Hell Hath No Fury

by TW Brown

  “Tony. Who is this?” a woman said from behind him.

  “Carla, this is Nellie,” Anthony said as he shut the door behind me. “I knew her in high school.”

  I held the small box toward him. He took it and placed it on a small table beside the door. I waved and tried to reopen the door to leave.

  “You can’t go out there,” he said, stepping between the door and me. “The world’s gone mad!”

  I shook my head and reached underneath his arm to grip the doorknob. I heard Carla take a few steps away from me.

  “Tony, let her go,” Carla whispered.

  “She can’t go out there. She’ll be killed,” Anthony said as he looked over my shoulder with a look of disbelief. “How can you be so cruel?”

  “I don’t think she’ll be killed. She’s already one of them.”

  Anthony’s slack-jawed stare shifted from his wife then back to me. He scrambled away from the door, tripping over the side table as he went. I turned to Carla and nodded as I twisted the doorknob and stepped back into the yard. I had three more stops to make. By the time I’d reached the car, I had forgotten Anthony, Carla, and the little girl trying to squeeze through the pet door.

  I reached for the next picture. A tall slender boy/man with long, brown bangs and a skateboard stared back at me with a goofy grin. I strained my fading memory for his name before giving up and flipping the picture to read the words on the back: Harold Williams. How could I have forgotten him? Then I remembered I was dead and shrugged. We had met through my best friend, Michelle, during our first year in college. We went to different schools, but we wrote to each other every day. Even though he laughed like a dying hyena, we laughed a lot in the beginning until he started making fun of my friends and then, me. By the end of the year, his jealous rages had devoured all my friends. Even so, I was devastated when he left me for his sister’s best friend.

  I turned onto Rally Court and slowed as the numbers on the mailboxes neared 1418. I pulled into the driveway and pressed on the brake pedal in time to tap the old Chevy Nova parked in front of the garage. If I’d had any emotion left, the fact that he’d kept the same car all these years would have shocked me. As it was, I just pondered the thought as I walked to the door.

  I smoothed my dress before pressing the buzzer. I waited a moment and pressed the buzzer again. There was a shuffling noise coming from behind the door. The doorknob wiggled, and the door swung open revealing a little girl. She looked to be about seven, wearing a turtle t-shirt and jeans. Little toes peeped at me under the hems of her pant legs.

  “Daddy? It’s some lady at the door,” the girl yelled.

  I took a step forward before the door slammed in my face. I heard muffled shouts coming from behind the door.

  “Who is it?” a small voice whispered.

  I knocked. The door opened a crack. Two faces looked at me. One was the face of the little girl. Above it loomed an aged version of the face I had seen moments before in the photograph. I smiled and held out another small package.

  “Daddy, she remembered my birthday,” the little girl said before trying to swipe the package from my hand.

  I lifted the box out of her reach and thrust it toward Harold’s face. His eyes had a squint of almost recognition in them.

  “Do I…know…you?” he said.

  I nodded and gave the box a slight shake in his direction.

  “Who’s the lady, and why is she grey?” the girl asked as she watched her father accept the proffered box.

  “Hannah, I think it’s my old friend Nell,” Harold said as I turned toward my car. “Where are you going?” he called after me.

  I lifted an arm to wave as I closed the car door and picked up the next picture. When I looked up again, I couldn’t remember where I was or who the people standing in the doorway were. When I backed out of the driveway, I heard the old Chevy’s bumper clank to the ground.

  Shifting into drive, I swerved around another of my kind and headed to my next destination, Bobby Burns, 38 Fairview Street. I had been working in a bookstore when he had wandered into my life. He’d said he loved me three weeks before he left me with a black eye for someone he’d met on the subway. Two weeks passed, and he was back with flowers, professing his undying love. The third time he came back, the cast was still on, and he said he loved me more than life itself. Six pairs of big sunglasses, five casts, four hospital stays, and seven years later, I was rescued. Or so I had thought.

