Zombies, Werewolves, Whores, and More!

by Jerrod Balzer

  Zombies, Werewolves, Whores, and More!

  by

  Jerrod Balzer

  Skullvines Press

  First Edition

  Zombies, Werewolves, Whores, and More!

  Published by Skullvines Press, an imprint of KHP Publishers, Inc.

  khpbooks.com

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Copyright 2012 Jerrod Balzer

  All rights reserved.

  Cover art Copyright 2012 K.H. Koehler

  No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without the written permission of both the publisher and author.

  "Zombie Bastard" first published by Novello Publishers, 2010

  "Wolf Plugs" first appeared in Dark Jesters, published by Novello Publishers, 2009

  "The Little Corpse" first appeared in Death in Common: Poems from Unlikely Victims, published by Daverana Enterprises, Bandersnatch Books, and Needfire Poetry, 2009

  To my wife, Robin, who inspires me every day and keeps me going.

  Special thanks to my KHP pals: S.D. Hintz, K.H. Koehler, Louise Bohmer, and Adam J. Whitlatch. Their support and encouragement through the years are priceless, and likewise to my friends, family, and readers everywhere for giving me the occasional boot in the rear when I need it. Last but not least, I want to give a special shoutout to Nick Cato, L.L. Soares, and Rich Ristow for giving some of my work its first chance to see print.

  Keep smiling.

  Zombie Bastard

  Part One: Road Trip Runs

  Trevor was beginning to think he might shit himself. This wasn’t an exaggerated reaction to fear or anxiety. His ass was literally about to unload in his pants, ready or not. He’d felt the faint urge when he returned home from a Chinese restaurant in St. Louis, but after receiving a phone call about his mother’s admittance to the hospital, he’d lost any thought of relieving himself. His only concern was tossing some clothes and toiletries into a bag and heading toward Springfield, Missouri, where his mother resided. His brother told him she’d had a heart attack and was holding on by a thread. There was a chance she would come through okay, if she survived the night.

  He kept gritting his teeth to keep the sobs down. Every time he spoke to his mother on the phone, she would mention how nice it would be if he came to visit. He wanted to, but he just… didn’t. How many years had it been? And now, on Mother’s Day, a day that he could have - should have - taken a day off to visit her… His throat tightened as he drove. Distress was the most probable cause of Trevor’s upset stomach. There was also that lemon chicken that looked a tad pink in the middle; he’d eaten it, regardless.

  He had planned to use the restroom after filling the gas tank of his old sedan, but the line of truckers at the bathroom door made him reconsider. The pressure had strengthened and standing in line would make it harder to hold on. His pride kept him from asking the rough, burly men ahead of him to let him go next, and he couldn’t bear the thought of having an accident around them, so he made a beeline to the exit and got back on the road. It didn’t feel as bad when he was seated in the car, and there was bound to be something else farther down the road.

  Christ, I didn’t even send her a card. I’m a horrible son.

  He figured he might make better time by taking back roads. The highways would lead him several miles in the wrong direction before turning toward Springfield. It seemed logical to “cut the pie.” Of course, he didn’t consider the conditions of the roads or the twists and turns through the Missouri hills that forced him to drive slower, and it was too late to return to the interstate. It would waste even more time, so it was best stay on the current course.

  The last convenience store he passed had a lot of traffic around it. It looked to be too much of a hassle pulling in, so he went on. Then the pressure in his bowels grew stronger. Something told him he should turn around and try it, anyway, but he felt sure there was another one coming up. That was forty miles ago, and now he could barely stand it. He’d driven through a few small towns, but it was getting late and everything was closed down for the night. He’d forgotten how the rural areas shut down tight once the sun went down.

  Beads of sweat gathered across his forehead and goose bumps ran along his arms as Trevor muttered a silent prayer through gritted teeth. “Please, God, let Mom be all right and let me find a bathroom soon!”

