by Mark Tufo
I got the information I was looking for with a little more yammering and headed off. I was fearful that if I stayed any longer I might do something that guard would regret. Why I went looking for ‘Fritzy’ I couldn’t say. I would have been better off minding my own damn business. As it was, I was thoroughly pissed off and I was looking for a punching bag to vent on.
I went to his front door and rang the bell. Well to be honest, I pushed the button and I didn’t hear the familiar dingdong accompaniment. I banged my fist against the door hard enough to make the frame rattle. No luck, this stupid puke was probably passed out in front of his defunct TV with half a bottle of Jack in his lap. I tried the lock, no luck, most people in this neighborhood had always kept their doors locked, and nothing that was happening now had made the place any safer. His two front windows had the shades drawn.
LEAVE! my senses screamed. I paid them no heed. I walked around the back of his building. His gate was unhitched. LEAVE! that pesky voice said again. I’m not psychic in any capacity, so I most likely had these feelings of foreboding after the fact, when I could sit down and write about it. But it would be nice to think I had a higher consciousness that was looking out for me; much more comforting that way.
I walked into his small, unadorned back yard, minimalism at its best. He had one bleached out patio chair and an umbrella that hadn’t stopped anything much smaller than a basketball in a couple of years laid out on his concrete slab of a back yard. In the far corner stood a small bundle of bricks and two bags of cement from a project that didn’t look like it would ever get completed. The cement in the bags had gotten wet and was set; he basically now had a pair of hundred pound paperweights. My back ached just with the thought of moving those things. I was stalling. There was something wrong here and still I plodded on.
His back sliding doors were also covered with long brown vertical shades. I pressed my face to the glass, but was not rewarded for my effort. The murk from within was not yielding any secrets.
I knocked, but not nearly as loudly as I had at the front. I convinced myself that I was afraid of breaking the glass, but it was more than that. I felt like an intruder, I was now on his property uninvited, but why should that matter? I tried the door. It was locked. Whew, good thing, I thought. My mind was saying ‘Get the fuck out!’ while my hands were popping the sliding door out of its tracks. I had pulled my gloves off and, with the friction from my hands, I pushed up on the glass. As it came out of the bottom groove, I then wrapped one of my hands around the side and pulled it towards me.
The waft of warm stink filled air that hit my face nearly made me drop the door. It smelled like he was cooking a zombie, or maybe it was just broccoli, I couldn’t tell. Both of those smells skeeve me out. I pushed past the greasy shades and was greeted with the low deep growl of a large animal. I froze. Out from the gloom of the hallway approached a mid-sized bear. Its throat rumbled a warning, or maybe that was its stomach. What’s worse: getting eaten by a zombie or a bear? Not much of a choice, pretty much like deciding if getting stabbed or shot is better, they both suck.
I was halfway in and out of the shades and was afraid the movement to reach and grab my rifle would cause the big animal to attack. I eased my hand back to my belt. I had the foresight to strap on my 9mm, but I wasn’t feeling all that lucky. It would take three or four well-aimed rounds with that caliber to take down a bear, and I had maybe one or two max before this thing would be on me. Well, at least I knew what the stink was. This bear must have eaten Fritzy. The next question, however, was a little unsettling. What the hell was a bear doing in here in the first place?
My hand had finally reached upon the pistol and the bear must have realized I was up to no good, at least for him. He charged full tilt. Two shots my ass; I had barely gotten the pistol out of the holster when the creature slammed into my legs. I fell over, my hand slamming into a foot mat. I was tangled up in the shades and rolled around, finally pulling them free from their moorings. The rail gave me a glancing blow across the top of my head. That was the least of my worries. I was kicking my legs like a marathoner in the hopes that Smoky the Bear wouldn’t be able to find purchase. Sometime during the fray I had lost the pistol. The rifle might have been in a safe for all the good it was going to do me. The bear would be digesting me by then. I was moving like an epileptic on crack—shitloads of movement with no purpose—but still no bone-crunching rending.
