The Inhuman Chronicles (Book 1): Inhuman

by Feren, Todd C.

  And as I laid there in my bed, surrounded by all of my toys, something remarkable happened. It was like Pinocchio's blue fairy came down to grant my wish. My wish to never live in this world of pain and suffering. I imagined the blue fairy with a stone cold look on her face. No smile like in the Disney classic. Her skin looked like aged wood, and her eyes were cold and dead, yet she was still lovely. She raised her wand, which was oddly penis shaped, and waved it over my head. Golden magic dust erupted from the tip of the penis and arced over me. As the sparkling gold dust touched my skin, it gathered and clumped together, forming what looked almost like golden water. The shiny metallic liquid coursed over my body, and it all eventually collected onto the top of my scalp. Then, my hair tingled, and every pore on my head opened and accepted the fluid into me. The gold magic seeped into my skull, and I could feel its iciness tickling my brain.

  Then the real magic began.

  The fluid was riffling through my mind like an uncaring baggage handler. I could feel every moment and every feeling of my life being fondled and tossed to one side. Then, it found what it was looking for.

  My emotions.

  The first thing that left was the pain.

  That was easy. It hurt, and letting go was as simple as exhaling. And for that moment, I felt a warm sensation

  like I was just stepping into a nice steaming hot tub.

  Then there was anger. I could feel it leaving my body. There was a brief hesitation before it completely left. Like it didn't want to go. But that's the sort of thing you would expect from anger. It doesn't normally go away. It wants to linger and hold on. I could feel its fingernails digging into my brain, but the pull from the golden magic was too much, and it was eventually ripped away.

  Sadness shot out like a rocket, and my shoulders suddenly didn't feel as heavy.

  Worry was next, and for a second, I was worried that it might not leave. Then, that feeling vanished.

  I felt amazing. Floating in this proverbial hot tub left with only good feelings and hope. Then, there was a quick sharp tug on my chest. Joy was trying to make an escape. I could feel it pulling out of me like tied together scarfs from a birthday clown’s rigged coat pocket.

  My water began to cool.

  I reached out with my mind and tried to grasp the end of my joy but, all I could feel was fading heat in my fingertips as the happiness slipped through.

  Then, there was a hard crack at the base of my skull.

  Apparently, Hope is a demolitions expert because she blew a hole in the base of my skull and jumped out as quickly as she could.

  I started to think. What does all this mean? I didn't worry about what was happening. I couldn't. Worry left already. At this point, I was a mere spectator to this mass exodus of emotions.

  My sense of awe must have snuck out with hope, because I wasn't even fazed by how fast this was all happening.

  The water was lukewarm.

  You know that feeling when you are in an icebox of a building? Where the air is kept cold enough that you could hang meat, and then you walk outside into the sunlight, and you feel like your skin is absorbing the warmth. Soaking in every drop of the suns glorious heat?

  The next feeling I had was the exact opposite of that.

  A chill ran up my spine the likes of which I never felt before. As the ice hit each vertebrae, it branched out to every connecting nerve in my body.

  Love was leaving.

  My body froze as this emotion was double checking around its former abode, making sure it didn't leave anything behind. There was no stopping or slowing it down. They say, "love flows like an ocean," and the tide has finally receded to a point far beyond my horizon.

  Love has left the building.

  My water was ice cold.

  Then I did a quick internal walk around my head. It was like being in a house with no furniture. Lots of room. A lot of empty space. For a fleeting moment, I was scared.

  And then fear vanished with the rest of what makes a person...human. So there I was, an empty shell of a former human left with one lingering question... In my dream, I actually asked this question to the magical pixie.

  "What am I?”

  Then, the dead eyed blue fairy turned her gaze away from me and exploded into more gold dust that simply flittered away. Leaving me alone without my answer.

  My eyes slowly opened and sunlight began prying its way into my eyes causing a tremendous aching in the back of my freshly recharged eyeballs. My blurry vision struggled to focus on something so incredibly close to my face that I almost had to cross my eyes to see it. But, there it was. The furry fucker had his face mere millimeters away from mine, and the pervert was just watching me sleep. Once he recognized that I was awake, he chose that moment to paint a tongue shaped, wet and slimy swathe across my entire face. When I opened my mouth to start my tirade of swears and cursing, he chose that moment to double down and try and see how much of his tongue he could fit in my mouth before I would be able to react. The result?

  He got way too much in.

  The dog’s nails made a scratching sound as he slid across my hard floors. Damn thing slid about eight feet from the force of my push, yet he was unfazed by my absolute rejection. He lowered his head and shot his ass up as high as it could go. His tail was wagging so ferociously that it was throwing his balance off, and he plopped over onto his side. He stared at me for a moment, hoping for some return on his offer to play. I gave him the coldest deadest stare I could, and he simply blinked his eyes, then turned his attention onto his tail. He attacked it as though it were made of fried chicken glazed in Alpo sauce.

