Right after he thought, not again? Something unusual about her stance gave him pause. In fact, the way she was propped against the chair didn’t look like a natural position at all.
“Mrs. Canfield?” Bo said.
No response.
Bo stepped inside and set the casserole down on an end table and moved cautiously toward the chair.
“Mrs. Canf—” Bo stopped when she came into better view. Mrs. Canfield’s upper body from the hips on up was missing. A bloody trail snailed a path over the white carpet in the living room toward the kitchen, with bones with gnawed off flesh scattered about.
Bo’s head spun like the whirlpool of a flushing toilet with the aroma of fermenting sewage invading the back of his nostrils. He bent down and steadied himself on one knee.
From the hallway directly behind Bo, Mr. Canfield lumbered forth, blocking a quick exit out the front door. He bumped into a lamp, sending it to the floor, and alerted Bo that he was not alone.
When Bo first saw Canfield, he thought the old man had thrown up blood all over the front of his pajamas. Then he realized that if that was true, then he had thrown up bits of his intestine too, seeing pieces of it stuck to his pajama top. The unspeakable truth dawned on him. Mr. Canfield had eaten his own wife.
Canfield sauntered toward Bo like he was ready to slow dance. His teeth clattered chomping into empty air.
Bo stepped backward until he felt his butt cheeks mash against Mrs. Canfield’s, and found it ironic that even in death she could gross him out with her naked body.
Canfield gurgled out a chilling moan of desire and continued toward Bo.
Finding himself between a rock and a hard place, Bo lashed out with a swift kick to Canfield’s crotch, hoping to send the sick man to the ground and make a run for the door.
Canfield, though in his seventies, was a healthy man tipping the scales at a solid 210 pounds. Bo on the other hand was a boney 175 and just over six feet in height. When his shoe connected he felt like he kicked petrified wood. Pain traveled from his big toe through his foot, up his shin, and then stung like a wasp when it reached his knee.
Canfield walked into the kick like it wasn’t there. Bo only had enough time to raise his forearm in defense as blood stained dentures struck out in attack. The sound of bone crunching cracked in the air, followed by his scream that sounded more like it came from a woman.
Bo felt his flesh ripping off his arm and imagined splinters of bone left with it.
Canfield chewed on his stolen prize looking like a mechanical corpse eating without savoring the taste. His eerie red eyes showed no life, taking the appearance of a shark with only the primal urge to feed.
Bo wretched from the pain and from the disgusting sight of Canfield chowing down on his arm. In fear when that mouthful was gone, it would be time for round two. Bo let the adrenaline take over and put every ounce of strength in his good arm and slammed his fist square into Canfield’s jaw.
Bo watched as if in slow motion the bottom jaw rip away from the skull. A wad of bloody meat flew through the air, with both sets of dentures following.
With surprise now on his side, he dashed into the kitchen in hopes of leaving through the back. As he turned to avoid the kitchen table, his foot slipped on a rib marinating in a puddle of black goo, and crashed full speed into the counter, right in front of a stainless steel cutlery block set. Sensing Canfield coming from behind him, he pulled free the two largest implements from the block. One being a ten inch serrated bread knife, and the other a sharpening steel.
Bo thrust both weapons into the eyes as he turned just in time to see Canfield lunge with his toothless upper palate. The serrated knife entered cleanly and angled upward until the end stuck out of Canfield’s balding head. The sharpening steel made a sound like the heel of a rubber boot smashing into a mud puddle. Ooze of yellow, green, and black splattered everywhere, some hitting Bo in the face and across his lips.
Canfield fell on his face. His arms went limp at his side and knocked Bo back against the counter. Bo hit his head on the cabinet above.
*
When Bo awoke, he couldn’t decide what hurt worse; his left forearm or the back of his head. He felt like he was awakening from a bad dream, but it wasn’t until he opened his eyes that he remembered where he was and what had happened sometime before.
