by Ricky Fleet
Crack. The top of a female zombie’s head sheared away as the hollow point blasted through the skull.
Crack. A young boy dressed in a school uniform was hammered back as his face exploded.
Crack crack. Two rotten crawlers sprawled out into the dust, green pools spilling from their gaping mouths.
A huge zombie strutted forward, leaden grey muscles accentuated by an armless workout t-shirt with the words ‘I flexed and the sleeves fell off’ imprinted on the filth encrusted chest. Sidestepping the meaty arms, its bulky momentum carried the monster forward into the brown trunk. Holbeck wasted no time in pressing the muzzle to the side of its head and pulling the trigger. Fragments of skull and brain embedded into the dense bark and it crashed to the ground.
“Prick.” Holbeck had always hated the puffed-up posers.
It was do or die time. With twelve bullets left, he could take out eleven of the creatures and save the last bullet for himself, or he could climb. With only fifteen feet between himself and the wall of encroaching horror, reloading would not be an option. The misty exhalations left him in no doubt of the likely fate if he was trapped overnight in the branches of the mighty tree. Hypothermia and death would claim him long before the sun peeked over the horizon the following morning. But at least it meant he could use every available bullet on the enemy below and help his troops at the same time. Securing the pistol and clipping the strap, he looked for a means of ascending.
Placing his toes into a circular depression where a branch had long ago been lopped off, Holbeck kicked upwards. Encircling the lowest outcrop of rough wood with his arms, he hooked a leg over a higher branch. Grunting with effort, he twisted his body until a deep rut in the bark was within reach. With a final pull, he slumped down, legs spread and back against the trunk. The assault rifle dug painfully into his spine, so he shifted position and retrieved the weapon before hanging it from a broken nub of timber to his right.
The dead had fully surrounded the tree, but Holbeck was several feet clear of even the longest arms. Doing a quick ammunition check, he had four full rifle magazines and two more for the pistol. One hundred and sixty-six rounds would put a hefty dent in the crowd beneath, but would still leave over a hundred eager mouths to feed. Repositioning himself to account for the recoil which would topple him from his precarious perch given the chance, he started to aim and shoot. There was no rush and he took calming breaths between each kill. One by one, the awful creatures fell at the base of the tree, coating the ground in brains and bone. Six bullets into his third magazine, he heard the dull crump of a grenade from his troops. Seconds later, the unmistakable screams of Walker took over from the shocked pause. Closing his eyes tightly, he mourned the young soldier. No other yells of pain presented themselves and he prayed the silence meant they had got to safety within the farmhouse. A last flash followed by a hollow boom to the south signalled the end of the artillery barrage, and with a sigh of relief, he knew it had been called off by one of his troops.
Unable to see the building from the angle and distance he had run, Holbeck’s finger paused on the trigger. If they knew he was out here alive, they may be tempted to mount a suicidal rescue mission, despite his orders to the contrary. He was dubious if the sharp retorts would carry over the groans of the dead and then through the small apertures left in the sealed windows. Deciding the risk was too great, he placed the rifle back on its wooden hook and sat back against the trunk.
Reaching into a pocket, he removed the picture of his wife and their new-born child. They had separated over a year before the apocalypse by mutual agreement. Being an army spouse was exceedingly difficult with the six-month deployments and constant upheaval required by the role. Wherever they were, he hoped they had been together at the end. All he needed to do now was lay back, relax, and allow the unforgiving elements to reunite him with his estranged loved ones. Doing his best to ignore the dead, he folded his arms and closed his eyes, waiting for the last of the afternoon light to fade.
***
“I nearly gave up on that branch,” Holbeck explained. “I’d give anything to see my family again in Heaven.”
“We wouldn’t have blamed you, Sarge, this whole world’s an unending nightmare,” lamented Petermann. The loss of his friend was hitting him hard.
“What made you keep fighting?”
