Less Than Human

by Tim Meyer

  LESS THAN HUMAN

  by Tim Meyer

  Copyright © 2013 Tim Meyer

  All Rights Reserved

  Kindle Edition

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, events, and locations are fictitious or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons or events, living or dead, are entirely coincidental.

  This file is licensed for private individual entertainment only. The book contained herein constitutes a copyrighted work and may not be reproduced, stored in or introduced into an information retrieval system or transmitted in any form or by any means (electrical, mechanical, photographic, audio recording, or otherwise) for any reason (excepting the uses permitted to the licensee by copyright law under terms of fair use) without the specific written permission of the author.

  Also by Tim Meyer

  Demon Blood: Enlightenment

  The Thin Veil (A Novella)

  In the House of Mirrors

  For my Pops, the best man I know...

  Special shout out to Pete Draper and

  his red pen of destruction.

  And of course, my wife, Ashley Meyer,

  for if it wasn't for her, none of this

  would be possible.

  CONTENTS

  CAGES

  GAMES

  ENDS

  LESS THAN HUMAN

  CAGES

  CHAPTER ONE

  Gunshots removed him from a dream he wouldn't remember. The hotel room came into focus faster than it had faded hours before. Dim light entered his eyes. The other man in the room rushed over and helped him to his feet, his arm still throbbing from where the car had barreled into him.

  Gunshots again. Screaming.

  From the look on his face, the man could tell what he was going to ask.

  “They're okay,” the man said. “They're still in their rooms.”

  The kid nodded. Opening his mouth, he found speaking difficult. His throat burned, sore and scratchy from heaving into the bushes earlier that day. He still tasted vomit, spat dry air.

  The kid nodded at the door as the firearms continued singing their thunderous songs.

  “I dunno,” the man said. “Other survivors, maybe.”

  More gunfire. A man cheered unnecessarily loud, like an overly-proud parent at a soccer game.

  “They sound happy,” the kid croaked. Short rounds of shells being emptied into the groaning horde, their chatter echoing in the night.

  Then, they heard a voice that made their hearts sink.

  “Help us,” a girl next door called. “We're trapped. Please... help us!”

  “Help us,” Brittany Torres begged through the small crack between the door and the jamb. A walking corpse that had passed their room suddenly changed direction, started shambling toward them. Its head splintered into a thousand pieces when a man standing in the bed of a black, muddy pickup truck aimed his shotgun and pulled the trigger. Brit recoiled. A minute later, after several additional rounds of shotgun chatter, she returned to the cracked doorway, pleading for help once again. “We're trapped in here!”

  “Brittany, get away from the door!” her mother hollered.

  Huddled in the corner of the room, Victoria Torres cradled Emily, Brit's younger sister. The three of them had been watching the parking lot for the last hour, unable to move as the slow-moving corpses quickly multiplied. As the minutes passed, their chances of leaving diminished. They waited for the dead to break down their door, bringing their doomed journey to an end.

  That's when the three Good Ole Boys showed up toting shotguns, swigging whiskey straight from the bottle, and blowing away the flesh-crazed corpses with their boom sticks. Redneck-looking motherfuckers sporting flannel shirts with the sleeves cut off and the bottom of their jelly-bellies slightly exposed. Trucker hats covered their balding heads. Brit noticed two of them had full-grown beards, while the other sported an unruly goatee. They appeared drunk, shouting wildly. Celebrating as their shotguns popped the corpses' heads like balloons at a dart-throwing contest.

  Brit called to them once again. This time, they heard her.

  “Who dat?” asked the one standing in the back of the truck. The burly man reminded her of alligator wrestlers she had seen on television. “Someone out der?” he said. “Quiet ya'll,” he hushed his companions. “Think I hurd sometin'.”

  “We're in here!” Brit shouted over the groaning horde and their shuffling feet.

