Zombie Drug Run

by C.G. Banks



  zombie drug run

  C. G. BANKS

  ZOMBIE DRUG RUN

  Copyright © 2014 by C. G. Banks

  All rights reserved. This includes the right to reproduce any portion of this book in any form.

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  Prologue

  Lester the pimp had just finished up pissing down his leg. The knife he had at his throat had caused him to do that. His two bitches weren’t much good to him either, and he didn’t know, maybe they’d pissed themselves too. Rags had been stuffed into their mouths, held in place by doubled lengths of piano wire. Shit like that had a way of taking the fight out of you.

  His eyes grew wider still as the monster pushed forward. The monster with the thickly-cabled forearm choking him into the goddamn sheet rock. Suddenly he recalled the whispered prayers of his long-dead grandmother, drifting up now as if through the floor itself. And as he squirmed there, he suddenly did feel her very close, somehow unglued in Time, a ghost he would soon be joining.

  He tried pushing away from the wall but the monster's breath stopped him. The blade eased deeper and he screamed. The monster said something he couldn’t quite make out.

  He suddenly knew there would be no help, here, ever.

  He rolled his eyes back to the girls, pushed back behind the stained couch. A thin line of drool ran out between his teeth as the monster repeated what he must have said before.

  "...you understand me?" the pimp heard, almost engulfed by the faint, trailing cacophony of sound that traced nothing but the edge of oblivion. He tried hard to focus.

  "What?" he coughed.

  "The girls, man. The girls, you fuck. They’re not all I had in mind. I said, 'Do you fucking understand me?'" The monster's lips broke back over a clean, white fence of polished teeth.

  Lester’s eyes watered, everything in the room was floating around like the place was going to explode. Blood dripped from his chin. He began to cry.

  "Oh that’s good. I like that," the monster said.

  Lester, recognizing the form of his death in the room, tried for a bargain, anything, teetering there on the very brink of dissolution. "Look, man! I doan give a shit about da bitches! Do wha’eva you want!" and on and on with the same old promises and silliness.

  The monster’s diamond eyes clouded over. The forearm dug deeper. When it leaned sensuously closer the pimp felt its hard dick close upon him but he was helpless. There was nowhere to go. "What's that?" the monster asked.

  Only a superhuman effort allowed the pimp to spit out what he did. "The bitches, man, the fuckin bitches! Ya cun have 'em! Do wha’eva ya want! I never seen ya, any a this shit! My mutha's grave, man, fuck I swear…!" His legs gave out and the monster pressed into his chest again. More promises blubbered unintelligible until his voice rose to a shriek again as the blade went deeper.

  "I've already got the whores, you stupid prick," the monster said. Then the blade rammed upward and as far as the pimp knew everything in the room blurred to a milky white. Lester’s feet hammered at the littered floor and through his gold-capped, front teeth the monster could just make out the dull glint of the knife. It watched with almost childish curiosity as the pimp flailed away to nothing. Then it dropped the body to the floor and gave it one massive, final kick.

  The monster backed away from the corpse. There was blood on the cuff of its sleeve. It turned and wiped it on the wall, near the wet spot where the pimp’s sweating head had pressed moments before. Then it turned slowly, intimately aware of the effect it wished to inspire.

  It moved languidly over to the other two. As always, it'd been careful to fulfill the preliminary, giving them each another handful of cash before beginning the real business.

  It grabbed the edge of the couch and flung it away from the girls with as much forced rage as it could muster. Then it said, tenderly, menacingly, "Look at you." It shook its sleeves down so that they were no longer bunched about its forearms. "One moment, fine, the next...” It snapped its fingers. It laughed.

  Sandy tried to squeeze behind Doris’s big ass, but the larger whore had wedged as close to the wall as she could. The maniac had just deep-sixed Lester. It wasn't the first pimp she'd seen offed, but it was undoubtedly the worst...and the closest. She tried to keep her horrified eyes away from the corpse but a morbid, irrational urge bid her back.

  Dead Lester lay crumpled and discarded like old clothes thrown down in a basement laundry. Blood streamed off his body in slow undulations, carrying bits of paper and cigarette butts with it. The black handle of the knife protruded stiffly out from his chin, causing his mouth to contort like some broken puppet’s. His half-lidded eyes crossed toward his nose. Sandy suddenly felt a heavy, slumping weight fold onto her back, and she fought back with her elbow to get the other bitch off.

  Her head was suddenly wrenched up, knee high to the monster. It smashed its foot into her nose, the reverberation banking off the walls of the shitty room. Oddly, she felt no fear now. The monster bent down low to throw the bigger whore away, grabbing them both by the hair and manhandling them like toys. It jerked Sandy around to face it but found her eyelids tightly shut. It licked a drop of blood from the pulp of her nose, ran its tongue across her forehead. "Open your eyes," it said softly. There was a studied passion in its tone.

  She didn't respond.

  It wrenched her head back again, and her muffled groan brought the smile back. She opened her eyes just slightly. Tried to make out the swimming image before her, and gradually became aware the monster was holding something up in front of her face. "How many?" she heard in her dream-world, time after repeating time. But it was so hard to tell; the fingers (it was definitely fingers, she saw that now) floated in a deep murk, were only cloudy shadows against a violent background of red. But the incessant question continued. She grunted once and the monster banged her head against the wall. Bursts of light went off in her mind. "Did that look like one to you!?" Twice more it smashed her head against the wall. She felt herself begin to lose consciousness and decided to bank a guess. Even at the dead-end of her unfortunate life, she still clung bitterly to the faint wisp of survival.

  She grunted twice, as loud and as clear as she could with the bastard rag in her mouth. For just a second there was no response; she kept expecting to be slammed into the wall again. But nothing happened. The fingers waggled in front of her face. Yes, she thought. There were two.

  "Good, fine," the monster growled. It brought the fingers back a little as if to give her a better view. She held on, squinting.

  And with the same brutal force the monster had used to skewer Lester’s brain, it jammed its hand forward in lightning quickness, the pointer and middle fingers pronged out. They punched into Sandy's eye sockets with a greasy pop, sending her body into an electric spasm. Then, slowly, it closed its grip, and stood, pulling her away from the other whore by her face. It dragged her across the room and tossed her onto the heap of Dead Lester. Then, wiping its gored fingers on the wall, it squatted to pull the knife from the cooling pimp.

  When it turned around the bigger whore was starting to squirm a little. It smiled, glad all the excitement wasn’t over. It paused to check the Rolex, pleasantly surprised to find it was only eight.

  By the time the monster finished it was a quarter past midnight and the floor was so tacky with blood and gore every step was sticky. In the dark h
allway of the deserted building, the monster changed into running shorts and a tee-shirt, packed the rest of its bloody clothes into the leather workout bag it'd left by the door hours earlier. It left the gaslight burning, hoping the whole fucking building would burn down.

  The monster's name was Samuel Franklin. By the lucky hand of fortune (one that had regrettably missed the hapless corpses left behind) its father was a shipping magnate in New Orleans with all the power and influence that came with the title.

  It whistled as it made its way back to the 280 Z.