Zombie Bitches From Hell

by Campbell, Zoot

  Taking up the rear, I give up on the idea of escaping tonight and follow Tim into the enclosed circular area, around which the grunts of the Camp have erected “bleachers” of a sort; six-feet wooden platforms on top of which the entire camp sits in a smattering of broken, leaning, rusty picnic chairs.

  Most stand anyway, leaning against rickety metal railing as they look down into a sandy pit about as big as half a high school football field. I follow Tim up a warped flight of stairs to stand at the edge of one raised platform, watching as Rex wedges his way to the best seat in the house directly in the middle of the nearest platform.

  The feeling in the air reminds me of a prize fight; men hungry, desperate even, for violence. So hungry they can’t wait for the main event; mini-fights break out across the platform as burly Aryans tussle and scrap for the best remaining seats.

  I steer clear of the maddening crowd, throat constricting with the threat of real violence erupting about me, on me, at any moment. Fires flicker above the grandstands as the smell of burning diesel oil fills the air with its pungent stench. Loud rock music bellows from old-fashioned speakers lashed to high beams along the length of the grandstands.

  Tim nudges me and asks nervously, “Waddya think’s going on?”

  “I don’t know, Tim,” I mumble as the crowd around us grows more violent with each passing moment.

  “Looks like some kind of show or something,” he says.

  Off to the side of the walkway, two guys with Confederate flags sewn onto the seats of their coveralls are lasciviously giggling and guffawing at someone tied to a picnic table in front of them.

  “Let’s check it out,” says Tim.

  “Oh, fuck it all, Tim. Can’t we just figure what the hell this is all about and then get outta here?” I say.

  But it’s too much for Tim resist; he is a man with nothing to lose. We walk over to the table and there is the most beautiful zombie bitch we’ve ever seen. Naked as a jaybird as these fucking redneck hillbillies would say. She’s dark haired with perfect, real tits. Of course, the eyes are that putrid milky white with the needle hole pupils but when she was alive, she was a show stopper. One of the grunts is pinching her nipple really hard and she’s just staring at him, her mouth wide open with two rows of perfect teeth. She grunting and I notice a funky smell in the air. The other grunt is saying, “Looky here,” to Tim as he points at her crotch. They’ve inserted a soldering iron in her snatch and the fucking thing is plugged in and smoke is coming out. For a minute I’m thinking this looks like a miniature forest fire for some kid’s train set, but the smell is burning meat or over-cooked tuna casserole. Her pussy is literally sizzling and popping, pushing out puffs of dark smoke.

  “Couldn’t do ya when I knew ya, Suzie, baby. You was all high and mighty, wasn’t’ ya?” says a grunt. “Yer a hot one now! Ha!” They laugh till they can’t stand it no more. Neither can I.

  “Tim. If you don’t walk away from this, you can stay here forever, for all the fuck I care,” I say as I turn and weave my way through the crowd.

  Tim catches up. “Sorry, Cap’n. Just checkin’ on the sideshow,” he says.

  “This is going to be something fucked up,” I tell him quietly. “Look at the door across the way. And the weapons leaning up against the walls down there. If I’m not mistaken, Tim, this looks like some kind of arena.”

  Tim winces, his pale green eyes losing themselves in folds of wrinkled flesh as he peers closer at the garage-style door built into the ground floor. I point out the chainsaw, the axe handle and the ninja sword resting carefully along wooden pegs at shoulder-height above the ground.

  “Arena?” Tim whispers, scratching his scruffy red beard. “What, you mean like some kind of Thunderdome or something?”

  I look into his eyes and nod: “Exactly.”

  I drift closer to the railing, sliding in between two massive skinheads swilling stale beer out of dirty plastic cups. They barely notice me as I stand at the edge, peering down into the dirt field that lies at our feet.

  There are several garage doors down there, now that I can see more clearly. I lift my feet up and tap gently on the wooden planks beneath my skuzzy work boots; the floor feels hollow and, if I’m not mistaken, we’re standing above another garage door or two.

  More weapons line the walls, from axes to spears to sledgehammers to butcher knives. Many are crusted with blood, as are the walls that surround the circular dirt field. I notice movement behind the homemade “window” carved into the nearest garage style door and see a dark, male face peering out; he looks petrified.

