A Fistful of Zombies: 12 Zombie Tales

by Dane Hatchell

  “Naw, they ain’t here. It was Pheromone and Rotten that just saved your asses,” Pheromone said, securing his golden Desert Eagle 41 magnum in its holster.

  The Dyke brushed the street grime from her gloves. “We had the situation in control. The last thing we needed is a couple of nerds dressed up for Halloween firing a gun on city streets.”

  Tutti stood and puffed his hair. “We’s don’t like guns. Guns kill people.”

  Pheromone looked around and pointed. “Looks like you two don’t need guns to kill.”

  “They’s already was dead,” Tutti said.

  “Right, and the check is in the mail. Hey, there’s supposed to be four, where is the other one?” Pheromone said.

  “I took care of it, and it is none of your business anyway.” The Dyke took three steps toward them. “Say, how did you know that there were four?”

  Pheromone’s lips widened bigger than the space cut out in the mask, showing only his gold capped teeth through the opening. “Part of being a Superhero is being resourceful. I’m the brains of the team. I bring that certain finesse. Some suave sophistication, and I’m a pretty good shot too.

  “Rotten, is the brawn. He knows no pain. He knows no fear, and he is a very persuasive interrogator. We’re willing to join with you two and make the streets safe again in New Orleans. In fact, we were hoping that you could help us crack a drug case.”

  Tutti cackled with laughter. “My, aren’t we full of ourselves. Go away, boys. Let the mens do the mens job up in here. Shoo, go back home to your comic books. Leave the drug cases to the police.”

  “Man, don’t you dis’ me. I got powers you never dreamed of. And how come you claim to channel the power of Little Richard? He ain’t even dead yet for you to channel him. What up with that?” Pheromone said.

  “I express my inner Ch’i in the external form of my hero, Little Richard. It is life, it is love, but most of all, it is power,” Tutti said, his palms together by his chest.

  “Enough of this bullshit. You two leave now, or I’m going to make you leave,” The Dyke said.

  Pheromone crossed his arms. “I don’t think so.”

  “If you don’t leave I’m going to shove that giant cigarette lighter you call a gun so far up your ass that you’ll have to open your mouth to fire it.” The Dyke took another step forward.

  “I’d like to see you try that.”

  “Okay, buster. You asked for it.” The Dyke sprinted forward with fist reared ready to pound.

  Pheromone stood with his arms crossed and the most serene smile he could muster.

  When she hit the invisible cloud of pheromones it was like smashing into a granite wall. Her thoughts became a confused bundle, making her lost in time and space. Waves of sensual excitement rippled through her loins, making her stumble to her knees in front of the mint-clad hero. Then bursts of pleasure brought sexual release, over and over. Her body shuddered as the caress of hedonistic chemicals reduced her anger to orgasmic bliss.

  Some of the pheromones wafted over to Tutti. “Hmmmm, I believes I’ll have some of what she’s having. Mmm, Mmm, Mmm. What on Earth are you doing to her? I ain’t never seen no bitch come like that before.”

  “It’s a gift. One of many reasons why you need to make me and Rotten part of your team,” Pheromone said.

  The Dyke pulled herself up from the ground. With weak legs, she walked over to Tutti and hung on his side. “That was . . . that was unbelievable. I didn’t even know coming like that was possible. I don’t know how to fight anyone with powers to do that.”

  Pheromone shook his head. “It ain’t about fighting. It’s about working together. The four of us, you’ll see. In time, you two will see things my way.”

  From around the corner a white van with NOPD painted in blue slowly pulled in front of Rotten and turned off the engine. A young man with sandy blonde hair wearing all white medical scrubs exited the van and called out.

  “My name is Barnes. The Mayor had me in the area waiting for your call. Are the packages ready for delivery?”

  Rotten was in front of the van. Pheromone was next to him and on the same side of the van as Barnes. Rotten let out a deep growl from within the helmet.

  “It’s okay, big guy. I got it,” Pheromone said. Turning to the man, he said, “You’ll find what’s left of three of them over there. She’ll tell where the other one is.”

  “Oh no,” Barnes said shaking his head. “The Mayor wanted the packages in working order.”

