When my long blink ended, I opened my eyes to see the morning sun just creeping in through the opening in the window. My eyes were heavy, and I tried my best to blink the sleep out of them. I laid there for a long moment, and it actually felt very peaceful. Like when I was a kid during the summer. Waking up knowing that I didn't have school, or any other responsibilities, made for a perfect day. Then, a gentle reminder of what was causing my perfect day shuffled between the morning sun and myself just outside the window. I could tell by his silhouette that it was the business man continuing his laps in my front yard. Then, for some reason, I could smell cinnamon. Then I heard it: The wide mouthed yawn from just above my head. I craned my neck up and saw the dog laying in a small ball on my pillow. His head was literally right next to mine. As he exhaled heavily, I got a whiff of Red Hots mixed with dog breath.
Here's the thing. I am a very light sleeper. I sometimes wake up to the sounds of frogs outside. When I was married, my wife simply rolling onto her side would be enough to rouse me from slumberland. How the hell did this dog climb onto my pillow without me knowing in the least?
"Have I done anything to make you think this would be okay?"
His tail began to thwap against my pillow at the sound of my voice.
"No. Don't wag your tail at me. What makes you think I want your flea ridden mangy fur pressed against my flesh?"
His tail thwapped faster.
"Down!" I said with absolute authority. He stood up on my pillow, and as he stretched his body, his face looked like he was experiencing the greatest stretch in the history of all dogdom. He smacked his mouth open a few times and then slowly turned to comply with my orders. His tail smacked me in the face as he prepped to leap off the couch, and just as he began his jump, a squeaky, high pitched dog fart blasted right into my face. I screamed and turned my head away, afraid that it might be more than just a fart.
"Fucker!" I shouted as I threw (ironically enough) a throw pillow at him.
He seemed unfazed by the pillow. In fact, he climbed on top of it and went right back to sleep. Did he fart in my face on purpose? Was he angry with the way I ordered him down? Or, was that what he does every time he jumps off of something for that extra added propellent. The smell hit me almost ten full seconds later. It was an odor that had heat to it. It burned my sinus cavity, and I pushed air out rapidly from my nose in an attempt to cleanse myself from his evil.
Coffee be damned. If you want a real kick in the morning, try a freshly brewed dog fart fueled by Red Hots. I was up and out of the room as the dog snored away on his pillow.
Chapter 6
I had just finished doing my morning routine of pushups and crunches, when I decided to reward myself with a cherry Pop Tart for breakfast. I tried opening the silver wrapper as quietly as possible, but the second even the slightest crinkling was heard, I had a smelly dog jumping up and down in front of me.
That's all he did.
Jump straight up and down.
Each time, he seemed to put more effort into it. I watched and wondered how long he would do it before he either got tired or come down on a leg wrong and brake it. I watched for about forty five seconds as he simply jumped higher and higher. Occasionally, he would ad a little twist at the apex of his jump. Whether it was for style, or function, I noticed the extra effort. So I broke off a half of ONE cherry Pop Tart and threw it into the other room to get him away from me. He was out of the kitchen and devouring the iced toaster pasty within seconds. I had just popped the rest of my first Pop Tart into my mouth when the dog returned to me and continued his jumping demonstration.
"Fuck...You..." I said as I started to eat the second Pop Tart. The dog was unfazed by my words, and he just kept jumping. I took another bite, and his eyes never left the sweet breakfast treat in my hands as he repeatedly bounced in front of me.
I'll say this for him, he has a ton of stamina and determination. He never stopped his excited leaping until after I polished off my breakfast. As I stuffed the last bite in my mouth, he sat and watched motionlessly as I licked the sweetness off of my fingers. I even added a few audible "Mmmm's" and "Ahhh's" just for him. I wanted him to know just how much I was enjoying it. I finished off with an over exaggerated "gulp" and then rubbed my tummy to let him know I was satisfied. I don't know if the dog really can tell when I'm being a dick, but I amused myself.
The dog’s ears popped up as quickly as a flash. Seconds later, I heard a gun shot from across the street. I ran to the window just in time to hear a second one. It sounded like it was from Peter Hilton's house. He was one of those guys who loved guns. A certified gun nut. I'm fairly certain he was on some government watch list the way he talked about it. But, then again, he was one of those crazed conspiracy theorists. Area 51, the JFK assassination, and Miley Cyrus were all planned by the government according to him.
I've never fired a gun in my life. I'm not against them by any means. I just never shot a gun. Call me un-American.
