by Tim Meyer
“Shit, they're coming,” Paul Scott yelled. Victoria and Paul had been on lookout, while Ben and Josh rummaged through the cars and trucks that littered a small section of the property.
“Walkers, runners, or Barkers?” Josh asked.
“Walkers mostly. There sure is a shitload of them.”
Josh looked to Ben. “We're fucked here, aren't we?”
Ben shook his head. He surveyed his surroundings. All he saw was an open field boxed by a never-ending stretch of forest. Trees, trees, and more trees. The sun finally showed itself, lighting the beautiful country atmosphere. They could faintly smell the morning dew on the grass. Ben checked the long row of cars, realizing the Barkers weren't as dumb as they looked; they weren't going to risk anyone surviving.
No one has ever survived.
“We need some bait,” Ben said.
“What do you mean?” Josh asked.
“I mean, the only way we're going to get out of this alive is to fool these bastards.”
Josh shook his head. “I don't get it.”
Paul overheard their conversation. “Yeah, I'm not too sure I understand.”
“One of us goes up into a tree and we let them surround it. Then the rest of us attack from behind. It's our only shot without a decent weapon.”
“Without any weapon, you mean,” Josh corrected.
“Well...” Ben bent over, grabbing a stray branch. “We'll make the best out of what we got.”
“One problem,” Victoria stated. “Who's going to be the sucker climbing the tree.” All three of them turned to her. For a second she didn't get it, then it suddenly hit her. She rolled her eyes as her shoulders slumped. “No...”
“If we're going to take the three of them on in hand to hand... we're going to need all the strength we can get,” Ben said. “No offense.”
“Oh, none taken,” she said sarcastically.
“Whoa, hold on. I'll do it,” Josh said. “I'm not going to be much use with one arm anyway.”
Ben looked at him, realizing he may be right. “You sure?”
“Yeah. Besides. I think Victoria here is pretty motivated to get her daughters back. You'd be surprised how much strength people have when they're backed against a wall.” Josh looked to her, winking. “Isn't that right, Vic?”
“I'll kill to get her back.”
Ben nodded. “Very well then.” He nodded. “I hope you can climb with one arm.”
The Three Little Pigs stopped in the middle of the field. Around them, the dead moaned. They crept out of the forest, one by one, stumbling toward them with one thing on the forefront of their dense minds. Otis laughed. He raised his shotgun and took out the nearest zombie with a loud bang.
“Sure ya want to be doing dat?” Floyd asked. “Might need the ammo. Sides. Ya'll attract mo' of dem.”
“Mo' da betta,” Otis grumbled.
“Sheet, Otis,” Cooter said. “I ain't goan get bitten by one of deez fuckers. And what bout the runners?”
“Fuck dem. We kill dem all.”
Floyd and Cooter exchanged looks.
“Maybe we should split up,” Otis suggested. “Things'll go faster that way.”
“Oh sheet. I dunno, Otis. We usually hunt together,” Floyd told him. “Bad luck goan against tradition. Ain't it?”
“Don' give a sheet. I want to find these fuckers and I want them dead fast.” Beneath the handkerchief, Otis grinned. “We got some fresh pussy to get to.”
Ross reached for the barbed-wire fence. It was about ten feet tall, not impossible to climb. He was about to wrap his fingers around it when someone grabbed his shoulder.
“Don't,” a voice said. “It's live.” Tabby let go gently.
“How can you be sure?”
“They wouldn't risk us escaping. And remember? They have generators.”
“Don't do it, Dad,” Landry said. “It's not worth it.”
Ross turned, looking past them, at the leaf-covered hill in the middle of the woods. Zombies were drunkenly swaying their way up, none of them moving fast enough to be considered a threat. There weren't many. Ross could count their numbers with his fingers. However, if enough were drawn to their location, it would cause problems. At the time, heading for the fence seemed like a good strategy, but Ross realized that Tabby was right—there was no way the rednecks would risk them surviving.
“Shit,” Ross muttered. “What the hell do we do now?”
The zombies' utterances were growing louder. The smell accompanying their arrival intensified.
