DISEASE: A Zombie Novel

by M. F. Wahl

  Danny is pushed onto the platform. There is no struggle. Like a stunned beast to the slaughter, he stumbles toward his own death. Rough hands yank him to his knees in front of the cross. They bind him, pitilessly stretching his arms, up and over the “t” shaped boards and trussing them behind his back. They pull on the pulsing, infected muscle of his wounded side. Agony coils deep inside of him, but he only stares out, unblinking in the face of their loyalty, their mockery of civilization.

  The guards step back to admire their handy work. The Beast is gagged, immobile, on its knees leaning awkwardly back. Its chest is forced out, leaving it unprotected and vulnerable. Its arms are stretched behind to their limit. Its legs bound in place.

  “Slay The Beast. Spill its blood. Crush its skull. Do it in. Slay The Beast. Spill its blood. Crush its skull. Do it in.”

  Tears leak from The Beast’s eyes. Its chest heaves, it shakes, and finally it screams in terror against the gag, its vocal cords nearly tearing with the effort. The Mass roars back in approval.

  It is a good night for an execution.

  ***

  The overgrown field rustles with each step Alex takes, echoing in his ears. His breathing quickens as he closely passes a group of creatures devouring an unfortunate deer. The poor animal, nursing an arrow wound from a botched hunting attempt days ago, never stood a chance.

  The ghouls gorge, overloading themselves with warm meat. The stomach of one is so bloated that the skin looks ready to burst. It stuffs another dripping handful of venison down its gluttonous throat and its stomach pushes out more, stretching until it rips wide open, spilling its contents to the ground. The creature greedily claws at its own innards and packs its mouth once again with the felled flesh.

  Alex tiptoes by, grass swishing at his knees.

  Cankerous faces and bulging eyes turn hungrily toward him.

  ***

  The Leader stands on the platform facing The Mass. Behind her, The Beast writhes against its bonds. The Mass howls. She holds up her hands for silence and an eerie quiet takes hold.

  “Who among you will take reparation for the murdered boy, Alex? And for our own flesh and blood? Who among you will volunteer to become a vessel of justice?” she asks.

  The Mass murmurs thoughtfully. Hands rise and bodies eject toward the platform like tentacles from the core. The Leader approves. She gestures theatrically and a squeaky-wheeled cart full of weapons is rolled forward.

  “Tonight I am here to serve you. This Beast,” she points at the struggling form on the cross, “is the personification of disease from which we must be cleansed.

  “Habib, Jamal, Javier, Rob, Brody, and Alex. These are the names of the fallen, taken from us by this confessed child murderer, this pedophile. This evil that walks among us. If we allow this disease to continue unchecked, the innocence will be ripped from our children and the lives from our brethren.

  “I ask you to bear witness and not to shy away from what is about to happen. I ask you to carry this story with you into your daily lives as a warning to those who would seek to sow chaos. Carry tonight’s proceedings with you as a vaccine against this disease, this ultimate form of evil because if we allow it, The Beast will destroy our children in the very beds in which they sleep.”

  The Mass erupts forcefully, its screaming chant drowning out cheers of agreement. “Slay The Beast. Spill its blood. Crush its skull. Do it in. Slay The Beast. Spill its blood. Crush its skull. Do it in.”

  The Leader’s cheeks flush with delectation, each word melting over her, tenderly touching every part of her body. She turns to face The Beast. Crimson drips from its newly bandaged side, slowly pooling on the ground. Its shirt is plastered to its body with a mixture of sweat and blood and she can see its heart vibrating beneath the fabric.

  She crosses the platform to stand before it. The thing looks up at her, black ringed, bloodshot eyes pleading with her to stop. She reaches her hands behind its head and loosens the gag. The rope falls around its neck and it spits the rag out onto the platform.

  “Lot—” The Beast’s mouth has trouble forming words. “Please…”

  She leans in closely, listening, hoping it will scream, needing to hear it scream. Her cheeks are on fire and her skin tingling with pleasure as its voice wavers with dread. “Finish this quickly.”

  The Leader’s eyes smile and her breath delicately falls in The Beast’s ear, only for it. “You never should have crossed me, little boy.”

