by Tim Meyer
The shotgun bellowed. Over the stench of the dead, gunsmoke prevailed.
“Stop moving, or I mow ya'll down right-fuckin' now!” Otis screamed.
Ross stopped, holding his son from taking another step. Tabby put her arm across her son's chest, stopping him from moving toward the zombie herd that had gained numbers.
Slowly, the four contestants turned toward their psychotic host. He gleamed at them, a wide southern smile spreading his fluffy beard apart.
“Thas' better.”
“Just get it over with,” Ross muttered. “That's the least you can do.”
“The least I can do? Naw, naw. Ya'll let those fuckin' dead things tear my brother 'part. Ain't nuthin' but blood and guts left of him.”
“We had no idea,” Ross said. “Please.”
“We didn't even see your brother,” Tabby added.
“Bullsheet,” Otis said, raising his gun. “I saws the arrows. He was trackin' ya'll. I ain't fuckin' stupid.”
“Please...” Tabby pleaded. Tears rolled down her face. She looked over her shoulder. The dead were closing in. If Otis didn't hurry up and shoot them, she was going to have to make a run for it. She didn't have a choice. Running was better than becoming zombie food. At least it gave them a chance. “Please, just let us go... there's no need for this... madness.”
“Don' think so, lil lady.”
Tabby cried harder. “Goddamn you... Goddamn all of you...” Behind her, she heard snarls. Then, something gentle—perhaps the wind—brushed the hairs on her neck. She screamed, grabbing Anthony's hand. She took off, toward the tree line, as fast as her legs could carry her.
Otis followed them, firing in their direction. As soon as the gun clapped, pain exploded into his kneecap. Before the big oaf knew it, he was on the ground. The gun flew from his hands. It landed in the tall grass, several feet in front of him. He wasn't exactly sure what had happened, but he knew he was hurt. He rolled over onto his back and looked down. His kneecap was not where it had been for the first thirty-eight years of his life. It had shifted to the side of his leg. Pain he never knew before infiltrated his body.
Standing over him was Ben Ackerman. Otis remembered smacking the stupid bastard over his head when he was in the middle of a very important phone call. Something about his ex-wife, or kid. Sheet, he couldn't remember. The pain that entered him overcame his thoughts. Ben waved a tree branch in the air, threatening his other knee.
“Hi there,” Ben said.
“You sumbitch,” Otis replied, then screamed when Ben took the branch to his other leg. He watched as his other kneecap became detached, floating to the side of his leg. Beneath his camouflage pants, he felt his legs become wet with blood.
“My friend wants to shoot you,” Ben said. He nodded to Paul Scott, who held his brother's gun across his chest. “But you won't be getting off that easy.”
“That's Cooter's gun,” Otis grumbled.
“Not anymore,” Paul said, grinning.
“Where he be?”
“Let's just say, Cooter won't be going on any more hunts,” Paul boasted.
Otis rolled his eyes, grimacing. “You sumbitches.” He tried to move, but couldn't. His legs went numb and useless. He was too rotund to bring himself to his feet anyway.
“Now...” Ben said. “About a way out of here. I believe you have a certain pickup truck you'll no longer be using.”
She felt the bullet penetrate her leg, but kept running until the strength abandoned the lower half of her body, causing her to fall. She ate a mouthful of freshly-dewed grass. Anthony screamed—a silent version of one. He fell to his knees next to her, flapping his arms wildly in confusion, not knowing what to do. The other bullets had just missed them, a few landing in the earth a only feet away. Panic set in. The only thing that made sense to Anthony in that moment was to cry and try to help his mother to her feet.
She wouldn't budge. She groaned in agony, flailing around on the ground like a fish in need of the ocean. Anthony helped flip her over and she shrieked, attracting the attention of a few nearby zombies.
“Son...” she rasped.
Anthony nodded, tears flowing steadily from his eyes. They gave his face a spectacular sheen.
“I love you...” she spoke softly, moving her lips slowly so he would understand. “With all my heart.”
