“There are no bugs,” Brian said.
“There are always bugs. Cockroaches, beetles, they’re always scurrying around here.”
They searched some more, the sun ducking behind the rooftops, but found no insects.
“If it was dark out, we’d see tons of them,” Brian said.
Timmy nodded. Lately, the sidewalk was teeming with large cockroaches at night, as if the things were waiting for something, or night-bathing, absorbing the moon’s radiance. He’d stepped on multiple bugs whenever he was coming home from the park or at a friend’s house at night. He enjoyed hearing the popping of the hard shells and the spewing of green goop.
Brian’s mom’s voice sounded from down the street, the familiar call having been heard around the neighborhood for years.
“Looks like I don’t have to eat anything but my dinner,” Brian said.
“Then you’ll eat two bugs tomorrow,” Timmy said. “I’ll catch some tonight. Nice and juicy.” He rubbed his hands together, hoping to get a rise out of his cousin.
“Can’t you just let it go?” Brian asked. “I would’ve done it today, but tomorrow’s a new day, so everything restarts.”
“What the hell are you talking about?”
“My mom says every day’s a new day to start fresh.”
“You’re eating a bug tomorrow or else I tell the entire school about your piss episode.”
“C’mon,” Brian whined, “it’s not fair. We looked for bugs, but there aren’t any. Time’s up. I have to go home for dinner.”
Frustrated and annoyed, beyond his capabilities of remaining poised, Timmy smiled, walked up to his cousin and punched him in the gut. Brian hunched over from the blow and fell to the ground. He held his stomach, gasping for air.
“Now you can go start your new day,” Timmy said, then turned and walked home, his cousin’s sniffling crying fading in the distance.
* * *
That night, Timmy didn’t touch his dinner. He was surprisingly full. Maybe the cockroach had satisfied him. He’d seen plenty of nature-survival shows where the host ate all sorts of plants and bugs, sustaining him for days while he hiked through a mountain or a hot desert.
It had been a large bug.
Just before bed, his stomach was making all sorts of gurgling noises, and he felt fuller than earlier, as if he was slowly being pumped with air. Maybe he shouldn’t have eaten the bug. Cockroaches were known to carry diseases. They lived in the sewers. He wondered if he’d made a stupid decision.
He ran to the bathroom, thinking he was going to puke, but nothing came up. He plunged two fingers down his throat, hoping that would kick start his vomiting, but he had no gag reflex, which was odd because he always gagged at least once when he brushed his back teeth. So why wasn’t he now?
Unnerved, he thought about going to his mother, but really, what could she do that he couldn’t? Only kids like Brian went to their parents for upset stomachs. Timmy was a boy, yes, but he was older in spirit.
Opening the medicine cabinet, he found a bottle of Pepto Bismol and downed the suggested amount. Feeling queasy, he crawled into bed and went to sleep.
He awoke with a sharp pain in his abdomen, his skin slick with sweat. Something was definitely wrong with him. He tried sitting up, but the pain worsened. He cried out, his voice a hoarse whisper, throat feeling as if he’d swallowed razor blades.
His stomach muscles tightened and he curled into a ball. Breathing was difficult. His abdomen was on fire, the pain burning, intense. He needed help, needed his parents, wanted his mommy.
Gathering up his strength, Timmy inched his way to the edge of the bed and rolled off, falling with a thud to the floor. He hoped his parents would hear it and come running in, wondering what happened, but neither showed.
He writhed on the ground, feeling as if his insides were being shredded apart. His mouth flooded with the taste of copper. He coughed and saw a splattering of red on his shaky hand. Pain radiated outward, spreading across his arms, legs and neck. The skin along his arms rippled, things crawling beneath it, knife-like claws digging into his muscle all the way to bone. He told himself he was having a terrible nightmare, but didn’t believe it, for the agony was too much.