I paused for a moment, my skittering heart making that a difficult process. I sat up expecting to be face-to-face with the beast. Nothing. Did I imagine it? I looked around my immediate vicinity. No, the thing had hit my legs hard enough to bruise them. A bruise was infinitely better than what I had been expecting.
I sat up fully now, curiosity now beginning to overtake the ebbing fear. It wasn’t a bear. It was Bear. Over by the gate was the biggest Rottweiler I had ever seen. Bear had been a resident of Little Turtle for at least as long as I had lived here. I had seen him around the complex on numerous occasions. His previous owner must have met an untimely demise. How he ended up at Fritzy’s house I wasn’t sure.
Bear wasn’t paying any attention to me in the least. All of his focus was at the back gate. As I stood up and slowly approached him, I could tell he was shaking, but not from the cold. When he heard me coming, he swiveled his massive head. His large eyes were rimmed with white and his mouth was pulled back in a perpetual grin, but there was no happiness here. This dog wanted out. Bear looked balefully at me, pleading for me to open the gate. I still wasn’t convinced that this wasn’t a bear or maybe at least a hybrid of bear and dog. He was easily a hundred-and-eighty pounds, maybe more. I cautiously moved closer, doing my best to convey my harmless intentions to the animal.
“Hey, good boy. You’re a good boy aren’t you? Right?” They say animals can sense fear. If so, we were both in trouble. My teeth were chattering and Bear’s tail was wedged between his legs. “What’s the matter, boy? Is it the zombies?”
Well that doesn’t make any sense, now does it. He would have been better off staying in the house. I dared a glimpse back to try to ascertain what in that now harshly uninviting house had scared this brute to his core. His head lowered imperceptibly as I inched closer. My hand was inches from its massive skull. One bite and he could have half my arm. I undid the latch and he pushed the gate open with his nose. Bear looked back once as if to say ‘Thanks’ or ‘Are you coming?’ Either way, he didn’t wait long to find out. He galloped off, long strings of saliva dragging on the ground doing little to stop his momentum.
I should have left. I wanted to leave. I also wanted my Glock back. I had paid a lot for the gun, and I loved it. Stupid gun. I walked back to the door. Even with the shades off, the place seemed darker than it should, almost as if there were anti-lights in there. Some device designed to remove light and replace it with darkness. ‘That’s crazy talk, are you hearing yourself? Yeah, and you are also having dialogue with yourself. True, true, but still anti-lights, that sounds like something out of a scary movie. Yeah well so do zombies.’ I stopped in my tracks; I hate it when I’m right.
“I just have to get my gun,” I said aloud, maybe to make it sound more convincing.
I wouldn’t have to go in more than a foot or two. I stuck my head back in the blackness, fearful that if I went in too far I would be sucked into a portal of the damned, forever lost in a land of the insane. How close to right I was I could not have known. I felt around the tangled, fallen shades, convinced that I would find my prize momentarily and be able to get out of there unscathed. That is, of course, unless someone was videotaping my escape from the shades. All dignity had been lost at that point. I was on all fours patting around the floor, not liking how vulnerable I was feeling. Nothing. I even pulled the shades out the door to make sure the gun wasn’t hung up in the slats somehow and I had missed it.
“Dammit!” I muttered as I stood up and took my first full step across the threshold. I didn’t feel the rush of teleportation, but that didn�
��t make me feel any better. I took another step and then another into the gloom; the smell worsened. I wasn’t going to be caught off guard again. I brought my rifle to the ready. Another step, still no Glock.
I was halfway across the living room when I spotted a reflective glint of metal. It was partly down the hallway where my new dearly departed friend had first showed himself. I could not even begin to understand how it could have made that distance. I was feeling like a baited rabbit being led to slaughter, but I couldn’t help myself, I inched forward. I was smart enough to see the design of the trap, but not smart enough to get out before it was sprung. If the design for this model town home held true, then the gun was positioned directly in front of a small bathroom easily big enough to hide four or five zombies.