“We can run?” Tabby suggested.
“Tired of running,” Ross said. He bent down, picking up the nearest branch. It was a good size, about the length of a hockey stick and the thickness of a dough roller. One of the walkers reached the top of the hill. Ross swung at its head. He cracked the zombie across its face, causing it to lose balance. It fell on its side, tumbling down the hill. The next zombie made it to the top. Ross ended its climb similarly.
“Can't play King of the Hill forever, Dad,” Landry said.
“Have any better ideas?” Ross said.
“Actually I—”
An arrow zipped through the air and found a home in the tree next to Landry's head.
It hurt like hell, but he climbed the tree with one arm. Ben and Paul had given him a big boost toward the first branch. He banged his arm on a few branches, nearly screamed from the intense pain that streaked up and down his arm, but he was able to subdue his outburst. Josh got himself halfway up the tree when he couldn't take it anymore. He had done further damage to his arm, there was no question about it. He jeopardized the healing process for sure. Josh began to worry that his arm might never heal correctly. Well, if this plan goes sour, I won't have to worry about that, now will I? He maintained a comfortable squatting positing, waiting for the Three Little Pigs to come.
He wouldn't have to wait long.
“Don' think I don' see yer ass up der,” a southern voice said.
Josh looked down and saw one of them—he couldn't tell which, but it appeared to be the fatter one—standing on top of the Toyota he had tried to plunder. Josh looked beyond the redneck, seeing a head rising from behind the car. It was Ben. He had been hiding beneath the car the whole time Josh was ascending the tree. A few zombies plodded in their general direction. There were no signs of Victoria or Paul.
“I wonder how you should die...” the hunter said. He pointed his rifle at Josh, while lining up the scope with his eye. “Gunshot. Fall from tree. Or zombie.”
“How's about none of the above, motherfucker,” Ben said, taking the tree branch he acquired to the hunter's knee. The fat man shrieked as his knee gave, his bulbous body coming down on the windshield, cracking it on contact. The glass spider-webbed from the point of impact. The hunter's rotund figure slowly rolled down the hood of the car, landing in the wet grass below. Josh watched Ben pounced on him like a jungle cat. Victoria and Paul rushed out of the woods, joining him.
A sick joy ran through Josh as he witnessed his three friends beat the man within an inch of his life. Ben repeatedly hit him with the stick, while Victoria and Paul continuously kicked him. The ribs. The chest. Directly in the face. Josh listened to the sounds of the First Little Piggy's body breaking with the same satisfaction he would with a new song from his favorite band.
He maneuvered his way through the branches to a position where he felt comfortable jumping. Josh let go of the branches, landing on both feet. The impact left a sting, but nothing compared to the searing pain that ran down the right side of his body.
Josh joined his friends.
Paul had taken the gun from the hunter's clutches. His handkerchief had been removed, revealing a bloody, almost unrecognizable face. Josh thought it was the one who had been introduced as Cooter.
Ben stepped back from the violent scene. Around them, zombies grew closer.
“We don't have to kill him,” Ben said. “The zombies will do that for us.”
Paul switched off the gu
n's safety. “But I want to.”
Ben placed his hand on Paul's shoulder. “Killing a human is much different than killing a zombie.”
Paul laughed through his nose. “These people aren't human. They're less human than the fucking zombies.”
“That may be,” Ben agreed. “But if you pull that trigger, you're no better than them.”
Beneath his bloody mask, Cooter chuckled. He meant to say something, but scarlet fluids filled his mouth, sputtering down his chin.
“I disagree,” Paul said, then yanked the trigger.
The gun roared. A dark, red hole appeared on Cooter's forehead.
Above them, birds screamed while abandoning their nests, fleeing into the bright morning sky.
