Zombie Bitches From Hell

by Campbell, Zoot

  “Looks recent,” Tim says, running his fingers over the swollen seam between the door and the rooftop.

  A familiar ripple of anxiety passes through my stomach as I inch back up to the balloon to retrieve our tools from the back storage compartment.

  “How recent?” I ask, returning with two crowbars; one for work – one for what possibly waits on the other side of the door.

  Tim takes his rifle and we both wedge the bars into the seam.

  “On three, Kent,” he grunts, digging his deep.

  “One,” I count, digging even deeper, “two… three.”

  The lock gives an inch or two as the door buckles in the middle but the door itself holds fast, even as Tim begins searching the seams for additional locks.

  I hear rustling inside and crouch, wedging my crowbar against a bolt soldered near the bottom corner of the rusty door. He finds a similar bolt at the top and, after five minutes, the door gives a few more inches with a yawning sigh, its seal finally breaking to reveal, through the crack, a dark and dingy stairwell just on the other side.

  “Smell that?” Tim asks knowingly, taking huge, gulping whiffs.

  I nod; the overpowering smell of stale sweat and canned food and the slightest trace of urine is unmistakable.

  “This building’s occupied,” I gasp, just as the door bursts fully open.

  I find a pistol pointed at my face, the hand holding it delicate but unwavering as I back up a quick two paces until the heel of my hiking boots hit the bottom rung of the landing pad stairs.

  The shooter has dark hair swept back in a thick, unkempt ponytail and quick, brown eyes that stare at me, unblinking.

  “What the fuck do you think you’re doing?” she spits and I avoid giving Tim a quick “eyes right” as she covers him just to the side of the open stairwell door.

  “It personally took me two weeks to seal that door shut,” she hisses, a tendril of black hair moving back and forth in front of her lips as she berates me. “Do you know how hard it is to spot weld without the proper equipment!”

  “I’m sorry,” I sputter, holding my gun up and out in a non-threatening gesture. “I didn’t think the building was occupied.”

  She finally blinks, if only to help her focus on the balloon tangled in the tower at my back.

  It should have been a quicker revelation for me. This bitch is a breathing, living, pussy-juiced, firm-titted human female.

  “Is that what I think it is?” she asks, gun never moving from the point where my heart lies buried somewhere between my pit-stained, army green T-shirt.

  “Don’t get excited, honey,” drawls Tim, kicking the door shut and slamming it into her wrist. “She’s not going anywhere until we get some gas in her.”

  I assume he doesn’t want to say anything about our asses being tangled and if we had all the propane in the world, we could not get outta here without some ingenuity.

  She curses as her pistol clatters to the rooftop with a marvelous thud.

  I pick it up and pocket it quickly, aiming my pistol at the heart now beating slightly more rapidly beneath a yellowed blouse with one sleeve missing.

  “Shit,” she says, more to herself than either of us. “That really hurt, you asshole.”

  Tim says, “One way to avoid getting a broken wrist is to stop pointing pistols at my buddy Kent here.”

  She rotates her wrist a few more times, making sure nothing’s broken, before extending her hand in Tim’s direction. I’m thinking that this girl has not been infected. No way. How is this possible?

  “That’s Kent,” she says, still a little huffy, “I’m Molly and you are…?”

  “Tim,” he says, not offering his hand.

  “Before answering any more friendly questions, how about explaining why you’re not trying to eat my dick and balls or anything else you could get your teeth into?” I ask.

  “You’re not my type?” she says with a smirk. Tim puts his gun to her head.

  “You’re not my type either, you fucking bitch. Now tell me why I shouldn’t blow your zombie-prone brains out right now,” he eloquently states.

  She cuts him a pissy look that indicates it’ll be “Timothy” for the duration.

  “My gun?” she asks me.

  “Answer first,” I say.

  “I don’t have an explanation. I was in the secretarial pool when the shit hit the fan. Every female in the building turned just like it said on TV and…I know you know how it all goes down. But I didn’t get the disease. I can’t explain it.”

  “Maybe you’re a genetic freak,” says Tim.

