Legion: An Apocalyptic Horror Novel (Hell on Earth Book 2)

by Iain Rob Wright

  Now you tell me, would you want this man holding a Spas 12 shotgun?

  In this environment, with an outbreak imminent?

  No.

  But he was. He shook worse than a vibrator on full speed. Sweat was pouring down his face and staining his collar. And he was aiming the gun at the patrons.

  That’s when things got really bad.

  The patrons were fine, it’s the newcomers that scared the living shit out of me.

  The door burst open and three women stepped into the bar. I thought we’d been overrun by bikini models. I didn’t know these broads but let’s name them Sandy, Candy and Mandy. I saw thigh and cleavage and tanned, toned stomachs with belly piercings and long glorious brown hair, blonde in one case (Sandy), and bodies you could break the law for. In another location, with me and them alone…and my bowie knife…

  And bloody mouths. Let’s not forget the glazed over white pupils either.

  With amazing speed, Mandy sprinted the small gap between the door and the pool table and latched onto Chad. Her teeth tore into his throat and ripped with such force and vehemence I heard it from back here. It was like a t-shirt being torn. Seconds later, Chad’s dead head whipped off the dartboard behind his friends. An arc of claret filled the air, peppering the walls and ceiling and everyone below it. His torso collapsed to the floor, blood spurting from the newly formed stump.

  The barman shot at Mandy and missed. The sound was deafening.

  BOOM!

  The spread of the bullet shredded through Travis, tearing him to pieces. His left eye dropped from its socket and wobbled on his cheek, still attached to the optic nerve. The top of his head exploded and his chest turned crimson immediately. More blood spattered the wall and booths and unused pool cues located on a rack. His body tumbled on top of another guy, Dave, and pinned him down. Dave was screaming. Mandy jumped on him too, ripping at his face with her fingernails. I saw an eyelid stretch and rip, attached to the nail itself. Then an eyeball, the white orb popped like a balloon, spraying Mandy with yellow viscous fluid. Mandy licked it from her lips.

  Rufus, Graham and Clint remained. Clint, almost as if his uber cool name depended on it, pulled a revolver and fired, from near point blank range. The bearing of the bullet smashed into Mandy’s chest, spinning her backwards in the air. She landed on her head, no, face and her neck snapped, killing her immediately. The corpse looked like an unfortunate gym accident. Clint kicked the body over and it leaned against a booth, legs spread. Rumour has it Clint spends time on a gun range. There’s your proof. One down.

  Candy climbed the pool table and leapt for Rufus. He swung a pool cue like a baseball bat, snapping the cue over her head with a stomach-churning crack. Home run! Candy face-planted the floor. Rufus finished her off with a curb stomp, smashing the brain. Two down.

  Sandy ran out of the bar. I’m not sure why and it alarmed me. Zombies have no fear or intelligence or self-awareness. If that’s what they were, I mean they were going for jugulars so they share a common trait. They swarm until dead, one by one, no reluctance. Sandy indicated that she had some notion, some knowledge of danger. She ran.

  That scared me into action.

  Graham and Rufus pulled their guns too.

  Then the Chinese man arrived.

  Napkin 4.

  The crazed look in his eye signaled mortal danger for us all. I already told you about Richard. Once my drinking buddy was decapitated (his head came to a rest in Mandy’s crotch, as mentioned earlier), the Three Musketeers (Rufus, Graham and Clint) fired on the Chinese guy, riddling him with bullets. His body tumbled to the floor in a bloody heap. During the crossfire, a bullet hit the barman in the eye (he screamed, slapping an eye to the gushing hole. It sounded like an empty washing up liquid bottle squirting), who dropped his shotgun, which self-fired on him, hitting him in the stomach. I thought the size of the gut might save him but alas, I’m not a doctor. The impact propelled him onto the bar where he currently resides.

  I’m tempted to tickle his brain again but time is of the essence.

  After that, the Three Musketeers turned on one another. I remember thinking it was just like something out of a horror movie. Cliché, right? Hang on…right, I just checked my napkin pile. I probably have enough to tell you how it went. It’s kinda cool.

