by Steve Wands
Scott turned on the radio, more out of habit than anything else, and couldn't believe it when he heard voices through the speakers.
...continue repeating this Emergency Alert System broadcast until we have new information.
The message was then followed by a two-toned sound similar to the Emergency Broadcast sounds used in television. Scott and Judy listened impatiently for the message to repeat. Scott sped up alongside the van. He rolled down his window and yelled for them to turn on the radio, then he dropped back and did the same for Abdul. The two-toned sound started again, lasting about twenty-seconds and then the broadcast started.
This is an Emergency Alert System broadcast originating from the Mount Weather Special Facility in West Virginia.
There is a worldwide phenomenon occurring where clinically dead humans are reanimating and attacking living humans in an attempt to eat living flesh. Early attempts at dispatching the reanimated hostiles, destroying the brain, seemed effective. However, new evidence suggests we now warn that this is insufficient. Specimens assumed dead continue to reanimate. There is no consistent timeframe for which a hostile will reanimate. The only permanent way of dispatching the hostiles is by incineration, or the use of a chemical agent to dissolve the remains.
It is also safest to stay off the roads and out of heavily populated areas. If you have found a safe haven it is recommended you remain there. Specially equipped units of the military are in the process of reclaiming key strategic areas around the nation. Once we are able to reclaim those areas we will reinstate the Emergency Transportation System to aid survivors in getting to those locations.
We will continue repeating this Emergency Alert System broadcast until we have new information.
***
Pulled over once more along the empty roads out of New Haven Jon-Jon, Abdul, Eddie, Judy and most of the others stood outside of their vehicles to discuss the broadcast. They heard it as it continued to play in a never-ending loop in the background.
"It doesn't change a thing," Scott insisted.
"I think he's right," Joseph added.
"But doesn't it make more sense for us to head down to Virginia?" Dawn disputed. "That's where the broadcast is coming from."
"It makes sense, but why haven't we heard anything from the government till now, weeks later?" Eddie asked. "I don't trust that they can help us, we've stayed alive this far without them..."
Alexis jumped in. "Yeah, but they must be doing something right if they're taking over certain areas. Areas that we can try to get to!"
"Its been weeks! WEEKS! And, now we're supposed to go to Virginia in the hopes that our lousy government can finally do something for us?" Scott grew angered.
"Not to say anything bad about our great nation, but it took them over a month to stop an oil spill. I think we are better off taking care of ourselves," Abdul added sheepishly.
"Yeah, he's right man!" Chuck said. "My cousin was volunteering to clean off sea turtles and ducks and shit while the politicians were busy pointing fingers as the shit got worse. And this ain't an oil spill we're dealing with--"
A gunshot broke through the night and a bullet entered a deader's head, erupted out of the back of it and pulled with it chunks of brain, bone, skin, and hair. Carrie walked in front of the truck and fired another shot. She missed the other dead thing but fired again and the creature dropped. "There's more. We need to make a decision."
"Shall we take a vote?" Jon-Jon asked.
"Fuck it, why not?" Frankie asked.
North it was.
CHAPTER 30: Curiosity
West Virginia.
Mount Weather Special Facility.
Rachel Lucas and Doctor Gregory Tran put in a request to work together. They had to justify the request with their superiors and upon furnishing their findings they had gotten what they wanted. With a catch of course.
A young soldier sat restrained on the examination table usually reserved for the dead. He was a blond haired kid from Texas not even old enough to drink. He was sedated but his eyes were penetrating and gut-wrenching regardless. After hearing what the catch was Rachel tried everything she could to stop it from happening, but failed. When she was given the choice to take the soldier's place she decided to keep her own. As a result she couldn't look the kid in the eyes.
The kid soldier was hooked up to a mechanical respirator in the hopes that once given a lethal injection his brain would still be getting oxygen. In theory it would present Rachel and Tran with the best possible specimen in which to continue their research. They also had a medical infusion pump and a dialysis machine in the corner of the room should they decide to use them.
Several guards stood outside of the room accompanied by the Deputy Secretary of Defense, William T. Pymn II, who nodded for Tran to carry out the lethal injection. Tran grimly nodded back. He too didn't want to sacrifice a soldier of all people, but figured it was better than the alternative.
He administered the injection and the young man tried to squirm but was too heavily restrained to move. Tran and Rachel watched the monitors as the young man died before them. His heart stopped first and then all brain activity ceased. The mechanical respirator kept him breathing as planned.
His eyes opened even though clinically he was dead. He had no pulse, no heartbeat, and no brain activity. Yet he could speak.
"Brains," the thing muttered. "Flesh," as his jaw moved and his eyes flitted around the room.
"What is your name?" Tran asked.
"Death."
END
Please enjoy these two additional tales of terror from:
HORROR STORIES
A Macabre Collection
Available at http://www.smashwords.com
* * * * *
From The Page
* * * * *
The walls oozed moisture. It dripped like sweat down the bowing walls, down to the well-worn and warped hardwood floors that creaked with every uneasy step. The windowsills screamed as the soft rotting wood gave way under pressure. Rats scurried through the walls, their thick ropey tails thumping along the sheetrock as wads of insulation stuck to their hairy hides.
