Dying Days Ultimate Box Set 1

by Armand Rosamilia

  “I’m sorry,” George whispered. He reached and embraced Harry like a child and held him hard. Harry’s teeth snapped at George’s neck, as he tried to feed the hunger gnawing in his gut, the burning need to eat his only driving force.

  George placed the knife at the base of Harry’s skull and screamed. The blade slid smoothly into the back of the neck and up into the infected brain. Harry’s mouth stopped moving and George felt him go limp in his arms. Letting go, he backed away and, for an instant, thought he saw Harry’s eyes return to normal before growing dark in the embrace of his second death.

  Behind, a series of loud moans grew louder. George turned around and saw the grisly visages of the other characters limping toward him. A dog, a duck, and a female mouse all closed in around him. Their mouths were a bloody froth and the stench of their decay filled George’s nose. Stepping down from the platform, he stood stoic and welcomed the end.

  “Fuck you,” he muttered and brought the knife blade up to his left eyeball. His memories of his life and his beloved Martha filled him and he slowly started pushing the tip into his eye.

  “Wait! Stop!” a voice screamed above him.

  A group of men rushed in and quickly roped and hog tied the three twisted childhood characters. George hesitated and gently backed the knife away from his face.

  “You win! We’ll let you go,” he heard Rendell say.

  “I win?”

  “You made it to the middle and you slayed the beast! As a token of my good graces, I release you from our kingdom to go forth and live life to the fullest outside our home,” Rendell answered in a condescending tone.

  “I win? I had to kill the only thing I’ve been able to begin thinking about as a family in a long time.”

  “It’s a new world out there and the rules have changed. Inside these walls, we make our own new society and our own new norms. You, my friend, are nothing but entertainment to us and you performed excellently. I was rather entertained!”

  “Fuck you,” George spat and walked away.

  * * * * *

  Johnny led George to the kingdom’s gates and handed him a Desert Eagle.

  “You’ll need this,” Johnny said and opened the door George and Harry entered the day before.

  “That all?” George inquired.

  “No, and I’m sorry,” Johnny answered and pulled a 9mm from behind his back. He pointed it at George and his shaking hands made the gun wave wildly around.

  George brought his gun up quickly and squeezed the trigger. Only the click of empty chamber answered him.

  “You think Rendell wanted you to have a loaded gun, man?”

  “No, I figured as much,” George said.

  In a flash, he pulled the knife from his belt and rammed the blade into Johnny’s throat. A shower of blood sprayed out and covered George’s face and arm. Johnny tried to talk, but his sliced larynx only made bubbles and gurgling sounds as his life gushed from his body. He dropped to his knees and the gun fell to the ground. George kicked him over and picked the 9mm off the pavement.

  Then he took the knife and went to work.

  * * * * *

  “What do you think is taking Johnny so long,” the man with the long blonde hair asked.

  The other five men grumbled and trudged to the front gate where Johnny took the outsider to kill him.

  “Man, you know how he’s always fucking around in the shops and shit,” another man retorted.

  “Mother fuck…,” escaped one’s lips before the zombie crept up behind him and tore into his soft neck. It pulled its rotting head back and ripped a large flap of skin away from the young man.

  The others turned and saw a horde of zombies surrounding them. More and more undead bodies piled through the open gate and they saw what attracted them. Strewn up across the front fence was Johnny. His body hung from different places along the outer gateway. An arm lay draped over the ticket booth and a leg was jammed though the wrought-iron fencing.

  The words ‘Fuck You All’ were written in crimson across the Milton Mouse World sign, in front of the wrecked train. Zombies climbed from the bushes and from the lake, making their way to the gateway. In the distance, the screams of people were followed by answering firearm reports.

  George sat up on the monorail track and smiled. The zombies marched down Main Street and mowed down any of Rendell’s men who came to meet them. He knew it wasn’t going to bring Harry back, but in his heart he convinced himself the bastards deserved it.

  He stretched out on the track and went to sleep because, in the morning, he’d be on the move north again.

