Wacktards of the Apocalypse

by Jon Moon; Timothy Long

  Marcel is dressed in her full leathers. Black boots that lick up her thighs and leave a tiny amount of bronzed flesh exposed beneath a skintight black leather skirt. Her tits pop out of her equally tight top, displaying enough cleavage to be just as hot as hell.

  She carries an assault rifle over her shoulder in place of a purse. It’s a pretty little AR-15 with a short barrel and a place to slide her arm into the stock. She keeps it slung over her back and walks to the edge of the road. The creature grows close, the massive steed puffing dark steam as it gallops toward them.

  It doesn’t seem interested in stopping, and Marcel doesn’t seem interested in moving out of the way. She reaches for the holster at her side and draws an enormous handgun. She raises it in the air and fires one warning shot. The noise is a boom that echoes up the hillside, rolls away like thunder. The figure stops before her, but Marcel doesn’t budge.

  Edwina shoots a look over her shoulder and is reassured as every gun in the arsenal is lowered at the man. Maggie lies flat, but the big barrel hangs over the side of the semi and at this range, there is no way she can miss.

  The horse puffs and snorts, and black horse-slobbery shit falls in a puddle. The figure drops its cowl, and reveals not the skeletal face with fangs and blood dripping from its eyes that Edwina expected, but the visage of an older man. He has a large bald head and glasses, and when he attempts to smile only one side of his face quirks up.

  “I am War,” the man rasps. He extends one hand and gestures behind him. An army of dead is clawing its way free of the grass and dirt. The corpses moan and howl as their heads turn to find their leader.

  “I am Marcel.”

  “Stand aside, woman, I bring death and destruction. You shall not hinder me.” His voice vibrates inside Edwina’s brain as though someone were drilling inside her skull. Each time he speaks, she wants to bite her tongue in half to stop the pain.

  “Fuck you. You fucking pig.” Marcel lowers the Magnum and holds it in one steady hand.

  “You have no idea of the power I possess. If I so desire, I will lower my hand and the army behind me will eat the souls of those who stand behind you. I will take your head and use it to piss in. I will …” He cuts off with a surprised look as a hole appears in his forehead.

  Marcel has heard enough. The thunderous boom of her gun rings across the field again. The man whips back out of the saddle and falls to the ground in a pile of tattered black cloth. Then he turns to dust before their eyes. His robe puffs into ash and is swept along by the wind. The horse screams, and little jets of fire snort from its nose … and it falls over. Its flesh takes on a stony appearance and crumbles when it strikes the ground.

  In This Town We Spell “Law” S-M-O-O-C-H-O-L-E

  After finally escaping the constant horrific soul-violating multi-partner fucking of the orgy in the desert, Sheriff Smoochole and his lone surviving deputy, Fenton Morks, stole General O’Coddle’s personal Hummer and fled back to Reno and the sheriff station. Only they were too exhausted to make the entire drive.

  Instead, and due only to his cop-subconscious, Sheriff Smoochole pulled the Hummer into a roadside rest area. He turned off the ignition and passed out for approximately seventy-two hours straight. Deputy Morks was fast asleep and sucking on the back of his red-balled gag like a toddler sucks its thumb before Smoochole pulled the massive vehicle to a stop.

  Now, as demons whoop and screech in the air above them, Sheriff Smoochole stirs in his sleep. Behind his eyelids, he sees Hell.

  Once the first drop of blood soaked down into the earth, Satan shook off his great shackles and began pushing against the mass of copulating dying hippies. Smoochole saw the bastard Devil; he made eye contact with the Father of Lies. The Devil’s eyes sparkled with malice, and he shook an unbelievably thick red prick at the struggling Sheriff Smoochole while two more flaccid peckers watched from either side and laughed in a thousand voices. Smoochole fought through the pile of human flesh to escape the cock-stroking Master of Evil and still, days later, it haunts his dreams.

  In his dream, Satan’s bright red cock throbs and grows with each obscene stroke until it is just inches from the sheriff’s face. Flames erupt from the foot-thick shaft of the Devil’s dick and dance up and down the length of it. Sweat beads and falls from the sheriff’s face. He turns back and forth, trying in vain to avoid the colossal cock that inches toward him. He realizes suddenly, and strangely, that he has the twin walrus tusk handled .357s he took from the meathead general.

