Once again, Crystal did not let her finish.
“Not shellfish genes either. They get the toxin from an algae bloom. That’s where the genetic material would have come from.”
Nora glared at her.
“What else?” Alec demanded.
“Haitian Rouge was still experimental,” the thin woman said. “It was never approved for sale or put on the market. They wanted the toxin to be extremely mild, enough to deter the coffee rust, but too weak to have any effect on people drinking the coffee. They had not gotten to that point of development when that big earthquake struck—the poison content was inconsistent, mild in some of the beans and concentrated in others. The earthquake destroyed the lab and left its contents vulnerable to looters. From there, somebody started growing it and then distributing it illegally.”
“And because Clyde was too cheap to put down the money on a full order of Haitian Bleu, Jeremy went to the Black Market and bought the Rouge,” he concluded. “They’ve paid for that with their lives...sort of.”
“Jeremy looked pretty dead to me, even after he got up again,” Crystal murmured. “But what about the zombie bit? And what about you, and the bite?”
Nora was looking extra pale and shaky, but they knew that that could just be a result of shock and the large quantity of blood seeping through her bandages.
“I searched that after I found the article,” she replied. “Saxitoxins are believed to be the primary component of zombie potions in voodoo, but it’s just supposed to put you into a paralytic state, a deep coma that resembles death. That’s not what we saw out there. Of course, you mess with the genetics of things and who knows what you’ll get. Gm products are so unethical. I’ve been trying to convince you both of that for ages. Now I get to say ‘I told you so.’” She grimaced.
Alec had always considered her lecturing as the flaky rantings of a hippy chick. Now he was not as sure about that.
“As for the bite,” Nora continued with a nervous chuckle, “I don’t see how that would work on me the way drinking the coffee would. I mean, Jeremy drank a lot of that stuff before it got to him, and in order for me to have a similar reaction from a bite, the toxins would have to be concentrated in his saliva, and the fact that it would be going directly into my blood stream would have to...”
She did not get a chance to finish this thought. She shuddered and stiffened, her last breath catching in her throat. That was when Alec noticed that Nora’s eyes were now bloodshot and that she was suffering from a clear case of cyanosis, her pallid skin bluing at the edges, particularly around her lips. She tumbled from her chair and began convulsing on the floor.
“Not again,” Crystal whimpered, and she sagged, looking like she was about to join Nora down there.
Alec took charge. Grabbing the curvaceous girl’s hand, he stepped around the tremor-riddled Nora and dragged Crystal out of the staff room. He shut the door firmly behind them, and wedged a chair against the handle. Crystal was now sobbing.
“We’re going to die,” she sniffled. “We’re going to be zombies.”
“Not necessarily,” Alec said, attempting to reassure her. He patted her arm awkwardly, hoping to offer her some comfort. “You told us the paramedics were on the way, and we have these three zombies contained. There’s hope for us yet.”
Thud!
Where there had been quiet and insistent scraping sounds at the door to the rear exit, there now erupted a noticeable banging noise—like someone was thrusting a sizeable battering ram against the door, or throwing a body the size of Clyde’s massive bulk against it at full force.
Thud!
It happened again, this time accompanied by a very subtle yet undeniable cracking sound. Crystal dug her fingers into Alec’s arm, starting to hyperventilate and crying even harder.
“Clyde’s coming for us! We won’t be able to overpower him like we did with Jeremy—he’s too big and strong. He’s going to squash us like bugs and eat our faces!”
Alec did not think he would be able to console her this time, finding himself in a bit of a panic of his own. There were early bird zombies awaiting them if they tried to escape through the front door, and restrained zombies in the main section of the Cabin. They could not take shelter in the staff room because they had Nora trapped in there. There was no way out.
Thud! Crunch!
There were visible cracks in the door this time, as the wood started bending inward towards them. Alec threw his arms around Crystal and hugged her tightly. It would have been a very enjoyable experience as she clung to him and pressed her large breasts against him had he not been so utterly terrified.
“Damn,” he murmured candidly. “I would have given my left ball for this under different circumstances. Honestly, Crystal, I really like you.”