  Dying Days: Stew

  Armand Rosamilia

  Orion stood at attention next to Larry "Stew" Stewart, waiting for the signal. There were three zombies in the Cracker Barrel parking lot, all wandering aimlessly. He had a clear shot at two of them but the other was behind the façade and the closest to the front doors. The zombie was stumbling through the ornate wooden rocking chairs for sale.

  Stew bent down slightly, feeling his knees shake. His lower back, still giving him fits thanks to a war wound as a gunner in a humvee, popped loud enough he thought the zombies would hear him. "On my count, Orion. I need you to distract the last one. But first…" Stew drew his crossbow and pulled two bolts from his shoulder bag.

  With precision aim, he took out the first two zombies with perfect bull's-eye hits to the forehead, dropping them both. He turned to his faithful companion, Orion, and nodded. "Go."

  Orion ran across the parking lot in silence, stopping a few feet from the zombie and waiting until the undead noticed the dog. Orion danced backwards as the zombie approached.

  The crossbow bolt took it right in the left eye and it fell to its knees before planting face-first into the pavement.

  "Here you go," Stew said and pulled the last liver treat from his jacket pocket, tossing it to Orion. "We make a great team."

  The Cracker Barrel was dark inside, but Stew was always prepared. You didn't survive this long in such a harsh climate using a cane, with a bad back and two bad knees unless you knew what you were doing. He pulled a small flashlight from his gear and took a tentative step inside. He had his Taurus Circuit Judge rifle-barrel shotgun with .410 gauge 3-inch magnum shot shells at the ready, and his 4510 Taurus Public Defender revolver was loose in his side holster. He didn't want to alert any zombies in the area to his presence, but he would use his firepower if need be.

  He used the light to methodically scan the ruins of the Cracker Barrel, noticing the faint footprints in the gathering dust. Someone had been here and recently.

  Stew put a hand up for Orion. He didn’t want the dog to go running inside, blindly, and get bit or get shot by the living. It was safer to keep him back until he was needed. And Stew hoped it didn't get to that. He had another bolt ready to go in his crossbow.

  Once he got inside, he kept the flashlight aimed at the dirty floor, and knew there were at least three sets of recent prints in the building. The retail store side was trashed, with broken clothing racks on the floor and the shelves barren and cracked, tables rotting and covered in a layer of dust. The front windows had been blown in at some point and a pile of leaves, tree branches, and dirt were under the windows.

  Orion gave a short, low growl.

  Stew turned and fired his crossbow, striking the zombie in the face. Her dirty blonde hair, straggly and falling out, came off the top of her head as her bloated corpse hit the ground with a loud thud.

  He turned as fast as his injuries would allow, scanning the restaurant for more threats. Confident he was alone, for the moment, he bent and rubbed Orion's side. "Good job, once again." Stew wished he had more treats or some hot dogs. Orion loved hot dogs.

  The thump from the kitchen brought another bolt to the crossbow and Stew was sliding quietly across the dirty floor without a sound. He kept Orion back with a simple hand command. He didn’t want to find a hundred zombies inside and have Orion charge into the fight. And Orion would to protect Stew.<
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  Stew was glad there were no doors leading into the kitchen. From his vantage point, he could see only darkness. He put the crossbow into his left hand and slowly raised the flashlight, the beam cutting through a destroyed server station just inside the door, its light gleaming off the stainless steel counters. Before he swept the beam to either side, he saw the movement.

  The flashlight was put between his teeth and he took the shot with the crossbow, slamming the lead zombie through the nose and pushing it back into the three behind it.

  His Public Defender was pulled, and he planted his good leg and began shooting the zombies one at a time, as they stumbled out of the kitchen. He didn't want to announce his position, but he didn’t have a choice.

  The first three went down and he had a pause as the next one tried to step over his comrades and fell to the floor, kicking up dust. Stew noticed all of them were heavily armed, although, they had no brains to use the weapons.

