Still Alive (Book 7): Zombie Perdition

by Bonds, Javan

  Arching an eyebrow, he caught the eye of The Alpha. She gave a knowing smile. The two of them would have some fun tonight... in more than one way!

  ☠☠☠

  Standing in his basement The Wolf picked up the heavy tool. Wish I still had my stunner, it was my favorite part! Guess I’ll enjoy what God has set before me. He barely contained a laugh. “You know what this is? It’s called a sledgehammer. It’s what they used in the cattle processing industry a hundred years ago.” He took a step forward with the object in hand.

  “Here, let me show you what they did with it!”

  ☠☠☠

  May only be artificial, but I’ll take what I can get! I guess the Lord really does provide and all that good shit. The aroma of honey glazed ham wafted down to the garage as Brother Brown finished feeding the rest of the human skeleton into the wood chipper.

  Rolling the broken skull over in his hand, it now faced him. Should I keep a trophy? Nah! Seen that gets too many weirdos busted in the movies. Cackling, he tossed the empty and destroyed brain casing in to be ground up with the rest. Usually by CSI. I’m so worried about DNA testing!

  Directly after the machine ingested the last pieces of the body frame, he killed the roar of the motor. Next, the pastor turned to make his way upstairs to his gorgeous wife. Out of the corner of his eye, he caught a figure standing sheepishly at the open-mouth of the garage. It was a surprise to see anyone appear from the pitch at such a time.

  Barely saving himself, he came close to screaming. “Mother... Mary!”

  Jones spoke up from just within the light. “Hey Brother Mike. What ya up to?” Not even trying to cover his greediness, the member of the fold mumbled. “Something sure does smell good!”

  Fucking sumbitch! Guess I got to pretend to be a good goddamn Christian. “Bet your hindquarters, my friend! Lauren’s got a ham in the oven. I think it may need to be in there for a while, but I’ll be sure to let you know.”

  Guffawing, the neighbor of the man of the cloth rubbed his hands together. “Heck yeah! Can I bring the missus?”

  The minister exhaled slowly. I’m a fatherly preacher. Can’t shove this fucking retard into the wood chipper. “Was expecting you to, brother! My table is open to anyone.” After thinking about that, he decided to make alterations. “Well... it can’t be too open. Don’t want to run out that quick.” This greedy bastard should understand that!

  “I got ya, preacher. But what about that fasting deal we’re supposed to start?”

  Jesus Christ, please let this idiot die painfully tomorrow! “Yeah... we can celebrate our assured victory tomorrow night!” Guess I won’t be able to tear into some ham after I tear into my wife.

  “You bet, Pastor Mike. My lips are sealed!” Jones chuckled goofily.

  They mother fucking better be. Shit. You know what? This dumbass is wrapped around my goddamn finger. I’m gonna go for it!

  “So... What did you think of the chowder earlier tonight?”

  “You kidding? That stuff was awesome! Nobody could get enough of it. What all was in it?”

  Here goes! “Remember that snoopy cop I told you about? The one that attacked me completely unprovoked and cut my dang arm off?”

  Confused, the sheep questioned The Wolf. “Well Yeah. What about him?

  Mike took a deep breath. “It was him.”

  Surprise came across his bewildered face. “What you mean?”

  “When he barged in and started making demands, I was in the middle of chipping some wood to smoke the next freeze-dried meal I would offer to the church. Somehow, when he attacked me... He slipped and went into the wood chipper.”

  Jones stepped back, flat against the wall. This might’ve been a little hasty. But too late to go back. “You’re saying... he was what we ate?”

  Nodding, the fake holy man continued. “I just saw all that meat... God commanded me not to be wasteful. I couldn’t go against His will. And it wasn’t that bad, was it?”

  At this, the disgust, terror, and revulsion on his neighbors face began to dissipate. Jones was slowly but rapidly coming to terms with what he had taken part of. Hesitantly, he started to accept the fact that the Savior wanted the entire church to consume a human.

