Zombie's Honor

by Dane Hatchell

  Zombie’s Honor

  Dane Hatchell

  These stories are a work of fiction. People, places, events, and situations are the product of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or historical events, is purely coincidental.

  Copyright © 2014 Dane Hatchell

  Cover Copyright © P.A. Douglas

  All Rights Reserved.

  No part of this story may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted by any means without the written permission of the author.

  From Severed Press:

  From Severed Press:

  From Severed PRESS

  Other Titles Available from the Author

  Resurrection X: Zombie Evolution

  A Gentleman’s Privilege: Zombies in the Old South

  A Werewolf in our Midst

  Apocalypse³

  Club Dead: Zombie Isle

  Dead Coup d'État

  Dreaming of an Undead Christmas

  It Came from Black Swamp

  Lord of the Flies: A Zombie Story

  Love Prevails: A Zombie Nightmare

  Pheromone and Rotten

  Red Rain

  Soul Mates

  The Garden of Fear

  The Last Savior

  The Turning of Dick Condon

  Time and Tide: A Fractured Fairy Tale

  Two Big Foot Tales

  Two Demented Fish Tales

  Zombie of Iwo Jima

  Zombie God of the Jungle

  Zombie’s Honor

  It was one of those hot and sticky July evenings in south Louisiana. The sun neared the horizon and the sky had turned pink and the clouds a grayish blue. The leaves on the trees sparkled as they filtered the last light of day.

  The kids already had the campfire burning. The limbs of a dead pecan tree provided fuel that would last the night. The tree had been a victim of a tornado spun off tropical storm Candy the previous year. The 1968 hurricane season had been quiet for Louisiana so far. Florida hadn’t been so lucky having sustained four.

  The campout wasn’t an official Boy Scouts of America event, but all the kids present were current members of the national organization. This was an annual family outing where the cousins could all get together and the men get away from their wives.

  Chris was there with his son, Erik. Greg, with his sons, Wyatt and Blakey. Shane (Big Daddy) had the most with Caleb, Hayden, and Brennan. As usual, Richmond was there without his father.

  Richmond’s father wanted a better life for himself and family than working shift work at the local refinery would provide. He instead chose an education and worked nights at a grocery store to pay his way through medical college. After graduation he joined the U.S. Navy and earned enough benefits to pay his way to become a General Physician. Doctors live a very hectic life, off time had to be divided according to needs. Richmond’s father thought more of his needs than his son’s. Still, Richmond thought the world of his father and made every effort to make him proud.

  The boys’ ages varied from ten to seventeen. Richmond was the oldest of the bunch. Both he and Brennan had achieved the highest badge of honor of The Boy Scouts: The Eagle Scout.

  The camp set about half a mile off the road on property owned by Grace Baptist Church where Greg was a deacon. The property totaled nearly fifty acres. It had a pond that teamed with catfish and plenty of woods to hunt squirrels in the fall.

  Trespassing on the church’s cemetery was forbidden, and the only area restricted to the campers. The cemetery was the oldest in the Parish, and was on the state Scenic Byways route.

  The setting of the sun awakened the southern house mosquito, or what Louisianans mockingly referred to as their ‘State bird.’ Smoke from the fire offered some protection from the pesky biters, and the boys gathered close by it despite the July heat.

  Big Daddy Shane came to their rescue with a can of bug spray. “Boys, y’all gather ’round so I can spray some mosquito dope on you,” he said, while vigorously shaking a can of repellent.

  “Do we have to? That stuff stinks,” said Brennan, his oldest.

  “If y’all go home all bit up I’m going to catch hell from the woman. Now, come closer. This stuff can catch on fire, and I don’t want you to burst into flames.” The boys fell in line, and Big Daddy gave them all a head to toe spraying.

  Hayden was Big Daddy’s youngest and an aspiring ventriloquist. He didn’t have a puppet for his ‘act,’ and instead improvised by holding out his right hand while flexing his index finger as if it were speaking while he told a joke.

  “Knock, knock?” Hayden announced to the group in a high-pitched animated voice. “Knock, knock?”

  The guys meandered about, staking out areas to roll out sleeping bags.

  “Come on. Knock, knock?”

