Zombie Tales Box Set [Books 1-5]

by Macaulay C. Hunter

  She lifted the top half of the prosthetics away, and it was Samson.

  Vasilov’s lower jaw fell open comically. Ink roared in rage, quelling every voice in the clubroom. Coming around the sofa so sharply that he banged his thigh on the back, he charged over to the podium in disbelief. In a flash, Adrasteia had backed to the doors and was holding a gun on him. “Don’t try it. This is my brother, and I am going to take him home.”

  Ink saw it now. He saw Samson’s heavy features reflected in this young woman’s face and build. This was why she had bothered him so much, his subconscious mind making the connection that his conscious mind had not! “You took my zombie! But I saw Samson’s dead body!”

  “You saw Zeke’s body, you idiot!” Adrasteia said. “I gave him a fake brand to match the one I saw that you’d pressed to Gabriel’s arm. I doped him up and had him lift until I feared he was going to have a heart attack at my feet. By the last week, I couldn’t even get him up out of the hay to go to his meat mash, and I held him in my arms and fed him by hand. We could wait no longer. I drove him across the country in the trailer, tied to a mattress, and then I walked my oldest brother from his deathbed and into your stables, dressed him up as your own, and put him out of his misery before his heart could finish the job. God will never forgive me for this! I secured my seat in hell when I killed him, trading one brother for another. I hoped that you would not look too closely at his brand and I took back what is mine, my brother Gabriel.”

  “And you fought him!” Ink exploded. “So you just wanted to let someone else do the hard work and claim the champion for your own!”

  “He had great odds to win, and very nearly did. And it would earn me passage into this room, which is exactly where I wanted to be.”

  Ink was in such a rage that he was seeing red. His Samson! She had taken his Samson! Jackie gasped to see Samson there on the podium, the other vets quieting and then gaping when they recognized who was there. One said, “But he’s dead!”

  The gun was making everyone who could see it very nervous. Vasilov said, “Just take him and go then.”

  “No!” Ink exclaimed. “That zombie is mine and you had no right-”

  “I had no right?” Adrasteia spat. “I had no right? I had no right to care for my blood as I saw fit? I had no right to speak for him when he could no longer speak for himself? You had no right! You are the one who has no rights to Gabriel. To fight him! To brand him! I had to slash through your brand to hide it and he’ll have an ugly scar now, so thank you at least for making your brand so small. But you are the one who had no right.”

  Her eyes moved out to the room, and she looked at them accusingly. “You had no right to take any of them! So you will give them over to me right now, all of them in this room, and all of them captive within your stables! You will promise to never purchase one again. What horrible people you are! Where is your respect for the bonds of family? Where is your respect for life?”

  Cantine laughed at her crazy demand. It was a rusty sound, so dry and ancient that dust should have come from his lungs at its expulsion. “One last protestor, eh? These Games were overrun with them. Call security and get rid of her.”

  “Already on their way,” someone said over a cell phone.

  Desperately and defiantly, Adrasteia said, “This is your last chance. Give them all over to me, repent for what you have done, and you will live.” Her gun was faltering, and her arm began to drop.

  “No, young woman, leave this room and you will live,” Cantine said in dismissal.

  Two security guards entered through the open door. Ink was jubilant when their hands closed over her upper arms. She was too cowardly to shoot and Samson lived! Ink wasn’t going to Hawaii until he had spoken with Madeline and felt confident that no one was going to raid his stables in his absence. Or he’d skip the trip altogether, send Nadia on her way and protect what he had in Samson and Thor, the two best zombies the Games had ever seen. Yes! That was precisely what he would do. He could go to Hawaii any time. It wasn’t going anywhere, and he was.

  “Give them to me or you die!” Adrasteia demanded. But Cantine’s laughter had spread to many others, especially since her gun was now pointed to the floor.

  The security guards pulled the woman to the doorway. Vasilov patted his belly and said in agitation, “Make sure to disarm her, boys.”

  “Why would we do that?” one said, and he had some of those same heavy features in his own. His nametag read PETER. The guy smiled nastily to the populace of the room and then nodded to Samson. “We’re going to leave you to discuss this amongst yourselves. Meanwhile, we’ll wait outside for ten minutes. The doors will be blocked, so don’t think you can sneak out and leave us holding the check. And then we will come back in for our answer.”

  This was just absurd, and Ink joined in the laughter. Give up his zombies? All of them were going to decide to relinquish their entire livelihoods? Their lives? These idiots needed to go home and set up a memorial in the name of their dear Gabriel, take the cop’s advice and get over it. Gabriel had died when he caught the virus, and Samson belonged to Ink. He had the receipt at home in his filing cabinet. Samson! Thor! Ink was going to rule the fighting world.

  “Ten minutes,” the second guard repeated.

  Sure! Ten minutes! This post-party had been about Ink, and they had ruined it. But when someone seized the reins of control, the winner seized them back! Good old Vasilov! Ink straightened to his full height and said, “We don’t need ten minutes. We don’t need one. The answer is no.” The room stood behind him in solidarity.