  Clint started with, “Whoa, whoa, whatta ya doing?”

  “Easy, guys! There’s no need to panic,” Rufus replied.

  Graham said nothing, he was too focused on his aim.

  What we had, ladies and gentlemen, was a Mexican standoff. I shit you not. Rufus aimed at Clint, Clint at Graham and Graham at Rufus. All scared of one another.

  What if he’s one of them? You could see it on their faces.

  In all my life, I never thought I would actually see a standoff. A psycho doesn’t go searching for gun-wielding freaks because, let’s face it, we work better with weak, defenseless people. Don’t get me wrong, I was filled with mild terror at this point. I felt myself shaking on the bar, bouncing my empty J.D. glass. Even us psychos feel fear on occasion, it’s an equal opportunity emotion. There was something magical about this scene, though, it took me back to my youth when I watched flicks like Unforgiven or Reservoir Dogs and any John Woo movie.

  I didn’t stay mesmerized for long.

  They all fired as if on cue. Rufus collapsed first, his face caved in, spraying blood and bone out in front of his falling torso. He landed in a booth, bounced off the squeaky leather seat and slid into the foot hole. A bullet clipped Graham’s eyebrow, spinning him around, and he fired, unconsciously hitting me in the leg. That’s right, if you thought I was getting out of here unharmed, you were wrong. You think I wanted to stay in this bar and write my deathbed notes and the confessions of a psychopath? There’s a reason, you see…but let’s finish this off.

  Anyway, Graham hit the deck but not before his chin bounced off the pool table and snapped back. Clint went last, taking a round to the chest. Clint was the eldest of the group, evidenced by words like grandpa and old timer escaping his buddies’ lips on several occasions over the years. His death was subtle compared to the last seven minutes of chaos. We can let it slide though, he was called Clint after all.

  Then all was silent. Apart from me and the hole in my leg.

  Not a hole, more a throbbing void of unfathomable pain.

  Like a bloody vagina gouged into my leg. Painkillers wouldn’t really help.

  Remember, I was a little doused anyway. Thank you, Jack. It took the edge off. When the adrenaline fades and Jack’s embrace ends, I’m in for a hell of a time.

  So here I am, all alone, in a bar full of corpses and death. I look at the floorboards now and all I see is red. A sea of blood and sinew and eyeballs and skull fragments and

  Napkin 5.

  bile and even a string of intestine. That’ll be the barman’s…I didn’t notice that before. Huh. You know when you’re in a bathroom and the water splashes out of the bath and soaks the floor and you feel like you’re walking on water?

  Imagine that with blood and bodily fluids? That’s what I’m staring at now, smelling on every second breath. Yes, bodies shit their pants when they die. Richard certainly did, the reek is unbearable. Anyway, I finally have a hold on the void in my leg, I wrapped it up in Richard’s polo neck. I mean, he doesn’t need it anymore. The pain is easing too, thanks to my friend, Jack.

  My biggest concern isn’t Richard’s headless corpse or the barman’s increasing stench and proximity to me now (as I write this, his dead face is knocking the edge of my pen, fucker) but the NEWSFLASH I mentioned earlier. That’s right, the TV is still going. In the movies, the studio would be getting destroyed by the undead by now. It looks like Channel 5 have it covered though. Anyway the NEWSFLASH added more words to their update. It goes something like this: MYSTERIOUS OUTBREAK CRITICAL. STAY IN YOUR HOMES AND PREPARE TO DEFEND YOURSELVES.

  I’m no expert, but since when does the public news openly encourage people to defend themselves? I me
an, this is an extreme situation, judging from Sandy and her bitches, but surely the government would have something to say about it? Why isn’t the President addressing us directly?

  So the NEWSFLASH concerns me. Why don’t they send in the army? That’s one thing. The second, and I can’t stress this enough, is the most terrifying though. Several gunshots went off. Not exactly subtle. Anyway, it attracted some unwanted guests. Sandy has returned with her friends.

