by Steve Wands
Bark scanned the area, looking for a break in the mayhem, while Spotz looked for a place in the fence to sneak through. Spotz found an area of the fence that had been cut and used many times over. Bark couldn’t find anywhere to go once they crossed the threshold of the fence. He looked back at the tunnel, and was surprised when he saw people staggering out into the light. On the wall opposite them, behind the fence was a gathering of flesh-eaters. They were pulling on the fence, sticking their hands through, gnawing at the mesh. They had to move; there was no going back and no other choice.
Off in the distance by the dock were two boats being boarded. A horde of slow moving ghouls were approaching the scene. They were kept at bay by a group of Police officers. Their patrol cars were parked as makeshift barriers creating an “L” shape with the building behind them; which was a strip mall for tourists. The officers had shotguns and were firing wildly. The boats, one of which was a commuter ferry, and the other a large dinner cruise boat, were being loaded with people. A simple point and a grunt led them (Bark and Spotz) in a hurried run to the dock. Gore was strewn about. They found themselves stepping over body parts and dodging groping, dead, swollen hands. Spotz stepped into a puddle of blood and innards. It was slick, causing him to lose his footing. He fell forward, jamming his wrist into the dirt. Bark came up behind him and pulled him to his feet, kicking one of the ghouls in the gut to push it away from his friend. They drew more attention to themselves from this little stunt and found that they had a small cluster of blood soaked savages to their backs. They pushed on, almost at the dock, the Police were too busy fending off the large horde that they didn’t notice Bark and Spotz running to the boats. They did however notice the smaller secondary horde behind them. If they didn’t acknowledge the threat this posed they would be totally surrounded. The youngest of the three officers, officer Warden, stepped up and moved closer to them. He was a bulky man, athletic, with a squared frame and small fingers. He cocked his shotgun and took his aim. He squeezed off a shot and then pumped and shot again. He thinned the cluster by two. He stood his ground and convinced his fellow officers to close the gap between them and himself. The officers continued to pick off their dead attackers.
Bark and Spotz had made it to the dock, making quick progress toward the boats. The small ferry had exceeded its capacity and shoved off. The larger boat looked to be full, but held its ground. It was further down the dock and you had to get to the upper level to board it. By the time Bark and Spotz got to the upper level, they saw why the boat hadn’t taken off. A commotion had stirred up, a man who looked like the captain of the ship was trying to calm everyone down, but the people were not listening. As they got closer they heard some of the arguments and by the time they boarded the boat they had a good idea of what was going on.
“She’s turning into one of them!” Shouted a burly man from the crowd.
“She’s just sick, we’ve been running for miles!” The girl’s mother fired back.
“Fuck that, she must’ve been bit!”
“Yeah, get her off the boat!”
“Knock it off, or you can all get off!”
“Let’s just leave already. Why don’t we leave?”
“We’re waiting for the cops. If they didn’t show up we’d probably be dead.”
“Well, where the fuck are they?”
“Listen to the gunshots, asshole, they’re still shooting those crazies!”
The bickering and bitching seemed to be endless. Bark was numb to the noise. It was an exchange of insults and curses, question marks and exclamation points, finger pointing instead of helping hands. Bark was all-to-used to this side of humanity. He was quickly shaken from his thoughts as the gunfire became erratic and closer. The people on the ship shifted their collective attention to the lower level of the dock. Officer Warden was leading the other officers toward the boat; they were being followed by a horde of lurching assailants. The crowd watched in unabated awe as the officers shot these attackers point blank. Brain matter misted the air, chunks of skull and flesh fell to the ground and blow back stained the dark blue uniforms. One of the officers panicked, he was grabbed by multiple clawing hands and pulled into the crowd. He managed to shoot one of his attackers as another officer assisted by shooting another creature. There were too many, however, and the officer was bitten on the shoulder. He screamed as teeth broke through his shirt and skin, the attackers jaw clenching down and twisting. Tearing a chunk of flesh from the officer’s shoulder, he screamed and began shooting wildly. More hands pulled the officer back and down. His screams turned to gurgles. He fired again and again. The last shot he fired before being silenced hit his fellow officer in the hip and lower stomach. The wounded officer fell to the ground, holding his gaping wound. The bloodthirsty flesh-eaters groped at the hole and began to pull the man’s insides out. Two officers were left–Warden and Nicolini. Nicolini was one of the few female officers in the department. She was a looker with thick lips and natural curves. She went to grab her fallen friend but instead, officer Warden grabbed her by the arm and started running.
