CHAPTER 32
Jimmy’s blood was turning cold, sweeping through him like a fever, and his vision became obscured. Clutching the gash where his ear had been, he screamed all the way down the corridor and ducked into the security room.
The monitors were blurry as he tried to locate his brother. He wanted to shut them back inside, just like before. His fingers were numb and he couldn’t find the keys as he slammed down the keyboard. He grabbed the briefcase, felt for the latches and tore them open. He had the syringe in hand and jabbed it into one of the corks of the XT Serum. Drawing out every drop he could, he jammed the long needle deep into his neck and plunged the fluid in, screaming in agony. He fell down, crushing the flask.
His heart pounded with a rush of adrenaline as he lay on the floor, in agony. His veins from head to toe were streams of electric. He lay still one long moment. His vision began to return, but his limbs became stiff and strong. He groaned, rising from the floor, shoved everything he needed in the case and latched it away. He saw a glimpse of himself reflecting off the stainless steel walls. He was tall and rangy, with a busted nose, bloody chin and rising blue veins. He licked his lips and rubbed his face. If this is what being undead felt like, it felt pretty good. It felt great. But how long would it last? He would worry about that later.
He headed toward the back security door on legs of steel. He scanned his card and went out into the driving rain. He couldn’t feel the wind or hail tearing into his face. A tree had fallen nearby, crushing the chain link fence before him. He could see a swarm of black vehicles blocked by another tree in the distance. Armed men in black were swarming out and heading inside. He had to run and hide. Or did he? He hid in the darkness of the storm as they all passed by. A lone man stood outside in the rain, watching the vehicles, somehow smoking a cigarette. Jimmy fought the urge to eat the man whole as he snuck behind him.
The man turned on him, shotgun level at his head. He was small, wearing dark sunglasses, with a black moustache and jutting lower lip. The man’s southern voice was deep as a river.
“Whatcha doin’ zombie?”
“I’m not a zombie! I’m a man … Jimmy!” he shouted.
“You sure look like a zombie!”
Something sounded familiar about the man. The voice on the phone—his contact? Was that him? He recalled something.
“I’m Jimmy Bawkula. JB 111.”
The man gave him a curious look and lowered his gun.
“Is that the XT Serum in the case Jimmy?”
Jimmy thought he was smiling when he said it.
“Everything you asked for.”
The man shouldered his shotgun and held out his hands. He handed over the case and watched the man open it. The notes, tapes and vials were all there.
“Where’s the other flask? Were their two?”
“The other one is in me. I got bitten,” he pointed at his bloody earhole, “so I injected myself.”
The man closed back the brief case.
“Is that so? How do you feel?”
“Like a million dollars! The serum works!”
He knew he was smiling. His reward was on the way.
“That’s good to know. Fascinating … my boss will love that.”
“Great!”
The small man had a half-smile, half-sneer on his face and his voice changed to ice water.
“Well Jimmy … you don’t look like a million dollars.”
He managed to laugh and shrug.
“Well, I guess I don’t.”
“No boy … you look like a zombie.”
Jimmy watched in slow motion as the man procured a semi-automatic pistol from thin air and pointed it at his head. He saw the fires of Hell when it exploded in his face.
Epilogue
It was a special night at the campfire as people of all ages were gathered around an older man with an excited face and graying beard. Fathers, sons, mothers, daughters and cousins shared hotdogs, smores, hot cocoa and beer, as the owls hooted and the tree frogs croaked. Everyone at the campsite was hanging on the man’s every word. His voice was deep, melodious, drawing in all ears over the span of the past few hours. He rubbed his calloused hands together as he continued, while another man dropped another log on the blazing fire.
“When Henry, Tori, Rudy and Weege finally made it out of the facility the skies began to clear. The men in the black cars said they were with the World Humanitarian Society and they took over the place. Henry tried to tell them what was going on inside with the children, but they didn’t seem to listen. But, Henry never told them about the message Nate McDaniel sent. He was afraid they might kill him right then and there … but it didn’t happen. It was a sad day when he buried Stanley and his mother Linda. He had been given the authority to euthanize her and he slept better after that.”