  At last count, I am surrounded by seventy-two mindless corpses.

  Except they ain’t corpses. Last time I checked, corpses don’t stand and observe you with their dead, mindless eyes.

  They haven’t eaten me or attacked me, no. They’ve surrounded the exterior of the bar. In doing so, they’re standing vigil and are currently watching me. Seventy-two pairs of white, dead, hungry, maniacal eyes all watching me sit here and jot down my last words. Patiently too, I mean what the fuck are they going to do? Watch Oprah? Go to work? Fuck that.

  I think my conclusion about Sandy was right. She’s aware of the danger within the building so they’re keeping their distance. For how long, I don’t know. Even for a psycho like me, it’s a little unnerving.

  The third thing is this. The NEWSFLASH has warned that bodies are coming back to life. Zombie, the word, not the awesome 80’s movie, hasn’t been broadcast or mentioned yet. It’ll probably cause utter chaos…well, more than is currently happening on the streets, but they estimate the time for a body to turn, after symptoms and illness (think Jimmy and his ivory complexion) is about two hours.

  Two hours.

  If that’s correct, and I’m still sitting here in seventeen minutes, then Clint will be up and about and feeding on my brains. Clint is the only person who didn’t take a headshot or incur some brain trauma during that awesome Mexican standoff.

  If they are, in fact, zombies.

  And the other seventy-two mindless drones are watching intently. I can hear several sneering behind me. One coughed, three just laughed (such menace did the laughs contain) and I can’t hear anything other than ragged breathing. Do zombies…these things, breathe? Or laugh? I never heard of a zombie chortling before.

  I’m fucked basically…

  Napkin 6.

  Fourteen minutes to go.

  Death hasn’t arrived yet. Maybe he took one look at this situation and swiftly turned in the other direction, said “fuck this” and jogged on.

  I wouldn’t blame him.

  So why haven’t I tried running away? You’re probably thinking that as you relish over turning my ordeal into a million dollar blockbuster…if you do, I want someone cool. Whatever you do, don’t hire some stupid rapper to play me.

  That probably makes me racist. Meh!

  I haven’t run because of my injured leg and the bloodthirsty crowd outside. It’s a bad combination. Would you run if you had a weeping cunt in your leg; denying you top speed, great mobility and even a chance to outrun your enemy?

  Didn’t think so.

  Despite this, well…and here is a moment of enlightenment for you.

  I don’t want to.

  Even with the cunt in my leg and Sandy and her choirgirls and the army of drones/zombies or whatever you want to call them and the dire situation, I want to stay. Who’s to say the whole world isn’t like this? Where would I run to? It’s an excuse, but a fucking tangible one. Regardless though, I don’t want to run anymore.

  I’m fifty. I’m done with running.

  I’ve had enough. I feel my time has come and all of the demons from my past are catching up with me. To me, those seventy-two deadites out there are my comeuppance for my sins. For all the victims of my past. I don’t believe in God but only God could create something so evil, so debauched. I’m a psychopath and I’ve a firm grasp of what evil is, despite the fact we’re supposed to feign being evil and declare insanity.

  I’m a psycho but I know what I am. I don’t broadcast it but I keep it in check too.

  After all, I’ve never been caught.

  I believe the bodies outside are my karmic retribution.

  For John Piper, who used to bully me at school and enjoyed pissing on me and then took my lunch money claiming, “you gotta pay the Piper, son!” He did that for three days. I paid him alright when I sliced off his cock and shoved it in his mouth and made him choke on it.

  For Beverley, my first girlfriend. We fucked, she ran off with someone else. No one ever did find their quartered corpses at the bottom of Lake Whisper. Shame.

  For mother, who pushed me one too many times, punished me with a belt and a bamboo cane. Her head, or to be more exact, her skull is sitting on my mantelpiece at home. I don’t keep company often. I don’t keep her in the cellar, I want her to watch me forever, to be proud of me.

  For the tramp on Ninth Street who smeared shit on my leather jacket one time.

