by Tristan Vick
“Wait. Listen to me. You don’t want to do this, Hank. Deep down inside I know you’re a decent guy. This is beneath you.”
“You don’t get it. The reverend just gone and married us. You’re mine now. Besides, can’t rape my own wife, now, can I?”
“That’s not how it works, Hank. Real men don’t rape girls.” Rachael deliberately chose to use the term girl instead of woman. She knew that if you wanted to hit the emotional heartstrings you plucked them delicately. This meant softening language to invoke a greater sense of empathy. Men, especially fathers, responded more to the idea of a little girl being raped than a woman. Using the term “girl” implied an innocence of youth. Unless you were a pedophile or a sociopath, your natural reaction would be to feel disgust and immediately recoil from the very notion. It worked in court all the time. She anticipated it could work now.
Hank slid his hands up her hourglass-shaped sides and stroked the arch of her hips. He then reached up and groped her breasts from behind. Rachael remained quiet. She knew that even the slightest bit of protest, a grunt or a moan, even if in disgust, might trigger a reaction of excitement. “Look, Hank, they’re just using you for their dirty work. Listen to me. You need to stop and think about this. What you’re about to do is wrong. Just ask yourself, what will everyone else think? What will they say when they find out you raped me?”
The fact that she couldn’t see his face only made her feel that much more vulnerable. She braced herself for the worst, but before anything further could happen the cellar door flew open and a small army of maids rushed in.
Rachael recognized at least two of them immediately. They were the ladies who had bathed and washed her. Like bulldozers, they used their numbers to plow Hank into the corner of the cellar. They weren’t nice about it either. He slammed up against the shelves with a harsh thud and grunted as the air was knocked out of him.
“What’s the meaning of this?!” an angry voice rang out. Sister Mary Campbell glided into the crowded cellar and looked scornfully down at Hank, who, due to the circumstances, was caught with his pants down. “Did she give you her consent?”
Scrambling to zip himself back up in the presence of the Queen of the castle, Hank hemmed and hawed, “Well…”
“Yes or no, Hank. It’s a simple question.”
“No, ma’am.”
Throwing out her arm with dramatic flair, Mary Campbell shouted her orders to her maids. “Take her to my chambers and prepare her for tonight’s ceremony.”
As the large burly women hauled Rachael down, she looked back at the pastor’s wife. In a weak voice she managed to whisper, “Thanks.” Still, it felt like a betrayal to herself to thank the woman who had shot her through the heart mere days earlier.
“You can thank me later, after the ceremony.”
“What ceremony?” Rachael asked.
“Holy Communion, of course. It’s going to be a special one.”
Soon enough, Rachael found herself back in the bath. A bucket of lukewarm water poured down onto her head as a gaggle of women scrubbed the dried blood and filth from her body. Once again she was being cleansed and made presentable for the congregation.
A stout woman whose name could only be Hilda, Rachael imagined, had the arms of a German discus thrower and breasts the size of cantaloupes. Hilda reached under Rachael’s arms, and with a mannish grunt hoisted Rachael up and propped her onto her feet next to the side of the tub. This time the train of maids brought a black dress made of lace and fine layers of tulle. Worse than the frilly folds and playful short length, bordering on smutty, was the v-cut that ran all the way down to her navel. The entire dress was far too “Black Swan” for her tastes.
Mrs. Campbell had taken leave to attend to some business, but Rachael could hear her chatting out in the hallway with a few of the younger girls who wanted to see what they referred to as the “Dark Angel.”
It was bad enough to be trapped as a doll in somebody’s mad dollhouse, but it was worse to be thought of as some kind of supernatural spook. Rachael was desperately hoping that Mrs. Campbell would let them in so they could see that she was just as plain and ordinary as they were. But when she heard Mrs. Campbell reprimand their worldly curiosity, she knew it was useless. They would either grow to fear her or worship her, simply for their lack of understanding.
Mrs. Campbell re-entered the room with long strides that made her look like she floated. She seemed to waft across the floor everywhere she went, but it was all part of the show. Indeed, everything about her was an obvious façade. How nobody else could see it was beyond her. But Rachael was certain that whatever was underneath the plasticine face of Mrs. Campbell was something dark and dangerous and far more terrible than any zombie. Strip away the mask and underneath you were bound to discover a hideous red-eyed monster—a bloodthirsty beast that would kill and maim and manipulate anyone and anything that stood in her way of becoming a god.
