The only response I received was a deflated groan like someone was just kneed in the nuts.
I was not ready for what I was greeted with when I stepped inside. Steven was standing over Jedidiah who lay in the fetal position on his lower bunk. His clothes were soaked in sweat and a guttural noise emanated from his throat like some runaway, abused mutt protecting a bakery’s Dumpster.
For an instant I thought we should go get Brother Rip for a laying on hands session, but no matter how much I didn’t like the little bastard I thought that was just plain cruel. His skin was ashen, his hair plastered against the side of his face, and he had a nasty teeth riddle bite on his cheek.
“What the hell is that?” I asked leaning down to get a better look.
“That’s why I wanted to come home. The kids are acting weird.”
“Biting each other?”
Stephen nodded. I heard of eating the body of Christ, but this was off the chart.
“Jedidiah was leaning down helping some little kid get a flipper on for the lake and the kid just lunged forward and chomped on his cheek.”
“Jesus. What kind of camp is this?”
I bent down to get a closer look. The aroma is like rotting fish and burned popcorn. His wound leaked a mixture of white and yellow pus with green, flaking crusts of skin teetering on the edges.
“Jedidiah?”
I noticed he clenched something close to his chest. I rolled him onto his back and tugged at the text: a worn bible. His fingers clasped tight. His small muscles shook. I had no idea the kid was that strong.
When I finally wrenched it free, his eyes popped open; I stumbled backwards, knocking Steven down onto the bunk behind us. Jedidah’s eyes were a leaden silver; filmy, like he had pink eye but it seeped grey-white goo that stuck to his cheeks like fat globules.
“Holy shit, Jedidiah. You alright, kid? You look like shit.”
He tilted his head sideways with an owl-like expression.
Steven scrambled up and ran out the door. I thought it prudent to follow.
“I’m going to get help, alright? I’ll send somebody.”
I turned toward the door and heard a snarl. I was just able to raise my arms and push him away as he snapped his teeth once… twice…at my midsection.
“What the hell is wrong with you, boy? You lost your mind?”
He charged again, but this time he howled. I felt the adrenaline surge, my heart jump and shake, and everything slowed down. I held his slight body at arm’s length, but he’d turn his head and chomp toward one hand then the other. It became a dance of sorts as I retreated out the door, jerking one arm back and pushing him away with the other then vice versa. The little shit was playing games.
Outside the cabin I was able to give one mighty shove and he fell back into the dirt and gravel. His arm flailed backward and he landed awkwardly on it. It twisted up at the elbow, and there was this sound, a snap like a tree branch giving way under a layer of ice and it made an inverted “V” shape. He sat there for a moment and didn’t make a sound.
My stomach acted on its own accord and relieved itself of the western omelet and three cups of coffee I had before my trip to Camp Victory. I barely had time to wipe my mouth before he sprung to his bare feet and pounced at me, his arm swinging uselessly at his side.
I did what any normal human being would do: I smashed him in the face with the Bible. It didn’t seem to faze him, so I did it again. He slowed, but not much. I retreated, pursued step-by-step, Jedidiah’s eyes searching for a place to land one of his teeth-cracking snaps.
Suddenly, I felt my heel snag on something and I felt my body falling. I pictured myself, the awkward spinning arms looking for something to catch myself with, then deciding the ground was the only option. I knew my mouth was open, but I couldn’t scream.
Jedidiah was on top of me and my mind flashed to a Discovery special on the big cats. A young zebra or elk or some other stupid hoofed creature lost its footing and slipped, crashing onto it side. The cat was on it, teeth bared and claws digging in before it had even stopped sliding.
I held Jedidiah by the shoulders and it took everything I had to hold him there above me. I felt my muscles straining, my chest aching with exhaustion. Jedidiah screamed in what seemed frustration and shook his head like a wet dog trying to shake off water. Saliva and eye goop spattered my face.
“Now that’s fucking unnecessary,” I screamed out of fear more that anything.
Suddenly there was a smashing against Jedidiah’s head and he rolled off into the gravel. Steven stood over me, a large rock in his hand. His chest heaved, tears traced patterns down his face.
