by Goforth, Jim
As he reached the Tundra, Scarlett was adjusting the clothing the two underlings started to helpfully remove for the benefit of Boss before he’d barked at them to get their asses back to keep watch on the others. She spied him arriving and an uncharacteristic smile broke out on her face, spilling more beauty over what was already a dazzling countenance. Her black hair hung in slight disarray, wisps and trails of it sweeping across her face and into her dark eyes, but in no way did it detract from her exquisite features.
“Wow,” she said. “Damn, that was you? You blew this cretin’s head off?”
“Yeah,” Seth nodded solemnly, the whole concept of what he’d just done not anywhere near to sinking in. The guy may have been a lecherous, son-of-a-bitch, pervert rapist with designs on violating Scarlett and then any of the other women he got a chance to, and then plans to kill them all right here, but he was still a cop. Seth scrambled his brains with a shotgun blast. This wasn’t shooting zombies, or stabbing undead monsters coming to rip shreds of flesh from his bones, this was aiming a loaded shotgun at a living breathing human—a police officer, no less―pulling the trigger and shooting his face into a bloody flesh soufflé.
He didn’t feel in any sort of shock, he didn’t feel a shred of remorse, and nor did he feel at all cloudy or fogged in the brain from the big swallows of fiery alcohol, he only felt grim satisfaction and a perverse sense of joy. He suspected it had already sunk in as far as it was going to and he wasn’t about to feel any remorse about it later either.
Scarlett vaulted over the side of the Tundra’s back, landing on the concrete with her boots slapping solidly on the hard surface. In her right hand she brandished the gun formerly clasped by Boss as he hauled his corpulent half naked form up into the tray.
“Here, give me a hand with this fat chunk of smoked pork,” she said to Seth as she headed around behind the vehicle. She checked the pistol, ensured the safety was on, and then jammed it down the back of her black jeans, the motion of her doing that immediately making Seth’s eyes follow her hand and stop on the shapely oscillation of her ass. He stared at it for a lot longer than he should have, and she glanced back over her shoulder at him.
He snapped his head up so abruptly he almost gave himself a mild case of whiplash, though she didn’t appear to notice his roving eyes and transfixed stare.
“Grab this motherfucker’s other leg,” she advised and he moved up alongside her, doing as she bid, feeling the hirsute fleshy limb in his hand like some fat dead animal. He tried to avert his eyes from the saggy white globes of the guy’s bare butt, those great sacs of hairy meat wobbling in the fashion of a couple of bowls of grotesque jelly as he and Scarlett hauled the blue clad blimp down the plane of the Tundra tray.
It was easy enough not to stare at the obscene sight or the shrivelled scrotum between the chunky thighs, fortunately, with the accompanying appendage underneath the fat of the body because Boss’ head made for far more fascinating viewing. This busted apart melon cranium left a long streak of gore trailing right down the tray as the duo hauled the corpse out, smears of pulped brain also evident, spilling from the ruptured skull in random patterns. Aside from the presence of ears hanging loose and sections of wiry black hair, it barely looked like a head of any note. Seth perversely wondered how much more damage would have been done to the pig skull of Boss if he’d detonated the shotgun at point blank range. He guessed there wouldn’t be an abundance of head left whatsoever, and a tiny malicious part inside him wished he’d been able to see that outcome. Maybe he’d get the chance to witness it with one of the survivors. Maybe that muscled son-of-a-bitch trying to ram his fingers into Heather, planning on sodomizing her with his baton among other choice acts. Then he supposed he’d probably have to wait in line for that privilege; over there seemed to be a bunch of people with some evil things in mind for that particular upholder of the law.
When the bloodied mess that comprised what was left of Boss’s head came free of the tail end of the Tundra, both of them yanked on a three count instigated by Scarlett, hauling him right out and away, and then dropped his dead figure with an ungracious thump, landing the body in a meaty tangle on the concrete.
“Look at the damn mess this piece of shit has left in the Truck,” Scarlett mused. “Should get those others to clean it up.”
“Guess I should,” Seth spoke up. “I made the mess.”
