by T. A. Uner
One day after attending class at FIU he had decided to take a shortcut on campus. It was then he was approached by a man with a gun and asked to part with his watch and wallet. Malcolm, not being one to fall victim had laughed in the man’s face and had taken a bullet wound to his arm in the process. But that only spurred him on. He proceeded beating the man, a drug addict no less, to a bloody pulp. The incident made it to the 6 o’clock news where Malcolm’s assailant described him as ‘a man not to fuck with.’
After finishing his degree in Sports Management—Malcolm had dreams of working for a professional sports team and traveling the world. He enrolled in the Army and saw conflicts on every continent. The T. Rex campaign were the first of many where the carnivorous beasts had threatened a third world African country that had vast mineral resources the United States sought. Then there was the invasion of Saudi Arabia, the bullshit cover-story being they had to go there to make freedom possible for the oil-rich nation of 20 million. No dinosaurs in sight, mind you, although he did see a Stegosaurus or two. But the fossil fuel race was almost over, and the United States was losing ground.
After witnessing his company get mauled by an army of Death Walkers in central Asia, Malcolm did not see it necessary to waste his time fighting for a country that did not have his best interests at heart. The United States he had grown up in had changed and devolved into a global opportunist that raided unsuspecting nations for fossil fuel resources. Add to that the multitude of virus outbreaks and you were liable to see action in some piss shit country whose population had mutated into Death Walkers.
He tried his hand at marriage but found out it wasn’t for him. Especially now that his time in the army had turned him into a full-time alcoholic who couldn’t hold down a job. His wife (now ex-wife) had filed for divorce, which was fine; Malcolm got to keep his SUV in the divorce settlement.
His savings were running low, so Malcolm had to find a way to stay gainfully employed. He tried his hand at running a pawn shop. But that only reminded him of the time he was almost mugged. Most of his customers were like Death Walkers, you couldn’t reason with them and they wanted your blood. After selling his pawn shop, and realizing his Bachelors Degree was worthless—all professional sports leagues had folded due to lack of interest by the general public, that and the worst economic crisis since 2008. He found his second wind while watching a reality show called “American Dinosaur Hunters.”
With the North American Raptor outbreak of 2137, Malcolm found himself employed once more. Raptors were on the loose (the only remaining dinosaur in North America) and their influx had given birth to a new industry: Dinosaur Hunting. Rich shits would pay a handsome sum for Raptor skin to wear: jackets, shoes, and purses were the new fad. Even Louis Vuitton began selling Raptor handbags and suitcases.
Raptors were also attacking South Florida residents. Like deer they had spawned to the point where they were practically on every street corner. Except that deer would run away from humans, Raptors were different; being carnivores they attacked and consumed humans. Thus the need to exterminate these pests became a state-wide obsession.
The first Raptor he had bagged had terrorized a neighborhood in Coconut Grove. Named the “Rich-Folk Raptor” by the media it had eaten over twenty seven residents over a three-week period, bagging six multi-millionaires and two trust-fund brats in the process.
Malcolm’s success had gained instant visibility and he reaped the rewards. Gaining valuable accounts across the sunshine state—or reptile state as some called it— was making him a wealthy fellow. The influx of business had even given him the chance to hire employees to assist him in his growing business.
But the tsunamis of 2141 & 2142 changed all that by devastating both the Atlantic and Gulf Coasts of Florida. The devastation had destroyed the state’s tourist economy, and had caused a massive exodus of Floridians. With over half the state’s population gone, or in financial turmoil, Malcolm saw his business go the way of the T. Rex.
After his business collapsed, his alcoholism returned. He soon felt the weight of his state’s flagging economy and decided to become a recluse, moving out of Miami and into the Everglades. With the remnants of his savings, he built a small abode and forgot about the world’s problems. Little did he know the swamplands contained an even bigger menace.
He rowed through the mist until he came to his destination.
Reptilius saw Tom Digby’s shanty in the distance. Nestled within an isolated part of the swamp, the old-timer saw little human traffic. Nicknamed the “Everglades Hermit,” he lived off the terrain and occasionally paid the twins’ trading post a visit to get piss-drunk on cheap beer and stock up on generic cigarettes.