  Remnants of a childhood memory flashed through his mind of soiled underwear in a dumpster. He had been exploring an alleyway one afternoon, waiting for his mother to exit the back door of a business she worked for, and discovered the foul sight. He remembered wondering what kind of sick person would poop in his drawers, take them off, and leave them there for all to see. Since then, he hadn’t put much thought into it, but now after all these years, he understood. Someone must have been in his current situation, driving through town late at night while everything was closed. The poor man had no choice but to duck in the alley and dispose of the resulting incident.

  It won’t happen to me. I’ll find a place before that happens.

  The hills and curves in the road didn’t help. Each gentle lurch tugged and pushed on his cramping gut, causing him to nearly lose it. Passing wind would relieve some stress, but he held it in for fear of a solid - or liquid - coming out instead of gas. Perhaps if he could pry his mind away from it, the urge would lessen. He turned on the radio for distraction, but it was no good. He rolled the window down. The wind cooled his face, but his ass was still trembling. His body began to bob in the seat uncontrollably and a turtle tried to poke its head out.

  There was no other option but to pull off the road and squat in the woods as nature intended. He looked for entrances to dirt roads or pasture trails that he could drive down a bit before stopping. He wouldn’t want to be caught with his pants down as a police officer drove by. The chances of a cop patrolling the old road were slim, but Trevor was a firm believer in Murphy’s Law. The moment he did something worth getting arrested for, one would appear. Of course, it wasn’t just the police that he wanted to avoid. In the middle of nowhere, there was no telling what kind of bored, perverted rednecks roamed the area looking for some “city slicker” to harass. His pants would already be around his ankles. All he’d have to do was squeal like a pig. His grip tightened on the wheel as he pushed the thought from his mind. He already felt like squealing.

  He rounded a hill and the headlights revealed a sign: “Welcome to Blue Creek Springs, population 565.” If he couldn’t find anything there, he intended to hunt down an alley and some kid would find his boxers wrapped around a fudge loaf. Then he saw salvation. On the other end of the dark town was a gas station that still had its lights on. More important, it still had its sign lights on. Even if it looked dead, that was a good indication it was at least open, or that some merciful soul occupied the place.

  The bathroom doors were on the side of the building, so Trevor parked near them and stepped stiffly from the car. A light along the door’s edge revealed that it was ajar, which meant he wouldn’t have to bother asking for a key. He approached it with discretion for reasons other than keeping his butt cheeks clenched. Back in the city, folks had to be careful about storming into an outside-accessible bathroom. They could walk in on a paranoid drug addict and get shot. Sure, this was a small town, but meth heads were everywhere these days. In fact, the labs were plentiful thanks to stealing
the rural farmers’ crop chemicals.

  He peeked through the space between the door and the building, and it seemed safe enough to open. The stench inside was overwhelming and the fluorescent lights popped like two slender strobes. The sink sported a thick layer of mold and the walls were covered in obscenities. The mirror was in pieces; the only usable part reflecting one of Trevor’s green eyes and some of his straight red hair.

  The urinal had a chunk of cardboard taped across it with the words “Out of Order” written in black marker. It appeared to have been used, regardless. The bottom was filled with dark yellow urine that overflowed to create a puddle across the floor. His stomach lurched at the harsh ammonia/mold/feces smell, but it also reminded him of his purpose there. The sole toilet stall to his left had its door latched shut. A grunt from inside announced its occupancy.

  “Oh, sorry.” Trevor backed up to the doorway, anxious to return to the fresh night air. He was answered by a groan, then a grunt and a plop.

  “It’s all right,” a gruff voice said from within. “The door’s lock is broken.”

  “I see.” Trevor’s legs were quivering. “Someone should complain to the manager.”

  He couldn’t hold it any longer. He stepped out and tried the women’s door. That lock was intact. There was an outline of a dumpster in the shadows behind the building. Perhaps he could run over there for a few minutes. Then the toilet flushed and an obese man left the stall. “I am the manager, and the owner doesn’t pay me enough to worry about it.”