Sweat beaded up on my brow. My hands were getting clammy. My exhausted heart once again began its furious beating. I stopped, waiting for some small scuffling sound, or a cough or a sneeze. But, near as I can tell, zombies don’t sneeze or cough…or lay traps for that matter. Something sinister was happening, I knew without any doubt. If I didn’t hurry this along, I was going to need to use that bathroom before I went ahead and wet myself. No noise issued from the impossibly blacker entrance to the bathroom.
I was leaning forward stretching my arm as far as it would go, wishing I would become one of my favorite childhood toys, Stretch Armstrong. If I remember correctly it didn’t end well for him either, green goo everywhere. I shuddered. I had my left arm straight out in front of me, my right arm gripping the rifle like a vise, and my head swiveling like a top between the entryway and the floor. When I looked away, I felt my neck was dangerously exposed, not that it mattered to these zombies. They would just as soon chew into my smelly feet. That was not a comforting thought. My hand scraped against the edge of the gun barrel. Heartbeat after heartbeat I desperately tried to grip the gun.
I turned my head to better locate my quarry and all hell broke loose. A loud sound came from the bathroom. I pushed myself off to the left, falling over and hitting the far wall. Hands gripped around my neck. The rifle was useless, the barrel sticking out farther than my assailant. I pulled the trigger anyway hoping the noise would scare it away. Nothing! The safety was on! My fingers frantically scrambled for the selector lever. The grip around my neck was making starbursts in my eyes.
“I’m sick of passing out!” I screamed.
My hand came off my useless weapon at the same time the pressure on my carotid artery loosened. I reached my hands up to my neck and felt nothing except the nylon of my rifle sling. In my panic I had cinched it tight. The noise whooshed again from the bathroom. This time my rationality took over and I knew the sound for what it was. The toilet bowl was leaky and would periodically have to refill itself.
“What is wrong with me? I could make a whole ‘America’s Funniest Home Fuck-Ups’ episode.” I laughed a little to ease my inner tension.
A few more jolts to the heart like this and I was bound to spring a leak somewhere. I sat on the floor and readjusted my rifle. With my pistol in right hand, I placed my left on the floor to assist in my ascent. It was then that I felt the slow heavy vibrations emanating up through the floor. I have to be a sadist. Why I didn’t think I had had enough I’ll never know.
I knew the sound for what it was, club music. I had a neighbor that loved that techno crap. He played it morning, noon and night until I had a long talk with him. It was actually a short talk, but it was a long barrel. I told him I was going skeet shooting, but that my wife was sleeping and if he could keep it down I’d appreciate it. His head nodded at all the right times, but his eyes never left the steely black barrel. Never did have to go over there again. In fact, he moved out the next month. Hope it wasn’t anything I said.
What do I care if there is some other yahoo in this world that likes techno music, I need to get out of here. I knew all about the ‘Make My Day Law.’ I voted for it. So far I had broken into his house, damaged his property, and let his dog go. I’m sure he wasn’t going to invite me in to his party. I opened the door to the basement. All of my senses were assaulted. Now I knew why there was no light on the main floor. Everything he owned was in the basement. Light flooded like a supernova. The music (if you want to call it that) was eardrum shatteringly loud. In the worst of my Heavy Metal loving days I had never turned Iron Maiden on half as loud, and to top it off, I had found the origins of the stench that pervaded this abode. Every cell in my body protested forward motion, and yet, into the light I went. I checked and rechecked that I had a bullet in the chamber and the safety was off, even though I knew Glocks don’t have an external safety. I instinctively knew I was going to need bullets—again with the psychic crap. I had no clue, but this felt wrong, and for good or bad I was going to find out.
The basement was finished, for that I was thankful. It meant that my descent down would go unnoticed. Otherwise there would be that time of exposure where only my legs would be visible from below as I went down the stairs. Then, like a cheap horror flick, there would always be the potential of a hand coming up through the openings in the stairs to grab my ankles. This should have made me feel better, but it didn’t.