  “I think in ten minutes, you’ll be willing to negotiate,” Adrasteia said coolly, and lifted the gun. Not to Ink, not to Vasilov, not to put Samson out of the miserable existence she thought he had. She raised it over all of their heads, and pulled the trigger. The boom vibrated through the air and people screamed.

  In one sinuous move, the woman and the security guards withdrew from the room. They closed the door and something heavy struck the other side. She had shot the ceiling. That was going to make them change their minds, no doubt. Ink laughed hard and admired his two incredible zombies.

  “Oh my God,” someone near Wrath of Neptune’s podium whispered in terror.

  Ink turned as the room erupted into panic.

  She had shot out the light. Not just any light, but the one fixating the zombies. The only light fixating the zombies. The rest of the lights in the room weren’t bright enough to dazzle them. Another heavy crash resounded from the big oak doors, and through them came the sound of spiteful laughter. Something about that slim trio of mocking voices was louder to Ink than the quarter million filling the stadium had been.

  The light was out.

  The light was out!

  The light was out.

  Screams ripped from dozens of throats as the zombies wakened upon the podiums. People fled for the bathrooms. At the men’s, the panicked attendant took one look at what had happened and slammed shut the door in Gareth Hodging’s face. Gareth tried the knob and shouted when it was locked. Maenad was closest to the women’s bathroom, and the quartet of vets stopped short in their run there when she stepped from the podium and blocked it. Her lip lifted into a snarl and they shrieked, tripping over each other in their eagerness to get away.

  But there was nowhere to go. Nowhere except out the huge windows that would have to be smashed with something, and no one could get to them. There were podiums between the line of seats and the windows, too.

  In ten minutes, less than ten minutes, those three outside the doors would have their answer. It would be yes, because everyone in the clubroom would be dead. Both standing at the buffet, Dusk and Nadia stared in horror as Scrapper tilted his head to consider them.

  But I won, Ink thought helplessly. This couldn’t be happening. He had won, surpassed the almost that had haunted his entire life and transformed himself into someone at last. Yet again, it was being taken away.

  A massive hand closed over his should
er. The only one behind him was Samson. Then Thor pivoted upon his podium and Ink’s last thought was one more pleading but I won before they fell on him.

  THE END

  MEAT

  by Macaulay C. Hunter

  Chapter One

  “This needs to be a success.”

  They stared down to the sleeping boy in the hospital bed, the aged vice-president of Settlement 3 punctuating his demand with a sharp nod. No one replied to him. The two balding doctors exchanged looks with the rotund head of the hospital, and the director of communications tapped his pen once on the metal bar of the bed before returning to his scribbles on a notepad. The creases deepening in her brow, the nurse needlessly smoothed the blanket over the boy.

  Man, Ryla corrected. This was no child before her. Malachi Harris was twenty-two years old, but boyishness clung to his shrunken shoulders, the whip-crack narrowness of his frame and the corkscrew tousles of his long hair. Puberty had begun carving but vacated its position before the work was done. He looked seventeen at most, and her estimation that he was five-eight or five-nine in height was borne of generosity.

  There was a necrotic patch on his arm, a wide skid mark of rot stained silver with regrowth ointment. Another necrotic patch was on his face, though this one was further along in the healing process and much smaller. The silver splotch was balanced over his left eyebrow, as shiny as a newly minted dime. The sheets and blanket were tucked in at his waist and he was dressed in a threadbare gown drained of color, so his half-rotted arm and facial blemish were all that Ryla could see. However, the clipboard of paperwork hung from the bed near where she was standing, and the first page of it held diagrams of the body both front and back. The ink outlines had been marked with further splotches upon his legs, buttocks, and stomach.

  She had met none of these people until five minutes ago, and they’d offered no introductions when she walked in with the summons for a therapist pinched questioningly between her fingers. The hospital staff she had seen in passing, save the nurse, when checking in patients caught in the throes of some acute psychological crisis. The doctors always had a harried look; the head was a smiling fool who appeared to have little medical training or experience, so how he had finagled his way into such a lofty position was a mystery. The director of communications was new to her; the name and face of Cameron Aulish was familiar from the election some undefined wash of time ago.

  Had she voted for the Satter-Aulish ticket? Or had she penciled in the other pair, whose names she could no longer recall? She honestly couldn’t say, or if she had voted at all.

  At last, the uncomfortable silence in the room was broken. “A success,” Aulish repeated firmly, his eyes blazing on the oblivious form in the bed. “This has to happen.”

  “He is a success.”

  Ryla looked up to the head of the hospital, but it was one of the doctors who had spoken. Wearily, the man said, “He’s alive. The only one to live out of fifty-nine trials. Settlement 10 didn’t have a recovery until its seventy-second trial, and performed twenty-four more trials before they had another. Settlements 8 and 15 have both passed the hundred mark without a single one. This boy is a miracle.”

  Aulish picked up the boy’s damaged arm by the elbow and wrist to avoid touching the skid mark. “Sleeves,” he pronounced as he inspected it. “I want that noted down, Conlon. He’ll need a shirt with long sleeves for the ceremony, or better yet, a jacket. Can makeup cover that spot on his forehead?”