Holbeck looked around the room slowly. “You did,” he replied. “I’ll see my own when my time is up, but until then I have to fight for this family and anyone still alive out there.”
Tears welled at the sentiment, even from the sisters who dabbed at their eyes gently. Loss was something always hovering nearby in the zombie apocalypse, ready to snatch away those nearest and dearest in a welter of blood. The hatred borne of this unending threat was a tool they could use. A fire burning in their hearts to even the odds and retake the world for the living, no matter the cost.
Langham took a shaky breath, holding back the bubbling emotions. “We’re glad to have you back in one piece, Sarge.”
“Hell yes, we are. But I’ve got to know,” Harkiss said, frowning. “How’d you survive the night? It was colder than a witch’s tit out there.”
“Simple. I lit a fire,” Holbeck replied.
“You lit a fire… in a tree?” Carpenter asked, forming the words slowly to show her disbelief. The looks on the faces of the rest of the group were equally incredulous and Holbeck laughed.
“It wasn’t that hard.”
Eldridge raised an eyebrow. “I should imagine not. You were surrounded by wood…”
“Ok, look. You know I always carry my multifunction tool after Afghanistan,” Holbeck explained, showing them the many bladed object of army legend. Caught between an encroaching Taliban force and a series of IEDs, he had used the tool to defuse the explosives to facilitate the patrol’s retreat. With no time to wait for an Explosive Ordnance Disposal team, it had been a choice between certain death and almost certain death. His bravery had saved the lives of twenty-three soldiers that hot, dusty day.
“When it started to get dark I finally realised I couldn’t take the easy way out. Two of the branches were perfectly aligned and where they met at the trunk formed a small depression. I lopped a load of the thinner wood from further up the tree and laid the pieces from one branch to the other to make a sleeping frame, before tying it off with cord.”
“I wondered what that was when you jumped down. Fair play, Sarge,” marvelled Petermann with a nod.
“I want to hear about the fire. How the fuck didn’t you burn yourself and the tree to the ground?” Harkiss pressed.
“It was easy. The branches and trunk are far too dense and wet to burn properly, they just scorch and nothing more. I built a tiny fire with twigs in the depression and just kept it fed all night. It wasn’t enough to warm me properly, but with the leaves I used as a mattress it kept the chill away.”
“Another tale of the sarge’s badassery,” said Dougal with awe.
“Hardly. I was freezing my nuts off up there,” Holbeck replied.
“We may leave that out of the story then,” Eldridge added with a chuckle.
CHAPTER 10
Debbie dreamed of the board on the wall, except there were now three in a row. Between bouts of delicious clitoral teasing, she flayed portions of skin from the men shackled before her. Their screams of agony and pleading were as arousing as her probing finger and she closed her eyes, revelling in the power. Mike, Craig, and Wozniak were trussed tightly, streaming blood from bare patches of exposed muscle tissue. Peter stood to her left, nodding and smiling, while Winston stood to her right, passing other implements of torture as she required them. Taking the offered hacksaw, she stepped over to her rapist and smiled.
“I know I promised to bite it off, but this will work so much better,” she cackled, running her finger down the blunt blade.
“I’m sorry for how I treated you last night. I don’t know how to act around beautiful women,” Wozniak sobbed.
“Plea
se, Debbie. I never meant to hurt you. If you let me go we can be together forever,” Mike pleaded.
“Shhh,” Debbie replied, shaking her head sadly.
Lifting the flaccid penis and scrotum of her attacker, she placed the cold, tungsten teeth against the flesh. His eyes went wide as the inevitability of what was coming dawned. Without urgency, she commenced sawing at the cold skin. Being totally incapacitated, he could only shriek and vibrate on the board as she removed his member and balls. A torrent of blood erupted from the open wound and his eyes fluttered as the pain grew too much to bear.
“Debbie, I’m begging you…” Mike gasped as she turned her attention to him.
“I said shhh,” she chided, forcing the severed phallus between his lips.
