Planet of the Dead

by Flowers, Thomas S.

  Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Harold

  Jonny, Part One

  Taj, Part One

  Jonny, Part Two

  Walter

  Polk, Part One

  Silvio, Part One

  Jonny, Part Three

  Bradshaw & George

  Taj, Part Two

  The News

  Polk, Part Two

  Vladimir Ryazanskiy

  Taj, Part Three

  Karen, Part One

  Polk, Part Three

  Karen, Part Two

  Silvio, Part Two

  Russel Kilgore

  Sister Reina del Carmen

  Polk, Part Four

  Drake

  Acknowledgements

  About the Author

  More From SWP

  PRESENTS

  PLANET OF THE DEAD

  Thomas S. Flowers

  For more, visit

  www.ThomasSFlowers.com

  PLANET OF THE DEAD

  First Published in 2017

  Copyright © Thomas S. Flowers 2017

  Written by Thomas S Flowers

  .

  Published by Shadow Work Publishing

  Cover by Travis Eck

  The right of Thomas S. Flowers to be identified as the Author of the Work has been asserted by him in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means without the prior written permission of the publisher, nor be otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

  All characters in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead is purely coincidental.

  ISBN: 978-1-988819-02-0

  Dedication,

  To legendary director and writer George A. Romero, without whom the entire zombie culture as it is today would not exist. And to my sister, who on a Friday Movie Night so many years ago introduced me to Night of the Living Dead. Thanks, sis.

  Harold

  Seoul,

  South Korea.

  There it is again. Scratching in the walls. Harold sat up in the queen bed he shared with Silvio, his grey-haired miniature Schnauzer. He stared out into the darkness of his room, turning his head to the wall. What was that sound? Scratching...was it rats? Now it sounded like it was above him, that nails against wood kind of sound. But that didn't make sense. He lived on the first floor of a two-story apartment building in one of the quieter neighborhoods in the Yongsan-gu area. Nothing ever happened here. While in the past, he'd had his share of crappy neighbors, Mrs. Kim was farthest from what one would consider to be a rowdy neighbor. Kim was a sweet little old lady with poorly dyed hair that gave her thinning white a touch of blue. She wore large red framed glasses and never made much of a sound, even during the day. The only complaint he would have would be the smell of kimchee that permeated through the walls whenever she cooked the awful stuff.

  Still, the scratching persisted.

  Silvio whimpered, turning his head upward at the sound, and then burying himself under the comforter.

  Harold looked to his quivering dog and back to the ceiling. Now there was something else. Was that...moaning? Christ, what if Mrs. Kim fell and hurt herself. She could be dying up there. I should probably call someone, emergency services...anyone. But would they get here in time to help her? What if she's really hurt? I need to do something.

  He flung off his warm blanket and hopped out of bed. Harold slid on his slippers and went for the door. The hallway outside was empty, not very surprising considering most of the residents here at Yongsan-gu were nearing or past retirement. The very reason why he wanted to rent here was the quiet; nothing out of the ordinary ever happened here. A sudden cold breeze tickled his neck and arms. Pulling his robe closer to his chest, his skin breaking out in goosebumps, he quickly shuffled to the stairs.

  Hoping Silvio would be okay on his own, Harold climbed the short steps to the second floor.

  Silvio will be okay, he promised himself.

  It'll only be for a few minutes.

  Mrs. Kim's apartment was at the end, just above his own. Passing the door before hers he thought he'd heard the tenants arguing inside.

  Odd, he thought, tempted to press his ear against their door. In all the years that Harold had lived here, he had never once heard or seen Fred and Marcy fight. Not once. They were the picture perfect boring couple, and the only other Americans living in the complex. Teachers, at some private school. Not that Harold would know much about that; he taught at the public institution, and had so for years now. As the saying goes, he was a professional bachelor and had little to nothing keeping him from wanting to return to the States. And besides, he liked it here. The culture, the food, the purposefulness, and the discipline of the students were far advanced from what he'd dealt with back in Kentucky.

