ZOMBIE BOOKS

by Gnarly, Bart

  “Strap him across the hood,” I ordered, which proved to be harder than I thought. We had to beat him for several minutes before he rested just long enough to be tied down. Even then, he made everything a fight. “Boy, I told him, “you sure struggle a lot, for a dead man.”

  He fought and kicked and spat and bit at me every chance he got. He was violent, and struggling, and obstinate at every turn, regardless of how many times when punched or beat him.

  Damn it took a lot to get him back to the mill.

  Once inside, Sebastian and I presented our blood-soaked captive with his surprise. When he saw the pen of zombies, his attitude changed dramatically. The bold man who had killed and raped more times than I wished to know began to sob and urinate. Without words, we led his quivering frame to the gate.

  “They’ll storm out as soon as we open the door,” I said, “So we should hobble him first to make it easier to toss him in.”

  “He’ll be fine,” Sebastian assured me. “He knows he’s dead.”

  I wasn’t convinced, but what did I care? I’ve risked my life every day for months now.

  Sure enough though, when I opened the gate the zombies began to rush and our prisoner began to fight. Without a word, Sebastian wrapped his arms around the bastard that had taken his whole family and bull-rushed into the cage, slamming himself into the bodies of the dead.

  “Shut the door!” he screamed as teeth and nail dug into him.

  I slammed the gate closed and locked it. Sebastian screamed but he wouldn’t let go of his prize. The pain must have been excruciating. I couldn’t stand it. I took out my pistol and sent a round through Sebastian’s head. It wouldn’t prevent a transformation, but it would end his suffering. He fell limply into the arms of his cellmates.

  Now the only sound above the moans and growls was the screams of our prize. His eyes begged for a similar mercy, and I wondered if Bertha gave him a comparable look as he held her down. How many of them raped her before they were done?

  I turned and left him to his suffering, assuring him that I would enjoy killing him later.

  I dumped out the rest of my booze and faced a new fate in life.

  Don’t get me wrong. I’m not some damn abolitionist. I just realized that I liked killing zombies more than moping around waiting to die.

  Without knowing what was happening, I had become a peacemaker. Suddenly, I knew that it was my lot to kill zombies and keep order, by the only methods I knew.

  As the screams from the cage became more excited, I closed the office door behind me to help deaden the sound and poured myself a celebratory glass of water.

  Hello world. Meet your new Sheriff.

  CHAPTER 10

  A Man’s Castle: Part 1

  The Ranch

  Smoke.

  Fire.

  The crackling of wood and the shattering of windows.

  The squealing of plastic as it expands and explodes.

  The popping and snapping as the heat attacks and decimates everything in its path.

  I stand across the street, watching the mill burn, knowing that there is only one option in my future.

  I am going to find this guy. I am going to destroy everything he cares about and burn down everything he owns. I am going to pick his life apart piece by piece and then I am going to feed him to the horde.

  And he knows it.

  It’s why I’m alive. He wants me to find him. He knows I’ll be hunting him.

  The game is on.

  Four days ago…

  The man stumbles out of the bushes and falls hard onto his knees and hands in the street. Air spews from his mouth and blood is shaken from his forehead as he bounces on the asphalt.

  “God!” he curses, and begins to crawl. The cut on his head is still seeping steadily and the continued blood loss is making him dizzy. Nonetheless, he is determined to make it back to the ranch.

  The fence needs to be replaced.

  The property must be protected.

  Provisions need to be found.

  No one survives by waiting for a hero to come along. The only ones who are going to make it this are the ones who are willing to take the world by the balls and squeeze out what they need. It’s the pussies who got eaten first. It’s the weaklings who waited for salvation and found themselves cold, alone, and eventually between the teeth of some grey-skinned bastard.

  ‘But not me,’ he muses, now almost all the way across the roadway. “We fight!” he calls out to the cloudless sky. “For us,” he calls, “we fight!”

  His eyes lift to the ranch, now just out of reach, and listens for his tribe. No one has spotted him yet, and it makes the man nervous. They should have confronted him by now, either the guards or the pirates.

  He hated the names they gave themselves, the men who protected the property and those who scavenged for supplies, and even though they never intentionally called themselves by the titles in front of him, the man still knew all about it. He hated it, but he couldn’t control everything.

  He paused in his crawl just long enough to listen behind him for the sound of pursuit. He heard nothing, but he wasn’t comforted. “How are these assholes supposed to keep the ranch safe if they don’t even know who’s coming up the road?” he muttered to himself and pushed himself back to his feet.

  “Hey!” the man yelled at the house. When no one answered he tried again. “Steven! Michael! Kurt! Anybody! Hey!” Still no one answered.

  He looked to the driveway and frowned, as though he expected a vehicle to be there. Instead of seeing his Jeep, the man became more and more nauseous.

  No Jeep.

  No responses.

  The man made his way to the gaping hole in the fence, promising himself that the gap would not go two days without being fixed. But with every step, the man kept his eyes on the house, hoping to see movement of any kind. The front door was standing open but it appeared deserted.

  Did they leave him? Where were they? Why has no one confronted him?