  In his dream, Sheriff Smoochole reaches for the pistols, unaware that his slumbering body is also reaching for them in real life. He fires. The thunder of close-range gunshots wakes both officers. Temporally disoriented, the two look around, confusion on their faces. They both turn to the demon standing next to Deputy Morks. Twin holes are blown through the bright purple skin of his chest, and Deputy Morks’s wallet falls from the demon’s claw into Morks’s lap as the monster collapses, dead. Deputy Morks reaches over and slams the door closed. He turns back and nods at the sheriff, who starts the Hummer and nods back.

  Sheriff Smoochole pulls back onto the freeway and slams the pedal to the floor. The massive Army vehicle groans and whines as it careens across the hot asphalt. As they round the last bend before Reno, they spot black pillars of smoke reaching for the sky from all over the cityscape. Winged creatures, great and small, soar around the tall fingers of smoke, whooping and screeching demon songs.

  Deputy Morks moans, “Smmmphh wmph FWPH!”

  “Yeah, I know, Deputy,” Smoochole tells him without taking his eyes off the smoldering city.

  Morks’s eyes glisten with tears. “Tmmmph kmmmph’d Dmmmphh Jmmmphh! Tmmmphh fmmmphh uph mmhph ammph! Tmmmphh smmmpph’d tmmph bmmph gmmph im mmp mmmphh! Fmmmphh tmmph!”

  Visions of Satan’s giant throbbing wang flash before Sheriff Smoochole’s eyes, and he tightens his grip on the steering wheel until his bony knuckles pop and go white. His muscles clench, and he grinds his teeth to force the phantom prick from his mind. Deputy Morks’s muffled tirade continues, but Sheriff Smoochole can hardly hear him over the pounding of his own heartbeat pulsing in his ears. The sheriff takes the exit to the station.

  Smoochole pulls the Hummer to a screeching halt in front of the building, and both officers stare in awe at their beloved station and the giant skinny demon in sheriff khakis scowling at them from atop the small stone staircase. The tall creature flaps leathery wings peppered with rips and holes. It takes a stiff step forward. The sun gleams off a dozen sheriff badges that are pinned up and down its thin chest.

  “Wmmph tmmph, Smmmmph?”

  “Don’t worry, Deputy. I’m the law in this motherfucking city,” Sheriff Smoochole tells Morks as he slides out of the Hummer and into the path of the lurching demon.

  The demon halts his advance and roars with high girlish laughter when the diminutive, leather-g-string-wearing Smoochole slams his door and points one bony finger at it.

  “Listen here, you cocksucker,” Smoochole shouts at him, “that khaki is sacred to me, and I’ll be mother fucked if I’ll see a son of a shit like you desecrate it!”

  “Yeah?” the demon snarls. “I’m the sheriff in this town. Sheriff Runnydrawers. If you choose to argue the fact,” he rolls his head to the side so Smoochole can see the skinned corpses hung around the top of the sheriff station, “I’ll hang you with the rest!”

  Sheriff Smoochole chokes back his building rage as it turns his vision bright white. His eyes scan the skinned men, and he blinks to hold back tears of fury.

  Deputy Morks spots the men, all hung by their feet so blood drips from their dangling hands. Morks leaps from the Hummer in a frenzy. He unsheathes his nightstick and shouts to Smoochole, “Lmmph kmmphh tmmph gmmmph fmmph’r, Smmmphh!”

  Sheriff Runnydrawers snarls and leans over the Hummer’s hood to get in Deputy Morks’s ball-gagged face. “I’m the fucking sheriff in this town, boy!”

  From the other side of the Hummer, in a voice as cal
m and dry as the desert before a sandstorm, Smoochole warns Runnydrawers, “Say that bullshit again and I’ll blow your fucking brains out.”