  Harold took a step and stopped, thought better of it, and continued to Mrs. Kim's.

  He knocked on the red door.

  "Mrs. Kim, you in there?"

  No answer.

  "Is everything okay? I thought I heard-- "

  The door to Fred and Marcy's apartment flung open.

  Harold jumped back, pulling tighter on his robes.

  Someone ran out. A blur. Down the hallway to the stairs. Turning back, he stared at Harold.

  "Fred? What's going on?"

  Fred, who was normally tan with tidily kept clothes, looked disheveled and ghostly. He'd obviously been sweating, his hair ruffled and sticking up in areas. And on his clothes, there were red stains, dark red, covering most of his untucked shirt and pant legs. On his neck, an aggravated wound, crimson and purplish, oozing down and soaking into his collar.

  "Fred, are you okay? Are you hurt?" Harold took a step forward.

  Wide eyed, Fred turned and darted down the steps.

  Harold watched, silent and unmoving.

  He eyed the open door to their apartment.

  No sounds came from within.

  He glanced at Mrs. Kim's door and then back to Fred and Marcy's.

  Swallowing hard, he moved toward the open door. With his slipper foot, he slowly nudged it open. The door creaked and stopped. No lights inside, just a dim glow coming from a lamp in the living room. Chairs were turned over, dishes smashed and broken on the floor in the kitchen.

  "Hello?" he called. "Marcy? It's me, Harold, from downstairs."

  Nothing.

  "I don't mean to intrude, but I saw Fred. He looks hurt. Is everything okay?" Harold stopped short of coming into the kitchen completely. He saw legs and feet sticking out around the corner, lifeless on the floor.

  Harold gasped, covering his mouth with his cold trembling hand.

  "Oh no," he whispered.

  He moved to the body. Marcy lay face down on the kitchen tile. Blood pooled underneath, staining her yellow polka dot dress, wet in a gamey orange.

  "Marcy?" Harold called out. He bent down and reached to check for a pulse.

  He jerked back.

  Marcy stirred.

  "Oh, God, you startled me. Marcy, are you alright?" Harold shuddered, his breath coming too fast, heart pounding against his chest.

  Strangely, in odd twitching movements, Marcy got to her knees and turned.

  "Oh no, Marcy...what...what happened? How can-- "Harold wanted to scream, his breath and his heart pumping too hard to allow him. She ground chunks of pink flesh between red stained teeth... Fred's flesh, he was sure.

  Marcy groaned and lunged f
or him.

  Harold moved back just in time.! He watched as Marcy fell face first onto the kitchen tile, inching away as she began moving again, crawling, reaching out with reddened fingers, clawing at his slippered feet.

  "Marcy, what's happened? What's going?" he begged, again taking another step back out into the living room, back towards the open apartment door.

  Marcy groaned, annoyed and hungry, still in pursuit, still crawling.

  Unable to watch anymore, wanting nothing more than to run back downstairs to his own apartment, to lock and deadbolt the door, to hug close Silvio, his miniature Schnauzer, wanting nothing more than to be somewhere else, somewhere not here with this bloodied crazed woman who was no longer the Marcy he thought he knew.

  She's drunk...

  Or on drugs, has to be.

  She's not herself.

  Harold turned and started for the open door.

  He yelped.

  Mrs. Kim stood in the entryway. Her bluish white hair ruffled and torn. Red swollen teeth-like wounds on her arms. And her eyes, a creamy yellow white, but not a sunny yellow, rather much more like decay that reminded him of rotting things eking some measure of existence at the bottom of dumpsters. She shuffled toward him, quickly grabbing on his robe and pulling herself to him.

  Harold slapped at her. Hard.

  But her hold was strong, manically strong.

  "Stop, Mrs. Kim, please-- "

  She angled down and bit his exposed wrist. Blood pooled around her lips as she gnawed and suckled, grunting with a sort of pleasurable ecstasy.

