by D. S. Black
The music blared; her pain swirled. Old homes were on either side of the road. Most had no siding; there were a few trailers, an ancient road side vegetable and fruit stand; then came into view, near the edge of the street, a hoard of five dead men jerked their heads up at the sound of the roaring Humvee. She came to a screeching halt. She breathed heavily as she watched them move toward her. She climbed out and slammed the door behind her, walked around the back, and popped the trunk open. In front of her was an AR15, an AK47, and a blood stained axe. She chose the axe. The Humvee sat idling, For Whom the Bell Tolls set to repeat.
Her chest heaved and she smiled with a wicked pleasure; she wanted blood and she was going to have it right now. The sun glistened off her white teeth. She marched with rage filled steps and drove the ax through the skull of a nearest zombie. The small hoard moved for her. She kicked one of them, causing a domino effect; they toppled over onto each other like drunk fools. She ripped the blade out the split skull, stepped up the next dead man like she was going to bat, and swung hard, cleaving the head off. Another one lunged toward her and she met his momentum with the flat head of the ax crushing its face. She twisted around in a fast swirl and swung the blade with torrid hate, sending its head tumbling onto the road. She screamed. She challenged them to eat her. Mocked them. Laughed at them. And screamed again; her civilized mind seemed to have gone on vacation; or maybe it was gone for good.
Dead teeth snarled and low growls garbled out of their mouths. Their rotted, greenish black arms reached for her. The ax removed another head. She tossed the ax and it clanked against the road. She removed a sharp, 8 inch Kabar fighting knife from a thigh holster. She ran back to the Humvee, reached in and changed the song to Ride the Lightening. Andrews expensive sound system vibrated, contrasting loudly against the vast silence of the apocalyptic roadside.
“Time to die!” She shrieked and ran with speed at the jerking zombies. The force of her boot knocked one of them to the ground. She grabbed another by the back of the hair, forced its chin up, and drove the blade through its skull. Blood and brain matter sprayed out as she tore the blade out. The other dead men leaped onto her sending her down the hard road. The knife fell from her hand. The dead man nipped for her face. She held him at bay by pushing against its chest. The foul breath mixed with rank spit plumed in her face, filling her nostrils with the smell of fetid, rotten flesh and organs. The other dead man growled as it crawled toward her. With her left forearm she held it up, and with her right she removed her revolver, pressed it into the creature's throat, pointed up, and fired. Brainy blood erupted like a volcanic explosion. The final beast gnawed at her boot, pulled at her pant leg, and tried to move up her body. She leaned forward, pressed the barrel into its open mouth, arched the barrel up, screamed, and pulled the trigger. Blood exploded from its cracked skull, flew high in the air, and rained down onto the road in a red splatter.
She fell onto her back, breathing hard. Around her the bodies lay motionless. The sun burned down on her face. Ride the Lightening blared in the back ground. She laughed. Her laughter turned to a maddening cackle. She lay there for nearly an hour.
2
Her mind drifted. She was back home. Her girls danced in a circle singing. Jody cooked burgers at a grill. She watched them while she sipped a Bud Lite. The sky above them had been cloudless and deep, saturated blue; the sun shining bright and friendly. They were going to go see the fireworks later; the Fourth of July was one of the best times of the year for them; Candy had won the day off during a shooting contest with her follow officers; she was, after all, the best damn shooter in the South; she had the medals to prove it—she'd won the last three Southern Conference shoot offs.
Jody waved her over. The soft, freshly mowed and manicured grass pressed down under her Birkenstock sandals; she always said that he extra money for real Birkenstocks was worth it over paying a little less for knockoffs.
Jody was laughing and jiggling his big belly. “I told ya! Come look here babe.” Jody said. He removed a burger form the grill and placed it on a bun, “Taste the perfection.” She bit into the burger, chewed, and swallowed.
“Perfect.” She said and reached over and slapped him on his rather large backside.
“Nice and bloody. Just the way I like it.” She pulled him down to her lips by his shirt and kissed him. “Only my perfect fat man could cook such a perfect Angus burger.”
