Resurrection X

by Dane Hatchell

  By that time Slim Jim was beside the car that had hit Butterbean, his gaze fixated on the blood at the scene.

  The woman struggled to breathe, resembling a fish out of water. Her eyes were wide open, her mouth moving as she tried to speak. “Help me . . . .” she whispered.

  Slim Jim bent over, lowered his hand to her face, and dipped his fingertip in the blood that trickled down her cheek. He lifted his finger and brought it to his pale, gray eyes to examine.

  The woman managed to reach with her left hand and grab his wrist. “Help me.”

  A drip of spittle ran down the corner of his mouth. He shifted his focus on the hand and slowly parted his lips.

  He grabbed her hand and shoved a finger in his mouth, chomping with a sickening crunch as the small bones cracked between his teeth. Blood streamed down his chin, dripping like slow rain to the pavement below.

  Her life draining away, the woman gasped, unable to find the strength to scream as her attacker continued to devour delicate flesh.

  Her head flopped to the side. She looked up into the shadow of another navy blue clad Non-Dead. Drool dripped from his mouth and landed on her forehead.

  “My stars! What’s wrong with your crew? They act like they don’t have any sense at all,” Larry called out to Andy, as he helped an old man out of his truck.

  Before Andy could answer, Larry’s crew of Non-Dead inundated the traffic on the opposite side of the interstate. Rubbernecking had the traffic on that side crawling, which allowed the vehicles to come to a complete stop without hitting any of the Non-Dead.

  “Uh oh.” Larry held his breath as cars and trucks skidded to a halt. “Andy, we need backup!”

  The side glass of an automobile shattered two cars away from Andy. Abdul had smashed it with his fist, and grabbed the young female driver, trying to yank her out the window.

  “Abdul! Have you lost your mind, boy?” Before Andy could get to the scene and pull him away, Abdul had the top half of the girl’s body poking out the window. He wasted no time in devouring the nose off her face.

  “He’s done gone meat-eating zombie on us! Larry! Come quick!”

  Larry followed as Andy ran and grabbed Abdul from behind in a half-nelson hold, pulling him to the ground, and away from the girl. The girl fell back into her seat, her arms hanging over the side, unconscious from shock.

  Squeezing with all his might, Andy fought to maintain his hold. “This ain’t going to work. We got to get to his brain to kill him.”

  Larry knelt by his side. “What do you want me to do? My shotgun’s in the bus. Do you want me to get it?”

  Andy strained trying to twist Abdul’s head around. It inched to the side a little at a time until it popped. Abdul’s head cocked to one side, his neck broken, though no more dead than he was before. “You got a knife?”

  Larry reached in his pocket and pulled out a four-inch locking blade skinning knife. “Right here!”

  Raising his arm to Abdul’s chin, Andy said, “Pretend you’re at the deer camp and going to cut a buck’s head off.” Andy held the jaw in check, keeping the teeth mashed together as Larry sliced through tendons and muscle. The black blood of the undead oozed like thick motor oil onto the pavement.

  When the blade reached the spine, Andy gave the head one last jerk and detached it from the body. He tossed the head to the side and jumped back on his feet. “Get yer shotgun! Get on the radio! We’s need backup, now!”

  *

  “What’s going on over there?” Mrs. Wascome pushed her glasses higher on the bridge of her nose. “Over there on the corner. The traffic’s piling up.”

  Carrie squinted, trying to focus, her eyes not being as strong since she turned forty. “What, that road crew? They’re working on a drainage project. But something strange is definitely going on. It looks like they’re walking off the job.”

  “What’s the world coming to? I wonder if one of those protesting groups is over there making a scene.”

  Carrie closed one eye. “I don’t think so. I don’t see anyone carrying signs or anything. Look at them, wandering off in different directions. They’re acting like they’re drunk.”

  “Those damn zombies need to know their place,” Mrs. Wascome said. “Excuse me, I should keep my thoughts in my head.”

