“Don’t break the door. I have a key,” a voice called from behind.
Pheromone and Rotten turned around and saw an angry police officer and looking down the barrel of his Glock 22.
“Hello, Officer. Fine night for a stroll, isn’t it?” Pheromone said.
“You boys are on the wrong side of town to be dressed that way, aren’t you?” the officer said.
“Yeah, you right. I guess me and my buddy will be leaving now. Thanks,” Pheromone said.
“If you make a move, I’ll shoot. I mean it.”
Pheromone turned his head and whispered to Rotten. “I got a plan. Follow my lead.” Then, turned to the Officer. “Whatever you say, boss. Just keep your finger off the trigger.”
The Officer removed Pheromone’s Desert Eagle from the holster. “Back away from the door. I’m going to introduce you to a few of my friends.”
Pheromone and Rotten stepped back as the officer opened the door, keeping one eye, and the gun, pointed on the duo.
Inside, nine other police officers moved hurriedly about.
“Open the cage, and let’s get the line going,” the Chief said.
The dead, great and small, lumbered out in single file with the direction of electric cattle prods to keep them in line. Duct tape wrapped over the head and under the jaw kept the officers safe from the hungry ghouls. Plastic handcuffs secured the wrist in front and at the waist, each zombie tethered at the ankle with cuff and chain.
“Excuse me, Chief?”
Connick and Mayor Andrew turned around at the request of officer Williams and came face to face with an unexpected problem.
“I found them outback. They arrived in Barnes’ van. They were trying to break in.” Williams handed Connick the Desert Eagle.
The Chief inspected the shiny gold weapon. “Where’s Barnes?”
“He’s not here. The cargo is missing also. What do you want me to do with these two?” officer Williams said.
Mayor Andrew stepped forward and eyed the two interlopers. “What do we have here? A ballet dancer and a football player?”
“No, sir. Pheromone and Rotten. We’re the new Superheroes in this town,” Pheromone said.
“You look like you should be called Mint Julep, but I’ll grant you that your partner is aptly named,” the Mayor said and wrinkled his nose.
“We’re here to prevent you from stealing the election. And, to bring you, the Police Chief, and the rest of your outlaws to justice. You are charged with the murders of the victims who bought the Chinese drywall laced cocaine that your accomplices sold. You have the right to remain silent—” Pheromone’s sentence was cut short by a backhand from the Mayor.
“Ouch,” Andrew said, favoring his ring finger on his left hand.
“Man. Are you wearing brass knuckles?” Pheromone said, spitting.
“No, something that represents more power than a hundred pairs of brass knuckles.” Shaking his fist in Pheromone’s face, the University seal faced outward. “Graduate, Tulane University, class of 1973, solid gold.” Andrew stepped back. “Chief? What’s it going to be?”
Connick pulled a cigarette from his front pocket and lit it. “Nothing special. Same old story. Different night. Two gang bangers found dead in a sugarcane field.”
Pheromone stood silent, closed one eye, and put his plan into action.
An invisible fog rolled through the room. The officers busy leading the chain gang of undead came to a halt and looked at each other.
“Something’s wrong,” the Mayor said.
Connick gazed around the room. “Yeah. I don’t know what, but I can feel it.”
Williams’ backed up a few steps, darting his head and gun about, ready to shoot whatever danger presented itself.
By this time, every officer had his weapon drawn, and nervously panned the area.
“They’re coming to get you, Mayor Andrew,” Pheromone said in most boding-evil voice.
The Mayor’s face turned a pasty white. Beads of cold sweat rolled down his cheeks. There was a presence larger than life consuming the room. An uncanny fear that crept up the spine threatening to take by surprise and devour.
“He’s got a gun!” Pheromone shouted. “Shoot him first! Shoot him first!” With that, he tackled Rotten to the ground and put his hands over his head.
Two of the officers, whose guns happened to be pointed at each other, fired. One caught a bullet in the chest, the other turned and escaped. The bullet meant for him dropped another officer.
Sheer pandemonium broke throughout the room. Guns fired in every direction. The blasts echoed off the walls deafening any rational thought.