  Harold screamed and fought to dislodge her, but he could not remove her bite.

  Nails scraped his shins.

  He glared down.

  Marcy was clawing at his legs, nipping at his flesh.

  He kicked away, but she held fast. With a quick sneer, she bit into his calf.

  Harold shrieked, toppling over the couch. He rolled and hit the floor on the other side hard, knocking his head against the coffee table. Dazed, he lay there, unsure if what was happening was even real. Maybe he was still in his own apartment, fast asleep with Silvio by his side.

  Shuffling over, moaning deeply, Mrs. Kim reappeared, her lips wet and scarlet, dribbling down onto her white ruffle blouse.

  He watched, frozen, his body refusing to move.

  "Please...stop...don't-- "he begged.

  Another moaning, gurgling above him.

  Harold angled and watched as Marcy crawled towards him from the other side of the couch. As if driven by the smell of his wounds, she quickened her pace, scrapping along the floor. Reaching his face, she thrust her sneering teeth clamping down on his cheek, ripping, shredding loose flesh and tissue and fat, pulling back to enjoy the chunky red and purplish glob.

  Harold squirmed and squealed.

  He stared in horror as Mrs. Kim kneeled beside him, reaching with greedy claws for his now exposed belly. She tore into his flesh, bleeding him, reaching, wiggling her fingers deep inside.

  Harold lost his voice, whimpering and gnashing his gums as he watched in disbelief, watched as Mrs. Kim ripped out a rubbery looking hose like noddle what he could only assume to be part of his intestines. Dripping wet, she suckled and chewed hastily and dug some more.

  What about Silvio, he wondered, shuddering at the molten touch of Mrs. Kim digging farther into him, pulling out more of his stomach, licking, eating him alive.

  My dog, what'll happen to my Silvio...

  Jonny

  Part 1

  1

  Houston,

  Texas

  Jonny had never seen so many people in one place before. The roar of the stadium was near deafening, and while there was some initial hesitancy, some feeling of the crowd pushing down on him, surrounding him, growing closer and closer, he slowly grew to accept the pandemonium and enjoy himself. From each row, cheers rose in a fever and did not ebb until Dallas Keuchel threw a nasty looking backdoor slider. Braves outfielder Matt Kemp swung and missed, much to everyone's satisfaction. Whatever boos there were, were swallowed in the crowds of jumping, dancing Astros fans.

  All around him, the smell of Minute Maid Park was intoxicating, a strange yet delightful mix of ketchup and popcorn and beer and roasted peanuts. Growing up in the small town of Vinton, Virginia, Jonny had never had the pleasure of watching a major league ball game. He'd been to a few Salem Red Sox games, even a couple Greenville playoffs, but never the majors. The only memory to which he could compare this sensation was that of his folks taking him to see Ringling Bros. & Barnum & Bailey circus shows back when he was a kid, in a life that felt so far from here, before problems in high school and enlisting in the U.S. Army, before Basic and shipping off to Fort Hood, Texas; before deploying to Iraq, and all the many complications his life had absorbed along the way.

  Far below on the field, the unmistakable crack of a bat caused Jonny flinched slightly. He watched as Matt Kemp finally got a piece of whatever snoozer Dallas had pitched, nailing a line drive clear over center field and coming to a stop on first. Folks all around him began booing and cursing, orange H-starred jerseys shaking their fists at the sullen pitcher. Calls that soon turned into chants for Coach Hinch to bench the failing Astro.

  High above and all around, the announcer droned in a muffled booming voice from just over four hundred speakers. "Dallas throwing a bit slow on that one. Still on mound. Freddie Freeman up to bat. He swings. Wham! Grounder through left field. Carlos throws it to second. Freeman is safe. Kemp on third. Adonis Gar--cia takes the plate, boasting a .276 batting average, with a career of fourteen homeruns and sixty-five RBIs. Dallas takes the mound. He finds his pitch. He throws--some hot cheese there, Garcia ducks out of the way just in time. Some chin music on that one. Dallas regroups. Takes the mound. He's got his pitch. Curve ball...Garcia swings-- "

  CRACK!