  “I’ve never seen anything like this before.” Carrie bit her lower lip. “I don’t like that two of them are heading toward the playfield. They’re almost to the fence, and the children are playing kickball over there. I’m going to bring them back this way.” Pulling the waist of her jeans higher, she left the covered patio of Little Patriots Daycare, briskly trekking toward the children.

  The first Non-Dead who arrived at the fence bumped into it as if it weren’t there. He backed away and then walked into it again.

  Shawn was up next to kick, legs quivering in anticipation. He looked at his watch and tensed up even further. His team was two scores down. He craned his neck and saw Jenny, who gave him a smile. If he kicked a home run, he would win the game for their team. “I’ve got to make this for Jenny,” he said under his breath.

  Jacob wound up and slung the ball toward him. It came straight his way, a nice clean release. Shawn took four choppy steps, timing his kick for the precise moment of contact.

  Phomp! His right foot met the rubber ball slightly above the ground. It soared overhead of second base and bounced to the fence’s edge. The runners on first and third advanced. Shawn put his head down and ran as if his life depended on it.

  With the fate of the game in his hands, Willie ran to get the ball to preserve the one point lead.

  Misjudging his speed, Willie overran the ball, and crashed into the fence. He was so focused on the game he didn’t even see the Non-Dead behind it.

  With his pale fingers poking through the storm fence, the Non-Dead seized Willie, latching onto the back of his shirt.

  Carrie watched the attack unfolded before her eyes as cold fear shook her insides. “No, oh my God, no. Willie, run away, son. Run away!”

  Willie yelled in surprise. The determined Non-Dead pulled him back in to the fence and made a futile attempt to bite him.

  Teeth gnashed against galvanized steel.

  “Help! I’m stuck and a dog’s trying to eat me!” Willie screamed.

  Mrs. Wascome saw Carrie running toward the children, raised her glasses, and saw Willie struggling to free himself from the zombie. “Run, Willie! Run! It’s happening again! It’s happening again!”

  Her knees buckled. She held on to a support beam until the weakness passed. “Six-one-six—six-one-six—six-one-six,” she repeated, and headed inside to find a phone and report the emergency.

  The second zombie arrived and tried to reach over the six-foot tall fence for Willie. His arm wasn’t nearly long enough, and he abandoned his efforts, falling to his knees alongside the other zombie.

  The children watched in frozen horror as Willie continued to scream.

  Carrie ran with a limp, her hand busy massaging her right thigh. “Get away! Get away from him!”

  The kneeling zombie snaked two fingers through the links and pulled Willie’s ear until it poked through. He curled his lips back and bit off a portion of the ear.

  Willie’s shriek sent the kids scattering toward the safety of the Day Care building.

  “Run, children! Run!” Carrie pushed through her pain and avoided crashing into the children as they raced by.

  Willie’s cheeks glowed cherry red as he fought to free himself from his captors. “Let me go! Let me go!”

  “Get your damn hands off him, you bastards!” Carrie wheezed, out of breath.

  The first zombie maintained a tight grip while the other struggled to latch onto any part of Willie’s body that came close enough to the fence.

  Carrie ran and grabbed Willie’s arms. “Let him go! Let him go!” Two buttons popped off the boy’s shirt, but the zombie refused to release his intended next meal.

  Carrie let go of Willie’s arms and grabb
ed him by the feet. She lifted his legs and pulled backward. “Hold your arms up, Willie! Slide out of your shirt!”

  Willie did as his teacher demanded, and squirmed until his head and arms slipped free, leaving the zombie holding nothing but an empty shirt.

  Willie’s head hit the ground. He slapped at his wounded ear as if he were trying to put out a fire. Carrie dragged him several feet away before pulling him to his feet, and then ran with him to the sanctuary of the Day Care center.

  *

  It was a beautiful day for a motorcycle ride. Still a little cool from the morning, and no chance of rain in the forecast. Joel Spencer checked the rear-view mirror to make sure he wasn’t out-pacing the news crew from Channel 2.

