Cleaver

by McCloud, Wes

  The Lord of the Fleas

  I thought the end of the world was going to be a lot funner than this ( yeah I just used the word funner instead of more fun, you’ll live ) There would be no chores, or responsibilities, or a job. It wasn’t the fantasy dream life I’d pictured in my head. The gasmask I constantly donned was becoming an actual necessity at this point because of all the poop and pee from over one-hundred dogs. Some of these dogs were laying out some serious logs. I’m talking meaty chuds. Tom Sawyer himself could’ve roped a few together and easily set sail on the Mississippi. I had to make rounds every day, taking the wheelbarrow out through the yard to clean up the shit just to keep the property somewhat livable. They were protecting me though. They deterred the zombies and, in return, I became their butler. It was the true definition of a symbiotic relationship if I’d ever seen one. Zombie deterring aside, I think we’d always been dogs butlers. I mean, there I sat, looking at them all lined up, sucking up the rays in the glory of the midday sun. The most intelligent creatures on the planet. Oh, you thought it was us? Humans, yes were so damn smart. We go to jobs we hate and work ourselves into the grave. The dogs, however, have conned us into taking care of them. They get free meals. Free rooms. Free healthcare. So you see, we’re not exactly the smartest lifeforms on the planet, nor are we the most compassionate. I think we fall in third place, right under cats. And dolphins. And Crows. We’re probably more like tenth place.

  I still couldn’t wrap my head around what was going on. With the zombie killing bites, that is. June was a surprise, but in a sense she wasn’t. After all, I had found her in a heavily guarded military crate. But seeing Jeff’s bite and Pete’s bite do the same thing had me befuddled. I’m not even sure if I’d witnessed Zoey bite into one, but I had to assume she did. Were dog bites this fatal in general to the dead? They couldn’t be. I saw Jeff bite Ted near the beginning of all this. Ted didn’t explode. There was simply something more to all this. Turns out, the answer was right under my nose. I’ve never considered myself the smartest person in the room, but I finally felt the part some three days later when I finally discovered what was going on. It began when I was sitting in my chair and staring out through the herds of dogs playing, lying, and shitting in my front yard. I felt a tiny sensation on my arm and looked down to see a flea. He was having a good old time. Doing what fleas do. Spinning round and hair-surfing on my arm like some miniature crackhead trying to breakdance. Seriously, what the hell were these things? I don’t even think they knew what they were doing half the time. Have you ever seen them jump in slow motion? Most ridiculous shit I’ve ever seen in my life. But anyway, I just sat there, staring at his antics for a moment. I’d had them land on me before, but I took quick swipes at them, I mean the place was crawling with the things and it was time to just get used to the fact that they weren’t going anywhere. Oddly though, I’d never seen a flea like this in my life. It was red, like bright crimson red. I’d always remembered them to be brown or even black. The split second I saw it, I didn’t even know it was a flea. Finally, he did his little springboard maneuver and went backflipping into god-knows-where. I would assume on the nearest dog’s ass end. I kept sitting there, pondering, wondering why the hell that flea was so weird. I then leaned over and started thumbing through Jeff’s fur where he sat beside me. He eyeballed me suspiciously, like I was up to something, and I was. I started seeing fleas in his fur, all red like the one that had just used my forearm as a dance floor. My face was twitching and the gears were grinding the more I pulled Jeff’s hair apart. Some weird thoughts were brewing in my head right then and there. Certainly they weren’t true? I plucked a flea up and looked at it closely, that lasted about two seconds. Just try and hold one of those bastards, it ain’t happening. I got up and grabbed a mason jar from the garage. One by one I started plucking fleas from the nearest dogs like I was harvesting blackberries. I kept throwing them in the jar till I had about a dozen or so. I held up the vessel and stared through the glass at the antics going on in there. They weren’t happy. I mean, I wouldn’t be either, but I wasn’t doing this for their amusement, or mine. This was science, damn it!

