The glass crunched under Sarah’s feet as she calmly stepped into the room. What a day, she thought, as she looked down at Tim, who was happily cracking the producer’s head open with Lynda’s PDA. Sarah supposed that the man’s cries probably sounded terrible, but she couldn’t really hear anything anymore, save for that annoying buzz emanating from deep within her pulsating skull. As black dots danced in the corners of her vision, she watched a third zombie pitch its way out of the room to find more tasty morsels. Justice had been done, a bloodied eye for an eye. Slowly, she brought the gun to her temple and stared directly into the lens of the camera. She would have liked to offer some witty one-liner to the millions out there, but her throat had closed, and she’d lost the ability to speak. So instead she just pulled the trigger one last time.
Hilda glanced up from her knitting. “I don’t think it’s coming back on, dear.”
Bert peered in vain as the Graveyard Slot logo emblazoned the TV screen. Hilda chuckled.
For a moment, the room was filled with the clackity-clack of her knitting needles and the musak flowing from the set. Bert huffed and reached for the remote.
“I think you’re right, woman. Bloody stupid machine.”
He shot another look at the screen, as if giving it the chance to show the program again, before jabbing a stocky digit down on the button. Dick Van-Dyke’s cheerful face replaced the logo, and Bert settled back into his cushions. “You don’t fancy putting the kettle on, do you Hilda?” he asked mindlessly. “I’d kill for a cup of tea.”
The Project
Pasquale J. Morrone
The breaking waves shoved his limp body onto the beach. At first Alex thought he was alone, but several minutes later he thought he heard a voice calling out. Maybe it was birds or the splashing of the surf. With the thundering waves that crashed and rumbled into the nearby rocks, it was a wonder he heard anything else.
Farther up the beach lay another survivor. Alex wasn’t sure who it was, but it didn’t matter. One thing he was sure about: he wasn’t alone here, wherever here was.
Alex lay there for what seemed like hours, breathing deep and digging his fingers into the wet sand. When the fatigue finally subsided, he was able to rise slowly to his knees and examine his surroundings. Considering that he had just escaped from a crash in a company plane, he realized he was lucky in one instance. Twenty feet away were jagged rocks, which he would have slammed against, crushing his already pained torso had he been that much closer.
As he pulled himself to his feet, the pain in his right shoulder emanated down the arm, numbing his fingers. Nonetheless, he worked his way down the beach toward the figure lying on its belly. Before he was halfway there, his companion rolled over on his back, his chest rising and falling with quick breaths. Alex could now make out the features of his colleague, Marshal, and he dropped back down to his knees, cupping the aching shoulder with his left hand. Once again he looked around; fear, pain, and bewilderment took turns at distorting his features.
As far as he could tell, the island was small. Several hundred feet of sand shoreline encompassed a bevy of dense trees and thick foliage, which in turn surrounded a mountain of black rock. Alex turned his attention back to the man on the beach; once again he picked himself up, wincing as he staggered to him.
“Marshal, are you okay?”
The other man remained silent for a moment. He finally turned his body to one side, keeping his neck stiff.
“Marshal, it’s Alex. You hurt anywhere?”
“My neck. I think I did something to my neck.” He blinked continuously, rolling his eyes around. “You?”
“My shoulder. I don’t think it’s broken, but it hurts like hell.”
“Any . . . anyone else?”
“No. Not on this side of the island, anyway. We need to get to some cover and out of the sun.” Alex leaned closer. “Can you bend your legs?”
Marshal slowly drew his knees up and down. “Yeah. Yeah, I think I’ll be fine if you can lift my shoulders.”
They managed to work their way into the cover of trees. Several hours later, a cooler breeze replaced the warmer one, their semi-dry clothes making them shiver as the sun dipped behind them. In the crown of a fallen tree, both men drew their legs up to their chests, waiting out the night. There were questions galore, but questions would have to wait; pain found its way to new places in their bodies, and they could only think of the worst. With no medical attention, God only knew what internal injuries either of them might have.
For both men, sleep was intermittently interrupted by some form of a water-related nightmare. They would jolt upright and cry out in pain at the involuntary movement. The morning found them with their eyes sealed shut by dried tears and sand. But it brought with it a warm, light rain and fresh water.
“What the hell happened?” Alex asked.
“I don’t know. Your guess is just as good as mine. We were fine—and then all of a sudden—all hell broke loose.”
Alex cupped his hand over his shoulder, moving it up and down. “I can’t remember anyone mentioning any trouble during the flight. The sky was clear. How could this happen? This is a fucking nightmare!”
“You think they know what happened?” Marshal asked.
“They?”
“The FAA, or whatever. Do you think they saw us go off the radar? You know, the little bleep—just up and disappear?”
Alex stared at the sand a moment. He finally said, “I don’t know how it works. Even if they did see us go off the screen, I don’t know whether they knew our position or not.”
“This is our cemetery, Alex. And that back there,” he pointed his thumb to the mountain of rock, “is our headstone.”
“How’s your neck?”
“Huh? Oh, it’s stiff, but it doesn’t seem to hurt as much.”
