Dead Meat

by Joseph M. Monks

  Mommy grabbed a gun and reached for the nearest box of shells. Half of them rolled away when she upended the carton. She turned and locked eyes with her daughter.

  “Run, baby!” she shouted. “Run and hide!”

  “B-but,” Amy protested, unwilling to leave her mother’s side.

  “Do it! Listen to me—NOW!”

  Amy listened. She whirled and fled the room as if devils were nipping at her heels. And, perhaps they were. Behind her, Daddy’s guns barked. Then came shouting, followed by a terrifying scream. Amy couldn’t tell whose scream it was, but it turned the skin on her arms to gooseflesh. A moment later, it was joined by another. Amy still couldn’t distinguish whose screams they were, but hearing them started a flood of salty tears streaming down her face.

  Amy hurtled down the hallway, gripping Molly Dolly fiercely by one, limp arm. Only a solitary candle remained burning in the hall, but the shadows did not frighten her. Amy had seen things far worse than shadows, and as she threw open the door to the basement, she could hear those things coming for her.

  The cellar smelled of earth, damp cement and mildewed canvas, unfinished and haphazardly partitioned. To the right, the lion’s share of the space was a jumble of once-ordered crates, canned food, dry goods and winter gear. To the left, 2x4s supported a plywood and sheetrock wall that segmented off what passed for a laundry room. Amy gazed into the cavernous, open area. Once, the basement had been well-stocked with supplies. The stacks had dwindled, though. The boxes of soup and chili and Vienna sausage were all almost empty. In the dim flicker of candlelight, Amy could see that there was no good hiding place for her among the waning rations.

  Her options few, Amy slipped through the door into the laundry room.

  The flimsy door was held open by a scrap-wood wedge someone had jammed under it. There was no lock. Amy rushed in, kicking loose the wedge and sending it careening into the shadows. Amy closed the door behind her, hoping to buy a few seconds to hide.

  With the door shut, the laundry room was plunged into complete and utter darkness. Amy knew that on the shelf were several candles and a pack of disposable butane lighters. She had been told before that she was not to touch these things, that they weren’t toys for her to play with. But it didn’t seem like the rules Mommy and Daddy set for her meant much anymore.

  Amy lit two candles, and quickly surveyed her surroundings. The laundry room was small, a six by ten foot cell. Directly inside the door were the washer and dryer. They’d been shoved behind the door because they no longer worked, but it made little sense to move them elsewhere. Along the far wall was the hollowed out spot where a few remaining canned goods had been stored to keep cool. The space had no covering, and offered no protection. Upstairs, a growing number of slow, dragging feet caused the floorboards to creak. They were exploring the house now, searching for her.

  Amy began to tremble.

  Could they smell her? She had a hard time believing the monsters could smell anything, they stank so bad, but what if they could? If they were able to smell her the way a dog could smell a rabbit, they’d be on her in no time. Amy bit her lip.

  Think! She forced herself. She had to find a place to hide, and time was running out.

  An idea came to her. Taking a quick peek out the door, she saw movement in the shadows. The monsters were already swarming the staircase.

  Amy shut the laundry room door as quietly as she could, sitting Molly Dolly down on top of the dryer. The space she had to work in was severely constricted. She stood to the side, easing open the dryer. She crawled across the panel, scooting into the machine feet-first. Before closing it, she reached for one of the candles and held her breath.

  Amy waited. She could hear the monsters, moving around the basement. The glass candleholder was quickly growing too hot for her fingers. Reluctantly, she was forced to blow it out. It made the inside of the dryer stinky, but not as stinky as the monsters. They were close now, she could smell them.

  Suddenly, Amy was overcome with panic. Molly Dolly! She had left her bestest friend out there, with the monsters! She considered leaving her sanctuary to rescue Molly, but when she began to open the dryer, an overpowering stench told her that the monsters were already here—there was no way for her to save her friend.

  “Hide, Molly Dolly!” Amy pleaded in a choked whisper. “Hide and when it’s safe I’ll come and get you!”

  The laundry room door creaked open. Amy held her breath, trying to remain still.

