"What is that?" Drake asked in a hushed voice. The wanton desire for whatever the source of the smell unmasked in his tone.
Monk glanced back, nodding, gesturing forward. "That would be the smell of the last part of your initiation, brother."
"What do I have to do?"
"Eat."
Drake let loose a dry nervous laugh. "I don't think that'll be a problem." He rubbed his belly, following another knotting growl from within.
A moment later, the thick woods in front of them cleared, opening into a decent sized patch of land with only a few trees scattered among what looked to be a circle.
"Welcome, this is our meeting place of sorts. Where we gather to initiate new members. We have another place, a compound away from the city." Monk led the way further into the clearing, towards a small gathering. No more than a dozen surrounded a campfire between two thick oak trees. Each staring into the fire, talking among themselves.
"How many do you having...ugh...initiating?" Drake asked, mesmerized by the dancing flame ahead of the them and the ropes pulled tight, stretching from the trees, the anchor shielded by the crowd.
"Just you, my friend." Monk pressed on. Some of the members turned away from the fire and looked their way. Waving a hand, he called to them. "This is Drake, he's ready to join us."
"Just me?" Drake whispered. "Is there no one else joining too?"
Monk glanced sideways at Drake. "We are selective with who we recruit. Not everyone can...stomach our way of life."
As they approached, the small crowd parted. No longer obstructed, Drake gazed at the campfire, a simple circle of stones and stacked wood. Over the fire, a wide spit Rotisserie grill rotated around and around. A thick hunk of meat hung from a hook that looked to be welded to the contraption. The sweet salty aroma was heavy here, smacking him in the face, sending his stomach into a frenzy of growls and gurgles.
"Man, that sure smells delicious," he said.
Around him, worn familiar faces, familiar in that recognition of a hard life on the streets, being chased away by police and thugs and profiteers and the dead, of sleeping on concrete with only balled newspapers and trash to bring any amount of comfort. Of rodent bites and skirmishes with less friendly bums, each struggling to survive, to get to that last crumb of moldy pizza crust, that last hit of yellow powder, a treasured street corner and cardboard sign. Yet, while familiar, these faces were strikingly different from his own, here they showed signs of something he'd never tasted. Washed, yes, but more. It was in their eyes, dancing among the flame. And now each turned and smiled at him without a word between them.
Licking his lips and holding his stomach, Drake asked, "So, what's on the menu?"
Again, they said nothing. They turned their heads, looking up between the trees in front of them.
Drake followed their gaze. Anchoring the two ropes leading from each of the thick oaks, a shivering, wimping man who had somehow gone unnoticed. Perhaps his eyes were adjusting to the fire. Maybe he didn't want to see. Now there was no mistake. The man stood quivering and naked, a nasty chunk cut out from his side, bleeding profusely down his white flesh, pooling and soaking into the earth at his feet. His head hung low to his chest, but from where he stood the man looked handsome enough to be someone of importance.
"What's this about?" Drake asked. He looked from the weeping shaking naked bleeding man to the roasting meat rotating on the spit, crackling and spitting savory smelling juices. He looked back to the wounded man and the fire and back to the man. "Wait, are you..." realization struck hard. His brain screamed for him to run, to vomit, to do something, anything. But his body refused his rationality. He gazed at the glistening mouthwatering roast.
No, this is wrong. This is fucking wrong, he chided himself.
But it smells so good, he licked his lips.
What? Are you one of those walking corpses now, is that it? Got to get your fix of flesh, now? Jesus, why does it smell so good...
Monk left him and went to the fire. Someone handed him a knife. Working quickly and with a measure of expertise, he sliced a loaf of the meat. Collecting the piece onto a plate, he turned and walked slowly to Drake. He held the plate with the roasted man out before him as if it were some worshipped thing, kneeling.
Drake gazed at the roast and then he glanced at the wimping handsome man, watching the dark crimson ooze down his naked legs, congealing in the grass. Glancing at his shriveled penis and well-manicured nails.
He looked back to the plate and the sizzled meat, the sweet salty aroma wafting and slithering through his nose. Wasn't this wrong? Could it be? All these long years living on the streets, he was reminded how unlike the rest of society he was. Even at the end, as the dead rose and were quickly conquering the living, he still wasn't one of the populace. He was a bum, right? An outcast. Nothing more. So, was it so wrong to partake? To eat? Wasn't he hungry? Could he even turn away if he wanted to?
