Undead Fleshcrave: The Zombie Trigger

by Goforth, Jim

  “Sure thing,” Damn, looks like she is all ready to settle down for a lengthy drinking session. Which suits me just fine. Can’t think of anywhere else I’d rather be. Well, actually I can, but with present company still present…

  Seth half stumbled away from the booth awkwardly, hoping he didn’t come off as too intoxicated after just one mixed drink, after all, he was the guy who’d been slugging the stuff straight from his secret flask for the last week.

  On one hand he was reluctant to leave her there all by herself in the corner booth with this place full of unknown weirdos, drunks, freaks, and all sorts of unsavoury characters, but on the other, nor did he like the idea of her having to struggle through the sweaty mass to get to the bar, putting herself directly in view of them all. Besides, if the booth hadn’t really been seen and claimed, and thus far managed to stay that way until they’d come across it, chances were she might not even be noticed there. Hopefully. Anyway, if they both went to the bar together it was a sure bet they would lose their private little seats and he did say he was going to get the next drinks. She’d been in here a lot longer than he had. Keeping all the lechers and inebriated perverts away with her ‘don’t fuck with me stare’ and unapproachable keep clear aura.

  All he had to do was get the jug and then nobody would need go anywhere for a little while. Maybe he should grab a couple of jugs. Then the only problem would be having to make regular bathroom trips. Once he’d broken the seal, as was always the case when he started drinking at clubs and bars like this, he found himself making bathroom breaks as regular as clockwork.

  As he made his way back from the bar though, jug eventually obtained after what felt like an eternity waiting for service―no Blondie this time, stuck with the token guy on shift, making sure he requested quality bourbon, none of the house firewater—he saw, long before he even arrived at his and Scarlett’s booth, that it was no longer exclusively his and Scarlett’s booth.

  There were two others now occupying it with her, one sitting next to her and the other opposite her in the place formerly held by Seth. Metalheads, both of them, by the looks of it. Big guys too, eerily reminiscent of Eric Barron, one with long dirty brown hair, the other with a shaved head and a long goatee in a braid, both of them wearing black hoodies. The one next to Scarlett had a Dismember logo on his top, but Seth couldn’t tell what motif was on the shirt of the skinhead opposite.

  Scarlett looked to be engaged in conversation with them, immediately plunging a host of unwelcome thoughts into Seth’s mind.

  Had they been waiting for him to vacate the premises before deciding to capitalise on the situation, sliding in to make themselves welcome?

  Had she perhaps been waiting for the opportunity to ditch him and invite them over? Maybe she’d met them beforehand in the time she’d spent in here before he arrived and was intending to buy drinks for everyone when Seth appeared? Possibly waving them away to come back later at a more convenient time?

  That didn’t really seem plausible or likely, but Seth was just about at the point where he would believe anything was possible. After all, he’d already seen enough in recent times that he never would have conceived happening ever, so this wasn’t out of the question.

  The good feelings he’d managed to cultivate while sitting in that cosy little booth in the uplifting company of the scintillating Scarlett, despite some of the bad memories dredged up during conversation, evaporated, withering up and were supplanted by other more resentful and odious sensations.

  Nonetheless, he continued his course over to the booth, sliding the jug and the couple of glasses he’d obtained from the bar down onto the table. All three sets of eyes glanced up at him, Skinhead with a bit of a scornful sneer, Dismember with a pleasant enough expression.

  “Hey, Seth, you’re back. Meet Tre and Ralph. They have something in common with us.”

  “Hey,” Seth nodded curtly and took the last available space, the sliver of lounge alongside Skinhead-Ralph―although the bulky man didn’t bother moving over any further to allow more space. “Aside from our previously private booth, what would that be?”

  “They are on the bill for the gig tomorrow.”

  “Is that so?” Seth tried to remain aloof, but the information was crucial. More to the point, was the actual organiser of the gig around? Members of other bands perhaps? Undead Fleshcrave maybe? His heart rate ramped up a few notches and he briefly wished he’d been one of those who ended up with a handgun rather than a shotgun. He wondered if Scarlett was packing her pistol.