“Are you kidding? Damn, Seth, you saved my ass! You saved me, you know?”
“Well…I did owe you. You…saved me once too.”
“Yeah. Hey, listen, Seth, I’m real damn sorry about having to kill…well, you know…”
“You didn’t kill her,” Seth said shortly. “She was already dead. She was dead long before then, before we even got there. She was already dead. Undead.”
“Still…”
“Doesn’t matter. You saved me from joining her in undead limbo.”
“And you saved me from being unwillingly porked by the porkchop. I’d much rather save that pleasure for somebody who isn’t a fat ass piece of shit with a two inch cock.”
Seth laughed, the involuntary guffaw bursting from him with an energy that surprised. First time he’d laughed in…well, he couldn’t exactly recall. Days, at the least. Ever since…no, back before all the Julietta bullshit. Way before then, because shit turned grim long before she became a zombie girl intent on masticating his brains and face.
Scarlett touched him lightly on the back, gently turning him away and directing him back to where the others assembled, a pack of vengeful black metallers encircling the two rape-happy cops, leaving the bloody slump of Boss behind on the pavement.
Over there, the unfortunate urinator, Haines, was being subjected to a barrage of questions from Black and Tempest with the outcome seeming to be that the proprietor of the service station, some individual referred to as ‘old man Childe’, had indeed stepped away from his post for a quick errand, not seeing fit to leave any message behind or lock up the place in his absence. On his return, he spied a black truck disgorging suspicious satanic looking people, metalheads, the scourge of society right now in essence, believed responsible for the downfall of populaces on the coast, the reason for undead uprisings.
A hasty return to a friend’s nearby property meant a quick call to report the matter to the police, hence two carloads being despatched to quell the possible zombie apocalypse emerging at the station.
“Where’s old man Childe now?” Black queried. “Hiding in wait somewhere? Watching the drama unfold? Waiting to see the zombies get smoked by you absolute pinnacles of the law?”
“Laying low until he gets the call that all is safe to return,” Haines said. “Listen, I knew this was wrong, I told them, you heard me tell them this was a bad idea.”
“Which bit? Raping the women or killing all of us folk about to mutate into fleshcraving undead?”
“The…” Haines hesitated, lapsing into an uneasy silence as the eyes of Brenner fixed on him with a menacing glare.
“You really believe we’re about to suddenly turn into zombies? Do we fucking look like undead monsters to you? Have we just completely devolved hundreds of years into the Dark Ages? You fucking idiots call yourselves upholders of the law? Sworn to serve and protect? They teaching classes on how to rape and kill at the Academy now?”
“None of that shit matters now!” Brenner suddenly barked. “Because you pack of motherfuckers are fucked, you hear me? Fucked! You’ve just slain two officers of the law in cold blood, the whole damn county, and the next county over―shit, every fucking police officer under the sun—is going to be coming after your metalhead asses, best believe that!”
“Cold blood? How about self-defence fuckstick?” Tempest said. “Every police officer under the sun has bigger fish to fry than two dead rapist cops. I’m sure it hasn’t missed your attention that this world is fast going to hell in an undead handbasket, since you and your desperate buddies were fit and busting to kill yourselves some prospective zombies before th
ey brought Armageddon to your neighbourhood. As for the truth of the situation, and how those two came to be pushing up daisies, well, your pants pissing bud over there is going to call it in. And he is going to say what happened. Exactly as it happened. Or you are both going to die too.”
“You know what? You know what, you deviate bastard? I don’t know metal like these guys, but I do know a song by Cannibal Corpse that suits you!” Heather suddenly screamed at Brenner. “It’s called Fucked with a Knife! It isn’t really a baton, but let’s see how you like it, you filthy prick!”
Before anyone could comprehend what she was doing she had one of the originally confiscated knives gripped tight in both white knuckled fists.