  She lovingly grazes its cheek with her lips. There is something about the finality of the kiss, about the way The Leader turns so crisply and walks away, which ignites The Mass. The thirst for blood blazes hotly.

  The Beast screams. It screams in hatred of The Leader. In contempt of the universe. In repulsion of The Mass. In utter terror. It screams, but its voice is carried away by the ugly mantra that fills the room. “Slay The Beast. Spill its blood. Crush its skull. Do it in. Slay The Beast. Spill its blood. Crush its skull. Do it in.”

  The Leader steps down from the platform and presses through The Mass on a surge of euphoria. Hands reach out and stroke her as she passes. She struggles to keep her composure, to dampen her merriment just a bit, she can’t let them see her smile.

  Tonight Lot will watch Danny burn.

  20

  Rochelle, a waif-like woman, peers up at the stars through a small gap in the window coverings. She misses being able to walk freely outside. Being continuously stuck indoors is soul crushing, and boredom can easily get the best of anyone.

  She remembers a time when she visited the zoo as a child and saw a tiger, in all its majestic glory, its thick glossy fur rippling with every step it took. She watched, fascinated as it paced the length of its large enclosure, back and forth, over and over, never stopping, never looking anywhere but straight ahead.

  Eventually she moved on to another exhibit, elephants, gorillas, wildebeest, giraffe, they all had the same look in their eyes. She didn’t recognize it then, but later in life she heard the word for it: zoochosis. Rochelle supposes it’s only a matter of time before the entire human race has that same look.

  At least she can see the stars tonight, no clouds, and it’s quiet in here for once, with everyone attending the trial—a rare thing indeed. At least there are some perks to getting the short end of the stick.

  She peeks over at a Nick, a middle-aged man sitting beside her. He has his feet propped up on a stool and snacks on some dried jerky. Rochelle thinks the dried meat is okay, but sometimes it seems like life has become the stopgap between jerky. These days she only eats what she absolutely has to. What she’d really like is pizza, even a shitty pizza from some shitty chain would be amazing.

  “Did you ever picnic under the stars? Before everything changed?” she asks Nick.

  “Nope.” Nick responds through chews. “But I did picnic with the kids at the park once.”

  “Sounds nice.”

  “It was a total disaster. I stepped in dog shit, there were yellow jackets dive-bombing our food, and the oldest had hay fever.” He tears into his jerky once more and chews on the piece in silence for a moment, thinking. “Know what though? I’d give anything to be able to do it again.”

  Rochelle nods empathetically, her eyes still on the stars. She knows Nick’s last surviving child died the winter before of a lung infection.

  A dark shadow moving in the field draws her attention away and she squints for a better view.

  “I think I see someone.”

  “Probably just one of those damned things.”

  “No… I’m pretty sure someone’s running this way. It’s hard to tell…”

  “Oh yeah?”

  Nick stands and eases himself in next to Rochelle to share her peephole. Far in the distance a black blob appears and disappears, bouncing across the field.

  “Holy shit!”

  ***

  Alex tries not to take his eyes off the hotel. He tries not to imagine the creatures behind him as his legs carry him as speedily as th
ey can go, but the fastest ghoul isn’t far behind. He can hear its muscles popping over un-lubricated joints as it runs.

  All around, cumbersome creatures shuffle toward him, blocking his way and closing him in. One reaches out its thin arms, its old decayed skin sloughing off easily with the breeze. The moon highlights its ruined face. Split lips hang down the thing’s chin on moldering threads and only a single bulging eye is left. The other is just an empty socket filled with sticks and debris.

  Alex swerves, almost slams into another walking corpse. Its cold hands grip his shoulders, fingers digging into his skin. He shoves the lumbering monster back with Casey’s bat and dodges another, barely slowing.

  He deflects another attack and sidesteps the fast one as it lunges, only one step behind. The creature loses him for a moment, caught up in the onslaught of slower bodies.

  Alex skids left and right, weaving and ducking. For every one he escapes it seems like three more take its place. Spoiled hands grab at his body and decaying faces push forward with lethal teeth.