Then he saw them—the cockroaches, as they burrowed out of him, ripping apart his tender flesh with their serrated heads. He cried out in disbelief, wishing he’d wake up. The insects were covered in a green slime, mixed with his blood, but he saw the glowing red spheres on their backs, and he knew—they were the children of the cockroach he’d consumed. He swatted at his arms, squashing the things, but more kept coming from the holes in his flesh. The skin along his legs erupted in searing heat, then he felt the warmth of his blood as the insects broke free, his pajama bottoms blooming with crimson flowers.
Hundreds of cockroaches scurried out of, and across, his body. His left eye tickled from within, as if someone were brushing it with a feather. Immense pressure built behind the eyeball before it burst like a water balloon, the glutinous fluids inside running down his face, a cockroach crawling free.
His body was glistening red, the blue carpet below him now darkened and saturated. His strength was all but gone and he wondered if he was about to wake up, still not completely convinced it wasn’t a dream.
He swore he’d be a better person, even if he didn’t truly feel what most of society felt, he’d follow their laws and be a good person. He’d give the next door neighbor’s dog snacks, pet it nicely, he’d go to his cousin and apologize, then hang out with him and stick up for him in school.
As the world began to fade, he had no doubt his prayers wouldn’t be answered, because the things he promised to do, he knew, if he lived, he wouldn’t do them. He was a bad seed, evil, if there ever was such a thing.
* * *
The cockroaches formed a tight circle around the corpse. They communicated unlike any bug had before, exchanging duties and relaying commands. There was no leader, but a single voice heard by all, the Queen.
The boy’s head cracked open, the skull wrenched apart by the Queen. She was twice the size of her children, with a fluorescent purple fin that ran the length of her back. The creature’s maw, filled with tiny rows of teeth, clicked commands as its antennae darted about.
With the orders given, the new breed of cockroach scurried off in packs, ready to wipe out the existing cockroach population, then move on to the rats and cats and stray dogs, and then finally, the humans.
Samurai Zombie Killer
Kenji Matsuko sat at his master’s bedside. He shook with effort as he fought not to cry out. The old man was ill, his insides being eaten away by the cancer demon. Word had been sent to Emperor Gashi. With great regret, the ruler had informed his most trusted warrior that his master was not long for the world. Kenji was given permission to leave; to go to his master and pay his last respects, honoring his teacher.
“Kenji, my finest student,” Ari said, forcing a smile. His long, white mustache twitched at both ends. “You have come.”
Kenji’s master lay in bed, wearing a crimson-colored robe embroidered with white lotus flowers and was wrapped in covers up to his waist. The man’s skin was pale and his eyes appeared sunken, as if the weight of them was too much for his head.
“Yes,” Kenji said, bowing. He was dressed in a cloud decorated light blue robe, his Samurai armor set in the room he rented at the Han-ho Inn.
“I’m glad you came," his master said. "I wouldn’t have taken you from your sworn duties, for the Emperor needs you, but a great dishonor will befall the village.
Kenji’s eyebrows arched, the news troubling. He was ashamed to reveal his worry, but with his master’s death only a short time away, and the village in jeopardy, his training had let him down. He was human and truly rattled to his core at seeing his master so weak and fragile. Ari had never so much as had a cold in all his years, his chi incredible.
“Master?” he asked.
“Your brother, Makito, is dabbling in the dark way
s. He will bring dishonor to you, me, and the village.” Ari reached out with a withered hand, gripping Kenji’s wrist. “You must stop him and his quest for madness.”
Kenji lowered himself further and touched his head to the back of his master's hand. “Forgive me, Master, but how do you know this?”
“He came to me last month and had a look of ill-will in his eyes, as if possessed by evil. He talked about bringing down the hierarchy, the Emperor. He is wise in the ways of death, my teachings, I’m afraid. I always had high hopes for him, but I was wrong.” Master Ari closed his eyes in shame.
“I shall honor your wishes, Master. It will be done. I will not allow dishonor to befall us.”
“Go, see to your brother. I will not die this evening.”
Kenji stood. “Heit,” he said, and then bowed before his departure.