  I swallow dryly and drift back to where Tim leans against the back railing. He looks at me with those fearful eyes, so uncertain, his skin sallow beneath his baggy shirt.

  “I don’t like the looks of this,” he whines as I urge him with my eyes to keep his voice down. “What are they doin’ down there?”

  I open my mouth to answer when static interrupts the guitar solo of “Freebird” and Rex’s voice barks out a healthy, “Welcome to the Fuck You Arena! Tonight we have two of our finest fighters, set to square off with the loveliest ladies in camp. But enough of this foreplay, fellas; let’s get ready to rrrrruuuuuuummmmmmbbbbbbbllllle!”

  Cheers of moronic macho delight fill the air as shit kicker rock continues to blare in the background. Rex steps onto a small wooden platform shaped like the bow of a ship, which dangles precariously over the dry, dusty ground under his massive weight.

  “Our first contestant is last week’s champion, our dark-complected friend known simply as Buckwheat!”

  The crowd roars as Tim and I and the rest of the audience inch forward, crowding for space around the rusty, slimy railing. A garage door across the field cranks slowly up and two muscular skinheads yank a tall black man out from the darkened recesses under the walkway and throw him into the arena. They quickly retreat as he turns and bangs helplessly against the closing door.

  The crowd taunts him now, openly harassing him and tossing plastic cups at his head. He avoids the walls, massive chest bare and clad only in too-tight cargo pants, no socks or shoes.

  His hair is matted and his eyes furious as he reaches quickly for an axe handle and strides to the middle of the field. His chest is scarred with long, pale swatches of missing skin.

  His eyes are wild with rage as the crowd taunts him with racial slurs; he flicks them off with his free hand while swinging the axe handle furiously with another. The vengeful act whips the crowd into a lather of crying, cursing, jaunts and jeers and applause as the crap music reaches its crescendo.

  After a blistering guitar solo Rex breaks in and spits, “Now, welcome to the stage that feisty little beauty known as Bambi!”

  I feel a mild vibration beneath my feet and the man known only as Buckwheat looks in our general direction; his eyes grow large and he backs away, hoisting the axe handle with both hands now as in a split-second a furious bitch launches herself at him, mid-field.

  Bambi is lithe and limber and dressed in tight, clingy yoga pants that read “Juicy” over her ample backside. She’s bare-chested, tits bouncing firmly with every jog step she takes. Her feet are encased in shiny pink running shoes, which kick up tiny puffs of dust as she races to attack Buckwheat.

  She reaches Buckwheat in seconds, fearlessly launching herself at him with a speed that is nearly breathtaking, almost surreal. Buckwheat, big as he is, falls back, stumbling as she tears at his hair with bent fingers and fierce nails. Blood spurts onto the ground, making a long, wet streak as at last Buckwheat manages to slide his axe handle between him and Bambi. He literally has to pry her off and down onto the dirt.

  He wastes no time, kicking her in the ribs and forcing her at least six feet across the grainy gray sand. She barely flinches, leaping up and flying at him again, claws outstretched, face a mask of rage and hunger, but he is already swinging the axe handle and it connects with her stomach, sending her reeling; but not for long.

  They trade blows, but he is human – and
flawed. He is strong but slow; she is maniacally rageful and so damn quick. Three minutes and his cargo shorts are in tatters and splattered with blood, all of it his own, and everywhere he steps blood falls onto the sand in thick, wet clumps.

  Still he manages to hold her off with the bloody end of his axe handle and she circles him warily, looking to wear him down. The crowd grows restless, eager for a violent kill and Rex readily responds.

  “That Buckwheat is too damn good!” he opines over the grainy loudspeaker, whipping the crowd into an instant lather. “Let’s introduce some new blood! Gentleman, I give you Sushi-Boy, our newest fighter in Zombie Fight Night!”

  The crowd roars as a medium-sized Asian man is forced from yet another grumbling garage door and into the bloody arena. Buckwheat barely turns but Bambi senses an opportunity and sprints for the new guy before he can reach for the nearest chainsaw.