I scrambled to my feet and grabbed the rock from his small hand. He wrapped his arms around my waist and held on. I felt his slight body next to mine and a wave of relief seemed to pass between us.
When I felt his grip tight and body tremble, my eyes snapped open and I saw what Steven saw: Jedidiah was sitting up, his teeth bared.
I willed myself to him, raised the rock, and brought it down on his temple. It was like cracking a walnut. A big fucking walnut. With hair.
Jedidiah’s body stopped moving. I had a rock covered in blood splotches and brain matter…and Steven was whimpering.
I dropped the rock and grabbed Steven’s hand. As we walked toward the main auditorium, we heard kids shrieking in just about all directions. While these God-fearing shits were having a merry old time playing whatever games they’re playing, I have blood under my fingernails and a neighbor whose going to be a little distraught I killed her only son. Life sucked.
As we neared the auditorium, we saw the young counselor who I met coming in and Brother Rip chasing another counselor around and around a fire pit. The counselor was a youngish guy who seemed quite intent on not being tagged. He was sweating profusely, barely able to catch his breathe. It looked like some crazy game of tag.
Steven reached out and grabbed my hand.
“It’s okay, kid. They’re just goofing around.”
Steven and I continued on and I felt his hand grow slick with sweat. His fingers tightened. I glanced down at his hand and they were cold, white things.
Waving at them, the counselor and Brother Rip both stopped in their tracks to stare at me. Their eyes were dull silver things and their mouths were ringed with blood and what seemed to be pieces of flesh.
The boy took advantage of the brief respite and put his hands on his knees, sucking wind. Then, the boy straightened and appeared to take a step in the opposite direction, but abruptly the counselor jumped over the fire pit and tackled the winded boy. He yelped, but was too slow. The boy instinctively wrapped his hands over the back of his head, but the counselor didn’t go for his head. She was on him like a cowgirl on a horse, or a kid looking for a piggyback, and she bent down low, practically laying on top of him. When she rose up, the boy’s carotid pumped blood into the dirt. She chewed. I swear to God, she was gnawing on the boy’s neck. His red fluids ran down her chin. When she went down for another bite, my stomach was a revolution of knots.
All illusions of exhaustion disappeared when Brother Rip strode toward us.
My mind raced as images of bad B-movies raced around my noggin’: Corpses are Forever; Dawn of the Dead; I Was a Zombie; Kung Fu Zombie; Resident Evil. Pattie Jo is never going to believe Jedidiah talked our kid coming to zombie camp.
Steven and I took about two seconds to start running, and Brother Rip followed. He growled, Steven screamed. We had a good fifteen yards on Brother Rip, but Steven was a kid, and I was old so it was only a matter of time before he caught us.
We ran into the forest, away from the cabins. We ran through brambles and over moss covered stones and kicked up a layer of rotting leaves left from last fall. Steven tried to look back once.
“Go, go,” I screamed at him. That was the last time he turned around to find Brother Rip.
I ran behind Steven and did, in fact, spy Brother Rip whenever I could. It’s a strange thing when terror take
s hold. Your body feels separate from you, but tingles with anticipation. Your chest feels tight even though you’re sucking in so much oxygen you might make yourself hyperventilate and pass out. Your head rings with questions, but your mind pushes them out as fast as they present themselves and refocuses your attention on every freaking step.
Brother Rip was catching up, and I tried to find anything I could use as a weapon without stopping and wasting too much time. When Steven slid to a stop and I barreled into him causing both of us to shout out obscenities as we tumbled to the ground, the only thing I thought was that if Jedidiah was that strong, Brother Rip would make a nice meal out of me.
“What the fuck are you doing, Steven?”
But he was already doing a semi-crawl scramble to his feet before I could even get his name out. Smart kid. Then I realized why he stopped.
A dozen kids trampled through the woods towards us, blocking our way to my car. They all wore flags in the shorts and colored jerseys on. They all spied us and each gave a hyena like grin.
Boys, girls, all dead eyes, all bloody and half-eaten, all coming at us.
I made it to my feet and followed Steven through the thick oak trees. The dozens of feet and kids’ vocal chords making sounds like oil spitting behind me forced me to keep my attention straight ahead.
