Dead Hunger | Book 10 | The Remnants

by Shelman, Eric A.

  “How’s a bank sound?” asked Scofield. He pointed to his left. “Solid enough.”

  “What’s that?” asked Eileen. “A movie theater?” It was directly across from the bank.

  “Looks like a playhouse, actually,” said Steven. “Based on the marquis. Probably an old movie theater. We know they’ll have a lot of seats anyway,” said Steven. “Says it was newly renovated on that sign there.”

  They all looked at the badly faded sign.

  “Yeah, 20-plus years ago,” said Doc. “Still, probably easier getting inside there than the bank. I’ve got lots of experience sneaking in the exits of theaters.”

  Doc spun the wheel and turned right on N. Railroad Drive, then made a right onto Highland Drive, which appeared to run behind the theater. Driving the equivalent distance east in the alley, they soon spotted the rear of the theater. It was obvious, as it was tall and boxy. There were two shed-like structures constructed on each side of the main brick building that looked easy to breach.

  “Home sweet home,” said Scofield, pulling in. The field behind the main lobby area of the theater was so overgrown it would be a traipse through to reach the structures, but at least it would provide concealment if a horde of rotters came through before they were safe.

  The sun was dangerously low now – the sky was yellow-pink and the big yellow ball was threatening to drop at any moment.

  Everyone grabbed their weapons as Eileen threw a large, canvas bag over her neck, picked up Carly, and tucked her inside. It was a tight fit, but Carly didn’t complain.

  Guns at the ready, they moved toward the rear of the movie house, all with one eye on the sky. It was now golden yellow, ready to fade to gray, then black.

  If there were feeders, they would be coming out soon.

  Jim went to the trunk and pulled a crowbar from within. “Don’t have to be quiet nowadays,” said Doc Scofield. “No lock pick set necessary. Good old crowbar will do the trick.”

  “So … a hammer rather than a scalpel,” said Steven.

  “Sometimes you need a hammer,” said Jim.

  He went to the door on the rear corner and jammed the flat, pronged end in, right beside the doorknob. With a quick jerk forward, the lock popped and the door swung outward.

  “Be careful as fuck,” said Eileen, her gun barrel trained at the dark opening. “If these Red-Eyed chicks are steeping their zombie minions in this stuff these days, what better than a dark, closed-up movie theater?”

  “Shh,” said Cole. “Eileen’s right. We didn’t check the front, so they could be inside. Let’s just listen for a bit.”

  While Scofield looked behind them, his eyes peeled for any movement, Jim stepped through the door, letting his eyes adjust. This was no cineplex with stadium seating. This was a single-screen movie house that became a playhouse.

  “Smells okay,” said Cole, moving farther in. He turned on a small LED flashlight and shone it around. Pointing it at the floor, he said, “No rotten odor, no vapor layer. No pink, anyway. We’re good.”

  “What would be great is some WAT-5,” said Scofield. “Hope Hemp’s makin’ the stuff again.”

  “Hemp?” asked Eileen.

  “Hemphill’s his real name. British fellow. Smart as a whip.”

  “Ah,” said Eileen. “Makes more sense.” They all stood just inside as Eileen turned to inspect the door behind her. “Won’t lock now, but the auto closer will keep it flush with the jamb.”

  “It’ll fool passersby,” said Steven.

  “Concession stand?” asked Eileen. “Carly’s not particular. If there’s some stale Cracker Jack in there, she’s going to eat it.”

  They started their way up the aisle, inspecting each row for hiders. Jim Cole washed each row of seats with light.

  Steven said, “Here, hold this.”

  Eileen took his rifle. He plopped down in an aisle seat. Looking up, he said, “Comfortable! I could sleep.”

  “From what I saw on the way here,” said Doc Scofield, “you could sleep anywhere.”

  “I’m a relaxed guy, what can I say?”

  He got up, took his rifle, and they made their way to the top, opening the door slowly and listening.

  Silence.