  The disgust fading from his visage, the scowl was turning into a still confused grin. “Yeah... But...”

  Raising a finger, Brother Brown reminded. “Jesus said to eat of the flesh...”

  Jones finished the line for him. “And ye shall be made whole.”

  The preacher smiled. “See? This is what God wanted! We may be required to use the remains of our enemies in the same way in the coming days. Verily, we must use what God sets out before us. Though the task may at first appear disgusting, you must remember we are only following His commandment!”

  Unable to form words, the sheep only nodded his head in perplexed agreement. Giving him no time to argue, The Wolf made a plea. “Can you help me convince the rest of the congregation, dear brother, that I am only following His wisdom? Because it is a biblical commandment, the act doesn’t feel as barbaric. After the will of God is acted out by the faithful, you will see, as I have, the feeling of taboo eventually becomes nonexistent.”

  Finally coming to understand, the man shook his head vigorously. “Sure thing, Mike! Most of the people ain’t as quick as I am... so it might take some of them a little longer, but I think they’ll stand behind you just like me.”

  Stepping closer, the supposed temporary replacement for The Man of God put his hand on the bereaved father’s shoulder. “Thank you, faithful friend! You have no idea how much your loyalty means.”

  Jones tentatively reached around the preacher’s back for a manly hug. “It’s cool, bro. I got you.”

  Moving out of the garage to return to his residence, the sheep looked hard at The Wolf. “God’s on our side. Love you, man.” Pointing a finger, he disappeared into the darkness.

  Mike made a sound that sounded something like reciprocation. Positive the local had left, he had to shake himself. Fucking queer. That is the goddamn stupidest sheeple I’ve ever come across. If they were all like him, I could convince them our Holy Father said it was okay to rape blonde women to make babies for me to eat! He’s a God sent retard. I guess the Lord does provide, right?

  Laughing, he turned to make his way upstairs. Lauren will want to know about our new ally. We’re going to have to keep him around. Stupidity can be even more useful than intelligence... in the right hands... well... hand!

  ☠☠☠

  46

  I Dreamed of the

  Great Judgment

  Morning

  Let’s hear it for...” Paul squeezed the shard of broken glass before getting up. One end was sticking into his palm, the other protruding as a waiting surprise. “Sue Crafter, Denise Goodall, Sonia OMahini, Paul Rawlings, Gareth Stevens!” said the man on the stage.

  As the group approached the stairs leading up to the platform, Paul whispered loud enough for all of them to hear. “You guys ready?” each grunted agreement or acknowledgment.

  On the way to this ancient home of the Grand Old Opry, he spoke with the ones that he knew would be thanked publicly. Every one of them had been convinced as to what Fielder was. The serfs were ready to take him out. Though there would be no sneaking explosives, automatic weapons, or even real blades into the Ryman, each would have some sort of armament. He tensed in preparation and kept his fist clenched.

  A sharpened garden spade waited in the back of Sue's waistband. Goodall had the fragment of a broken brick tucked into her sock. A traditional, one piece can opener was O'Mahony's weapon of choice. The piece of glass sticking into Paul's hand would be his only offensive instrument. Gareth wielded what he swore would be deadly, an ink pen. Though no one would have considered them ready for combat, they were working with the available tools.

  In a line, Paul’s hand would be the fourth shaken. There really was no way for him to prepare for what was coming. He was about to change the world, as sm
all as it had become. For generations, people are gonna remember Paul Rawlings! That is, if there’s any kind of bloody future for anyone after tonight.

  ☠☠☠

  Moving down the line from Crafter, the overlord of The Black Hand stepped in front of Goodall. Thank you..” Reaca waited.

  “Denise.” She finished for him. Only one more between me and him!

  Making his way to the next, he extended his hand. Thank you...”

  “Sonia.” OMahini barely held back the insultedness. This is it. Breathe.

  A pair of sneakers squeaked into his vision. “Thank you...” The Wolf customarily waited.