The shots came from inside his house. What was going on? Why was he shooting inside? Did a zombie or two get into his house? Did someone try to break in? Did he just go nuts from going so long without pulling a trigger? I ran up to the roof and started side arming roof tiles at his place, trying to get his attention. I whizzed three of them right at his front door, but he never came out to check. As an added bonus to his gunshots, the business man started to wander over to his house and out of my yard. I stayed up on the roof for two hours, looking for any other meandering zombies. After I felt confident that there were no other shambling monsters close by, I decided that I was bored enough to find out what had happened. When I got to the front door, I saw the dog sitting there waiting for me.
"You want to come too?" I asked him. "Good. You can keep the business man distracted while I talk to Pete."
We ran across the street and into Pete's un-mowed front yard. The first order of business for the dog was to have Red Hot and Pop Tart diarrhea right there in the grass.
"Good call... If you did that in the house, I would have mopped it up with you."
He kicked grass behind him to try and cover his awfulness. The business man seemed fixated on Pete's blue vinyl siding. He never even turned to see us. Not wanting to disturb him from his study of Pete's house, I knocked on Pete's front door softly.
Nothing.
I knocked slightly harder and then looked over to the business man to see if he had heard. He didn't, and Pete apparently didn't either.
So, I knocked slightly louder, and then I did that loud whisper thing telling him it was me so that he wouldn’t blast a few holes in the door and my upper torso. Again, he didn't answer.
I tried the door, and it... was unlocked.
Fucking idiot...But, I guess zombies weren't known for their motor skills. I cautiously stuck my head in and called out again.
"Pete! It's Jeffrey from across the street! I heard shots. Are you okay?"
Still nothing.
I looked down at the dog, and he returned my "fuck if I know" look. Well, I thought, my head wasn't blown off. Pete might be dead.
I stepped all the way inside, and the dog squeezed in past me. I closed the door and locked it. Something about the gesture of locking a door just makes us feel safer, doesn't it? That's why every front door in America has that cheap ass chain that is supposed to keep people out. When in reality, a strong breeze or an above average strength toddler could just push right through.
I looked around, and his place was dark. He boarded up his windows like mine. He even ripped up his stairs to make it impossible for any invading monster to get to the second floor.
Smart.
I was just about to climb up when the thought of a zombie being right there as I surfaced crossed my mind. Better play it safe. I thought. So I picked up the dog and tossed him up to the second level. I would definitely hear a zombie eating him if there was one up there. I gave it a few minutes and even cleared my throat a few times to alert any possible zombies that
food was available. I didn't hear a dog being ripped apart, so things seemed safe. I made the ten foot climb, and that was pretty easy for me with my new post apocalypse body. Ripping up the stairs was really clever. If zombies got in here, there was no way they could make it up there.
I made a mental note of this idea. I may have to do that if I start seeing more outside.
The dog sat in the center of the hall with a crystal clear fuck you in his eyes. I guess he didn't like being my canary in a mine shaft.
"Pete?" I called out to no response.
The hallway was almost pitch black, and it seemed to get darker towards the middle. Pete's bedroom door was at the very end of the hall, and the door was slightly open. There was a small flicker of light inside, so I approached with caution. Suddenly, I imagined Pete barricaded behind his bed holing a small cache of guns and having flashbacks from the war. I imagined him blasting away at anything that entered the room. So I picked up the dog and poked his head into the room at eye level to see if anyone was there to take shots at him. I heard the dog let out a loud sigh to let me know he was tired of "helping" me. I took that as an "all clear," and slowly entered the room myself.
I used to read books about war. It was something I was interested in. In every single one of them, the people who fought on the battlefield would always say, they remembered the smell of cordite. (The residue from gunfire.) But they never say what it smells like. I always assumed it was like fireworks.
It kind of is.
It smells like fireworks and nail polish remover combined. Not horrible, but not pleasant. Like smokey and sweet with a little metallic taste on my tongue.
I found Pete. He was dead. I guess that's not a surprise. What was a surprise, however, was the dead tied up body next to him. It was one of them. A zombie. He had it tied face down on the bed. Naked with arms and legs spread.
What. The. Fuck?
The dog took one look at the room and decided now would be a good time to explore the rest of the house. He had seen enough. I, on the other hand, was completely fascinated by the wonderland around me.
