Still Dying 2 (Dying Days)
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Still Dying 2
Dying Days anthology
Edited by Jenny Adams
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying or recording or by any information storage and retrieval systems, without expressed written consent of the author and/or artists
This book is a work of fiction. Names characters, places and incidents are products of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual events or persons, living, dead or undead, is entirely coincidental.
All stories 2013 © copyright their respective authors
Cover Illustration copyright 2013 by Ash Arceneaux www.asharceneaux.deviantart.com
First printing December 2013
armandrosamilia@gmail.com
Special Thanks to the wonderful authors who decided to take a shot at writing in the Dying Days world… even in my wildest dreams I couldn't have had a better group of writers to add to the mythos of my world…
The Extreme Undead series from Armand Rosamilia
Highway To Hell
Darlene Bobich: Zombie Killer
Dying Days
Dying Days 2
Dying Shortly (2 shorts)
Dying Shortly Volume 2 (2 shorts)
Extreme Undead Collection (Highway To Hell/Darlene Bobich: Zombie Killer/Dying Days/Zombie Tea Party 4-in-1 box set)
Still Dying: Select Scenes From Dying Days
Still Dying 2 anthology
Dying Days Collection (Darlene Bobich: Zombie Killer/Dying Days/Dying Days 2/Still Dying 4-in-1 box set)
Dying Days 3
Dying Days: Origins 2 (coming soon)
Dying Days 4 (coming soon)
How Me And Bozy Became Dads by Patrick C. Greene… Page 7
Gator Aid by Frank J. Edler… Page 19
The Trap Line by Sean Slagle… Page 35
Dying Days: Television by Armand Rosamilia… Page 45
Flight 509 by Jaime Johnesee… Page 49
The Old Man And The Apocalypse by A.D. Roland… Page 63
The Happiest Kingdom On Earth by Brent Abell… Page 87
Dying Days: Stew by Armand Rosamilia… Page 107
Lucifer's Revenge by Mark Tufo… Page 111
Dying Days: Angel by Tim Baker… Page 121
How Me And Bozy Became Dads
Patrick C Greene
They just popped up one day, the creeps, when we were out doing some community service, clearing the highway.
Some guy was stumbling around, down the highway a good piece, and I said “Someday, that’s prolly gonna be me.”
“Stop jabbering to yo’ sef,” Bozy muttered, “They gonna send you off somewheres.”
“I don’t know, man,” I answered, “this is prolly the end of the line for me.”
“Don’t be all down. Be glad you’re outside today.”
Funny. Bozy had sort of turned into my bodyguard and big brother since I started my sentence back in February. What was funny about it, Bozy was about five-six, maybe one-forty after chow. He was locked up for stealing checks; he had used ‘em to buy his girlfriend some clothes for her new job, so they could get ahead.
And here I was, six-two and in for armed robbery. Bozy took up for me on day one. He was just a really good guy deep down. Being kinda small, he had to kick the shit out of three other inmates on his first day—and he did it, easy. I guess he saw the fear and nervousness in my eyes when they pushed me in. He told everybody right away to lay off. And they did.
I found myself turning around, realizing I got antsy anytime his black ass got too far away, and made my way toward him. Further down the stretch was Tollison, Jefferies and Pokey, so-named not because he was slow, but because he had poked out the eye of one of his mugging victims. They were all caught up in filling their trash bags, thinking about what it would be like to be back out here everyday, I guess.
Puttering around the side of the road, I found a half-empty, fairly fresh bag of Funyons, and thought about holding onto it, passing it off to the hobo when he made his way past us. I didn’t expect he’d get hit by a car.
Right as I picked up the bag and rolled it up, Officer Schlotsky started toward me, bowing up his arms and shoulders, bringing his shotgun around in front of him like he was ready to bring it up and butt me with it. “Whatchoo got there, Randall? Lemme see it.”