  Around the busted fence.

  Up the driveway.

  Across the lawn.

  “Michael? Kurt?” And still no one answered.

  His steps were becoming sloppier and he felt as though he could fall over at any time. The man fell into the open doorway and propped himself by the shoulder.

  He didn’t recoil at the sight. He didn’t hide his face or choke back tears. There were no huffing sobs or shaking convulsions or trembling hands. The man just stood there, staring at the three bodies seated on the couch.

  Michael.

  Kurt.

  Dave.

  The three of them were shot, execution-style, and put on display upon the couch. This was a message. Someone was trying to tell the man something, but what? And where’s Steven? The man made his way into the room, closing the door behind him. He went to the kitchen for a bottle of water and cursed out loud when he saw the empty shelves.

  Then the moaning began.

  He turned and found three zombies slowly shuffling into the kitchen.

  Anthony and Christian’s betrayal. The missing Jeep. The missing provisions. His friends, dead and displayed like game in gramp’s den. Christian trying to kill him and Steven leaving to get help but never coming back. Every bad thing that happened came flooding back to his mind as he watched the lifeless eyes getting closer and closer.

  And he smiled.

  With all the terrible things that happened in the last twelve hours, killing some of these grey-faced bastards would make him feel a hell of a lot better.

  He grabbed a chair and stomped a leg off. He looked at his homemade spike and laughed aloud.

  “We’re all dead anyway,” he told the closest zombie, and plunged the broken end into its gaping mouth.

  ◊◊◊

  It was strange eating new foods again. I mean, it used to be that we would just go to the grocery store. You’d see a can of soup you’ve never had before or a type of bread or cracker or cereal or fruit any other thing on a shelf
, rack, or in a bucket. You’d make a choice to try something different, maybe even rewarding yourself for being experimental.

  That’s how it used to be at least. Now…

  I’ve been eating the same damn provisions for months. The same dried noodles boiled in water and seasoned with an odd colored powder. The same boxes of crackers. The same cans of tuna.

  But here I am, holding a small can that says, ‘Potted Meat’ on a waxy label wrapped around it. As if it didn’t look enough like a can of cat food, when I opened it I found a pressed meat pâté that smelled strong and was spongy to the touch. I spooned out a small amount and gave it a try.

  Paste is a good word for it.

  Salty.

  A hint of citrus, or is that just the taste of metal?

  Really frickin’ salty.

  The second bite is no better.

  I dig at it with a cracker and the stale carb is no match for the overpowering smell and puckering taste.

  “How did you assholes eat this?” I called at the window.

  Despite my complaints, I was having a great time. It was my first chance since moving into the mill that I got to try something new, even if it was shit that tasted like cat food.

  The screaming downstairs had finished hours ago. He had held out much longer than I thought he would. I mean, I thought he would pass out and succumb within a minute but he held on for damn near ten minutes, apparently scrapping and fighting with the caged zombies long after I turned my back on him. Cheers to him and his efforts and his disgusting potted meat. I tipped an invisible hat at the door and laughed insanely.

  Sebastian.

  Why the hell did he have to be such an asshole? Why did he have to put himself in the cage? He wasn’t great company, no, but he was still company. Instead of having someone to hear all of my witty comments, I’m sitting here alone, eating cat food and making cracks at the door.

  Damn I could use a drink.

  I dropped the can on the table and cursed myself for being so dramatic and impulsive. Why did I have to dump out all the liquor? Was that really necessary?

  “I mean,” I say out loud, “what will I offer my guests when I have a dinner party? Huh? Water and potted meat? They’ll sure as hell need something strong to wash down their cat food, and what will I give them? Nothing!” I pop another small bite of the spongy meat paste in my mouth and bark, “How did you people eat this?!?” Bits of food spray the table as I cough the flavor out. “Next time, I’m killing the people in the nice neighborhood,” I joke, and then catch myself.

  Four.

  Four men are dead now because I killed them. There have been more who have died just from being with me, but these four are different. They weren’t zombies. They weren’t attacking me or trying to take anything from me or threatening my existence at all.

  True, they are the band that killed my parents, but I didn’t recognize any of them.

  True, they killed and raped Bertha and the rest in her group, but the leader, the rapist and real murderer, he wasn’t even with them. That didn’t slow Sebastian one bit, but it gave me pause then and is causing me grief now.

  Did I do the right thing?

  I didn’t try to save the ghost in the box.

  I didn’t interrogate the three in the house on South Murphy. As soon as they told me the boss would be returning soon I put a bullet in each of them.

  Pop.

  Pop.

  Pop.

  I’m a murderer.

  Sebastian saw us as lawmen. Classic western heroes dispensing justice and punishing others for the very thing we were doing.

  Who were we to say that we were right to kill and they were wrong? What made us better? That we only killed bad people? How did we know they were killers? The testimony of a man dying in a safe? The statement of a man so wracked by grief he was willing to settle for the blood of an accomplice over the life of the perpetrator.

  What did we do?

  What the hell did I just do?

  I marched out of the kitchen and out to the stairs. Down the steps, past the cage without looking and out to the front door. The sight of the Jeep brought me to a halt.