Unlike his duplicitous wife, the reverend merely lacked a conscience. He was a corrupt, power-hungry dictator who suffered from an immeasurable God complex. Rachael suspected he would do anything to maintain his power, even if it meant killing. A true sociopath, if ever there was one. Between the two of them, the Campbells totaled one Mr. and Mrs. Hyde. There was no good in them. Just corruption, sinister ambitions, and hatred for everything that did not conform to their twisted and morally depraved worldview.
Stepping up to Rachael’s naked body, Mrs. Campbell ran her fingers softly down Rachael’s shoulders and arm. Taking Rachael’s hands in hers, Mrs. Campbell smiled warmly. It was the first smile that Rachael felt she was being genuine.
“My dear sister, you mustn’t be so glum. Today we celebrate your gift of eternal life to us!”
Rachael’s eyes narrowed. “Eternal life? My gift to you? I beg your pardon, but I don’t quite catch your meaning.”
“You shall see soon enough!”
One of the nannies came back into the room with a first-aid kit tucked under her arm. Mrs. Campbell pranced over, accepted it gracefully, and then set it on the dresser top and opened it. While she rummaged around inside, she hummed some kind of church hymn to herself. Finally, she pulled out some duct tape and looked over at Rachael with her big manic smile. Rachael rolled her eyes as she guessed the next step. Sure enough, Mrs. Campbell tore off a piece of duct tape and twirled about, like a prima ballerina, as she made her way back toward Rachael.
“Seriously?” Rachael asked, unamused.
“It’s for your own good, dear.”
Mary Campbell slapped the tape onto Rachael’s lips and then gently rubbed it down. Then she leaned in and gave the lip cover a kiss. The kiss lasted a few seconds longer than it probably should have, which gave it an incestuous feeling. Once Mary Campbell was finished, she pulled away, leaving a lipstick print of her own lips stamped onto Rachael’s face.
Snapping her fingers, Mrs. Campbell mobilized her troupe of caretakers who obediently fell into line and awaited their orders. “Inform my husband we will join everyone shortly.”
After the women marched out the door to attend to their duties, Mrs. Campbell walked over to an antique dresser. It was made of oak and had a fancy wood tooling that depicted flowery patterns. She opened the top right hand drawer and drew out a gold-handled dagger, which had even more elaborate engravings on it. Wiping the blade off with a soft cloth, she slowly turned around to reveal an eerie monomaniacal grin pressed onto her face.
“Mmm-mmm! Mmmphffft!” Rachael protested, slowly backing away. But Mary Campbell took slow steps forward, grinning the whole time, eyes wide with a homicidal excitement.
Mrs. Campbell swiped the blade, coming within millimeters of cutting Rachael’s abdomen. If Rachael hadn’t jumped back, her intestines would be all over the floor right about now. Mrs. Campbell leapt across the room and grabbed Rachael’s left arm. Rachael tried to tear her arm free, but Mary Campbell had the strength of a boa constrictor, and just tightened her hold. Holding her securely, Mrs. Campbell slic
ed Rachael’s wrist open and quickly brought it to her lips. With a vampiric delight, she lapped up the gushing blood.
Mrs. Campbell continued suckle from Rachael’s wrist until her mouth was stained with the sticky red syrup. It looked like she had just gorged herself on a juicy piece of cherry pie. With a blood-soaked smile she wiped her face, smearing blood across her cheeks, and let out and orgasmic sigh.
Mrs. Campbell raised the knife ceremoniously high above her head and looked skyward. Raising her voice, she practically sang out toward the heavens, “Heavenly father, let His eternal life flow into my veins as it does hers! Let this blood transform this sinful body and refashion me as the undying vessel of your righteousness. I pray to thee, make me immortal! Amen.”
Rachael clutched her wrist, which was already beginning to heal, a peculiar side effect of this disorder she had. With her mouth sealed shut, all Rachael could do was stare with wide-eyed panic at the crazed Mary Campbell and watch the private display of ritualistic insanity as she pranced about the room like a mental patient.