  I stepped onto the dirt path that led to Bobby’s trailer. Perhaps I would have thought to leave the box at the door if I’d had any common sense, but I walked up the plank and cinderblock stairs and smacked an open palm on the window. I heard a loud noise and found myself tumbling into the yard.

  “Got one,” a familiar voice shouted.

  I sat up and saw the door swing open. Bobby stood holding the door with one hand and a shotgun with the other.

  “Hey. I know you,” he said shaking the shotgun in my direction.

  I nodded and stood trying to dust the dirt from my once beautiful dress. Looking around, I spotted the box I’d brought. It was lying under a scrawny bush by the steps. I bent down to retrieve it and found myself sprawled on all fours struggling in the shrub from a kick to my behind.

  “Get offa my land,” Bobby growled.

  I grabbed the small box and stood in time to see Bobby chamber another round. He dropped his aim to the ground when I held the box to him.

  “It’s about damn time you brought me something’, bitch,” he said as he stepped close enough to take the box from me.

  I turned and walked down the path.

  “Don’t you walk away from me,” Bobby yelled at my back.

  I kept walking. I heard another shot as pellets flew into tree bark a few yards from where I stood.

  “Come back here,” he shouted.

  If I’d cared about the car, I would have been angry at the holes Bobby made in the bumper when he shot again as I drove away.

  By the time I reached the gas station on the corner, I had no memory of the bullet holes or the beatings. Doug was the only one left in my head. When I met him in the emergency room, he had been so sweet and helpful. He had bandaged my wounds, stroked my nerves, and reported my injuries to the police. We had dated around his busy schedule for two years before he took me as his wife.

  My phone rang. I picked it up from the passenger seat and pressed the on button.

  “Darling,” my mother chirped. “Your father has done the most wonderful thing.”

  I grunted.

  “He’s died again. But before he went, he gave me some papers to a life insurance policy I didn’t know he had.”

  I snorted.

  “It was like he came back just to take care of some unfinished business before dropping dead again. And wouldn’t you know it, I can afford that place in Florida now. Your father was such a good man. God rest his soul. Come by when you can.”

  The phone was silent.

  Doug was my last delivery. I didn’t need a box for it. I just needed to remember where his little whore lived. I had seen her address in Doug’s daybook once. It was scrawled in his illegible handwriting on a Sunday I was planning to be out of town. I had shortened my stay away to find out where he had gone. I had pulled up to the curb just in time to see him open the door and pry a half-naked young woman from around his neck before stepping onto the walk and buttoning his top shirt buttons. He kissed her again before jogging to his car.

  All those memories flooded my empty mind as I pulled into the same spot at the curb. I glanced up at the house. It was dark except for a flickering light behind a big bay window. The shadows were long and the sky was a shade of lavender I didn’t think I’d ever seen. I lifted myself from the car and fingered my torn dress. The ripped flesh underneath my left breast blended with the shredded maroon velvet. I hoped my wound wouldn’t hinder his acceptance.

  I stepped onto the porch and tapped on the door. The window curtain wavered before I hear
d the deadbolt being turned.

  “Nell, what are you doing here?” Doug stood in front of me wearing a short, blue silk bathrobe. “I told you we were done.”

  I nodded at him as I jingled his car keys in my left hand.

  “I’d rather Mara not know you’re here,” Doug whispered as he glanced behind the door. “Give me those.” He reached for his keys

  I peeled the torn material away from my ragged skin. Pressing the fingers of my right hand into the hole I’d cut in my chest, I gripped the last piece of my sliced heart and pulled. I heard a wet sucking sound as the piece cleared the torn flesh. I thrust my gift into his waiting hand. Dark, sticky goo trailed from my wound to his outstretched hand and smeared onto the sleeve of his bathrobe. I released my grip as I felt his fingers wrap around the squishy organ. Stepping back, I watched the veins and sinew tear as Doug ripped the last piece of my heart from my chest. When he realized what I had given him, I saw his eyes roll back into their sockets and his knees crumple. The keys clanked as I dropped them next to his unconscious body.

