Fierce as the Grave: A Quartet of Horror Stories

by John Hornor Jacobs

  He didn't wait for a answer. Tapping his horse with his spurs, Jake trotted ahead, moving between cars. Red Wolf looked after him, then raised his gun in the air, and fired. The undead behind them lowed. The wind blew the stench of the dead toward the men on horseback.

  By the next exit, it began raining, coming down in fat, warm drops. A summer rain.

  Jake picked off two corpses lumbering toward the approaching riders, shrugging themselves out of derelict cars. He fired three times.

  "This rain's throwing off my aim," Jake said, sucking his teeth. He looked back toward the herd. "We're gonna have to let em get closer. See how they're all drifting apart? They can't smell us. This here rain is getting them all confused. Plus we're downwind. Damnation. Rein it in."

  They stopped the mounts in the interstate, away from nearby cars. Rain dripped off of Red Wolf's hat and down his neck.

  "Go ahead and fire that pop-gun, Red. Let em know we're here."

  Red Wolf fired and then all remained silent, except for the lowing of the zombies and patter of rain. They shambled toward the waiting men.

  "So, whatd'ya do for a living, you know, before?"

  "A teacher. A poet. I made a living with words."

  Jake nodded and pulled a pack of Red-Man from his back pocket. He stuffed his cheek full of tobacco and chewed.

  Red Wolf peered at Jake through the rain.

  "Do you think I'm crazy, Jake?"

  "Yep." He didn't even hesitate. "Crazier than a shit-house rat." He shook his head. “Hell, Red. We’re all crazy. And why not? Everybody dies. Eventually. And becomes one of them. Makes me batty just thinkin’ about it.” He hooked a thumb at the herd behind him. “Inside everybody is one of them waiting to get out. ‘Cuz of some virus or something.”

  “Lesch-Nyhan necrosis.”

  “That what they call it?”

  “That’s what called it until the TV stations went off the air.”

  Red Wolf turned back to the herd. One of the zombies tripped on a piece of debris and spilled forward onto its face.

  Jake laughed, a hard sound thickened with saliva.

  "And you? What did you do before this?" Red Wolf turned to look at him, reseating himself in his saddle.

  "Rancher." He shook his head. "Don't that beat all? It's the end of the world and I'm stuck doing the same damned thing I been doing for the last twenty years."

  "We're just smoke, Jake. Smoke and flame and our lives move like water down a stream. If you can have any continuity between one moment and the next...well...I envy you, sir."

  "Smoke, huh?" He reached out a arm and pointed at the herd shambling forward. "And that? Their flames been snuffed out. But they're still burning. At least with hunger."

  "They're pure. They exist, all their senses focused on one thing. They've rendered down all of human existence into hunger. Instincts, long forgotten, tamped down, bloom. They hunger. They rise."

  "What's that? Poetry?"

  Red Wolf nodded, then smiled. "I used to be in love with my own words. But I love other men's words as well."

  Jake barked a laugh.

  "If they're so pure, why'd you have your gun out to shoot the freshie at the stream? Huh?"

  "I didn't want Dharma to get hurt."

  "Dharma?"

  "My horse."

  "Jesus, you're a piece of work." He sniffed, gauging the distance between himself and the herd. "Come on, let's go. They've got our scent, the pure sons-a-bitches."

  He tugged his reins, and walked his horse into a zombie.

  The corpse threw its arms around the horse's neck and buried its face in the fur, black teeth snapping. The horse screamed, a high pitched whinny that made Jake freeze. Rearing, the horse pulled the corpse off its feet high into the air. Jake flipped backwards, somersaulting over the rump of his horse, landing face down on the asphalt of I-40. His chin banged hard against the pavement. He felt his teeth crack and tasted the salty well of blood springing in his mouth.

  Red Wolf pointed his pistol at the zombie and fired, Dharma moving unchecked beneath him. Jake's horse screamed again, a red flower blooming on her neck. The horse jerked toward the median, dragging the zombie -- and Jake's gear -- with it.

  Jake pushed himself off of the ground, blood streaming from his mouth. He reached out and grabbed Red Wolf's reins, stilling the wild movement of the horse.