Once he was clear of the room, he broke down into sobs. He was a strong, noble warrior who had fought on the harshest battlefields and killed many men. But a true Samurai lives through his heart and denies not his emotions when the time is right. As graceful and deadly as he was with a sword, he was equally as refined with the arts. All Samurai studied drawing and poetry. There was no shame in feeling sadness for his master. Clearing his tears and composing himself, he left for his brother’s cottage.
Kenji loved the countryside, with its beautiful landscape and wild life. Allowed to flourish, the bamboo grew tall around the village. Beautiful Sakura, cherry blossoms, sprouted around the village. He passed a koi pond where a man and his son were watching the fish. The Xiang Lo river, with its lucidness and bubbling with froth, poured over jutting rocks and flowed down the mountainside, supplying the village with fresh water.
The trail to Makito’s house was a long, twisting one, but beautiful nonetheless. It cut through the forest like a sharpened blade through mango. The closer Kenji drew to his brother’s abode, the steeper and more rugged the path became. Lilac and oak trees lined the way, creating an almost impenetrable wall around him.
Looking ahead, to the top of the mountain where the ground flattened out, he saw a man approaching. The person appeared as if he were drunk.
As Kenji neared the stranger, he saw that his skin was pasty-looking and riddled with sores. Upon seeing Kenji, the man hurried his hobbled walk, and began moaning. Sensing something was off, Kenji placed his hand on the hilt of his sword. He stood stationary, allowing his training to take over.
A breeze blew inward, and as the man drew closer, an odor of rot and decay assaulted the Samurai’s olfactory senses. The need to cringe was strong, but Kenji remained still. The thing coming toward him had eyes like the deceased. They were lifeless, yet the thing clearly walked with sight.
The creature was some kind of abomination, this he was sure of. When it came within striking distance, Kenji drew his weapon; the blade hungry for a kill. He sliced diagonally across the man’s chest, before sinking the blade into the sternum, piercing the heart. He withdrew the blade, wiping the weapon clean before placing it back in its sheath.
The dead man stopped for a moment before moaning loudly, then reached out for Kenji. With eyes wide and mouth agape, Kenji drew his weapon and sliced off the creature’s arms. They fell to the ground, but the dead man hadn’t flinched—showing no sign that he cared—and kept coming. Shaken, the Samurai backed away, sword held in front of him. What kind of demon was this?
He gritted his teeth, found the strength deep within his gut, then took a step forward, and sliced at the thing’s neck, severing its head from the body. As the head tumbled to the ground, the body followed; both pieces lay unmoving, dead. Kenji wiped the blade, returning it to its resting place.
He examined the body using his sense of smell and sight, but did not want to touch the thing. It had been a man once, but no longer; its blood not flowing properly, but more like cherry syrup. He didn’t want to think about it, but knew his brother must have had something to do with the creature. With his cheeks defining themselves in anger, he headed onward to his brother’s house.
The cottage was nestled in a nook of thick bamboo. It was aged and weather beaten. The front porch clanged with moon-shaped wind chimes. Twin, Fu-Dog statues guarded the entranceway. Black smoke bellowed from the chimney and a horrible stench came from the open windows. Crows cawed, like bad omens, from the branches of oak trees—Kenji’s sense of dread rising.
He stopped before placing a foot onto the first step of the house. Gathering himself, getting his gin up, he continued up the stairs, and knocked on the door.
“Brother, I knew you’d be coming,” Makito said from inside. “Enter.”
Kenji slid the door to the side and stepped in. The odor was worse inside, his eyes tearing. “What is that smell, Makito?”
Makito appeared from the doorway of another room. He had long greasy hair and bags under his eyes. His robe was tattered and stained with red smears. The samurai sword he received from Master was sheathed at his side and appearing very much out of place; as if he had stolen it.
“Come in. Come in,” Makito said, turning and disappearing back into the room he had come from.
Kenji closed the door behind him. He removed his sandals, not that Makito had such customs, but to show respect to another’s home.
Kenji took a seat on a cushion on the floor in the living room. His brother returned with tea and biscuits before taking a seat across from him.
