by Carl Hose
“Not particularly, but I’m guessin’ it’s been on your mind.”
“A little bit,” Billy Ray said. “Take her, for instance.” He jerked his head at the stripper. “Chick like that wouldn’t fuck me if she was alive, unless, of course, I gave her a week’s pay, but dead, hell, how much complain’ can she do?”
The dead stripper was closing in.
“Shoot her,” Wyatt said, his voice taking on a bit of an edge.
“I wanna fuck her,” Billy Ray replied.
“You’re a sick fuck,” Wyatt said, raising his .45 to shoot the dead stripper.
“Don’t,” Billy Ray insisted.
The stripper was only a few yards away.
“You can’t be serious,” Wyatt said.
“Just keep her occupied for me,” Billy Ray replied.
Wyatt sighted again, almost squeezed the trigger, then lowered his weapon and said, “Aw, shit. Get it over with.”
He made a move left, drawing the stripper’s attention from Billy Ray.
“Lead her across the street, over to that parkin’ lot,” Billy Ray said.
Wyatt tossed a quick look over his shoulder, then turned back to the dead bitch. She seemed to be moving faster for some reason. There wasn’t much daylight left. He knew this shit was going to get dangerous.
“I’m shootin’ her if this gets outta hand,” he promised Billy Ray.
“It’ll be okay,” Billy Ray assured him.
Billy Ray got behind the stripper, trying to get his dick out with one hand and holding his pistol in the other.
Wyatt backed toward the parking lot, coaxing the stripper to follow him. When he reached the parking lot, he said, “What the fuck do I do now?”
“Let me take over,” Billy Ray said.
He rushed the dead girl from behind, taking her down to the concrete. Her head bounced off the ground and smacked Billy Ray in the mouth. Billy Ray’s lip started bleeding. He cursed under his breath, laid his gun aside, then tore off the stripper’s G-string.
He had to struggle a bit, but he managed to get his cock inside her. It was a little like fucking sandpaper at first, but he kept at her, spitting on his hand now and then to help ease the way. The stripper twisted, turned, and snapped at him. He got one arm around her neck to limit her movement.
“Damn, this bitch is tough,” he grunted.
“You’re fuckin’ bent,” Wyatt said.
He began to case the area. His nerves were starting to frazzle. It was dark now—too dark to see anything. Darker shadows shifted within shadows. Some of those shadows were drifting closer.
“Shit, Billy Ray, they’re coming,” Wyatt said.
“Gimme a minute and I will too,” Billy Ray said, chuckling at his quick wit.
The shadows began to take form as they closed in—lumbering creatures, quite a few of them nude, missing limbs, dead things with bullet holes and knife wounds, a woman wearing a strap-on dildo who was missing a tit, a cop with his insides rolling out, plopping on the ground with each step he took—too many dead things to count.
“Billy Ray, you get your dick outta that bitch or I’m shootin’ you in the head and leavin’ you here,” Wyatt said.
He snatched Billy Ray’s gun off the ground.
“Almost there,” Billy Ray said, grunting with the effort. “The bitch is startin’ to loosen up.”
Wyatt pointed his .45 at the zombies and aimed Billy Ray’s .357 at the back of Billy Ray’s head. He looked from Billy Ray to the approaching zombies and back again. “Don’t make me shoot you, Billy Ray, but if I have to, I will. I ain’t stayin’, and I ain’t leavin’ you here to become one of them.”
Billy Ray kept humping while the stripper made awful mewling noises. Wyatt couldn’t stand the sound. He couldn’t take the stress. The zombies were closing in and he had to do something, so he squeezed off a round from the .357 that tore into the back of Billy Ray’s head.
The zombies converged then, piling on top of Wyatt. He fired the guns until they were empty, then he kicked and punched. His fists went through dead flesh and lodged into sticky viscera. Dead hands groped him, tore at his clothes, and dug at his flesh.
They were all over Billy Ray too, ripping at his clothes, chewing his flesh—the girl with the strap-on dildo was fucking him in the ass. There had to be something ironic about that.
