What Price Gory?

by West, Terry M.

  Cecil and Bubba ran from the room. They heard her wicked laughter behind them in the distance as they navigated the stairway as quickly and carefully as they could.

  They passed Conrad in the formal room. The reanimated subordinate was wiping down a window with a dirty rag.

  “Hold up,” Cecil said, running back toward Conrad.

  “What the hell, man?” Bubba called after him. “We ain’t bringing him with!”

  Cecil patted down dead Conrad. The jostling attention did not take the zombie away from his chore. Bubba watched as Cecil returned, Conrad’s money quickly going into Cecil’s own pocket.

  “That’s like robbing a walking grave, man,” Bubba said, frowning on it.

  “He don’t need it no more. And we deserve it,” Cecil said simply, as the pair approached the front door.

  They made it out of the house and jumped into Cecil’s truck. Cecil started it and they took off. They went about fifty feet, and then Cecil slammed on the brakes. He looked to Bubba.

  “This ain’t right,” Cecil said firmly.

  “You’re damn right it ain’t,” Bubba said, stomping the floor board with his heavy foot.

  “We’re not moving! Get us the hell out of here!”

  “We were hired to protect him.”

  “Well, I don’t think he’ll be asking for a refund.”

  “We gotta take revenge in his name,” Cecil said, opening his door and stepping outside.

  “Cecil! Shit!” Bubba cried, following Cecil out of the truck.

  Cecil walked to the back of his truck and pulled out an emergency gas can. He carried it because of the busted gas gauge.

  “What are you doing with that?” Bubba asked, concerned.

  “I’m burning the bitch’s house down,” Cecil announced, going back to the house and dousing the front porch with gas.

  Bubba noticed Conrad’s dead face pressed against a window. It stared at them like a grounded child that wanted to come out and join in the game. It mouthed Bubba’s name.

  Cecil made a liquid trail from the house to Conrad’s van and soaked the inside of the van as well.

  “You’re burning the van too?” Bubba said, following Cecil and keeping his eye on the door, fully expecting Hattie Mae to come crashing out through it at any moment.

  Cecil motioned to the computer monitor inside. “Evidence,” he pointed out, pitching the gas can into the van.

  They walked back toward the front porch.

  “Give me your lighter,” Cecil told Bubba.

  Bubba handed it over. Conrad continued to watch, his slanted and gray lips kissing the window pane.

  His fondness for the demon totally out of his system now, Cecil started the porch to burning. A trail of fire ran to the rental van, igniting the interior. They walked back to Cecil’s ride. Cecil took his time but Bubba scooted along quickly, eyes over his shoulder every few feet. He made sure hell wasn’t rushing up behind them. As they got back into the truck, Bubba swore he could hear the faint, angry cries of Hattie Mae on the night wind. They drove away.

  “What do you think is going to happen to her?” Bubba asked, watching the fire grow through the back window of the truck.

  Cecil didn’t look back at all.

  “Hopefully she’ll stay in hell where she belongs, now that she doesn’t have a house to haunt,” Cecil said.

  The van exploded behind them.

  Bubba cringed when it happened, but Cecil merely smirked. The entire front of the house was engulfed in flames. Bubba watched until the heavy brush on the road hid the inferno. He turned back toward the road in front of him.

  “That was for you, Conrad,” Cecil muttered. He looked over at Bubba, who sat there silently. “You want to eat, Bubba? How about a chicken fried steak? I could go for a chicken fried steak.”

  For once, Bubba wasn’t hungry. “Cecil?”

  “Yeah,” Cecil replied, filling his mouth with a fresh piece of chaw.

  “We’re cursed,” Bubba said. His eyes were downcast. The reality of it sank in.

  You will be plagued by the strange and evil until the end of your days.

  A combination of anxiety and resignation came over Bubba.

  “We’re cursed,” Bubba repeated quietly.

  “Well remind me to buy Rosalita a puppy,” Cecil said, noting the positive. There was irony to be found here. Even a dumbass like Bubba had to see it. “If it weren’t for that curse, we’d be cleaning windows, right about now. And that place had a fuckload of them, too.”

  Bubba just stared quietly at the glove compartment, and Cecil knew his friend wasn’t thinking about that jerky anymore.

  He decided to let Bubba be. Cecil himself regarded it as one of those things you simply had no control over. Like the weather. He wasn’t in the mood to spend anymore worry on it tonight. He was hungry and tired and there was fresh money heating up his pocket.

  He took the Styrofoam cup from the cup holder and spit tobacco juice into it. There was a huge clap of thunder. Rain started spotting the windshield.

  “This is only the beginning, ain’t it?” Bubba finally said.

  Cecil picked at his teeth and kept his eyes on the road.

  “It is gonna be hell on earth for us both from now on,” Bubba figured gravely.