“Fuck this, let’s go, he’s as good as dead now!” He huffed.
She didn’t respond. She ran, they both darted for the stairs and quickly made it to the second level. On board the boat, the two officers silenced the crowd and told the captain to shove off. They did just that. They stared at a dock full of the walking dead. The fallen officers were now among them, badges covered in gore, intestines dragging along the dock. Everyone was quite, they couldn’t help but stare at these things that used to be alive. It was almost too much to handle. Bark grinned a little, it was almost a smile, he was happy as shit to be alive. Spotz noted his friend’s expression and mimicked it.
The sick girl that was the center of attention earlier was nearly forgotten now. Her long dark hair covered a chunk of missing flesh from her neck. Her mothers arm was draped around her shoulder, she tried to keep her warm, the little girl’s body temperature was dropping. Her stomach pained, her complexion paled, her eyes grew dark. She was hungry.
*
Hell Comes for the Hurried
An alternate world Stay Dead short story
*
I’m supposed to be thankful today. Thankful for the wonderful bounty before me, thankful for the air that stings my lungs with its bitter, sinister cold, and thankful for all that I have. Well, all I have is regret and a heart that refuses to give up the ghost, a belly nowhere near full of charred rabbit meat and cold moonshine. I have the vague memory of a world that was chewed to the marrow. I have the memory of my family. And, I have a picture of them, which I guess I’m thankful for. It’s the only picture I have left of my wife and our son—though it’s so tattered I can barely make out their faces anymore. It’s as if they are ghosts caught on film. But am I thankful? –No. Not till I’m dead. Sure, I could’ve easily checked myself out countless times in the years that’ve passed. No, I’m not a religious person, though I do believe in God, and I most certainly believe in hell. I believe my family is waiting for me. Waiting where all the good-hearted dead go, were I hope I can go, and I don’t think suicide will get me there.
So I sit here among these people I’ve traveled with, their names don’t matter to me, and to be honest, neither do they. We still look out for each other though. It’s just that I’ve grown cold, beyond numb—I barely even speak nowadays. There is nothing to say, and small talk is bullshit. I’d rather keep my thoughts to my self. Some of the folks I travel with like to tell stories or talk about the glory days of a world half-remembered. I like to find the dead things and make them deader. I pretend that every one of them is the one that took my family away. It’s the only time I feel anything other than nothing and regret. And once I finish off this moonshine I’ll be ready to do just that.
The last swig bit me like a viper and hissed all the way down. I got to my feet, grabbed my club and headed away from the fire and out from underneath the bridge. I admired the sight once I got to the top. It was
early evening and the sun was setting behind the river. The destruction was breathtaking. It was a bombed out skeleton of a city—a modern day dinosaur with its broken bones reaching for the sky. I stood across the river taking it all in. We were heading there tomorrow, on the big old road to nowhere through the city and beyond. We’d probably set up camp in the ruin one of the buildings—a library would be nice, or a museum. I could bury myself in a book, or make a display for the human race at the museum. Either way would be a fine way to kill time before time kills me.