Anthony nodded. Then he felt pressure on the muscle between his shoulder and neck. Then pain. All around him the dead appeared. They lunged for him, taking bites out of his arms and legs. He heard his mother scream as she thrashed around, trying to dodge the horde's attacks, failing. She, too, fell victim to their savagery.
The flock of zombies smothered their quarry, shredding through their tender flesh.
Behind him, the zombies gnashed their teeth in his ears. Ross turned, pushing away the closest corpse. “Run,” he told Landry. “Toward Ben and the others.”
“I'm not leaving you!” Landry shouted back.
Ross turned to him, his face contorting. “Now!” he commanded.
Landry didn't disobey his father twice. He sprinted toward Ben, Paul, and the fallen hunter. He glanced over his shoulder and saw his father battling the zombies as they grew closer. The zombies fell like uncoordinated children. However, they immediately rose to their feet after stumbling to the ground. Ross realized his efforts were not only futile, but apt to get him killed. He followed his own advice.
A runner came sprinting out of the woods, moaning loudly. Blood caked the front of his tattered shirt. Ross noticed half of the fast zombie's face was missing. It had been stripped away, revealing puss pockets and decayed muscle. An eyeball hung from its socket, bouncing around spastically while on the run.
Ross noticed its target.
Landry.
“Hey!” Ross shouted. “Over there!” He was pointing to the runner, hoping that Paul heard him. He was the only one currently holding a firearm. “The runner!”
Paul looked up and saw Ross pointing, but it was too late. The runner had closed in on Landry, its arms outstretched and grabbing. Paul raised his gun, but by the time he steadied his aim, the zombie had tackled Landry to the ground. Screaming his son's name, Ross took off without caution. He prayed what he was seeing wasn't real, that this was all some strange nightmare they'd soon awake from. But it wasn't a nightmare and the zombie didn't hesitate sinking its teeth into the meaty flesh on Landry's shoulder. The kid screeched, a terrible cry that rattled Ben's nerves. The zombie twisted its head back and forth, making sure it had a firm hold of Landry's muscle. Then it snapped its head back, taking a mouthful from the kid's shoulder. Blood and sinewy matter flew in the air. Landry let out a scream that could've been heard in neighboring counties.
Ross stumbled, fell to his knees, tears spilling from the corners of his eyes. “No...” he muttered mindlessly. “No...”
Something that sounded like a crack of lightning interrupted the following silence. Ross flinched as the zombie's head jerked. Blood spurted out of the hole that appeared in the back of its head, the dead body falling onto the grass beside Landry. The boy squirmed back and forth, holding his shoulder. He whimpered, holding in screams.
Ross dug for strength. Once he was able to feel his limbs again, he hurried over to his ailing son. Landry wailed, unable to suppress it any longer. His blood soaked the ground beneath him. He was losing a lot of it, and fast. Ross took his shirt off. It wasn't exactly clean, but there were no alternatives. He tied the dirty shirt around the gaping hole in his son's arm.
“He needs medical attention,” Ross said. Sobbing made his words almost impossible to understand. “We need to take him to a hospital.”
Ben and Paul looked at each other. Neither of them spoke.
“Now!” Ross screamed. “I said right fucking now!”
Josh came over to them. Victoria emerged from the tree line. For a minute they had forgotten about her and where she escaped to once they had disarmed Otis. They crowded around Ross and Landry, carefully keeping their eyes on
the approaching zombie herd. They didn't have much time to waste. Zombies stumbled from the shadows the woods harbored, into the morning sunlight. They came from every direction, the shuffling crowd quickly gaining mass.
“What are you people standing there for?” Ross asked. “Do something!”
“What would you like us to do?” Josh asked. “I don't mean to come off as insensitive, but what exactly can we do?”
Ross turned his attention back to his son. Blood had already soaked through the shirt he had used as a tourniquet. It flowed from the wound steadily with no signs of yielding. Landry's eyes fluttered. The kid fought the darkness that invaded his vision.
“Stay with me, son!” Ross shouted. He slapped his son's cheek lightly. Then he put pressure on the wound with both hands. The bleeding continued despite his efforts. “Please...”