  The rain came harder. Cecil turned on the wipers and regarded Bubba. “How about that chicken fried steak?”

  Bubba stared at Cecil. At that moment, Bubba had no idea what his best friend was put together with.

  Cecil steered his truck down the hazardous road through the storm. He hummed to himself and smiled like he had just thought of something funny.

  “Yeah,” Bubba finally gave in. “I could eat.”

  After a spell, the rain stopped and the storm passed. They could finally see the starry night sky which had been hidden there, under the chaos, all along.

  HELD OVER

  “You understand that you could be executed for this. Twice, even,” Randall Biddle stressed to Clint Geer, the decrepit millionaire who sat before him.

  Clint sucked at the portable oxygen tank at his side. He nodded, and spoke when the mucus was cleared from his throat. “I have little regard for the risk or consequences involved, Mr. Biddle. I am dying, and I strongly disagree with the R.I.P. Act. It is a complete circumvention of nature and evolution.”

  “The R.I.P. Act is a nasty piece of business,” Randall agreed, folding his hands under his chin and propping his elbows on the desk that sat between the two men. “I know I don’t want a steel spike driven through my eyeball when my first calendar expires.”

  “They insist on killing the caterpillar before the butterfly is born,” Clint said, waving his hands around as he spoke. “We’ve all been implanted with that damnable flat line alerter, so the bastards can kick our door in and close our eyes before they have even really opened. It is an obscene and macabre practice and I don’t wish to have it visited upon me. So please explain to me how this all works.”

  “Well, the first thing we do is neutralize the flat line alerter under your skin. Once we have taken the implant out of the equation, the rest is quite easy,” Randall said. “Then we usually assign an attendant to the client. That person sticks to you constantly.”

  “Like a security person? A bodyguard?”

  “Actually, we call them lifeguards. They keep a constant vigil until the time of initial closure is near. And then our clients are spirited here and their residency begins.”

  Clint took some more air and then he said, “So you wish to send someone home with me?”

  Randall pushed his lips up and his eyes looked at the oxygen tank. “Well, in some cases, we feel it’s best to take advantage of the first life suites we offer. In your case, with your disease so far along, I would recommend that you settle in here and wait for it.”

  “A sad option, but a more prudent one, I suspect,” Clint agreed. “What’s left of me could be measured in days, I’m sure.”

  “That’s just an old skin, m
y friend,” Randall said with an expensive smile.

  “When it comes to the residents, how would you gauge the quality of their lives?” Clint asked.

  “They are well taken care of,” Randall replied. “The Milburn and Stein Home for Continuance is the best second life community you will find. Indeed, as an extensive sweep of the other underground institutions has proven, we are the cleanest and largest in scope and our connections with sympathetic powers keeps us unbothered and safe. We have important people in there. You will be in good company.”

  “How many of the shamblers do you care for?”

  “We currently house three hundred and sixty-eight. We have the capacity for up to seven hundred.”

  “How many are on your staff?”

  “We have twenty-eight people, all highly-skilled and dedicated.”

  Clint frowned. The tube in his nose wiggled. “It seems a deficiency in numbers to me.”

  “We are looking to increase our staff, mind you. We just have to be very careful in the recruiting process. My people are quite on top of it, though. In all honesty, the residents don’t require as much attention as you would think. They prefer solitude and are easy to distract and amuse. They’re like kittens with string.”

  “Have there been any incidents of violence? And could your staff handle a fierce surge from them?” Clint quizzed further. “I ask these questions because I need every assurance that my stay here will be tranquil.”

  “I understand fully and I am not shy with any concern you have,” Randall said. “We have had no riots in my time here. And none of my staff has fallen or become infected. They have all signed waivers that grant them immediate stay here in case of such a development.”

  “That is a fair enough arrangement, I suppose.”

  “The residents have grown familiar with us. There is recognition and occasionally even what someone might consider fondness between us and them. Still in all, we maintain boundaries and protocol. We don’t get too close. I doubt them capable but were the residents to suddenly and uniformly rise up and kill us all, they still wouldn’t have the mental capacity to escape these walls. They would carry on, without our guidance. But they would carry on, which is our mission here.”

  Clint absorbed the information, nodding slowly and sending more fresh oxygen to his brain. “It sounds like you have it well in hand. One more thing, though, and I can’t see it being a reason not to move on to the paper work. What do you feed them? What sort of diet do they exist on?”

  Randall’s face turned serious. “Now, Mr. Geer, this is the part where we need to be realistic. We’ve tried every kind of meat. The only flesh that will nourish them is the one hanging on our bones.”

  “How do you accomplish that?” Clint said. He was more fascinated than appalled. “Do you buy cadavers from medical schools?”