There were too many for Wyatt to fight. He fell to the ground. A maggot-infested pussy, all greenish-gray with little bugs scampering in and out of the ragged, rotting folds, descended on him.
Wyatt gave up then. His jeans were ripped down, and something cold and clammy settled over his dick. A pair of dead lips. A sharp pain tore through him and he knew for sure his dick was dinner.
The dead were coming.
If you can’t beat ’em, join ’em was all Wyatt could think, and he began to devour the rotten pussy as the corpses devoured him.
Dead and Living in Whitechapel
Cecil Whitley justified the murders several ways. First, he did all of his work in the East End of London, a section of town dilapidated and fraught with poverty and disease. Second, he only took the lives of women who had nothing to look forward to but social ostracism anyway, and thus, he was actually doing them a service. Third, and most important, Cecil killed so that his brother Edward could continue to live.
Edward Whitley, in contrast to the desperate prostitutes whose pitiful lives Cecil took, was a once-respected surgeon who’d made it his life’s work to eradicate disease and decay in the human body and to one day do away with death altogether. Edward had traveled to many parts of the world in search of what he fondly referred to as “the big cure.” He’d left no stone unturned in his quest for everlasting life, and when all medical and scientific avenues had been exhausted, Edward sought answers in the remote jungles of Africa.
There he learned the secrets of dark magic.
Edward had often talked to Cecil for hours at a time about the dark magic of a lost African civilization inhabiting a part of the continent known as the Land of the Forever Living. It had taken Edward a year to find this lost civilization, after which he’d spent two years learning the secrets of eternal life.
Edward’s failing health began within a year of his arrival back to London. He grew paler as the days passed. Eventually, he died in his sleep.
Cecil, who had always held his older brother in high esteem, barely coped with the loss. When he stumbled upon a sample of the elixir Edward had brought back from Africa, Cecil administered it to Edward, believing all Edward had told him about the power of the elixir to be true.
Later that night Edward walked again.
* * *
By late August of 1888 Edward was quite unmanageable. He wandered around in circles in his room, occasionally throwing himself against the walls. Some of the skin on his face and hands had begun to slough away, and one eye drooped from its socket, held in place by a gummy strand of optic nerve. His color was no good either, even for a reanimated corpse.
Cecil knew the problem. The ritual responsible for Edward’s rebirth called for a specific sort of flesh—human flesh— and there was just one way Cecil knew to come into possession of such a thing.
He did not fancy the thought, but he loved his brother, who had once done so much for others, and in the end he decided to do what was best for Edward. It would be easy enough.
He donned a black overcoat and slipped a dagger into an inside pocket, then he found the black bag once used by Edward in his medical duties.
A cold, light rain had fallen intermittently throughout the evening, and now a thick fog draped the glistening black cobblestone streets.
Cecil knew these streets well. The money his family had once had was no longer available. Now Cecil and Edward lived in the squalor of the East End. Cecil knew every nook and cranny, every shortcut, and when the constables made their rounds, slipping through the shadows undetected would not be a problem.
Cecil encountered a couple strolling arm in arm in B
uck’s Row. He lowered his head as he passed them by, glancing over his shoulder when the couple was behind him, watching as they disappeared around the corner at the end of the street. He didn’t see the woman who stepped into his path until it was too late, and they collided.
“Look where you’re goin,’” she said sharply, and then her tone lightened considerably. “Fancy a little company, do ya?”
“I do, indeed,” he answered, giving her a most charming smile.
“Three pence and I’ll show you a time of it,” she said.
Cecil agreed, paid the woman up front, then led her through the nearby gateway of a stable yard. He walked slightly ahead of her. She hesitated a little ways into the dark yard.
“This should do it,” she said.
“I believe you’re right,” he agreed, turning to face her.
She began to lift her frock, all business. The frock never made it beyond her knees. Cecil grabbed her by the throat with two hands and squeezed, pressing his thumbs hard against her windpipe. Her eyes bulged from their sockets. She was a tough old bird who tried to fight back, but Cecil squeezed tighter about her neck until she went out.