  They moved into the lobby and saw the original counters and glass candy cases were preserved, even after the movie theater became a playhouse.

  Cole went behind the counter and started opening sliding compartments. A second later, he let out a “Whoop!” and stood up, placing a vacuum sealed box on the counter.

  “Good-n-Plenty!” shouted Eileen. “Still fully wrapped in cellophane?”

  “I’m prayin’ right now,” said Scofield. “I ain’t had candy in a coon’s age.”

  When he ripped the clear wrap away, the boxes were also individually wrapped in their own cellophane.

  Each of them took a box and tore them open.

  It was like they were all six years old again.

  And there was never an apocalypse.

  *****

  The Red-Eyed female stood, staring to the southwest. She heard the loud pop – it was a human sound, and it was not a gun. She still knew well the sound and sight of guns; they were the threat that could kill from afar.

  Like a beacon, she stared toward the source of the sound, homing in on the direction. Closing her crimson eyes, she calculated the distance in her mind.

  For the moment, the horde behind her remained idle.

  When she began walking, so did they.

  Night had fallen. It was their time.

  Time to feed.

  *****

  CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

  The zombie apocalypse had been a godsend to Ray Dell Doughty. It had gotten him out of prison.

  Everything had been going to shit at Blackridge Correctional Facility in Tennessee, a maximum security, federal prison housing some of the most depraved criminals in the country. Ray Dell had spent eight years of a life sentence there, often in solitary confinement. He knew he’d never be released; he’d admitted to killing sixteen young girls and burying their bodies in an abandoned rock quarry, and actually led investigators to the location.

  That act of cooperation was not enough to erase the moniker of “monster” with which he had been labeled.

  The girls were all whores, though. Sassing around with their short shorts and no bra. They begged for everything they got. He gave it to them. The years he was to be locked away were a small price to pay for the memories he had of the taste of their blood and the feel of their cold, dead bodies as he gave them what they wanted; what they had asked for.

  Every time he closed his eyes, he allowed the images, burned into his brain, to play like a movie. A movie he would never grow tired of watching.

  Still, it was good to be out. It opened up many possibilities.

  Locked inside their cells at Blackridge, back in 2009, the alarms began sounding throughout the facility as the prisoners watched the guards changing into monsters, attacking one another.

  Who was the monster now?

  The transformed prisoners and guards were frightening, but the thought kept penetrating his mind.

  These crazies could kill sixteen girls in a single day.

  It was only pure luck that dropped one of the guards, Mark Douglass, a real dickhead who used to knock Ray Dell around whenever he got an opportunity, right by his cell.

  Ray Dell wasn’t in solitary then, but he also did not share a cell; he’d already killed two cellmates, and the warden had finally learned his lesson where Doughty was concerned.

  When Douglass fell, the other crazed guard tearing into his throat like he was a blood-rare steak, Ray Dell had crawled along the floor, reached through the bars, and snagged the key ring.

  Sliding that key into the lock after the monsters had left the area was the sweetest thing he had done in years. It was almost orgasmic, because there was a gun on the hip of Douglass, too.

  “You see this?” Douglass had taunted Ray Dell on a dozen occasions, whi
le patting his Smith & Wesson. “Know what this is?”

  Ray Dell never answered. He knew what was coming.

  “It’s gonna make the last sound you never hear, you piece of garbage,” Douglass would say. “When that bullet goes in your brain and blows that minimal content up against the wall behind you, your body will slump to the ground and start the rotting process right away. That’s when I’m gonna piss on your corpse and laugh.”

  The fucker must’ve had a script because his little speech never changed.

  Blah, blah, blah. Douglass wasn’t talking anymore, and he didn’t look so badass with maggots crawling all over his body. They came after 24 hours or so, devouring the putrefied flesh.

  The smell had been horrible, but the monsters who occasionally stopped to consume some more of him were still roaming the hallway, so he couldn’t make his move with the key he’d procured.

