keith.

  “Good, good, glad to have you with us.” Bronson turned down his welcoming voice. “Yesterday you wanted to leave. I admit, I did use my authority to force you to stay. I thought it would be for your own good. I was right. Wasn’t I?”

  “Yes . . . yes you were,” Steve said with the others nodding.

  “Well then, you see there is a need for force sometimes, as long as it’s given out with fairness at the core. So now, I leave the future in your own hands. You’re welcome to stay and become part of our family, or leave and take your chances on your own.”

  “We’ve decide to stay. And while we’re here, we’ll follow the rules and your leadership,” Steve said.

  “You all agree?”

  Each responded with an affirmation.

  “Fine! Fine! Then it is settled. I welcome you as members of New Paradise.” Bronson turned his attention back to Steve. “Now that you are part of the village, as I am now your leader, I will take your lovely wife for my own.”

  Steve’s facade of pride melted. “What do you mean?”

  “Your wife Jill, is to be mine now.”

  “Oh, no, we’re not going to play that game,” Keith interjected. Jill and Kara froze.

  “This doesn’t concern you.” Bronson raised an open hand.

  “Pete said that you don’t take women. He said you earn them. You can’t just take Jill.”

  “When I became Chief, I earned any woman I want who belongs to this village. My word is law. The girl is mine.”

  “No, she’s mine. We’re leaving now,” Steve said, his voice shaking.

  “You won’t be leaving, and I accept your challenge,” Bronson said.

  “Challenge? What challenge? All I said was ‘we’re leaving now.’” Steve and the other three huddled together for protection. Several men standing by Bronson lowered their guns toward the two couples. A gun barrel shoved in Steve’s back pushed him toward Bronson. Bronson separated from his men and stepped forward.

  “I give an order. You do not obey. That is a challenge. Defend yourself! If you want to make the laws you must defeat me.” Bronson slammed two open palms into Steve’s chest, knocking him down on his backside. Bronson outweighed Steve by fifty pounds. “Stay down . . . if you know what’s good for you.”

  “Leave him alone, you bastard!” Keith yelled.

  Steve searched for something nearby to use as a weapon to even the match and came up empty. He lifted himself off the ground, brushed the dirt from his hands, and slowly walked toward Bronson. “We don’t want any trouble. Please, just let us leave.”

  With that, Steve took a quick step and a half forward and delivered a roundhouse kick square to Bronson’s solar plexus, bending him over and heaving for air. Steve connected again with a jump kick to the left side of Bronson’s face.

  Bronson spun around and landed on his hands and knees, spitting blood. Steve ran up and slammed his foot down on Bronson’s rear, forcing him down flat on his chest. He then hurried to Bronson’s side and began kicking his ribs.

  Bronson made a quick turn, and caught Steve’s foot. He twisted it sideways, sending Steve crashing to the ground. Then the larger man fell on top of him so they were face-to-face and smashed his left forearm down on Steve’s throat.

  “You son of a bitch. You are going to die.”

  “Leave him alone!” Jill cried.

  Steve’s face turned deep purple. His eyelids started to flutter.

  Bronson gritted his teeth as spittle and blood dripped out of his mouth.

  Steve jutted his head forward and bit down on Bronson’s left ear.

  Bronson yelled like an animal and pushed down harder on Steve’s throat, which only caused his ear to tear. His scream shot up an octave in pitch and several decibels in volume.

  Bronson twisted himself off Steve and towered over him.

  Steve could do nothing more than lie on the ground and gasp for air.

  Half of Bronson’s ear remained attached by a thin bit of flesh. Blood dripped down to his chin. With an expression of madness, he placed his foot on Steve’s knee, and lifted Steve’s foot until the knee snapped.

  Steve screamed, but his body didn’t have any fight left.

  Bronson started taking his revenge with a barrage of kicks to Steve’s side.

  Steve moaned weakly with each kick. His life force ebbed with each blow.

  Kara buried her head in Keith’s shoulder. Jill had her face in her hands.

  Keith knew there was only time left for one last act of desperation.

  The nearest man was distracted by the fray and just two steps away. Keith lunged, snatched the shotgun from his hand, and then rolled forward, ending upright on one knee.

  Bronson was just about to deliver the deathblow with a kick to Steve’s head when the gunshot rang out.

  The buckshot hit Bronson near the heart and sent him reeling backward. The surprise of the gun blast and the shock of Bronson’s death gave Keith just enough time to maneuver behind Pete.

  “Nobody moves! I’ll kill him too!”

  Before anyone could react, a horn sounded one long continuous blow of warning.

  “Oh, my God,” Pete said.

  As if the two couples no longer existed, Bronson’s men ran toward the main village.

  “What the hell’s going on?” Keith demanded.

  “They’re comin’, and it’s a bunch of ’em. Get the damned gun out my back!”