  “Who’s there?” Uncle Chris answered, because he knew Hayden wouldn’t give up until someone did.

  “Abe.”

  “Abe who?”

  “Abe C D E F G,” Hayden giggled.

  Several groans went out. One of the boys yelled, “That’s not funny.”

  “Hey, why did the man with the pony tail go see the doctor?” Wyatt thought he would take a turn. “Because he was a little hoarse.”

  “Wyatt, that doesn’t even make sense.” Richmond was not known for his sense of humor.

  “It’s a joke. It doesn’t have to make sense,” Wyatt said defensively. “Your turn. Tell us a joke.”

  Richmond thought a moment. “What’s Irish and lies around in the sun all day? Patty O’Furniture.” There was silence, and the sound of crickets literally filled the air.

  “That’s not funny. What else is patio furniture supposed to do?” Wyatt rebuffed.

  Uncle Chris laughed and thought of a thousand inappropriate jokes he could tell.

  “Not patio furniture, you dummy. Patty, a first name. O’Furniture, his last name. He’s Irish.”

  “That’s not a real name,” Wyatt said.

  “That’s enough, Wyatt. Get Blakey, and get the hot dogs out of the ice chest. It’s time to roast some wienies,” Uncle Greg said. He was the closest thing to a mother these boys would have for the next few days.

  The roaring flames of the fire had transformed into bright glowing embers, perfect for cooking tonight’s meal. Each wiener had been impaled on a young branch from a red maple tree Big Daddy cut with this pocketknife. The boys sat around the fire, meticulously turning their tube steak to get the proper amount of blistering on the skin.

  Loaves of white bread, condiments, and paper plates set on a folding card table. Along with an Igloo water cooler filled with grape Kool-Aid and several bags of chips. Each boy prepared his own meal and sat on rolled sleeping bags as they ate by the light of the fire.

  Clean-up of the meal went swiftly. All the garbage ended up in the fire. The kids took a bathroom break and unrolled their sleeping bags for the night.

  Big Daddy threw some more wood on the fire and wandered off into the woods. Uncle Chris and Uncle Greg retrieved three aluminum folding chairs and a cooler of adult beverages from the station wagon, and set up next to the fire.

  “All right, kids. It’s time for tonight’s ghost story,” Uncle Chris’s said, to the delight of the boys. All the kids, young and old, settled in and turned their attention to the storyteller. Chris waited until all the fidgeting stopped, and with a wicked smile, began the tale.

  “Tonight scary story, boys and ghouls, I call, ‘Black Aggie.’ Years ago, a wealthy businessman made some bad investments and was about to lose his mansion. So, he took out an insurance policy and poisoned his wife and got a one million dollar pay out.”

  “Wow, a million dollars!” Blakey chimed.

  “Sshh. Now, in her honor
at the cemetery, he had a bronze statue of a grieving angel placed by her headstone. It was said that when the statue was unveiled at the funeral, the face seemed to change before everyone’s eyes. The sad grieving face twisted into an expression of someone in terrible pain. And if you got too close to the statue you would get a sense of fear that the arms—COULD REACH OUT AND GRAB YOU!” Chris paused, and took a sip from a can wrapped in a brown paper bag.

  “Hey. What’s that smell?” Caleb asked.

  “That’s you,” Informed Erik.

  “Not-uh!”

  “He who smelt it, dealt it,” Erik said while grabbing his nose.

  Chris smelled it too and wondered if a skunk had come to visit or if a coyote was nearby. The wind shifted and the air cleared again.

  Chris continued, “There were stories that at night dead spirits would rise from their graves and gather around the statue. And if any pregnant woman passed though the shadow of the statue, she would miscarry. And if anyone would go at midnight and look into the eyes of the statue, they would glow red, and you would be—STRUCK BLIND FOR THE REST OF YOUR LIFE. And . . . whew . . . there’s that smell again.”

  A rustling in the woods had everyone straining to see through the darkness. Someone, or something, was definitely out there. Greg quickly did a head count. Everyone was around the fire except for Big Daddy. “Chris. What do you think it is?”

