Dead Meat

by Joseph M. Monks

  And Grandpa.

  She’d heard Daddy’s laugh even less since then, and now the crate with the face was gone. Wilford had grumbled about it, but Amy could tell he wasn’t really serious, just fooling with Big Walt and Daddy. He’d never believed Amy had taken part in it, though she tried her hardest to convince him that it had been her who’d drawn the eyes.

  “Oh, don’t you go stickin’ up for this ol’ fella,” Wilford had said to her in a somber tone, jerking his thumb over at Big Walt, who was trying unsuccessfully to look innocent. “Nosiree, little lady, that fella there’s the culprit, sure as a dog lifts his leg at a hydrant.” Amy had laughed and laughed while the two men exchanged ever more colorful barbs until it was time for her to go to bed. That night, Amy enjoyed happy dreams for the first time in months.

  The air in the room was coming from outside, but couldn’t be called fresh by any stretch of the imagination. Amy wrinkled her nose, enjoying the cool breeze but not the stench carried upon it. It reminded her of the way the trash can smelled when something in it started to go bad. Like the stinky cheese Daddy liked to put on turkey sandwiches. The dumpster outside the cafeteria got to smelling like this sometimes, too, when it hadn’t been emptied for a while when it was real hot out.

  Mommy and Daddy were in the living room, their backs turned to her as she approached. Amy moved in as close as she dared, knowing better than to interrupt. Whatever the grownups were discussing, none of them appeared to be terribly happy about it. Craning her neck, Amy could see that there was a map laid out on the table, along with several sets of car keys. That puzzled her. Nobody had used a car in…how long? Not since the last of the ‘runs.’ The one that had made Mommy and Uncle Jimmy’s girlfriend cry.

  Amy listened to Daddy talk. She loved her father’s voice, always strong and reassuring. She missed hearing it on nights when it was his turn at one of the windows, nights when he couldn’t tuck her in and say good-night. Hearing Daddy recite the Lord’s prayer with her, or hearing him promise that everything would be different come tomorrow, always made her feel better. He would give her and Molly Dolly each a kiss on the forehead, then give them each a wink before blowing out the candle on her bookshelf.

  “I don’t see any other way. We can’t hold up here forever, that much is clear, especially after the last couple of days. Circling the wagons was the right thing to do at the beginning, when we thought the army or guard would come. But ain’t nobody coming now, and even if we could keep making supply runs, what? Stay here? For how long?”

  “But you said it yourself,” argued Celeste Abbott, Big Walt’s sister. “With what’s happened the last few days…”

  “I’m with Ray,” interjected Uncle Jimmy, cutting Celeste off. He exchanged a look with Daddy. “The longer we wait, the less chance we have of getting out of here. Eventually, just by sheer numbers, they’ll cut us off. They’ll be able to wait us out. We either take enough of them down while we can and make a break for it, or we starve to death.”

  Celeste made to say something else, but Mommy put a hand on her shoulder, stilling her.

  “Celeste, you see the same thing out those windows the rest of us do. How many of them there are now. Soon, there’s going to be too many of them. We’ll be trapped. All of us.”

  Amy followed Mommy’s gaze across the room, to where Walter Junior was. The boy was kneeling beside a half-empty wooden crate, loading cartridges into the long guns. Four big guns—two rifles and two shotguns, lay on the floor next to him.

  “I know what you’re thinking, Celeste, but if—“

  “Amy!” Mommy gasped, startled to find her daughter listening in. Daddy half-turned and looked down at her. Amy thought he was going to get mad, but instead, his shoulders sagged and his face softened. Mommy came around the table and picked her up.

  “Baby, what are you doing out here? Why aren’t you in your room, playing?” Amy couldn’t think of an answer. She couldn’t remember any more what had brought her out here, what had prompted her to come into the living room. The only thing she could think to say was, “It smells funny.”

  Daddy grinned, and Mommy squeezed Amy so tight that she found it hard to breathe. Tears began streaming down Mommy’s face, dripping into Molly Dolly’s shaggy red hair.

  “Are you mad at me, Mommy? Did I do bad?”

  Mommy didn’t answer. Instead, she pressed her face into Amy’s hair and rocked back and forth with her. Daddy pinched her nose gently between his index and middle fingers and wiggled.