There was little that could be done. Except to wait out the inevitable.
Landry was dead within minutes.
“I hate to suggest this,” Paul said, “but we really should be moving.” He looked around. The dead encircled them. Their moans grew louder, their stench intensified. The group listened to the shuffling of many feet with instant dread.
“I can't leave,” Ross muttered. He pressed his ear to Landry's chest. Nothing there. He raised his head, tears pouring down his face. He closed Landry's eyes. They would never open again.
Unless he comes back...
Yes, he would come back as one of them. Wouldn't he? Wouldn't he become a member of the dead parade that seemingly outnumbered the living? Ross couldn't allow it. He couldn't watch his son transform into a monster trapped between the world of the living and the world of the dead.
Like his mother.
Ross assumed she was out there somewhere, eating her way through the rest of her days. A thought inappropriately popped into his head, triggered by the memory of his wife; what would happen when there's no more food left? Sooner or later, all humans would become zombies. Or the humans would regain control. However, judging from what he had witnessed, Ross placed his money on the first scenario.
The entire East Coast... Gone...
That's what Ben had said. It was overrun. The government was going to blow it to hell. Maybe there are doctors in the west that can help Landry, he thought, looking down at his son's corpse. Don't be stupid. He's gone. Dead. Ain't coming back. At least, not as the Landry you knew and loved. Ross didn't want to witness his son's reanimation. He closed his eyes, tears still finding their exit regardless.
“We really need to go,” Josh said. “C'mon.”
“You guys go. I'm... staying.”
“Ross, he's dead,” Ben said. “I know it's hard, but there's nothing you can do about it. Now come on.”
He shook his head. “What would you do if you got to Pittsburgh and your kid was dead, Ben?” Ross asked. “Don't tell me you wouldn't do anything different.”
Ben didn't say anything.
“That's what I thought.”
For ten seconds, no one spoke. Ben nodded. A lump of air nestled in his throat. He opened his mouth to speak.
“Don't say anything,” Ross said. “There's nothing left to say.”
A low, raspy voice cackled. “Very touchin'. Ya'll got me teary-eyed.”
The group turned their attention to the crippled hillbilly. He was giggling, amused by the whole situation. Ross stood up, finally able to take his eyes off Landry. He limped over to Otis. He looked down at the beached whale, the one partially responsible (if not fully) for his son's demise. The images of the fast zombie ripping Landry's shoulder apart replayed inside his head.
“You...” Ross spoke softly.
“Nagger...” Otis muttered. “How's that boy of yours? Don' look so good from ova' hur.”
Ross screamed. He raised his right foot in the air, bringing it down on Otis's face with all of his strength. Something cracked, sounding like glass being caught between a shoe and the pavement. Ben assumed it was the bones in the fat man's face. Otis opened his large mouth and howled. Ross repeated his motion, his face stricken with rage. He watched with satisfaction as several of the hillbilly's teeth disappeared down the back of his throat. Otis choked. Ross stomped on him again. Blood pooled around his nose, then dripped down both sides of his face. Again. More blood. Gashes opened above his eyes, on his forehead. Again. More blood. More gashes. Cracking sounds. Screams. Ross kept marching on his face, furiously, as if he were trying to put out a small, yet potentially-dangerous fire.
Once Ross finished, his foot tired and aching, the psychopath's face was nothing but bloody chunks of bone and brain matter. He stopped when the splattering became too much. He glanced up from the fat man's grisly display and saw some of the zombies were getting too close for comfort.
“Go,” Ross told the group.
“What are you going to do, man?” Ben asked.
“I'm going to bury my son,” he croaked tearfully.
Ben opened his mouth to argue.
“Go.”
Ben fixed his eyes on Ross, who avoided his gaze. Finally, Josh walked up behind Ben and placed his hand on his shoulder.
“Come on. We can't stay any longer,” Josh told him.
“We need to get my daughters,” Victoria told them.
Reluctantly, Ben began walking away from Ross. He watched the somber man bend down and scoop his boy into his arms.