Mrs. Mary Campbell ceased her twirling about and suddenly turned to face Rachael, pointing the dagger at her. Mrs. Campbell wagged the blade in the direction of the door. “Come now, it’s time.”
31
The Good, the Bad and the Deadly
“Okay, genius. Now what?” Jesse Zanato said with disdain as he eyeballed Sargent Ulysses Noble. The two of them were stuck on top of an overturned prison bus. Noble’s pack and gun were on the ground five feet away from the bus, which was now surrounded by a swarm of zombies.
“You were the one who was supposed to warn me if there were any Walkers approaching while I searched inside the damn bus. Instead, you almost get your stupid fucking face chomped off and, as per usual, I had to save your sorry candy-ass.”
“You make it sound like it’s all my fault. I didn’t see them coming from behind the back of the bus. Besides, saving my ass comes with the job, Captain Commando. What kind of Marine sucks at his job?!”
Noble pressed his fingers and thumb together and moved them like a yappy puppet as a way of ridiculing Zanato’s constant whininess. Then, with his other hand, he made the form of a gun and pretended to blow the hand puppet’s brains out.
“Ha-ha. Very funny,” Zanato said.
From across the street a door creaked open, and out from the darkened entrance of the local bar, an Irish-style pub called Finnegan’s, stepped a cowboy. Not just any old redneck either. A boots-and-chaps, fully decked out in leather, Marlboro Man.
“What in the…” Noble asked in a puzzled voice. Still unable to believe his eyes, he rubbed them and took a long hard look.
“Yup. A cowboy,” Zanato affirmed. “Boots, hat, and everything. Right here in the city.”
The cowboy wore snakeskin boots, black jeans, and a black duster jacket with coattails down to his calves. He looked like a young Clint Eastwood, and his face sported the dark shadow of 4 AM stubble. He held a high powered MP7 submachine gun in one hand and a bottle of Johnnie Walker Black in the other. Effortlessly, he tossed back the bottle and finished it off in one go, then tossed it over his shoulder, sending it high into the air. He raised his gun, squeezed the trigger, and by the time the empty bottle crashed to the pavement and shattered he had already mowed down a dozen of the zombies that were pinning Noble and Zanato down.
The sudden bursts of fire caught the attention of the other deadheads who loitered about the street. Growling, they turned toward the noise and mindlessly staggered into the line of fire. The gunslinger reached behind his duster jacket and pulled out a second MP7. With both weapons blazing, he severed the heads of the Walkers with high-velocity fire.
Piles of dead zombie meat littered the city street. Barrels smoking, the cowboy slid the guns back into their holsters, pulled out a fresh bottle of booze from inside his jacket, opened it, and took a long hard drink. Wiping his mouth, he looked over at the duo sitting atop of the bus with mouths agape, and without saying a word, the cowboy turned and walked away. The spurs on his boots clanked up the road as he went.
Noble and Zanato just looked at each other as they shared a “What the fuck?” moment.
At that point they heard the rumble of a truck engine from up the road. Both men turned in time to see a midnight-blue Chevy Silverado barreling toward them. It swerved around the piles of dead bodies and then pulled up next to the bus.
The driver’s side window rolled down, and Jared Barnes poked out his head and looked up at them. “You guys look like you could use a lift.”
Noble could see Jennifer Hurley sitting shotgun. She smiled and waved to him. He smiled back. “Man, am I glad to see you guys! I was about to have to go Chuck Norris on these zombie mofos,” Ulysses said, jumping down off the bus and directly into the bed of the pickup truck.
Zanato began to follow, but Noble put his hand up and stopped him from hopping down. With a stern look he pointed toward their gear still lying in the street. Zanato sulked as he slid off the other side of the bus. As he clambered down he tripped over a pile of dead Walkers and tumbled the rest of the way down to the pavement.
Zanato sprang back up, pretended nothing had happened, and scurried over to where he’d dropped the bags. He tossed them up to Noble and asked, “So are you going to tell them about the cowboy? Cuz you gotta tell them about the cowboy.”
“Cowboy?” Barnes chuckled. “What cowboy?”
“You wouldn’t believe us even if we told you.”
Just then a moan rang out, and one of the zombie bodies from the pile Zanato had just tripped over began to get up. Somehow it has survived the volley of gunfire. Pushing itself up, it wobbled as though it had rubber legs, and then took a step toward them.