  “I wanted God to give me an eight-inch penis. You can’t always get what you want,” Pheromone said.

  Tutti chimed, “I can give you an eight-inch penis!”

  “Shut up!” Pheromone yelled.

  “You can find the other one a street over. He’ll be a crumpled mess implanted on the street or on a car or something,” The Dyke said, feeling strength return to her legs.

  Rotten grunted again and leaned into Pheromone, trying to push past him.

  “Not now, Rotten. Pull your horses back. Let me handle this,” Pheromone said. “Look Barnes, it is what it is. Deal with it. My partner and I have to leave. He gets a bit antsy when he gets hungry.”

  Pheromone turned his head toward The Dyke and Tutti. “We’ll be seeing y’all later. Keep it real.”

  Looping his arm around Rotten’s waist, Pheromone half pulled his cousin away from the van and back toward the Suburban. “Man, what’s got into you?”

  Rotten raised his hand toward the van. “Uhhhh . . . Uhhhhhh,” and then made a hissing noise.

  “Wait, are you saying that guy was one of the drug dealers?” Pheromone asked.

  “Uhh, Uhh.” Rotten flapped his arms in excitement.

  Pheromone scratched his head. “How about that?” Then, snapped his fingers and pointed at Rotten. “I got a plan. Get back in the ’burban. We got some detective work to do.”

  * * *

  Pheromone kept at least two or three vehicles between him and the white van as it sped down South Claiborne Avenue.

  Barnes drove with little regard for the speed limit. Turning on Highway 90, he followed the winding road for the next thirty minutes until taking a right turn at the Gentilly landfill. The forest of pines that fronted the city garbage dump concealed it well from the ever expanding urban population.

  Stopping at the security gate, he exited the van, unlocked the padlock, and removed the chain securing the two gates. The low glow of mercury vapor lights illuminated the remaining drive down the bumpy, asphalt road.

  On arriving at the unloading dock, Barnes backed the van to the edge and set the emergency brake. It had been a long day for him, having pulled ten hours on the morning shift, and now working overtime for the Mayor.

  A black Chevy Suburban with the headlights off pulled in front of his van interrupting his sordid task.

  “Hey, what the . . .” Barnes charged over to the SUV.

  The passenger side of the Suburban opened. A tall man wearing a New Orleans Saints football uniform and helmet walked straight toward him.

  Barnes stopped, reached in the waistband on his backside, and pulled out a pistol. “You, back in the truck. Now!”

  The pace of the black and gold clad figure did not alter. He continued in fast, jerky steps.

  “I’m a police officer! Stop or I’ll fire!” Barnes said, as he pulled the trigger on his Glock 27. Three bullets found its target directly on the number nine on the jersey. The figure continued unimpeded.

  Barnes managed two shots to the helmet before the ominous figure stripped the gun from his hand. A fist took him for a ride to dreamland.

  *

  Barnes awoke to find himself in the kitchen of a ransacked house. Overhead, the lighting fixture was missing. A single incandescent light bulb shone its pale light. The smell of mildew soured in his nostrils.

  He became aware he couldn’t free his arms, realizing he was tied to a chair, and his hands were bound behind the back of it.

  “Sleeping beauty awakes,” Pherom
one said, as he and Rotten stepped from the shadows of the adjoining living room. “Lucccy, you got some ’splaining to doooo.”

  Barnes licked his lips and squinted to bring the duo into focus. “Oh, it’s you two fruits from earlier tonight. I don’t know what you think you’re doing, but you fucked up big time by messing with me.”

  Pheromone moved closer to Barnes. “The way I see it, you’re in no position to cop a ’tude. You can’t even scratch your own ass right now. Advantage: Pheromone and Rotten.”

  Barnes sighed. “Okay, what do you want?”

  “About three months ago some bad shit hit the streets. Over twenty people died from the bad blow. We want to know who’s responsible. We want to see that justice is served.”

  Barnes’ gaze dropped the floor. “Sorry, can’t help you. The illegal drug trade is a risky business. You pay your money and take your chances.” He lifted his head to Pheromone. “Sometimes you lose.”