  She closed her eyes, imagining the creatures pouring into the room, the flesh of their rotting feet peeling back against the rough concrete. How many of them were there, she wondered. Ten? Twenty? A hundred? It felt like the house was swollen with them, the way a dented can got when the stuff inside went bad.

  After a time, the shambling corpses which had overrun the basement retreated. The dead had torn open cartons, splintered wooden crates, shattered bottles and left debris strewn in their wake as they hunted for more prey. With no meat to be had, they made their way back up the steps.

  Though the mob of zombies had largely departed, one of the decaying horde lagged behind, circling the small room in the basement. For some reason, the rotting creature had felt drawn here. Something about this place kept him from following the others.

  A lumpy form on top of the dryer drew its attention. The ghoul hefted it in one bony, withered hand. Plastic bubble eyes stared back at him, forever unblinking, the cloth and cotton representation of living meat mocking him.

  Rage engulfed him. Bringing the doll to his mouth, he bit through its floppy arms and tore off its legs, reducing it to an unrecognizable pile of stuffing and stitch work.

  Dropping the ragged mess on the floor, the deadwalker slowly made his way to the stairs. Halfway up, a synapse fired deep within his shriveled brain. A memory. A brilliant glow that lit up his surroundings like a flash bulb popping for a snapshot.

  He tried to hold on to it, to focus on it just a moment longer, but it was already fading. The low-functioning basic instinct took over.

  Food…prey…sustenance.

  At the top of the stairs, he got caught up on a nail sticking out of a furring strip. Once upon a time, a flashlight had hung from this nail. Now, it was bare.

  The mouldering thing pulled the frayed red suspender free.

  Food…prey…

  He joined the others as they migrated back out into the street. North, they headed, following the scent of the living. This place held nothing for them now.

  Nor for him.

  Amy, her neck stiff and her legs tingly with pins and needles, had waited as long as she could. She hadn’t heard anything for what seemed like hours, though just how long she’d been hiding in the dryer, she couldn’t tell. It had taken forever for the noise to die away, the floorboards upstairs to stop groaning, the stairs to stop creaking. Eventually, gloomy silence enveloped her, and still, all she could do was wait.

  Now, though, staying here and waiting seemed like a bad idea. If the monsters were gone, she had to get out before they came back. She and Molly Dolly had to sneak out and look for help. She knew they were on their own now, she had come to grips with that waiting in the dark, crying silent, mournful tears. If Mommy and Daddy could have, they would’ve come looking for her. But Amy knew that Mommy and Daddy were gone now, gone like all the others. The monsters had taken them, taken them all.

  “Molly Dolly?” she whispered, pushing against the dryer door to get out.

  It didn’t open.

  Amy tried again, hoping to force it, but it wouldn’t budge. She began pounding frantically on the door, oblivious to the racket she was making, throwing her shoulder into it with all the force a five year old could muster. The result was the same. Amy wormed around and began kicking the panel. Though her stockinged feet left the metal dented and deformed, she still couldn’t get out. Heart hammering, she got on her knees and dug her fingers into the metal seam, trying to force them through the too-narrow gap. She kept at it until her
fingertips were black and blue.

  Only later, when she had started to calm down, did she figure it out. Something was blocking the door. Amy had heard the monsters open it, coming in to search for her. Frustrated, they had ripped the shelves from the wall, hurled the steel drum and washboard from the room and smashed the preserve jars on the floor, the broken glass ground to dust beneath their feet. But they hadn’t been able to search inside the dryer because with the laundry room door open, the dryer door couldn’t be lowered.

  If they had closed the door, the monsters would have been able to gain access into her hidey-hole. But they hadn’t. And, when they’d left, the door had remained open, leaving her trapped inside a square, steel coffin.

  Amy began pounding on the dryer door with both fists, crying out for help.

  “Molly Dolly!” she begged, pleading with her bestest friend. “Molly Dolly! You have to help me! I can’t get out! I can’t get out!”

  From the spot on the floor where it had been discarded, the remains of a limbless, mangled doll gazed at the dryer with its surviving plastic eye. A flickering candle cast a pale halo around it.