  The man in the truck scanned the lot, spotted Brit waving to him from the motel room. “Well, I'll be goddamned! Cooter, Floyd, looks like we gots ourselves other survivors!” Then he bellowed “Heeee-hawww,” which attracted several dead folk. They crept over to him, their arms outstretched, craving the taste for the shotgun-wielding man's organs. He put them down without any hesitation, laughing as their heads exploded like light bulbs, splattering against the pavement. He reloaded, letting out another alcohol-induced battle cry. “Come on out der, lovely lady. Don't worry. Ole Otis T. Barker has come to save yer pretty little ass. Ain't he boys?”

  The boys cheered, raising their bottles in agreement.

  Brit turned to her mother and her sister. “They've thinned the pack by half. We can make it if we run.”

  “What about Ben and Josh?” Emily asked.

  Her mother ignored her. “How do we know we can trust those guys?” Victoria asked. “They sound... drunk. And crazy as hell.”

  “We don't have much of a choice, Mom. We can either hope they're decent country folk or stay here and get torn apart by zombies.” Brit arched her eyebrows, impatiently waiting for her mother's response. “Your choice.”

  “Shit, Brittany. I wish you'd discuss things with me before calling out to strangers for help,” she said, scrambling to her feet. “Come on, honey.” She helped Emily to her feet, wrapping her arms around the young teenager.

  Together, they walked out into the zombie-populated parking lot.

  “Well, well,” Otis T. Barker said. “Ain't ya'll a sight fer sore eyes.”

  “They're leaving the room,” Josh said.

  “What?” Ben asked.

  Josh had been watching the whole scene unfold, informing Ben about the three inebriated gentlemen in the pickup truck, firing off rounds left and right, leaving a long crimson trail of headless bodies before them.

  “Yup,” Josh said. “They're moving through the zombies. There's only about two dozen left. That guy in the truck bed took most of them out. Dude's a pretty good shot.”

  Josh's admiration for the man in the truck didn't exactly comfort Ben. He slipped his heel into his shoe, then sprung to his feet. “Help me grab some things.” Ben started packing snacks and bottles of water into the plastic bags he had collected the day before. Josh scurried away from the window and helped him.

  “So much for waiting for sunup,” Josh said.

  Ben packed the last of their supplies, then headed toward the door. Josh grabbed the blood-stained baseball bat, resting it on his good shoulder.

  “Ready?” Ben asked.

  Josh nodded.

  Ben pushed the door open, then sprinted toward the truck. Josh followed him. The parking lot smelled like rancid meat. A limping dead man greeted them, mouth open, ready to consume whatever flesh it could. Josh silenced its snarls by swinging the bat level with its cheek. The zombie's jaw disconnected from the lower half of its face, disappearing into the darkness. It continued after him, hands grasping for Josh's sweaty, warm flesh. Although it had no means to bite him, it pursued Josh anyway. Once again, he raised the bat, aiming a little higher this time. He swung for the fences. The corpse's head snapped sideways, became detached. Well, sort of. The rotten cranium clung to the zombie's neck by a thin strand of sinewy material. Blood oozed from the dent on the z
ombie's skull. It stumbled around for a brief moment before its knees buckled, sending the thing that used to be human to the ground. Josh almost puked when he saw maggots spill out of the empty cavity where its head and neck were once attached.

  He didn't waste time ending the creature's misery. Josh weaved between the dead, trying to catch up with Ben, who was only about ten paces away from the truck. He saw the girls had already been huddled into the bed. The burly hunter extended his arm in Ben's direction, a drunken smile somewhat hidden in his bearded face. The man squealed when his comrade took the head clean off a zombie's shoulders before yanking Ben into the back of the truck.

  Josh hurried toward the truck, dodging the lazy attacks from nearby cadavers. He hustled, making it there, struggling to find his breath. The big oaf helped him into the bed. Josh swung his legs over the side of the truck, away from several of the approaching dead. Otis Barker took them out with ease. Josh watched in grotesque awe as their heads exploded, leaving wet clouds of crimson in their wake.

  “Let's get the hail outta hur!” Otis yelled to the driver.

  The driver pointed out of the window. “Look, Otis! It's one of dem runnin' kinds!”

  “Shee-it,” Otis muttered.