  “Fair enough.”

  With the man out of the way, he sidestepped into the stall, latched the door, and dropped his drawers. Under normal circumstances, he would have taken a moment to wipe the seat with tissue paper, concerned about sitting in piss dribbles or fecal spatter, but at this point, he couldn’t take the time. He sat down and the seat felt warm and moist, probably from the fat man’s ass sweat. It was a gross thought, especially while breathing the fumes that emitted from that ass, but he had no choice. As he let loose, he mouthed the words, “Thank you, thank you, thank you.” His own stench pushed its way into the surroundings, which somehow made things more tolerable.

  The manager didn’t leave right away. Trevor heard him washing up at the sink. The faucet gurgled in a similar way that his intestines were as the contents made a mad dash for the exit. He took a moment to check that his pants hadn’t fallen far enough to rest on the floor. There was no telling what kind of stain he’d end up wearing the rest of the way to Springfield. He was pleased to see they’d stopped between his shins and the tops of his shoes. As he glanced around, he wished he’d been more patient with the truckers.

  His stomach cramped and pushed out more waste. He didn’t care where he was. He was happy to get rid of what had been torturing him for the better part of an hour. Still, he preferred to be alone and was anxious for the manager to return to the station. Perhaps the guy planned on staying by the sink until Trevor was finished, ensuring that he didn’t smoke crack afterwards. Maybe he had some sort of fetish and enjoyed listening to people shit, like those kids in grade school that stand by the stalls to giggle at turd splashes.

  Trevor tried to ignore his presence and entertained himself by reading the wall scribbles. There were pictures of male genitalia, racial comments, and a few phone numbers for great sex. He wondered if people actually called those numbers. One particular scrawl gave him a chuckle. It read: “Nobody does it like Sara Lee.”

  The bathroom door swung open and banged against the outside of the building. Someone stepped inside.

  “You’ll have to wait,” the manager told the newcomer as he turned off the faucet. “Somebody’s already in there.”

  Great. Trevor had an audience now, making the situation that much more uncomfortable. Next, he heard scuffling and a few grunts, as if the new guy was trying to squeeze into the small bathroom while the manager tried to leave. The noises grew in intensity, though, with the occasional bump against the metal stall. With a strained moan, something struck the sink over and over, and then the struggle stopped with a thud. He heard footsteps moving to the stall’s entrance. He glanced down in hopes of seeing feet under the door, but the space was too snug to see beyond his knees.

  “I’ll be out in a minute.” Trevor pushed hard to get it over with. The first round was finished, but it felt like there was plenty yet to come. Bloody fingers with ruined nails clasped the top of the stall door and shook it, determining that it was locked.

  “Just a second, I’m almost done.” Trevor pulled on the toilet paper, but the dispenser was warped and kept the roll from turning properly. As a result, the paper tore off one sheet at a time and it seemed like he’d never get enough for a handful.

  The intruder was impatient, yanking on the door until the lock and hinges broke free, and then tossed it aside. Trevor froze. The man before him wore a torn plaid shirt and bib overalls that were missing a strap. His hair was sparse and ragged, and his eyes bulged like a madman’s. His rotting skin cracked open in places as he raised his lips to expose black and brown teeth. Dark fluid dribbled from the hungry grin.

  For a moment, neither of them moved. A turd ceased, dangling from Trevor’s rear. The tension in the air was as stifling as the stench. With his pants gathered around his calves, he felt quite vulnerable. Every muscle in his body tightened, including a particular muscle in his backside that he was trying to keep relaxed to avoid…

  Plop!

  The silence was broken and the zombie sprang at him, hands going straight for his throat. Trevor brought his legs up and, with a loud sputter from his ass, shoved it back with all of his might. The dead man slammed back against the wall, spit up… something… all over its bibs, and slid to the floor, motionless with blank, staring eyes.