I guess you never really know your neighbors. "Sure, he was a great guy! We had him over for picnics, and the occasional game of lawn darts... Oh, and he liked to put reanimated corpses in bondage and rape them..."
Who knows how long Pete was fucking her. Or how he got her in the house. All I could do was speculate by what I saw in front of me. So I spent a few minutes playing amateur CSI.
There was a candle burning next to the bed.
Awwww... Pete was a romantic rapist.
There were condom wrappers on the floor.
Smart. When making love to a zombie, always wear protection. You wouldn't want ZombAIDS.
SERIOUSLY? Condoms?? I'm all for safe sex, but even with a suit of armor, there is no sex safe enough when you are fucking a zombie.
Anyway, back to CSI...
She was shot in the back of the head. Her hair is burned away around the hole in her skull.
That was more than likely the first shot I heard, and it was more than likely point blank. That would explain the burns on her head.
The leather straps that tied the zombie down looked "professional." I don't know where you would actually buy leather straps like that, or what the actual use of them would be.
Aside from raping cadavers.
The straps had cut about half an inch deep into her skin. There was no blood coming from those gashes, but there was a good amount of bright red blood on the sheets and headboard right by her face. I followed the blood drips to Pete's left arm. The image was becoming clearer and clearer.
Good 'ol Pete must have seen "Ashley" meandering through the streets. Her uniform was cut up on the floor next to the bed, it still had her Winn-Dixie name tag on. It said, "Ashley J." and under that it said "Winn-Dixie: The beef people."
Come on, you have to laugh at that.
It had been a while since Pete got some, and she probably looked hungry for it. He lured her into the house and found a way to get her upstairs and tie her down.
More than likely before he ripped up the stairs.
Judging by the condom wrappers on the floor, she must have been here for a good week or two.
Either that, or Pete was going for a record in how often can you fuck a zombie. My guess was he was a gentlemen and went once a day.
It looked like he would prop her up into the “ready" position, and then he would grip the posts on the headboard for support. He must have slipped, or just plain forgot she was into biting, either way, his hand came off the headboard, and she got a good sized chunk out of his left hand.
Yeah, he was pretty fucked up. The only question I really had was did he "finish" or not? On one hand, he might have figured, "What the hell? One last hurrah!" Either that or, the admission ticket to the world of the undead might have been the ultimate limp dick generator. I didn't really feel like checking his bright orange condom for the evidence that would crack that mystery wide open. I'll leave it for whoever finds this journal to ponder the climax of poor Pete's life.
As I looked at Ashley laying there, a part of me thought, "Good for you, Ashley. Way to fight back against your rapist."
I took the gun out of Pete's hand, and held it away from me like nuclear waste. I didn't know how to turn on the safety or how to tell if it was ready to fire or not. I wanted it, but I didn't want to blow a hole in my face for it.
Then, from another room, I heard a squeak. I went out into the hall and into the next room where I heard the noise. When I pushed open the door to investigate, I saw the dog running towards me with something big in it's mouth. I had to wait for him to get closer to the light before I could see that he was carrying a toy dinosaur that was almost as big as he was.
"Whatcha got?" I said as I bent down to inspect it. The dog backed away from me and chomped down hard on the toy twice, making it squeak again. The green cartoony dinosaur toy had the small effeminate hands that were the source for much ridicule in the dinosaur world, but they were the tale tell signs for me to identify it as a Tyrannosaurus Rex. It really was just as big, if not slightly bigger than, the dog who held it proudly in its mouth.
Why did Pete have a dog toy in his house? I never saw him walk a dog. I never heard barking. Why was this dog toy so large.
"Where'd you find that toy, fella?" I quietly whispered to the dog. His response was a hardy squeak on his new toy.
I slowly made my way towards the only other open door in the hallway. It was the only place the dog could have found it. The room was dark, and I could see nothing but the faint trace of a window that was covered by a heavy curtain. I shuffled my feet towards the window and tried my best to not make a sound. If there was a dog big enough to chew on that gigantic T-Rex, I didn't want to wake him. But then again, if two gun shots didn't wake him, my clumsy footfalls wouldn't. I felt confident that there was no massive dog, so I threw open the curtains with gusto. The sun light blazed in and blinded me for a moment. I turned around and tried to let my eyes adjust, and the first thing I saw was the largest pit bull I have ever seen. He stood stoically with his chest puffed out, and his gaping maw pulled back into a sneer showing all of his deadly sharp teeth.
The Inhuman Chronicles (Book 1): Inhuman Page 6