  The next step in this experiment wasn’t going to be easy. I know, because I sort’ve had set out to do it once before and it didn’t go so well. I needed a zombie. And since Amazon wasn’t around any longer to deliver me one via drone, I had to set out and bag one myself. Maybe it was stupid, but I decided I had to go this one alone. I needed this zombie alive and I couldn’t risk the dogs coming with me and biting one before I could subdue it. I rounded up all the dogs I knew would follow me and locked them in the house. They were about as happy as the fleas in my mason jar about that. I grabbed up some rope, an old fishing net, and a burlap sack and set off. ( judging by the those supplies alone you should be able to guess I hadn’t thought this one out, at all ) So yeah, I set off once more, driving the Bronco, solo, out into the unknown of the roads I hadn’t touched since the R.F.M. - that’s the abbreviation of the mass zombie slaying I now referred to as the Route 40 Massacre.

  To my surprise, it didn’t take long to find one of the dead on that day. And thankfully it was alone. It wasn’t too far from Route 40. Must’ve been a straggler from the horde days before. Either way, I was stoked. I stopped the truck and jumped out, ready for action. There I was, holding a fishing net and screaming obscenities at this bag of walking death that had somehow managed to keep its pants on despite its flesh falling off. I’m not sure which one of us looked more ridiculous. But as expected, it charges me with that signature shrieking they all emitted. Like my stupid ass was trying to catch a butterfly, I just lay the hammer down and that net buries down to about its waist before the webbing bottoms out on top of its head. I guess somewhere in my mind I thought that I was just going to sweep a 150lb body up in this thing, throw it into a burlap sack and go home. Not so much. I am sorely reminded at how strong these things have become as I start trying to subdue it to the ground to no avail. I tried bracing my weight against the net handle, but I get slammed up against the truck and I get a dose of gnashing teeth trying to come through the webbing right in my face. It was right then that I decided that not bringing the dogs wasn’t the best idea.

  I think I probably fought with this thing for five whole minutes. I was on the ground, then it was on the ground, and then we’re both on the damn ground. And this happy dance goes over and over till I finally think of a new tactic. I throw the zombie to the ground, grab up Orion, and then hack into the meat of its thighs like I’m chopping wood. Within moments, I manage to amputate both its legs. If it doesn’t have legs, it should be cake to subdue right? I think I just pissed it off, because it started going berserk. It unravels the net and starts running at me across the road on its hands and leg stubs. Apparently cutting off their legs not only makes them madder, it makes them lighter and they can get around faster. I’d have to remember that for next time, but in the meantime, I’m jumping onto the hood of the Bronco trying to get away from this dead bastard. After a hard kick to this thing’s face, I jump back down and do the only thing I can think of, I hack one of its arms off. And I thought cutting off its legs had pissed it off. It’s going completely insane now, and my bigger fear is this thing’s death howls are going to draw in more. I waste no time flipping it over and getting the other arm hacked off. So this zombie is now just a screaming, writhing torso spilling brackish blood all over the pavement. Wow, this had not gone to plan at all. I had to shut this thing up, and quick. I rip my shirt off and I’m stuffing handfuls of it into its open mouth, being careful not to get my fingers bit off in the process. That shuts it up, for the most part. I secure it even more when I find a roll of duct tape in the glove box that I began wrapping around its head to keep the shirt in place. Jesus, how the hell was something still this strong with no appendages? I finally stuff it into the burlap sack I’d brought and roll it over the truck tailgate and wedge it behind the backseat. I then ride home, shirtless and tired as hell, being serenaded by
the sounds of this human torso, head-butting my tailgate over and over. I seriously expected that zombie’s skull to be split wide open by the time I’d reached the house.