My eyes were having a difficult time adjusting from soul sucking black to radiant dawn white. I found myself squinting excessively. Then I began to ponder why there wasn’t some form of ‘squinting’ for ears, the better to shield me from the crap coming over his speaker system. As I neared the bottom step I saw tiny moving reflections of light somehow brighter than the ambient lighting. I had seen this before. It was from a disco ball.
Well, out of the frying pan and into the fire. I stepped onto the landing at the bottom of the stairs and then cautiously peered into the main room of the basement. At one time this was a playroom for kids. Video games, board games, and a rocking horse were carefully stacked in the far corner of the room, but that was not the case anymore. It was a playroom all right, but one with far more sinister games and only the highly deranged played in here anymore.
Attached to the floor with five large chains was a naked female zombie. There was one chain on each wrist, one around its neck and one each wrapped around its knees. These were then bolted to the floor with large screws. It was chained in the classic doggy position, but the situation was about to get stranger. On the opposite side of the room a man came out of a bathroom fully dressed in a form-fitting cat costume, face make-up and all. He had yet to notice me, so intent was he on his impending conquest. He walked around the zombie alternating between stroking her and slapping her. She moved her head as best she could to get at him, but he had placed the chains with strategic precision. I didn’t think this was the first time he’d used this set-up. After his third or fourth time around he stopped behind her. I didn’t need to be the Amazing Kreskin to figure out what was going to happen next.
I fired a round into the ceiling. That got his attention. He spun around almost as fast as the animal he was portraying. He was preparing to pounce on his intruder, but the cold black muzzle of a 9mm made him reconsider. He walked over to his stereo system and lowered it somewhat. I tracked him all the way expecting a ruse.
He turned to face me, nervously licking his lips. I wouldn’t have thought it strange if he began to lick the backs of his hands next, this was one twisted person.
“Want some?” he said invitingly, pointing to the zombie.
At first I was too astounded to even consider his request. “What the fuck is wrong with you?”
“What? I’m just having a little fun. I’m not breaking any laws,” he smiled.
“How about rape, false imprisonment, assault, fuckin’ necrophilia.” I’m sure there were half a dozen others, but I made my point.
“She’s a fuckin’ zombie, shithead!” he yelled.
“There’s that, too. You have to immediately let someone know when a zombie gets in. What if she had bit you?”
“Not a problem.” His grin widened as he went back over to the zombie. He grabbed her head and bent i
t further back than seemed naturally possible. Her mouth was snapping, trying to get a hold of one or any of his fingers that were cradling her head. She had no teeth. They weren’t just broken out with the butt of a gun or a hammer. They were gone.
“How?” I mouthed. I was feeling sicker by the second.
“I knocked her out,” he said proudly. He saw my incredulous look. “Yeah, I didn’t think I’d be able to do it either. I tried ether first, that almost ended badly for me. Then I just whacked the hell out of the back of her head with a crowbar.”
I wanted to ask why he had ether, but I already knew the answer.
“As soon as I got my little pretty all chained up I took out all her teeth with a pair of pliers.” The sick shit was smiling, realizing the effect this was having on me. “It’s a good thing I got them all out, too. There’s been a couple of times when we’ve really been going at it that I kind of lose control, and she’ll get a hold of a forearm or something. She tries like hell to break the surface, she’s a wild one alright,” he said as he affectionately stroked her hair. All the while she kept trying to bite that hand. “So we come back to the original question, want some?”
I was revolted. My mouth hung open, and I had let my gun hand fall to my side. Cat man, Fritzy, sick fuck, saw his opening. He sprang like a coiled snake. He was fast, almost unnaturally so, but he had to cover ten feet. All I had to do was raise my hand. I fired two rounds into his stomach just as his hands brushed up against mine. That contact repulsed me. I shuddered from the feel as his hands slid away from mine. The bullets had punched through; gut shot. I should have felt sorry for him. There was no more painful way to die. The zombie started pulling frenetically against her restraints. The smell of his spilling innards was driving her crazy.
“Your suffering is over,” I said as I walked up to her and placed the muzzle of the barrel directly on her forehead. Her head snapped back as I delivered a round deep into her gray matter.