  Jill ran over to Steve, who was lying unconscious with his eyes closed and swollen. She felt his neck for a pulse, and then checked for any sign of life. She glanced up, and saw that the horror had arrived.

  Down in the valley, climbing up the ridge, were scores of the walking dead. Jill slapped Steve on the cheek and begged for him to wake up.

  “Damn it, boy, the war is on. That was the immediate perimeter alarm. Let’s go!” Pete yelled.

  “Why didn’t we get an advanced warning?” Keith asked.

  “Hell, I don’t know. I guess the sentry got eaten first. Let’s move it!” Pete raced toward the village without Keith’s consent.

  “Keith!” Kara screamed. Two members of the undead stumbled toward Steve and Jill. Keith started to shoot, but was afraid of hitting Jill. Kara yelled for her to run. She was still trying to get Steve up on his feet.

  More of the
undead had arrived by the time the two ghouls grabbed Jill in their wretched hands. Her death cries electrified the nape of Keith’s neck.

  “Keith, save me! You said you would save me!” Kara cried.

  “I will, I will, I promise! Let’s get back to the village!” Keith’s last memory of his friends was of a rotting zombie with its head buried in Jill’s neck, and another feeding out of Steve’s stomach.

  The men took strategic positions around the perimeter, making sure each shot counted. The women and children aided in reloading spare guns, exchanging them for the empties. Keith pushed his way to the firing line and unloaded his gun by taking down six of the walking dead. A fresh gun was shoved into his hands, and he took out five more.

  Dead body after dead body fell to the ground. Shots rang without end. The dead kept coming, unending, and the mob grew thicker in number. Tens, hundreds, perhaps thousands were on the march. An ocean of savage carnivores loomed on the horizon. A virtual tsunami of rotting corpses prepared to invade.

  Keith’s spirit sank to its lowest depth. The illusions of his newfound hope to defeat the undead vanished in the harshness of reality. He had fooled himself into believing the living had a chance against the monsters.

  The dead approached in overwhelming odds and pushed the living to give up ground.

  “Keith! Save me!” Kara pleaded.

  “Let’s get back to the cabin.” Keith grabbed her arm and ran along with others in retreat. The dead started pouring into the village. There would be no escaping without some kind of miracle.

  Keith and Kara burst into the cabin and quickly locked the door. Keith loaded his gun, and Kara loaded hers. The sole window in the front was boarded shut, but a crack or two allowed a small view of the carnage overtaking the village.

  A wave of walking dead snatched up a woman who tripped and fell to the ground. Her screams only lasted a few seconds, unlike one man, whose arms and legs provided a feast for the ravenous monsters.

  Small children separated from their parents stood by crying until whisked away by putrid hands and skeletal fingers.

  “You’ve got to save me, Keith. You promised,” Kara pleaded softly.

  “Our best chance . . . our only chance, is to wait and see if they move on. Maybe they’ll eat their fill and leave,” Keith whispered.

  Kara stood close, and sobbed. “Please . . . please, Keith . . . please . . . save me.”

  The shooting outside had stopped long before the last cries of the living went silent. Keith peered out of the window crack and saw the streets thick with the living dead. The ferocity of the zombies was greater than he imagined possible.

  Knocks on the cabin walls made him feel the circle of death was tightening. The door handle moved slightly making a mechanical clicking noise. Kara flinched as fists banged on the door.

  The two remained silent, practically holding their breath as they prayed for a miracle. The door handle moved again. A louder bang against the door made it slightly buckle, bent by the weight of the hungry ghouls.

  Keith leaned his back against the door. Wood twisted, and the hinges made a metallic groan. The mass of undead flesh pushed harder. Keith grabbed the table and shoved it between the door and the wall. The moaning from the monsters increased. “They can probably smell us in here.”

  The bolt broke away from the keeper, and the door slammed halfway open against the table.

  Keith fired his gun, dropping the first rotting face that poked in, and every one that followed after. Kara handed him her gun and began reloading his.

  The undead attempted to climb over the first few layers that had fallen to buckshot. Keith blasted every zombie fighting to enter, until the bodies stacked up in the doorway. Body on top of body now blocked the entry. He held his fire.

  He could still hear them outside meandering about, but they were no longer trying to enter.

  Was it over? Did he stumble upon that miracle he was praying for? Did a wall of dead zombies somehow mask him and Kara from whatever senses the living dead possessed?

  The seconds passed, seeming like hours. Movement outside continued. The dead body on top of the pile suddenly disappeared from behind. Sunlight shone through and fell on Kara’s tearful eyes.

  The next on top followed, and the next, until Keith put the first meatless face to show itself in his open sights and blasted it into fragments. The body dropped, then another, and another, blocking the door again. The hopeless game continued with the zombies in endless pursuit of the last two survivors.