As his eyes focused, he looked around frantically expecting to see Canfield either down and out or ready to attack again. Bo was in the Canfield’s kitchen all right, but found himself all alone. No Mr. Canfield with his head now serving as a knife block. No bare assed thong wearing Mrs. Canfield. No blood. No body parts. No nothing.
Bo stood and walked around in disbelief, what in the hell is going on? A large chunk was missing from his forearm. It wasn’t bleeding or looking like he imagined: the inside of a rare steak. It just looked like a mouth sized bite was missing—perfectly normal except for that. It still hurt, and he wondered how he was going to explain all of this to Natalie.
After making a quick walk through each room, Bo trotted out of the front door and back to his house. He kept looking over his shoulder, feeling like a lion stalked him from behind and about to overtake him at any second, until finally arriving at his door.
“Natalie! Where are you? Come quick!” Bo called as he slammed the door. “Natalie?” The house was unusually silent. The kitchen was void of any of the dishes from earlier.
The lump on the back of his head began to throb. Where was Natalie? How long had he been unconscious? With a million questions but no answers, Bo searched the house without finding her, and returned outside to see if she was on the patio.
The air in the back of the house was stale, with no breeze blowing at all, and devoid of the smell of the roses that outlined the patio. No dogs barked. No birds sang. The wind chimes were dead silent.
Starting to feel apprehensive, he jogged to the end of his driveway and looked for any sign of life. To his delightful surprise, he could make out his mailman, Mr. Wilkins, walking his daily route down near the end of his street.
“Finally,” Bo said aloud, and chuckled to himself for thinking for a second that everyone on Earth had vanished somehow while he was knocked out. With renewed hope, he ran down the street as fast as he could shouting for Mr. Wilkins to stop.
Wilkins continued without skipping a step. Bo figured the man’s hearing was waning in his old age. At first, he thought it might not be Mr. Wilkins at all, and perhaps a vacation relief in his place. But after seeing the shorts and signature white socks that came up to his knees, he knew it to be him.
“Wilkins! Damn it man, won’t you just stop? Wilkins!” Bo couldn’t believe Wilkins was ignoring him.
When he got to within a few feet of his mailman, Bo slowed to a fast walk, and placed his hand on Wilkins’ shoulder.
“Wilkins. Can you please tell me what’s going on around here? I—” Bo stopped cold as Wilkins turned and met him nose to nose.
It wasn’t the face of Mr. Wilkins that stared back at Bo. It was an emaciated face of a withered corpse, shaded by the wide brim of a postal cap. The eyes were terrifyingly red and evil. The smile was that of a ghoul from the worst of nightmares.
“Oh. Hello, Bo. You’re a welcomed sight and looking mighty fresh and tasty today. Perhaps you could spare a hand or an entire arm to help out your poor old mailman,” Wilkins said.
Stunned, Bo couldn’t believe Wilkins had turned into whatever it was Canfield had turned into, except Wilkins spoke rationally. That is, if asking someone for permission to eat you could be considered as rational.
“Stay back! I just want to know what’s going on. Where’s my wife? Where’s everyone? What’s happened to you?” Bo said, ready to hightail it if Wilkins made a move toward him.
“Oh, you know. The world is forever changing. It’s important that you learn to change with it,” Wilkins said, dropping his mailbag from his shoulder. “If you don’t, it’ll eat you alive.” Wilkins reached out to grab Bo with his bone
y fingers but only found empty air. Bo was two steps ahead of him in anticipation.
Unwilling to share any more body parts with the walking dead, Bo turned and ran without looking back. Believing that not even the fastest cheetah in the wilds of Africa could catch him now.
With the sounds of Wilkins’ snapping teeth fading into the distance, he cut between two houses and into the wooded area behind his subdivision that backed up to a county park. He pulled himself over a six-foot wire fence and snaked his way around pines, gum trees, and water oaks. Doing his best to avoid briars and bare roots low on the ground as he pioneered a new trail running at full speed.
Having no sense of time or distance, Bo found himself near the edge of the woods and right behind an area of the park where locals would bring a guitar or a dulcimer and entertain those looking to enjoy the afternoon.