Ben turned toward the Barker's house, wishing he could have done more to change the man's mind.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Victoria stopped in front of the barn. “How do we find Brit and Emily?” she asked. She turned to the others. Behind them, an army of zombies had gathered. The survivors had put distance between them, but there were more of them than they had anticipated. One hundred or so corpses had found their way into the corral.
“They probably put them back in the cages,” Josh suggested.
“We should split up,” Ben said. “Victoria come with me. Josh, go with Paul. You guys go around to the front of the house. We'll take the back. We'll clear the house and meet up in the basement.”
“What if that crazy bitch and her mother are still inside?” Paul asked.
“We're going to clear the house,” Ben repeated.
Paul nodded, understanding perfectly.
“Okay. Let's do this,” Ben said, heading toward the barn, which led to the back of the house.
Josh opened the front door. He glanced back and saw the pickup truck sitting on the front lawn. He was relieved to find the yard void of zombies. As long as they survived whatever waited inside, they'd have a clear shot at the highway with no obstacles.
He crept into the door, weaponless. Paul followed.
“Maybe you should go first,” Josh whispered.
“Good idea,” Paul agreed. “Which way?”
Josh pointed to the right of the staircase, down a long corridor leading to the kitchen. Paul followed his direction and crept forward, cringing each time he planted his foot and heard the creak of the old wooden floorboards. Josh's nerves swam violently, fearing the noise would alert their enemies. He suspected their intrusion wouldn't go unnoticed, in fact, he would find himself surprised if the two Barker women didn't already know about their arrival. He was worried they would find Brit and Emily dead, murdered for what had happened to the Three Little Pigs. The women were probably watching the entire hunt on the surveillance cameras.
They tiptoed through the dining room and continued toward the kitchen. Josh thought about taking off his shoes to lessen the clatter, but he figured it wouldn't do much. Besides, he might need to run. Fast. Outside.
The kitchen became visible and Josh noticed something on the floor. Red droplets. A trail of them. Leading to the kitchen. Josh followed the trail with his eyes, spotting a big red puddle in the middle of the floor. He placed his hand on Paul's shoulder.
“I know,” Paul whispered. “I see it.”
They both peered into the doorway. They couldn't see right or left, their visio
n blocked by walls on both sides.
“I can't see anything,” Josh said.
Paul inched closer and peered into the kitchen, sticking his head into the doorway. He was careful not to give away his position to anyone who might be waiting for them inside. What he saw was limited, but useful. Another trail led away from the puddle. He followed it, but the door frame blocked wherever it led to. He glanced up, saw a row of cabinets on the far wall. An island lay in the middle of the kitchen. Papers, mail, and a telephone sat on the counter haphazardly.
Out of the corner of his eye, Paul saw something move.
It was a dark figure. Tall. It disappeared into the shadows of the unlit room.
Paul turned to Josh. He nodded, signaling it was time to go in.
Josh nodded back in agreement.
Quickly, they entered the kitchen. Paul had his rifle drawn, ready to fire on anything or anyone he considered a threat.
What the two of them saw made their mouths drop.
The trail of blood led to a headless corpse, which lay on the floor in front of them. Blood leaked onto the tile floor from where the woman's head used to be. The body was clad in a purple sun dress, yellow sunflowers printed on it.
Josh averted his eyes. Momma Barker's head had been placed on the island intentionally. Josh saw Bobbi-Jo had been strapped to the kitchen table. She was naked, her mouth covered with duct tape. Two long streaks of black mascara ran down her cheeks. She squirmed, but it was useless. Someone knew what they were doing when it came to tying knots. Bobbi-Jo saw Josh and Paul enter the room and screamed.
“Oh...” a familiar voice uttered from where they had entered the room. Josh and Paul spun around. Paul raised his rifle at the murderer's face. “Good to see you again...”
“You...” Josh felt sick. The psycho's body was drenched in gore from head to toe. Blood splatter hid most of his face like a Halloween mask. Naked, he wore the old woman's blood like a scarlet suit. The sick bastard smiled, his teeth perfectly aligned and unstained. His cold, soulless eyes locked onto Josh's. Making eye-contact with him turned his stomach.