  "Raise up," he said, the words strange and tasting foreign in the new configuration of his mouth. "I gotta get on. Herd's coming. Scoot forward and I'll swing behind."

  "You're bleeding."

  "Scoot up, goddammit. Herd's coming."

  Jake swung behind Red Wolf, gripping the smaller man tight around the waist.

  "Gimme the gun. You ride. Take it slow. Gimme the ammo."

  Red Wolf handed back the pistol, then pawed at his waist. He unsnapped his fanny-pack and handed it back to Jake, who slung it over his shoulder like a bandolier. Ammunition spilled from the pack.

  "Don't you zip up anything you stupid..."

  He popped the clip, inspected it, and then slammed it back home.

  The herd was thirty feet away. Jake's horse stopped screaming from the median.

  “Shit. I can’t believe you shot my horse.”

  Jake slid off Dharma easily, despite his injury, and dropped to his hands and knees, blood dripping from his mouth. He scooped up loose rounds from the asphalt, stuffing them into his pockets.

  "Jake," Red Wolf said, voice still calm. "The zombie that got your horse is coming back."

  "Damn." He turned on his knees, pistol out. The corpse lurched forward in the rain, his jaw working, horse blood down his front looking like black ink in the low light. A hoof must have caught the corpse's stomach or pelvis, tearing it open. The zombie appeared to have an enormous penis. Guts swung from its lower body cavity.

  Jake fired. The zombie wheeled, intestines swinging, then righted itself. It moved forward again. Jake fired once more, and the corpse's head rocked back. It dropped to the pavement.

  He swung behind Red Wolf.

  "Go. Go." He popped the clip, and began digging bullets from his pockets. The herd was ten feet away, moaning.

  Red Wolf spurred the horse forward, and Dharma responded, moving into a trot. With each bounce, Jake's mouth throbbed with pain.

  "Move us away from the herd, but don't go too far. We still gotta bring these undead bastards home."

  Dharma stopped fifty yards away from the herd. Jake reloaded the pistol, worked the action, then tucked it into his belt.

  "Damn, that was close. I can still smell them on me."

  "They fall, they die. Their instincts stir. They rise."

  "Would you stop? My mouth hurts."

  The herd of zombies moaned in the rain. Jake slumped against Red Wolf's back.

  "Get us home, Red."

  3.

  They brought the herd over the rise and in sight of the races just when the sky turned dark. A pillar of black smoke rose from the corpse fires. They rode past fields locked behind chain-link fences. In the fields, men and women with hoes trudged back to the dining hall, going through interconnected gates. They stopped and waved as the two men rode past, leading the mob of zombies. Jake waved them away, so as not to confuse the herd.

  The halogen beacons burned like stars, the smoke from the corpse fires making the blue light waver. The mouth of the races stood open, waiting for the riders and herd to enter. The sound of a generator buzzed in the distance.

  "Damnation, that looks good to me," Jake said, lisping slightly. He'd pulled the fragments of two shattered teeth as they led the herd of zombies back to the fort. If he didn't spit, his mouth filled with blood. "You ever been through the races before, Red?"

  Red Wolf shook his head.

  "We took the old cattle races and refitted them for the revs. When you bring cattle to slaughter, they don't like sharp turns, so you gotta lead them down these soft curved chutes -- the races -- so that they don't turn around and head back to the fields. Zo
mbies act pretty much the same way, as long as you got the lure in place."

  "What's the lure?"

  "Us."

  They walked Dharma into the race's mouth. She neighed and danced sideways. Jake wrinkled his nose.

  "Didn't use to smell like this. It smelt bad all right, but not like this. All the dead folks have left little pieces of themselves smeared all along the walls. Hold up. Let's let em catch up before we get out of sight."

  Jake hopped down and spat blood.

  "Might as well walk the rest of this." He patted Dharma on the rump, keeping his hand there as he walked around the horse. "Thanks, Red. For what you done."

  "What?"

  "Get me out of there. There I was drifting off, chatting up a storm, and you pulled my bacon out of the fire."

  "I save you, I save myself. It's all connected."