  “My partner and I have a tip the police department was involved. You need to tell us about that. In fact, you need to tell us why you, a representative of the law, were one of the ones selling the drugs.”

  Barnes grinned. “Not a chance, bud. I don’t have any idea what you’re talking about. You need to let me go now or you’re going to stir up a shit storm stronger than hurricane Katrina.”

  “Well, we can do this the easy way, or the hard way.” Pheromone moved behind Barnes and threaded a plastic tie wrap around his left wrist and the chair. Then, cut the tie wrap that bound both wrists together freeing his right arm and returned in front of Barnes. “I choose the hard way. Rotten, your assistance please.”

  The Juju zombie removed the football helmet and stood next to Pheromone.

  Barnes gasped as he realized Rotten was no longer among the living.

  “My cousin here, Antoine, is named after one of New Orleans most famous restaurants, Antoine’s. It should not surprise that he is a connoisseur of our fine local cuisine. Before the main meal, Antoine, likes to eat a little finger food. Don’t you, Antoine?”

  Rotten nodded and peeled his lips back showing large, sharp teeth.

  “You’re a local aren’t you, Mr. Barnes?”

  Barnes rotated his right arm and hand, trying to shake out the numbness. “Yeah, so?”

  “Antoine!” Pheromone said.

  The zombie reached and grabbed Barnes’ right hand and bit off three fingers. Blood ran down Rotten’s lips and spilled to the floor from the mangled hand.

  “Sonofabich! What the fuck are you doing?” Barnes screamed.

  “It’s called good cop, bad cop. I’m the good cop. Antoine is the bad cop.” Pheromone smirked. “Antoine, swallow the fingers and follow with a hand sandwich.”

  With three fast chomps the whole hand disappeared in Rotten’s mouth, leaving a nub at the wrist.

  Barnes swooned.

  Pheromone placed a tie wrap on the bleeding wrist and pulled it tight, stopping the blood flow.

  “Right now the worst thing people can do is call you is Lefty. If you don’t start talking, you’ll be known as the Nut-less Wonder.”

  “Stop, okay, just stop.” Barnes shook as shock seeped in. “Some of us cops were selling dope. The Mayor needed cash for his re-election campaign. The bad stuff that hit the streets wasn’t our fault. We bought a tainted supply of coke. It had been cut with ground up Chinese drywall.”

  “Chinese drywall? That contaminated sheetrock they used to rebuild after Hurricane Katrina?” Pheromone said.

  “Yeah. We didn’t know about it until people started dropping. The Mayor got out of the dope business and came up with another plan.”

  “Another plan? For re-election? What would said plan be, pray tell?” Pheromone asked.

  “Some army scientist found a way to reanimate the dead. The army thought he was crazy and discharged him. The scientist was a supporter of the Mayor, and the two of them joined up. He’s reanimating the dead so they can vote in tomorrow’s election. He’s going to set them up in the 9th Ward at an abandoned school that’s still legally a voting location.” Barnes’ mouth went dry. He rolled his tongue around to find moisture. “They’re corralled in the old Brown’s Dairy Plant on Baronne Street. That’s it. That’s all I know. Plain and simple. Now, let me go, please.”

  “That’s a tall tale, I must say. But I do believe we got through to you.” Pheromone patted Barnes on the shoulder.

  “You’ll let me go?” Barnes asked, barely conscious.

  “Hell no. When you spilled your guts, you took your chances I could be trusted. This time, you lose. Antoine!” Pheromone turned and walked back into the living room. He did not want any of the blood splatter to get on his mint colored unitard.

  Barnes’ screams and pleas for mercy ended in less than a minute. Antoine had no thoughts of a swift merciful kill. His only goal was to satisfy his hunger.

  * * *

  Syncopated notes from a keyboard filled the room with energy. Tutti pulled the satin sheets over his shoulders, rolled over on his stomach, and put a pillow over his head.

  “Gloria, you’re always on the run now. Running after somebody, you gotta get him somehow. I think you’ve got to slow down before you start to blow it. I think you’re headed for a breakdown, so be careful not to show it,” the chartreuse phone chimed the gay anthem.