  I rolled over onto my belly and went right into my morning regime of one hundred push-ups. When I got to around eighty, the dog decided now would be a good time to clean the sweat off my face for me. He got half of one lick in before being shoved across the floor around nine feet. It's almost as though he loved the feeling of sliding across the floor. He stayed where he stopped and watched me as I finished my exercise. I stood up and stretched, and out of nowhere, the dog started to growl at me.

  "Do we have a problem?" I asked.

  I decided that I could and would stare him down to make absolutely certain he knew who was in charge here. I wasn't going to have some dog challenge me in my own home. Then, I noticed that he wasn't looking at me as he let out his soft growl. He was looking just past me. Just over my shoulder.

  As if on cue, I heard a scratching from behind me. I turned around and saw the face of the business man staring at me from the opening in my window. He had his face pressed up against the glass, and he was staring at me like I was a honey glazed ham in a butcher shop's window. Not a drop of fear surged through me. An impossibility due to the lack of that emotion in my system. It was moments like this that made me thankful for that. Wait, scratch that...I don't possess thankfulness either. I was...satisfied with the lack of fear in my body. I strolled up to the window to look at this asshole face to face. He was standing on my periwinkles!

  That motherfucker!

  "That's it!" I exclaimed. "This motherfucker has to go!" The dog ran up alongside me and let out a shrill bark in his attempt to chime in menacingly. "You want to help?" I asked the dog who just stared at me with the entire lower half of his body convulsing with joy. He let out an excited yelp as if saying, Sure, I'll help with this asshole.

  So I bent over, picked up the dog and looked into his eyes. "I think you can help."

  Chapter 8

  I'm sure if this dog could speak, he would say something along the lines of, "Hey, asshole! This isn't what I meant when I said I wanted to help!"

  But he can't speak. So all he actually did was squirm and whimper.

  The furry fucker sat with his entire body inside a messenger bag. His head and tail were the only things protruding from the satchel, and the bag was duct taped so that there was no way he could squirm out. Using an old extension cord, I slowly lowered the doggie package off the edge of the roof, carefully, to see exactly how far th
e business man could reach. The small dog’s whimpers and whines were like a dinner bell to the business man. The zombie groaned and stretched his arms, and when only the very tips of his torn fingernails found purchase on the bundle, I tied it off to my chimney to keep him from going any lower. The business man stretched and strained, but couldn't get enough of a hold to bring down the doggy delicacy. Each time he made contact, he would inadvertently swing the dog further away from him. Then the dog would swing wildly until gravity brought the "doggie bag" back to its original resting position. I went downstairs, and slid out through the garage door. I peeked my head around the corner and checked the streets for any other undead diners. So far, so good. When I made my way to the front yard, the ol' bastard was still fixated on the poochy piñata. The bag swung gently, and spun slowly in a circle. As it turned towards the front, the mutt made eye contact with me and let out a very angry sounding bark. I didn't have to speak dog for me to understand how hard he was telling me to "fuck myself."

  I made my way slowly through the uncut grass and held my trusty digging shovel like I was the next batter on deck. The business man was so focused on the furry food that he had no idea I was approaching. His fingers were just scraping the duct tape that bound the enticing entree securely in place as I drew closer. Then, out of nowhere, the business man stepped forward, and he was suddenly six inches higher. I looked down, and there I saw how he was getting his extra height.

  Fucking Carl! That asshole's head was still alive and chomping, and I completely forgot about him. Right now, the business man was stepping on his forehead, and it was giving him just enough of a boost to grip the dog in his duct taped bag. The business man began to pull, and his groans got louder with the prospect of food being that much closer. The pup let out a whine and turned his gaze back to me.

  Then, I heard a "thud" behind me. I turned around and saw two more shamblers on the sidewalk making their way towards me. One had obviously tripped on the curb and was pulling himself up from the curb. That must have been the thud I heard. The aggravated commotion of the business man, and the cries of that fucking dog, attracted more damned zombies. Up the street, I could see about fifteen more rotting corpses wandering around looking for something fun to do. They haven't noticed us yet, but they would.

  Fuck! I thought. I have to deal with this quick.

  The one standing on the sidewalk was a portly bald gentleman wearing a button up pajama shirt, and that's it. His tiny dead pecker looked like a slightly above average "outtie" belly button. Porky fucking Pig, I thought! Why couldn't you have been killed with pants on. The one pulling himself up looked like a trailer park resident who had had one too many. He had a dingy trucker’s hat that said "official pussy inspector," a sleeveless AC/DC shirt, and jean shorts.

  Classy.

  I had to be quick, so I ran straight towards Trailer Park Trevor, and swung the shovel down, trying to keep him from getting up. My shovel connected solidly, and I could literally feel his skull collapsing through the vibrations of the shovel.

  One down.