  Today was a rare occasion where he could mix business with pleasure. Channel 2 was doing a human-interest story on the everyday man behind the politician. The show would highlight his love for the open road and the serenity motorcycle riding brought him. His day would include some time at the shooting range, a few hours volunteering at the Food Bank, a visit to a local barbershop where he had been getting his haircut from the same man for nearly thirty years, and would end with dinner at a taqueria run by a legal immigrant.

  Of course, this was an embellished production of how he really spent his off time. His campaign manager had put together the day’s schedule to ensure it would appeal to the widest of audiences.

  His first stop was to be at the shooting range. Little did News Crew 2 suspect he had chosen this route with another objective in mind. There was one event he wanted to get on film that even his campaign manager wasn’t aware of. As Spencer neared the intersection of Highway 19 and Mountain High Boulevard, a smile widened across his face concealed by his helmet. It appeared that the tainted batch of ATP at the Institution had worked according to plan.

  Traffic was at a standstill in all four directions. Spencer turned on his blinker and waited for the Channel 2 van to catch up. He turned onto the service road and headed toward the crew of Non-Dead laborers from the North Dallas Institution who were working on a drainage project.

  This will be the lead story on tonight’s news, and I’ll be giving the commentary as a witness, he thought. Spencer hoped capturing the Non-Dead on video and showing them unresponsive to orders would only bolster his position in the campaign.

  Pulling into a gas station a block away from the intersection, Spencer shut down his motorcycle, and removed his helmet.

  The dark-green Channel 2 van parked alongside him. The passenger-side window rolled down, and a dark-blond haired cameraman was the first to speak. “We won’t be able to get past that traffic jam. You want to double back and find another way?”

  “Maybe not. Something’s going on. There may have been an accident. I’m a certified EMT, so I have a moral obligation to check on anyone injured. Why don’t you follow me and bring the camera? You might get something to put on tonight’s news,” Spencer said.

  The cameraman turned his head and said something to the driver, and then turned back. “Okay. We can cut our stay at the Food Bank to make up lost time.”

  The sliding door on the side of the van opened. Jim Garrison, reporter, stepped out.

  “I heard a report over the radio about a big pileup over on Interstate six ten and Z.M.A.T.’s being flooded with calls, too. Something wild is stirring in the city.”

  Spencer suppressed a smile and feigned concern. “Let’s go see if we can be of any assistance to our brethren.” He led the way to the worksite.

  Concrete pipes, and heavy equipment on the corner, partially blocked the view of the construction site as the four men approached. When Spencer turned the corner, the guard in charge of the work crew was trying to stuff one of the Non-Dead past the open doors of the bus.

  Chuckling to himself, he jogged over to the guard. “Hey, buddy, what seems to be the problem?”

  The guard grunted as he shoved the Non-Dead up the bus steps. “Get in the back, now!” he said, pulling the doors closed with his hands the best he could.

  “What’s wrong with that Non-Dead? Why’re you treating him that way?” Spencer asked.

  “This is county business, not yours,” the guard said, then turned his head toward the cameraman and the reporter from Channel 2. “Say, what’s this? I’ve got enough problems without the media poking its nose around here.”

  “Allow me to introduce myself. My name is Joel Spencer, and I’m running for Congress.” He turned and faced the camera, beaming a wide politician’s smile. “We were on our way to the Food Bank when we noticed there was a problem.”

  “My hands are full right now. My crew stopped working and then started wandering off. So, if you’ll excuse me—” As the guard attempted to leave, Spencer put his hand on his shoulder to stop him.

  “So you’re saying the Non-Dead deliberately disobeyed your orders? And they’re on the loose, and you’re no longer able to control them?” Spencer said with eyebrows low.

  “All I’m saying is something’s wrong. I need to round up the rest of my crew. I’ve already called for reserves. We’ll get things back in order. You need to leave the area.” The guard pushed past Spencer and headed for another Non-Dead meandering between the stalled cars.