One by one each officer fell. A shot to the face. A shot to the chest. Bodies hit the floor. The Chief caught a bullet to the back of the head and went down with his lit cigarette still lodged between his fingers. Pheromone’s golden gun fell to the floor next to him.
When the shooting stopped only officer Williams remained standing, looking wild-eyed and ready to fire.
A bullet ripped through his chest and dropped him to the floor. Punching a one-inch hole in front and knocking out a four-inch hole in the rear.
“I love me some hollow points,” Pheromone said, holstering his prized possession. Then helped Rotten up to his feet and removed his football helmet.
The room was a display of the worst bloody carnage Pheromone could imagine. A twisted tangle of blood soaked bodies. He was amazed that none of the police officers showed any signs of life. As wildly as the bullets flew, the trained marksmen still had the presence of mind to shoot to kill.
Mayor Andrew laid face down on the cold floor. Pheromone rolled him to his back, inspected him for bullet wounds, and felt a strong pulse beating in his neck.
“Wake up, Mr. Mayor. Party time,” Pheromone said, patting Andrew’s puffy cheeks with his open palm. His face wiggled like Jell-O.
Andrew finally opened his eyes and snatched Pheromone’s hand away.
“It’s alive.” Pheromone helped Andrew to his feet. “If I count correctly, it looks like Pheromone and Rotten—twelve, the Mayor and his cronies—zero. That means, we win.”
The Mayor scanned the room in disbelief. “I have no idea what just happened. But you two have only one chance to avoid the death penalty and that’s to come work for me.”
“Death penalty? My cousin’s already dead. You killed him with that Chinese drywall. For that, you’re going to pay.”
Andrew turned his head to the black and gold clad zombie and saw his face for the first time. Andrew brought his hand to his lips in dismay.
“Mr. Mayor, I, Pheromone, being of sound mind and body, declare you guilty as charged. Justice, like dinner, will be severed.”
“Wha . . . What the hell do you mean?” the Mayor said, stepping backward.
“Well, Mr. Mayor, one man’s justice is another man’s dinner. Antoine!” Pheromone snapped his fingers.
With jaws wide open, Rotten descended on Mayor Andrew like a lion tearing into a lamb. His feeding pattern a bit more contrived this time.
Andrew’s nose was the first to go, severed flush to the face. Blood poured down his lips and filled his mouth as he screamed. Next went the ears.
“Whew, you sure are one ugly sucker now, Mr. Mayor,” Pheromone said.
Screams turned to gurgles as Rotten feasted on tender cheeks, lips, and the remaining facial meat until something close to a grinning skull looked back. Andrew no longer remained in the world of the conscious.
“I hate for you to eat and run, but we need to get out of here. Finish up, Antoine. I got a plan.”
Pheromone left Rotten to his meal and searched the adjoining rooms until he found a storage cabinet filled with cleaning solvents, each imprinted with the warning: flammable.
The members of the undead stood idle, bound together by chains and immobile at the arms. Pheromone returned and poured the solvents along the walls of the room.
“Are you about finished?” Pheromone asked, emptying the last
of the containers.
Rotten stood from the pile of bones and gore that was once the Mayor of New Orleans, wiped his mouth with his hand, and grunted.
“Good. Now, get on back here.”
Pheromone waited for Rotten to come to his side before lighting the solvent with the Chief’s cigarette lighter. Fire raced around the perimeter of the room and spread to the walls. Flames lapped at the ceiling in seconds.
Pheromone and Rotten did not stay to watch eternal peace come to the reanimated dead. Having one last duty to perform before declaring victory and calling it a day.
* * *
Tutti sat on the fuchsia couch wearing a sheer silk robe, enjoying the afterglow of this morning’s self-induced coffee colonic. The organic coffee used to irrigate his colon and detoxify his liver sold for more than ten dollars a pound. He was very discriminating about what he shoved up his rectum.
Four loud bangs on the door interrupted his morning meditation. Tutti put his feet in his bunny slippers, sashayed to the door, and opened it to the world outside.
A brown paper sack set burning an orange-yellow flame on the doorstep. Instinctually, Tutti slammed his foot up and down on the burning bag, trying his best to imitate a rhino stomping out a fire.