In front of us, I saw the trees thinning, the sun piercing the canopy of leaves creating ghosts on the ground. My chest burned and sweat stung my eyes. I felt the cut fabric of my pants flap against my skin and the wind rush up my leg.
When we made it out of the forest, the shimmering blue of water met us. A dock with kayaks bumping against its sides was just visible, but if we could make it, we might be able to get to the other side of the lake and perhaps far enough away from this carnage to get our bearings.
“Steven,” I said pointing.
He nodded.
We headed that way, but two more zombies appeared out of the woods and blocked our path. One was a counselor, a cute girl—at least she was once—with strawberry hair and freckles. Her ankle was clearly broken, the stub of shin bone sticking out, her foot flopping with every step, held on by only a little meat and skin. When she hobbled toward us, she reminded me of a pirate stumbling on a wood peg leg.
The other was a young kid. Kindergarten maybe. She was a slight child with beautiful pale skin. Her brown hair was in a ponytail. She made my heart ache. She sported a thin gold necklace with a cross dangling from it. She smiled and she had blood between her teeth.
I thought of Steven and prayed. “Please God, don’t let Steven get bit, don’t let him get infected, don’t let some creature eat him. I will change my ways, I promise.” I prayed all the prayers people normally do when confronted with a cold, dark reality. Only, this time, I knew it to be true deep down in my heart. If He wanted a convert, a new disciple I would be His. I’d praise His name, go to church, stand on corners.
But for some reason, as I took in the young girl, I knew it was useless.
The zombie behind us closed in, and the two in front of us charged. “The water!”
Steven didn’t need the direction again. He sprinted into the water, kicking up spray, and slowing down the farther he got in, until he dove under the clear surface and swam. I followed, feet plunging into the cold, the shock of it on my skin reinvigorating my body, giving me that shot, that push I needed.
The zombies closed in, clutching at my shirt and I heaved myself away. I dove and kicked my legs trying to put as much distance between them and myself. I tried to remember my swim lessons with Charlie Pascalia. Cup the water, pull, kick, turn your head and breathe.
When my sides ached with cramps, I stopped and faced the shore. Treading water, I sucked air and watched zombie after zombie step into the water continuing to come after us. Steven was about five yards ahead of me, also catching his breath, also watching.
The zombies didn’t stop. The water pushed against their bodies, and for a minute they seemed buoyed by the air in their lungs, then one by one, the last of the children’s’ heads slipped under the surface. Brother Rip must have been one of the first to sink like a rock.
I laughed. It was a giddy schoolgirl laugh but I didn’t care.
“You see that? You see that? Fuck them,” I said, holding up my middle finger in a grand show of defiance. Steven smiled.
Then I felt it, a tickle against my calf. At first I thought it a plant or fish brushing against my skin, then something clasped around my ankle.
“They’re on the bottom! They’re fucking walking on the bottom!” I screamed as I felt the tug on my leg. I was a sinker being pulled and my heart felt like it was going to explode right there, come spewing out of my mouth like a bloody red scream.
When my head went under, I was frantic. My arms flailed, my legs mercilessly kicked. I heard Steven scream “Dad!”
That zombie down there was tall and strong. That zombie was Brother Rip. I felt his dead fingers squeeze my ankle tight, cutting off the blood flow to my foot. I used every bit of strength I had to pierce the surface.
“Swim, Steven, swim!” I gurgled before being pulled under again. I felt his other hand on my pant leg, I felt him pull down, one hand reaching over the other, much like climbing a ladder, and unfortunately I just happened to be the ladder.
I screamed and took in a lungful of air. My chest burned and my whole body jerked, struggling to get loose, but when I felt Brother Rip’s teeth bury themselves into my chest and the stinging pain radiating like a gunshot, I breathed deep.
Fucking Louise.
Fucking zombies.
Born and raised in Ohio, Andrew Black is a writer of weird fiction with a Midwestern flair. He has written stories for Short-Story.Me, SNM Horror Magazine, and the anthology Eye Witness Zombie from May December Publications. He maintains a blog of writing tips, rants, weird news and movie and book reviews at maskofreason.wordpress.com.