Floyd Barker followed four shadows deep into the woods. He pulled the trigger on his crossbow, but his targets were too far away. The arrow sailed into the distance, disappeared. He stopped to reload when he heard crunchy footfalls behind him. They were closing in. He abandoned the crossbow, removing the long, segregated hunting knife that had been strapped to his leg. He looked up, seeing a blur rush toward him. He barely caught a glimpse of the monster's face before it barreled into him. Its tongue hung from its mouth, bloody saliva trickling down its chin. It snarled, a resonating inhuman sound that echoed through the woods. Floyd drove the knife deep into the runner's chest, but it didn't prevent the creature from taking a chunk out of his neck. Floyd hollered girlishly as the zombie spit the bloody clump of flesh out and dove in for seconds. Pushing the zombie off by grabbing its tattered shirt and flinging it sideways, Floyd spat obscenities. The zombie stood its ground, snapping at Floyd's wrist, catching his flesh between its teeth. It peeled Floyd's skin back like a roll of duct tape. Withdrawing his arm from the creature's mouth, Floyd screamed when he saw his own bone beneath the torn flesh. His uninjured hand took the hunting knife, plunging it between the zombie's eyes. The corpse fell to the ground, puss and other infectious fluids bubbling out from the knife wound.
Floyd glanced around, hoping Otis and Cooter heard his screams. However, only figures Floyd saw trudging through the forest were the dead.
He cursed himself and his brothers for being so stupid. Did they really think they were going to survive this? How cocky could they have been? Now he was left alone, bitten and bleeding, his veins pumping the infection throughout his body.
Shee-it, Floyd thought, as half a dozen zombies closed in on him, licking their lips, ready to satisfy their seemingly unquenchable hunger.
“Did you hear that?” Tabby asked. “Sounded like someone screaming.”
“Maybe that redneck bastard got what he deserved,” Ross stated.
They continued jogging through the forest, parallel with the electric fence that kept them inside the parameters their captors had designated. Ross eagerly checked for a break, a missing section of fence that the dead could've created. They had passed one zombie who had tried breaking out of the arena, but paid the price dearly. The smell of his fried, dead flesh made Anthony puke. Everyone in the group almost followed suit. Ross hoped the Barkers wanted to save fuel for their generators and thought they had kept the fence inactive between “hunts.” If that were true, and he prayed it was, then the zombies could have broken out during those opportune times.
As they kept moving, Ross began losing faith in his theory.
“How much longer are we gonna keep running for?” Landry asked his father.
“You tired, boy?” Ross asked. “And you want to be an All-State running back?”
Landry laughed beneath his breath. They had probably already ran the length of five football fields, but he opted not to argue that fact with his father.
“I could use a quick breather,” he admitted.
In agreement, Anthony exhaled dramatically.
“I think we could use one too,” Tabby said.
Ross looked around. There were no zombies in his line of vision, even though the forest reeked of them. They weren't far away. And who knew where the hunters were lurking. For all he knew, they could be squatting in one of the trees with a sniper rifle. Ross scanned the tall maple trees. They provided excellent coverage. As his eyes bounced from tree to tree, he expected to hear the gunshot that would end his life.
“Okay, but not too long,” Ross said. “And let's stay away from the fence while we're at it.”
“I thought you said the fence was our best bet for getting out of here,” Tabby said.
“I did.” Ross nodded to the top of the fence. A camera had been mounted to the top of the fence post, peering directly at them. “But we're being watched.”
Ross put his arm around his son, steering him toward the middle of the arena.
“We can't go back there. We'll be sitting ducks in the open,” Tabby said.
“Maybe they won't be expecting us there,” Ross said. “Maybe there is a way out, back where we started. And maybe there won't be any cameras either.”
There were too many “maybes” in his logic, but Tabby didn't argue. Instead, she comforted her son, throwing her arm around his neck. He smiled weakly. She mouthed the words “I love you” not knowing how many opportunities she had left to tell him. Anthony's smile grew wider.
Together, the four of them walked toward the core of the arena where the smell of the dead became very bold.
Otis approached the gaggle of corpses. They were on their knees, crowded around their recent victory, rummaging through the sack of skin for inner parts and other tasty treats. Below the zombies, through the slick red mess that pooled outward, Otis recognized the pair of boots and the pant legs that stuck out of the feeding frenzy. Sheet, he thought. He raised his shotgun and started breaking up the party. The zombies looked away from their meal, their faces covered in slushy crimson fluids, growling at the intruder. One by one, Otis thinned the crowd until one zombie remained. It looked at Otis warily, then returned to snacking on his brother's intestines.
