Zombie Zoology: An Unnatural History

by Tim Curran

  He turned off the headlights and was again reaching for the rifle when the weight slammed into him.

  He and the ATV crashed over and the Jólakötturinn with them. The creature landed and slid on the snow, losing contact with Jon just long enough for him to scramble away. The cat regained its footing and sprang again, but Jon ducked behind the overturned ATV as it sailed over. But it was so fast. Before it had even landed, it spun and raked Jon's head with a massive claw. The screeching of sharp bone on helmet drowned all other sound.

  The blow knocked Jon down again, but he rolled with it and scrambled again to put the ATV between him and the creature. The monster hissed when it saw that Jon was still on his feet and the stench from the creature's skeletal mouth made him gag. Jon steadied himself and shot a look to his left where the rifle had been tossed a couple meters away.

  The Jólakötturinn saw where Jon's gaze went and growled. It kept its yellow eyes locked on Jon but began edging toward the firearm.

  Jon saw bright orange plastic on the snow near the ATV's storage box which had snapped open on impact. The flare gun he'd packed. He had to do it fast. In a single motion, he bent, grabbed it with one hand, aimed, and fired directly at the black, rotted creature.

  His angle was bad and the flare hit the slope in front of the cat, igniting in a flash and bathing the river bank in red glow.

  The cat shrieked and stumbled over itself as it sprinted away, huge leaps pounding across the snow, over the river, and toward the far bank.

  Jon quickly pawed the ground for another flare. He found one, chambered it, and shot again, this time in a high arc over the Jólakötturinn's retreating form. The glowing fire lit even more of the river area in red.

  The cat ran faster, leapt over the crest of the bank and disappeared.

  Jon turned to the ATV and righted it, but saw that its wheels were askew. Useless. It didn't matter. He had to cross the river on foot anyway. He took off his helmet and saw that just the one clawing had virtually destroyed its usefulness. He dropped it and rummaged through the spilled contents of the storage box. He found four more flares and pocketed them. Then, he retrieved the rifle, slung it over his shoulder, and set after the creature.

  The flares had missed completely. They weren't even close enough for the monster to be burned, and yet it ran. In fear.

  Light. It couldn't stand light.

  He had it now.

  Jon slid across the river ice, scrambled up the snowy incline and looked through the night scope. The creature wasn't even trying to hide now as it headed straight for the mountain of ice that loomed over the barren landscape.

  It was headed where he'd expected. Toward the one place where nothing lived-where nothing could live-and where no one would ever hunt for it amid the icy wasteland.

  Toward the glacier Mýrdalsjökull and the ice-bound volcano Katla.

  ***

  Millennia of ice and lava had ravaged the earth bordering the glacier, leaving deep gouges in the rock and peaks too steep to climb. Jon slowly navigated around the obstacles, losing valuable time route-finding when it was obvious that the Jólakötturinn had leapt crevasses that he simply couldn't. Worse, snowfall had covered rivers and chasms and he had to be careful with each step lest he punch through and plummet.

  When he stepped onto the first pitch of glacier ice, he slipped. He wished he'd brought crampons. But there had been so many other things to think of. So many.

  Arna.

  He pushed forward and crept up Mýrdalsjökull.

  Hours passed and still the creature's tracks hadn't stopped. His one consolation was that this section of the glacier was wide and sloped, so there was nowhere for him to be ambushed.

  It gave him time to think.

  It made sense now why the Jólakötturinn only appeared around Christmas Eve. It was the darkest time of the year, which gave it the most time to hunt. And with 20 hours of darkness and twilight, it could leave and return to its lair in a day. As it had for centuries.

  Jon shivered.

  He didn't know what the creature was. Or how it could exist. Or keep existing. It defied nature.

  But Jon knew it was past its time to die.

  He looked at the gray sky. Christmas dawn. He was so tired. But he'd come this far. And maybe the weak daylight would prevent the creature from attacking him, maybe.

  He jumped over another small crack in the ice and heard a whoosh behind him. He looked back and found that he had just crossed an immense snow-covered crevasse. His small jump had collapsed the snow, leaving behind a gaping canyon.

  No way back. That was okay, though. The brown-grey cinder cone of Katla was dead ahead.

  And the monstrous paw prints led right into a dark slit at its base.