  Out of the darkness, a freshly-turned corpse materialized. The running corpse moaned incoherently between bites of another man's hand. The flesh-eater raced toward them with the quickness of an Olympic sprinter. No longer concerned with his current meal, the zombie chucked the gnawed hand, concentrating solely on the bags of meat in the back of the truck.

  Otis aimed his gun. Fired. The shotgun roared, the barrage of bullets bringing the runner to the ground. The zombie crawled on the road, gnashing its teeth together, craving the coppery taste of blood.

  “Say g'nite, mo-fucker,” Otis said, then blew the zombie's head to bits, leaving a red smear on the asphalt.

  The boys howled into the night like wolves at the moon.

  As they drove off, Ben wondered if the girls had made the right decision.

  “Ain't no sense goin' back now,” Cooter said, once they had distanced themselves from the motel. “It'd be suicide.”

  “My car is back there,” Ben argued. “There are essentials in there. More water, snacks, toothpaste—”

  “We got all dat sheet,” Floyd told him through his long, strawberry-blond goatee, which ended near his abdomen. He reminded Ben of ZZ Top. “Sheet, ya'll can come back with us. We got plenty.”

  “Really?” Victoria asked. “We wouldn't want to be a bother.”

  “Ain't no bother,” Cooter said. “We like helping strangers. Lots a folks need help now. Especially since we da' only ones with power in deez parts.”

  Ben looked at him curiously. “Did you say power?”

  “Sure as sheet did. Got generators. Three of dem. Big fuckers. Got 'nuff gasoline to last us years.”

  “Holy shit,” Brit said, smiling. She hugged her mother and her mother squeezed back so tightly she thought her ribs might crack.

  “Mister, you don't know how happy we are to hear you say that,” Ben said. “You don't happen to have a working telephone, do you?”

  “Yessir, we do,” Otis said. “Only, don' know who'd pick up in a time like this.”

  “I'd like to call my ex. She lives in Pittsburgh with my son. Even if she doesn't answer, I'd like to leave a message. Let them know I'm coming.”

  Otis shrugged. “Don't see the point, but whateva. What dem Mexicans say? Mi casa, su casa, oh some sheet.”

  Everyone smiled. Even Josh. His face glistened beneath the moonlight. Sweat dribbled down his neck. His hands twitched uncontrollably. Come on, man. He closed his eyes. Get a grip of yourself.

  “Fucks wrong wit dat one?” Floyd nodded at Josh.

  “He's sick,” Ben answered for him.

  Josh shot him a thankful glance.

  Otis peered at Ben, squinting. “He bit? Don't ya lie to me now.”

  “No. No, he's just—”

  “Sheet. Looks like he tweakin'.” Otis chuckled, stroking his mustache. “Need a fix, huh, son?”

  Josh looked at the redneck with leery eyes.

  “Sheet. I know a tweaker when I see one. You's a tweaker.”

  Silence fell over them.

  “No matter!” Otis exclaimed. “Tweakers and non-tweakers be welcome at the Barker residence. Sheet.”

  “We would pay you for your hospitality, but I guess money isn't really an issue anymore, is it?” Brit said, laughing uncomfortably, hoping to end the awkwardness.

  It only made things worse.

  The Barker Brothers' (the side of their pickup proclaimed) eyes fell on her, undressing her slowly. They made no effort to hide it. Brit averted their gaze, suddenly wishing she was someplace else. Sadly, they were stranded. They were in the middle of nowhere. In the dark. The salty smell of marsh was all around them. They had no car, no way of escaping. They were at the mercy of their rescuers. The tone of the evening had reversed itself. Brit suddenly wished she had stayed in the hotel room, living dead or no living dead.

  “Der other ways of payment, missy,” Cooter said, puckering his lips.

  “You've got to be kidding me,” Brit said, disgusted. They probably had six teeth between the three of them. The idea of her lips even coming within an inch of their mouths made her want to hurl. They smelled like stale tobacco and sweaty armpits. Even the marsh couldn't overpower their unpleasant musk.

  “If you think that—” Victoria started to say.