  “I wish it was that easy. But it’s not. These guys have kept me alive here for the sake of the future. They’re assuming that someday I’ll be valuable to science.”

  “I imagine you’re valuable for some other stuff as well,” Tim says.

  “Fuck you, you low-life hick,” she says.

  “I’m a low-life but only my father was a hick.” He shoves her and she cuts her hand on the bent door.

  “Fuck you!” she shouts rubbing the wound.

  “There’s got to be more to your story. Tell it,” I say.

  “Okay, okay. I’m a carrier. I don’t get the disease, but I can pass it on to other females. As far as anyone knows, which is not very far, I’m the only known specimen. So the guys here figure something in my genes or immune system is unique and if there’s any chance of curing this plague or whatever it is, I’m it. Though my guess is their motives are more financial than humanitarian.”

  “Why do they let you out of their sight then?”

  “Where am I gonna go? Down there with the undead? It’s safer here, sadly. So I wouldn’t be abusing the last best hope of humanity if I were you because the two of you are not worth the lint in my navel compared to me. Get it, fuckers? Now give me my gun back and let’s cut the palaver or whatever you assholes call conversation. I’m in no mood.”

  I glance at Tim, who shrugs; I give it back.

  She pockets it in an ill-fitting holster around her narrow waist; it clashes with her gray tweed skirt, which might have been longer once upon a time but now rests just above her knees and looks torn rather than hemmed

  She wears black sneakers with no socks, making her legs look even longer and more shapely than they might have in heels. This is sick, I think.

  Her face has the same hungry look we all have now; lean and tight, wary and unamused. Her lips are full without makeup, her eyes tired but luminous as she once again eyes the balloon on the roof.

  “She’s really out of gas?” she asks.

  As I pray Hadley and MG stay quiet and ducked out of sight (they’ll be alright for a bit in the balloon), I notice the slightest hint of Jersey upbringing in this girl’s accent.

  “Why do you think we crashed your little party here, sweetheart?” Tim asks, doing that cocky, creepy thing he always does when he’s in on a joke.

  Tim was married once and I’m sensing that the sudden confrontation with a “normal” woman is bringing back painful memories

  “It is a private party, isn’t it, sweetheart?” he goads her, inching closer.

  She stands her ground and, with a simple eye roll brings Tim back to earth. “You wish, Romeo. There’s about nineteen more of us just down that flight of stairs, and they’re not going to be very happy knowing you landed here with no fuel in your ride.”

  “What choice did we have?” I ask, admiring the steel in Molly’s jaw.

  “None, I suppose,” she sighs, leaning back against the railing behind her. “Still, it’s not the friendliest bunch, if you know what I mean.”

  “If you’re the welcoming committee,” Tim quips, “We know exactly what you mean.”

  Molly finally snorts, but only once she’s got the butt of her pistol familiarly in the palm of her hand.

  After re-barricading the door with one of our crowbars wedged into the gap, we follow her down the stairs. The smells of habitation get stronger with each step, but even given Molly’s expen
sive clothes and obvious pedigree, she doesn’t seem to notice – or mind – the stale frat house scent of moldy food cans and human waste.

  A fire flickers near an open window, the flames rising from the charred metal body of a reconditioned photocopier. It illuminates a handful of assorted shapes who linger on its fringes. Like all survivors they are pale and wan, hungry and distrustful. They eye us warily as we pass, making no move to follow us or, for that matter, fear us.

  They eye Molly with a look of either reverence or distrust. I can’t tell.

  Several more survivors line the other office windows, the rifles slung over their backs prominent in profile as they perform obvious sentry duty. The windows are mostly closed, the shades mostly open, giving the barren floor a spooky end of the world feel as the last of the day’s light bathes all in a savage orange glow.

  Molly gives us a quick tour, showing us the various cubicles in the back where the office dwellers have set up makeshift bunks, with curtains for comforters and rolled up motivational T-shirts from some long ago corporate pep rally serving as pillows.

  Along the wide windowsills sit solar lamps of various sizes, gradually growing brighter as the orange sky outside the towering plate glass windows eases from orange to a stunning gray.