“What happened to Tori,” a teenage girl with curly auburn hair urged.
“Tori turned out just fine and got her old job back at Fast-Mart.”
There was an awkward silence.
“I’m kidding,” he said, patting her on the knee. “She and Henry got married not long after that, and he took a job as a school teacher and basketball coach. She stayed home baking cookies and making babies. They had a happier life.”
“What about Rudy and Weege?” a boy, about eight, asked.
“Well, they both moved to Las Vegas and became casino dealers.”
“That doesn’t make any sense,” someone said.
“Hey—what about the zombie kids, what happened to all of them?”
The old story teller didn’t say anything at first as he stirred a stick in the ground.
“As far as anyone knew, the WHS took them somewhere else. All but the one they couldn’t find … Louie.”
Someone gasped as another young voice said, “You mean he’s still out there grandpa?” There were uncertain looks and a few cracked smiles on the shadowy faces of the rest of the folks.
“No boy, he ain’t out there … He’s right behind you! Run!”
Half of the camp jumped, while the rest fell over in laughter as the children screamed, scrambling to their parents. Heavy laughs came here and there until they all subsided. Some of the children were crying, the older ones were laughing. One boy, about twelve years old, was lying near the fire, looking up at the dark and distant hilltop called Guthrie. His name was Fergie and he hated that story, but only because he knew it was true. Things were never the same in the world since the day he and his grandpa raced away from the facility, home of the Zombie Day Care.
Note from the Author
I wanted to address a few things about the story. Why the generic names? It seems that the use of brand names without permission is becoming a bigger issue these days. I originally wrote this manuscript with the brand names, but after reading a few articles I decided to change them. My main emphasis was making sure the reader understood what product I was talking about. I tried to make that fun and obvious.
It’s a short novel. I love short stories and I have dozens more that I plan to write. Zombie Day Care is a ridiculous idea (zombies slowed down by soft drinks) come to life. I wanted to my own spin on the zombies as well. What happens when people get them under control? How does the world react? I’ll fill in more details about who is behind the zombies in the second book.
My goal with Zombie Day Care was to write this story inside of 30 days. I did that. I know many readers thrive on details, but that’s not my style. My goal is for the reader to experience the situation through the eyes and thoughts of characters. I like to keep it simple too, because I’m afraid I’ll bore the readers. I want the pace fast and filled with surprises and dilemma.
I’ll write many offbeat stories similar to this, but fantasy is my main genre. The Darkslayer is my current series. I am including a few sample chapters of it from Volume One. Check it out below and thanks for reading my story!
About the Author
Craig Halloran currently resides with his family outside of his h
ometown, Charleston, West Virginia. When he isn’t writing stories, he is seeking adventure, working out, or watching sports. To learn more about him go to: http://thedarkslayer.com
Other works by the author
The Darkslayer, Volume One
The Darkslayer, Volume Two
In the works
The Darkslayer, Volume Three
Zombie Rehab
Eight Maids of Milking
The Blades
Connect with me Online:
Facebook: Craig Halloran, The Darkslayer, The Darkslayer Report
Twitter: CraigHalloran
THE DARKSLAYER, VOLUME ONE
DS CHAPTER 1
Venir waded in the cool silver stream, checking the trout snares he had set at the end of the previous day. His long straw hair was pulled back into a ponytail that hung to shoulder length. A fisherman since birth, the twelve-year old fished like a man of thirty. He wore only a pair of brown leather pants and high leather boots as he sloshed into the water.