“It is good to see you, brother,” Kenji said.
“You as well, Kenji.”
“Our teacher is dying,” Kenji said. “You need to pay your respects.”
“He and the rest of the town are dead to me,” Makito said, waving his hand dismissively.
Kenji’s eyes narrowed as he ground his teeth. He said nothing in response.
“They side with the Emperor; the one you serve.”
“Makito, I have not come to debate politics. I have come because our master requests it. He tells me you are dishonoring our name and village.”
Makito laughed, coldly.
“He speaks of dishonor? Brother, you’ve been brainwashed by the nobility, but no worries. I have plans to bring down the Emperor.”
Kenji stood, placing his hand on the hilt of his sword. “You are my brother, Makito, but to speak of the Emperor like that will surely be the death of you.”
Makito rose to his feet, venom in his voice. He showed no indication of wanting a fight, his hand away from his sword’s hilt. “And you brother will die by his side if you return to him.”
“Was that your abomination I ran into on my way here?” Kenji asked.
“Oh, you met one of my test subjects, did you?”
“What have you dabbled in now? The black arts? They are forbidden by law.”
Makito walked away, turning around before entering the kitchen. “They are your laws to obey and follow. I live amongst the wild; I bow to no emperor.”
“He is a just and righteous man. He brought prosperity to our lands, and peace among our villages.”
“He’s a rat, and a coward.”
“You will come with me and stop messing with the spirit world.” Kenji took a step forward, reaching out for his brother’s arm. Makito pulled away and kicked him square in the abdomen, sending him sailing backward. Kenji stumbled over the table splintering it to pieces. When he looked up, Makito had vanished.
Kenji stormed through the rooms of the house, but his brother was gone. He found a trapdoor hidden within the floor of the kitchen. Lifting it cautiously, he descended a set of wooden stairs leading to an underground crypt-like room.
Lit torches lined the walls. Undead men, like the one Kenji had killed earlier, were chained to the walls, moaning and reaching out for his flesh. Makito stood in the far corner behind a table crowded with vials full of strange liquids, and jars containing rare herbs and animal parts, and a demon stone used to raise the dead.
“Makito, what have you done?” Kenji asked, his face wrought with horror.
“My soldiers,�
� Makito said, waving his arm proudly.
“Behold, brother,” he declared with open arms. “The start of my army of undead.”
“Makito, you’ve gone mad,” Kenji said, drawing his sword. Makito started laughing. “This must be stopped.”
“Stopped?” It’s already in motion, you fool.”
“What are you talking about?”
“Have a drink of water lately?” Kenji’s face paled as the blood ran from it. His brother had pierced the armor of his soul. “The water supply is tainted with the contagion. Right now the change is taking place within you brother. And did you really think our master was ill from natural causes? I poisoned him and a bunch of other fighters first. I had to test a batch of the substance on them, making sure no one would stand in my way. My undead soldiers will pass the disease onto everyone they bite, growing my army to immeasurable numbers once they get beyond the village.”
“You lie,” Kenji growled, lunging forward, but Makito was prepared, and disappeared behind a stone door set into the wall. Kenji screamed in anger, pounding on the door, but it wouldn’t open. His brother’s cowardice and betrayal was too much for his soul to bear. He fell to his knees, tears rimming his eyes. “Makito . . .,” he yelled. He knelt in silence, the zombies chained to the wall moaning and clawing at the air to get at him.
The villagers were doomed, infected by Makito’s poison and would become members of the undead. Kenji looked at his hands. They were clean, but soon they would be stained with the blood of people he cared for.
Kenji gathered his will, focused his energy and rose to his feet. Eight zombies were chained around the room. He approached the first, slicing its head off with a single strike. Then, within seconds, the rest were decapitated—the cellar floor littered with rotting heads and splashes of gore. Sheathing his sword, he climbed the stairs to the house. Makito was nowhere to be found. His master would soon become one of the undead. He needed to get to him before the town was crawling with zombies. How many had drunk the water? All?
A Mixed Bag of Blood Page 5