  He sees her, panics and runs. The crowd boos, pelting his half-naked body with plastic cups and cigarette butts and chicken legs as he stumbles but retains his balance as he finally reaches for an axe from the wall of weapons.

  Bambi is right on his tail but out of nowhere Buckwheat tackles her with a mighty crunching sound, making the crowd go wild and relieving me as I watch Sushi-Boy scramble away to relative safety.

  He catches his breath, axe handle in the dirt, hands on knees, before plodding back to help Buckwheat. By now Bambi is all over the larger man, tearing at his torn shoulders, yanking at his bloody biceps when Sushi-Boy approaches.

  She senses fresh meat and springs from Buckwheat, leaving him sprawled in the dirt, grown muddy with blood as he shakes his head and struggles to his feet. Sushi-Boy approaches but is given pause by a ravenous Bambi, literally licking her lips of the bigger man’s blood as Sushi-Boy stands, trembling, with the axe in hand.

  The crowd stills, realizing what’s about to happen. It’s like every skinhead in the stands knows that Sushi-Boy is doomed, outmatched, even before he starts. The man is thin and obviously in shape, but his face is gentle and passive; he’s no match for this warrior woman with the glazed eyes and bloody claws at the end of each finger.

  It would be like me standing down there, holding an axe, wondering if I’m getting ready to use the right end. Some warriors are born, others are made; and some men are never meant to draw blood.

  Bambi inches forward, fakes left to draw Sushi-Boy into committing with a massive swipe of his axe and, once she’s free of it, she dips in right and slashes at his face, ripping off flesh down to the bone.

  Sushi-Boy howls and drops to his knees, hands trembling and rushing to stem the tide of blood spurting from the exposed flesh just below his nose. Bambi gnaws on the thick flap of skin, licking her lips before crouching to bite into his neck, growing more rabid with each ounce of blood and tearing back and forth like a bulldog into a throw pillow; Sushi-Boy goes limp and pale, his body and the sand beneath him drenched with blood as Bambi rips him limb from limb.

  Her tits are slick with blood, her neck awash in gore as she pauses to relieve Sushi-Boy of his lower jaw with a swift, sickening “thwock” sound, like your Uncle Mort stepping on Puddy Tat road kill.

  She yanks down his pants and gobbles his dick and balls as the crowd cheers and whoops like a bunch of fucking rednecks, which they are, at a conservative republican rally, which they are not. She is so intent on devouring Sushi-Boy limb by limb that she ignores Buckwheat, who after creeping up on her finally has the drop until some skinhead on the audience screams, “Look out, you bitch!”

  Bambi hears Buckwheat and ducks. Buckwheat swings and misses and is so intent he loses his balance, falling in the muddy dirt at Bambi’s feet. She licks her lip as he writhes on the floor, desperate to rise from the muck and mud, hands gripping the soft, wet, bloody sand as Bambi launches herself at another tasty human morsel.

  At the last minute his hand finds Sushi-Boy’s fallen axe; he grabs it, whips it around and slams it into Bambi’s neck. It sinks halfway in, giving her a crooked, bent expression as she lands with a shudder to the ground. Still writhing, she wails and scratches as Buckwheat stands, yanks out the axe and methodically chops her to bits.

  The crowd roars, then boos, until at last Rex breathes heavily into the microphone and barks, “Sorry, Buckwheat; the crowd has spoken. Looks like one bitch isn’t enough for you, so… let’s double the fun!”

  With that, two garage doors open, revealing two starving zombies fresh on the scent of drawn blood. Buckwheat wisely crouches near Sushi-Boy’s body, standing behind the crumpled comrade as the zombies tear toward the living man only to be distracted by the bloody remains of poor Sushi-Boy.

  As the zombies crouch to feast on fresh meat Buckwheat inches closer to the wall of weapons, grabbing the nearest chainsaw and clinging to a garage door as if for protection.

  But it’s not protection he seeks. Instead, Buckwheat ignores the feasting zombies, focusing instead on the nearest garage door. A whiff of apprehension flutters to the crowd and my gut feels funny.

  Cheers turn to jeers as I yank Tim back away from the railing, our precious places quickly filled in by curious skinheads, all flinging cups down at Buckwheat. I drag Tim down the rickety steps and pass by just as the bloodied warrior jams the chainsaw blade into the garage door in a fire of sparks and slices through the lock.