“It’s just a snack. For that man.” I pointed off toward the weird guy, still stumbling our way, sure Schlotsky would take one look and wave it off. Instead, he had to be an asshole about it.
He slapped the bag out of my hands, spilling Funyons all over the dewy grass. “Fuck that. If you was a good Samaritan, you wouldn’t be here.” Then Schlotsky stepped on those Funyons, crushing them into the ground, staring me down all squinty-eyed like the pig he was; tough with his shotgun. Just like I had been with mine.
I looked back at Bozy, kind of expecting him to get in Schlotsky’s grill. Instead, he just looked down at a Bud can he found and shook his head like he was warning either me or Schlotsky to let it go. Schlotsky was walking away by the time I turned back around. He was probably looking at the guy coming, eager to bust his balls too if he got too close to us goddamn dangerous inmates.
But it never came to that. A car came along, right about the time the guy –I could see his clothes were dirty and messy now- was crossing the road, coming toward us, but still like fifty or sixty feet away. He sorta shuffled out in front of the car, and when the driver hit the horn, he turned toward the sound. That’s the only way I can describe it, because he wasn’t startled or anything like that, just kinda curious.
I don’t think the driver –turned out to be a suit-and-tie type dad taking his wife and kids some damn where- expected that, because he didn’t slow down much, not enough to keep from hitting that motherfucker anyway. He dropped to about thirty from sixty or so, and bashed right into that creepy dude.
The man flew back about seven or eight feet and smacked the road hard. Schlotsky and the other guard watched, but they kept an eye on us too. “Call 911,” Schlotsky told his partner, a guy named Kritzer or some shit like that, then he turned around to yell at us “Get together where I can see all y’all.”
Then he went back to Krisler or whatever and told him to go give that guy CPR, walking all backwards with his gun up like he thought we were all gonna bolt. He stopped with a weird look on his face.
I started to turn around and see what he was looking at, when a damn freezer semi came around the bend and slammed on his brakes, seeing the stopped sedan and the guy in the road. Well, the semi jackknifed and the tires smoked up as they slid on the road. The truck flipped on its side and skidded right up to the car, sending up sparks and screeching like all hell. By now, the driver and his wife were out, frazzled all to shit and dragging two little girls with them as they made for the middle section where we were.
But the creepy-ass guy on the ground reached up and grabbed the little girl who was dragging behind, holding her ma’s hand. She screamed, which I could barely hear because of the screeching metal of the truck. The mother turned around and stooped to pull the guy’s hand away from her baby’s ankle, Kritner still running toward them. They were still a good thirty feet away, but I could see the weird guy on the ground open his mouth wide and bite that lady right on the hand.
Meanwhile, the truck was finally coming to a stop and getting quiet. And that’s when I found out what Schlotsky was gawping at a second earlier.
I spun around and saw about twenty or thirty people, shuffling and staring at us all odd, just like the creepy dude that got clipped. They must have just come out of the trees down there a couple dozen yards, because we would have seen them before if they were just walking on the road.
Jefferies was long gone. To this day, I don’t know whatever happened to his ass. Tollison had never come forward as Schlotsky commanded, partly because he was caught up in the crazy shit with the truck and the accident, but probably also because he just didn’t like doing what he was told, which probably isn’t much of a surprise, given the circumstances.
He spun and saw these weirdoes reaching for him, and, I guess, decided to fight. He took a swing at the closest and connected, but it didn’t do much. Then the second one lunged at him, grabbed his arm and took a good bite out of it, chewing away a piece of that deep down skin right before you hit blood, which spilled out like from a busted beer bottle.
Schlotsky blew my eardrums out, blowing his whistle as he muscled past me, thinking it would make all those motherfuckers –found out they was sort of dead later, if that makes sense- stop chewing on poor old Tollison and respect Schlotsky’s badge and beer gut and shotgun. Instead, they just tore into Tolly, dragging him down and digging in with their nails and teeth, making a goddamn meal out of him.