  Imagine if all the members of the zombie making death metal squadron were in here somewhere…

  Maybe they could end this tonight. Catch them by surprise and shoot the lot of them. That made him wish even more that he was packing a handgun as well; Scarlett wouldn’t be able to plug them all before someone tried to stop her. Or the Sentinels did.

  Seth hadn’t seen any of those guys around, he sure hadn’t recognised anybody seen in the bar so far as belonging to Undead Fleshcrave.

  “Yeah,” Skinhead said. “We’re playing. We’ll be tearing shit up, best believe that.”

  “Really?” Seth tried to inject enthusiasm into his voice, but his mind was mostly elsewhere.

  “That’s right, bud. Biblebasher don’t fuck around.”

  “Biblebasher?” Seth echoed in disbelief.

  “Too fucking right. You don’t know the song, boy?”

  “Of course I know the song,” Seth replied. “Pretty sure Deicide meant it as a stab at Christianity. Naming your band after it makes it sound as though you’re a group of religious zealots.” He almost added undeath metal, in a parody of the Christian take on black metal with their unblack metal interpretation, then refrained from that spot of wit. Undeath wasn’t quite as funny, in reality, considering what he and Scarlett both knew of the band that would be sharing the stage with Biblebasher. And the faux band that he was apparently a part of.

  “Yeah? You don’t know shit, boy.” Ralph snorted and drained his pitcher of beer.

  “What’s your band called?” Tre said more conversationally, mostly aiming his query at Scarlett.

  “Plaguewielder,” she replied without hesitation, not missing a beat.

  “Cool,” Tre nodded with approval, while Ralph snorted again, wrinkling his nose.

  Another of those purists of the mindset that black and death metal shouldn’t mix, Seth thought, driving more similarities to the likes of Eric Barron into his silent assessment of the duo, especially Ralph. Clearly he was aware that Scarlett and Seth’s ‘band’ had drawn their moniker from a Darkthrone album title, and he didn’t dig it.

  Tre was cool with it, even interested, though Seth could see a mile away that his fascination was more with Scarlett than any actual band they might have been in.

  “So, you two are both in it, hey? What do you do? Black metal, I’m guessing? Seems like an odd choice to be on this line up.”

  “We play a little of both, actually,” Scarlett continued, improvising with ease. “We’re more inspired by the Soulside Journey part of Darkthrone, but of course Plaguewielder was a better sounding name.”

  All fabrications of course, bar the fact that Plaguewielder was a better name. All of those who’d come from Armada were into the black metal side of the Norwegian duo, but right here for the purpose of the conversation and why they would be sharing the bill with exclusively death metal outfits, picking the DM album as influential for them.

  “And you’re in the band?” Tre raised his eyebrows in great interest, and Scarlett had that one covered as well.

  “I’m the vocalist, Seth is on guitars.”

  “Damn, I look forward to your set,” Tre grinned and the lascivious expression which slithered, barely veiled beneath that, altered Seth’s assessment of him being the better of the two here at the table. “You are smoking hot.”

  “Thanks,” Scarlett said simply, and while Seth seethed illogically, she poured herself a glass from the jug of bourbon.

/>   “Here, let me grab one of those too,” Ralph suddenly interjected and barely before she’d finished with hers, he’d appropriated the jug in a big meaty paw with skulls tattooed on the back of them and sloshed a healthy measure into his beer glass.

  Seth started to object, then just scowled and stared deep into the mystical wonders of his own drink. The words of Scarlett were carrying him off in other tangents, namely her assertion that she was going to be the singer in the mythical Plaguewielder. He really had no idea how Black was intending to run this bizarre mission in which he, Dax, and Mark, and now, apparently Scarlett, were to act as a band on the Undead Fleshcrave bill, or how it was supposed to work, but, in any case, she’d thrown her hat into the ring as being part of it. Maybe she knew more than he did, which would indicate why she was casting herself as part of the band. Obviously the Sentinels hadn’t clapped eyes on her yet, possibly only the Subversion trio.