  I forgot to add car thief to the list.

  And I screamed out loud. I yelled and screamed into the night sky. I called to the angels and the devils and the living and the dead. I made my voice crack and split. I yelled until I had no air, then breathed and did it again.

  A year ago, the police would have been called for the crazy man on First Street. I would have been interrogated by an officer. It would have been decided that I was being disorderly and probably told to shut the hell up or get a ticket.

  Now? I’m the fuckin’ sheriff.

  I scream again but this time it trails off into a sad laugh.

  Nothing makes sense. Nothing is as it should be.

  “Look out, Cheney!” I warn the night. “Look out! Watch what you do. The law has returned!” I can’t explain it, but I became suddenly angry at the town, as though the decimation of the world had anything to do with them and nothing to do with the poison in my blood. I roared and stomped and balled my hands into fists. I cursed and swore and promised. I railed for god knows how long. Eventually, from exhaustion or frustration or any other excuse, I made my way back inside. I locked the door behind me, not sure how long it would be until I came out of my castle again.

  ◊◊◊

  The man sits upon the floor in his living room. The bodies on the couch had stiffened hours ago and were beginning to smell. There were dark purple blotches where their blood had pooled in the feet, legs, and hands. Pale faces twisted and mutilated from the single gunshot to each of their foreheads. The three of them, propped-up in front of the television as though it were Sunday afternoon and the Seahawks were about to kick off. None of this affected the man the way he was bothered by one lingering question: Where was Steven?

  Yesterday he and Steven had run down those backstabbing bastards. Christian thought he should let Sergio out of the safe, because apparently he didn’t understand the statement, “I can’t open it. He’s going to die in there.”

  What did he think was going to happen after he killed Rebecca? There was nothing else to be done. He had killed the man’s daughter without even checking to see if she was really zombie. He just saw what he took for a bite and bang, she’s dead.

  What did they think Kyle Rey would do? What would any man have done?

  What would you have done?

  Christian threw a fit and called the man a murderer, then tried to kill him. The man fought him off and Christian fled. He tried to take Anthony with him. The man and Steven stopped Anthony in the driveway, but Christian got away. Steven and the man chased him, caught him, and pinned him down in some toolshed.

  He shot at them. The man told Steven to go back and get supplies. They were going to burn him out. The man would stay and watch the shed.

  And Steven never came back.

  He was the man’s number one; the only one the man really trusted.

  As the sound of the Jeep faded down the road, Christian had poked his head out just enough for the man to get off a shot.

  The man knew better than to make too much noise in the open, but he didn’t care.

  Christian was going to die today.

  Twice more, Christian tried to leave the shed and both times he retreated to the cracks of pistol-fire.

  An hour passed, and still no sign of Steven.

  Ninety minutes.

  With the two-hour mark quickly approaching, the man began to get seriously concerned. Even in post-apocalyptic Cheney there was no reason for him to take this long. Something must have happened to him.

  The man realized that he could not spend the rest of the night hiding outside this shed, waiting for supplies that may never come. Just as he began debating his options, a solution presented itself. On the other side of the lawn, four grey-faces pushed through a gap in the fence. The man fired several rounds into the side of the toolshed, making Christ
ian cry out and scream angrily at him. The noise excited the zombies and soon they were swarming the shed. Christian broke out. The man shot. Christian shot. The zombies came. The man tried to retreat but the shed was overrun. He was busy trading blows with Christian when the zombies reached him. Out of bullets, he stomped Christian’s shin, and pulled him to the ground. The man stomped Christian’s lower leg and knee until he heard a crack, and then ran.

  It wasn’t until he had covered the first mile that he realized just how hurt he was. By the second mile, he was exhausted and ready to collapse. When he finally crossed South Murphy, the man was nearer death than he had ever been.

  Now, seated on cold, stained carpet, the man plotted his next move. He needed supplies. He needed wheels. He needed to find Steven and whoever did this to Kurt, Michael, and Dave. But first, he slept.

  ◊◊◊

  It was a three-mile walk to the edge of town, and then man did it at a slow pace. He knew the roads and the houses and the secrets they contained. He had been up every road and through every house he could find. He had taken every scrap of food and durable resource he could find over the past months, so he didn’t bother checking any homes as he came into town. Instead, he headed to a part of town he had never been in before.

  The business district was the first area of town affected by the mob because, frankly, people have no imagination. The man had known this, and had avoided hunting there. But as provisions were getting low, and after the successful raid on that family in the garage, his hopes were up that he would be able to find something of use.

  He found more than he could ever hope for.

  Just down First Street, right up the main drag of Cheney, the man made his way staying close to the buildings and in the shadows. He knew that wouldn’t hide him from the zombies but that wasn’t his real concern at this point. He was more worried about a sniper picking him off and rifling his pockets.

  Hell, he’d done the same thing a dozen times.

  It left one less person competing for food and the man got whatever they had in their pockets. Usually it was shit. Pictures and trinkets and memorabilia.

  None of that keeps you alive, really. Not in the mind of the man, anyway.