  For the teenager who tried mugging me. I carved his face with his own blunt knife.

  For all these people and many more who’ve become my victims over the past. I look into the crowd outside and I see their faces amongst them. I see my high school headmaster and three ex-girlfriends and two hookers I used in between having the ex-girlfriends and a fat chef who dared to spit in my hamburger once.

  I see my parents. I didn’t kill my father but he’s there anyway, stitching my mother’s head back on with some horrid looking black string and shaking his head at me saying, “No no, this won’t do, young Brady, you go to your room now!” and he points to the cinema behind him as if we’re at home, which is weird because I never met my father. He died before I was born. My mother’s head shakes too, still separated smoothly from her neck. I used an axe. I have good upper body strength, unlike the Chinese man. I killed her in one solid strike, but yet she rolls her eyes at me in disappointment at what I’ve become.

  Napkin 7.

  Tears form in my eyes. I don’t know why. Maybe I miss my mother and father or maybe that’s what drove me to be…this laughing, prancing demon of the night who preys on the weak and powerless.

  Maybe it’s being denied the pleasure of killing Richard. I was really looking forward to that. Or maybe it’s because I just relived every one of my hundred and forty-eight deaths in about a minute. That’s a lot of hard work, planning, effort and bloodshed to think about in sixty seconds. I don’t need to keep a memento of every kill because each is etched into my cerebrum. Mementos get you caught. Ironic, isn’t it? I’m telling you all of this, putting it to napkin and I’m concerned about getting caught.

  A psycho with a conscience? I may well be.

  I suppose you can call this a confession. I look at my watch and I can see I have…

  Three minutes. Shit, where did the time go?

  The crowd are still there, watching, waiting. I’ve got past the unnerving part now. It’s kind of amusing, really. I’ve decided to keep writing until the last possible minute. Who knows, despite my flaws, maybe I might become a hero out of this. Or is that delusion coming into play again?

  Something just happened. I might be a bit shaky here so if you can’t understand this, I apologize.

  Graham just sat up. NOT Clint, Graham. The pool table obviously didn’t do enough damage to the brain. His skin is white, like Jimmy’s, and his eyes are plain white orbs. HOLY SHIT! Mandy just moved. And Chad. Wait a second…

  …they’re all moving. Every single fucking corpse in Jericho is moving. ARGH. The barman just snatched my pen and scratched my face. Cunt. Hang on, can I catch…the virus by touch? Or by breathing?

  Clint is on his feet now. He just fingered the hole in his chest and started licking the tips slowly. Mandy’s climbing to her feet but her broken neck and obtuse-angled head are knocking her off balance. She looks like a human banana in her shape and skin color. Graham and Chad’s torso (no head, remember) are leaning against one another.

  SHIT, Richard grabbed my foot. How the fuck is that possible?

  The crowd moved. I didn’t see it, I sensed it. Like they all took a st
ep forward! In unison. One step. A cohesive unit. I gotta get out of here…

  …I’m in the toilet now. I have one napkin left, I didn’t grab a pile, and I wanted to escape with all of my limbs. I hobbled into the toilet and sat down, locking the door. I can hear the shuffling of…whatever they are…in the bar. As I sprinted to the toilet, even the fat barman moved and climbed to his feet. I heard his intestines slap the floor like a wet mop.

  Zombies, my ass.

  I mean, if you can’t hit them in the head then what’s the point? I mean, they all stood up. Even the headless corpses. Richard fell at my feet as I got in here. He’s scratching at the door now.

  Looks like I’m a goner. The noted napkins are in my pocket. If I leave them in the toilet cistern, hopefully they’ll be safe. I mean, these monsters won’t need to take a dump and flush anytime soon. I’ll do that. If you find these notes, remember, I wasn’t all bad. I just had some issues. I wanted to make everything right.

  Okay, I just unlocked the door. The second I release my foot…

  Come and get it, you fuckers!

  You can get in touch with Stuart at StuartKeane/Facebook.

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