  Plumes of sulfur steam snaked upward from the darkness as Jon approached. He looked around for other cracks, but could see none. If he was lucky, this was the only entrance.

  He sidled up close to the darkness and then his chest screamed with agony. He fell head-first backward down the slope, the hard ice scraping his scalp raw as he slid.

  The creature's screech was unmistakable and he knew it was over.

  But nothing came.

  Jon propped himself up and saw blood all around him. He touched his head and his hand came back red. Then he saw the four slashes across his chest, through his shredded jacket and fleece. What they revealed almost made him faint. But he couldn't stop now.

  He pounded his fist on the ground and stood up with a scream and advanced again.

  He might have seen yellow eyes peering out from the darkness, but Jon wasn't looking that closely. He simply took out the flare gun and fired it at the mouth of the cave. It bounced and didn't go inside, but it sat burning red at the entrance.

  The Jólakötturinn yowled as before and he briefly saw its filthy, rotted shape before it disappeared downward.

  Jon reloaded the gun and moved closer until he could see into the fissure. And he gasped.

  There were maybe nine of them. Huge, decayed, and lynx-eared, hate shooting from their feline eyes, hissing and attacking the lava rock ground in front of them in feints, their black noise making the very ice of the glacier quiver.

  Jon shook. It was terror embodied.

  And it had to end.

  Arna.

  He raised the flare gun, aimed into the lair, and fired.

  The collective wail was unearthly. The pack of Jólakötturinn leapt and snarled as they tried to escape to the dark recesses of the den. But only one narrow lava tube led away from the brilliant pools of red light and two beasts jammed into the tunnel, unable to move any further, blocking those behind them. The ones in the back began tearing at bodies of the two and snarls turned to shrieks as the rotted creatures ripped apart their kin.

  Jon covered his ears, rooted by the sight. The volume of the brutality cascaded over him, through him.

  The glacier began to shake.

  Jon stumbled from the entrance, fell back, and skidded sideways down the steep pitch as overhanging ice fell onto snow and created a torrent of white that crashed over the mouth of the fissure.

  The ice underneath Jon trembled with the impact and echoed down the slope of Mýrdalsjökull. Then, all was silent.

  Jon scrambled up the icy incline to look. The entrance was gone. He could hear the Jólakötturinn no more.

  The scratches on his chest were dripping blood faster now. His roll down the pitch must have opened them more. He held the shredded clothes together over the wounds. Direct pressure. That's what he needed. And some rest. Just a little.

  The ground swayed as he staggered down to a level shelf and sat. No, that was him. Not the actual ground moving. He'd lost more blood than he thought, maybe. Just a little rest. It was all good. There would be no more deaths. Maybe. At least for a long time. And it was all good. All good. He would be okay. The Jólakötturinn hadn't eaten him.

  After all he had his new socks on.

  “Lucy”

  Eric Dimbleby<
br />
  “How you doin' these days with that there collection of yours, old friend?” Lou questioned his most faithful customer, running his hands along the glass case of weapons that he pridefully displayed. The flickering overhead lighting of his shop pulsed, trying to decide if it would stay strong or burn out. Lou's Guns was as important to the community as was the gas station and the super market. It was hunting season, and business was booming, especially given the unseasonably fat wallets of the out-of-towners looking to drop the hurt upon an unsuspecting deer, moose, pheasant, or bear.

  Brock reached into the breast pocket of his bright orange vest, fiddling around with eyes affixed on the hearty display of modern warfare that hung from giant silver hooks behind Lou. Brock considered Lou a more crucial component to his livelihood than he did his family physician, mailman, mechanic, and wife combined. Lou had the best stuff around, and there was no need for price-hunting since Lou was the cheapest game in Maine.

