Kenji took a log from the fireplace upstairs, touched it to the thatched roof outside, and set the place ablaze. Everything would burn to the ground including the corpses in the cellar.
He sprinted to his room at the inn, dressed himself in his samurai armor, and went to see his master. On his way, people were screaming and running about in the center of town. Two members of the undead had a woman in their clutches and were gnawing at her stomach, yanking out her intestines and devouring them. Kenji ran over, pulled his sword out, and removed one of their heads with a quick stroke before running his sword through the other’s skull. Both dropped lifelessly to the ground.
He stood as people watched him from shop windows and the homes above. A man ran up to him, shaking. “Great Samurai,” the man said, bowing. “What is happening in our village?”
Kenji gazed upon the man, then at the people standing along the street. They all looked sick, with pale skin, emaciated bodies, and gaunt faces.
“I need a rider to deliver a message to the Emperor,” Kenji yelled to the crowd. He put a hand on the man’s shoulder. “Please, sir, go with your family to your home. Lock the door and stay inside.” The man went running off.
The dead woman, that the zombies had been eating, began to stir. Kenji jumped back, amazed at how she was able to reanimate even in such dire condition. Makito’s work was far more damning than he imagined. She sat up, reaching out, and tried to grab Kenji’s leg. He drew his sword and quickly dispatched her back to the grave by removing her head.
Kenji looked around at the growing crowd; people creeping out of their homes and shops.
“Someone, find me a rider,” Kenji demanded. “I need to deliver a message to the Emperor.” A scream broke out from within a shoemaker’s shop. A man, blood seeping from his neck and drenching his clothes, stumbled from the store. Kenji ran over to him. Looking through the shop’s doorway, he saw a female zombie dressed in a shiny, red kimono coming out of the store. With lightning quickness, Kenji sliced off the top of her head, from the ears up. She twitched violently before falling to the ground. Upon impact, the other half of her brain tumbled out of her skull and fell apart like stuck-together gray noodles.
Turning upon the bloody and infected man, Kenji swung his sword, severing the man’s head from his body. The crowd screamed.
“People,” Kenji declared, replacing his sword to its sheath. “There is a contagion amongst us. These undead things carry a disease. Do not let them bite you. Go to your home and stay inside.” Chaos broke out as people grabbed up their children and valuables before fleeing to their homes. He knew most of them were already infected from the water, but maybe some of them had a chance.
“Samurai,” a voice said from behind him. Kenji turned around to see a young boy standing before him. “I’m a rider, sir.”
The boy appeared normal, his skin wasn’t pale and he looked well-fed. “Come with me,” he said, leading the boy into the shoe shop. Inside Kenji wrote a note to the Emperor, sealing it with wax he found on a table. “Take this note to the Emperor, show it to the guards at the gate.” Kenji handed the child a medallion that only he would have, indicating to the Emperor that the message was truly from his trusted warrior. The young boy departed from the store, heading for his horse.
Kenji left the store and looked around. People half his age were hobbling like elders. His brother had infected almost every villager. Only a few lucky ones, like the young boy, hadn’t drunk the water. The shame could never be forgotten or erased. His soul weighed heavily on his body as he traveled to his master’s house just outside of town.
“Kenji,” Ari said. “How goes it with Makito?”
Kenji hung his head in shame. He could barely look at his master, knowing what he was to become. He sat by his teacher’s side, telling him everything he knew.
“This is not your fault or shame to carry. Your brother . . .” he stopped, coughing up phlegm mixed with blood, before continuing . . . “your brother has disgraced both of us and the entire village. He is a lunatic and a mass murderer.” Ari took Kenji’s hand. “You must stop him. Our village was only the beginning. No one must be allowed to leave.”
“I know, Master.”
“Then you know what must be done?”
“It is already in motion,” Kenji said, a tear falling down his cheek.
“It will start with me, my warrior.” Master Ari held out a shaking arm. Kenji’s face faltered with terror.
“I cannot, Master,” Kenji cried.