  "This. One. Is. Going. All. The--way!"

  Roaring from the crowd. More boos and demands for the coach to bench Dallas. Jonny watched, shifting slightly in his narrow folding stadium chair. Karen beside him, equally absorbed in the game. Who won; who lost? None of that really mattered to him. It was the energy, the vibrations from the fans, the crowd, the rolling wave and cheers and jeers, the foot stomps and hand clamps to conjure some sort of luck for the doomed Astros. What else could he compare this to? He thought of ancient Rome, the legendary gladiatorial Colosseum and wondered if this was similar. Did people chant and cheer and shout and scream in unison to such frenzy three thousand years ago? He had little doubt. Blood and guts and bats and leather gloves, it all came from the same place. This chaotic emotion wasn't American made, this was something distinctly human in nature.

  And there was something else about this place.

  Since leaving home, Jonny had always felt alone. Without his unit, despite having Karen beside him, there was still that itch behind his ears that deep down, there was no one. But here, eclipsed by the epicenter of roaring cheers and thundering applause, such feelings felt impossible and delightfully far away.

  On the scoreboard, the Braves were leading the Astros.

  They could leave now and beat the traffic out of downtown Houston.

  Not a bad idea.

  Instead, Jonny relaxed and sipped from his overly expensive plastic cup of Miller Lite. The whoops and hurrahs around him intensified as Dallas was walked off the mound. He smiled, not really caring that Dallas was benched, but in the enthusiasm of those around him, even Karen was shouting something obscene and wonderful.

  He sipped his beer and realized that it wasn't living out in some wooden cabin in the woods or owning a white picket fenced suburban home that defined the American Dream, it was right here, in this dome of effervescence, buoying between joy and angry in near equal motion.

  "Hotdogs--get your hotdogs!" A man with a wide tray slung in front of his chest wailed, cupping his mouth with one hand, and with the other twirling an Astros banner.

  Jonny raised his hand. "Yo, over here, pops."

&nb
sp; He handed a five-dollar bill down the row of fans who passed it on to the hotdog man. The vendor looked at the bill and stuffed it away. He handed down a covered dog, quickly shuffled back down the line. Jonny took it and waved thanks.

  Turning to Karen, he offered to split the meal, but Karen was sitting at the edge of her seat, mesmerized as Jose Altuve went up to bat. She didn't even register the food being offered.

  "He's our best chance at getting on the scoreboard," she said, not looking at Jonny, her gaze fixed below in that tiny space between umpire, catcher, and batter.

  "Sure." Jonny shrugged and sat back in his narrow seat, taking a mouth full of the salty juicy meat and stale bread. He washed it down with a gulp of cold beer, smiling, uncaring of the bits of food in his teeth. He breathed deep and exhaled slowly.

  This is the best night ever, he thought and took another bite.

  2

  "So--what'd you think?" Karen smiled at him from her seat beside him. Her expression reminded Jonny of the looks on people's faces when you introduce them to something new, that mix of eager anticipation and anxiety of acceptance.

  Jonny sat his empty plastic cup of beer on the cement floor. "I love it," he said, sitting back up, watching as the Astros came off the field, heads hung low in defeat. He scratched the itch of growing hair spreading over his chin and cheeks.

  "Looks good on you." Karen glanced back to the field. "God, I hope they win at least one game this season."

  Rubbing his chin, Jonny said, "Still trying to get used to it. Having to shave every day for years and then being allowed to give it up for good. Despite the itch, it's nice not having to." His gaze never left the field. He didn't care if the Astros won or not, but he did feel bad for them, and their fans. Seeing them lose so horribly to the Braves.

  She nudged him with her elbow. "Well, it suits you."

  Jonny nudged her back. "Like a man with a beard, do you?" He draped his arm across her shoulder, brought her closer to him, angled and kissed her lips, her soft wet lips parting slightly, full and deep.