  The other squeezed his hand and clapped his left on the back of it. “Paul Rawlings!” the slave smiled.

  Surprised by the pain of something slicing into his palm, Fielder attempted to pull away from him, but the other had a death grip on him. “It’s such an honor to finally get up close and personal with you.” Paul’s voice grew louder with each syllable.

  ☠☠☠

  47

  Finger Lickin’ Good

  Mr. William Gillenwater was a fine Southern gentleman. A son of the Old South, he always wore a perfectly white suit and a black bolo tie. A neatly trimmed goatee, long sideburns, and slow southern accent were just a few of the things that topped off his antebellum persona.

  One of the easiest ways to realize it wasn’t Colonel Sanders, had to be the prison tattoos covering his entire body. Ink peeked over his collar and was just visible on his wrists past the cuffs of his tunic. His time in the pen was made obvious with those.

  Because of his striking resemblance to the famous chicken mogul, people started calling him The Colonel a long time ago. Though he refused to acknowledge the obvious physical similarities at first, he now accepted the nickname. Usually, he even answered to it.

  Gentlemen can even be punished by the judicial system, though. Spending the past decade in a federal penitentiary was his penance for attempting to make the world a better place. Among other charges, he had been found guilty of enslaving others, kidnapping, and sexual assault. So... exactly what he was doing now.

  From childhood, he understood there were not lesser races, only lesser people... regardless of any kind of heredity. The Colonel enslaved men of every color, paid no attention to the skin tone of disobedient workers he put down, and impregnated women of every shade. Wealth and intelligence made one worthy, definitely not genetic heritage.

  ☠☠☠

  That’s one thing The Confederacy had wrong. Privileged people are equal no matter their color or gender. Some of my favorite lieutenants are minorities... even minority females! If prison taught me anything, it’s that people of all races can be just as clever and cunning as I am. Well, almost as clever.

  I am sick and tired of these damn locals. The New Southern Order swept into this little nowhere town in Mississippi from Baton Rouge, Louisiana. Bet your ass I won’t let a bunch of inbred yokels slow my plans of world domination any longer. They will see the South rise again!

  Every group of survivors chanced upon so far had been simple to conquer. But these...these people, they are not willing to die easily or hand over their fertile females. It was as if they thought they had rights or could be equal to figures like me. They would learn.

  Along the way, my followers gathered dozens of infected. These hunting dogs were used as trackers in finding survivors who did not immediately surrender. So far, the men who gave up without a fight were used for slave labor in the fields. They could live if they were willing to swear allegiance to The New Southern Order. Once again, the South would rise. The great benefactor will be yours truly!

  I just need more females to repopulate my kingdom. Many of the women already captured or that came looking for sanctuary were impregnated by me... or men of my choosing. Good breeding stock is a valuable commodity. It will be the backbone of my new Empire!

  The Dictator’s pet peevies were being systematically taken out by this one small remnant of survivors.

  Though I have been in this part of Mississippi for weeks longer than planned, I know I need every female I can get my hands on. No way of knowing what became of the hounds these people eliminated so far. Wish I could GPS track my hunting dogs... just not willing to trust the remaining satellites in orbit.

  I will take my time with these persistent freedom fighters. Maybe I should impregnate most of the women myself before handing them off to a few of my lieutenants. The men... I will make sure they suffer. They’ve been hunting my animals, a general pain in the ass since we reached Eastern Mississippi.

  First, I will slice them up little by little, making them watch as my hunting animals devoured each piece. It almost makes me giddy imagining chopping off each toe starting with the pinky, cauterizing it with a hot plate, and then moving up the body... inch by deliciously painful inch. Blood will pour with each fresh cut. This will be followed by the searing sizzle of glowing iron repeatedly against the inflamed stump.

  After so long in this godforsaken backwoods, the game of cat and mouse will end tonight. These stupid people will be begging for mercy before they meet the sweet embrace of death. I will be there to let them grovel at my feet before I carry them slowly to excruciating infinity. Infliction of torment is my favorite poison!