  Hours later, the candle burned out, leaving the basement dark and silent.

  Save for the occasional sob of a lonely little girl.

  GARDENS OF THE DEAD

  After losing my eyesight in 2002, I went on a writing binge. By the end of that year, I’d released an anthology of short stories, and started working on several new projects. Since my career had begun in the comic book industry, I came up with a first-of-its-kind effort, a portfolio of five 11 x 17 illustrations by horror legend Bernie Wrightson. The unique aspect was that there would be stand-alone short stories on the back of each plate. Together, these would form the first arc in a three-part extended storyline. The Gardens of the Dead portfolio became the kickoff point for my new zombie universe, and I’ve been adding to it ever since.

  The stories contained here, however, are not just reprints of the ones which appear in the portfolio. In fact, they are vastly different, because the original tales had to be modified to fit the artwork. Not all of the pieces matched the stories, which put me in a bit of a bind. We needed to have the portfolio ready for that year’s San Diego Comic Con, leaving me only one option—write my way out of the corner I’d been painted into. Which is what I did.

  Now, you have the stories as they should have appeared back in 2003. Without compromises or work-arounds. Without story elements jammed in to fit what we had, as opposed to what I wanted. The…director’s cut, if you will. The doorway into my Zombieverse.

  Enjoy your stay. And…step lively.

  AILEEN & CHARLIE

  The ice cream bowl should have tipped her off.

  When Aileen went to check in on Charlie, only to find his bed empty and his window cracked, she’d been close to panicking. Her nephew’s bedroom was at the back of the house, and earlier, she’d seen him heading for it carrying a dish of ice cream, a stack of comic books tucked under one arm. He’d done his best to slip past the living room unnoticed, but hadn’t quite managed. Not that she’d paid much attention. She and Pete had been busy not watching the DVD he’d grabbed from the Red Box, two Coors from a fresh six-pack still sitting untouched on the end table.

  Busy not paying enough attention to a ten-year-old boy who’d rummaged up a late night snack and gone back to his room to read comic books. A boy who hadn’t come back out again. Not to put the empty bowl in the sink, not to brush his teeth, not even to go to the bathroom. Strange. Strange enough that she should have picked up on it.

  But she hadn’t. True, she had two beers in her, and her mind had been on other things—Pete’s hands up under her shirt, for instance. Had Charlie even made an appearance to say good-night to her after Pete went home? She couldn’t remember him doing so, and that, of all things, should have set alarm bells ringing. She hadn’t figured it out, though. Had been too giddy from the beer and the feel of Pete’s tongue in her mouth.

  And now, Charlie was gone.

  She replayed it in her head, trying to get a handle on the situation, to get herself calmed down. She’d tapped on his door around midnight, about twenty minutes after Pete had gone. No answer. Though he was only ten, Charlie was a night owl. He wasn’t the type to fall asleep without being told to turn off the TV and put the comic books away. So, she’d knocked again. Then, peeked in.

  Good thing she had. Otherwise, she might not have known he was missing until the morning. Didn’t even want to imagine how the family court judge would’ve reacted to that. Charlie’s bed hadn’t been slept in. He wasn’t sitting at his pressed-board desk, watching movie trailers on YouTube or playing online games with his friends. He wasn’t reading comic books, either. The room was empty, the window beside the bed open just enough to accommodate a young boy’s fingers.

  Then she’d spotted the bowl, and it had all come together.

  Sitting on a stack of fanned out comic books, the bowl and spoon were dry and clean. Unused. Aileen sprinted to the kitchen, pulling open the junk drawer. As she suspected, their flashlight, the big Rayovac dry-cell, was gone. She slammed the drawer and stalked back to his room.

  His window, its wood chipped and paint scarred, slid open silently. Aileen found her missing tube of Vaseline lip therapy on the sill and made the connection. Charlie had greased the channels so the window wouldn’t squeal. She smiled, in spite of her anger. Damn, but he was one smart kid.

  Bracing fall air swept in, making her shiver. Footprints were visible in the soft earth beneath the window. Work boot treads, small and unmistakable. Size 6 kids, $24.99 at Wal-Mart, purchased a month ago for the new school year.