“Well why didn’t you say something before now, you big moron?” she said, half laughing, half weeping, as she gave him a painful shove. “I would have gone out with you. I thought you found me kind of homely. You seemed to avoid looking at me, and you hardly ever talked to me.”
Thud! Crunch! One more solid blow and zombie Clyde would break through. There was a gaping hole in the centre of the door where the wood was starting to splinter and come apart.
Alec reddened, not just because he was feeling self-conscious about his revelation, but because the sensation of Crystal’s voluptuous body glued to his own was eliciting an obvious and involuntary reaction, despite his fear.
“You made me nervous,” he confessed, swallowing hard. “I was afraid I would do or say something stupid. I think you’re really hot. I’m sorry.”
There was a floor-shaking crash as the door shattered inward. Clyde stood in the doorway, panting and leering at them. It looked as though he had broken through the door using his face. There were various-sized splinters of door jutting out from his pulpy flesh, including one that had pierced his eye. Ocular goo, pus, and blood coated his cheeks and jaw. His lips were shredded and his broken teeth gaped at them through the remaining tatters like a permanent gruesome smile. Clyde roared hungrily at them, and started to bolt towards them, bizarrely fast considering the fact that his entire body was wracked by uncontrollable tremors.
Alec closed his eyes, cringing and squeezing Crystal. He could not get any of his muscles to budge an inch, frozen by terror.
“Oh shit...oh shit...oh shit,” he muttered, all ability to reason over-ridden by fear. Crystal screamed—a solitary, drawn-out, ear-piercing sound.
They both could feel the displaced air from Clyde’s movement. The zombie was almost upon them when they heard the loud resonating boom of a gunshot, followed rapidly by two more in succession. Clyde’s head exploded, splattering Alec and Crystal with bloody brain matter.
Falling forward, Clyde dropped to the floor like a rock, and he would have likely taken the pair with him, had Crystal not still had enough wherewithals to lurch out of the way, dragging Alec along with her. They both stared with bewilderment at the sight before them.
Standing in the doorway was the shrivelled figure of an elderly man, possibly in his sixties or seventies, holding a smoking six-shooter in his outstretched hand. He had a thick white handlebar moustache, and wore a ridiculous looking cowboy hat and holster. He also had a crazed look in his gleaming eyes, and cigar clamped firmly between his wrinkled lips.
“Cowboy Joe?” Crystal whispered. She had never met the man, but had heard that he was more than a little eccentric, and took his role much too seriously. Alec nodded.
“Looks like you have yerselves here a bushel o’ trouble. I think you got yerselves some explainin’ to do, too,” the old man remarked around his cigar.
Alec took the initiative and related the entire story to the Coffee Cabin’s namesake. Clyde’s father listened attentively, nodding and chewing on his cigar the entire time, but at no point looking the slightest bit upset or surprised. At the end, he stood calmly, and handed Alec a set of keys.
“You two go get in my car, and I’ll drive you both home
so you can clean up and settle yer nerves. I’m gonna poke around here for a couple of seconds and then I’ll join you. After I drop you off, I’m gonna have to report all of this to the local authorities. They’re not gonna believe it was zombies, so I’m gonna have to fib a little.”
Alec did not argue. Snatching the keys from Cowboy Joe’s hand, he made a beeline for the door, Crystal close behind him.
The old man stared at the mess, scratching at his head beneath his hat, and continuing to chew on his cigar. He would have to close this Cabin as a result of this catastrophe. Not that he was shocked. Clyde had been the least competent of his sons, and he suspected he might screw up big-time someday. Cowboy Joe had not gotten to where he was in business without his share of failures. He would cover things up, pay for people’s silence, blame it on the opening of the franchise across the way, and cut his losses. Still, where there was loss, there was often new opportunity.