  He spins, looking for an opening and smashes a creature with Casey’s bat, but the blow isn’t strong enough to kill. All around, pushing in, are others just like it, just as deadly, just as hungry.

  BAM!

  A creature drops to the ground. Another shot, another felled creature. A third, a fourth. There is an opening.

  “RUN!” A woman’s voice shouts.

  Alex doesn’t need convincing. He leaps over the bodies that lie in the grass and sprints for the hotel at breakneck speed. Half way between him and safety he sees a man and a woman. They are armed to the teeth and cover him as he runs.

  Alex doesn’t slow his pace as he nears his saviors and they pass in a blur. He can see the small opening in the front of the hotel that means protection, candlelight spilling from it with a utopian glow.

  The opening grows larger until it becomes a door, and then suddenly he’s through it. Alex slams into the back of the caged foyer, bounces and is thrown to the floor. He lies there, panting, silent tears pouring from his eyes.

  Seconds later Nick and Rochelle barrel in, slamming the door shut behind them and locking it tightly. They lean against it, catching their breaths. On the floor in front of them lies a wet faced child with one shoe, holding up a bat against them like a cross against vampires.

  Rochelle crouches down next to him as Nick unlocks the back door of the cage. She reaches out a hand to Alex, “It’s okay, you’re safe here.”

  Alex lowers the bat, trying desperately to breathe. His ribs ache as he presses his cheek into cold marble. Its bloodstains fill his vision, tinging everything. Casey’s blood. Huge silent sobs rip open his chest and hot, burning tears flow in rivers down his face.

  “Isn’t this the kid Danny supposedly killed?” asks Rochelle.

  ***

  “Slay The Beast. Spill its blood. Crush its skull. Do it in. Slay The Beast. Spill its blood. Crush its skull. Do it in.”

  Opie stands on the platform in front of Danny. The churning acid in his stomach is almost comforting in this new territory. He has seen many things in his life, but he has never seen anything like what’s happening tonight.

  Lot stands off to the side, surrounded by admirers, her eyes shining expectantly. Tonight she not only solidified herself as the omnipotent leader of the community, but birthed herself into God-ship right before his very eyes. Her manipulation of the crowd can be described as nothing less than artistic.

  Opie’s eyes fall on Danny. The once strong and sullen, blond-haired man is now just a broken sheep, ready for sacrifice. Opie almost feels sorry for him. Danny had always been a pawn, a plaything for Lot’s appetites.

  He sighs inwardly. Danny will pay the ultimate price for crossing Lot and there’s nothing to be done about it. This world, Opie tells himself, has always been every man for himself, something Danny never fully understood.

  He turns to face the small group gathered in front of him, ready, as usual, to do the dirty work for Lot. The crowd behind the small group is electrified by the theatrical proceedings. He holds up his fist where the tops of sticks poke out. The only way to be fair is to draw straws determining who will strike the first blow.

  Thick Marge draws first. Her face drops when she sees it’s a long stick and Opie proceeds down the line. Seven sticks for seven people. It’s Davis, a large, red-faced man, who draws the shortest. He’d been close with Arnold, but Opie doesn’t really care. He just wants to get this over with, the chanting and cheering is giving him a headache.

  This whole thing is too much drama for his tastes, why not just simply kill Danny and be done with it? But he knows better. Aside from little boys, Lot has a growing penchant for grisly executions. This public forum was the next logical step for her.

  Davis steps up to the cart of weapons. He looks thoughtfully over the neatly laid rows. There are knives, a hacksaw, a hammer, a manual hand drill, an awl, a meat hook, a steel police baton, and a jar filled with liquid, next to it a book of precious matches.

  He lifts the jar from the cart and sniffs its contents, gasoline. He puts it back down—that will come later. He hovers his hand over the hammer a moment and then it draws away. The eyes of The Mass are on him and he wants to take his time, to pick correctly. Finally, after much debate, Davis comes back to the hammer and lifts it over his head in triumph. The Mass cheers.

  “Slay The Beast. Spill its blood. Crush its skull. Do it in. Slay The Beast. Spill its blood. Crush its skull. Do it in.”