The whole house swayed in sync with the whipping winds of the escalating storm. Gutters overflowed with rain, dead tree limbs, and fallen leaves. The downspouts swelled like clogged veins in an old woman's leg. The window shutters slapped against the siding, echoing the lightning.
In the backyard, a tire swing spiraled by a rope tied around a large tree branch. The soft sounds of playful ghosts were kept secret by the roar of thunder overhead.
I know this house. I've been here before... but this place doesn't belong here. This is the house in my dreams... my nightmares... It doesn't make any sense.
The paint is peeling, cracked, and sagging like skin in some spots. The front door is open, hanging by a single screw in a rusty hinge. Mold has taken over the front porch and the cement steps have weathered into jagged chunks of rock.
Something wants me here. Is it the house? How did it get here? Why me? Why now?
A light on the porch flickered on. The door began to bang against the wall, calling her to come inside. She went.
She stood in the doorway, half in, and half out. She stared at the fluttering insects that danced around the light. She stepped further inside. There was something familiar about the place to her but she couldn't put her finger on it.
"Hello," she said. "Anyone home?"
There was no answer, only the sound of the storm, and the rats. There was a sketchbook lying in the middle of the hall with a pencil next to it.
I remember now. I know why I remember this place. I drew this... I made this... but, I was only a kid. This isn't possible.
She sat down and opened the sketchbook. It was empty. The pages were crisp white, screaming for lines to be drawn on them, crying for a purpose. She picked up the pencil, examining the tip. When led struck paper the house creaked. She began to sketch furiously. The walls straightened but somehow appeare
d more menacing. Footsteps could be heard upstairs as she created the inhabitants. The rats squealed in terror as she drew them and then erased them.
She would sketch well into the morning, filling the pages with the things that haunted her mind: the mutants and monsters, the nightmarish architecture, the killer cars and the creepy kids. The house moaned in delight.
I have to do this. I have to get them out of my head. The world can deal with these horrors, I can't. They can figure them out. They can stop them. Someone has to...
* * * * *
Of Dust and Dirt
* * * * *
He gagged and heaved, choking on the fetid remains of the dead piss-drenched rat that filled his mouth. The rat's stiff hairs prickled at his gums and irritated the roof of his mouth. Every time he began to throw-up, his vomit either erupted out of his nose or was chewed back down so that he could breathe. The same duct tape that wrapped around his mouth, head, and ankles, rendering him useless, bound his hands. He could hear feet shuffling on the ground, walking around him. He heaved again, the stiff rat-tail felt like a tendril of sandpaper on his tongue.
He knew there were at least two people doing this to him and why he didn't know. Mistaken identity he hoped, but knew deep down in his queasy-sick stomach that it was most likely for fun. People did the damnedest things just to make the ten o'clock news nowadays. All he wanted to know was why, and to know if he'd ever live to never tell anyone about the things they did to him. Now he waited, listening to the footsteps around him, waiting for what horrible act they would perform next. Were they recording this? Was that what this person was doing walking around him? Then he heard a door open and a man's voice yelling.
"Get up here! Leave the little piggy alone till later," the man's voice roared.
He heard the set of feet skitter away. Too light to be another man--a woman, he decided, lovers from hell, he guessed. All he could do was gag, tasting the filth in his mouth, and wait till later.
"I told you not to go down there alone."
"I'm sorry...I didn't think it mattered."
"Well it does, do it again, and that'll be you down there. You don't want that do you?"
She shook her head slowly from side to side, staring into the man's baby-blue eyes making certain he knew she didn't want that to be her down there in the dark.
"Good, then. Listen, I got to run out for a bit. You just keep an eye on things till I get back and don't go down there. Let the piggy play with his pet, okay?"
"Okay, whatever."
The man left, grabbing a set of keys on his way out the door. He walked out into the sunshine. It was a beautiful warm day. The kind of day fit for a trip to the beach, but the man, Jerry, wasn't dressed for the beach, nor did he aim to go there. Jerry was on his way to Club 18, the local gentleman's club, which was full of anything but gentlemen. It was barely four in the afternoon, and Club 18 would be nice and empty for a bit.
Jerry reached into his glove box and pulled out a flask. The flask had seen plenty of action, its surface scratched and dented, but its innards full of warm whiskey that went down as smooth as spit. By the time he reached Club 18 the flask was empty and his dick was getting hard. The club had a reputation for finding the youngest, stupidest girls around and turning them into perfect little whores both onstage and off. Jerry came for both. He worked himself up watching them, even though he already knew whom he came for. By now he had his favorites and knew their schedules. He was, after all, a favored regular with the owner and the whores alike--he paid well and he paid often. So what if he was rough? So what if he was an asshole? He paid in cash and he kept coming back. He might as well have been Jesus H. Christ to them all. He sure as shit acted like it when he strode in.