Cowboy Joe wandered over to the counter and pulled out a reusable Coffee Cabin shopping bag, he began loading the remnants of the Haitian Rouge into it. The franchise was opening coffee shops right beside the other two Cabins as well, as a means of bullying the local shops out of the market. Their grand openings would not be their usual stellar success, if some of these ‘Waking the Dead’ beans made their way into that morning’s blend…
He grinned to himself. Whistling in a very self-satisfied matter, he hoisted the shopping bag over one shoulder and started back towards his car.
DA Chaney is a native to Berkshire County residing in Western Massachusetts.
A movie reviewer for Altered Realities Radio and G.A.S.P Factor, she spends the majority of of her time writing short stories for anthologies, and setting her ambitions for future full length novel publication. Her other interests include gaming and catching up on reading in her spare time.
She can be found on Twitter as: DA_Chaney or via Facebook at: http://on.fb.me/iiMp9X
If everything you know about battling zombies you learned by playing video games, you’re in deep shit, as the characters in DA Chaney’s “Cranial Rewire” are about to find out. Nothing can prepare you for the initial shock of seeing somebody eaten alive, that momentary paralysis that is the difference between life and death. That same paralysis that seems to block the reasonable thought process, leaving you to make rash and irrational decisions at the spur of a moment. Had you had proper training, your head would have been clear enough and you wouldn’t find yourself risking your life venturing out into a blinding snow storm to be in the arms of the person you love. You would have learned to recognize the signs, the behavior of the walking dead, which would have been beneficial because you wouldn’t be out in the storm trying to have a reasonable conversation with one of them. Despite all this, maybe, just maybe, luck will be with you and you will be able to reach the one you love without getting yourself killed — or worse, bitten and turned. What fate awaits our video game addicts?
Cranial Rewire
By DA Chaney
December 7, 2010
Dusty Barnes pulled the thick wallet from the seat of his jeans, rubbing the cheek behind the pocket it’d come from. He frowned down at the brown leather mess, seeing all the errant papers sticking out of it, and then dropped it onto his entertainment center. Keys went next. He toed his sneakers off with deep satisfaction and flexed his digits in his slightly damp socks. His work clothes were shed as he made his way down the hallway to his bedroom, kicking everything along with his feet. Leaving them near his laundry basket, he fished out a new pair of boxer shorts, clean t-shirt, and replaced his socks. He dropped the dirties where they lay near his dresser.
He rolled his shoulders and listened to the light popping noise they made. Yawning, he made his way back into his living room and flipped open the lid on the warm extra sausage and pepperoni pizza box. Scooping up a large piece, he took a bite. Leaning over, he flicked on his computer and the wide-screen monitor on his desk and then trudged over to his refrigerator. Grabbing a can, he took several long pulls of soda pop and washed down the remaining pizza.
Turning in his kitchen, he looked toward his wet jacket and shoes where they were making small dark puddles on the carpet and made a face. It was early December in New England, and already there had been a snowstorm. It just felt too early for snow, and it didn’t matter that it was around the right time for it already. He was never prepared for it. The sloppy mess just today had made the roads a bad risk to drive on during the journey home from work. He was just glad he’d had the foresight to stop at Pizza Pizzazz before making it home.
The glow of the ‘welcome’ screen on his monitor signaled that the computer was ready and he leaned over the back of his chair, tapping in his password with a pinky. Positioning it, he crashed into the stuffed Pleather computer chair and clicked on an icon. Typing in his credentials he watched the cinematic trailer and grinned like a boy at Christmas. He loved Blizzard’s online downloadable expansion through Battlenet this year. It saved time waiting in line to grab the content from GameStop.
Saved him from getting the flu, too, since it was too damn cold outside to have waited for it at midnight. He supposed he’d miss the collectible pet that came with the deluxe edition this year, but he had other World of Warcraft expansions just sitting and collecting dust on a shelf. What would have made the expansion worth it was if it came with a BradyGames guide with all the new material in the expansion in it. But it never did. Licking his fingers and making a contented noise at the greasiness on the tips of them, he reached over, ribs digging into the armrest, and pulled up another slice.
He’d been waiting for this Cataclysm expansion for months, the boredom of the game having been plucking at his nerves for nearly half the year. Now, he picked up his necessary upgrades, mount training, and new Archaeology skill, and then made his way to the new zone: Mt. Hyjal.