  I walked away from the house and felt more tired than I’d ever been. I couldn’t remember why I was walking in the dark. Up ahead, I saw a park bench in a small grove of trees. It looked like a good place to rest. An owl hooted in the distance, and my memories faded to nothing.

  Writing under the name Diane Arrelle, Dina A. Leacock has sold almost 200 short stories to magazines and anthologies. Many of her stories have won awards including finalist in the first annual Micro Fiction award, Best Horror Story of the year published in Strange Weird and Wonderful Magazine, 2nd favorite story in Strange Mysteries 2, and her story in this collection, placed first in the 2009 Garden State Horror Writers Short Story Contest

  She has 2 published books, Just a Drop in the Cup and Elements of the Short Story. She was one of the original founding members as well as the second president of the Garden State Horror Writers and past president of the Philadelphia Writers’ Conference.

  To support her writing habit, Dina is the director of a senior citizen center and lives on the edge of the Pine Barrens (home of the Jersey Devil) in Southern New Jersey with her husband, one of her two sons and her cat. She has held a wide variety of jobs including School Teacher, School Bus Driver, Waitress, Sales Clerk, Mystery Shopper, Newspaper Correspondent, Tutor, Freelance Writer, Senior Citizen Center Director and she was also that person who stood around in a department store burning vanilla tinged milk and cooking tasteless crepes to sell nonstick pots and pans.

  You can visit her 2 websites at Writingtheshortstory.com and dinaleacock.com

  She can be found on Facebook and Twitter under Dina Leacock

  I hope you’re hungry, ready to sink your teeth into a juicy story about the way the world ends...or doesn’t end...when the dead rise from their graves. Have you ever wondered what might happen if the whole world just lost its marbles at the same time? Ever wonder how people might come to grips with the unimaginable? Can life go back to some semblance of normal when flesh eating corpses roam the streets and chow down on anyone who gets in their way? You’re about to find out in this ghoulishly clever tale.

  Step up to the counter, friend. Order a hot coffee and a slice of pie, or maybe check the menu for something...bigger...to eat. The staff of this fine establishment will be happy to serve up just what you need to tide you over. Chew slowly, though. Savor every ounce of the delicious, disturbing flavor, and order some dessert when you’re done.

  Oh, and always remember, it’s polite to leave a tip.

  Tips

  By Dina Leacock

  The day the world went to hell started out just like any other day. I woke up early to watch infomercials. I love those half-hour long ads. I had just finished placing an order for mineral make-up when the infomercial for Never-Dying Grass came on. I watched for a few minutes wondering why anyone would want a fresh, green lawn all year round. Grass is supposed to turn brown and wither in the winter months. I understood why it was such a popular product with the cemetery trade and golf courses, but now the Green Seed Comp-any was trying to target the regular home-owners. I turned it off in disgust, and went outside, and stopped short because a dead person was eating my dog.

  Actually, having Muffy devoured by a mindless, animated corpse wasn’t the end of the world for me since the nasty dog had belonged to my late husband, Henry, and I often wished the bitch had joined him. But what I did find disturbing was the fact that it was my late husband, Henry, munching on the mutt.

  I stood rooted in the doorway as my deceased spouse rended Muffy limb from limb and then ate each leg. I mean, Henry was never a drumstick kind of guy. No, he had always been the dull steak-and-potatoes kind of guy. So much so, in fact, that a coronary had knocked him off his feet forever...at least I had assumed forever, or at least more than five months. God, I’d only gotten his junk out of the house and into the thrift shop just the week before.

  Henry was covered in dirt and starting to decay; I could smell him clear across the yard. I fought off the urge to call to him, after all, I’d seen all the zombie movies and knew what fate awaited anyone who got near them. So I closed and locked, bolted actually, the back door and realized that I never had to refill the dog’s water bowl again.

  I sat in the kitchen, feeling queasy and wishing the acid jumping up my throat would settle down. I may not have liked the dog, but I hadn’t wanted it dead and certainly not shredded and eaten by its master. And the thought I had avoided finally broke through, Why was Henry a zombie?