“Good. I’m going to get some wood together and try to build a fire.”
Marshal couldn’t help but laugh in spite of their situation.
“What? We could use it as a signal fire. It’ll keep us warm at night, too.”
“No, I’m sorry. I wasn’t laughing at you. I . . . I just thought of something funny in spite of this shit. We at least won’t have to talk to a volleyball.”
“That’s about as funny as a turd in a punch-bowl, Marshal.” Alex held his shoulder and laughed. “It’s been quite some time since I played Boy Scout.” His stomach began to rumble as he walked around, gathering dry twigs.
“What about the project?”
Alex dropped the kindling and knelt. “Gone. All went in the big drink.”
Marshal watched as his friend vigorously slid one piece of wood over another, favoring his right shoulder. The dried grass eventually began to smolder and finally burst into a small flame. Alex threw small branches atop the flame and brought it to a reasonable-sized campfire.
“I need to make a confession, Alex.”
“A confession? ’Bout what?”
Marshal stayed silent. For a long moment, he just stared out to sea.
“You were saying?” Alex asked, leaning against the fallen tree.
“The project. The others—they were . . . Christ!”
“They were . . . go on.”
“Shooting up. They were shooting up with it. Nancy tried it first, then got Richard to try it.” He paused for a moment. “I don’t know about Ed.”
“Fuck! Goddamn it, Marshal! The serum was . . .” he groaned, searching for a word, “Tentative. The FDA didn’t even know about it, nobody did. It worked on the laboratory mice, but it was a small amount, and you saw how anxious the mice became.”
“Hey, relax. I didn’t try any of it. They said it felt sort of like morphine, except not so potent.”
Alex grasped a handful of sand and flung it toward the surf. “I guess it doesn’t matter now, does it? Maybe that’s what happened. They might have been high on the serum when we took off.”
“Okay, since I’m on a confessional spree here, I’ll tell you my part in it.
”
At first Alex could only look at him, then: “What, there’s more?”
“The kids have these domesticated rats. Well, the male took sick and I had to remove him from the cage. I was afraid he’d infect the rest of them, or injure the babies. I didn’t want my kids to see that.”
“Oh, tell me you didn’t? You took that shit home with you? Marshal, how the hell could you know that stuff wouldn’t be a potential threat?”
“I didn’t, okay! I gave the male a shot. I mean, he looked like he had some kind of flesh-eating virus. Isn’t that what we worked so hard at?”
“I have to think for a moment,” Alex said, getting to his feet.
“Alex? Look, I know I should have . . .” He watched his friend disappear around a group of rocks.
It was several hours before Alex returned. Marshal woke to find his friend staring off into the horizon. The fire had been reduced to white-hot ashes, which burst into a flame when he tossed on several dry branches. He then followed Alex’s gaze into the water and locked his eyes on something floating. Marshal pulled himself to his feet and walked towards Alex.
“I found the other two, Nancy and Richard,” Alex said. “This one must be Ed.”
“Where?”
“About fifty yards from those rocks. It’s not a pretty sight. I’m going to need your help in getting them buried. We’ll have to find something to dig with.”
Marshal nodded. “Sure.”
Alex moved as far as he dared into the water, toward the rocks. The waves had subsided, but were still strong enough to cause injury if he were to be caught off guard. Ed’s legs spun toward him, and Alex was able to grab a foot. Marshal waited on the beach and helped him tug the dead man’s body onto the sand, away from the surf.
“Jesus, I—” Marshal turned and dropped to his knees, regurgitating yellow bile.
They found a pair of flat rocks and began to scoop up the sand. When the hole was at least two feet deep and five feet long, filling with water fast, they tucked Ed’s body in and covered it up. From there, they moved to Nancy and Richard.
Fish and crabs had ravaged Richard’s body, leaving small pock-like craters in his waterlogged skin, but Nancy’s was far worse. One of her eyes was missing along with most of her upper lip and part of her nose. Her front teeth protruded, giving the appearance of a morbid smile. In an hour, they had all three bodies under the sand.
“It’s a hell of a time to bring this up,” Marshal said, moving back toward the fire with Alex, “But I’m starving.”
“I’m so hungry, I can eat the ass out of a rotten dog,” Alex added.
“Any animals on this place? Rabbits, maybe?”
Alex shook his head. “How would they get here, swim?”
“Coconuts then, I guess.”
“Unless we can get a few of those crabs.”
The sun was well past zenith by the time they gave up attempts to spear fish and capture crabs; they settled for knocking down coconuts. Alex stared into the fire a few moments; his friend’s voice brought him back to reality.
“How pissed are you at me?”
Alex tilted his head. “It’s water over the dam. And as far as our friends, they fucked up and died, and, as you can see, left us to do the same. I did manage to find some shelter over on the far side of those rocks. In the brush a ways, there’s a cluster of rocks with a huge split in the center. I nosed around in it a bit. It’ll be enough for the two of us to keep out of the weather.”