Stepping through the game portal, he gaped at all the people in the new zone. There had to be fifty people clamoring for the same first few starter quests in the area. “I knew I should have taken a day off to play.”
A few moments later, trying to complete a kill quest, he grew exasperated. “What the shit is this? Kill stealing? Really?” Disgusted, he shook his head, pushing back from the desk feeling frustrated. Draining the rest of his soda pop, he walked back to the kitchen to get a new one. Flinging open the refrigerator door, he leaned in and snagged a fresh can and let the door swing shut.
His cell phone rang, and he smiled noting the time. Dusty grabbed it and flipped it open. “Just get home?” He heard the crisp rustling of a coat, picked up by the mic-rophone, as Beth Jamula was shrugging out of it.
“Yes, and I’m going to log in, in a minute. How is it?”
“The old content is pretty quiet, Dalaran is a graveyard, and the new areas are overcrowded. People acting like dicks, of course. It’s WoW, can’t really expect people to be considerate.” He continued on, discussing what he’d done and seen so far.
Listening, Beth sniffed audibly, “Just you wait, baby, they haven’t seen kill stealing until I do it. Noobs. I’m going to hop on and show them. Just have to get these stupid boots off. Driving home was a complete nightmare tonight. I swear people forget how to drive every time the snow starts. I wish I was a cop. I’d be pulling every stupid ass over and giving them a ‘Fuck you very much, you’re a moron, learn how to drive again’ ticket.”
Dusty chuckled quietly hearing two boots thumping onto the floor. “I’d bring my desktop over to your place, but it weighs a shit ton and I don’t feel like carrying it in this crap.” He glanced out the window and saw the heavily falling snow and figured it was for the best. A light from the neighboring second floor apartment, across the path from his own, drew his attention as he was smiling into the phone.
He was watching absently, with no true intention of continuing to monitor the other kitchen, when his neighbor Shauna and her daughters stepped into the light in a flurry of activity. He leaned over the sink, closer to the window, when
he saw Shauna carrying her youngest daughter, Tricia, into the room. Tricia was holding on to her head and was crying, her face screwed up in pain, and tears streaming from her eyes. The eldest daughter, Mandy, appeared to be shouting and waving her arms in troubled motions at her mother. Shauna placed Tricia on the kitchen table, turned toward Mandy, and was shoving a pointed index finger at her, face tense, mouth moving a mile a minute. Dusty was kind of glad he couldn’t hear what was going on. Shauna didn’t seem too pleased about it, whatever it was.
“Looks like the kid next door got hurt.” He tilted his head and placed the phone between his face and shoulder, hearing Beth’s computer issue its welcome chime.
“Oh, yeah? Can you tell what happened? That was the family you told me about when you moved in, right? The dad went all nutso and had to be escorted out by police?”
“Yeah. Can’t tell what happened, just looks like the mom is accusing the oldest girl for whatever it is.” Dusty’s mouth dropped open in shock as he watched Tricia suddenly take a flying leap off the table onto Shauna’s back like an enraged monkey at a zoo. “What the hell?”
Mandy stumbled back, struck suddenly by her mother’s pin-wheeling arms. Tricia grabbed handfuls of Shauna’s hair as she screamed and began pulling wads of it out. Dusty dropped the awkward neck hold on the phone and it clattered into the empty, metal sink. “Holy shit! What the hell is going on?”
Tricia’s legs were locked in front of Shauna’s stomach, and by the way her mouth was moving, she was snarling like some feral animal. Shauna was howling in pain, waving her arms, trying to make Tricia stop. Dusty felt his legs almost give out as he saw Tricia suddenly drive her little fingers into the soft tissue of Shauna’s neck. Eyes as large as saucers, he watched as she dug into the tissue like her fingers were weapons. Blood spurted a fountain of red all over, staining the walls and inhabitants as Tricia’s fingers scratched and pulled at the vulnerable skin, scarlet-faced, and raging.
Hell Hath No Fury... Page 5