I heard her following me but I hoped she’d leave after a bit, but of course she didn’t. I wasn’t that lucky. She was damn near feral, completely animalistic and why we saved her I still don’t know. She was part of a “fuck hut” we came across months ago down by Jamesburg off the old highway. The girl was barely into double digits by the looks of her. She was filthy and had no idea how to interact with others, not that any of us really did, but she made it extremely uncomfortable. Who knows how many times she’d been raped—it was all she knew. She looked at you as if you were going to, and was confused when you did nothing. At times it was almost as if she wanted to be fucked, as if that were the only way she could have contact with another person. If I had a heart it would break, but it didn’t. Her movement and posture resembled an ape more than it did of man. I turned to look at her as she hid behind a pile of rubble. She grunted at me and I shooed her away. She scampered off, heading back to the group. Good riddance.
I walked for a few minutes, heading toward the road which eventually took me to the bridge. Both of which were cluttered with broken down vehicles, many of which were weathered and rusted. Come tomorrow, getting across would be interesting. I wondered if we even could. Something stirred on the bridge. I heard a noise, and stared right in its direction. From the shadows emerged one of the dead. Its eyes gone long ago, its skin wrapped like tight leather around its bones. It looked like a mummy whittled out of wood. I stepped closer to it, my club at my side. It met me part of the way. I stood staring at it, staring into its eyeless holes looking for something to hate. It came at me, stiffly and weakly. I let it grab hold only to push it away. I let it do it again, and again. How the hell did these things turn the world into a nightmare? The thought gave me rage and I used it to swing my club at the deader. I knocked it to the ground, its leathered hide scraping on the pavement. I put my foot to its head and slowly pressed down, it gave no fight and if it did I didn’t notice. I stomped full-force on the deaders head, heard a very satisfying crunch and looked at the dark ooze coming from its ears. It looked like oil. I raised my foot to stomp it once again, and once again I was satisfied with the noise I made—it was music, and violence was the instrument. I was so focused on what I was doing that I didn’t notice the other creatures that crept out from the shadows of the bridge. Three more, and they were just as slow as the dead bastard who finally found rest under my foot. One of them had been disemboweled long ago, staggering forward with an empty hole where her stomach should’ve been. I could see the upper crest of her pelvis and the base of her spine. The rest was covered by skin that hung in clumps like rows of jerky. None of them had clothes, one barely had any hair, not that it mattered what they looked like. Nothing mattered, really. I hoped they would kill me but I knew they wouldn’t be able to. Even against three of them it was easy work. I had my fun of course then quickly put them down.
I was beginning to sober up and that was a bad thing, a very bad thing.
It was on my second jar of moonshine that I returned to near oblivion. I was almost drunk enough to enjoy the stories being told within earshot of where I stood on wobbly legs. I heard one part of a story that involved Mick Jagger and it only made me think of my dead friends on the bridge. It almost made me chuckle—the thought of Mick and The Stones being responsible for the death of death. I smiled, briefly, and it felt unnatural and dirty on my face. I wiped it off and took a swig from my jar.
The river moved fast and rough. It looked almost green. I could see a few people from the group down near the river talking amongst themselves—it could’ve been an argument the way they were moving, but I stopped paying attention, and moved closer to the fire. The fire smelled terrible, like hot piss on burnt rubber, but I took it in all the same.
A memory came to me then, one of fire—a fire that didn’t smell of piss and rubber. It was a Thanksgiving years ago, our first Thanksgiving as a new family, just the three of us. I fought and fought for us to be by ourselves. I was sick of sharing the day with her family, and for once I wanted to just be by ourselves. The fire then smelled great and it heated most of the house. Our son was crawling around like a maniac and we kept chasing after him—but I must say I had a hard time crawling after him. I was heavier then, and my knees hated me for it. It was the best Thanksgiving I had as an adult. I wish I could go back to that day, back to a day on the couch with a giant heap of mashed potatoes, a cold beer, a beautiful woman at my side and my curious little creation roaming the floors in search of brightly colored toys to put in his mouth.