  As the conversation progressed, Scarlett pulled pieces adeptly from the unwitting duo with aplomb, deriving the location of the venue without giving away any reason why she and Seth didn’t know it, discovering the Biblebasher crew were locals, but merely chose to drink at Kathaarian, usually with the blessing of Jazmyn. Aside from these important facets, Seth also concluded that none of Undead Fleshcrave were present in the Kathaarian bar. Meaning there would be no early surprise ends to the daunting mission looming tomorrow. D-day. The day they needed to end this before Global Death dropped another undead nail into the coffin of civilization.

  Tre spilled information, often without being prodded for it, while Ralph just dropped in suggestive remarks that increased in intensity the more they imbibed, and while Tre was good enough to buy a few rounds of drinks at infrequent intervals, not once did the big bald goateed Biblebasher rise from his lounge, not even apparently needing to make use of the facilities.

  Seth did need to use the facilities. Badly. So desperately he figured his back teeth were floating. While Scarlett and Tre did the lion’s share of carrying the conversation, Seth drank more, feeling more hostility, helpless jealousy, and anger brew up inside him, the buoyant feelings he’d felt much earlier long since departed.

  Under no circumstances did he want to stand and seek out the toilet, regardless of his almost urgent need to drain the main vein. The last thing he wanted was to leave Scarlett here with these two drunk lechers, with terrible thoughts that anything could happen. Could and probably would. And if she was into Tre in any way, maybe Seth would return from a bathroom trip to find himself abandoned. Maybe even if she wasn’t into him.

  The feeling was almost excruciating.

  Eventually, he knew he could no longer hold on. If he stupidly elected to do so, he would be pissing himself right here at the booth and sitting in a puddle of piss, splashing all over the floor. The notion of that happening mortified him, managed to overwhelm the horrible suggestions infiltrating his brain as to what might occur if he were to leave Scarlett alone. But he couldn’t help it. He’d been fighting the feeling so long that even tying a knot in his penis wouldn’t save him, the building geyser of urine would blow his nether regions apart like a water hose switched off at the nozzle but still pouring water out of the tap.

  “Gotta go shake hands with royalty,” he announced to a mixed round of reactions. Scarlett laughed, Tre just shook his head and groaned, something of a grimace crossing his features, though not before a malicious spark of satisfaction glinted in his eyes. Ralph just grunted and took another prolonged slug of his drink—again, from a jug of bourbon bought by anybody but himself―before mostly ignoring Seth.

  Without any real clue where he was going, Seth vacated the booth, tossing a hasty glance backwards. He knew he wasn’t mistaken in thinking as soon as he’d vanished, Tre slid his body closer to Scarlett, so close, in fact, that she was virtually wedged in the corner, pushed up against the back wall essentially. There was absolutely jackshit he could do about it, short of running back and waving his dick in the faces of Tre and Ralph and showering them in an unpleasant spray of piss. The mere suggestion of that hopeless idea almost made him burst out laughing, and consequently burst out in a hot splash in his jeans, but in reality there was nothing remotely funny.

  He stumbled off on a desperate search for the facilities, hoping to find it quickly and minimise the time away from what seemed like a dream booth, but had instead turned out to be an island now shared by lecherous pirates.

  Finding the toilet was easier than he expected it to be; the Kathaarian bar was big and spacious, though crowded, but it wasn’t a maze or a rabbit warren of rooms, so he stumbled over a hallway leading to both men and women’s restrooms almost immediately. Thankfully. Or he would have been saturating the crotch of his jeans in a way that wouldn’t have looked like some irate female dumped a drink in his lap.

  It wasn’t as packed out in there, though a host of dubious looking miscreants loitered inside and the odd blue light used inside jarred his head as he came in. A couple of big burly biker sorts in sleeveless denim vests standing near the row of sinks, perhaps discussing something of a drug deal, tossed fleeting glances at him as he barrelled in, skittering on the tiles of the floor.

  It was wet with water, spilled drinks from anyone inane enough to bring any into the toilets, as well as careless piss, and in his rush to find a spot to relieve himself Seth almost went ass up on it all. The urinal was playing host to a whole line of folk, as if they’d all come in together like a bunch of giggling teenage girls. Seth groaned until he spied a vacant cubicle and almost beside himself, he dashed into it, flinging up the seat, getting his jeans unzipped just in time, before unleashing a torrent that would have shamed a bull elephant.