  “We just joshin' ya. We ain't like that,” Cooter said. “Are we boys?”

  “Nope,” Otis said, grinning.

  “Naw, our momma raised us right,” Floyd added. “Ya'll meet her real soon. Sheez a peach. Just the best damn lady ya'll ever meet.”

  Ben smiled. “Sounds nice,” he said, barely able to concentrate on what was going on around him. All he wanted was to hear his son's voice again.

  “Well, what're we waiting fer?” Otis said. “Let's get own home.”

  The ride home was bumpy due to the many unpaved roads they had taken. The rocky trip made Josh queasy and he threw up over the side of the pickup truck several times. Otis smiled at him from the other end of the bed. Josh wrinkled his face at him, not quite grinning, and not quite telling him to go fuck himself, but somewhere in between.

  About twenty minutes later, they arrived at the Barker's residence. It was lit up like a Christmas wonderland, minus the faux snow and Santa Claus decorations. The two-story Victorian home loomed before them like a lighthouse amid the fog. It wasn't just sanctuary, but a symbol of hope. Ben felt something flow and ebb through him, a sense that maybe everything was going to be alright after all. Judging from his companions' faces, they felt the same way. Even Emily's face cracked a smile.

  “Won't the zombies see this place? It's lit up like an amusement park,” Josh said. His stomach had settled for the time being.

  “Naw,” Otis said, as Cooter brought the truck to a stop in the middle of the endless front yard. The dark made it impossible to tell where their property ended. “Ain't no folks live close to here.”

  “What did you guys do before the apocalypse?” Ben asked timidly.

  “Construction,” Otis grumbled. “Come on. We'll introduce ya'll to Momma Barker.”

  Momma Barker greeted them on the porch, happy to see some new faces. “Welcome ya'll!” she said enthusiastically. “Make yerselves right at home.” She was old—really old. Josh figured her days on earth were numbered even before the dead started reanimating. She could probably pass as one of the dead, Josh snickered to himself. She hobbled around on an old wooden cane, stained dark mahogany and clear-coated with something shiny. Her lips trembled when she wasn't speaking. Perched on the end of her nose, her glasses were much too small for her face. “I got some fried chicken in the oven. Should be done in bout fifteen minutes if ya'll wanna wash up while yer waiting.”

  “That sounds excellent,” Brit said.

  Her mother nodded.


  Emily smiled as her stomach grumbled. The thought of eating fried chicken filled her mouth with water. She could almost smell it. It smelled the way Victoria made it every Wednesday night after Girl Scouts. Her eyes welled when she thought about her camp and what had happened there. Her friends. Ranger Steve. The old woman, what was her name? Emily tried her best to concentrate on something else.

  “Ma'am? I was wondering if it would be okay to use your telephone? I just wanted to call my son, see if he's alright,” Ben said respectfully.

  “Absolutely. Come own in, come own in.” She waved them in and the five of them were herded like lambs lured to slaughter. “I'll take—what was your name, sweetheart?”

  “Uh, Ben. Ben Ackerman.”

  “I'll take Mr. Ackerman to use the telephone. Otis—you and Floyd show our guests where they'll be staying.”

  “Yes, Momma.”

  “Such good boys,” she muttered, waving Ben on.

  Ben nodded to the rest of the group. The rest of the group nodded back, wishing him luck. Then he turned, following the elderly woman as she limped her way down the hall, into the kitchen.

  The smell of fried chicken entered his nostrils, his stomach calling for it in a series of gaseous rolls of thunder. The old woman must have heard it.

  “Poor thing. Ya'll must be starving.”

  “Yes, ma'am. I don't think any of us have eaten since this whole thing began.”

  “I'll fix ya'll the best fried chicken ya'll ever had. Popeyes ain't got a thing on old Mae Barker. Ya'll can take that to the bank.”

  Ben chuckled at the old woman's quirkiness. She seemed sweet. The southern grandmother he never had. “I can't thank you enough for taking us in,” Ben told her. “You're a mighty fine woman to be doing such a good deed.”