Zombie Bitches From Hell

by Campbell, Zoot

  The bitch with the bottle grabs a cup and robotically goes to the guy on the left of the three. She signals one of his guards who takes the cup from her and kneels down beside the table and partly under it. I see then that the guy’s dick is hanging through a hole in the table. She places the cup under his dick while the first one inserts the long neck into his ass. He groans but I can see he is too weak and too tied down with rope and duct tape to move. She inserts the neck straight down and then tilts it backward toward his feet slowly, working his prostate. I’ve heard of this technique of course, hear it makes it harder to resist if its worked the right way . The kneeling bitch starts pulling his dick like she’s milking a cow and in maybe fifteen seconds she has milked him of his cum in small ropey squirts while he moans, perhaps a little more out of pain than ecstasy.

  The cup is brought over to Jen, but as she begins to look at it, an explosion rocks the place. Dust falls from the ceiling. Then another. The bitches begin to run around madly, with their insane chittering teeth and grunting, a few vomiting the blackish ooze. Jen looks at me and slaps me so hard I fall to the floor almost unconscious.

  “What the fuck,” I say looking up at her as sheet raises her booted foot as if to crush my skull. I roll out of the way and it comes smashing down where my head used to be.

  “Jen, it’s me. I didn’t do anything,” I plead. Another explosion rocks the place and I can see search beams glistening through newly opened chinks in the walls and ceiling.

  “I didn’t do anything. I don’t know what’s going on. I swear,” I say.

  “You brought them here, you fucker. You brought them here.”

  “Believe me, I didn’t.”

  She reaches for a piece of pipe that has fallen from the ceiling but I’m too fast. I leap for the hatch door that got me here and I’m running down the drain pipe as fast as I can crouched over. There are bitches ahead of me running in the same direction. A light is focused on the end of the drain; I can see it ahead. Bitches are running out and being mowed down by rapid arms fire. Fuck, I’m thinking. I turn around and Jen and two bitches are chasing me. If I run out, I’m dead. If I stay, I’m dead. Another explosion rocks the pipe and sand sifts through the seams like small waterfalls. I can hear distant gunfire, shouts, screams, the grunting of the killing zombie bitches, me calling to each other and the repetitive sounds of explosions.

  I stop at the mouth of the drain pipe and turn around to face Jen.

  “You gotta believe me,” I yell at her. “I love you.”

  “Fuck you,” she yells and runs at me faster than I’ve ever seen a zombie run. She has the pipe in her hand coming at me like a knight on a horse with a lance. Instead of backing away or running, which would take me into the fire storm outside, I crouch low as she takes a plunge at me and trip her up. The other bitches stop in their tracks as they see their queen go down. I get on top of her and pin her shoulders to the floor of the drain pipe.

  “Fuck you and your kind to hell,” she screams, spitting the black ooze onto my face and almost blinding me.

  I look in her yes, remember who she was, the times we had, wanting so much to kiss her and hold her, but knowing in my heart this is not that Jen. This thing is something using Jen’s body and brain, but it sure as shit isn’t my girl. “Sorry, you fucking zombie bitch from hell,” I say as I yank the pipe from her hand, place it under her jaw. I guess you’re just not into me anymore.” I jam the pipe up through her lower jaw, teeth stuck in the black ooze seeping from her mouth. “It coulda been real nice.” I press my knee against the bottom of the pipe and knee kick it as hard as I can. Her brain pops out the top of her head along with shards of her skull, her eyeballs getting sucked inwards as they are dragged out with her brain at the point of the pipe.

  I suddenly feel the two bitches on my back, both biting into my shoulders going for my neck. With all my might, I leap out of the culvert into the glare of the search light.

  “Don’t shoot. Don’t shoot!” It’s Tim barking orders. “Kent, get out of the way.”

  I have no idea what he means but I just crouch down as the bitches have begun gnashing their teeth into my shoulder blades.

  “Get these fuckers off me, for Christ’s sake,” I yell.

  Before the words are even out, I can feel the thuds of clubs crushing the bitches’ skulls, ooze and brain matter running down my face and neck. They are yanked off of me and riddled with machine gun fire. I look up and see Ryan and Tim standing together with Uzis smoking. “Welcome aboard, Captain,” says Tim.

  Bitches are leaping out of windows, through doors and out the drain pipe like cockroaches. There must be two hundred of them. Some guys armed only with baseball bats are jumped and have their throats torn out but instead of being eaten, they are left to die. Gunfire sputters incessantly, bitches heads being blown off in every direction. One of the guys has a girl on the ground and while his pal holds her down with a well-planted boot on her chest, smashing her face in, he puts the barrel of his shotgun in her crotch and explodes her from the inside out, covering his friend in zombie gore.

  “Good shot, you crazy fucker,” he says.

  “Don’t worry, it washes off.” They both laugh and move on to more killing.

  The bitches seem to outnumber the men and there are clearly some of them in charge. An old gray-haired hag screams something that I can’t make out and six bitches charge at me where I lie on the ground. Tim and Ryan open fire and the zombies drop where they’re hit, but one lands on top of me oozing stink and black blood, biting at me through my shirt.

  “Oh fuck!” I yell. Tim pulls her off by the hair but not before she has latched on to my left nipple with her teeth and it comes away with her head and she’s standing there chewing it like its bubble gum.

  I grab my chest which is bleeding and lean forward.