  Stew caught the movement to his left as more zombies came from around the other kitchen door, rifles and ammo belts around their shoulders and backs. He took careful aim so he didn't hit a weapon, and started putting them down.

  He switched to the Circuit Judge and blew holes in them, taking a large chunk of the wall as well. None of the zombies got close to him, falling well short of the fireplace, between the openings.

  Another three zombies came from the left and two more from the right and Stew kept his focus, spraying back and forth until there was nothing moving. Dust and smoke stung his eyes but he didn't so much as blink, because he was too busy listening for the scraping of a shoe or any movement. Satisfied, after two minutes of keeping still, he finally entered the kitchen, leading with the Circuit Judge and his flashlight. Once he was sure the Cracker Barrel was secure, he'd go back and strip the enemy of their weapons.

  There was a lone zombie crawling on the floor at him, its legs severed from the knees. Stew put it out of its misery with a shot to the head.

  At one point, some or all of these zombies had been alive, because the office was packed with boxes of food and gallons of water, and the kitchen counters were covered with so much ammo and weapons Stew wanted to cry. "We hit paydirt," he whispered to Orion. "The only thing missing is some hot dogs for you."

  Stew smiled at his good fortune, and went about securing the dining room windows and main doors, setting traps in the parking lot, and inventorying his massive supply of guns, ammo and food.

  If he didn't find a pack of hot dogs in one of the ice chests, he'd have to keep on his journey, but at least he had a solid home base for his new missions.

  Stew smiled and pet Orion.

  Lucifer’s Revenge

  Mark Tufo

  “Forgive me, father, for the sins I am about to commit,” Lucifer said as he sat in the rectory of his church. His head was bowed; his hands clasped tightly, a rosary wrapped loosely around them. Monsignor Lucifer J. O’Malley rose, did the sign of the Holy Trinity and grabbed his sword. It had been a present from a strange and mysterious Cardinal named Baptiste some ten years previous when he had gone to the papal city. He had been invited and was nearly promoted from priest to archbishop. He considered it a high honor at the time and one, for which, he was not quite ready. In retrospect, the reason he was summoned may have been much more nefarious.

  At the time, Lucifer thought it more ornamental and strange, if truth be told, a gift of violence to a man that preached peace. The pommel was inlaid with exquisite semi-precious and precious jewels and, when hung with the point down, it was easy to see the carved depiction of Jesus on the cross. The blood of many of his parishioners stained the once gleaming blade, so much so that Jesus’ feet were now covered in it.

  It had been a slow Tuesday late afternoon. He’d been in the confessional booth listening to Grace Hanraddy spill her sins from the previous week; one even involved using canned tomato sauce when she told her husband it was home-made. He’d tried his best to convince her that in the eyes of the lord she would be absolved. She’d hit him with a doozy right before hell broke out in the home of the lord.

  “Sometimes, Monsignor, I fantasize about stabbing my husband while he sleeps. First in the throat so he can’t hurt me; then I want to stab him in his balls. The same balls he’s using to fuck his little slut of a receptionist. Is that wrong?”

  Monsignor O’Malley had nearly choked on the peppermint flavored hard candy he was sucking on. Normally, he didn’t eat anything in the confessional booth but his throat had been bothering him; he had been wondering if it was too late to get a flu shot.

  When he composed himself, he was about to give her a litany of ‘Our Fathers and Hail Mary’s’ to do in a desperate bid to keep Grace from making her husband a eunuch and a dead one at that. However, before he could, the horror began. He heard Grace’s curtain slide back and thought she was making an early exit before paying her penance. That wasn’t the case at all; it seemed God had a much faster reckoning in mind as her blood curdling scream nearly broke his ear drums.

  A splash of blood splattered against the privacy screen; there had been so much of it and it was delivered with such force it had gone through and speckled the front of Lucifer’s face and vestments. He fell back quickly to the far wall. The entire booth was shaking from the force of whatever was going on next to him. More screams began to echo throughout the church as people begin to witness the wholesale slaughter. He was ashamed to admit that it was taking a lot longer to tend to his flock than it should have. Grace’s right hand slammed through the divider and reached out toward him, almost in an accusatory gesture of ‘help me.’ That finally got him moving but not to help, not at first anyway; he moved to get away.