  “Don’t know. Where’s Big Daddy?” Chris asked as he turned on a flashlight and scanned the area. The rustling moved toward them, and the light illuminated a pair of eyes in the woods.

  “It’s got two reds eyes! It’s Black Aggie!” Blakey yelled.

  The kids huddled together for safety. Chris and Greg looked at one another contemplating what to do next.

  “Big Daddy. Shane. Is that you?” Greg called out. “Big Daddy. Are you out there?”

  “That’s probably Uncle Shane. I bet he’s got that mangy big foot costume on again,” Richmond surmised.

  “Hey, guys. What do you want? Can’t a guy take a dump in peace?” All heads turned as Big Daddy exited the woods on the opposite side of the commotion. Chris bathed him in the flashlight, revealing Shane with a roll of toilet paper under his arm.

  “Cut that light off. Are you trying to blind me?”

  The kids all screamed again. Chris whipped the light back around on the thing that emerged from the woods.

  Something that looked more like a skeleton than a human being lurched its way toward them. It was dressed in a soiled, torn, blue dress suit. It had long matted black and silver hair behind a face of rotted flesh. Its lips and nose had deteriorated long ago, giving it the ghastly smile of a human skull.

  Everyone went silent for a moment, frozen, not comprehending what they were seeing. The creature seemed to be moving in slow motion, and none of it seemed real.

  Chris snapped to his senses. This guy must be on dope, he thought. It didn’t matter, being six feet two inches tall, and around 240 pounds, he had no reason to fear the bag of bones. Even if he didn’t quite understand just what was going on, there were children to protect.

  Chris called for the walking corpse to stop. His voice was a little weak at first, but as the zombie continued, anger took over as he shouted his final warning. The rotting ghoul didn’t slow.

  “I said stop, damnit!” and with that, Chris rushed forward and slammed his palms into chest of the zombie.

  The zombie bounced backward a few feet and nearly fell to the ground. It composed itself, and lurched forward again.

  Chris had an oily film on his hands that reeked of old fish guts. “Erik! Go get the shotgun out of the Jeep,” he called, keeping his eyes on his adversary.

  Big Daddy had moved between Greg and the kids. “What is it, man? What the hell is that thing?”

  “I’m not sure. It looks like a zombie. This isn’t Halloween night, so it must be some kind of prank.” Chris once again slammed his palms and all the weight of his body into the zombie, letting out another yell of warning.

  “Ow! He bit me!” Chris’s left forearm was missing a chunk of flesh and blood poured from the wound.

  The zombie staggered back farther than before, but regained its balance, and came back for more.

  Chris moved over by Big Daddy. Blood dripped between his fingers as he tried to slow the flow. Erik showed up by his side with the shotgun.

  “Go ahead, Erik. Shoot it!” Chris said.

  Erik was a little unsure and nervous. He licked his lips and flipped the safety off.

  The zombie continued its approach.

  Erik closed his eyes, even though he knew he wasn’t supposed to, and fired. The birdshot peppered the chest of the walking dead man. Bits of bone and dust blew out of its backside but only caused it to stumble in its deadly approach.

  “Take a head shot! Nothing can live without a head,” Chris yelled.

  Erik was less than six feet from it and managed to keep his eyes open on the second shot. Skull, teeth, hair, and goo exploded in all directions. The body of bones collapsed to the ground.

  The second blast from the shotgun faded. The wood in the fire crackled in the background.

  Big Daddy broke the silence when he saw a puddle of blood on the ground growing from Chris’s wound. “Uh, Chris. How bad is that bite?”

  “I think it’s pretty bad. He bit a hunk out of me.” Chris was in obvious pain.

  “Well uh, let me take a look at it, and I’ll see about wrapping it up.” Big Daddy being a Scout Leader had formal Wilderness First Aid training.

  Chris turned his body to the light of the fire and removed his hand from the gash for Big Daddy to see. The top of his forearm was missing a big plug of meat. If it wouldn’t have been for all the blood, he could have seen exposed bone.

  “Ooo, uh. That’s a big flipping bite there. Band-Aids aren’t going to cover that up. We need to stop the bleeding and get you to the hospital,” Big Daddy said, and called for Hayden to get him a towel from his Mustang.