He laid her on the ground, then he was on top of her, whipping the dagger from inside his coat, stabbing and slashing. He was clumsy at it, this being his first time, and soon he became ill. His stomach heaved. He raised the dagger again, his hand trembling, but before he could plunge the knife into her again, he ran off, wanting to leave the terrible scene behind him.
He made it home without detection, but a heavy weight fell upon his shoulders when he realized he had failed his brother and that the killing of the whore had been for naught. He would have to go out again, and very soon, or risk losing his dear brother altogether. The thought of losing Edward made him shudder. It was not an option. Edward was a good man, and if the killing of a whore or two was what it took to keep Edward from going away entirely, then the death of a whore or two was exactly what Cecil would accomplish.
* * *
It was near daylight. Cecil again carried the black bag, which, he reasoned, would serve to pass him off as a doctor should someone spot him. His knife, freshly honed earlier in the day, was tucked beneath his coat.
Cecil saw no one until a destitute and drunken woman approached him with an offer of sex in exchange for enough money to purchase a loaf of bread. Cecil agreed, and off the two of them went, disappearing down a side street and into a backyard on Hanbury.
The woman quickly lifted her frock and started to turn her backside to Cecil, but before she could turn even partially around, Cecil lashed out with the knife and drew its thin, gleaming blade across her neck, opening a slit in her throat that nearly severed her head.
Cecil fell to his knees beside her and made quick work of it, slicing through her abdomen and drawing out her intestines. He cut a portion of the entrails away and dropped them into his bag, then he removed her uterus and dropped it beside the corpse. He considered taking some coins and other personal belongings from her in order to make the killing look like a robbery, but changed his mind and placed the items at her feet.
He was not a thief, nor did he wish to give such an impression. He even left the money with which he had paid the drunken woman for services never rendered. Justified homicide was one thing, but stealing was only for the hooligan types who frequented the East End.
He would not stoop so low.
Cecil was in the process of closing his bag when he heard low, muffled voices coming from inside a nearby flophouse. He closed his bag and hurried away, narrowly avoiding discovery as a man dressed for factory work came out of the house.
Cecil slowed his pace once he was back on the main street so as not to draw undue attention. The streets were still relatively deserted, though Cecil saw the occasional laborer heading out to earn a day’s wage.
Once tucked away inside his house, Cecil carried the black bag into the room where he kept his brother locked away. He hated to keep Edward locked away, but it seemed a wise measure.
Edward stood in one corner, looking down at his feet, and he immediately raised his head at the sound of the door to his room opening.
“Good morning, brother,” Cecil said.
He set the bag on a small table beside the bed and opened it. Edward sniffed the air, caught the scent of fresh meat, and shuffled over to the table. Cecil drew out the bloody organs and offered them to Edward.
Edward hesitated. He leaned closer and sniffed at the bloody entrails. He looked up at Cecil, then down at the organs again.
“For you,” Cecil said. “It’s what you must have.”
Edward reached out and placed one hand on the intestines. He picked up a piece of the entrails and licked it with a tongue that had become blackened and bloated. Cecil nodded encouragement.
Edward stuffed the entrails into his mouth and chewed, reaching for more even before he had worked through the first serving.
Cecil unloaded the bag, placing the remainder of the intestines on the table, then he exited the room, leaving Edward to enjoy his meal in peace.
Later that day Cecil picked up a copy of the Illustrated Police News and read an article about the Murder in Whitechapel, this one referring to the first. It was then he learned the name of the woman he’d killed. Knowing her name made him a bit sorrowful. He had not fancied his victims with names, which now put a sinister twist upon his deeds.
He went out that afternoon to a pub called the Ten Bells. He had a glass of gin, which was uncustomary for him. He normally did not drink, nor did he smoke, but now, to soothe his nerves, he engaged in both vices.