  Sheriff Runnydrawers scoffs and leans back over the Hummer toward Smoochole. His snarling face is as long as Sheriff Smoochole’s torso. Smoochole stares at his stoic reflection in the demon’s sunglasses as Runnydrawers opens his mouth and says, “I’m … the … fucking … sher …”

  Sheriff Smoochole draws both pistols and shatters his reflection with two well-placed shots. Thick yellow gunk explodes out of the back of the demon’s head, and it howls in pain. It recoils, and Smoochole fires four more shots at its neck as it tries blindly to retreat. Each bullet tears away thick chunks of red flesh until the demon’s head hangs by a strand of green sinew. Deputy Morks yells a muffled battle cry and swings his trusty nightstick at the flopping head like a kid assailing the world’s ugliest piñata. It connects with a wet thud, and the sinew snaps, sending the head rolling across the parking lot. The slender demon body sways and then falls at Smoochole’s feet.

  “I’m the law in this fucking city,” Smoochole smirks to the headless body.

  He turns to Deputy Morks and orders, “Pull the Hummer around back, then cut our brothers down and hang that son of a shit up there.”

  “Ymph smmph, Smmmphh,” Morks nods in response. He walks around to the driver’s side, stops once to beat the decapitated demon head a few times, then hops in and fires the Hummer to life.

  Sheriff Smoochole watches Morks disappear around the corner before he starts for the front doors.

  “I’m the fucking law,” he mumbles over and over as he walks into his station.

  Cleanup on Aisle Nine, Horseman Down

  “Holy shit!” Edwina exclaims.

  “Holy fucking shit!” Darla outdoes her.

  The girls holler their approval as Marcel turns and gives a bow. She strides back to the truck.

  “Darla, wanna get out of here or do you want to do some target practice?”

  “I feel like shooting stuff,” she calls back, her eyes on the slowly advancing army.

  “Right. Well those fuckers look kinda like zombies to me. Like the stupid movies. So I say we shoot them all in the head. Seemed to do well enough by the big guy on the horse.”

  More calls erupt from the ladies, and one even fires, dropping a corpse with a shot to the brainpan. Dirt and bone fly in every direction as its head explodes. Grinning, Marcel holsters her handgun, brings up the rifle and starts shooting at a steady pace. Fire, one drops. Fire, another head explodes.

  Edwina pulls her own rifle off her back and takes a few steps toward the rotting army. The foul things move like they are walking through mud. She takes aim at a man dressed in the tatters of an old red flannel shirt. Big beer gut hangs in front as he waddles along with the others.

  She fires and blows off one of his arms. It spins him around, but his only reaction is to pause as though remembering something he’d forgotten, then slowly turn to face her again. Maggots swarm around his nose and eyes, and big worms drop out of his mouth along with dirt and clumps of shit she doesn’t even want to think about identifying.

  The next shot blows half his head to the side, and he falls forward with a thump.

  The ladies open up. Guns chatter all along the hasty firing line, and wherever they aim, bodies fall and crumble. Edwina tugs her own handgun out and walks to the edge of the desolated land and opens up. She aims, steadies, takes a breath and drops one. Then another. She empties the clip and at least five or six of the things fall.

  The ground crackles and rolls around them. The women laugh at the slow, awkward ghouls shambling toward them. There are hundreds, maybe a thousand, but they move so sluggishly that they can be picked off with ease.

  “How come it isn’t this easy in the movies?” Edwina glances at Darla, who has a big fucking shotgun in the crook of her arm and is shooting the things in the head if they get too close.

  “Hell if I know. These fuckers are easy to kill. Easy peasy.” BLAM! One of them falls over. He might have worn a business suit at one time, but now the damn thing is covered in rot, and one of his sleeves hangs loose from a missing arm.

  “Found it!” one of the Asian twins calls out. She struts out of the side of the truck with a bandolier slung around her chest, its giant explosive green eggs nestled between her boobs. She pulls out a grenade, yanks the pin out, then takes two big steps and lobs it right into a group of four deadies.

  The explosion isn’t as loud as Edwina anticipates. It shakes the ground, sure. And puffs of smoke pour around the blast, check. Of course body parts fly. One of the dead things, a little girl of about twelve, is tossed into the air and cartwheels over and over until she smashes into two grown-up corpses.

  “And the dead shall walk the earth.”

  “Not that one.” Marcel mutters and then opens up with her sweet-ass machine gun again. Edwina has wanted to test fire it forever but hasn’t found the guts to ask. Marcel spits out two shots per corpse. Gets each one right in the head, for the most part. If they are lurching too much, it becomes more of a challenge. Sometimes they get it in the neck or the chest. But they get it.