  The director of communications scribbled faster. “Of course, sir. My office has been in contact with your secretary about-”

  “And a tie. I want two matching ties so his father can wear the second. We have flag pins already, plenty of them for the whole family. That will make a good visual. He’ll need a haircut, too. You told me that he’s talking?” The last was spoken to the hospital staff as he placed the boy’s arm atop the blanket.

  “Walking and talking,” said the head of the hospital jovially, the nurse shooting him a disquieted look. “It’s been a long road, but his brain functioning has returned. He’s no zombie anymore.”

  “He can carry on a regular conversation?”

  “Normal as normal can be. He can answer questions about the high school he went to, where he used to live, what his cell phone number was and so on. He walks without assistance over to that chair and opens up a book to read. When these last necrotic areas heal up, he’ll be almost as good as new. We brought in his parents to see him . . . I’ve got to confess, that was a beautiful moment.”

  Aulish was scanning every visible inch of Malachi Harris. Lifting the boy’s upper lip, he said, “Are his teeth all right? We can’t have him up on stage with blackened teeth.”

  “We already had the dentist in, same day as his parents. For five years without meeting a toothbrush, it wasn’t as bad as we expected in there. One cavity and one missing tooth. It’s in the back. You can’t see it when he speaks or smiles.”

  “Is he smart enough to memorize his speech? In four days? I want this to look off the cuff, not prepared.”

  “He can do that.”

  I want. I want. I want. Ryla just wanted to know why she was here, but she might as well have been invisible.

  Now Aulish was parting both of the boy’s lips to see the dentist’s work. It must have pleased him, because he looked only for a moment at the bared teeth and then let the lips close. “We’ll have him backstage for the welcoming speeches. Then President Satter will call for his family; they’ll have reserved seats in the front row and we’ll have someone guide them up the staircase. Satter will introduce them to the crowd, a bit of background of who they were before, who they are now, how we have a surprise for them. Isn’t that right?” His eyes flicked to Conlon expectantly.

  “Exactly right, sir.”

  “Just like those old daytime talk shows where a big gift is going to be brought out. A car, a fancy vacation, a new washer-dryer.” Aulish turned Malachi’s chin this way and that in further examination.

  It was awkward to watch, Ryla hoping that Aulish didn’t intend to strip him next. At least the boy was unaware; at no point had he stirred from the touches or conversation.

  “But this . . . rat-a-tat-tat-a-tat-tat . . .” said Aulish in a harsh, hungry voice, “is their long-lost son.”

  Everyone was quiet.

  “Hugs all around, the little ones jumping for joy to see their big brother. The kids weren’t allowed in to see him? I sent word that I didn’t want that.”

  It was still quiet, but several heads nodded.

  “So that part will be genuine. Gasps and tears and clap-clap-clap from the audience. The president will shake their hands and then we’ll have the boy deliver his speech.”

  Aulish raised his voice to that of an amazed young boy’s, a falsetto that Ryla found even more off-putting than the inspection of Malachi like he was a prize horse. “So wonderful to be here! What a beautiful autumn day, such friendly faces, yadda yadda yadda, can’t wait to see all of Settlement 3! Thank you to the kind hospital staff for never giving up on me, thank you to the people for their prayers about the Phoenix Project, thank you to God for His divine mercy, praise Jesus-”

  “Is he Christian?” Ryla interrupted, that ridiculous voice grating on her nerves.

  The voice dropped several octaves, Aulish barking, “He will be on stage. Then he’ll talk about how glad he is to be well, to go home with his family, to be part of this loving community. There’s always hope and he’s proof-positive of that right in front of them. Never give up. God never gives us more than we can handle, so on and so forth. Then he’ll finish with a wave. Hooray, hooray. Another round of hugs and the family will walk to the stairs together. Anything I’m forgetting, Conlon?”

  “Not a thing.”

  “Then we’ll have people seeded in the chairs along the aisle to congratulate them once they’re among the audience. Has that been set up like I asked?”

  “Yes, sir. I’ve found a pair of young men around
his age to slap him on the back like they’re good friends from before, and a pretty little blonde to throw her arms around his neck. Some older people will shake hands with the parents and-”

  “What about presents?”

  “I can have presents arranged.”

  “A bouquet of flowers for Mom, a bottle of wine or champagne for Dad, toys for the children . . .”

  “Sir, they’re all in their teens. But we could still do stuffed animals for the girls. I’ll ask Mr. and Mrs. Harris what sport Malachi played in school. We could give a football to him and his little brother, or a mitt and a baseball bat.”

  Aulish was pleased. “Good. And have all the feeds from the drone cameras directed to Audio/Visual so they can cut and paste or whatever it is they do to make the video the best it can be. I want that done and sent to the other settlements by the next day. There’ll be an uproar.”

  There would be, Ryla thought. Settlement 10’s pair of recovered had had no family left. Both were on the late side of middle age, already frail and bending, and while their recovery was remarkable, there was an undercurrent of misery to them that filtered out to all who watched the videos. Their peaks in life had already been climbed; their descent was heavy upon their stooped shoulders. They had been brought back, yes, but there was no long, mysterious road winding away into the future ahead, not like there was with a child or young adult. There were only swiftly approaching concessions to time.