  Kara gazed down at the box of shells in her hands and then through the window crack. “There’s just as many out there as before. Keith, you promised you would save me . . . .”

  “I will honey. I will. When it’s time.”

  “Do it now.”

  He turned his head to protest and saw she held an empty box of shells.

  Kara looked at him with her big brown eyes. Tears ran down her cheeks. “Save me, Keith. Save me now.”

  With only three shells remaining, he knew the time had finally arrived.

  “Please . . . if you really love me . . . .” Kara pulled the gun barrel toward her head. The skin on her fingers seared into the hot metal.

  The bodies began clearing the doorway for the final assault.

  “I do love you, Kara.” Keith pulled the trigger. Kara’s beautiful face exploded onto the cabin walls. “I did it . . . I kept my promise . . . I saved you.”

  Keith turned back to the door. The head of another creature of darkness came into view. He pulled the trigger and blasted it backward.

  He was down to his last shell.

  With one last goodbye to his beloved Kara, Keith saved himself.

  The End

  A Gentleman’s Privilege

  There were few areas in the main house of Arbroth Plantation that allowed the presence of unrefined slaves. New arrivals brought with them a rebellious spirit that required stern methods of discipline. Such discipline was issued one lash at a time from the bite of a rawhide whip, and as often as deemed necessary.

  The kitchen was one of those areas Captain Hampton permitted some of the new younger slaves to work. Only those of the female persuasion, and only if they carried a certain amount of potential.

  Mr. John Hampton built the plantation not far from the Mississippi River to take advantage of the waterway as a means to transport his cash crop of sugarcane. He had amassed a huge fortune as a shrewd lawyer. His wealth allowed him to retire in south Louisiana to pursue other business ventures less demanding and more personally rewarding than defending unscrupulous corporations.

  Hampton was known as ‘Captain’ to his friends and close associates. The nickname wasn’t a carryover from military service but a label that stuck having been the captain of his debating team at Columbian College in Washington, DC.

  A confirmed bachelor and a man from the north unwilling to adjust to southern protocol, the Captain did not fraternize in Louisiana societal circles. Believing that supporting the local law enforcement with large cash donations did more to further his personal interest than rubbing elbows with gauche southern aristocracy.

  Captain Hampton sat on his front porch sipping on an aged bourbon whiskey. A thin slice of lemon soaked in the bottom of the glass. Growing sugarcane was quite profitable, but the business had become more difficult now that the South was at war.

  Slaves had become more expensive and problematical to come by. In fact, the last batch he had to purchase from a trader through illegal channels. He contracted a sordid man of vile reputation to bring them direct from Haiti. The slaves had been unloaded from the boat in the cover of darkness straight off the Mississippi River.

  The lemon set withered in the bottom of his empty glass. Captain Hampton strolled from the porch through the main dining area and past twelve-foot tall double doors that led to the kitchen. An old black woman and two teenage female slaves froze at their workstations as the Captain entered.

  “Good afternoon, Captain Hampton, sir
,” the old woman said, holding a mixing bowl and a large wooden spoon.

  “Why, good afternoon, Lucy. I trust these lovely new girls are minding you in the kitchen,” the Captain said, opening a cabinet and retrieving a bottle of liquor. He poured himself a tall drink, took a sip, and grimaced while looking at the ceiling.

  The women remained hesitant, as if waiting for his instruction, or waiting for his permission to speak. None wanted to make a wrong move to be punished later.

  He turned his head with half open eyes back in their direction and took another sip of his drink. “You there,” he finally said, to the younger of two girls. “What name did the Boss-man give you when he took you off the boat?”

  The girl was only fourteen and unsure of her place in her new environment. “Betty . . . Boss-man said I was, Betty. He told me not to forget my name. He told me not to forget, or he would make me remember.”

  Captain Hampton was not sure why the young slave bothered to tell him more than just her name. Did she think he didn’t know how Reeves, his lead overseer, treated them? Did she think he cared?

  “Well, I see you remembered your name,” he said almost to himself. “Betty. That’s a pretty name. I knew a lovely lady by that name long ago. Yes, she sure was . . .” he took another sip of whiskey, “like you.”

  Betty turned her eyes to the floor, as if she had done something wrong and was ashamed for it. The Captain sensed her discomfort, and felt Lucy staring at him with judging eyes. He stepped over to the other girl. It was obvious she was several years older than Betty. Their gaze met as he moved closer until he stood inches away. Captain Hampton was not a small man, standing two inches over six feet. The girl was nearly as tall as he.

  “And what name did the Boss-man give you?”

  “My name is, Darque. Darque Wight,” she said.

  The Captain narrowed his stare. “Darque? Why, I don’t believe that’s one of the names I give my slaves. And I know the Boss-man didn’t give you a last name.”