  “You did A-okay, kiddo, don’t you worry your pretty little self about anything,” he promised. Just for good measure, he added a wink.

  “Mommy?” Amy managed, her face crinkling. “Now it smells really ba—“

  Both big guns fired, almost simultaneously. To Amy, it sounded like the fourth of July was happening inside her head. Somebody shrieked. Amy couldn’t tell if it was Mommy or Celeste or maybe Uncle Jimmy’s girlfriend. The hot scent of gunpowder mixed with the stench blowing in through the windows, as the living room was thrown into absolute chaos.

  Despite his massive frame and muscular arms, the powerful shotgun’s recoil made Big Walt jerk as he fired out the window. Wilford squeezed off two shots in rapid succession, then two more. Through the gaps in the window frame around Big Walt, Amy could see hints of movement outside, but nothing else. Then Big Walt’s gun fired again, and he yanked it back into the house. He dropped it onto the floor to his left, and picked up a second shotgun, resting against the wall to his right. Walter Junior snatched up the empty one and began ramming shells into its belly. Uncle Jimmy pulled a gun off the floor and raced to the window, aiming it over Big Walt’s shoulder. Big Walt fired, this time as quickly as he could pull the trigger. When he had emptied the weapon, he slid it across the floor to Walter Junior, scrambling out of Uncle Jimmy’s line of fire.

  Standing with his feet spread, Uncle Jimmy angled his gun downward and pulled the trigger. He swung the gun to the right and fired again. He continued until his ammunition was depleted, then turned to yell to Walter Junior, who was reloading the smoking firearms as fast as the two men could empty them.

  “Ray!” Jimmy howled. Daddy materialized beside his brother-in-law , a handgun in each fist. Flame belched from the barrels, sizzling brass casings being ejected in all directions. Uncle Jimmy reached behind Daddy, accepting the fresh long gun Big Walt was offering.

  Mommy put Amy down, falling to her knees opposite Walter Junior. She grabbed for one of the spent long guns, yanking her hand back when the barrel brushed against her knuckles. Amy could see an ugly red blister sprout across her fingers, but Mommy didn’t seem to notice. Instead, she pulled several boxes of cartridges from the wooden crate, spread them open before her, and started mirroring Walter Junior’s frantic efforts.

  Amy turned in time to see Celeste backing away, retreating from the others until she was pressed into the corner, nowhere left to go. Her sour face had gone ash grey, and though her lips were moving, Amy couldn’t hear anything coming out. Celeste began shaking uncontrollably, fumbling inside the neck of her shirt until she found what she was looking for. Long, spidery fingers produced a silver cross that hung suspended from a thin, matching chain. Now, watching Celeste’s lips, Amy believed she knew what the woman was saying.

  “Hail Mary, full of grace, the lord is with thee…”

  “I’m out!” cried Wilford. Beside him lay three spent long guns. Amy jerked her head to stare at the old man, his teeth bared and his walrus moustache stained with a substance that looked dark brown and somehow grey-green all at the same time. His glasses were speckled with it, whatever it was. It reminded Amy of finger paints that had been all mixed together, to the point they were useless.

  Walter Junior had a pair of fresh long guns tucked beneath each arm and was moving to bring them to Wilford when Uncle Jimmy was forced down to one knee to sight down an approaching target. He tripped up Walter Junior, who pitched forward, one gun clattering across the floor, just out of
Wilford’s reach. Walter Junior, struggling to hang onto the other firearms, couldn’t keep his balance. He toppled and went down, his face smacking into the hardwood floor with a sickening thud.

  The teenager’s nose was a pancake of blood and mucous. He tried to get to his knees, wavered, and thrust out his hands to support himself. An unbroken stream of blood flowed from one flattened nostril. He slapped at the long gun with one hand, trying to guide it to Wilford. Shaking his head in an effort to clear it sent droplets of blood flying in all directions.