  Retrieving from his pocket a can of Skoal, he spun the lid and fingered out a clump of tobacco, shoving it deep into his festering brown cheek. “Well,” he said, working the tobacco around in his ruddy fat mandibles, “Got me quite the stockpile going, Lou. You know, the usual necessities. Winchester 1894. Sweet little 44 Magnum Colt Anaconda. Marlin M444- three of them, in fact. I call 'em Snap, Crackle, and Pop, but you already know that, ya' silly old bastard.” He chuckled, swishing around the brown tobacco spittle in his mouth, rubbing his thick warm gut with his hands. Something about the moments leading up to a hunt made Brock wiggle in anticipation, as though he was ready to shed his skin and he couldn't tear it away from his bones fast enough- every nerve atwitter with the prospect of taking down a dumber beast than himself. “You know the rest. Beretta. The classic Browning, but I keep that one on reserve under my bed for them there Jews and Mexicans and A-rabs. Thank you, Barack Hussein Obama, you son of a gun socialist.” His mind drifted and he shook his head from side to side, utterly embarrassed for the current state of his beloved, yet handout-happy, nation. Continuing, he listed, “Winchester M94 and M70. Pretty ol' 527 Varmint. MK-250 crossbow. All that other shit. Trip mines. Grenades. Got everything but an angry monkey in my basement, unless you count my old lady. Sometimes when she vacuums she looks like a chimp just escaped from the zoo. I scratch my pits and make all kinds of jungles noises but she don't have a sense of humor, that's what I always tell her. No sense of humor.” He stared straight ahead, retrieved a hankie from his back pocket, and blew a soft phlegmy discharge into it.

  Lou threw his head back in laughter, “Well, you best put your foot up her ass, boy. Look there- no better fix to that there issue, right there, over there.” Pausing, trying not to ponder over his previous statement for how many times had used the word “there”, he (like his friend Brock) blew his own nose into a tattered handkerchief, rubbing it along his gray mustache to sop up the stray mucus. Coughing deeply, he posed the question that had been digging at his mind since Brock walked through the door of Lou's Guns, tinkling the little bell that dangled from the doorway, “You lose some weight there, pal? Looking nice and trim. What you down to?”

  “Three hundred ell-bees,” Brock replied, rubbing at his bloated stomach, spitting his first deposit of chew into his stainless steel traveling mug. “Feelin' damn fine, Lou. Think I just had my rebirth, you know what I mean? Like I don't need no damn gun, I'll punch a doe in her face if she gets too close. You hear me knockin'?”

  Nodding in agreement that yes, he heard him knocking, Lou questioned Brock's method for dropping the pounds, something that he sought to do himself, “How you do it? The old crow keeps shoving broccoli down my mouth but it don't make a lick of difference if you ask me. Might as well just eat steak all the same, I say.”

  “No carbs, Lou. Beef and chicken and fish. No more broccoli in my house, fellah. I don't even let no damn potatoes through that door, and I don't mind potatoes much, especially them crinkle cut fries. Me and the old lady are eatin' like kings, I tell ya'. Grilled steaks with a side of creamed chicken. You can't beat that with a stick. Can I get an amen?” He unloaded into his mug again, winking his left eye simultaneously. Lou mouthed, without sound, the word “amen”, as dictated to by Brock.

  “It's what God intended, Slim,” Lou replied, proud that he had caused Brock's face to light up at his new nickname. Slim. Brock liked the sound of that, and it made him feel like more of a man. Lou added, “If God wanted us to eat all them there vegetables and fruits then we woulda' all been born like them vegetarian faggots, right? Makes me sick to think of it. I never saw a goddamned carrot that looked or tasted better than a big ol' greasy hamburger. We can't deny that, partner. We gotta fight the good fight for meat eaters all over the world.”

  Brock nodded. “Damn straight. Hippie sons of bitches are ruining this pretty country, one whining bitch-fest at a time. The lesbians, the faggots, and the Mexicans- they're all in it for the long run. Not on my watch, old buddy.” He snickered to himself and Lou did the same. “So what you got to show me today?” Brock asked, changing the subject to the more important matter at hand, that being his insatiable desire for hoarding fire arms away in his unfinished basement. “I got four hundred bucks burnin' a hole in my pocket and my bills ain't due for two more weeks. Set me up with something bloody and loud, Lou.” He banged his fist on the counter, as though demanding something that he felt entitled to.

  Lou studied Brock's face. He squinted his eyes in thought, pulling back from his glistening counter of vengeance on display, scuttling away to the back room, advising as he backpedaled, “You wait right there, Brock. You wait right there, muchacho.”

  While Lou was in the supply rooms of his shop, fishing through his scatterbrained inventory of legitimate and black market wares alike, Brock studied the tough-as-balls array of lock n' stock beauty that adorned the walls, as though God himself had ejaculated his most vicious load of vengeance for all to see. Every gun was an extension of the unsentimental man, a piece of modern warfare that made every glorious soldiering morning through the woods feel like Viet-fuckin'-Nam all over again. Brock had not been in Vietnam, but he often told people otherwise.