“Let’s just get the fuck out of here and get to the base, fucking ASAP,” Zanato said, and jumped into the back of the truck with Sergeant Ulysses.
Peeling out, the midnight blue Silverado kicked up a spray of gravel and backed straight into the zombie, knocking it flat on its ass. It growled, reached up, and took a hold of the rear bumper. Ulysses leaned over, raised his leg over the back end of the pickup, and brought his boot down right onto the top of the monster’s skull. It hit the pavement with a wallop, and Ulysses turned and gave the thumbs up.
Peering into the rearview mirror, Barnes responded with his own thumbs up, acknowledging the mission was a go, then shifted the truck into drive and tore down the deserted streets. They would make their way to Bradley Air Force Base—the last safe refuge in the entire disease-ridden city.
32
Judgment Day
Cheers of religious mania swept over the congregation gathered in St. Patrick’s Cathedral. People in nearly every aisle flailed their arms in the air as Reverend Perry Campbell led them to a state of spiritual frenzy. Women wept, grown men wrenched themselves to and fro while tugging on their own hair, children laughed hysterically and chased each other around the pews, and, stepping into the central aisle, a large black woman began to flop around on the floor, twitching and spasming like she was having an epileptic seizure.
Off to the side, two ushers leapt up and took the quivering woman away as if it was the most normal thing in the world. Apparently this sort of enthusiasm-drenched hysteria occurred quite frequently here in the Reverend Campbell’s house of insanity.
After the commotion settled down a few degrees, the reverend raised his hands and, with the charismatic powers of a snake charmer, quickly had everyone’s undivided attention.
“My brethren. My faithful. Tonight we are about to partake in the most sacred ritual of our faith. Tonight we are going to be keepers of the consecrated tradition of the Sacrament of the Altar. The very same tradition the Apostles shared with Christ at the Last Supper. The Eucharist, ladies and gentlemen! Tonight we are going to honor our Lord and Savior by drinking his everlasting blood and eating his flesh as He himself commanded it!”
Mrs. Campbell shoved Rachael Ramirez out onto the altar. Rachael glared back at her in protest.
As she gave Mrs. Campbell her don’t mess with me look, she saw that Mary Campbell looked a bit pale and noticed her head was glistening with signs of a fever.
Raising the knife high into the air, Mrs. Campbell twirled onto stage for all to see, and then handed the blade off to her husband. Perry Campbell made the same gesture, raising the knife high above his head, and then paused dramatically for effect.
From out of nowhere, Hank grabbed Rachael from behind and got her in an arm lock. He bent her arms behind her back so she couldn’t move and held her roughly by the hair. Perry Campbell took his cue, stepped up to her, and tore of the duct tape from her mouth. With his zealot’s eyes burning hot, the reverend gazed upon her. It there ever was an Antichrist, Rachael thought, surely it was this lunatic.
“You’re going to burn for this,” Rachael whispered under her breath.
The reverend did not return the courtesy of words, instead he merely smiled at her contemptuously. There was an overly long, drawn-out pause, then, to Rachael’s great horror, Perry Campbell slid the knife across her throat and cut her wide open.
Blood spilled out of the gaping slit in Rachael’s jugular. She turned her head toward the congregation of onlookers and, in desperation, tried to mouth “help me” but only gurgling noises spurted out of her mouth as it filled up with blood. She stood on the stage, dying, and her eyes flooded with tears as she looked out at the all the faces staring at her with indifference. Nobody in the whole godforsaken church moved a finger to help her.
Rachael coughed, and blood squirted from both her mouth and neck wound. The copper taste of her own blood caused her to fill with panic. She couldn’t breathe, she couldn’t swallow, she could only suffer through the bloody agony of this hellish nightmare.
Mary Campbell, with her frenzied eyes, quickly fetched a chalice, made from real polished silver, and put it under the gushing crimson waterfall below Rachael’s chin. Collecting as much blood as possible, Mary Campbell held up the chalice high above her head and ceremoniously presented it to the crowd. Dropping to her knees before husband, Mrs. Campbell prostrated herself before his feet, then, handing the reverend the chalice filled with Rachael’s blood as an offering, she watched him take it and hold it out for all to see.