Reptilius had only seen Tom a few times. They had spoken of the old days: the Raptor extermination boom of the late 2130s and the various environmental disasters that had rendered their state economically unstable. The Second American Civil War that had split the nation was also a popular topic. But other than a few chats over draught beers, Reptilius had little contact with the man.
He pulled his boat, Arrow, up to the shoal and looked around. There was a strange metallic smell in the air. Not taking any chances Reptilius drew his hand ballista. Something coarse rubbed up against his leg and when he looked down he noticed Sawtooth. “Next time announce yourself,” Reptilius said angrily, “I could’ve shot you, boy.”
The croc grunted stoically and blinked at Reptilius with his glassy charcoal eyes. Reptilius stepped toward Tom’s dwelling and holstered his ballista. The steps to the porch creaked as he stepped on them. “Tom?” No answer. Reptilius felt for the doorknob and realized it was unlocked.
Inside the house was dark and humid. Reptilius drew up the shade and light filtered into the house. The furniture was nothing fabulous and looked worn. No sign of any computer or news monitor. Then again why would there be? Tom was a recluse. The metallic smell grew stronger. Reptilius and Sawtooth’s eyes met and the crocodile did not look content. Probably as puzzled as I am, Reptilius thought. And that’s pretty hard to do.
They wandered some more and found old clothes scattered across the living room floor: flannel shirts, torn jeans, a dirty sock and some yellow briefs. Reptilius heard a noise and turned toward a closet door. Sawtooth had heard it as well and was advancing toward the source. He stopped just short of the closet and swiveled his armored head around.
The croc grunted again.
The sound inside the closet stopped. Then, started up again. Reptilius couldn’t quite make out what it meant, or what was causing it. It sounded like fingernails against a window.
Only one way to find out.
Reptilius opened the closet door and peered inside.
Nothing.
But Sawtooth’s nostrils were working overtime. The croc had picked up a scent.
Just as Reptilius turned back toward the closet a large mass of fur bounded out of the opening and clawed Reptilius’ face. He grabbed it and was fortunate for his helmet, or else he might’ve lost an eye or part of his nose. The creature’s claws attacked his breastplate and he lost his balance. He grabbed the cat, a large mutated fur ball with yellow eyes, and wrestled with it. He gave it credit: the creature was determined to maim him. Reptilius was unable to get a firm grip on it and between its grasping and hissing the thing refused to quit.
If someone had walked in on the spectacle Reptilius’ image might have been sullied. Here he was struggling to put away a cat. He finally grasped the creature’s neck and hurled it across the room. Sawtooth watched as the vicious fur ball shrieked as it sailed through the air before banging against the far wall. It arched its back and emitted one last hiss before disappearing through a kitchen door.
He surveyed his injuries, nothing of note, but his arms had suffered minor cuts. Nothing serious. If he saw Tom he would have to lodge a complaint about that cat.
Sawtooth snorted at Reptilius.
“I didn’t see you offering to help,” Reptilius said before entering the kitc
hen.
The metallic smell was at its worst here. Cans of beer and cola littered the floor and Reptilius could’ve sworn he saw a mouse flick past his ankle. Ahead of him he saw a man slumped over a dining table with his back turned to him, he couldn’t tell if it was Tom or not. Only one way to find out.
“Tom? Tom?”
Reptilius saw flies buzzing about the old man’s neck and the smell of decomposing flesh greeted Reptilius. He tapped Tom’s shoulder to confirm his suspicion. Dead alright. He pulled the corpse up from the table.
Tom’s eyes had been gouged out. The eye sockets housed writing maggots. Reptilius had a strong stomach but this was unexpected. Tom’s chest had been ripped open, revealing decomposing muscles around his ribcage. Reptilius shined a light on the chest cavity and saw no sign of vital organs.
“Who the hell did this?” Reptilius had a suspicion but kept his unconfirmed theory to himself. Sawtooth lumbered into the kitchen and groaned. Apparently the odor did not agree with him either.