His gritty fingers gathered fishing line from a large pouch along his belt. He cut the line with a very long hunting knife and sheathed it back along his side. It had been his grandfather’s and he wore it with pride. His young muscles were fluid and supple as he moved the trout out of the traps, into nets and into sacks for transport. It was hard work but it had its rewards, for some of the fish he brought home were grilled or baked into delicious meals. He swore he could smell it cooking now. He had never missed such a feast.
With a smile, he hefted two large half-filled sacks over his back and whistled an ancient song of cheer. He heard a dog barking. What now? From somewhere upstream his dog was agitated and coming towards him. He wasn’t worried as he wandered up to find out what was upsetting his pet.
The large reddish brown dog appeared along the stream bank barking at something floating down the rippling waters. He set down his sacks with a grunt and waded into the water to try to catch it.
“It’s just a stick Chongo! Quit barking,” he said in an irritated voice.
He knew he had to check it out or else his pooch would follow it to the mouth of the river, miles away. He remembered the last time they took a long trip down stream together. He almost never made it back, he’d almost drowned. His family thought he would never fish again after that, but the incident only enhanced his resolve.
Peering upstream he noticed some darkening of the water. Slowly it started flowing past him, becoming thicker, darker, and reddish. He focused on the object floating towards him as Chongo was splashing in the water and barking nearby. He grabbed it when came within reach and gasped in horror. It was a leg, a human leg — or so it appeared — pale and clammy like a fish belly. He slung it as far away as he could. The dog was howling now, but recoiled from crossing the now reddening water.
He tried to gather his thoughts but only numbness and confusion set in. Something unnatural crawled inside him. The very innocence of his being was shaken as the water that surrounded him became something else. The once refreshing stream that had fed him all of his life had filled with blood and he ran out of it screaming. The young fisherman tingled from head to toe. He knew that something was amiss … something awful.
“Chongo, come. We have to get home!” he yelled as they sprinted back toward the village.
It was not long before he heard the sounds: shrieks and wails from ahead gripped him with fear, but his legs pumped faster and faster. His imagination was paralyzed in terror. Billows of thick smoke began to burn his nostrils and water his eyes as he approached his home. The paths became more distinct and his pace made the wind whistle in his ears. Screams of agony and terror filled his ears. His stomach was turning and tears streaked down his face. He wiped them from his eyes and forged ahead.
Chongo burst toward the center of the village barking. Venir’s burning blue eyes lit up. Furry, black and grey, hawk-nosed humanoids were running wild through his village with bloodied weapons and dismembered body parts. They were smaller in size and frame than men, but he knew what they were. He didn’t know how he knew, but these were underlings. Venir had heard enough terrible stories about Bish’s Underland to know what to expect at the sight of an underling. Hearing about the foul menace at campfires was nothing compared to seeing them in action and it was an overwhelming thing.
He froze, trying to comprehend the black and bloody madness surrounding him. Women, children, men, friends, and family were dead, dying, bleeding or crying. They ran all about in desperation, trying to evade their pursuers only to be cut down. The villagers had been overwhelmed and their weapons little match for the underlings magic and steel. Many lay in bloodied heaps on the ground.
Venir was frozen amid the chaos surrounding him. Something was coming his way. He gripped the hilt of his ancient knife. An underling hunter rushed direct in his path and screamed in his face. The underling’s face was covered with thin fur and blood. It bared its sharpened gray teeth and raised an odd shaped dagger before him. Venir struck. His hunting knife tore out the throat of the surprised underling who gurgled and fell into its own pool of dark blood.
Venir was in motion, running, screaming and slashing at the wild horde. He felt his long blade sink deep into flesh and bone. Howls of pain and fury assaulted him. The adrenaline that had surged through him from fear now fueled something else as he punched holes into the dark bodies of his enemies. In the confusion many underlings backed away, staring back and forth at one another with uncertainty. Amid the smoke, fire and chaos, the underling hunters faced the wild slashing boy. A couple of them were felled by his anger.