Influences on his writing come from H.P. Lovecraft, Robert E. Howard, Lin Carter, Brian Lumley, Jim Butcher, R.A. Salvatore, and Stephen King. Many of his stories are set in and around a fictionalized version of his rural Ohio hometown, and incorporate local folklore and ghost stories.
Andrew currently resides in Hilliard, Ohio, with his fickle muse, an old black housecat named Luna.
Damsel In Distress truly lives up to its name, because what is a single girl supposed to do when surrounded by a world of zombies. Angela Crawford was a successful, independent woman who appeared to be lucky in life but unfortunately kept getting the short end of the stick when it came to love. Unfortunately, obsessing on the one part of her life that stunk, Angela didn’t appreciate all she had, that is until the day she came home and slowly discovered that the world was hurtling downhill as the zombies began rising.
Trapped in what was once an incredibly safe and secure haven, Angela struggles to survive this undead invasion. As life as she knows it—as we all know it—disintegrates to chaos by brain-eating monsters, and humanity is reduced to every man and woman for themselves, Angela suddenly finds her Knight in Shining Armor…or at least red coat. Angela now has to discover if it is too late for love in a world being consumed by fire, explosions, zombies, and indescribably danger?
Damsel In Distress
By: Andrew Black
Most people say that chivalry is dead. Fortunately for Angela Crawford, that wasn’t entirely true.
Angela was twenty-seven, an independent woman living downtown in the recently renovated Hanscomb Tower with a great job at a marketing firm. She was also utterly depressed, usually due to her lack of luck at romance. She’d dated almost two dozen men since graduating college and they had gone from bad to worse. She considered switching sides and becoming a full lesbian, but all the women she knew were even crazier than she was. She had sworn off dating after the last guy, a real piece of work named Jeffery, hadn’t taken “no” for an answer after their third date and had forced her into her bedroom to have his way with her.
That had been a big tu
rning point for her. She could have probably pressed charges, but Jeffrey had sworn that if she did, he would get out on bail and come see her with a baseball bat, or maybe with the .45 he kept in a shoebox in his closet, and only one of them would walk away from that. Instead, she kept quiet and quickly found a new apartment. She was, in fact, the first person to move into the twenty-third floor of the big slab of a building, and one of only about a hundred folks who lived in the apartments at all. It was nice having essentially the whole floor to herself, no noisy neighbors to contend with, but it was also creepy at night when she had to walk past all those empty rooms.
She might have pieced her world back together, made a fresh start and forgotten all about Jeffrey-the-date-rapist, but life was never that simple. Something impossible happened that left her stranded in her apartment, trapped with no way out. The dead had risen, and they were hungry.
The first day of the end of the world had been a Friday, and Angela hadn’t paid any attention to the sporadic news reports of riots breaking out in some East Coast cities. All she could think of was finishing her work and getting out of the office, not that she had a date or any sort of plans for the weekend. She didn’t like being around people much after Jeffrey, and being safe and sound in her apartment on the otherwise empty floor of her apartment building kept her focused on ending her day quickly.
She got home around 5:30 pm, ignoring the police and ambulance sirens, took the elevator to her floor, slipped off her high heels and closed and bolted the apartment door behind her, finally safe from the world outside, or so she thought. Another long work week was finished, and she wanted to have a good long nap before watching some television and pigging out on a quart of ice cream in the freezer. She stripped out of her work clothes, threw on a comfortable t-shirt and sweatpants, and promptly fell asleep on her big, empty bed.
She had strange dreams, not quite nightmares, but uncomfortable enough to make her rumple the sheets around her. She was running from someone, or something, in her dream, and she couldn’t get away no matter how hard she ran. Whoever it was wanted to eat her, which was a real problem seeing that she was a giant ice cream cone. There was probably something Freudian about that image, but her unconscious mind was oblivious to such things. Her pursuer, who turned out to be Jeffrey in a jumbo-sized Raggedy Andy outfit, finally caught her and took a big bite of her dripping vanilla body. She woke with a start as her dream-self was consumed, the sounds of distant thunder echoing outside, her heart still beating hard in her chest.
Chivalry Is Dead Page 13