Bozy took off running for the van, which was parked between us and the wreck. “You got to get us out of here!” he yelled at Schlotsky, but the big dopey screw didn’t listen, instead, raising his shotgun and yelling “Step away from that goddamn inmate, people!”
They didn’t. Now the screaming from both Tollison and the mother was getting louder, along with shouts from her husband. Kirkler or whatever-the-fuck, was trying to control the fucker on the ground, and judging by his pansy-squeal, he got bit too.
Schlotsky had his shotgun up, but when I looked over at him, there was a real sick/scared look in his eyes, seeing pieces of Tollison, still screaming, being yanked away and chewed up. “What’re you waiting for?! Shoot!” I yelled at him, and he did, blowing the legs right out from under the closest of those freaks, a ginger who might have been cute at some point.
The other weirdoes didn’t slow down at all, just stumbled and staggered right over the top of the legless ginger, who also didn’t slow down much herself, dragging herself toward us all moaning and hissing.
“Fuck!” Pokey screamed, tossing his trash bag down and heading to Schlotsky’s side.
Schlotsky pumped and fired again, blowing the head and shoulders clean off a creep in a three piece. It disappeared as the ones behind it closed the gap, walking right over the body without even slowing down.
They weren’t stopping and there was no way Schlotsky’s four remaining shots would keep us from getting shredded and eaten.
Bozy was way ahead. “Come on!!!” he screamed from the open van door, waving us in. Me and Pokey bolted, hearing dumb ass Schlotsky waste another shell and another split second. I called for Jefferies, and then dove into the van. When clawing hands started yanking at my clothes, I was sure the fucking slobbering psychos had been faster than I thought and caught up with me. But no, it was just Pokey, crawling over the top of me to save his own ass.
“Where the fuck is Jefferies?!” Bozy asked.
I shook my head. “FUCK him!!!” Pokey yelled, “Straight wire this motherfucker and get us outta here!!”
“Fuck YOU!” Bozy said, pushing him to the back of the van before sticking his head out. Schlotsky was running hard, but reaching into his pockets for more shells and that was slowing him down.
I looked toward the wreck, and saw Krilner bashing the shit out of the downed creep with the butt of his shotgun. I screamed at the panicked family to get to us, not remembering they probably couldn’t hear through the locked-down windows, not to mention all the other chaos. I heard Schlotsky shoot again, and Pokey said “Aaah shit!”
I looked out the back window and there was Schlotsky, being swarmed, firing straight up in the air as the creepos grabbed and pulled at him, dragging him down like crocs rolling a fucking baby hippo in deep water. And oh my fucking god—there was Bozy running to help him.
“Can you straight wire this..?”
I never heard the rest of Pokey’s dumb ass question; I was taking Bozy’s lead, jumping out to help. Bozy got smart real quick. He turned around when some of the creeps saw him coming and charged to meet him.
I bolted across the road and went straight to that poor dad, who was in the midst of losing his shit and trying to figure out what to do about his bleeding wife and crying girls. I grabbed his arm. “Hey! Get to that van! You hear me!?”
He nodded, but something seemed way off.
“Hey! GET YOUR FAMILY AND GO!!” I shouted into his face, “THERE!!” I shoved him toward the van and scooped the smallest girl, who was sitting on her ass in the grass just bawling. I went to Kitchner and pulled at his shoulder, then stepped back and covered the girl as he spun hard with the shotgun.
“Come on, man! We gotta go! We’re gettin’ overrun!”
He looked down at the mess of brains from the creep who had bitten him, then at his forearm, where a really nasty bite spurted dark blood. “Shit…”
“Come ON!” I yelled and he did, running toward the van without a word.
The herd or tribe or swarm or whatever they should be called was making hard for Bozy. I saw him go out of sight on the passenger side of the van—then he didn’t get in for some reason. I heard him say, “Open this motherfucker!!!”