A park bench set in the middle of a ten foot circle covered with limestone reserved for the musicians. Today, there was only one. The orange glow of the setting sun behind the figure outlined a cowboy hat nesting on a skeletal rotting face and a guitar that hung from a strap from around his neck. His skin was so thin on his naked body Bo could count every bone.
The figure put his hand to his mouth, cleared his throat, strummed the guitar three times, and started to sing.
“The problem is all inside your head, I say to you. The answer is easy, if taken logically. I’d like to help you in your struggle, when you feed.
“There must be fifty ways to eat your lover. Fifty ways to eat your lover.
“You Just start at the back, Jack. Eat the right hand, Stan. Don’t forget the big toe, Moe. It’s all good when you feed. Tear into that bust, Gus. You don’t need to cull much. Just gnaw at the knee, Lee. It’s all good when you feed.”
Bo felt tiny tentacles of horror creep over his skin as the singing dead Cowboy looked directly at him with his sick, red eyes.
Before the Cowboy could begin the second verse, Bo turned and ran through the woods retracing his steps. Once again, he crossed over the fence and followed it until coming to an access between two houses that led back to his street in the neighborhood.
The wailing of a siren from an emergency vehicle slowly intensified. Before Bo made it to the street, an ambulance with red lights flashing zoomed past him heading in the direction of his house.
Here was another chance someone could give him a clue as to what was going on; a plague, a virus, or a manmade disaster. Bo chased after the speeding vehicle like a dog in pursuit of a taunting rear bumper.
The brake lights flashed and the ambulance made a quick right turn into the Canfield’s driveway.
Something is wrong over there, Bo thought. None of this made any sense to him though. He had checked each room in the house. How did he possibly miss someone in need of medical attention? Bo wanted answers now and felt that he would go insane if they didn’t come soon.
He reached the end of the Canfield’s driveway, his chest aching from lack of breath, and stopped for a moment to rest. The throbbing in his head returned, and the bite on his forearm he had almost forgot about burned again in pain.
Feeling like his legs were made of lead, he plodded to the open front door and saw two EMTs standing over a body. Miles and Aubrey were off to the side holding each other, and Natalie on her knees by it, sobbing.
Bo wanted to rush to Natalie, but his feet would not respond. He went to call her name but felt the power of speech forever leave him. The throbbing in his head increased so much it clouded his vision with each beat.
Darkness colored his world as the icy fingers of death snatched him into the next one.
*
“This has got to be the strangest call I’ve ever made. I’d like to read the police report on this one,” Hector, the lead EMT said, to Billy, his partner.
Billy made a face as if trying to ward off the putrid stench in the room. “They must have been starving their dog. Looks like it ate half that old woman before it got away. I don’t know what to make of the corpse with the knife and steel in his head. And this guy,” Billy nodded toward the body of Bo, lying dead on the floor. “What happened to him? I guess the dog bit him on the arm. But what killed him? The bump on his head wasn’t enough to do him in. Do you think he was scared to death during his attack?”
Hector shook his head, hoping the police would arrive soon. He wished he had been there in time to save Bo. He felt so sorry for Natalie. She told them how Bo just went over to do a neighborly thing and bring over a casserole.
The casserole still set on the end table. Natalie found the Canfield’s door opened, and Bo and the others dead when she went over to see what was taking him so long.
“Poor woman,” Hector said only loud enough for Billy to hear. He imagined how his wife would feel if she found him dead on the floor.
A faint hum emerged from Bo’s throat, blending in with Natalie’s sobs until it rose loud enough in volume for her to hear.
Natalie gasped and looked at Hector, “It’s Bo! He’s trying to say something!”
Hector dropped to his knees beside Bo, felt for a pulse in the neck, and when he felt nothing, checked his heart beat with his stethoscope. “I’m not getting anything. It’s probably just intestinal gases working their way up through the esophagus rattling his vocal cords.”
The humming grew louder and became uniform and distinct.