  When I got back, I unraveled this deadbag and use truck tie-downs to secure him to a fence post out in the backyard. It was weird watching him writhe around ( I think it was a man ) I almost felt like I was doing something wrong. I seriously felt like I’d kidnapped someone. The thoughts of my guilt only stirred up memories of the before time. The time when the computers still worked and the net was still rife with self-righteousness. I couldn’t help but think, had this whole apocalyptic scenario gone down differently, say half of us were human, the other half, dead, there’d be dozens of groups rallying for their rights. Someone would’ve filmed me on their phone hacking this bastard up, throwing him into a bag, and then tying him to a fence post and it would be the entire planet’s mission to end my career, my families and friends careers, and shit into the face of every pet I owned. Gone were the days of torch wielding mobs and stockades on the town squares, because they were immoral. But we were still doing such things in digital format. I could just see their cries of disdain written in all caps in the comments “KILL YOURSELF YOU XENOPHOBIC ASSHOLE!” “IGNORANT PIECE OF SHIT, THAT IS A HUMAN BEING!” The only thing HUMAN about the thing that lie before me was its general shape. Other than that, it was a rabid pile of hamburger meat ready to devour the brains of ANYONE before their fingers could type #zombieshaverights…but hey, I did go looking for him, so maybe I WAS to blame. Again, it all made me remember why I had laid my phone to waste in the first place.

  I removed the tape and shirt from his face and go back to the barn where I’d left the jar of fleas on the workbench. I walked right up to the zombie, arm held out with this glass vessel like I’m a priest showing a cross to a vampire. And I honestly expected that response. I expected the closer the proximity of those fleas, the more it would lose its mind. I mean, he was losing his mind but not in the terrified sense I’d hoped for. Soon, I have that jar like two inches from his snapping teeth and I’m getting nothing but the typical, rabid behavior. At this point, I have an audience building. All the other dogs are starting to gather as I continue my backyard experimentation. I could hear all the other dogs barking at the windows of the house, just dying to get out. June was the loudest of them all. She wanted to end this thing, but I needed answers. Soon, I just started mashing the glass into the side of the zombies cheek with this slight grin on my face. I’m not sure I was even enjoying that as much as I was laughing inside at how ridiculous this was all becoming. I sighed and stepped back a bit. I go through the chin scratching and forehead wrinkling that any stereotypical mad scientist would. A lightbulb goes off, unfortunately it was an incandescent one and it went out as fast as I spun open the jar and threw the fleas right into the zombie’s face. Nothing. No writhing and explosion. I honestly expected it to happen so much as that I reeled back, waiting for the blood and guts to cover me. Was I wrong about all this? Frustrated as hell, I grab a turkey baster from the barn that grandad used to use as a battery water siphon. I grab the nearest dog and suck a flea up into it. I then held the zombies head still, blew that flea right down its open mouth, and jumped back with my hands up. Nothing. The dogs are all as confused as I am by this point. They’re all looking around at me and the zombie. Hell, some of them had walked away like they had better things to do.

  I plopped my ass down on the picnic table and just began stewing. I was missing something. I started going back through the times we’d all met the dead with force. The lightbulb came back on; this time it was an LED. Moe the beagle is sitting next to me panting in the heat. I took the turkey baster and siphoned some of the drool running out the side of his mouth. I walked right back up to the zombie and sprayed the spit right into his face. What followed was nothing short of mesmerizing as the dead shrieks became gelatinous tones of groaning misery. What was left of its body, undulated and swelled until it finally exploded all over the backyard, covering me and some of the more curious dog bystanders. My hypothesis was correct…well sort of. The dead weren’t afraid of the dogs. They were afraid of the fleas, or rather what the fleas had turned the dogs into. The fleas were biting the dogs and, in turn, were releasing something into their bodies that had altered their blood and body fluids. Well, their saliva at least. I had to do more experiments to find out if anything else on the dogs was as potent. Obviously, this amazing transformation was canine only. I had been bitten by the fleas as well, but the dead didn’t fear me at all. It was something about the dogs DNA mixing with the flea’s antiviral properties that was causing them to become ruthless, zombie destroying machines. The full realization that I was now in control of an entire army of living, breathing bioweapons had me feeling almost godlike. I grabbed the hose and washed myself off, I had more work to do.