  Spencer turned to the camera. “There you have it. Proof that relying on the Non-Dead for our future is nothing more than a gamble. A gamble with the odds stacked against us. The future of mankind depends solely upon the Living. As your next Congressman, I promise to—”

  Spencer stopped when a woman’s cry for help interrupted his impromptu commercial. He turned and saw her struggling to escape the embrace of a Non-Dead.

  “Oh my God.” Spencer sprinted toward her as he reached for the holster at the small of his back and retrieved his gold plated Colt .45. What the hell has gone wrong?

  The guard led a Non-Dead by the arm to the bus. He stopped and faced the screams.

  The Non-Dead turned his attention to the screamer. Something stirred in his eyes. Still walking, he fastened his gaze upon the sweaty, glistening neck of the unwary guard.

  The Non-Dead pulled the guard to him and sank his teeth deep into the side of his neck. Blood poured out the open wound as the zombie swallowed, making room in his mouth for another bite.

  The guard gasped for air and tried to tear himself away. But the zombie had only begun to eat and showed no sign of retreat.

  By the time Spencer arrived, the zombie had eaten part of the woman’s shoulder. Without hesitation, Spencer placed the barrel of the .45 between the eyes of the zombie, and pulled the trigger.

  Putrid green-black liquid splattered on the windshield of the car behind them. Both the woman and zombie collapsed to the ground.

  Ears ringing from the gun blast, Spencer wiped his face, and frantically looked around.

  The camera steady rolled, catching everything on film. The reporter and driver hid behind the cameraman.

  This could really work in my favor, Spencer thought. He posed for the camera, holding the pistol next to his head.

  “He’s eating him! Over there!” A man outside his vehicle pointed toward the guard.

  Spencer raced past the camera as it panned to follow him on his next rescue mission. Risking his life to save others from the zombie onslaught—Joel Spencer, Congress, he thought. The camera was in no position to film the delight on his face.

  *

  Byron Poundstone walked past the empty secretary’s desk and down the hall leading to Reverend Hatfield’s office. The time had come to resolve the inner conflicts that tore at him. Stopping at the Reverend’s door, he took a deep breath, and firmly knocked.

  “Yes?” Hatfield begrudgingly called.

  “It’s Byron. I’d like to speak with you.” He listened intently at the door. Papers shuffled, the distinctive metallic snap of a cycling slide of a semi-automatic weapon cut through the air, and then a drawer banged closed.

  “Come in.”

  Byron slowly opened the door. Hatfield was by the coffee pot
and pouring himself a cup. He wore no shoes, and his dress shirt was unbuttoned all the way down.

  “Reverend Hatfield? You look . . . did you just get back from the gym? Your body seems to be shaping up but you look as if you just finished a fifty mile hike in the desert. If this is a bad time I can come back.”

  “Eh? Oh, don’t worry about me. I’ve have chronic insomnia. Dr. Fenton is treating me. I’m fine.”

  “Okay. What I have to say’s a little complicated though. It may take a while to talk this over.”

  “Time’s wasting then. Go ahead, and get on with it.” Hatfield took seat behind his desk and motioned Byron to sit in a chair across from him.

  “Well, I’ve been thinking a lot. About, you know, the events that led up to my . . . death.”

  Hatfield nodded and repositioned himself in his chair.

  “It’s funny you mentioned Dr. Scott. He’s part of my, uh, issue. We were all very close once. I wish he were here, too—to help explain things.”

  Hatfield tapped his desk with a finger. “You want to know more about the research he’s involved with?”

  “That, and more. There are things I don’t remember, things that don’t add up.”

  “Why don’t we start with you telling me what you do remember? We can go from there.” Hatfield acted a bit stressed.

  Before Byron could begin, Hatfield’s cell phone on his desk vibrated, and played the tune “How Great Thou Art.”

  “Excuse me for a minute. I have to get this,” Hatfield said. “Speak,” he said into the phone.

  “This is Cain. Have you seen Byron today?” The Warden’s words ran together.

  “Yes. In fact I’m meeting with him in my office right now. What’s wrong?”

  “How is he? Is he acting strange? Disoriented? Violent?”