  As he splashed with a splatter that sounded deafening, he seethed over the intrusion by the Biblebashers. Not only had it cruelled any further time alone with Scarlett, but it thwarted all the questions of importance he’d wanted to ask her regarding how she ended up being involved with the whole Subversion zombie-maker hunting gig and many other things. Now those questions were being supplanted, or at least joined, by other pressing queries which had risen since she’d spoken about herself being part of the imaginary band Plaguewielder. If Seth was the guitarist of that outfit, since he was prominently lacking any guitar to tote on stage, if it came to that, did that actually mean that he would get to lay his fingers upon the beautiful Mother North? And his friends, playing their roles as the other musicians, therefore need to keep up appearances with the Blizzard Beast and the Funeral/Freezing Moons?

  How else would they be able to perpetuate the charade without instruments? They would need to be carrying the Subversion instrument weapons, which, Seth supposed, probably were playable as actual musical implements. A buzz of genuine excitement sparked through him and his stream went a little erratic as he contemplated the possibility of holding that lethal beauty of Black’s in his own hands, not ripping tremolo riffs out of it, but instead ripping off zombie heads with it. Better yet, the ultimate prize, cleaving SamEdi’s skull in two.

  He recalled the deadly power of Blizzard wielding the Blizzard Beast back in Noumena and could just imagine what destruction Mother North was capable of.

  Did he really dare hope that he and his friends—particularly the haphazard, but apparently happy to kill zombies soul that was Dax―would be entrusted with such items?

  Thinking along those lines managed to temporarily curb the other less pleasant thoughts plaguing him, but as he came back out of the bathroom and started off down the hall, an uproar of commotion carried down it, something of upheaval clearly in occurrence out there in the bar.

  His panicked fearful cogitations immediately rushed back with force and he broke into a run.

  CHAPTER TWENTY SIX-DEEDS OF FLESH

  The hallway from the men’s room felt like it had grown in length between him entering it and leaving, it seemed to be taking forever for him to charge along it towards whatever unknown source of mayhem fuelled the noise of confusion down there. He kne
w it revolved around Scarlett, he just knew that his leaving the table acted as catalyst for those Biblebasher fucks to try something on.

  Heart thundering, he was mere metres from being propelled from the mouth of the corridor and into whatever cacophony was in prevalence out there when a figure shot at him from the side, cannoning into him with a pair of arms wrapping around him, bearing him backwards into an alcove off to the side.

  “What the…?”

  “Shh!” Hissed a quiet voice. “It’s me, Scarlett!”

  “What? Scarlett? What happened out there?”

  “I’ll tell you in a sec. After we find a way out of here!”

  “Christ, what did…I thought those death heads were going to…”

  “They did. Well, they tried. Unfortunately for them, I’ve had a bad day for fucksticks trying to fuck me. So as a result, one of them is wearing a jug as a hat and the other has a big mouthful of ashtray.”

  “Fucking hell! I knew those Neanderthals were going to try something as soon as I was out of the picture.”

  “So did I. I was a little surprised they did it so brazenly, but well, let’s just say I was ready for it to happen.”

  “What did they do?” Seth wondered. “So sorry I had to get up and go right then, I was trying hard not to move at all, knowing they were up to something, but I was busting so bad my eyeballs were turning yellow.”

  “Never mind, point is, they’re not in much of a state to do anything for a while anyway. What’s down that way?” She gestured down the hallway, towards the separate men, women and handicapped toilets.

  “Just the toilets,” Seth told her. “I didn’t see any other doors, but to be honest, I wasn’t paying a fuckload of attention to anything but where I needed to go.”

  Right now, most of his attention was captivated by the acknowledgement that Scarlett was still holding him in an embrace of sorts, her body crushed up to his, full firm breasts pressing against his chest. She smelled wonderful, even with a mingled aroma of tobacco and bourbon lurking amongst an intoxicatingly heady perfume. He could have stayed here for quite a while, but acknowledged they didn’t have a while.