  Other prisoners had also gotten lucky, able to reach and take the sidearms off the dead guards lying near their cells.

  Because this row of cells had a long corridor running in front of them, and there were barred doors on both ends of the hall, several of the fleeing prison guards had closed themselves in this area to escape the craziness in the administrative area.

  Ray Dell had listened carefully to their frantic conversations as they strategized. They continued strategizing until a couple of the guards – bitten and unaware of the consequences – began changing. It was almost a comedy of errors watching the shock on the faces of the previously unaffected guards.

  Ray Dell screamed, “We make plans, God laughs!”

  Eventually it became what it was now. Two rotters became three. The inmates who had gotten the guns wasted all their ammo by shooting the walking dead correctional officers in the chest and neck, missing the brain.

  Ray Dell had watched old zombie movies for years, and it was clear you had to shoot them in the brain if you wanted to kill them. So, he made the appropriate amount of noise, drew them over one by one, and put lead in their brains. He didn’t want to waste a shot, even though he would have access to their weapons afterward.

  When the first one went down, he was elated. The lore was true. He would be leaving this place. Confidence swelled in him. He took the other two down, opened his cell, secured their weapons and extra magazines, and made his way out.

  Five more brain shots and a few strategic doors closed behind him, and he was out, staring up at the clear Tennessee sky.

  From there, he stayed off the main roads, finding a small ranch home. He killed Kenny and Eunice Marston and put on Kenny’s clothes. He found a Wahl hair clipper in the bathroom and shaved his hair to about a half-inch all over. He found some blonde hair dye in the bathroom and followed the directions.

  Ray Dell was good at following directions.

  He wasn’t good at coming up with convincing names, though. Too many people knew Ray Dell Doughty, the renowned serial killer.

  Nobody knew or would remember a man named Steven Smith. He would be forgettable. They would only remember what he left behind.

  In a world where people were worried about zombies, serial killers didn’t get nearly the attention they deserved. Steven was good with that. Since the apocalypse had begun, he had killed at least twenty-four more young girls, moving from place to place, often undetected.

  They hadn’t all been as young as he liked, but in a world with limited resources, a man had to be less choosy.

  “Hey, Good-N-Plenty, Stevie?” called out Eileen, practically running down the aisle, shaking two boxes.

  The dog named Carly was out of the bag now, trotting along behind her with abandon.

  “Way to go!” he shouted back from the second row from the stage, playing up the ruse.

  Eileen was far too old for him, so she was safe. Ray Dell was counting on finding more of what he wanted in this place called Lula, Georgia.

  He would tolerate these clowns for now. He would use them until they presented him with his just reward.

  *****

  “Found this bed behind the stage,” said Jim Cole, rolling the bed out into the middle of the stage. “Guess it was a prop. Mattress isn’t bad, though.” He pushed down on it and it sprung back up. “Reliable old box spring. None of that memory foam shit.”

  It was a twin bed, so at best it would accommodate two adults lying like corpses in a casket, side-by-side.

  Cole knew what he had to do, so he did it. “Eileen, you want to crash on this yourself, or would you be willing to share with Doc Scofield?”

  “Whoa,” said Scofield. “I don’t need to impose. You found it, you let her use it by herself if she wants.”

  Eileen walked toward Scofield and reached down to take his hands in hers. “Doc, you’ve been on this earth longer than any of us, and I’m sure your well-traveled bones could use a soft mattress. While I admit it would be tempting to jump those old bones, I think I can share it with you for a night and maintain my composure.”

  Doc Scofield blushed, nodding. “I’ve made it a point in my life never to argue with a woman,” he said. “It’s a losin’ proposition. If you jump my bones, I might just have to pretend I’m asleep and let it happen.”

  Eileen laughed. “Settled, then.”

  “I’m going to explore a bit,” said Steven. He looked back at the darkened window at the top of the back wall of the theater. “Maybe I’ll check out the old projection room.”