“Big bellies know best!” He said, giving it another fun filled jiggle; belly jiggling was a family past time.
The late afternoon sun burned over their heads as they enjoyed the clear blue day. A lite breeze blew, taking the edge of the humidity. The girls ran up. They both were matching yellow and blue sundresses that cut off right above the knee. Their hair was pulled back in matching blonde ponytails, and each wore a pink ribbon around the knot. “What’s cookin pop?” Tamby asked.
“You still on that kick?” Jody asked. Asking “what's cookin pop” was their new favorite phrase. “Livin the Salt Life” was a close second; and was stickered on the back windshields of their cars.
“Come here you little burger heads!” Candy said as she chased after them. They ran and frolicked in the soft green grass. Candy stared back at Jody. He smiled, waved, and patted his stomach; it had been a wonderful day.
Then she was back at the shooting range, not long after she’d graduated top of her class. Sergeant Stack stood beside her, “Best shootin I’ve ever seen from a woman!” Stack was a large black man, with gray showing on the sides of his head; he was what he called a “recovering marine.” He stood at six feet two, around one hundred eighty pounds; at fifty-four years old he was still a hoss of a man.
Candy had stood, her heart beating fast, and her eyes still locked on the target she just filled with holes—dead center, “It ain’t about gender Sarg—it’s about heart. I want to help people and sometimes that means killing bad guys. That’s OK with me.”
Sergeant Stack patted her shoulder and held his ash black face high, “Damn right kid. But you know society don’t always see it that way and it keeps getting worse for us.”
“I know. If people only listen to the talking heads, they’d think all cops are racist murderers.”
Behind her, her cell phone rang. It vibrated against the wood bench she’d laid it on. She turned, stepped the few steps over, and picked it up. She turned to her Sergeant, “It’s my lovable fat man. Gotta take it.”
Jody spoke on the other line, “So you promised to come? You coming right?”
Candy put a hand on her hip and held her head to the side, “God I guess… you know I hate that place. The people are as stiff as the wooden pews they sit in.”
“You getting philosophical on me?”
“It’s just a fact of their nature, hun.”
“Momma loves it when we come. She swears we’re sending the girls to hell. It makes her feel better to see them dolled up and listening to preacher Ramsey.”
“Listening to that buffoon rattle off his backs wood hate filled nonsense aint something I like the girls to hear. I have to detune them every time just to make sure it don’t stick. Gays are taking over the country and taking our kids to hell with them! Is that all that man thinks about? I tell you now, he is gayer than a rainbow on a hot summer’s day.”
“That’s what my sister Betsy says… says she saw him and Johnny Sawyer kissing down by the marshes.”
“Betsy Sue! She gonna be there? If she does, I will go.”
“I’ll make her. I’ll drag her fat ass and promise her a trip to Denny’s and a cheese cake with blueberry and whip cream topping for reward.”
“Jesus Christ almighty… OK, my fat lover, I'll go. I'll take your precious angels and let those horrible people defile and indoctrinate their minds. Then I’ll take em home and do my best to wash their brains clean. What are you gonna do for me?”
“I’ll do that thing you love.”
“What thing?” She said with a smile.
“I won’t say i
t out loud.”
“You bashful pig! I’m going to stick a fork in you when I get home tonight.”
“And I’ll spoon you till the cows come home.”
She'd giggled; that too had been a good day.
3
She opened her eyes. The day had aged. Dark clouds rumbled overhead. She forced herself up. The blood oozed out of the dead bodies around her. She ignored them. The asphalt clicked under her boots as she walked back to the Hummer.
The leather seat crinkled as she slammed the Humvee door. For a moment she just stared. Her breathing was rhythmic and slow. She adjusted the rear view mirror and stared at her reflection. Dried blood caked her pale white face, covering the freckles completely. She opened the glove box and took out a handkerchief; she spit on it and rubbed as much of the blood off as she could. She started the engine. She drove away from the gory scene, making her way down an empty highway 17.