Eyes wide, he reached out and took the sliced cooked flesh of man and held it for a moment between trembling fingers. The rest of the gathered watched him. Drake could feel their gaze upon him. Bearded faces and narrowed eyes and shaved heads, like real life monks belonging to a new kind of church, or perhaps the same kind that had always existed, except more honest and less concerned with appearances, gone away with the fraud of pretending to be morally right and justifiable as they consumed humanity while wearing satin robes and suits and ties.
Wasn't this purer?
Wasn't he tired of being hungry, of being ignored? Of feeling scared of becoming some corpse's meal? Of not finding one himself? This was purer, now he was taking control back, back from the undead that haunted him, from the society that rejected him. Somehow, this singular act gave him a power he'd never known nor tasted.
Keeping his eyes open, Drake ate the man's flesh. Biting down, flavor that reminded him of pork flooded into his mouth. Sweet with hints of spice. He consumed the rest greedily.
The gathered erupted in applause. Handshakes and warm embraces and "welcome, brother" came with bright knowing eyes. Monk stood and handed off the now empty greasy wet plate to someone else. He looked at Drake and took him by the shoulder, guiding him to the provider of the feast.
They stood together before the two trees. One of the homeless stood near the naked man, dressed in a pair of loose fitting sweat pants and a white tank top stained in red splotches.
Drake gazed at the face of the handsome man. This well-to-do fellow who had found himself the true guest of honor at this feast. Wimping, the piglet looked down at Drake.
"You... Please...help me," the handsome man begged. His body shook harder as he caught sight of the butcher's knife preparing to carve more meat to roast from his body.
"Please!" the piglet screamed again.
The butcher started to carve.
Again, handsome wailed and begged for help.
And Drake couldn't help but laugh.
Acknowledgements
Planet of the Dead would not have been possible without the help of some awesome people. I would like to thank my wife for getting me through some serious writer's block and frustration. It was her idea to have the book as more of a collection of stories set within the same universe than to write a traditional novel. Thanks, babe!
No book is created on an island, and with that in mind, I want to thank both Mallory Haws and Joy Boysen for reading through this work and offering advice and spot checking for any clerical errors. I would also like to thank my buddy Travis Eck and his work on designing a fantastic cover and interior art. As a zombie-fanatic, wanting to get everything just right, I'm sure I was not the easiest person to work with. In the end, he came up with an amazing piece, completely unique to anything else on the Z-market. And, though this book is dedicated to him, how could I not acknowledge again the achievements of George A. Romero? While Night of the Living Dead was my introduction to his undead world, it was Dawn of the Dead (1978) that really showed, not just myself, but the world how the story is rea
lly about the people and how they react to dramatic and chaotic situations. Sure, zombies are cool, but the real message is the examination of human nature and being willing to have an open mind and unafraid to ask the tough questions of ourselves.
About the Author
Who doesn't love a good story? From those great works, such as All Quiet on the Western Front and Salem's Lot, Thomas S Flowers aspires to create his own. His work ranges from Shakespearean gore, feuding families, paranormal thrillers, and haunted soldiers. Residing in the swamps of Houston, Texas, with his wife and daughter, Thomas's debut novel, Reinheit, was eventually published with Shadow Work Publishing, along with The Incredible Zilch Von Whitstein, Apocalypse Meow, Lanmò, The Hobbsburg Horror, and FEAST. His veteran focused paranormal thriller series, The Subdue Series, including DWELLING, EMERGING, CONCEIVING, and CONVERGING, filled with werewolves, Frankenstein-inspired monsters, cults, alter-dimensional insects, witches, and the undead are published with Limitless Publishing.
In 2008, Thomas was honorably discharged from the U.S. Army where he served three tours in Operation Iraqi Freedom with the 89th Military Police Brigade. In 2014, Thomas graduated from University of Houston-Clear Lake with a Bachelors in History. He blogs at machinemean.org where he reviews horror and sci fi movies and books and hosts a gambit of guest contributors who obsess over a wide range of strange yet oddly related topics.
You can follow Thomas by joining his MONTHLY newsletter at http://goo.gl/2CozdE or by visiting his website www.ThomasSFlowers.com
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Planet of the Dead Page 17