Bits of hot excrement went flying in all directions. The tender arch of his right foot met with a hard object and sent waves of pain up his leg and throughout his body. He squealed like a nine-year-old girl.
With the fire out, buckled over in pain, the smell from chard feces assaulted his nostrils. Tutti heaved dryly and fell on his butt just inside the doorway.
“Oh no, Bun-Bun,” he said looking at the crazed faces of his prized bunny slippers, now splattered in vile waste.
“What the hell?” Sticking up from a smeared pile of mess, a gold object glistened in the sunlight. It was a ring displaying the distinct seal of Tulane University, the source of his injured foot.
“What’s all the commotion about?” The Dyke walked up behind Tutti, scratching her rear end. When she saw the filthy situation on the doorstep, all she said was, “Yuk.”
A white envelope stuck between the outside door facing and the siding rattled in the breeze. The Dyke pulled it free, opened it, and read it aloud.
‘I hope you enjoyed the gift from my partner, Rotten. He passed a good time last night and wanted to share it with you.’
‘I still think we need to join up and fight crime together.’
‘Let’s discuss it over drinks tonight at Pat O’Briens. Eight sharp. I’m buying.’
‘Signed,’
‘Pheromone and Rotten’
‘P.S. A whop bop-a-lu a whop bam boo.’
The End
Zombies of Iwo Jima
“Of course I feel great relief Hitler has been defeated. What do you want us to do, just walk away from Los Alamos?” J. Robert (Oppie) Oppenheimer said, glancing over the memo just handed to him by fellow scientist, Robert Wilson. Oppie adjusted his glasses and read the memo aloud. “Impact of the Gadget on Civilization.” He raised his gaze back to Wilson. “Are you sure you want to go through with this?”
Wilson composed himself and cleared his throat. “I’m sure. I’ve given this many hours of thought. We’re working to create the greatest destructive force mankind has ever seen. We had been building it to stop the German war machine. That threat no longer exists.”
“Just like that? All the scientists shake hands, clean out our desk, and leave? Be realistic, Robert.” Oppie took one step closer to Wilson and leaned in toward him. “When they declared V-E Day, did anyone quit the Project? Did you even hear one person suggest they considered leaving before it was completed? I know I didn’t.”
Wilson looked at the floor, and back at Oppie. “No, I didn’t. And I know it’s not the zeitgeist that’s powering this project. We’re all like a bunch of machines, automatons only focused on an end result, contrary of consequences.”
“So, you want to sit down with the other scientists on the Manhattan Project, break bread, sing kumbaya, and go home to your house in the country with the white picket fence?” Oppie turned his back to Wilson and paced in a small circle. “I don’t think it’s a good idea for you to have this meeting. We’ve never met in a group and discussed anything outside of technical matters. It’s the wrong way to handle your concern, and you’re out of place calling for it.”
“I’m sorry, Oppie. Something inside me is eating away at my conscience. We’ll be giving man the power to destroy the world. I need to talk this out. There may be others that feel the same way. It’s just one informal meeting. Hell, I don’t even know how many in the group will show up. It’s not like the meeting’s mandatory.” Wilson paused, and then said, “Can I count on you to be there?”
Oppie took a deep breath and expelled the bad air before his reluctant commitment. “Yes, I’ll be there.” He decided it would be the best course of action. He didn’t want some misguided idealist sinking the atomic project.
* * *
The Third, Fourth, and Fifth Marine Divisions landed on the black shores of Iwo Jima, one minute ahead of schedule on February 19, 1945. Iwo Jima literally meant Sulfur Island. Mount Suribachi, a volcanic resurgent dome, being the highest point at the southern tip of the island, was the first objective. This would be the first land attack by the Americans.
The island’s two air bases provided a deadly strategic position for intercepting U.S. long range B-29 bombers and offered refuge for Japanese naval units in need. If the U.S. forces could take the island, the distance the B-29s would have to travel to attack the Japanese mainland would be cut in half. Plus, P-51 Mustang fighters would be able to escort and protect the bombers.