Otis knocked the zombie in the head with the stock of his shotgun. The zombie fell on its side, snarling as it rolled across the ground. It tried scrambling to its feet, but Otis was there with his boot, jamming his steel-toe boot into the side of the zombie's face, which dented on impact. Rotten teeth tumbled out of its mouth. The rancid stench was nauseating, even to Otis, who had smelled worse over the years.
“You sumbitches,” Otis murmured, bringing his foot down on the back of the zombie's head. It crunched beneath his boot like shards of glass. Otis ground the corpse's head into the dirt, rotating the ball of his foot while applying all the pressure he could muster. Once finished, he stomped on it several more times, making sure the dead remained dead.
Otis's eyes found Floyd, or what the zombies didn't have a chance to finish. His stomach was ripped open, most of his organs removed, becoming nothing more than chew toys. His mouth was agape, forever capturing that horrific final moment. Coagulated blood stained his lips. His right ear had been torn off, leaving a flap of skin hanging down his face.
Otis shook his head. There were no tears in his eyes. Otis wasn't sure when the last time he cried, if he had ever done such a thing. He thought about Momma, what she would do if she saw her son's brutal demise on the surveillance camera mounted in the trees. Otis thought about dragging his brother back to the house so that the vultures wouldn't snatch up his remains. That way, Momma Barker could give her son a proper burial.
But that would take time—time Otis decided he didn't have. Besides, he spotted a trail of footsteps leading away from Floyd's body. Four different sets. They got away, Otis thought. Sumbitches got away and Floyd didn't. The fact that the contestants had (so far) survived this apocalyptic obstacle course and his brother hadn't enraged him. He felt his face grow hot and it wasn't because of the orange globe in the sky or the bush on his face.
Otis marched on, following the contestants' trail, more motivated to claim a kill than he ever had been.
Josh was not quite finished puking into a bush when Ben Ackerman strolled along side of h
im. He glanced up, a thick strand of upchuck hanging from his mouth. Ben loomed over him. He put his hand on Josh's back.
“Is it the smell or the withdrawals?” he asked.
“Both,” Josh answered. “I think.” Vomit exploded out of his mouth once again. “They're close? The zombies, I mean?”
“About twenty paces back. It's hard to lose them.”
“How many?”
“Enough to give us problems if they catch up,” Ben said. “Plus, there's still two more Barker brothers out there.”
“Unless Ross and his crew did as well as we did,” Josh said, sounding somewhat hopeful.
“Yeah,” Ben replied. “But we can't be too sure of that.”
Josh brought himself to his feet, feeling a little better. His stomach remained uneasy. The feelings his body produced from the lack of drugs was still riding him like a pissed-off demon. The dragon needs to be satiated.
Victoria and Paul Scott jogged over to them.
“Guys!” Victoria gasped, almost breathless.
“What?” Ben quickly asked.
“It's Ross and the others.”
“What about them?”
“They're in the middle of the field,” Paul said nervously. “Just standing there.”
“What?” Josh asked. “Why?”
“Dunno,” Paul said. “But they better do something quick. If the zombies don't get to them, those sick bastards are sure to find them.”
“Shit,” Josh muttered. “Have they lost their minds?”
“Sure as shit seems like it.”
Ben opened his mouth to speak, but he was interrupted by a thunderous boom. It had come from the direction of the open field, where previous contestants' vehicles lay not-so-hidden. The four of them rotated toward the thunderclap.
Ben and Josh exchanged glances. Then they ran.
“Where tha fuck ya'll think yer goan?” a familiar voice spoke from behind them. “Ya'll left my brother fer dead. What'dja ya'll think ya were goan just walk outta here 'live?”
Zombies limped toward them. Despite the approaching killer, the foursome continued walking towards the pack of corpses. Towards a longer, more agonizing death.