  “I’m not feeling too good.” Chris’s face had turned pale and was coved with perspiration.

  Big Daddy helped Chris to the ground. Erik knelt next to his dad and put his hand on his shoulder. Hayden brought the towel and Big Daddy did his best to slow the flow of blood. The others gathered around, wanting to help, but not knowing what to do.

  “We need to get you to the hospital. Can you walk, or do we need to carry you to the Jeep?” Big Daddy asked.

  “I . . . I don’t know. Maybe. I’m so cold.” Chris’s eyes started to flicker as if he were going to lose consciousness.

  “Stay awake, Chris. Don’t leave us.” Big Daddy tapped Chris on his cheek with his open hand.

  “Dad. Dad. Stay awake!”

  “Erik . . . listen to me, son. If I don’t make it . . . promise me you’ll earn your Eagle Scout Badge. You’re so close. It will open doors for you in life,” Chris said, straining to stay conscious.

  “I will, Dad. I promise. Just stay awake.” Erik watched his dad’s eyes close. “Wake up! Don’t sleep! Talk to me . . . tell me a joke. Anything!”

  Chris’s eyes opened showing a spark of life. “A joke . . . okay, okay . . . What’s . . . What’s the best thing about kissing Marilyn Monroe?”

  “I don’t know. What?” Erik smiled, choking back tears.

  “You won’t have to dig her up, because she’s crawled out of her grave!” Chris’s eyes went from his natural blue to an eerie red. In a split second he sat up and sank his teeth in Big Daddy’s shoulder. Big Daddy let out a cry that made sleeping birds in a nearby tree to fly away.

  Erik jumped up and backed away, not believing this was happening. His dad was tearing into Uncle Shane like a savage beast.

  Chris overpowered Big Daddy and sat on top of him, chewing a mouth full of shoulder. Greg kicked Chris repeatedly in the side—yelling for him to stop.

  Big Daddy screamed. Greg screamed. All the kids screamed too.

  Desperate, not knowing what else to do, Greg ran to his b
ackpack and pulled out a Ruger Backhawk .357, and shot it in the air. This did nothing to distract Chris from his feast.

  Greg ran back to Chris and threatened to shoot him if he didn’t stop. He didn’t. Running out of options, Greg placed the gun against Chris’s shoulder and fired.

  Chris’s body shuttered from the impact, but he continued his attack. And after going down on Big Daddy and coming up with another mouthful of flesh, Greg used his final option, and shot Chris in the head.

  Chris fell over on his side. His jaw still moved. Chewing until the last bit of animation left his body.

  “You shot my Dad!” Erik yelled.

  “Erik. That was not your Dad. You saw what he was doing to Uncle Shane,” Greg said, feeling the guilt, but knowing in his heart he did the right thing. Erik went to his dad’s side, and Greg went to Big Daddy’s aid. “How bad are you hurt?” Shane’s upper body was a bloody mess.

  “I didn’t think he was going to stop. I thought I was dead. If I had any crap left in me, I would have crapped myself.”

  “Can you walk? We need to get out of here.” Greg offered Big Daddy his hand and helped him up.

  “Yeah, man. I can walk. Chris ate a lot of shirt along with shoulder. I guess it could’ve been worse. What the heck is happening around here?” Big Daddy examined his wounds, using his hand to suppress the bleeding. “Too bad he didn’t eat my rear end. I got a lot of ass I can spare.”

  “Big Daddy! Can’t you ever be serious! Chris is dead. I killed him!” Greg said, shaking, with all the eyes of the children on him. “Guys, we’re getting out of here. Gather your gear, and let’s get Uncle Shane to the hospital.” Erik sat by Chris’s side, checking for signs of life. “Erik, go get your Jeep. We’ll put your dad in and take him to the hospital too.”

  Erik hesitated for a moment and ran over to the Jeep. He had parked the Jeep near the pond, about ten yards away from Big Daddy’s Mustang, and Greg’s Chrysler Town and Country station wagon.

  Hayden assisted Big Daddy to the Mustang while his two brothers loaded the trunk with gear. Greg had his children load the back of the wagon and told Richmond he would be driving. Greg was going to drive Big Daddy’s Mustang.