The seasoned underling hunters barked out commands, surrounding him. Venir squared up to three underlings in his path, swinging and stabbing with all of his heart. They parried his attacks, toying with him, chittering in mockery, awaiting their moment. They wore black armor and cloaks, brandishing weapons of all sorts, staring at him with scintillating eyes of everlasting evil. Venir fought on, determined to spill their blood. But as quick as it had started it ended as several poisoned darts were shot into his exposed body. The inside of his body burned for a moment and then his limbs went numb. He was cold and stiff as he fell backward onto the ground.
Before his frozen gaze he saw the sneering faces of underlings passing by. He heard himself being dragged across the bloodied grass. He could hear their mocking; smell their sweat and dark blood. They did painful things to him, but he felt no fear of them. His smoldering will protected him from utter despair. The moments became like hours, tortuous and dragging as he heard the sounds of shovels digging into the ground. One shovelful at a time punched into the dirt nearby, a sound that ground into his brain like a chisel. What happened to his family and Chongo? He did not know. It was time to cry, but no tears came. Mom? Dad? Where are you?
He lay on his side with his back to the sound of the shovel. His unblinking eyes could see the other paralyzed and bloodied bodies of his people. He knew them all by name. All were now lost, without a tomorrow, their fate in the hands of the most evil beings on the world of Bish. Mable, a girl he had been fond of all of his life, was nearby. She was unmoving, bruised, broken and her clothes were in shreds. Her unblinking eyes showed no desire to live. Only death could now bring her peace. Something flared inside Venir as he flinched despite his invisible cocoon.
His subtle movement was caught by a digging underling hunter nearby. The underling was shirtless, narrow shoulders knotted in muscle, blackened and filthy. It stopped digging. It was one of the few underlings left behind when the raiding party cleared out. The wiry little humanoid came forward, kneeled down and peered at him. Its breath was as foul as waste. It studied the numerous poison darts in his haggard young body and jammed some deeper inside his skin. It felt like a burning nail and his mind screamed.
It crouched before him, shovel at its side, and looked into his eyes with study. He saw the depth of distain in its glowering orange eyes. Venir’s fire burned stronger still. The foul smell of the underling repulsed him,
and the underling’s insidious, mocking chatter disgusted him. But he could do nothing, absolutely nothing and deep inside it enraged him. As the underling started to move away he twitched again. He could feel his fingers tingle. The underling stepped back and hissed. It raised its shovel over his head. He expected his skull would be crushed any second and he thought of his family. But then the digger stopped, put down the shovel, and walked out of sight.
Venir was grabbed by his feet and turned around. He was able to see many more of the bodies of his people. The underling walked back into his line of sight with the shovel in hand and sneered. Raising the spade over its head it began bashing his people one by one. They all died before his eyes in a heartless and cruel moment of twisted triumph. His heart cried out, bursting inside his chest, burning with fire, and as it all came to an end, a single tear ran down his grimy cheek. The underling chittered with laughter, laid the bloody shovel down before Venir’s eyes and dragged him away. As he passed, he could see dozens of bodies, buried head first in the ground, with only their legs sticking out. Buried alive? No! No! No! He was pitched face first into a man-sized ditch.
In a final tortuous twist of fate, the dirt hole became his personal grave. It was being filled in, shovelful by shovelful. Each heap of dirt brought him closer and closer to his very last moment on Bish. Soon the light was no more as he was finally covered and laid to rest, not hopeless but angry. The blackness suffocated him, but his rage burned bright until the end. Yet, without oxygen, all fires go out, and the young hunter from the village of Throhm blacked out.
He heard something. A popping and cracking sounded from somewhere. He felt grit in his eyes and struggled to wipe it out. He was lying on rugged ground. A blurry image of a man with bushy hair squatted by the fire with a slab of meat roasting on a spit. Venir tried to move towards the fire but he only managed to let out a feeble groan. The stocky figure turned his way as something else stepped into his view and licked his face. He wasn’t sure what it was. He heard a deep voice rumble in his ears.
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