Ari’s pale face reddened with anger. “You will. I command it.” He lay back on the pillow, straightening his long white beard. “I am ready, for there is no defeating this demon that rides in my blood. I’ve been fighting it for some time, thinking it was cancer. Now that I know, I can die easier.”
Kenji took out his tanto, handing it to his master. Ari would perform seppuku, a ritual of suicide reserved for samurai, allowing him to die with honor instead of by his enemy’s hands. Ari held the bladed weapon, tip down, to his stomach. “Goodbye, my noble warrior,” he said and plunged the knife into his gut, ripping it across and shredding the intestines. He let out a gasp, shuddered a moment, then fell still. Kenji cried out, plucked the tanto from his master’s stomach, and placed it back in its sheath. The master’s white robe lay torn and bloodied.
With tears running down his cheeks, Kenji saw the old man’s eyes open. He drew his sword, hesitated a moment, then lopped off his master’s head.
Outside, screams erupted.
He ran out to see zombies walking with their arms out and attacking villagers. One was coming up the stairs at him. He cut its arms off before removing the head. Some of the villagers had pitchforks and swords. “You must destroy or remove the head in order to kill them,” he yelled to the villagers.
From his right he heard a whistling in the air, and managed to duck out of the way of an arrow. Turning, he saw Makito holding a bow, readying another arrow. “Hello brother. Is the master dead yet?”
Anger coursed through Kenji. Growling, he sprang to his feet and drew his sword, calling upon all his samurai abilities to help him through what must be done.
The next arrow sailed past him as he charged at his brother. Makito drew his own sword and raced forward; a horde of undead behind him.
The brothers’ swords met with a clang of metal. They parried, each one taking swings at the other. Nicks and gashes lined their bodies within seconds. Zombies came at them, trying to eat their flesh. Makito looked bewildered. The zombies were attacking him as well as his brother. Upon dodging a zombie attack, Makito slipped up; Kenji’s blade came in and sliced off his sword arm. Blood spurted from the limb as he screamed in agony. Makito fell to the ground as Kenji cleared the area of zombies. Finally, when the last undead fell, Kenji stood over his brother, and rested the tip of his sword against Makito’s neck.
“Go ahead, run me through,” Makito said. “My plans have been set forth and you can’t stop them.”
“I’ve already taken the necessary steps in dealing with this mess. I should’ve killed you long ago, but master had hope for you.”
“You would never kill your own brother. You are weak, but slice me, so that I may rise again.”
“You really are demented, Makito.” Kenji sliced his brother’s legs off above the knees. Makito lay, writhing and screaming in disbelief.
“I leave you for the zombies, Makito. May they rid the world of your evil and devour every piece of you.” Kenji left his brother on the ground as a group of undead began tearing at him and eating his flesh.
Kenji sliced his way through hordes of undead, some of them the villagers he’d just seen in town. He returned to his master’s quarters. His knees ached and he had a fever. The disease was working through him already. Hopefully the Emperor’s men would arrive soon and wipe out the town, stopping the undead plague from spreading across the lands. Kenji wouldn’t be around to see the outcome, realizing it was out of his hands. He knelt by his headless master and
bowed his head. Placing the tip of the tanto to his temple, gathering his chi with measured breaths, he shoved the blade into his skull. The knife penetrated his brain, killing him, and making sure he would never rise again.
Small Town, Big Trouble
Hank drove down Mott Street, an area of Seattle, Washington where one could travel to elicit the services of a woman of the night. He hated the city with its overcrowdedness, noise, and putrid odors. But it was part of his duty, his oath. Still, the task always made his stomach turn, no matter how many times he performed it.
He loved his small town of Fairhaven and the people in it, especially his immediate family: a wife and three children. They were his world and there wasn’t anything he wouldn’t do to protect them. And that’s why he was in Seattle picking up a prostitute.
“Hello, Darling,” he said, after rolling his Chevy Malibu’s window down. The scantily dressed vixen strolled over to the car, leaning into it.