She lunged at Brenner, who was kneeling on the pavement with the nose of Black’s gun pointing towards him while Blizzard stood just off to the side, the knife he’d had to the muscleman’s neck before still in plain view, and thrust the blade between his buttocks, ramming it through the material of his uniform and whatever he wore underneath, right into his anus. As a strange agonised utterance, part high pitched shriek, part deep gargling grunt tore out of Brenner, Heather completed the stabbing motion and plunged the wicked blade straight up, shearing through his rectum, slamming in to the hilt.
She yanked it back out with a splash of blood and then repeated the process, plunging it back into the aperture, the rear of the blue trousers staining red with a widening spread of blood. Brenner howled, the sound a horrendous one, and then Heather was insane with a frenzy of stabbing, well and truly fucking him with a knife.
“How does that feel, you pervert? You like that, do you? You fucking like that?” Her violent screams of fury almost drowned out the strange strangling gibberish pouring from the knife assaulted Brenner in a horrendous litany. “Yeah, you like it don’t you? Feels a lot better than a baton doesn’t it?”
“Jesus!” Mark gasped from where he hunched over behind Blizzard and Black, with Miranda sitting on the concrete, arms wrapped around her upraised knees. Miranda herself looked horrified beyond belief, stunned by the unbridled rage of the attack.
Over on the other side, just adjacent to the petrol pumps, Scarlett and Seth paused where they were, stopping and staring as everyone’s attention was captivated by the visceral violence. While Haines fell onto his hands and knees on the concrete and began to dry retch and expel thin jets of vomit laced with bile, Seth lost count of how many times Heather stabbed the blade in.
Finally she must have lost all the strength in her arms and she slumped backwards, letting the completely blood enveloped weapon clatter onto the ground, the pale colour of the concrete beneath her and Brenner, bloodier than an abattoir floor, with more splashing out of Brenner’s ruined hindquarters.
Sanguinary loops and fleshy coils were flopping out of the man’s destroyed rear end, the mass of wounds there making it look as though he’d been fucked by a mutant cactus, or headbutted in the ass by Pinhead. The innards spilled in a hideous flood amidst gushing blood, the savage assault literally tearing not just the one standard hole wide, but creating many others. There was virtually nothing left of Brenner’s buttocks but raw slabs of meat hanging off, as if Heather had attempted to chop them up into some bizarre form of ass steak.
Unbelievably, he was still alive, even as his intestines and other offal fell out of his ass to slop on the concrete, splashing in the rivers of blood already staining the light grey plane red.
“Fuck,” Black said succinctly, then swiftly stepped in, drew his blade across the man’s throat and mercifully slit it from ear to ear, putting a sudden cessation to the hideous scene. “Let’s just wrap this up here.”
He stepped quickly backwards, punting Brenner in the back with his boot and propelling the bloodied body away from him to flop on the concrete, more pooling blood spilling from the slice across his throat.
The silence that descended upon the stunned assemblage was profound.
CHAPTER TWENTY THREE-KATHAARIAN
Blackwater Park was the type of metropolis they didn’t need to lay too low and try to hide out in without being overly concerned about attracting the suspicious attention of vigilant folk seeking to hold metalheads responsible for the undead calamities sweeping towns along the coast as Undead Fleshcrave ripped through them.
Despite the brutal and bloody confrontation at the decrepit highway service station, confirming their fears that all manner of people, including authorities, were buying into the suggestion that those of the heavy metal persuasion and all those in their community were all to blame for the plague of dead folk rising again and infecting others, there wasn’t too much to worry about with that regard in Blackwater Park. The prime reason for that was a relatively simple one. None of them were conspicuous here, they weren’t in the minority in any way.
Armada was a reasonably large city, albeit with a big population of metalheads, while Noumena was a much smaller coastal town with a more confined community of heavy metal music worshippers, but Blackwater Park, which sat somewhere in size between those two extremes, could have been wholly comprised of metal fans. It wasn’t, of course, but the appearance of many of the individuals residing there meant that for those looking to scapegoat souls as inherently zombie, it would be quite a difficult proposition indeed.