  Trevor doubted it would be that easy to dispose of the creature, so he didn’t hesitate to pull up his pants, step over it, and head outside. On his way, he noticed the manager lying in front of the sink with the stall’s door resting on top. Judging by the puddle of blood mixing with the urinal overflow, he assumed the man was dead.

  He went straight to his car and looked around. The town seemed asleep. If he left now, he could put all this behind him and no one would ever know. He could find a bathroom elsewhere to clean up in and get to his mother as soon as possible. Instinctively, he felt his back pocket to ensure his wallet was still there. He’d backtracked to restrooms once too often in the past because it flopped out while on the toilet. The square bulge was in its rightful place, so it was time to scram. He opened the car door while fishing for the keys, and then cursed as his heart sank. They had fallen out during the skirmish and he needed to go back for them. The thought of facing that thing again, even for another brief moment, was terrifying. It was either that or hotwire the car, about which he was clueless.

  He had no intention, though, of returning to that nightmare empty-handed. He hit the button for the trunk release and searched for the tire iron. When he found it, he closed the trunk and took a deep breath. The door had swung shut on its own, remaining ajar as he’d found it when he first arrived. The flickering light made it difficult to tell if anything was moving, so Trevor opened it with caution, ready for something to jump out at him. Nothing had changed. He pushed the iron against the zombie’s nose and knelt to peek into the stall. The keys were on the floor at the base of the toilet. With the weapon ready to strike, he leaned over to pick them up.

  He heard a car pull into the station. The engine shut off, and a door opened and slammed shut. Trevor sighed. Now there was someone who would see him, possibly get his license plate as he left. He would have to stick around and deal with the disgusting mess.

  A man called from outside. “Frank, turn on the pump, will ya?”

  That must be the manager’s name.

  He shoved the keys in his pocket, stepped away from the toilet, and looked down at the man under the stall door. Frank wouldn’t be turning any pumps on. Trevor’s hands shook. There was no way to avoid it. />
  Wait, what am I so worried about? I didn’t do anything wrong. There’s no reason to be afraid.

  Still, it would be all the nicer to avoid further complications. Perhaps if he got to his car quick enough, he could leave without drawing suspicion. The guy at the pump could be inside searching for the manager as he pulled away. He faced the door and mustered the courage to open it and leave, regardless of who might see him.

  The zombie awoke with a jolt and grabbed his ankle. He lost his balance and fell against the busted stall door. Frank’s corpse squished underneath. The zombie’s mouth twitched as it pulled his leg closer for a bite, but Trevor lurched forward and swung the tire iron. It connected with the corpse’s head and it slumped back against the wall. The top of the skull had caved in with the blow, so it probably wouldn’t be getting up again. One more swing into the gooey center ensured it.

  Satisfied, Trevor stood and ran out the door… and stopped dead in his tracks. Since the station appeared to be unattended, the man at the pumps had walked to the side to see if Frank was in the shitter.

  “Whoa there.” The man’s flashlight blinded Trevor, but when it was lowered, a badge glistened and the situation was clear. The sheriff noticed the bloody tire iron and drew his gun. The door hadn’t closed yet and Frank’s corpse was visible in the fluorescent light.

  As Trevor had originally feared, Murphy’s Law was in effect.

  “What were you up to?” the sheriff said. “Stashing the body here so you can rob the place?”

  “No, I… I just had to use the restroom.”

  “And you couldn’t wait until he was done?” The sheriff handcuffed Trevor before investigating the scene further and discovering the other corpse. “Jesus almighty!”

  He walked Trevor to the patrol car and pushed him into the backseat. Then he stepped back and spoke on the radio. “Skinner here, I’ve caught a possible attempted robbery in progress at the gas station. Frank’s dead, and I found Mr. Jones. I’m bringing the suspect in.” The sheriff asked him for his car keys so he could lock it up before taking him to the jailhouse, which was only two streets over from the road he drove in on.