The clouds hung low and shut out much of the sun. A light sprinkle showered the windshield. She turned on the wipers. The only sounds were the hypnotic back and forth swish of wiper blades and the soft purr of the air conditioner on low. She was approaching an old Army Surplus Depot. She slowed and crunched onto the gravel parking lot. No one in sight, neither living or dead. She climbed out of the Humvee and stepped cautiously towards the front entry doors. She could only see shadowy darkness inside the store. A bell jangled as she opened the door. She paused and gripped her revolver. She waited and listened. Nothing. No sounds. The store smelled like dried oil and old clothes. Dust settled everywhere. Broken shards of glass from busted lights lie on the floor and cracked under her boots. She stopped for a moment. She listened. Nothing. She moved around the store. A row of World II helmets sat on a shelf, covered in dust. Black boots covered in more dust set on the shelf below the helmets. The store was a tomb of America's war history. Open netted hats from every era set on another shelf. Empty grenade casings from every war on another. Black and white photographs hung on the wall showing the scenes from different wars.
She stood in front of a tall, narrow vanity mirror. Pale white shin showed through torn and battered shreds of her deputy’s uniform. The material hung loosely on her body. The badge, smudged with smote and dark, dried blood hung heavily, barley clinging to a strand of material. Outside, dark bluish gray storm clouds gathered, sun light disappeared, and a hot bolt of lightning crackled, lit up the store, and flashed in her graying, blue eyes. She ripped the badge from her chest, and threw it on the floor, and watched as it bounced and rolled away, landing face down on the cold concrete floor. A harsh wind rattled the entry way doors, and the gush entered the store and brushed up against her, flowing through her long red hair, and breezing against her pale, freckled skin. She tore her uniform top off, revealing her hard abs, and slender, athletic frame, and threw the shirt on top of the badge. Her bra, white and tight against her bosom. She watched her reflection carefully as she removed her belt, then her pants, and stared hard at her white, satin panties, clinging tightly against her lean, muscled hips. She removed a tight black shirt from a hanger and pulled it over her body. A ripple of harsh lighting lit the entire store up as she pulled solid black BDUs over her hips, and refastened her thick brown leather belt. She looked over, at the front desk, and just beyond the register, sitting on a stool, leaning stiff against the wall, was a dead man. Lighting crackled again and white light lit the dead body. His chin rested against his chest and above his head a sign stated: FROM MY COLD DEAD HANDS. On his head was a solid black cowboy hat with a wide brim. Candy walked over and hoisted herself over the counter, removed her revolver and pushed the tip against the man. He didn’t move. She took his hat. She ran her fingers over the brim. She raised it to her nose and breathed in the scent of old leather. Back in front of the mirror she put the hat on and pulled it over her brow, just above her eyes. Another crack of lighting shook the entire building and a light rain pelted against the metal roof; her reflection looked like a ghost against the white light of lightning. She turned and moved through the store and pushed the exit door open. Another loud crackle of electricity sparked in the sky. A strong gush rushed against her. Her hair blew under the hat. She stepped off the concrete walkway and onto the parking lot’s asphalt. Slanted rain blew against her. She stalked to the Humvee, opened the door, and slammed it shut. She started the engine.
4
The army surplus disappeared in the rear view. Candy drove down the black asphalt of highway 17. The road rumbled underneath the car and a loud wispy wind came through a nearly shut window. On her right, the salty sea breeze rushed over boarded, burned, and abandoned beach condos. An old wood sign read PAWLEY”S ISLAND HAMMOCK SHOP. Dead men jerked around the trees. One found himself entangled in a swinging hammock. At least 100 zombies wondered the abandoned shopping area. Candy stared for a moment as she zoomed past. Dead men jerked their heads up as she drove by.
A little way up a large golf course came into view just off the left of the road. More dead men wearing bright, blood splattered and tattered reds, blues, and yellows moved aimlessly on the gray and dead golf course grass. She blew past them without a second look. To her right stood an empty restaurant. The sign read HANSER HOUSE. A few zombies moved about the parking lot, bumping into cars at random. She continued down 17. She saw a sign: SAM’S HOTDOGS. A large red and yellow hot dog stood on top of the building. The building looked like an old double wide trailer on stilts. Its windows were shattered. Attached to the hot dog was a noose with a dead man hanging from its grip. The zombie's teeth mashed and its arms flayed. It dangled in the salty wind and rain. She drove past and the sight of MARTIN’S FIREWORKS caught her eye. Dead kids bumped against each other in the parking lot. She slowed down and came to a halt.