  Next was Porky Pig. I took a step towards him and swung my shovel hard; connecting right in the side of his head, right in the temple. The vibrations from the impact traveled up the shovel, through my arms, and almost shook the weapon out of my hand. Porky Pig stumbled a step or two and then recovered his balance and turned his gaze to me.

  Why couldn't you have pants on?

  As he started moving towards me, I swung again. This time my aim was off, and I didn't make solid contact. The shovel grazed his face and shaved off his nose. I could see the cartilage inside, and his missing nose did nothing to alleviate my vision of a zombified cartoon pig.

  Then, Porky tripped and stumbled, and gravity gave him a burst of speed. He collapsed onto me, and we both went to the ground. With the exception of a three hundred pound zombie laying on top of me, luck was on my side. When Porky and I fell together, the blade of my shovel lodged firmly into his mouth as he began chomping wildly on the cold steel.

  So there we were, face to face, his eyes just inches from mine as he tried his hardest to chew through the steel head of the shovel. Several teeth fell out with the force of his bites. The broken tooth fragments slid down the shovel head's blade and dribbled onto my chest. Saliva began coating my throat to prepare for the vomit eruption that was eminent. But again, luck favored me because I didn't vomit. Not vomiting on my own face was a definite plus.

  It's funny the way our brains process information. Here was a three hundred pound zombie laying on top of me, trying to chew through the head of a shovel, and all I could think was, "Where is his penis?" I took a deep breath and used every ounce of strength I had to push Porky off of me. He rolled onto his back, and I jumped to my feet expecting to be in for another round. But Porky was having trouble standing up. Like a turtle on his back, Porky's arms and legs struggled to right himself, but his chubby roly poly body just wouldn't cooperate. I hefted my shovel and circled around to get a better angle on his head. His arms kept flailing as I swung the shovel down like one of those strength tests at a carnival where you try to ring the bell. His head popped like a watermelon, and the head of my shovel cracked off. I couldn't help it. I looked down at him and actually said what went through my mind.

  "Be-da-be-da-be-da-be-da-ba-That's all folks!"

  Corny, I know,but my adrenaline was pumping. Then I heard a somewhat familiar whine behind me. The dog was shaking in his pouch, and the business man had not let go. I looked up the street to the other fifteen zombies to see if they had noticed any of this commotion. Luckily, for the dog, they hadn't. I used the handle of the shovel like a baseball bat and swung for the bleachers at the back of the business man's legs. His tendons snapped, and his legs gave out from under him, but he didn't let go of the bag. The captive dog whimpered as the business man tightened his grip on the bag so he wouldn’t lose his meal. I looked at the dog, and he looked back at me with pleading in his eyes.

  If I had a heart, it would break. But I don't, so his look was used in vain. It didn't matter. I had no intention of letting the business man have the dog, and I really had to finish this quick. I stuck the sharp point of the shovel handle into the business man’s mouth and shoved upwards hard and quickly. My hope was to puncture his brain and end this right away. Well, my aim was off by a bit, and instead of piercing the brain, the sharp edge pushed through the soft rotting flesh on the back of his neck. When the slight resistance gave, I pushed the thing two feet through before I let go. The business man stumbled back and finally let go of the dog. He had two feet of handle sticking out of the back of his neck and two feet sticking out of his mouth. He spun around trying to grab at the end, but he couldn't quite reach it. So he spun like a dog chasing his tail. He looked like the world’s smelliest and cheapest helicopter. Just then, I noticed some of the group of fifteen starting to make their way up the street towards us. No time to finish off the business man. So I ran back to the garage and made my way back to the roof. By the time I got there and hoisted the dog back to safety, the business man was surrounded by four other zombies. I cut the mangy mutt out of the duct taped bag and sat him down next to me. He must have been terrified in there because the bag was soaked with urine. I wondered if dog urine was like marinade to the undead. As far as I know, he could have been making himself even more delicious for the business man.

  As I watched the zombies, the dog sat and glared at me with a look of pure unadulterated indignation. After about five minutes, the pooch looked back down to the zombies below. The business man continued to spin like a helicopter, but every time a zombie shambled close enough, they would get slapped in the face by an end of the shovel handle that protruded out of both sides of the business man's head. It was like the most graphically violent episode of the Three Stooges ever. I couldn't help but laugh each and every time another zombie took a shot to the face knocking it to the ground. Even the dog seemed to snort a sign of amusement at the scene. After about an hour, I pick
ed the dog up and felt his body tense up like he was preparing to do another stint in the bag. When he saw that we were making our way inside, I could feel his tail whipping my back with joy. I put him down on the floor, and he bounced like a child who just ate fifteen pounds of Pixie Stix. He ran down the stairs, then immediately back up, and started his bouncing regimen over again. After two more trips down and up the stairs, he jumped on the couch and passed out. I looked out the window at the business man and his slap stick crew of zombies. The business man will have to wait, I thought. But I'll get him.