  “Just call out when you come back so we don’t shoot you,” said Jim Cole.

  “You got it.”

  Steven checked his weapon before leaving through the rear door. Cole walked backstage to find Eileen going through some storage cabinets. “Here,” she said. “Prop sheets and a blanket.”

  “Almost as good as real sheets,” said Cole, taking them from her.

  Jim sat in the front row, eating Good-n-Plenty and watching the two as they made the bed. There was only a single pillow, but there were several moving blankets. Cole cut one in half and folded the piece into a rectangle. “Makeshift pillow.”

  “I’ll take that one,” said Scofield. “I’ll be out so fast I won’t even notice.”

  When they were done, Eileen and Cole descended the steps on the right side of the stage and settled into the seats on either side of Scofield. They all munched their candy and took in the room.

  Based on the exterior, the old theater house had to have been built in the 1950s, but inside it had been completely renovated. Whatever ornate designs had once been on the walls or ceilings had now no doubt been overlaid with boring drywall and painted, with ceiling to floor curtains covering any of the original detail that might remain.

  “Hey!” called out Doc Scofield. “Think we can get that popcorn machine goin’?”

  Eileen and Jim stared down at him. “Eat your Good-n-Plenty and pipe down,” she chastised.

  *****

  Locating a door with the letters PR etched into a plate, Steven – AKA Ray Dell – turned the knob. It was not locked.

  He pulled out his flashlight, stepping inside and allowing the door to close behind him. The light stabbed through the darkness as he climbed a narrow stairway that wound up from the door to another door at the top.

  He knocked and said, “Any boogiemen in there? Or boogie women?”

  Doughty smiled at his own joke. Turning the knob, he went inside.

  It didn’t smell rotten, but it did smell like old decay. Whatever had rotted in here had done so several years before. Ray Dell had been to a morgue once when he was a kid and they were trying to scare him – Scared Straight, he recalled was the name of the program.

  His folks had forced him to do it after it was discovered he had killed their family pet, a dog named Buffy.

  He was doing her a favor. She was old and she always had diarrhea, and he had to pick it up. It had been worth it.

  He had almost gotten away with it. Buffy’s chain was connected to a tree, where she usually plopped down in the shade, snoozing in the dirt area she had s
cratched beneath it over several years.

  There was a Y in the tree about two feet up, so he just knotted the chain to shorten it to a length that could accommodate his plan, and picked Buffy up and dropped her through the Y.

  Her rear feet could touch the ground, but she couldn’t breathe. Soon, her strength depleted – she was eleven, after all – eventually she gave up, the collar strangling her.

  Ray Dell had watched to the end. When he heard his neighbor yell at him over the fence, he had scrambled to his feet and acted like he had no idea what had happened. He hurried over and lifted up the limp animal, doing his best to act shocked.

  The neighbor had seen too much. He knew.

  Ray Dell was busted.

  At the morgue where he was taken with a bunch of other delinquents, they apparently had a corpse they kept solely to use for the Scared Straight program; it was clearly an old one, the skin drawn and leathery; a clear number of stab wounds on the torso.

  They called him Billy the Kid. He had the opposite effect on Ray Dell. He was intrigued by the dead man’s body. He wanted to know his name, what he was like.

  Of course, he never found out. But it did give him a desire to make his own dead things.

  Not sure what to expect, Ray Dell didn’t expect to see the original movie projector still in place, but there it was; the steel plate on the side read “Super Simplex” and it was a monstrosity.

  He inspected it as he eased by it, only to find blankets, a pillow, a canteen, some boxes with some torn open and empty Top Ramen bags, and two cans of green beans.

  The body was almost as emaciated as Billy the Kid had been, the maggots long ago completing their work on the exposed corpse.

  Ray Dell didn’t know whether it had become a zombie, milled around in here until the gas had stopped, then died, eaten by maggots – but one thing was pretty clear.

  This one wasn’t coming back, and all the bugs that ate his brain were gone long ago.