She saw a boy with a varsity jacket, and suddenly a memory jolted in in her mind.
Her hair was curled that night. A warm breeze blew her twirls around. Larry Splat was there. He was a thin and wiry boy that played basketball. His hair was always greased down like something out of Grease. His girlfriend, Cherry Baker, stood holding his thin arm. She was a large girl, over two hundred twenty pounds and smart as they come, “Yep. I’m headed to Presbyterian on a full academic scholar ship. Got the acceptance letter today.” She said and smiled with huge white teeth.
“I always knew you would go far girl.” Candy said.
“What about you? Still gonna take Criminal Justice at Horry Community?”
Some fireworks popped in the not so far distance, somewhere on the sandy beach. “Yep. It’s my calling.” The sky was a dark blue hue and the sun was setting. A light summer wind blew and the smell of salt and sun tan lotion lingered in the air, “What about you?” Candy asked Larry.
“PC of course. Me and my girl’s gonna be together forever.” He said and reached over and kissed her sun burned cheek, “Full athletic scholarship. My momma always told me my long legs would come in handy. What bout you Jody boy?”
Jody stood off to the side with a shy red look on his face, “Oh I don’t know… all I’m good at is fixin broken toilets.” He said.
“And you are the best plumber this side of Horry County babe.” Candy said as she grabbed his arm and pulled him over to her, “and the sexiest!”
More fireworks crackled, the sun disappeared, and bright stars shined against a black canopy. Tourists walked past them in small droves, entered the store, and came out with bags of fireworks. It was the beginning of the tourist season; something the locals both loved and hated. The salty air was now mixed with the smell of the explosive black powder as the wind carried it off the beach. The sounds of children’s laughter and the crunch of the gravel shot by them as little boys and girls ran for the beach. A parent shouted for them to slow down and wait.
Larry and Cherry excused themselves and headed into the store. “Get one of the big packets would ya?” Jody shouted. Larry turned and shot him a thumbs up. Candy stood with Jody, their hands connected and pulsating against each other. She looked at him and h
is eyes stared back longingly.
“Baby…” he bent to one knee, “will you marry me?” He slid his high school ring over her finger. It was much too big for her; but she still thought it was a sweet thing; her fat man was one big jiggly romance.
She stared at him and chuckled, then said: “We just graduated a month ago… now you want to get married?”
His fat face squished in like he sucked on a sour lemon, or like an angry child, “Dammit woman! Don’t foul up the mood with a bunch of talk. Just say…”
She pressed her lips against his, then pulled away after a few moments. “Yes! I will marry you, my sweet fat man!”
5
The world around her returned. Jody was gone. Larry and Cherry were gone. The smell of fireworks was gone. The stench of death and the pounding of dead hands on her windshield told her that that life was over. That world was gone. Never to return. Those days that were filled with laughter, sandy beach nights, warm fires and friendly embraces were replaced by death’s hot summer breath and bone chilling winters that froze more than just bone, but soul and passion itself. She felt the tears streaming down her cheeks. A horde now surrounded the Hummer. Their dead faces staring in at her, wanting her flesh, her hot blood.
She pressed the gas and forced the horded out of the way; they fell down like bowling pins. She stared into the rear view and saw the boy in the varsity jacket reaching out towards her. Who had he been? Just a happy high school boy looking forward to summer, feeling anxious about his upcoming freshmen year a college. What would he have done with his life had the Fever not come? Who would he of married? How many kids would they of had? Would they of settled down here in Horry County? Raising their kids to repeat the cycle of American dreams all over again?
She pushed the mirror down and forced herself to stare at the road ahead. Her mind was shutting down to the Old World morality. Her thoughts grew increasingly dark and sinister; she was slipping deeper and deeper into losing empathy for any and all people.