  ☠☠☠

  My lackeys simply unchain the hounds every night and let them run free. The beasts search far and wide for prey. If the hunting dogs ever find any humans, they must be quickly silenced before calling out an alert. Tonight will be different.

  My minions will attach several chains to trucks, pulling the animals to where I want them. The bastards are not going to run around aimlessly and end up getting hunted down as of late. I do not have an endless supply of the infected beasts. I will have to start infecting slaves if I keep losing these stupid monsters!

  ☠☠☠

  His cronies loaded up in their own trucks. Throwing his fingers forward, he closed the hatch on his captured M1 Abrams. Thankfully, one of his slaves was able to operate the heavy machine, offering to be his driver. Not only was she allowed to stay out of combat, this woman got the privilege of being near The Colonel.

  When The Dictator’s followers came across the tank, they were saddened it didn’t have shells to fire from the main cannon. They had yet to locate any, hoping to find some through their travels. At least it provided bulletproof armor for Mr. Gillenwater. Also, Rob Vann, a former trooper in the British Army’s 12th Brigade, Royal Hussars, could operate the mounted machine gun on top. Even if the heavy tank was little more than a glorified armored personnel carrier, it was an imposing sardine can.

  ☠☠☠

  “Surrender now and your deaths will not be as painful! You have no chance to stop what’s coming. Accept your defeat by the New Southern Order.” The Colonel spoke through a bullhorn, head poking out of his heavy tank.

  The M1 Abrams sat in the middle of the line of vehicles just outside the chain-link surrounding Junior’s home. He wanted to plow through the fence and let his hounds do what they do best, but he thought he should give the obstinate survivors one more chance. If they do surrender, I will execute the men without too much fuss and take the women as trophies.

  If they do not give up, on the other hand, even after the peevies do their job, I will torture every single one of them. They have some hogs on the inside of this compound. There will be entertaining ways to end the lives of these nuisances.

  I will hang them from their hands over the hog pen, slicing the bottoms of their feet. The swine will fight each other to reach the warm blood. They will slowly eat their owners from the feet up. Imagining the suffering and the shrieking cries of these bastards gave him an erection.

  After several minutes, The Dictator received no reply. So, he prepared to plow through the fencing. Just before he could call down the order to his slave driver, a figure emerged from the ground just inside the fence. None of the men noticed any holes in the ground before now. They grew still, taken comp
letely off guard.

  The term spider hole flashed across The Colonel’s mind. What seemed like a dozen other humans popped up from the ground around the first. Each let out a rebel yell, all throwing cylindrical canisters over the fence. Before the objects could even land on the outside, every figure had disappeared back into the ground.

  ☠☠☠

  48

  The Battle of

  Armageddon

  “Help! Somebody stop him! He’s cutting me!” Reaca continued trying to get his hand free in vain.

  A couple of members of The Hand hesitantly walked out onto the stage towards him. Some mumbled panicked phrases escaped his mouth before the slaves on stage started moving.

  A power-play was being made.

  ☠☠☠

  Not looking over, Garth Stevens spoke. “Well... I guess that means I won’t get to shake Reaca’s hand.” Smiling, he intended his next phrase for Fielder. “Maybe we’ll be seeing each other soon, mate!”

  Being the first path that the Hand members crossed, Gareth spiraled his writing utensil like a dart. Clearly, he was an expert at playing the game at his local pub, the Red Lion. It almost brought the taste of spiced rum and coke to his tongue. His arm extended forward releasing the pen at the closest gang member, Linda Garcia. Only feet away, she stayed upright for a moment. She would be one of the first to die; she just hadn’t realized it yet.

  Garcia turned to Stevens, mouth agape. Though she didn’t appear to be injured in the slightest, she reached up to the left side of her neck. As she did this, dark red began pumping between her fingers. Her mouth opened to let out a scream of anger or pain before she sank to her knees, silently incredulous.