The western horizon was blood red when they finally made torches and started a new fire in the shelter of the rocks. And it was in the nick of time: once again, it started to rain, this time with lightning. Both men had gathered large groups of leaves and had made makeshift beds. It was early in this part of the world, but their unsatisfied hunger was assuaged only by sleep. They woke in the late morning and walked around the island, searching. For what, neither man knew. But it had to be something other than sand, saltwater, and coconuts.
“There’s not even any birds,” Marshal said.
“Too far from any other land. I thought I heard birds when I heard you yelling the other day. There’s no other living souls here, but . . .”
“What?” Marshall asked. “What’s the matter?”
“The matter is—we didn’t walk there. See? Or did you?”
Footprints were scattered over the sand. They appeared to walk right into a tree, which stood in a little grove. At the tree’s base, it looked like there had been some type of scuffle.
Alex moved closer to the trees and inspected the area. There were two sets of prints: one set was larger than the other, and one of them was wearing a single shoe. Alex continued to trace the prints back to their source. The footprints zigzagged, like drunkards leaving a beach party.
“What in the hell?” Alex stopped and pointed.
“Mary, mother of God,” Marshal whispered.
Alex ran . . . ran to the other side of the rocks. As he rounded them, he could only stand and stare, his chest heaving, his brain screaming for more oxygen.
“Animals, Alex. Animals dug them up. I told you there were . . . animals.” Marshal stared at the empty grave.
“We’ve got to get back to the shelter,” Alex said. “We have to find out what the hell is going on.” He stumbled away from the rocks.
“The smell. It was the smell that drew them to the bodies. It was the sm—”
“There’s no fucking animals, Marshal. Where’s their tracks? Next, you’ll try to tell me that—maybe the crabs dragged them away!”
“I’m not going back in that cave.”
“Why? Why, Marshal?” Alex’s grip was vice-like.
Marshal’s face became contorted. He lowered his head, his shoulders heaving up and down. Alex released his grip and stepped back.
“The rat, it—was stiff. It was dead, Alex. I ran as fast as I could to get something to put him in. Anything, so the kids wouldn’t see what happened.” He ran his fingers through his hair. “I came back with several plastic grocery bags, but I knew they weren’t going to work. When I got back there, it was tearing at the metal bars. Tearing at them with its teeth all bloody and broken. It was ripping its own teeth out trying to get at the cage, trying to get at its mate and babies.
“Reanimation,” Alex said.
“W . . . What?”
Alex sagged against the rocks. “Not only of the infected flesh, but of the whole body. Not just resuscitation, but more like a resurrection.”
“I didn’t know, Alex. I didn’t know.”
“What did you do with the rat?” Marshal shook his head and shrugged. “I used some old burlap bags I had in the garage. I got it into the doubled-up bags with some rocks and threw the damned thing into the river.”
Behind them, on the other side of the rocks, something groaned. Nancy staggered toward them. Her empty eye socket held an opaque gray flesh that hung down on her cheek. She hissed, spewing a brown filth from a partially devoured nose and from a mouth that was now totally void of lips. Farther down the beach, another figure swayed and stumbled its way toward them; it had one arm.
“It kills and then reanimates the dead tissue,” Alex said, grabbing Marshal’s arm and pulling him along toward the other side of the island. “We discovered it, and we also have isolated it. Right here with us.”
“We’ve become the animals, Alex.” Marshal was out of breath and terrified. “We’ve become the hunted!” Richard, the man who was once their assistant, came out of the brush from the direction of the shelter, carrying a severed arm. He, too, groaned and hissed, tearing flesh from the dead appendage.
There was an old saying. Alex thought about it as they ran. He had no idea why it just popped into his head, but it did. He knew it was only a matter of time. They had to sleep at some point, but they knew sleep was now a lost cause. He thought again, You can run, but you can’t hide.
* * *
Six months later, a seaplane made its way toward the beach. The cove was calm,
and the wind was warm, carrying with it the sweet smells of decaying coconut and palm. It was perfect, the director thought, as his crew scattered for a better look.
“I knew I saw this place,” the director said. “It’s perfect.”
The producer and director of photography both agreed. It was perfect for their newest horror flick, Zombie Island.
“Hey,” one of the crew yelled, emerging from the brush. “I found some prints back there. It looks like someone else was here, and not too long ago. I also found a cave back there. Smells kind of dank, but that might add some atmosphere.”
“It’s getting dark,” the producer said. “Let’s play campers. It’s much safer than trying to make it back to the mainland. Show us that cave.”
The director joined the two. “Yes, I’d like to see this place at night.”
* * *
The old man rocked back and forth, watching the traffic outside his window, honking and squealing brakes.
SNAP!
“Gotcha, ya fucka!”
The dragging sound was faint at first. The old man watched the doorway leading into the kitchen. Then it came around the corner. The Rat. The rat in the trap, its head under the steel bar, its eyes bugging out, blood red. It dragged the contraption across the wooden floor. It looked at the old man, watching him with its swollen, beady little eyes. It dragged its teeth across the blond wood, digging and grinding them into the red pattern.
“Traps ain’t good no mo,” the old man said. “Gotta cut off yo head, too.” He lifted the heavy butcher knife from the oil stove.
The Undead: Zombie Anthology Page 24