  With a monumental show of resolve, Walter Junior managed to get to his feet, staggering back to the big box of cartridges and the task of reloading the weapons. Involuntary tears leaked from glassy eyes, cutting tracks through the hot blood staining his face. The boy pinched the bridge of his nose, crying out as he blew it. He expelled a thick wad of blood and snot, but managed to clear his nasal passage enough to breathe. He half crouched, half fell to his knees beside the growing number of spent long guns, reaching shakily for the nearest one. His bloody fingers fumbled with first one cartridge, then another. Concentrating hard, he moved on to the next weapon.

  Mommy had reloaded a pair of rifles, wasting no time in launching them to a spot between Uncle Jimmy and Big Walt, who’d retaken his position at the first window. Daddy stood a few feet behind them, feeding fresh clips into his spent handguns. Big Walt’s shotgun boomed, and Uncle Jimmy squeezed off a rifle shot over his shoulder. Big Walt had stuffed a plug of napkin into his right ear. But even that couldn’t keep out the agonized shriek which stopped them all in their tracks. It had come from Wilford, whose long gun had been wrenched from his grip.

  At least, that’s what it looked like to Amy. Wilford had been jerked forward savagely, his forehead striking the window’s wooden frame. When he fell back, the gun was no longer in his hands.

  Or rather, Hand…because now, only one of them remained.

  Wilford’s screams pierced the living room. For a long moment, there was no more gunfire, nothing but the high-pitched keening of a man whose arm ended in a gory tangle of shredded muscle and tendons. Wilford tried desperately to stem the flow of blood, his fingers closing around ribbons of gristle and sinew. A sharp spur of bone protruded from his jagged stump.

  Amy stood frozen, watching as Mommy rushed to Wilford’s side and tried to tie off the wound. She was using a narrow, orange plastic band that Amy recognized as having come from one of the wooden crates. Mommy cinched the makeshift tourniquet, slipping the loose end of the band into a plastic loop. When she pulled it tight, the pulsing torrent of blood spurting from the wound ebbed, then slowed to a trickle. Wilford’s screaming stopped, too, almost as abruptly as the flow of his blood. He groaned, then sagged to the floor, his back against the wall. Mommy grabbed the nearest long gun and took up his spot, letting loose a quick burst of shots.

  “Celeste!” Daddy roared, rushing to the window. “Help Walter Junior. For Chrissakes, get those fucking guns loaded!”

  Amy had heard Daddy curse before, but never like this. He hated it when Tony Stewart lost a race, or when the Titans lost a close football game, but this was different. Daddy never cursed at somebody. Uncle Jimmy’s girlfriend tried to help out Walter Junior, but Amy knew that she was a city girl, born and bred. She had heard Daddy say as much to Mommy when they thought Amy wasn’t listening, and she had no idea which cartridges fit what gun. Celeste had grown up around guns, but all she could do was stand in the corner, weeping and praying. Amy could hear her through her sobs, gasping out the familiar words.

  “…forgive us our trespasses, as we forgive those who…”

  Despite his best efforts, Walter Junior couldn’t keep up. As fast as he got one gun loaded, two more came his way. From down the hall came the sound of pounding footsteps. Amy moved to the side as the men who’d been sleeping—probably they had been on watch the night before—took in what was happening. One joined Walter Junior, trying to keep the firearms ready to go. The other removed a pistol from his belt and joined Mommy at the window. When Mommy’s gun was empty, he pushed her out of the way and dropped into a two-handed shooter’s crouch, closing one eye and sighting in on a succession of six targets. He had moved through targets one through four, when everything went to pieces.

  Wilford had gone crazy. That’s what Amy had to believe, because her young mind didn’t have an alternative to consider. Whatever was going on, whatever they were shooting at through the windows, had done something kooky to his brain. How else to explain why Wilford suddenly sat up, ignoring his missing hand, and thrust his face into the crook of Mr. Jameson’s neck, looking like he was going to kiss him?

  Only, Wilford didn’t kiss Mr. Jameson. He bit him, like a vampire. No, not a vampire, because this was no vampire bite. This was worse—much, much worse. Wilford didn’t just leave two tiny pinpricks in Mr. Jameson’s neck. Instead, he tore a huge chunk out. Amy saw it hanging there, sticking out of Wilford’s mouth. It looked…it looked almost like…

  Like he was eating it!