“It’s a pretty bad sight, boy.” Reptilius turned his attention back to Tom’s corpse. The neck had also been attacked by something. Throat torn out and housing more maggots. The metallic smell was present here as well. Closer inspection revealed Tom’s ankle was missing, as was the foot beneath it. Reptilius returned to Arrow and fetched his vital scanner. He ran the instrument over Tom and his theory was confirmed.
All of Tom’s vital organs had been removed.
But why?
The cat returned and Sawtooth snarled at it hungrily.
“You’d probably get indigestion from eating that bastard, boy,” Reptilius said. Indeed. The cat was one nasty operator.
As much as he wanted to leave this place, and forget about what he had just seen, Reptilius couldn’t. He dragged Tom’s corpse outside and set fire to it. As it burned the metallic smell grew stronger. Reptilius felt like vomiting. After bowing his head in respect at the passing of the old hermit, Reptilius set fire to the house. Sawtooth climbed on deck.
Before the burning house disappeared from view, Reptilius saw the cat one last time. Its back arched as it hissed at him again. He washed himself not once, but twice, and then once more. Using disinfectant to eliminate any possibility of infection.
Part of him wanted to report Tom’s death to Constable Barnes. But what would he say? How could he explain something he did not completely understand? He had never seen a body violated like this. Not even in the Army when he fought on foreign battlefields. The T. Rexs’ he’d faced would just swallow you whole, not suck out your organs.
But Death Walkers could.
Besides, the constable was a fool. And an unstable one, he was liable to arrest Reptilius for disturbing the peace or some other bullshit. For now, Tom’s death would have to remain a secret. But not knowing what caused the old man’s death gnawed at Reptilius like an infected wound.
He headed back to the trading post. Max was fishing out front. He looked up at Reptilius, a stupid grin plastered across his face. “Hey Rept.”
“I found Tom.”
Max returned to his fishing. He was looking at his line but nothing was biting. “That so?”
“He’s dead, Max.”
Max looked up at Reptilius again. The stupid grin was gone. “Fuck.”
“Yeah, it’s messed up. Rex in?”
Max nodded stupidly and drew his line out of the water. “Where else would he be?”
“Right.”
Reptilius met Rex inside the bar. He also had a stupid grin on his face. “Howdy Rept, the usual?”
“Make it a bottle of whiskey; better yet, make that two,” Reptilius said. He threw a 50 credit note on the Bar. The one with President Fillmore’s holographic image on it.
“Tom’s dead.”
Rex nearly dropped the whisky bottle. “Shit.”
“Yeah, my sentiments exactly.”
Rex’s hand began shaking like he had arthritis. “How? Where?”
“I went by his house and found his corpse…or what was left of it. He was mauled, looked like the work of a Death Walker.”
Max sauntered into the bar and slumped onto a stool beside Reptilius.
“Can’t be a Death Walker, Rept, they’re extinct. Army cleared ‘em all out. The last recorded Death Walker sighting was over fifty years ago.” He handed Reptilius a shot glass but the hunter grabbed the whiskey bottle from his hand and took a long pull.
“If you saw what I did you wouldn’t doubt me.”
Max finished his draught. Then he helped himself to something stronger behind the bar.
“I think you better tell Constable Barnes, Rept,” Rex said. “He can call in reinforcements.”
Reptilius shook his head. “No authorities, we handle this ourselves, boys.”
Both twins looked at Reptilius as if he had gone mad. “What do you mean ‘us’ Rept?” Max said. “We ain’t Dino-Hunter like you. Just a couple of swamp boys. Why we couldn’t even fire a weapon properly.”
Reptilius finished his whiskey and started on the second one. “When I get back we’ll talk more about this. I need Arrow serviced.”
The twins looked at Reptilius as if he’d talked them into buying a used car they didn’t want. “I can do that now, Rept,” Max said. “Where you taking her?”
“Surveying. I need to know what we’re up against.”
Rex shook his head. “I don’t like this shit, Rept. We don’t feel like getting
involved. You don’t want us around when you goes after what killed poor Tom, we’re liable to dump our drawers.”