He was quite surprised at the number of men and women in the establishment, and he listened with great interest as some of the women gathered round one table and began talking about the discovery of a body earlier in the morning. They were truly frightened, and it gave him a perverted sense of satisfaction to sit so close to them without their having the slightest inkling as to his identity.
He watched the poor women for some time, imagining each as a possible victim, and he even picked out one he had seen working the neighborhood regularly. She would be a prime target.
He finished his gin and left the pub, walking the streets hours as he plotted his next move, for Edward would not survive long on the meager offerings Cecil had recently provided him. Already his flesh had begun to peel away from the rotting bones beneath, his teeth were dropping, and his ribs were beginning to show. Soon there would be nothing left at all.
Cecil had to kill again, and fast, if Edward were to continue living.
* * *
Cecil sat with Edward more frequently as the cold, damp September nights passed by. He would read to Edward, spend hours brushing the few strands of hair Edward retained, and talk to Edward about days gone by.
One night while Cecil read a news article in the London Times about the Whitechapel Murders, he glanced up and saw that Edward’s nose had fallen crooked. He reached up to fix it, and for a moment he simply stared into Edward’s one good eye, connecting with the despair he saw there.
“They are making arrests,” Cecil said suddenly. “These killings confuse them. They have no idea. To them it is simply the work of a madman, and now I’m afraid the publicity may get to be too much, then what will I do for you?”
He leaned up and kissed Edward’s cold, gray forehead.
“I will not let you perish,” he said in a tired voice.
* * *
Cecil awoke with a start. Something was wrong. He felt the cold grip of terror in the pit of his stomach. He rose from the chair in which he’d dozed without realizing it, hurrying to check on Edward. He gasped in horror to see that the door to Edward’s room stood wide open.
He rushed through the house, desperate to find Edward, hoping he was simply wandering around. Cecil had never forgotten to lock the door to Edward’s room before. Edward was not accustomed to wandering about in such a large area, and Cecil worried he might get himself into trouble.
&nbs
p; After searching high and low, it was apparent Edward was not to be found in the house. Cecil grabbed his coat and went outside to look for him.
The sheer madness of thinking Edward was wandering these fog-shrouded streets was enough to scramble the brain. Edward could be anywhere. Fear for his well-being made it nearly impossible for Cecil to function with any degree of confidence. He rushed through the maze of streets and alleyways, he searched courtyards, and he even checked pubs, all to no avail.
And then, simply by chance, Cecil rounded a corner and saw Edward attacking a woman of ill repute. The woman was putting up quite the struggle, wailing away at Edward, who hardly seemed equipped to fight back. Cecil rushed to Edward’s defense, and just as the woman started to scream, Cecil silenced her by opening a wide gash in her soft throat.
A man somewhere nearby called out, “hurt her,” or “murder,” or something to that end. Cecil took Edward by an arm and rushed him down a dark alley, heading in the general direction of Mitre Square.
When Cecil and Edward reached the square, a dark-haired woman in her forties had the misfortune of meeting them. She turned on the charm so as to solicit business, realizing much too late that she had made a terrible mistake. When she got a look at Edward’s rotting features up close and not hidden by fog, the woman changed her demeanor quite quickly.
“What the bloody hell—”
Cecil had the knife in his hand in a flash. He moved before the woman could finish her sentence, swiping the blade across her neck, nearly removing her head in the process. When she fell to the ground, Cecil threw himself on top of her and began to mutilate her with abandon.
He cut off her nose and one of her ears, then he carved up her face until it was an unrecognizable pulp. He opened her belly and dragged out her organs, then he sliced and chopped until he was soaked with blood and exhausted beyond measure.
Edward stood by passively. Cecil looked up at him, breathing heavy and gasping as he spoke. “Go on,” he said, nodding at the slain woman. “She’s all yours.” He got up and took a few steps back from the corpse.
Edward knelt beside the dismantled corpse and buried his face in her open abdomen, and with both hands he filled his mouth with her steaming organs, only occasionally looking up at Cecil.