  I spent the rest of that afternoon feeding my dark curiosities. Though instead of capturing more zombies to experiment on, I simply went to them, carrying with me several small jars of canine bi-products to continue the field work. I basically only had a few more choices to work with. A jar of urine ( that was not easy to get ) a jar of excrement = dog shit ( that was not as difficult to get ) and also a giant, plastic bag full of dog hair ( that was extremely easy to get. I groomed it out of Pete who seemed to have an endless supply of the stuff ) I’ll go ahead and get the dog hair out of the way first as I know I was probably reaching on that one. And as expected, it did nothing. I walked up to the first zombie I found and blew that ball of hair right into its face off my open palm like I was blowing it a kiss. I mean, it did blind the thing for a moment, enough for me to unscrew the lid on the piss and fling it into its face. But there was no explosion, it seemed to burn more than anything. I could actually hear the urine sizzling on the musculature of the zombie. Reminded me of fajitas. ( god, I missed fajitas ) It also put me in mind of holy water being thrown on something unholy, like a vampire, or a Canadian goose. Either way, it was effective, but a far cry from the saliva, which was like sticking a hand grenade inside the body. Though it wasn’t a total loss, it did leave a continually growing and nasty wound. Still, it hardly seemed worth the effort; I made the mental notes just the same. Now for the poop. I shoved the zombie back a bit and tried throwing the shit out from the jar. That didn’t go so well. It just stuck to the glass. Like a perturbed gorilla at the zoo, I found myself grabbing a healthy bare handful of this pup peanut butter and flinging it into the face of the dead. ( it actually ended up right across its neck, which was somehow even more gross ) Annnnnd, nothing happened. I guess if you count me gagging, it was something. But nothing physically damaging came from the poop. I was a bit relieved to be honest. I ripped out the sword and decapitated my test subject. It seemed the saliva was the only thing that was deadly. I hadn’t tested the blood, but I wasn’t prepared to even consider that. I would have to find a syringe or purposely cut one of my dogs and that wasn’t happening.

  I returned to the house with the newfound data fresh in my mind. A real scientist would’ve preformed those same experiments under different circumstances with varying degrees and volumes of pee-to-poop-to-face ratios but I just wasn’t up for that. Their spit was like a bomb and that was good enough. I finally let the more zombie-aggressive dogs back out into the yard. They seemed as happy as ever to see me despite their temporary imprisonment. Try doing that to a human. They wouldn’t speak to you for a month, if ever again. And they’d press charges….But yeah, I had found out the secret of the dogs. At least the superficial aspects of it. I had no idea the deeper reasons, the under-the-microscope cause and effects that made them what they were from flea bite, to dog bite, to zombie detonation. But all of that seemed irrelevant, considering I wasn’t gunning for a Nobel Peace Prize or an article in Popular Science. All that was important was I now had some answers and a recipe for my own backyard bioweaponry.

  I didn’t sleep much that night, I spent too much time digging through old boxes and turning my hous
e and the garage upside down in the ill attempts of find ONE damn squirt gun. Yes, you read that right, a squirt gun. Go to any grown-ass man’s house in middle America and I guarantee, somewhere, you will find at least one action figure of some sort, and a squirt gun and/or dart gun, And they belong to THEM, not their kids. Because ALL men are basically 6 year olds. I was no exception, but apparently I had the dart gun and not the squirt gun ( much to my chagrin ) I did however have more than one action figure. I had a handful of those 1990s Alien figures, which I didn’t realize I had till I found them in an old suitcase in the shed behind the garage. It was just the aliens though, I had apparently lost all the Colonial Marines – bummer. The suitcase also contained the entire Topps card series of Jurassic Park, all of which was as worthless against the dead as the dog poop in my yard. But I digress…The squirt gun, back to the squirt gun. If you didn’t surmise already, my plan was to turn a child’s toy into a zombie killing weapon. I would collect dog saliva on the daily and fill the guns with the drool and well, you should know the rest.

  After countless hours of searching, I finally resided myself over to the fact that I’d have to venture out and acquire one. It was okay though, food supplies were running low and so was my morale to be honest. I needed something better than the scraps I was pulling out of the neighbor’s houses. So I loaded up the truck with my most trusted soldiers. June, Jeff, and the angry ball of hair named Pete. We were going on a supply run, and I didn’t want to take too many dogs, I had to make room for all the food, squirt guns, and whatever else tickled my fancy. I headed back out to Route 40, only this time I went east, away from town and the fields of broken down cars. I was headed to the only safe bastion I knew of that didn’t reside in the belly of the city.