  Some argued that it was unsportsmanlike conduct to shoot a helpless animal with a gun. Those people are assholes, thought Brock. Man invented a gun with his ingenuity and brain, and so the collective species of homo-sapiens have earned an assumed right to wield its absorbed knowledge in the devastation of any dumber beast that dared step in his path. Sure, a bow and arrow kill was more satisfying, but so much more arduous than any modern man had time for. The sport of wielding a firearm was thrilling enough in and of itself, and with it came fewer hurdles. Sport was sport. Why use a putter when you can use a driver?

  “What if a deer kicked in your door one day and walked around your house with a shotgun in his hooves, killing your wife and children right before your eyes?” a bleeding heart twenty-something broad (with pungent lice-ridden hair) had asked of Brock one day at a coffee shop outside of his usual stomping grounds, eying his camouflage and orange garb with utter disdain. Brock had snapped into action and responded to the little dirt-pie, grabbing hold of a handful of itchy sweater, “I don't have any goddamned rug rats, Swiss Miss. And that deer can blast my wife in the mouth if he wants to, no matter to me. All animals deserve what I'm givin' them, and if they don't see me comin', then boo-hoo on their birthday. You like meat? I bet you do. You just eat that tofu crap because Jack Kerouac told you to, right? Fucking faggots. So how about I take you 'round back and show you... oh, high and mighty hippie cretin... what meat tastes like?” Brock had proceeded to nestle his testes and penis in his hands, grinning at the girl wildly, unable to control the shifty machinations of his eyeballs. At this, the dirty little hippie sponge had spat in his face and he could have strangled her for that, but resisted the urge, given that they were airing their grievances in a very public place, while several other hippie scumbags looked on.

  Lou sauntered from the back of his store, a long black m
ajestic beauty in his hands. It seemed to reverberate good vibes into Brock's time-worn heart as he made his initial eye contact with it. His reaction was nothing less than love at first sight, if one was to be so moronic as to subscribe to the thought of love in the first place. “Who is this sweet little lady you got here?” he asked of Lou, already naming the yet-to-be-purchased object of his affection inside of his mental gun-ventory.

  Lucy. He would call her Lucy, named after a middle school teacher named Lucy Patterson, or Mrs. Patterson as she was meant to be called when he wasn't tugging his chowdah-maker in bed at night, whom Brock had been madly in love with during his most turbulent pubescent years. “I don't even recognize the brand,” he garbled between choked breaths, running his fetid tongue along the roof of his mouth, the volume of his passion for the weapon overtaking his derelict words. Reaching out towards Lou (who only offered a satisfied grin, the silly bastard), he ran his hand along the long black barrel. The smell of fresh gun oil filled his nostrils and he could feel his salivary glands filling with ripe juices. Lou goaded him on, pushing the gun out further from his chest, allowing Brock to wallow in its glory from any visual and physical angle he so chose. You can take her to bed if you'd like, Lou considered saying, but bit back his cockamamie tongue, knowing that the final transaction was not yet complete. “Where did you get this? It's perfect. Nothing fancy. Just.... perfect.” When he touched the black stock of the thing, he felt a buzz pass through his body, sending rivulets of strange emotions pouring through every molecular manifestation of his body. And for a fleeting moment in time, which brought him great embarrassment, he felt himself go hard in his Hanes.

  Snorting in delight, Lou replied, “Picked this little heart breaker up at one of them Injun trading posts way up north, in the Isle. The Knick Knack Paddy Whack tribe or somethin' all jumbled up like that. Had some dishy lookin' bows and arrows and homemade bear traps, but this was all I had eyes for. It was the only dang gun they had, and they had no reckonin' of where they snatched her up from. Were right glad to be rid of the thing, seemed to me. Practically gave it away. Fuckin' Injuns, don't know how to wipe their own asses without the white man's help, maybe that's why we sent them packin'. I just hope they don't come askin' for the gun back, you know?” At this, Lou emitted a hearty laugh towards his Indian-giving jab, but Brock could barely hear the words spilling from his friend's vile mouth. For all he could process was the mere sight of Lucy. She was giving off pheromones and Brock was game.