It wasn’t that he hated or even despised these poor souls of the night. No. But they were the easiest people to acquire without incident. And when they went missing, very few were looked for. Most were runaways or drug addicts, coming from broken homes. They were the ghosts of small town innocence, now lost and forgotten.
“You a police officer?” Hank asked, softly.
“Do you smell bacon?” the woman responded.
“Please, just answer the question.”
“No, I’m not a cop.” The woman lifted her top up, exposing her large breasts. “Good enough?” she asked.
Hank nodded, closing his eyes as he did so. He was so tired of the routine. He felt bad for the women in general, especially the ones he took. People lived hard lives, but prostitutes, if they lasted long enough, became like flavorless gum: chewed up and discarded.
“Hop in,” he told the woman, trying to sound upbeat and not wanting to scare her off.
“Don’t you want to know my rates?”
“No. I want it all and I’ll pay whatever you ask.”
The woman’s eyes lit up. With a huge, gleaming grin, she opened the car door and got in.
Hank drove to a remote warehouse area down by the river; the same place he took all the prostitutes. Glancing around, the way seemed clear. He shut the car’s engine.
“Where you want to get it on, sugar?”
“Right here,” he said, producing a handgun from the side of his seat. He pointed it at the woman and pulled the trigger. The weapon hardly made a sound.
The woman’s eyes went wide with panic as she turned, fumbling for the door handle, but the tranquilizer in the dart that was lodged in her neck worked quickly. Her head began to sway; her movements slowing until she fell unconscious.
Hank popped the trunk, got out of the car and walked over to the passenger’s side. He scooped her up, carried her to the trunk and laid her down, gently.
* * *
Crystal awoke some time later. Her head throbbed and her throat was dry, as if she’d been snacking on sand coated crackers. What the hell happened? The last thing she remembered was . . . a gun. Someone had shot her.
Opening her eyes, she saw that she was in a small clearing. A dense woodland area stood before her, illuminated only by the full moon’s glow. She tried moving--her mind confused, unfocused--but couldn’t. Looking down at herself, she saw that she was tied in place to something. Some kind of wooden post. She began yelling for help; her cries dying in the black void that existed beyond the trees.
“Do you have any family?” a male voice asked.
Crystal’s heart leaped with a mixture of joy and fright. “Who’s there?” she asked, straining against the ropes.
“There isn’t a lot of time, so please answer my question.”
“Who are you?” she begged. “Show yourself.” When nothing happened, she asked, “What do you want with me?”
“Only the answer to my question.”
“Yes, yes. I have family. A mother. A father. And a baby brother that care about me.” The realization of her predicament was hitting her harder; tears began welling in her eyes. She wanted to remain strong, not allowing the freak any satisfaction, but she couldn’t help it. She was terrified.
“Give me their mailing address.”
Crystal froze. Was this guy going to send her parents a ransom letter? “Why?” she asked.
“So I can send them your money.”
“Money? What money? I don’t have any money.”
“You had a hundred dollars in your purse. Add the two hundred I am going to give you and that will make three hundred dollars.”
Crystal was speechless. What was this guy’s game? She’d been scared out of her mind, thinking maybe the guy was going to kill her, or torture her, or both. But he planned on paying her, wanting to send the money to her parents.
“You’re not going to kill me?” she asked, a hint of hope in her voice.
“No. I’m not going to kill you.”
Relief, like popping a Xanax, flooded her system. Had she just heard right? Was this guy just screwing with her? Trying to teach her a lesson? Get her parents involved?
“Then why’d you tie me up like I’m some Joan of Arc? Is this how you get off? Because if that’s the case, you didn’t need to drug me.” Crystal felt a hot kernel of anger growing in the pit of her stomach. “I would’ve done it free of charge.”
“Give me your parents’ address, please.”
Crystal heard unease in the man’s voice. He was almost pleading with her. “Look, you’ve had your fun. Now let me go.”
“I can’t do that.”