“Wait . . . he’s humming a tune. Listen,” Billy said, as something about the hum sounded familiar. “I think I recognize it . . . Yeah! That’s it! I know what it is! It’s “Fifty ways to—”
Billy stopped as Bo’s piercing red eyes sprang open, gazing into his new world.
The hope that swelled in Natalie’s chest that Bo was somehow still alive deflated like a balloon bursting. Bo’s face contorted into unrecognizable evil and struck her sweet smelling soft neck with a bone crushing bite.
Void of any memories of the human he once was, Bo found himself compelled now only to exist to feed on the flesh of the living. One bite at a time.
The End
Zombie God of the Jungle
Nakima slept soundly on a bed made of thatch in his Grandfather’s hut. Deep drumbeats in the distance pounded out an enchanting rhythm where the tribe’s Shaman danced and grunted incantations to bring back the departed spirit of their fallen God.
The Shaman performed his ancient ritual nonstop for the past three days, believing he alone had the power to restore the faith of his Village. A faith that had been untested for more generations than any knew.
Kilomba had always been there to care for them. He brought the rains for the crops and provided the abundance of fish caught in the sea. The benevolent God’s only demand in return an annual human sacrifice, of which the Village eagerly complied in order to continue the blessing of plentiful food and fertile women.
The future was in question now that Kilomba laid dead and rotting where the bolt of lightning had struck him down.
The Shaman stumbled as he struggled to complete the ceremonial dance. Two ebony warriors rushed to his side. One gave him a drink from an animal skin.
“It is no use, Barlak. Kilomba is forever asleep. It is time for you to rest,” one of the warriors said.
“A God can never die. This is trickery of the Devil to test our faith. Kilomba’s spirit is waiting from above. I can feel it in my heart,” Barlak said.
Thunder rolled in the distance. The eastern horizon lit briefly in a warm glow. Fresh winds pushed the ceremonial flames sideways. A damp coolness washed over the villagers in their wake.
“The time is approaching. We must not lose faith now. Prepare the terrikitu, quickly, for the final time,” Barlak said, as he weakly waved his hand.
“Kilomba’s body has started to rot. This is a waste of time. Better to declare the death of a God than allow the people to cling to false hope,” the warrior said.
With his last remaining strength, Barlak slapped the warrior on his cheek with his open palm. “Devil, get behind me.
” Then, called, “Start the terrikitu.”
Sanctified disciples of the Shaman mashed a large bladder filled with extracts of fermented leaves and roots, pumping the potion directly into a vein leading to Kilomba’s heart through a small piece of sharpened bamboo.
Two others stood on the chest of the massive beast directly above its heart. In unison, they flexed their legs and bounced up and down, using the heart as a pump to circulate the potion throughout the body.
The mighty beast was as magnificent to behold in death as it was in life. He lay on his back with his arms stretched out from his side. From the tip of his right hand to the tip of his left totaled nearly twenty-five feet, slightly longer than he was tall.
The head was larger than that of ten human’s. The face a black leathery mask surrounded by short black hair. The nostrils were so large that two fists side by side could fit in each. The teeth—long yellowing spikes able to slice through the toughest of animal hides. His jaws had been strong enough to crush the sweet milk from coconuts.
The bladder went empty as the last of the potion entered Kilomba. The two disciples stepped off his chest, kneeled, and gave a short prayer before departing.
Barlak sat upright with the two warriors supporting him on either side. Lightning crackled across the sky. The earth rumbled from the reverberating thunder. The winds intensified, blowing out the flame of a few torches that outlined the body of Kilomba.
A memorial made of bamboo towered near the head of the fallen God—a beacon erected by the villagers to announce to the heavens Kilomba was dead. The tower rose some fifty feet in the air.
Rolling clouds from the west blocked the light of the moon and gobbled up the stars. A blanket of darkness blocked the heavens, split only by the branching arms of lightning that chained above.
Barlak raised both hands to calm the mourners and then clapped twice for the drummers to stop. He then nodded for them to invoke the power of the gods.
A Fistful of Zombies: 12 Zombie Tales Page 18