Fucking Pokey. He had locked Bozy out. Us, too.
Kissinger wasn’t doing so well. After just a few feet, he collapsed. He had lost a lot of blood in a short time, and spent an assload of energy on beating down the freak. I kept the little girl at my side and bent down to help him to his feet. He made it up, but fell over after a step and a half.
“God DAMMIT, Kinston!” I screamed. I felt the little girl wiggle with fright—I can be pretty loud. Helps a lot in the armed robbery game. “I’m—shit, I’mo die man,” he said with a shaky voice.
“Nah. Get UP!” I replied.
But he just looked up at me, trying to catch his breath. I heard Bozy yelling at Pokey, almost about to cry.
“I’m done,” Kingler whispered between heaving breaths. I couldn’t stay there any longer—the creeps had caught wind of us. The father was turned around, screaming at us to come on.
“Do me in.” Kimmel said, “Don’t let those bastards do it.”
I thought faster, more carefully, than I ever have. Wish I’d been thinking like this when I was planning that robbery. I was probably gonna need the shells. Kelner had a sidearm. He could do himself in. He just wanted someone else to do it, maybe so he wouldn’t end up in hell, where I was going. But not today.
“Sorry bro!” I grabbed the shotgun away from him and bolted.
One freak was about eight feet away when we made it to the driver’s side. I blew him away, finally shooting something real for once. I had a feeling nobody was gonna charge me with this or any other crime, ever again. I heard the pop of a handgun, and knew Kribbles had mustered some nuts and punched his own ticket.
Mister Dad was jerking at the driver’s side door handle, hoping for some kinda Hulk power-up I guess, while his little girls watched and cried. Pokey was way back in the corner of the van, looking out at the coming shit-storm of creeps, ignoring Bozy’s pounding and threats.
I smacked the window once with the butt of the shotgun and pointed it right at Pokey. “Open it!”
I guess Pokey thought I was bluffing-or he believed the scuttlebutt that the windows were bulletproof. I went to the driver’s side and pushed Mister Dad out of the way, then blew the door handle off. The door opened easy—but now it wasn’t gonna close.
I jumped in and unlocked the passenger side. Bozy leaped in, and I felt the family climbing in behind me as I raised the shotgun to spray Pokey’s guts all over the back seat. Bozy pushed the barrel down and looked at m
e. “Just hotwire this bitch!”
I turned to get started, seeing out of the corner of my eye a handful of creeps making their way around to come in the open driver’s door. “Shoot those assholes!” I yelled at Mister Dad, tossing him the shotgun. I was vaguely aware of Bozy putting the knuckles to Pokey, hearing ‘em both grunt until, suddenly, Pokey went quiet, and Bozy ran back up front.
Mister Dad blasted away twice.
I was almost done, and Bozy could tell. “Don’t worry, sir,” Bozy said to the dad as he took the shotgun away and fired off two more rounds. I looked up and saw a pale hand grabbing at Bozy’s pants. Bozy punted the creep away then pulled the door closed, having to hold it like that because of me mangling the handle.
“Help me, sir!” Bozy yelled at Dad, and it felt so odd, Bozy calling this guy “sir.” I’d never heard Bozy call anybody sir, not even the head guards.
I got her started. “Get back! I’m pulling us outta here!” I shouted. The fucked-up moaning coming from the creeps was so loud now I almost couldn’t hear the engine.
Bozy dove behind the seat, and as the door opened, hands and hands and hands grabbed at me, fighting with each other but somehow still working together to drag me to hell. Bozy swatted at the hands with the shotgun and I hit the gas. The tires spun on the grass for a thousand years and then we were catching some serious traction and blasting out onto the road so fast I had to fight her to keep from hitting the overturned truck.
Speaking of, I saw the driver stick his bloody head through the cab window as we pulled off, but I was done rescuing motherfuckers for the day. And there was no way he would last long anyway. At least, that’s how I wanna see it.