Twisted All To Hell

by J E Moore

perform his work assignments and had been caught stealing. "Survival is very difficult; each person has to do their share. Slackers are sent packing. We have no choice."

  Puzzlement crossed Mike and Duane's faces as they viewed Miss Hightower's face-up, spread-eagle, nude body.

  "The man you call Blackburn did that. I caught him raping her and sent his despicable ass to Hell. I would have buried her proper but I didn't have any tools," defended Warren.

  They nodded in agreement of his action. "Don't matter no how, about the burying I mean," commented Duane.

  "That's correct," agreed Mike. "I'm sorry to inform you, but the Zombies are going to find her and dig her up anyway. They have a phenomenal sense of smell and acute night vision. They can see perfectly well in pitch-black darkness."

  "Yeah, some o' them live in underground caves," added Duane. "They're frig'n monsters."

  "So much for that," dismissed Warren. Changing the subject to something of a more personal nature, "Do you have any women in your camp?"

  "We gots some."

  "Young ones?"

  "Yeah, a few," Duane again.

  "Good, they do have their purposes," replied Ironsmith smiling to himself. "I'm sure they would be happy to service their... er, be of service to their President."

  All three rode in silence and deep thought. After fifteen minutes Warren announced, "I'll need a minimum staff of four to begin with and more to be added later."

  "What?" snapping their heads in his direction.

  "And, my accommodations, I'll inspect what you have but new quarters will most likely have to be constructed. The National Restoration Program, under my personal leadership, will be an expansive multidimensional operation requiring a lot of floor space. I'm sure you'll agree gentlemen, the country's reorganization is one of our foremost priorities."

  "I thought stayin' alive was," retorted Duane as they passed across the dilapidated Front Royal city limits boundary sign.

  The President continued, "As soon as we return to your camp I'm going to form two recon teams of your six best able-bodied men, ex-military preferred."

  "Say what ...?" stuttered Mike. "Six men? We can barely afford the two of us removed from the work force. Why? We've canvassed everything thoroughly within a fifty mile radius."

  "Fifty miles is merely a drop in the bucket," dismissed Ironsmith then theatrically cleared his throat. "As I was saying before your interruption, the recon teams' mission will be to scour U.S. Air Force bases and some are quite distant from here. We have a dire need of pilots, bomber pilots specifically." Mike and Duane were stunned, staring and speechless. "Oh, did I mention I'm declaring martial law? It doesn't matter; I'm sure it was understood."

  "What are you frig'n talkin' about?" fired back Duane.

  "Why, an air strike on Cuba, of course. Then we'll bomb Columbia, Nicaragua and Argentina. If we're lucky we can do it all in one run, providing we can use one of the Big Birds (super bombers). I'm sure you understand as President my primary responsibility is the defense of this great nation. You can't imagine how distressing it has been to view every day the bunker's offensive strike status indicators which displayed that piece of crap island, Cuba, had somehow been exempted from a direct hit. Gentlemen, there's no doubt in my mind those Commie bastards are running amok all over south Florida. Yes, sir, we're going to drop the 'big bang' right in the middle of Havana as soon as we can get a bomber airborne. Unfortunately, the Florida Keys and Key West will be impacted. But, the Big Picture is what counts here; there are always minor side effects." Mike and Duane's eyes looked as if they were ready to pop out. "I'll teach those..." Duane slammed on the brakes; the vehicle fishtailed and came to a screeching halt - tires smoking. Duane threw open the door; grabbed his rifle and took a dozen emotion-filled, spastic steps away from the humvee. His face had turned beet-red and was clenching his M21 as if he were ready to break it across his knee. Mike quickly hopped out and went to him; together they walked further down the road - out of Warren's earshot. Duane started raving and waving his arms - every few seconds he'd take a quick look or point at Ironsmith. He acted very upset - near rage. Mike was clearly trying to calm him. Warren made no attempt to join them and after ten minutes the two men returned. Duane had his arms stiffly folded across his chest; his eyes never left the ground - Mike had made him shoulder his rifle.

  "Step out, please," Mike requested in a firm voice. Warren did so and Duane spat his tobacco plug on the ground as he brushed by Ironsmith while returning to the driver's seat. Mike leaned in the vehicle, retrieved the president's satchel and tossed it at him. Warren made no effort to catch it and it landed at his side with a 'plop.' "This is where we part company, Mister Ironsmith. We don't need people like you in our camp."