  As if in answer, I became aware of pandemonium from outside: screams, cars crashing, gun shots. I decided to turn on the television. The first six hundred and seventy-six stations I turned to consisted of reruns, infomercials, game shows, soaps, talk shows, cooking shows, exercise shows, and evangelists screaming to their god for salvation and to their audience for money. Finally, I found a local news station. All I saw was pretty newscasters describing the scenes around town, and showing videos of zombies in varying states of decay stumbling around, arms outstretched and occasionally eating some stray animals. So far, only a few people had been eaten when a group of zombies had walked into a nursing home for breakfast.

  Then the news stories would switch to the traffic and weather and what movies grossed the highest over the weekend. Obviously zombies may have been the “Big Story” but not big enough to break the station’s routine and timetable.

  I sat and watched the tube, hoping for guidance, but none came. The phone rang, and my boss, Louie, started yelling. Since Louie always yelled, I didn’t put much stock into it.

  “Rita! Where are you?” he bellowed. “You were due in half an hour ago!”

  I thought for a moment and wondered if he was totally mad. “Uh, Louie, didn’t you notice that the world seems to be ending. There are zombies outside.”

  “So?” he yelled. “That means you get a day off? I don’t think so. Now get yourself in here by 11:00 for the lunch crowd.”

  “Lou, do you really think anyone will be in for lunch?”

  “Of course, the special is beef stew or hot roast beef sandwiches, both big sellers!”

  I sighed. “I’ll try, but if I get eaten by a zombie, you are the first one I’ll be coming after.”

  He laughed. “Rita, if you get eaten by a zombie, you are already on the way to being dumber than they are. They’re brain dead for Chrissake. If one comes at you, walk around it.”

  He made sense, so I put on my parka and zipped it tight for extra protection, glanced out the front window, and went out as soon as the coast was clear. I walked very slowly, constantly on the lookout for anything that moved. I saw a few rotting squirrels trying to figure out how to climb trees, but that was about it. I passed the park with grass so green and even that looked like Astroturf. I shook my head, here it was March, the last snowstorm just melted away in last week’s rains, and that new Never-Dying Grass grew like it was summer year round.

  Lou was right, Zombies couldn’t really think, and
since they were in various stages of rot, they couldn’t move all that fast, either. About seven blocks from my rowhouse, I saw a pair of them, a man dragging his leg and stumbling and a woman right behind him with her dress almost shredded and the flesh on her torso pretty much eaten away. They groaned incoherently, lifted their arms like sleepwalkers, and started for me. My stomach clenched like I was going to throw-up, and I swear I felt my blood drop several degrees and turn cold. I froze, I couldn’t think, I couldn’t breathe. They were going to get me.

  Then, just as suddenly as I froze up with fear, the adrenaline kicked in, filling me up with internal fire and I turned and crossed the street. I walked briskly away from them and, although they tried to follow, I left them to eat my dust. After that, whenever I saw a zombie coming toward me, I just gave it a very wide space and they pretty much just shuffled on like I didn’t exist.

  I walked the twelve blocks to work and wondered how much thinking they could do with their brains filled with embalming fluids and pretty much the consistency of bread pudding. I mean, they’ve been dead a while, and I’d read once that fifteen minutes without air pretty much means zero brain function forever.

  As I got to the luncheonette, I still wondered what brought on this resurrection of the dear departed? Lou was correct again, much to my utter shock. Customers were filing in and filling all the booths and counter seats. Only, it wasn’t for the beef, it was the human need to huddle together in the dark. The world was all wrong, and people needed to congregate and talk. I hustled for three hours straight serving platters and filling endless coffee cups…the conversations made the time fly.

  By the noon broadcast, the media finally realized that the world was in a state of crisis. I guess it took them a while to realize that these were real zombies in the big cities like New York and LA. I mean, most people act zombie-like in California, and the people in New York are so cold and blind to each other that they wouldn’t notice anything out of the ordinary unless it came up and bit them, which is exactly what was happening.