  The ground is covered in the things. A few retain enough brain matter to crawl around, but the girls put them out of their misery. The women hoot and catcall as they challenge each other. So far Tonia seems to be in the lead; she has an AK-47, and that fucker never jams. She is on her fourth clip and it’s still rattling away like an old Maytag.

  When none of the bodies moves anymore, the women pack it in. Darla walks around her baby, checking the tires, the sides, the grill. She looks over her shoulder a few times, but none of the zombies comes after her.

  A shape flits across the sky, and Edwina stops in her tracks to stare up at it. The thing glides through a series of graceful acrobatic maneuvers. She wonders if it is some kind of giant hawk or eagle on the hunt.

  It drops, weaves as it falls and settles into a long circular pattern as it draws closer and closer to the ground. Edwina stares for so long her neck aches when she looks back toward the ground.

  “What the fuck?” Marcel asks the question that has to be on everyone’s mind. It is certainly banging around in Edwina’s. A lot of shit is banging around up there. Like the zombies and the guy on the weird horse. None of it can be real. It’s as if she’s on drugs, but if someone drugged her, she wonders who in the hell she just shot.

  The thing loops here and there, and as it falls ever closer, Edwina realizes just how large it is. It’s far too big to be a bird. In fact, it almost looks like someone wearing a big pair of bird wings.

  The shape darts toward the earth and hovers above them. A soft glow emanates from the shape as it descends, feet pointed down, arms at its sides. Edwina gasps at its beauty and wonders if it is God come to take them away.

  It drops ever so slowly, and Edwina can make out more details. A woman’s face, beautiful beyond measure. She has blond hair that sweeps from her brow to fall in soft waves across her back. She is dressed in a skintight suit of some white material that shimmers as it catches the morning sun. A gold circlet is around her waist and another around her head.

  She smiles, and the place of death is illuminated as though someone has switched on a light of peace over the field. Edwina falls under her spell immediately and wants nothing more than to be loved by the apparition. She wants to fall to her knees and worship the beautiful creature with the ten-foot wingspan.

  The moment is interrupted by the chatter of automatic fire. Marcel hefts her rifle up and fires eight rounds at the celestial being. Feathers fly. Blood splatters. A scream tears at the air and makes Edwina want to cover her ears and join in the shrieking. Then the apparition crashes to earth.

  Darla turns to regard Marcel in shock.

  The tall woman has the gun on her hip, barrel sticking up to the side. Smoke still pours out of the hole.

  “That was unexpected,” Marcel shrugs.

  “What the hell have y
ou done, Marcel?”

  “Shot an angel, I think.”

  It is only in the sudden silence that Edwina realizes the music of Heaven had just filled the morning air with its subtle grace.

  “You couldn’t wait and ask a few questions like who and what are you? Or what is going on? Fucking Christ!” Edwina is pissed. She wanted to touch that beautiful creature. She wanted to worship it.

  “I didn’t think I could hurt it.”

  “So you shot it anyway? Couldn’t take a minute to say ‘hey angel chick, are you immune to lead?’”

  “Oh stop your whining. We just killed a fuckload of zombies and you’re freaking out about this? Really? We have bigger things to worry about. Like how we’re going to hunt down those assholes who tried to kill us. Or why the world’s gone all to shit.”

  The women circle the motionless figure on the ground, but none of them dares to touch her. Edwina bends down and peers at the woman’s face. The angelic features move. Eyes open to stare at her. Mouth opens to take a stuttering breath. Edwina drops beside the creature and tugs her head into her lap. She strokes the being’s beautiful hair back and whispers that everything will be all right.

  “Bloody idiots,” the girl whispers, then her eyes roll up in the back of her head and her last breath passes like a spring day. Her hair loses its luster and then falls away in a puff of gray ash. Her face collapses inward, and her body deflates like a molested balloon.

  Edwina scoots backwards, away from the puddle of bubbling green ooze where the body used to be. Darla reaches down to help her up.

  “What the hell is going on?” she gasps as she comes to her feet.

  “Doesn’t matter, we got stuff to do. Men to track. And we need to get a move on,” Marcel says. The stock of the assault rifle rests jauntily against her hip and she looks like she is more prepared for a fashion show than a hunt.