It’s funny the things you think of when you’re trying to get some shut-eye. And when I say funny, I mean odd. I was just thinking about the rain forest. I pictured it beginning to flourish once again. I saw vivid colors and giant trees, crazy looking little bugs, and noisy birds. The earth, the real earth, must be rejoicing as we continue to struggle for survival. I thought of the future I use to picture, flying cars and teleportation systems, robots named “Rosie” and all that good stuff. It’s crazy how quickly things can change. How one can go from a bright future to no future at all. I thought of dinosaurs, and then I felt like one. Somehow I slept.
I dreamt of walking through the city, the bridge was cleared and we joined a parade. People were celebrating again, the sun was shining, and people were talking and laughing. A man tried to sell me ice cream but I didn’t have any money. He smiled and handed it to me anyway. Then he gave me a wink. I could hear children laughing but I didn’t see any. Then it began to rain, no it poured. It was muddy and hot, and everyone ran off. I was left in the middle of the street with my ice cream, which turned into eyeballs. The people around me all turned into deaders. They began clapping. My vision blurred and the world began to spin out of control. Then I woke to the touch of someone stroking my leg. It was the feral girl. I jumped up and pushed her away. She hissed at me, I kicked her and snarled back. The others looked at me, then to the girl, and then they went back to whatever the hell it was they were doing—which was really just killing time.
I sat back down, and the last thing I remember was the shifting of gravel underfoot. Then blackness. When I woke up my head pounded, and the world was upside down. The folks I traveled with were standing around me. They looked anxious, and they were looking at me. I hung suspended by my feet, and my hands were tied in back. All I could do was squirm—and not very much at that. They were all pretty quiet. From behind me I could hear the sharpening of metal—I knew what was coming. I smiled when I figured it out; it was my turn, at long fucking last. There was a bucket under my head. The sharpening stopped and then all was quiet. I could hear footsteps approaching from behind, then the swift sound of a cleaver slicing through the cold night air. The pussy swinging the cleaver didn’t have enough strength to cleave off my head in one swing. So, you could imagine the pain when it struck my throat. As much as I looked forward to this moment, I had no idea how much pain it would actually be. Nor did I think it would hurt a hundred times more when the bastard pulled it out to try again. Finally on the third stroke my head landed in the bucket, face down and bleeding stump up. My warm blood flowed from the wound, quickly cooling off—and there was a lot of it. I then watched them slice open my gut and disembowel me. Cleaving out every organ and letting them drop to the ground. The bucket wasn’t near big enough, and according to the reaction of the bastards doing it I didn’t smell too fresh on the inside. Am I thankful? –Yes. I’d certainly have preferred a cleaner death, something more serene, and quick. But,
what’s done is done. I was just a bit confused as to why there was no heavenly light shining down upon me, or why I didn’t float off into the air—I was still here, watching them hack at my mortal remains. Their names are fuzzy, and as I’ve told you before, they don’t really matter, but I think the bastard that cleaved my head was named Vic. He’d told me before that he’d eaten human flesh. He sort of eventually became our group’s leader. He was a nice enough guy, and if I could’ve thanked him for choosing me to be the Thanksgiving bird, despite the fact that the bastard couldn’t do the job swiftly, I would have. I guess he somehow convinced the rest of the group that human meat was better than no meat. I guess they agreed.
They had turned pipes and branches into skewers which they covered in my meat. I wondered if anyone would eat my dick, and if they did I sure as shit didn’t want to watch, but I wanted to know. I was almost all bone as they continued to skewer large chunks from my body. The man with the cleaver started making a stack for himself, cutting from my thighs, probably the choicest of cuts, my legs were in great shape from all the walking I’ve done over the years—probably the best they’d ever been in. I used to be a couch potato with a desk job and a bad appetite, now I was a slender stack of meat on Thanksgiving Day. Once someone had a full skewer they walked it over to the fire. I could hear the sizzle of my skin, but I couldn’t smell it—why I don’t know. I watched them eating my body. I wish I could tell you it disgusted me, but it didn’t. I didn’t care. The feral girl grabbed a skewer of me and headed to the fire in her hunched over stagger of a walk.