The dead are walking and everyone thinks the world is coming to an end. Well, it’s not for me. My world is just beginning. The first thing I’m going to do is take you down! Actually I’m going to chew you down and spit you out! No, I’m not going to spit you out. I’m going to eat you and keep you in! Hell, I might even chew you down and shit you out. I’m not sure what happens after I become a zombie and eat you and stuff.
I’ve been waiting for the right moment. And I found it less than an hour ago. You see, I needed to find one of those walking dead bastards and get him to bite me. I can’t shoot a gun. It’s hard enough to drive with these damn clamps. But I found one blown in half on the street. Its head was still moving. So, I went up to it and let it bite me on the arm. It hurt like hell, but it’s not going to hurt anything like I’m going to make you hurt!
You hear that Gomez! I will beat you! I will win!
I’m in the car right now across the street. I see you in your room behind your computer. I’m coming to get you, and you can’t stop me.
I feel myself starting to turn. This is power! I hope I still can think on my own some when I’m one of them. I want to savor every bite of you that I take!
I’m going to hit ‘send’ on my computer, and then while you’re reading this I’m going to run and crash into your window. I feel the change coming on me. I’m finally going live up to my name!
I’m going to make you my stomach bitch!
-Lucky
How Do You Eat a Whole Human?
“Really, Natalie. I think it would be best if you brought the casserole over to the Canfield’s,” Bo said, scratching his five o’clock shadow. “You made it and everything. Mrs. Canfield is going to want to know the recipe. I don’t want to get caught up in a thirty minute question and answer session about what you used to seasoned the meat or how you sliced the carrots.”
“I simply don’t have time right now. I’m boiling the pasta, and I’ve got an organic pound cake in the oven that I’ve got to keep a close eye on. You know I can’t trust you to watch things,” Natalie said. “What’s the big deal? You like Mr. Canfield. You used to hang out with him all the time before he became bed ridden. I bet he would be thrilled it if you just stopped in for a minute to see how he was doing.”
“It’s not like we were the best of pals or anything. We drank a few beers together in the afternoon sometimes. He liked to talk about his career in the Navy, and I liked to hear his stories. We both like hockey and professional football. He’s a nice enough old man, but he wouldn’t let you get too close to him. He seemed distant, like he was passing time, waiting for death. I guess when you get that old it’s the next big event in your life.” Bo was tempted to tell Natalie the real reason why he didn’t want to go next door but didn’t want to get into it with her right then.
“Go over and see him. It’ll probably make his day. Just think. That could be you lying in bed with no hopes of ever living a normal life again.”
Bo curled his upper lip. “If the roles were reversed, then I’d want him to bring me a gun. I’d get it over with in a hurry. I don’t want to linger on for weeks or months, dragging everyone else down with me.”
“Miles and Aubrey will be here in about an hour. Go on over there, get it over with, and get back in time to have a cocktail. I’ll make you a double martini with blue cheese stuffed olives,” Natalie said.
“Sold! I’ll be back as quick as I can,” Bo said, straightening his collar, and checking his fly to make sure it was zipped. He grabbed the covered Pyrex dish and headed out the door. His mouth felt even drier now that he anticipated the icy coldness of crisp vodka passing over his tongue.
He took the route down his driveway, across the sidewalk, and up the Canfield’s driveway toward the front door. Bo learned over two years ago not to make the mistake of crossing over the yard and going to their back door. The last time he did he found Mrs. Canfield sprawled out in the nude on a lounge chair when he rounded the hedges.
Her stomach was so large and flabby that it hung low enough to cover her crotch. Her bosoms sagged down under her armpits like water balloons. Water balloons with blue veins winding like streets on a roadmap.
Bo had been daydreaming on his way over that day and had been more startled than she when he came upon her. He remembered saying something like, “Whoa! Mrs. Canfield . . . I’m so sorry,” and froze in his tracks, embarrassed, not knowing what move to make next.
A bigger surprise came when she smiled, revealing that she was giving her gums a break from her dentures. She said her husband was in town and wouldn’t be back for a few hours. Then, asked if he would like to come inside for some lemonade. When she said ‘lemonade,’ she spread her knees apart and ran both hands under the folds of her fat and exposed her crotch, offering him a slice of her withered womanhood.
Bo then made some undecipherable excuse for leaving and bolted for the sanctuary of his own home. All he could think about for the next week was Natalie and wondered what kind of shape she would be in during her golden years. It made him shudder to think it could ever be like that.
After arriving at the door he knocked gently three times and listened for activity inside. After a half-minute passed, he knocked again. He wished he could just leave the casserole on doorstep and get back home.
Bo knocked again—harder this time. The door squeaked open a couple of inches. It hadn’t been closed all the way.
Wanting to get back home as soon as possible, he stuck his head inside and called out in a gentle voice, “Hello. It’s, Bo. From next door. Hello?” He listened intently and thought he heard a shuffling sound coming from the back of the house.
There was a strange smell lingering in the air. Bo wondered if Mrs. Canfield was experimenting with Indian cooking and was using exotic curry or crushed stinkbugs for flavoring. His stomach roiled.
Feeling the need of his martini now more than ever, he pushed the door open and looked around, but stopped short of calling out again.
Mrs. Canfield’s legs and thong draped bare ass bent over the arm of a lounge chair, and pointed in his direction, as if waiting for a mighty stallion to mount her.
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 boney 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 Co
wboy 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.
Horror Buffet : Six Servings of Tasty Terror Page 4