  “I wish that was the gruesome extent of it, Mr. Geer,” Randall told him. “The meat has to be fresh. It has to be living. A great deal of your funding will go towards procuring a proper diet.”

  “But how?” Clint said, utterly captivated with it.

  “The authorities are our main suppliers,” Randall informed him. “Prisons are so overcrowded these days. And there is so much scum out there. It is our biggest and most important expense. Without that meat, the residents would grow vicious and unreasonable. The meals keep them calm and make them easier to shepherd. We like to see them content, Mr. Geer. It makes things run smoother all around.”

  “Have you thought about orphanages as a source for the meat?” Mr. Geer suggested.

  Randall paused, and very quickly pulled his facial muscles away from a look of revulsion and scorn. “No, I can’t say that we have ever entertained that possibility.”

  “You should look into it,” Clint said. “Who would miss them?”

  “Yes, something to certainly consider,” Randall said, shuffling around the paperwork on his desk. “So, are we ready to make your stay official?”

  Randall presented a pen to Clint, but the old man still had something going on in his head. “Is there something else, Mr. Geer?”

  “I like the sunset,” Clint said. “I’ve watched it every night of my life since I was a boy. I’d like to continue with that.”

  “We can certainly accommodate that, Mr. Geer,” Randall said. “It will be easy enough to position you in front of a window so you can enjoy the twilight.”

  Clint motioned to the paperwork. “I want it said in there. I want it part of the agreement.”

  “I will make the provision in hand right now, and have it incorporated into the final contract,” Randall said, making a notation.

  “I am sorry if my interview has become laborious, but I do have another request,” Clint said.

  Randall finished the amendment and looked up. “This is not something you engage in rashly, Mr. Geer. I am here to spell it out, sir.”

  “I want to meet one of them,” Clint said. “I want to see one with the eyes I currently have.”

  “Now, that can be distressing, Mr. Geer,” Randall warned. “We aren’t as civilized or attractive in the next life.”

  “I’ve seen archival footage and I vaguely remember an encounter as a child when the plague first struck,” Clint said. “It is a primitive life, and one that none of us on this side of it can speak for. But being a perpetually dumb child is a far better fate than nothingness, Mr. Biddle. I just need a preview of this existence up close.”

  “And you shall have it, Mr. Geer,” Randall said, pressing the intercom on his desk. “Melinda, could you have one of the residents dressed for company and brought in here, please? Our potential resident has requested a meet and greet.”

  “I’ll arrange it right away, Mr. Biddle,” a reply came through the box.

  “So, shall we attend to some of the ink while we wait?” Randall asked. “We can start with your finances.”

  “Yes, what is this absolute lunacy about my finances?” Clint demanded. “You take it all?”

  “Yes, we do. There is absolutely no room for negotiation there. It assures that only the most elite and deserving find a home here,” Randall explained. “It is a very expensive lifestyle.”

  “I have heirs,” Clint said. “What about them?”

  “We make no arrangements for them,” Randall said. “In brutal terms, they are cut out, sir; of everything.”

  “My wife died years ago. She was a peasant when I met her. But quite a pretty one and she knew how to make a man smile. She gave me three sons. I tried, but I could find no joy in them. They are men, now; men who act like children. They are fat, arrogant and not a single one is self-made. I don’t think they even have the fight in them for success.”

  “But they are men, as you say,” Randall said. “And will they do anything productive with their inheritance, sir? Will these fat and arrogant children of yours do anything but squander?”

  “Hunger might be a good thing for them,” Clint decided, rapping lightly on the armrest of his wheelchair.

  “It would actually be a kindness, sir, if you don’t mind me saying. They will find character in the struggle.”

  “But still, they will object to it. They’ll bring lawyers into this.”

  “We have the best representation you could imagine,” Randall said, not even a little concerned. “Our attorneys will throw up road blocks and dead ends until your children exhaust themselves.”

  “Very well,” Clint said. “Then I agree to the financial terms of my stay. When my sons piss on my grave over this, at least it will be an empty one.”

  Randall chuckled. “Well said.”

  The door opened, and an orderly walked one of the residents inside. The creature wore a choke collar and was muzzled. It was dressed in blue pajamas that were dotted with dried blood and pieces of grue. It found Clint. The dead man’s empty eyes filled with hunger and it immediately reached its gray hands in Clint’s direction. It snarled and jerked its head.

  “This is Gabriel, one of our senior staff
and he appears to have Mr. Robin Freethy in tow,” Randall announced.

  “Robin Freethy?” Clint said, impressed. “The film producer?”

  “The one and only,” Randall said, motioning to Gabriel. “Bring him closer.”

  “I don’t know, sir, he is pretty worked up,” Gabriel informed them. He pulled back on the choke collar.

  “Bring him here, son,” Clint insisted. “You have him handled.”