The Japanese defenses were well fortified against the aerial bombing and naval-shelling barrage that lasted three days prior to the manned amphibious assault. Despite the harsh terrain and hidden bunkers, the Marines advanced and cut off Mount Suribachi in four days, despite the bombardment of heavy artillery fire.
Five Marines and one Navy Corpsman made history the day they raised the American flag on Mount Suribachi. The six had been captured in a photo that later won a Pulitzer Prize and became the most reproduced photograph of all time. Three of the six servicemen did not survive the final battle.
The Third and Fifth Marine Division moved north, and then northeast up the center and west coast of the island. The Fourth Division, otherwise known as the Fighting Fourth, turned to clear the island east of the second airstrip, located just north of center of the island.
Sgt. Packer, a member of the Fighting Fourth, wiped the grime from around his eyes and blew the snot out of his nose. The constant smell of sulfur in the air irritated the back of his throat like acid reflux. The smell of death and sulfur didn’t mix well.
The Fourth had been pushing forward for thirteen straight hours. Inch by inch, sometimes two forward and three back. But he and his company managed to gain one hundred yards closer to Hill 382, the next objective. From a casual look around, he estimated it cost them four soldiers for every yard gained that day.
The terrain offered some limited camouflage. The anemic oak forest looked as if a five hundred mile an hour wind blew through. Tree trunks twisted and turned like broken matchsticks. None of the leaves that remained showed any sign of life.
If not for the Sherman tanks providing advancing cover and eliminating enemy strongholds, the Fourth would have had no hope of making it to their current position. They might not even be alive to worry about the difficult mission ahead.
The passing of the day brought silence from the guns on the hill and other high points. Darkness was a shroud that worked for and against each side. Ammunition, like food, was too precious to be wasted.
Sgt. Packer had his men digging foxholes to hunker down in for the night. The Japanese had a series of tunnels throughout the island and would make attacks once it got dark. The earthen abodes were the only means of cover during a sneak attack. One never knew what side the enemy would attack from. Somet
imes the threat came from ground that been taken.
“What’s your name, son?” Packer stood behind two soldiers shoveling the poor excuse for dirt. They both turned and quickly snapped to attention as they recognized the ranking officer’s voice.
“Hart, Paul Hart, sir!” one answered.
“Buzzard, Ben Buzzard, sir!” the other chimed.
Packer made a half grin. He couldn’t remember the last time something struck him as funny. “Hart, eh? Says P. Hart on your uniform. You know what the spells? P-H-a-r-t, you pronounce that fart. Hart the fart. P-H-a-r-t, that spells fart.”
“Sir, yes sir!”
“Buzzard? I got a Fart and a Buzzard in my company?” Packer’s grin grew larger. “Well, I don’t see how the Japs have a chance against a Fart and a Buzzard.”
“Sir, no sir!” the two replied in unison.
Packer began to leave, but hesitated. “Buzzard. Your face. It’s clean shaven. How in the hell did you find time to shave today?”
“I’m not old enough to shave yet, sir!” Buzzard replied.
“Carry on.” Packer left shaking his head for the young boy and the risk he was taking for his country. Thank God for boys like him, he thought.
Hart and Buzzard returned to digging the foxholes. They could eat just as soon as the task was complete. It would either be C or K rations. As bland as the canned items were, it still provided the gut fill needed to fuel the fighting men.
Hart spooned out another shovel full of dirt. “I wonder what Uncle Sam has for us to eat tonight?”
“I hope its meat and spaghetti. Them pork and beans give me gas,” Buzzard replied.
“Well, I hope its meat and spaghetti too if beans give you gas.” Hart snickered. “Hey, what do you think the Japs are eating? Fish heads and rice?”
Buzzard stopped, and leaned on his shovel. Hart tossed out two more shovels of dirt before he realized Buzzard was lost in his thoughts.
“Come on man. What’s wrong?”
Buzzard lowered his head and raised his gaze. An eerie silence fell about. Even in the heat, Hart felt coldness trickle down his spine at Buzzard’s stare.
A Fistful of Zombies: 12 Zombie Tales Page 12