  We hear male voices, loud ones, as Molly inches toward a hallway lined with metal shelves heaped with canned food and bottled water. I give Tim a wide-eyed look and she catches it, smirking as she warns, “Hands off, boys; unless you want to leave without ’em, that is.”

  Our pace slows as we face two armed guards, burly but surprisingly clean-shaven, standing on either side of a conference room door. Through the open blinds I can see three men sitting inside, not big but clearly powerful, smoking cigars and sipping carefully from rationed drabs off a scotch bottle encased in a locked box.

  Molly nods to the guards, who frisk us thoroughly. By the time they’re through, eight lethal weapons lie on a fold-up picnic table to their right. I sigh for show, but am secretly grateful that Tim is acting the gung ho. Thankfully they’ve missed a few surprises we’ve carefully hidden on ourselves.

  To diffuse the guards’ suspicions, Tim makes a big show of staring at the pile of weapons. “We’ll get them back, right?” he asks one of the guards.

  They just chuckle, while Molly stares at her feet a little guiltily.

  The air inside the inner sanctum is electric and intense; Tim eyes me cautiously as we both try to look aloof and unalarmed, not so easy to do when you’re unarmed, surrounded by strangers and your fucking balloon is stuck on the roof.

  The three men inside are clean and well-fed, unlike most of the office drones we’ve seen so far and, for that matter, Molly. They’re far from heavy, but they look fleshy and alive, unlike the rest of us walking skeletons who’ve been subsisting on starvation rations for at least the last few months. Each has a shiny new sidearm around his ample waist, each eyes us with suspicion bordering on distrust.

  Molly clears her throat and says to the blond man in the middle, “Ed, these two just landed on the roof; in a balloon!”

  Ed, a jowly type in rolled up work sleeves and a straining belt, grunts.

  “Interesting,” he says without regarding the men on either side of him, who glower at us a little less strongly with the news that we’ve brought a potential ticket out of their sanctuary. “Where do you two hail from?”

  Tim starts to open his mouth and I cut him off quickly; the less these guys know, the better. “Here and there,” I say cryptically.

  Next to me, Tim hazards a smile, then quickly buries it in his face.

  Ed’s not so forgiving. “I asked you a question,” he barks.

  “I gave you an answer,” I say.

  Ed nods, fleshy face beet red, and slides the pistol from its holster.

  Tim flinches, but stands tall, hands still on his hips, close enough to his belt buckle knife to use it if need be, but not obvious enough about the subtle movement to rouse the suspicion of the three men at the table.

  “Let me tell you how it works,” Ed explains, placing the gun on the table in front of him. “This isn’t a democracy. I’m in charge; Bill here is my second in command, and Frank is my other second in command. You know how we got into this room?”

  I’m figuring it’s a rhetorical question, but Ed is one of those self-important guys who actually expects an answer.

  Tim is only too happy to oblige: “While everyone else was sleeping?”

  Ed’s face glows another wave of crimson as his two lackeys slide their pistols on the table as well.

  Molly unsuccessfully tries to hide a snort.

  “We got here,” Ed glowers, “because we’re the fittest of the fit. That floor out beyond this door? It’s full of office drones with soft hands who haven’t left this floor since the latest invasion six weeks ago. We’re the ones who barricaded the door, who sealed off the elevator and who made it so those weaklings could survive.”

  As if to make up for the involuntary laugh at Tim’s joke, Molly rushes in to add, “Ed alone has nearly a dozen zombie kills under his belt.”

  Tim and I give each other a weary look.

  “Wow,” Tim says, inching forward as the three men look at their guns. “Twelve zombies? Well, nearly twelve zombies? That’s impressive. But I killed that many just trying to get to my dinner last night, and my partner killed that many just trying to eat his breakfast. So forgive us if we’re not signing up to be a part of your little tribe here.”

  Ed’s face is too red to blush any longer. He merely asks, “So if you don’t want to join us, what are you doing here?”