  “They're just like the ones Dad used to wear,” he’d said, trying them on. Aileen remembered the sadness that had welled up inside her. Two years, and still her nephew couldn’t go anywhere without something reminding him of his parents. Aileen wondered if he’d ever know a day where he wasn’t stricken by the pain of loss.

  Props, nothing more. The ice cream and comic books had all been an elaborate ruse. Charlie had pretended to be scooping ice cream to cover up his rattling around in the junk drawer. He’d timed things so that his late night snacking wouldn’t arouse suspicion, and Aileen had little doubt he’d made his escape only after confirming that she and Pete were providing their own diversion on the couch.

  Heck with smart, she thought. The kid was a genius.

  She knew why he’d done it, though. Understood why he’d snuck off by himself way past bedtime, taking the big flashlight with him. She stared at his Far Side calendar. October 3rd, circled in red. The letters M&D centered in the date box.

  Mom and Dad.

  Today marked the second anniversary of their deaths.

  Aileen took the lantern from its peg on the front porch and stuffed her lighter into her pocket. Though it would take longer to drive than to cut through the woods to the cemetery, she took the car, not wanting to walk back in the cold. She had no idea whether Charlie had dressed warmly, though she suspected he had. His planning had been pretty thorough thus far.

  A shake of the lantern confirmed it had plenty of kerosene, not that she expected to need it. She knew where to find him. One of the things he’d kept—she’d once seen it in his sock drawer—was a map of the old cemetery, the section that developers had abandoned after buying the land in the seventies. Hardly anyone got buried there anymore. As a result, it was untended and overgrown, with vine-covered crypts and crooked, crumbling tombstones. Just like something out of the horror comics Charlie loved to read. Haunt of Fear and House of Mystery and Chamber of Chills, treasures scavenged from the 4-for-a-dollar boxes at Dr. Hero’s House of Comics, Charlie’s favorite place in town. It was located next to the barber shop, and every two weeks following his haircut, Aileen would turn him loose, letting him rummage around until he’d secured his booty.

  She took Mount Hollyback Road, the twisting two-lane that led up to the graveyard. The cemetery sat atop a hillside overlooking tow
n, adding to its creepy, B-movie appeal. Aileen scowled, driving past the turnoff for Birchtree Lane. Two years ago, the private road led to the plant, which now stood abandoned, as shut-down and lifeless as the old boneyard. One third of Dunkill, Kentucky gone with it. Sometimes Aileen thought the eighteen who'd died in the accident had been the lucky ones—spared having to endure Dunkill's slow, protracted demise.

  She nosed her car through the gates, gravel pinging against the undercarriage. Three-quarters of a mile and she was there, at the mouth of the old cemetery. Several generations of Dunkill families had been laid to rest here, before expansion required that additional ground be consecrated. Kevin and Laura, though, were old Dunkill stock, and the family plot, decrepit and in disrepair though it was, was where they’d wanted to be buried.

  Just not so soon, Aileen thought sadly, killing the engine and hauling the lantern out of the back.

  She placed it on the roof, leaving the door open for light. Without the car’s high beams, the landscape was mineshaft dark and just as quiet. She didn’t bother trying to see into the cemetery. She’d grown up here. Knew all about camping out in the woods, about partying in the fields outside of town, about parking with boys not too far from where she was standing. Unless cops knew just where to look, you were all but invisible out here. She wouldn’t have seen a thing, so didn’t waste time. She raised the dome and tested the wick. Damp, just like it was supposed to be. The lighter flashed. She refitted the dome, warm light flowing out in all directions, pushing back the darkness. It was a helluva lot better than what the Rayovac could offer.

  Even with the lantern, it would have been impossible to track her nephew’s boot prints. He could have cut through the woods and come around to the main entrance, true, but she seriously doubted he had. Charlie was small for his age, and there were more than enough breaches in the rickety old ironwork where a third grader could gain access. Plenty of teenage boys, too, for that matter. Aileen had snuck into the graveyard herself a time or ten, back when she was in high school. Before her sister and brother in law had moved in.