“Service Arrow,” Reptilius said. Then he started on the second bottle.
Arrow’s motor buzzed like an angry hornet. Reptilius surveyed the bog for activity as they cut across a pond filled with lily pads. A crane few past Arrow and headed for a quieter spot to graze before Reptilius turned off the engine. He looked through his visor-screen and saw only swamp reeds. “Go take a spin around the pond, Sawtooth.” The croc grunted and slid off the deck before beginning his patrol. If anyone could find clues, it would be Sawtooth, Reptilius thought. The mutant croc had a good eye, and nose for these surroundings.
After an hour Sawtooth returned and shook his head. Usually he would lead Reptilius toward some quarry but this time he had come up empty. With the sunlight fading like dying candlelight Reptilius figured they’d start fresh tomorrow. Perhaps inspect the swamp’s outer rim.
Sawtooth climbed onboard Arrow and opened his snout. Reptilius reached into a wet bucket and tossed a two pound slab of chicken meat into Sawtooth’s maw. The croc wasted little time devouring the chicken.
Reptilius started up the engine and steered it out of the pond. He would have to hurry back to the twins’ trading post before darkness descended. Raptors traveled in hunting packs at night for food, and Reptilius did not want to get caught in the open without all his weapons.
He passed wetlands dotted with verdure. No cranes were around, and why would they be? They knew the Raptors’ behavioral patterns as well as Reptilius. Reptilius increased speed as he made his way back to the trading post. The wind cooled his face.
He turned his thoughts to Tom’s corpse again, and just as he was about to relive the encounter he saw a slab of light slice across one of the sand shoals flanking his left bow.
It wasn’t there a second ago, so where the hell did it come from? Reptilius slowed Arrow. Not something he would risk, especially so close to a shoal, but he would risk grounding the boat. This was not your average everyday occurrence.
Sawtooth snorted and poked Reptilius’ ankle with his snout. “What is it, boy?” The croc looked at Reptilius through concerned eyes. If there was hesitation in the croc’s eyes Reptilius didn’t want to believe it.
The light was yellow; a thin turquoise layer outlined its alien presence while the sun melted behind an overhanging canopy of swamp tree foliage. A low hum grew as he approached it. Its sound was as alien as its sudden appearance. Reptilius’ thoughts turned to the Death
Walkers. Didn’t history repeat itself?
Before we can discuss the dangers of Death Walkers, it is important to know what a Death Walker is. Better known by their street name, “Zombie,” these undead creatures have a tendency to appear at the most inopportune moments. The first economic crisis of 2008 was when they made their debut appearance, ransacking a quarter of the world’s infrastructure. The hardest hit areas were: New York, Los Angeles, London and Moscow. With honorable mention going to Miami. Their talents include: brain-eating, skin sucking, organ removal and limb-tearing. They’re often active in large populous areas and are very difficult to subdue. Often limited nuclear strikes are required to exterminate them, although the fall-out from nuclear radiation tends to leave dangerous mutations in its wake.
After the first Death Walker onslaught had been repulsed in 2009, the U.N. General Assembly convened to discuss options to prevent another Zombie apocalypse. A 4,000 page report was completed on the destructive tendencies of undead activity, but overall the results drawn from the report were inconclusive, thus leading to the first Death Walker summit of 2014. In it every nation that was devastated by the Death Walker onslaught met to share their experience with other nations. A “Death Walker Initiative” was enacted and endorsed by all members of the U.N. except for North Korea and Cuba, which rigorously denied the existence of Death Walkers and said it was a capitalist conspiracy to take over the world.
After the close of the twenty-first century Death Walker incursions had abated. Especially with the advent of Cobalt explosives which proved effective against the undead without the side-effects of Nuclear weapons. The only drawback was that Cobalt was expensive to manufacture, especially after the energy crisis of 2098 when fossil fuel consumption reached an all-time high. Global markets were in total chaos as rumors spread of depleted oil reserves and OPEC’s inability to meet the ever-increasing demand for more petroleum. Russia was happy to stand by on the sidelines, with its mega oil reserves, and wait to see who would be standing after the dust had settled.