  The Beast watches as Davis approaches. It’s stopped struggling and doesn’t scream anymore. That’s a good thing, Davis thinks, it’s accepted its fate and this will be easier knowing that the guilty accepts punishment. Davis had killed a few of The Risen before, but that’s it, and he has certainly never done anything like this.

  He thinks of Javier. Javier was a good man, one of the best. This might be hard, but an example has to be made and as a community leader this is his duty, like it or not. It’s a relief to know he won’t shoulder the burden alone.

  Davis looks down at the hammer in his hand then at The Beast. This creature deserves to suffer for as long as possible.

  “Slay The Beast. Spill its blood. Crush its skull. Do it in.”

  He turns the hammer in his hand and holds it out in front of him, its heavy metal head poised to strike. The animal shakes, its eyes huge, wild and scared. It’s chest heaves as it draws in sharp, shallow breaths. Davis draws back his arm and brings down the hammer on The Beast’s shoulder as hard as he can. It screams.

  The Mass is mad with euphoria and demands more. Davis lifts his weapon again, this time turning it on its side and lining it up with The Beast’s head. Still a bit tentative, he swings, smashing the hammer into The Beast’s skull. Scalp splits and bone tries not to break. The wretch cries out and struggles uselessly as blood pours over its face. The next hit will do some real damage.

  The Beast moans and Davis draws back his arm for another blow, gathering confidence from The Mass. Behind him an unclear voice rises above the chanting. He turns, blood dripping from the weapon in his hand as an interloper pushes onto the platform.

  “STOP! STOP!” Nick yells. “The boy is alive! He didn’t kill him! Danny didn’t kill him! The boy is alive!”

  Mummers of discontent rise up. How can the boy still be alive? Hadn’t Danny confessed? Concern quickly blisters the front of the Mass and eats its way back, breaking it apart. Some still cry out for blood, others are filled with instant concern.

  There is shouting, anger. Those near Lot turn to her and she raises her hand, trying to calm the clamor of people, but they squeeze around her, besieging her with worry.

  Davis is unsure of what to do. He can’t see his leader through the throng of people. Someone shouts at him to keep going, someone else shouts at him to stop and he drops the hammer.

  Danny’s head rolls forward.

  There is shouting, fighting, confusion. Lot is frantic, and can’t get through the wall of people t
hat surrounds her and Opie knows he has to do something before all hell breaks loose. He strides to the weapons cart and lifts a large serrated knife, the crowd following him with their eyes.

  He quickly saws through Danny’s restraints. The blond man slumps forward and unable to catch himself, hits the platform with a thud. An uneasy hush falls over those nearby. Opie leans down and carves through the ropes that bind Danny’s legs to the platform just as Lot finally pushes her way through the crowd.

  Danny’s head spins and he wonders briefly if this is a hopeful hallucination. He tries to lift himself—manages to push almost to his knees before his limbs give way and his body crashes back down. The pain is unbearable.

  He hears Lot and she sounds distressed, but her words mean nothing.

  Opie directs someone, but Danny can’t focus on what he’s saying, can’t focus on anything. The room whirls and his world makes no sense. He never imagined a human being could feel the amount of pain he feels right now.

  Hands pull him to his feet. There is yelling and he thinks it must be for him, but his legs won’t obey—are no longer a part of his body. His mind separates, disconnects from events around him, and the clawing blackness that has been flirting with him since he was shot, finally drags Danny into its depths.

  He hangs limply between Thick Marge and Davis. They stare at Opie, wide-eyed, unclear about what’s happening. On the side of the platform Lot and Nick speak heatedly. Fresh blood rides strands of Danny’s hair, cabling downwards from his head, muddying the floor they stand on.

  “Is he still breathing?” asks Opie.

  Davis nods dumbly, his face turning green with nausea—hit with a ton of bricks by the fact that the boy, Alex, may still be alive. What if it’s true? His mind is already toying with the maneuvers necessary to alleviate his guilt and accountability. How could Lot allow this to happen? He turns his head, looking for his leader. She is following Nick from the room.