  Wanting desperately to return to his dream where he was just about to lock lips with Ryan Seacrest, Tutti realized the hotline called him to duty. He sat up, removed his night mask, and shoved his feet into his pink bunny face slippers.

  The long gray ears of the bunny head flopped back and forth. The eyes rolled round and round with each step, and the tongue hung across the side of the mouth. Giving the appearance that Tutti glided on the backs to two crazy rabbits.

  He lifted the receiver. “Tutttiiii Fruttiiii-ahhh. Oh, Rudy.”

  “Hey, Tutti. It’s me. Pheromone.”

  Tutti frowned. “Pheromone? On the hotline? You in the Mayor’s office?”

  “No. I told you that part of being a Superhero is being resourceful. Now, here’s the deal. The Mayor and an Army scientist found a way to reanimate the dead. They’re doing this so the dead can vote in today’s election. Not only that, but the Mayor is responsible for the bad drugs that hit the street and killed all those people. Which tells me the Police Chief is in on all this too. I know their location. Rotten and I need you and The Dyke to meet us there so we can take them down.” Pheromone waited for an answer.

  “Man, are you for real? Calling me up in the middle of the night with some harebrained story about the Mayor and drugs and dead people. The Mayor is a fine upstanding New Orleanian. A graduate of our beloved Tulane University and a personal friend of mine. Get on out of here,” Tutti said.

  “Look, this is big. I don’t know if Rotten and I can do this alone. We need to take them down together.”

  “Don’t be saying we unless you got a mouse in your pocket. No way, José.”

  “Let me talk to, The Dyke.”

  “Not a chance. That bitch is snoring in her bed, and I ain’t going to wake her up so you can put some more of that hoodoo on her. Now, if you excuse me, Ryan and I have some unfinished business,” Tutti said, slamming down the phone.

  The Lineman’s phone went dead in Pheromone’s hand. He disconnected it from the terminal box and climbed down the telephone pole.

  He and Rotten would have to face their greatest challenge alone.

  * * *

  “We’re three hours away from the polls opening. I trust everything is in order?” the Mayor said to Police Chief Connick, while peering at the walking dead through the chain link fence.

  The Chief pulled the last draw from his cigarette and tossed it to the floor. “Yep. Collins has a video camera set up outside the school. We’ll bus them in, ring up the votes, and then bus them out to the landfill. Are you sure this is going to work?”

  The Mayor stuck his thumbs under his arms. “I’m very sure this is going to work. The votin
g monitors at the school are all state certified volunteers who happen to be on my payroll. Each of our voters are legally registered, thanks to our friends at ACORN. If I had a bigger war chest I could have bought the votes. This was the only chance I had at winning the election. When it’s over, if my opponent raises any red flags I’ll have the video sent to Channel 4. From the distance the video is taken it will look like a group of ordinary citizens getting out of a bus to go vote. Because of the racial demographics of the Ward, all we have to do is scream ‘disenfranchisement,’ and I’m sure he’ll shut up in a hurry.”

  The Chief stepped on the still smoldering butt and chuckled. “I’ve seen some pretty outrageous shenanigans during elections, but this one takes the cake.”

  Mayor Andrew put his finger in the air. “My dear man, the dead have been voting candidates into office for decades. I’ve found a more sophisticated way to carry on the tradition.”

  *

  A white van with NOPD painted in blue pulled up to the gates at the Brown’s Dairy plant and blinked the headlights.

  A short man dressed in his black NOPD uniform approached from within the fence and opened the gate. The van pulled far up enough to clear and stopped.

  The Officer closed the gate and hurried to the driver’s side window.

  “Hey man, you’re late. Is your radio broken? Is—” the Officer’s words stopped as his face met a blackjack from the opened window.

  The van pulled in behind the plant with its headlights off and stopped behind an old refrigeration unit.

  “Stay close to me. Don’t give them any reason to shoot first and ask questions later,” Pheromone said to Rotten, and exited.

  The two slinked through the shadows looking for a way in. “There’s some double doors over there.” Pheromone shoved Rotten forward, using him as a dead-meat shield to lead the way.

  The doors were old and rusty. Pheromone twisted the handle back and forth without success. “Rotten, see if you can break the lock. Try not to make any noise.”