“What’s your deal, huh? You’re not going to kill me so . . .” A loud animalistic roar erupted from the forest, silencing Crystal mid-sentence. Then she said: “What the hell was that?”
“Please,” the man said. “Give me the address. This is your last chance to help your family before . . .”
“Screw you!” she yelled. “And to hell with my family! My dad was a loser and mom was a junkie.”
Another roar, nearer this time, came from the forest.
“Oh my god!” Crystal screeched. “Is that a bear?” She began sobbing, her chest aching as her heart thumped like the piston of an overworked diesel engine. “You’ve got to untie me. Please, mister.”
“I’m deeply sorry, but I can’t. I have to be going now.”
“No! Wait.”
“Your money will be put to good use.”
“Don’t leave me,” she begged.
A thunderous crashing sound of broken tree limbs and kicked up forest debris filled her ears. Something big was heading in her direction. Looking around, she saw no food in sight. Wasn’t that what attracted animals?--especially bears?
The commotion grew louder as the thing neared. Maybe if she played dead--because that’s what people were supposed to do when confronted by a bear--the animal would leave her alone.
Closing her eyes, Crystal let her body go limp; the ropes holding her upright. The crashing sounds ended abruptly as the creature stepped into the clearing. A putrid odor, like wet dog and rotten fish, filled her nostrils. She tried to remain still, had wanted to so badly, but the odor was too much. She began coughing, breathing through her mouth to avoid the stench, and could feel bile wanting to rise up into her throat. She kept her eyes closed, not wanting to see the animal.
A low, bass filled growl came forth, followed by a dead-fish smelling aroma. Opening her eyes, Crystal saw the face of horror.
Crouching before her was a hairy, man-like beast. It’s red, beady eyes--set deep within its skull--were filled with a malevolence she had never seen before. Crystal couldn’t move. She was frozen with fear and caught in the thing’s stare, like the victim of a vampire. Finally, she opened her mouth and began screaming. The creature stood up, standing over six feet tall and bellowed a roar. Its mouth was lined with jagged teeth that looked like they could chew steel, but it was the six inch canines that caused Crystal’s bladder to let loose. Saliva spewed from its mouth
as she continued to scream.
In the blink of an eye, the beast swung its hairy arm and quickly decapitated the woman; its long ebony claws making easy work of the soft flesh. Blood, geyser-like, spewed from the severed neck. The creature lowered its head over the wound and commenced drinking; something it did before devouring its prey.
* * *
Hank sat in his truck, listening to the woman’s screams go silent. Shaking his head, he closed his eyes and prayed.
For generations, his and three other families had been feeding the beast. As long as it received one human sacrifice a month, the town would be spared. It was a grueling, hard-to-swallow duty, but a necessary one nonetheless.
Using his cell phone, Hank called his best friend, Joel. “It’s done,” he said, before hanging up. Then he dialed the third member of the Bigfoot Family, as it was called. “It’s done,” he told Pete, before hanging up. There was no need to say anything else to either man.
The legend dated back over a hundred and fifty years. It was said a disgruntled medicine man, that had lost his land to the bank, placed a curse on the town. Once a month, a human sacrifice was to be made in the forest to a blood-thirsty beast. Some believed the creature was the medicine man himself; that he had made a deal with a demon to be transformed into the Sesquac, a half man, half beast, that had a taste for human flesh.
Shortly after the man’s proclamation that the town would fall, he disappeared into the Cascade Mountains never to be heard from again. No one took his threats seriously and the town went on as normal, until the bodies started piling up.
Night after night the town’s people were being slaughtered; their bodies having been stripped of flesh, leaving nothing but minute grizzle and bone. Hunting parties were dispatched to the surrounding forest, finding nothing but oversized humanoid footprints. Word spread fast of the medicine man’s curse and a town meeting was called. After heated deliberation, the Bigfoot Families were established. It was the charge and responsibility of these three families to make sure the beast was appeased and the town kept safe.
A Mixed Bag of Blood Page 6