  The wounded man fell back, and Wilford leapt on top of him. His remaining hand clutched Mr. Jameson’s face while he sunk his teeth into the man’s cheek. Amy felt fruit punch and bile rise in her throat as the force of Wilford’s thumb crushed Mr. Jameson’s eyeball into pulp.

  Of all the horrors going on around her, what happened next was something Amy wished she hadn’t seen. Daddy stepped up to Wilford, and without pausing, fired a single shot. The top of Wilford’s head disappeared, and he toppled over, dead. But instead of helping Mr. Jameson, who was clutching his throat and trying to sit up, Daddy aimed and shot him, too, putting a small, black hole in the center of his forehead.

  Uncle Jimmy bellowed in pain, cartwheeling backward. His rifle had misfired, and the shell had blown up in his face. Amy saw a ring of charred, black flesh beneath Uncle Jimmy’s right eye. A smoking shard of torn steel protruded from just beneath his eyebrow.

  Daddy moved to catch Uncle Jimmy as he fell, the momentum taking both men to the ground. Mommy wrapped her shirt around her fingers and pulled the shrapnel out, quickly tossing the blistering hunk of steel aside.

  The stench coming into the house continued to grow worse. The living room was growing hazy with gun smoke. Amy couldn’t keep from looking through the unguarded window any longer.

  Monsters, she thought. Hundreds of monsters.

  They looked like humans, but just as Amy knew that gunfire only sounded like thunder, she knew that these creatures only looked like people. The way they moved wasn’t quite right. And their skin. Their skin was all puffy and discolored. Some of them looked brownish-yellow, like overripe bananas, swollen to the point of bursting. Others were an icky blue-green, open sores spotting their pustule-ridden faces.

  But some, too many to count, were missing skin. Huge patches of flesh had been stripped away, exposing the underlying muscle and bone. But the worst part was that some of the monsters looked… familiar. Was it possible that some of them actually reminded her of people she knew? Were they aliens, maybe? Had monsters come from some other planet trying to look like us?

  While she watched, mesmerized, Molly Dolly firmly clamped beneath one arm, one of the monsters began climbing through the window, coming inside. Big Walt was switching guns when he saw the intruder and trained his weapon on him.

  On it.

  The creature had heaved himself halfway through the window when Big Walt all but cut him in half with the sawed-off. Amy saw the man-monster twist in the window, hands clawing madly at the air as the shotgun pellets blew apart his ribcage. Despite the damage inflicted by the point-blank shot, the monster didn’t die. It just lost its grip and fell away, back through the yawning window.

  Big Walt had just started to turn his attention back to the window he had been guarding when hands—so many hands!—reached inside and dug into his clothes, his hair, his skin. Almost without effort, and despite his size, the monsters dragged him out, kicking and screaming. One second he was there, and the next
he was gone. All that was left of him was an anguished roar that was cut off almost as soon as it started.

  Walter Junior leapt to his feet, nose still oozing blood, eyes wild and manic. He leaned out the window, screaming at the top of his lungs.

  “Dad! Dad!”

  Amy’s father grabbed Walter Junior and fought to pull him away from the window, to safety. But Walter Junior, despite his skinny-as-a-rail frame, proved difficult to budge. But then Daddy had him, and Walter Junior collapsed back into the living room, holding on to what was left of Big Walt. What remained of his father didn’t amount to much.

  Walter Junior cradled Big Walt’s upper body, nothing more. One of his arms was gone at the shoulder, the other missing below the elbow. A wet coil of intestine snaked out of his abdominal cavity and disappeared out the window. One of Big Walt’s eyes continued roaming, looking around the room. His lips, gone from pink to the color of fish scales, twitched as if he were trying to speak. Perhaps he was. Amy thought that maybe he was trying to tell his son good-bye.

  At both windows now, Amy could see monsters. More than one struggling to gain entry. But there were no guns loaded with which to fend them off.

  Daddy had finally gotten his magazines back into his guns, and stood, taking careful aim. Mommy dragged Uncle Jimmy, thrashing in pain and clutching his bloody face, away from the windows. Walter Junior was wailing, rocking back and forth as Big Walt’s eyelids sleepily fell closed. He was still rocking his father’s torso when the monsters swarmed over him, tearing him to pieces faster than Daddy could kill them.