  Lucifer heard gurgled cries as he opened his door and stepped out. Someone, it looked like one of the neighborhood kids Randy something or other, was leaning into the booth. He couldn’t see a weapon from his angle but, from the man’s closeness to Grace, he figured it to be a knife. Grace’s left leg came out of the booth; it was twitching like a cockroach’s that had just been sprayed with an insecticide.

  “Now, see here,” the monsignor said tremulously.

  Randy something or other pulled out for a moment, his face covered in blood. A wet strip of Grace’s facial meat hung from his jaw.

  Lucifer had meant to tell the boy to drop his knife. Instead, he uttered, “Uh-urg,” as he tried to choke down the bile that threatened to issue forth. The Monsignor was dimly aware there were other horrors happening around him but all he could focus on was the milky gray-white eyes of Randy Something or Other. Even as Fred Mathinson was having his neck ripped out. Even as Don Childress and Meghan Weathers were beating a young girl, the former with his cane and the latter with her over-sized purse. The girl, who the Monsignor was sure was now the newly minted orphan of Grace ‘I want to stab his balls’ Hanraddy, was biting wildly into the air as blows rained down on her. The heavy purse that looked like it housed a bowling ball kept sending the girl reeling, but like a dogged prize fighter she kept coming back for more.

  Her skin had an unhealthy pallor, and blue veins rose up from her neck and criss-crossed on her face. Drool hung in long ribbons from her snarling mouth, her hands outstretched. She was single minded in her pursuit of the older Don Childress, who repeatedly pushed her in the forehead with the bottom of his cane to keep her at bay.

  “It’s the rapture!” someone screamed from the entryway.

  ‘I’m a Monsignor.’ Lucifer thought. Surely, if it was the rapture, I’d be one of the chosen. “Is that not so?” he asked, looking to the front of the dais and the large crucifix. Jesus was silent. Randy Something or Other had turned back to Grace; it was the sounds of him chewing through her eyeball that got Lucifer moving. He ran as fast as his body would allow, which wasn’t so bad for a fifty year old man who had kept in pretty decent shape. When he got to the pulpit, he took a quick right and ran down the hallway that led to his rectory and his personal sanctuary. ‘Surely all the answers I need are in ther
e,’ he thought as he left the church proper.

  It was a cop-out and he knew it but he was having a difficult time processing what was happening. The world around him had gone insane in under a minute. He sat in his large leather chair, hands shaking wildly. He fumbled and finally picked up the receiver to his phone; the quick burst of beeps and then silence let him know there would be no rescue from that avenue. He quickly checked his pockets for his cell phone and realized he’d left it in the confessional. He had a deep addiction to angry birds and had been playing it while waiting for a sinner to repent. He sometimes wondered what God thought about that, would he be mad or get a ‘hoot’ out of it. Lucifer was more apt to believe God would see the humor in it; at least that’s what he chose to believe.

  He could hear someone or something coming down the hallway. He got up to see if someone needed help. When he looked through the door, he quickly deduced they were far beyond any help he could offer, even last rites. He threw the heavy lock on the solid oak door, just as Randy Something or Other walked headfirst into it.

  * * * * *

  “Strange name choice Lucifer.” Cardinal Baptiste had said to him during his pilgrimage to the papal city.

  “My parents were anti-social outcasts that rebelled against everyone and everything, your grace,” Lucifer replied.

  “Ah, I see,” the Cardinal said with a twinkle in his eye. “So, to get back at them, you rebelled and became a priest. How very karma like,” he said with a smile.

  “I can assure you, my eminence, my calling was not an act of defiance,” Lucifer said, aghast.

  “This cardinal thinks doth protest too much,” Baptiste said.

  Lucifer’s face turned red; the entire conversation had a surreal feeling to it, as the men were speaking in Latin, standing on the deck that overlooked Vatican City.