Suddenly, she was gasping and coughing. The icy water ran from her face and dirty hair, saturating her flat pillow on the prison bed.
“Wake up, cunt! Make me a cup of coffee!” Wozniak sneered.
The comforting fantasy faded. From head to toe, the injuries of the previous night blossomed to life. Licking at her lips, the splits in the soft tissue from his fevered kisses blazed with agony. Her breasts were two mounds of bruised meat and any adjustment in position caused her to wince as they shifted. By far the worst pain was between her legs. Both orifices had been brutally violated, and not just with his manhood. Objects littered the floor, still covered with blood and semen from when he needed to recharge his flagging libido.
“Get your ass moving or I’ll use the wine bottle again!”
He sat down at the small table, lit a cigarette and nodded at the small barbecue stove and saucepan. Trying to roll over, Debbie had to stop midway. Her senses reeled at the countless aches and cramps in her abused body. Darkness danced at the edge of her vision until Wozniak fished a cup of water from the toilet bowl and tossed it over her. Unlike the first dousing, he had not used the fresh water in his bucket and the unmistakable stench of stale urine caught in her nostrils.
“Last warning or I’ll leave you in pieces. Get your fat ass out of bed and make my fucking drink!” Wozniak screamed and it reverberated in the tiny cell.
Drawing on the deep well of hatred churning in her stomach, she managed to push some of the pain away and started to wrap herself in a bedsheet.
“Did I say you could cover yourself?”
“But I’m cold,” she whined.
“Do you want me to warm you up? You took a lot out of me last night, but I’m sure I can manage a quickie before I go to work,” he said, leering.
Shaking her head, she stood up on trembling legs.
“You think you’re too fucking good for me? Is that it?” he demanded angrily, flicking the glowing cigarette at her. The hot tip hit her bare skin, sending sparks in all directions.
“No, I didn’t mean it like that. I’m sorry,” Debbie muttered, rubbing at the burn, “I’m just… tired.”
“That’s better,” he growled, lighting a fresh smoke.
Checking the pan was filled with water, she turned the small brass valve and the ring started to hiss. With a flick of the lighter, Wozniak ignited the gas. Taking a mug, she tipped in a spoonful of instant blend and looked around for sugar or cream.
“I like my coffee like my women, black and bitter.”
She ignored him and stared intently at the bottom of the stainless pan, watching the tiny bubbles rise as the heat started to spread.
“That was a joke. Why aren’t you laughing?”
“Sorry,” she repeated.
“You will be later, sweetheart,” he growled. “I might even bring a few friends back to share you around. I wonder what surprises we can come up with in the workshop to fit inside that tight pussy.”
Retching, Debbie doubled over and a stream of bile coated the grey floor. “Please, don’t,” she begged, swallowing hard to keep her gorge from rising again.
“But you loved it, I know you did,” he grinned. “I’ll think of something inventive, don’t worry.”
The water was seething, steam rising in the frozen cell. For a split second, she thought about launching the contents at Wozniak until he jumped to his feet, startling her.
“Here, let me,” he said, knowingly. “Don’t want you spilling any now, do we?”
Mixing the brew, the smell was delectable and, despite her awful predicament, she found herself yearning for a cup. Blowing at the boiling mug, he sipped at the contents, screwing his face up in ecstasy.
“This is probably the best cup of coffee I’ve ever had,” he teased, sniffing at the rising aromas.
“Can I have some?” Debbie whispered.
“Fuck no! This is for important people like wing bosses and their crews.” He scooped more water from the toilet bowl and placed it down in front of her.
“I’m not drinking that.”
“After a couple of days without water, that cup of piss will look like nectar. Trust me.”
“I’d rather die,” she declared.
“Now we can’t have my little plaything checking out early, can we? I’ll just have to make you drink it. Now get on the bed.”
She cowered away, whimpering. “Why?”
“Because I fucking said so!” He snarled and threw her onto the stained mattress.