  Shots ring out, ricocheting off the flimsy tin door as it flies up to reveal a dozen hungry, ravenous zombies who don’t rush toward Buckwheat, who don’t mind the bullets whizzing past their heads, who don’t rush the stands but who instinctively begin climbing the struts attached to the nearest gun tower directly above.

  “What are they doin’?” Tim asks as we hit the ground running.

  “I think they’re trying to escape,” I grunt, sprinting for Rex’s tent where he’d casually tossed his taser after silencing Bambi less than an hour earlier. I grab it and crouch toward the main gate.

  The siren is wailing again, shots ringing out, pandemonium raging as I crouch behind Rex’s tent to watch six bitches storm and silence the two skinheads in the gun tower. Even from the ground I can see blood coat the struts holding it up, and then the excitement as the female zombies begin tossing body parts to their partners down below.

  The stands are clearing now, skinheads racing around and I spot Rex charging for his tent.

  Tim opens his mouth to draw Rex’s attention but I silence him, yanking him down behind an oil drum as the camp leader storms into his tent and emerges seconds later with a rifle in each hand.

  His face is a hard mask, sweat beading at his temples, mottled blood still thick across the gash left by Bambi.

  Another skinhead, one of the motley crew who’d dined with us earlier, storms up and Rex literally throws a rifle at him. “Stay close,” Rex barks. “Those bitches have finally figured out how to get out of here—”

  A loud smashing interrupts him as both men – plus Tim and I – turn to see the guard tower toppling beneath the weight of at least a dozen raging, smashing, slashing zombies.

  “Shit,” Rex barks. “Those bitches ain’t trying to get out, they’re letting more zombies in!”

  A horde of bitches that have obviously been milling around outside the camp for God knows how long breach the gaping hole left by the toppled sentry tower. Rex’s second in command unleashes a volley of gunfire at the streaming army as Tim stands, stumbling forward and calling out “Rex! Rex!” as if the skinhead leader can protect him.

  Turning on his heel, Rex fires three slugs at Tim without flinching. I crouch behind the oil drum, staring in disbelief as Rex’s beady eyes zero in on me. He grins, mouth agape and full of those rotten teeth, aiming at the top of my head when Buffy emerges from the maddening crowd, eyes red with rage and leaping toward his tattooed throat, tearing out a fist-size chunk and bathing in the stream of blood jutting from his jugular as if it were shower water.

  While she’s occupied I grab Rex’s discarded rifle, climb into the oil drum and slide the top over. I crouch
into a ball, clutching the gun, waiting for the cheerleader zombie to remember me, listening as feet stumble and fall, crack and bleed all around me, the sounds of the infestation brutal and damning.

  I peer between the heavy lid of the drum and blink at the scope of the violence spread out before me; it’s like mini-Armageddon, a hundred skinheads overrun by twice as many undead, all voracious in appetite and ruthless in their level of violence.

  Skinheads scream like little girls as the bitches tear them apart, leaving the leftovers for their comrades, who shuffle along after the fact and gnaw the fleshy bones clean.

  It takes less than an hour for the women to completely consume the skinhead camp. My feet bathed in heating oil, I am spared merely because the diesel fumes that threaten to overpower me also mask the sweat, the stench, the fear that would otherwise have drawn them straight to my hiding place like a hound dog to a escaped convict.

  I don’t know which is worse; the violence of the infestation or the eeriness of its aftermath. To watch these dead women, sated and fat, stumble around appreciatively, bumping into each other, licking their lips, already sniffing for the next meal, is to watch the planet’s future dissolve like Alka-Seltzer in a glass of warm water. Plop plop fizz fizz, we’re fucked.

  The food supply exhausted, the bones clean, the skinheads decimated down to the last femur and knucklebone, the zombies begin shuffling off, one by one, led by two blondes in the direction of the next meal.

  The Massachusetts Berkshire countryside provides them plenty of cover as they move westward from the camp, not so much growling as mewling.

  It takes many more hours for the bitches to make their exit than it did to waste the entire camp, and only when it is dark and the grounds have been quiet for at least two hours do I dare slide off the top from the oil drum and slip silently out.