  “You didn’t need that anyway, honey,” says Ryan as he smashes the bitch in the face with the butt of his gun and caves her nose in like a rotten Halloween pumpkin.

  In a half hour, maybe less, the bitches lay dead and dying everywhere. We only lost about ten guys but I use the term “only” without fully realizing the tragedy of us losing anyone.

  One of the guys is patching me up with a first aid kit. Ryan sits by me.

  “We knew there were bitches hiding somewhere in town. We’ve actually searched that theater two or three times. Didn’t know it had a ‘speak-easy’ room downstairs. Fred tells me that’s what he thinks it was. Left over from prohibition days when a girl couldn’t get a drink in a decent establishment. Guess the Brookstone family knew what they were doing. No wonder they bought up half the town back in the day.”

  “But what made you find it tonight,” I say aware of the more-than-coincidence timing of the attack.

  “You did,” Ryan says. “I didn’t believe your story about wandering across this whole fucked-up country to hang out in Provincetown with a bunch of sissies. You were after someone, likely a girl. That hangdog look I’ve seen when I was in the army. Every swinging dick with a girl back home had that same sappy look even in the middle of the action. We knew zombies were stealing guys here and there; that they were not just strolling off into the night. To what? The world gone mad? I don’t think so. They were kidnapped and brought here. Some for food, some for milking. Can’t believe they outsmarted us this long.”

  An explosion lights up the sky. The dinner theater has been doused with gasoline at the foundation and set ablaze, its weathered old siding like dried up kindling flash-firing, thick orange smoking billowing into the night air. We can hear screams inside.

  “There were men in there,” I say.

  “We got them out. The screams are the pregnant bitches. If any of our guys were going to be daddys, it wasn’t going to be like this.”

  ***

  Ryan heads over to a thirty-five-foot sail boat, docked at the only remaining dock in P-Town. The mast glows white against the darkening sky of evening but orange beams from the setting sun make the boat g
low as it rocks slowly on the still sea. As we get closer, I see the name of the boat: “MG.”

  “The guy that owned this beauty collected antique sports cars,” says Ryan. “He loved MGs. Had a red MG-TD. I think it was a 1952. Beautiful convertible with a black rag top and wire wheels. He owned the dinner theater. Left here when the disease first started. Think he had family in Boston. Haven’t heard a word since, of course.”

  Steve, a man I’d only seen briefly at the restaurant, arrived with a few of the guys in a dune buggy. He had packed his bag and had sea charts rolled up in a leather strap.

  “Seeing as Kent is the Captain, Father Steve, I guess you’ll be the navigator,” says Tim.

  “Look, let’s get this straight. I’m not a priest. I didn’t even finish the first year of seminary. So please, do not call me ‘Father’ unless I am your father and if I am, your mother was my right palm and named Melanie after this girl I knew who waited tables at a diner near my house in Parsippany, New Jersey. Your mother named Melanie?”

  “No, Father,” says Tim. “I mean Steve. You’re not planning on preaching to us are you?’

  “You think you need it?” Steve says.

  “Probably, but it wouldn’t do any good,” answers Tim.

  “I didn’t think so. So, no, I’ll just stick to navigating, if that’s all right with you,” says Steve a broad smile on his face.

  “I never got your last name, Steve,” I say.

  “Hadley, Stephen Hadley,” he responds.

  ***

  Most of the night we stock the boat with provisions, re-check our water supply and batteries.

  The next morning the three of us board the MG and a few of the guys, mostly seminarians, are on the dock to say farewell. Ryan comes over to me and shakes my hand.

  “Are you sure you want to leave us. This place is as safe as any, you know. And you’re welcome here,” he says.

  “Like I said last night, Jen told me there are islands out there with guys on them. I gotta see if there is some way we can communicate with each other. At some point, the bitches will come for you guys. You’re not going to stand a chance. I think you know that and don’t take it personal.”

  “I don’t,” he says looking out at the horizon as if truth was rising instead of the sun.

  “We’ll radio back every day. It’s a slim hope, I know, but there has to be some point in our surviving and the only way we can do it, is to join forces with any men out there who have not already fallen off the deep end and try to end this thing for good. We’ll sail down the coast and check out the barrier islands, then make our way to Puerto Rico, Cuba, the Caymans.”

  “Sounds like fun, Kent,” he says. “Maybe God really is a guy and he’ll keep an eye on you.”

  I look at him like I don’t know what he means. But I do.

  “Red sky at morning, sailor take warning; red sky at evening, sailor take warning,” says Tim. Everyone looks at him.

  “Say what?” asks Ryan.

  “He’s okay,” I say. “Not the brightest bulb on the Rockefeller Center tree, but a good buddy.”

  ***

  The moon is a fingernail in the sky, the stars mute witnesses to our voyage. The wind has made us her sons and we are soaring through the sky reflected in the Atlantic, deeply black, glistening, vibrant. Beneath us, the sea teems with life; I imagine dolphins and Wright whales following us through schools of fish so huge they run to the horizon, dense enough to lift us out of the water and carry us on their backs. Tim is at the helm. Steve is reading his charts in the cabin, the soft glow of the desk lamp reflecting up onto his focused face. The wind slaps the sail and I see the North Star behind us, ducking under a stray cloud but ever present.

  ###

  Zoot Campbell lives in Massachusetts with his wife and two children. He is busy working on the next volume of Zombie Bitches From Hell.

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