Taking out a few short lengths of rope, he bound each of her arms and legs to a metal bedpost tightly enough to cut off circulation. Pulling at each binding, he nodded in satisfaction and covered her in the wet blankets. His prize would not be going anywhere.
“Get some rest. It’s going to be a long night.”
Raising his coffee in a toast, he winked and left the cell.
CHAPTER 11
Jason Rechtman was broken in all ways a man could be broken. His physical injuries barely had time to heal before one of the cruel overseers inflicted more punishment. Because of his value to the prison, Craig had banned the convicts from punching him, but they evaded the rule by slapping instead. A hefty palm with enough force left him bruised for weeks. These days his bare skin was more purple and black than the healthy colour he used to sport. In a matter of months, the once lustrous brown hair on his head had taken on a distinctive grey. Running his hands through the greasy strands, he felt the bare patches where it had started to fall out from the unrelenting stress. Sagging trousers spoke of his inability to eat properly and the skeletal figure which presented itself in the mirror every morning hardly seemed to be human.
Psychologically, he was in no better shape. Unable to sleep through the groans of the dead and the gibbering shrieks of the crazed inmates, he stared at the ceiling every night with only brief snatches of slumber when absolute exhaustion could no longer be denied. Any scream carried on the night ripped him from his bed as he tried to identify if it came from his family. He knew he was perilously close to losing his mind completely. Not even the promise of rescue from the stranger at the farm shop could hold back the dread. In the darker hours of the night he had even began to wonder if she was real at all or merely an apparition conjured by his fractured mind; like a lush oasis beckoning to people trapped in the baking desert.
“We’ve made thirty feet, Mr Rechtman,” said Jacques, breaking into his introspection.
Looking at his watch, they had only just made the target and he had been generous with the time allowance. The rate his workforce was perishing in the gauntlet and on ill-conceived raiding missions would soon mean he was unable to fulfil his obligations. This would mean more beatings and unspeakable treatment aimed at his wife and daughter.
“Good work,” was all he could muster through the anxiety and the man left with a nod.
The schematic drawings on the table fluttered in the cold breeze. Nothing registered of his calculations or the carefully planned directions and distances. Everything blurred together and he slumped into the chair, sobbing. If the lives of his family were not in the balance he would have gladly buried himself alive in one of the tunnels. Better still would have been if he could get Craig and a few of his henchmen down t
here at the same time. Oh, what a joy it would be to see their faces as the soil began to crush the life out of their black hearts. The fear of what may fill the power vacuum and what that would mean to the decent folk trapped inside the walls was another concern which prevented the alluring self-sacrifice being carried out.
Composing himself, he sipped sparingly at a cup of freezing cold coffee. The cruel embrace of winter was always eager to steal the heat from the abandoned mug as well as the unfortunate souls caught in the grounds of the prison. When had he even got the brew? He wondered. In his fragile mental state, short periods of time were often found completely missing from his memory. He could be stood by a section of tunnel one minute and the next he would be counting the materials left from Hombre’s railyard run. Whether he had fallen asleep on his feet he could not say and no one ever mentioned it to him. So far, the mental blanks had not stopped him carrying out the tunnelling projects, but it could only be a matter of time before something went disastrously wrong on their account.
“How’s the progress?” came a gravelly, Scottish voice to his rear.
“Slow.”
“The boss won’t be happy to hear that,” Matt said, stepping into view.
“Well what does he expect? We’re losing between five and ten prisoners a week, sometimes more. At this rate, he’ll need to make the tougher convicts help as well,” Jason muttered. He knew the Scotsman to be a reasonable man who understood the difficulties on running engineering projects without proper equipment or trained personnel.
“The boss won’t be happy to hear that either, nor will the guys. You may find yourself even more of a target.”
“I can’t succeed. It’s an impossible task,” Jason sighed and stared into the cup. The black liquid swirled as he rotated the coffee and with a yell of defeat he threw it across the yard.