  “Our ride is almost out of gas and we’re tangled in a cell tower,” I interject. “Just a twist of fate, no pun intended. It’s that simple. We broke in, Molly here caught us, and she brought us straight to you. All we ask is a good night’s sleep and a point in the right direction to the nearest fuel supply. Some help with the tangle. After that, we’ll be out of your way and you’ll be free to rule over your little office fiefdom without any further threat.”

  At the mention of “fuel,” the three men share knowing glances. I ignore them and focus on Molly instead, who looks away as quickly as our eyes make contact.

  Tim gives me an arched eyebrow and says, “So, fellas, where is it?”

  “Where’s what?” asks Ed, muffling a smile.

  I shake my head and take another step forward.

  One of Ed’s minions – Bill or Frank, they look a lot alike – reaches for his gun. Without blinking, I slide the recently-oiled blade from its buckle on Tim’s waist and jam it into the soft web of flesh between the man’s thumb and forefinger.

  He howls obscenities before yanking his hand away, leaving a few drops of blood. By the time the three men look up again Tim has grabbed all of their pistols and is holding two while I hold the third.

  “Now, gentleman,” I say. “You were going to tell us about that fuel source?”

  I pick up the scotch, take a sip, which is warm on the back of my throat. The pistol is solid in my formerly empty holster. Tim puffs his new cigar eagerly while Molly offers us a tin of dried sardines and two packages of stale crackers, what amounts to a post-outbreak feast in this day and age.

  The men eye our meal eagerly but, old hands at sharing, Tim and I make quick work of divvying it up and devouring it before there’s so much as a drop of oil for them to consider. I want to eat it all but a little sharing might make the negotiations go smoother.

  “The propane is in a storage tank downstairs,” Ed is saying, still eyeing his gun almost as greedily as the empty sardine tin. As humbled as he is, Ed manages to give his henchman a knowing smile. “Of course, so is the toughest, most violent, most virulent horde of female zombies you’ve ever witnessed. And before you say you killed fifteen of them before breakfast this morning, let me assure you, this horde is smart.”

  I roll my eyes but Tim leans in and asks, “What makes you say that?”

  I know what he’s th
inking. While the bitches have certainly evolved they have grown in wisdom, leadership and violence.

  I’d been hoping the office building was free of bitches. Now, to hear they’re actually inside the building gives the mission a less than encouraging feel.

  I look at Tim and his glowering eyes tell me he’s feeling the same way.

  “What’s so fierce about this particular group of bitches?” he asks.

  Ed looks at him as if he’s been waiting to tell this story all night.

  “Let me tell you about our neighbors,” he begins, but only gets that far.

  “What, there are other survivors in this building?”

  Ed waves a hand away, a big hand, soft and blustery like the rest of him.

  I look to Molly in the awkward silence that follows. She confesses, “A group of cops found us not long after the outbreak. Their precinct had been run over, communication had been cut off, they figured Wall Street was still safe; they figured wrong. By the time they saw us, the horde had them cornered.”

  Her story, while finished, seems abbreviated. I push away my scotch and ask, “Cornered… where… exactly?”

  Ed sits forward in his seat as she says, “Two floors below us.”

  Tim shakes his head. “You’re kidding me. There’s a unit of cops, two floors below? So, why aren’t we talking to them? They can escort us to the fuel and, with enough of it, we can get out of here.”

  Molly shakes her head and starts to speak but Ed cuts her off with a bark. “We barricaded ourselves off from them when the horde caught up to them.”

  Tim opens his mouth to argue, but I nudge his foot. He quiets himself as I watch Molly biting her lip and eyeing her fingernails, already bitten to the nub.

  I stand abruptly, Tim quickly following suit.

  “Thanks for the grub, gentleman, but we’ve had a long day and it looks like we won’t be getting fuel anytime soon.”

  The admission brings a smile to Ed’s face. Instead of standing, he leans back in his chair. I smile and say, “Now, if Molly will be kind enough to show us to our quarters, we’ll spend the night thinking of a Plan B.”

  Ed looks to his two partners before saying, “Good luck with that, Kent. We’ll give you to the end of the week, and then I’m afraid we’ll have to ask you to leave. Our resources are limited, obviously, and since we didn’t invite you here, well… I’m sure you understand.”