Blackwater Park was a rough town, a populace filled with bikers, alternative types, truckers, musicians, artists, tattooists, thugs, hoodlums, gangs, prostitutes, strippers, all manner of folk who wore leather, inked skin, piercings, unique hairstyles, long hair, shaven heads. All of whom could easily be mistaken as belonging to the metal clique and being pigeonholed as such by the witchhunters, even if, in fact, they had no affiliation with, or ties to, such music choices.
Bars, nightclubs, tattoo parlours, strip clubs, brothels, peep shows, live music venues, theatres (and not those of the family friendly variety), pool halls, video game parlours, cafes, sex shops, and multiple twenty four hour businesses were prevalent in this place, and the inhabitants of this town thronged around them day and night. While undoubtedly many of these folk were fans of metal music and would definitely be drawn to concerts occurring in their town, not all of them were, regardless of their appearances.
In essence, it was the perfect location for them to hide out, in plain view, not necessarily needing to worry about their presence there marking them as suspicious targets.
While most thought Black’s remark to the police squadron attending the scene at the service station was a quick off the cuff statement, conjured up on the spur of the moment, it turned out he had every intention of making the town of Blackwater Park their next port of call.
It made sense. Not only because of the sheer amount of folk who could easily be mistaken for metalheads like them, even if they weren’t, but because Black truly believed Blackwater Park was going to be the next place Undead Fleshcrave surfaced in full effect, ready to put on a damaging stageshow that would flood the sleaze-ridden, seedy, netherworld that was Blackwater Park.
After fruitless days of driving and seeing nothing but intermittent undead and sparse bodies along the way indicating they were somehow on the right track, they arrived in Blackwater Park at dusk. It was as if the sadistic band members had taken some zombies with them from their coup in Noumena, letting them out as they journeyed to their next planned attack spot, most likely in places where there were a number of people to infect. They were far and few between, but they were there, lurking in spots along the road and in remote locations where quite clearly, no concert had been held to explain why they were there, which lead Subversion and co. to believe what they believed.
They arrived just as the nightcrawlers, the underworld folk, unsavoury residents, undesirables, the party people were beginning to crawl out of the woodwork, slithering from their daytime holes or donning their nocturnal masks to emerge and take their places, shoulder to shoulder with their fellow freaks.
They came in two cars, one the Tundra, another appropriated from the side parking lot of the ser
vice station. Suggestions were made about taking the police patrol cars, quickly vetoed by the heads of the group. Instead, Tempest discovered a row of hooks hung with keys upon them inside, behind the counter. Some of these were evidently keys to various parts of the service station, the facilities, toilets and so forth, but one set was quite obviously car keys. It didn’t take long for them to find it belonged to a dark blue Toyota Corolla sedan outside, a battered 93 model with plenty of mileage on the clock. Since it was the only vehicle of the handful present they could locate keys to, it would have to do. So they split the group into two, piled into the Tundra and the Corolla and made tracks for Blackwater Park.
With evening arriving in conjunction with them, there were two principal priorities. Finding somewhere to spend the night, and finding out the possibility, or likelihood of a death metal concert happening anytime soon.
Given the fact the streets were crawling with living breathing folk who might have looked insalubrious and shady, but were certainly in no state of zombification, it was a fair bet that even if Undead Fleshcrave were here, they hadn’t yet performed their Zombie Trigger ritual show.
With that taken into consideration, they sought accommodation first. Eschewing standard places such as motels, perhaps subconsciously shying away from this due to the debacle and tragedy at Noumena’s flea motel Neptune Towers, they searched for something irregular, more unexpected. If there was any chance of whispers floating back that those responsible for the deaths of three police officers were somewhere in Blackwater Park, regardless of the situation, they weren’t planning to be in obvious places to stay.
A curious establishment with the name Kathaarian caught the eyes of some, piqued attention, with a sign announcing ‘rooms available’, and the two vehicles, full of tired, agitated souls, pulled in off the busy street and into a secluded parking area, shrouded and well away from the street itself.
None of them were entirely sure what Kathaarian was, whether it was supposed to be a nightclub, a bar, a brothel, a hotel, motel, or what, for though it was in a stretch of town which housed all of the above, there was no definitive indication of its purpose, just a number of signs advertising drinks, music, rooms.