  "Don't need people like you in the world," growled Duane. "You frig'n mass murderer."

  "Easy, Buddy. We agreed I'd do the talking," reassured Mike. His partner turned his head away in vehement disgust.

  As Mike went to his car door to get in, Warren challenged, "Wait a minute. You can't leave me here. I'm the damn President. I am your Commander in Chief!"

  Mike stared him right in the eye and said distinctly, "Not anymore. Consider yourself impeached." He climbed in, closed the door, slipped on a seat belt and Duane put the pedal to the metal. Neither man looked back.

  Disbelieving, Warren stood in the street; hands on his hips, watching the humvee shrink in the distance. It made a turn and was out of sight. "Deserters!" he yelled. "Traitors! I'll have you court-martialed for this! I'll track you down! You'll both face the firing squad, by God." Waving a clenched fist in the air, "I'm still the President. I'll show you," he bellowed. "Impeach me? Who the do you think you are? I am the President! I'll always be the President!" he screamed at the top of his lungs.

  His tirade did not go unnoticed.

  After a full minute of spewing profanities, Warren, still fuming, finally looked around to get his bearings. He recalled a couple of these storefronts from this morning's pass-by and correctly estimated he was a mere eight blocks from where he and Miss Hightower had begun their journey. "Damn!" he seethed and stomped his foot.

  Ironsmith mulled the feasibility of setting up an ambush, figuring those two dirtbags would have to pass this way on their way back to their home base. "Then again, they may skirt this entire area... I would," arguing with himself. "Maybe, maybe not. What I really need is more firepower; this forty-five can't penetrate the humvee's reinforced glass. Perhaps I can trick them into stopping and..." he caught movement out of the corner of his eye. He spun around, "Who's there?" He gasped, his eyes went wide; the words stuck in his throat.

  The two most grotesque living creatures he had ever seen in his life were staring at him from no more than thirty feet away. Shocked, he retreated a step. Warren wasn't sure they were even human. Their albino, pasty-white, naked bodies were covered with pinkish welts and lesions. Blood-shot eyes, drooling like a rabid racoon, they snarled - revealing a mouthful of yellow, rotted teeth. One stood slightly hunched over, similar to a great ape. The other acted excited - jittery; as he squatted and took quick, jerky swipes with inch-long fingernails through what little patches of head hair he had left. "My god," thought Warren, "these must be Zombies!" The one standing reached out a claw-like deformed hand toward Ironsmith and screeched. He sounded like a banshee from hell. Warren's blood went cold; his bowels did a flip-flop. He started backing away. They didn't follow. Ironsmith slowed then stopped - he sensed something behind him and smelled it. Warren turned ever so slowly; he didn't want to take his eyes off these two. Another Zombie loomed directly behind him! The creature lunged with both arms. Ironsmith ducked. The monster's powerful hand raked the President's shoulder - ripping his shirt and skin. The Zombie accidentally snagged the satchel strap and tore it away. Warren was knocked into a spin and fell to the street. Furious at missing its prey, the sub-human hovered and shrieked a high-pitched, piercing wail. Warren cringed. The first two started moving in. The creature above him tore the
canvas satchel into pieces - the MREs, along with his two spare ammo clips went flying. Ironsmith rolled to his left just as the monster dove where he had been lying. Warren jumped up and ran blindly, tripped on the sidewalk curb and slammed into a brick store-front wall. Rebounding, he checked over his shoulder and saw the first two were gathering for pursuit, but they were slow: one was hobbling; the other dragged a disabled leg. The third kept stumbling as he tried to rise to his feet. "Thank, God they're physically handicapped," he thought. "I can outrun them." Another sprang from a doorway a few feet away. "Yeow!" Warren yelled. The new Zombie screamed, his arms flailing in an attempt to grab Ironsmith. Heart pounding, eyes straight ahead, Warren darted back into the middle of the street and took off in a dash toward the residential area. The bastards were pouring out of every doorway! There were dozens, all screaming and grunting - and chasing him. He was much faster but they were coming from everywhere, the sides, in front and a whole lot to his rear.

  He ran six blocks on a dead run. He quickly became out of breath and panted: the president was not a young man. "I've got to get out of sight, stop and rest," he reasoned. He considered hiding in a fenced-in yard behind a two-storied house. "No! They can still see me and I could get