Today was different, though. He came with a purpose more important than his pecker, though he'd get that taken care of as well. Today he would set up his next little plaything. He tired of the man downstairs. How much more could he take, he wondered. And he wasn't keen on men, but when a piggy presented itself for play, who was he to say no?
Her name was Red, and for good reason: she dressed up like Little Red Riding Hood--the sexy adult version--and had reddish hair the color of fallen leaves. Her skin was pale and freckled, toned and tight, flexible and smooth to the touch. He wanted her bad. Almost so far as to keep her all to his self, but that wasn't right, he figured. He found his way to his usual spot near the stage, between the entrance curtain and the stripper's pole. How he wished the strippers spun around a blade instead a dull cylinder. His pocket was full of singles and they were burning a hole.
The music clambered on and a new dancer took the stage, as the previous one picked up her clothes and headed off. He didn't know her name and didn't give a good Goddamn. She was a fiery-hot brunette dressed up like a businesswoman in a tight black suit and skirt. Her hair was tied tight in a ponytail and her dark brown eyes glistened behind a pair of fake glasses. She carried a clipboard and strutted on a pair of high heels that were downright deadly. Jerry couldn't help but smile, and clap, and throw down a pair of singles. Whether it was the whiskey in his belly or the scent of pussy in the air, Jerry automatically put her on the list of candidates for the next open slot in the take-all-you-can-until-you-die-or-I-get-sick-of-looking-at-you reality show filmed right in his very own basement. She'd have to take a number and get in line of course. The DJ faded his usual dance music-bullshit into some classic Ozzy Osbourne and Jerry felt right at home.
Jerry sat through another two dancers before his girl took the stage. Red had to be the youngest of them all, probably not even eighteen, but fit to dance and damned if she didn't. He wished her hair was streaked with blood and pulled taught in his fist. Her eyes were wide and surrounded by dark, thick eyeliner that almost appeared to be streaked by nervous tears. Dance, bitch, he said to himself. Dance for daddy. Let's see what you can do today. The DJ was back into his dance music-bullshit but Jerry didn't care. The heavy bass synced perfectly to his throbbing member and the rhythmic thrusts of her hips. It looked like she was fucking the air beneath her. She shed the top of her dirty little red riding hood outfit, exposing her supple natural breasts. Her nipples were standing erect and he longed to tear them off with his teeth and taste her warm blood. He figured it tasted like honey, how could it not? He watched in a daze as she bounced and bucked, stripped off the rest of her outfit and fucked the pole. She worked it up and down, extending one leg as high as her head and then spinning around with the other. She was magnificent, a real talent, a natural. The things he would make her do.
She came around like she always did; a soft whisper in the ear, a sensual rub of the shoulder, and a kiss on the neck. Her scent alone made his dick ache. He didn't need any convincing, but he loved the approach. He adored the ritual. He knew something of ritual and longed to show her his own. Soon, he thought, very soon.
Twenty bucks bought him two minutes, but since they all knew him and knew he'd be back they let it go for twice that. She took it slow, cause that's how he liked it. Too fast and he'd be asking for a hand job the first time around. The place was dead, there were four other old guys swooning over the dancer of the minute and the bouncer didn't think twice about Jerry. They'd gotten to know each other and Jerry had yet to cause a scene, and even if he did, he was a regular, so it didn't really matter. Frequency was as much a currency as cold hard cash.
She rode him hard, burying his face into her sweet-smelling tits, rubbing glitter all over him. He licked her sweaty breasts and ribs and even though that was frowned upon Red was too dumb to care and no one else was watching.
"Red," he gasped, "want to make some real money?"
She moaned, turning away from him and riding his cock with her ass, "of course. You know I love real money," she giggled.
"Good girl, that's what I thought. You and me after hours...I'll make it worth your time. Name your price," he said, knowing he'd never have to pay up.
"Price depends on what you want, sweetheart," she said, sucking her fin
ger.
"Let's just say everything," he smiled.
"A grand for the night, and you supply all the drinks and candy I can handle," she rode him harder.
"Done, and done," he said.
"I'm off Thursday, and don't have to be in till late on Friday, and don't say a word of this to anyone. I don't want any of your friends coming in here asking for the whore of all whores, you get me?"
"I got you," he smiled, grabbing her hips, "and don't worry, no one will ever know."
Time was up. He paid. She smiled. And they left the private corner as if they were a couple. She walked him back to his seat and she went to the back to refresh for round two. He stuck around for a few more dances and another lap dance from a different girl then split. He was eager to get back home and the put the piggy to rest. He wanted the place nice and fresh for his little red cock-riding bitch.
When he got back home he noticed she was downstairs again, playing with the piggy. Damn it, he thought, can't she ever listen? He went down the stairs, his feet hit the steps heavy and served as a warning that he was not pleased.
"Kate, what the fuck are you doing down here? I thought I told you not to come down here unless I say so?"
"You did, but he got his tape loose. He freed his hand and ripped off the tape from his mouth--see, look, there's the rat. He spit it out and I heard him moving around, trying to get out the window. So, I stopped him."