  “Yeah. I guess. But you did shoot my horse.” He shook his head. “I’ll tell you what. I won’t tell anybody if you don’t.”

  Jake smiled and patted Dharma's haunch again. The herd shambled into the circle of light thrown by the halogens. When they were thirty feet away, Jake said, "Okay, let's go." He took Dharma's rein and led her through.

  They walked around the curve of the race where the wall became thick bars. Men in motorcycle gear and blank, reflective helmets waited with hooks, grapples, axes and long spears. One man stood away from the rest, hand on the lever of the gate. Seeing Jake and Red Wolf, he pulled the lever. The gate slid out with a hiss of air.

  "Got about sixty behind us!" Blood sprayed as he yelled. "Get ready!"

  They moved into the small holding pen. The man at the lever pushed it forward this time and the gate slid shut behind them.

  One of the waiting men popped the visor on his helmet. He smiled.

  "Just hang-out there for a second, Jake. We don't want the herd to get wind of someone else and bolt."

  "Simmons, you goddamned fool. This ain't a game." Jake moved forward until he stood at the end of the pens. Black blood and pieces of rotting flesh caked the bars. An angry cloud of flies whirred and spun in the air as Jake approached. The moaning of the herd grew louder, and the waiting men began checking their gloves, refastening the velcro strips on their motorcycle armor.

  Jake turned to another man and bellowed, "Miller, open up this murder-hole, for christssake!"

  Miller, also blank visaged behind a motorcycle helmet, jumped toward the gate, surprised. Simmons raised his hand and he stopped.

  "Just wait a second. Just a little bit more."

  The zombies took the last turn of the race, shambling into view. Simmons slammed his visor down with a gauntleted hand, nodded at Miller, and together they pulled the pins on the gate, swinging it open.

  Simmons slapped Jake on the shoulder as he stomped through, leading Dharma and Red Wolf.

  "Great herd, Jake. At this rate, we'll have the state cleared out in...shit...maybe two hundred years," Simmons yelled behind his visor. "Go get a drink. You earned it." He turned to refasten the gate.

  Red Wolf descended from Dharma slowly, stiffly. A young boy dashed forward and took the reins of the horse and Jake tousled his hair. "Make sure she gets some of the oats and a good brush down, Cory. That girl's done a day's work."

  The boy grinned and led her away, through the second set of gates ringing the zombie races.

  Behind him, the moaning increased. They turned to watch the slaughter.

  Once the herd crowded the race gate, arms outstretched, clawing, moans and garbled sounds coming from undead throats, the lever-man opened the pneumatic gate. It lopped off a few arms as it retracted. The zombies surged forward. The spear men brought up their tools and began mechanically smashing skulls. Hook-men ducked and snagged zombies, grabbing rib-cages and drawing the bodies out from under the pen, toward the wagons. For a while, just the sound of moaning and the thunks of the spears and axes filled the air. The linemen began grunting in time with their swings. A few curses filled the air.

  "We got a bloater!"

  Jake winced as a ruptured body cavity bleated a liquid fart of putrid gas. He pulled a handkerchief from his back pocket and covered his nose and mouth.

  "We used to let folks watch. But they'd always get real upset if they spied a loved one, a daughter, a wife in the herd. Usually try and rescue them, or bribe the linemen to let them go. They'd rather know that their sister's lurching around, hungry for the living, than dead. Messed up world."

  "Love doesn't end at death, Jake."

  "Yeah? Well, neither does stupidity, I guess. They'd throw themselves at the bars and usually be reunited with their family. Maybe not like they'd expected, though."

  He hocked up a bloody piece of phlegm, spat it into the races, then painfully withdrew his pouch of Red-Man and packed his cheek full.

  "I gotta go talk to the council about my horse and get our money. Goddamn, I'm not looking forward to explaining this to the resource committee. I'll meetcha at the saloon, okay? You figured out where you're gonna bunk down yet?"

  "They assigned me a tent in Lot 10, near the water tower. Not too far from the river."

  "Huh. Screw that. I got a bunk in a trailer near the stables. You can settle down there, if you want."

  Red Wolf nodded, took off his hat and rubbed his bald head. He stretched, raising his arms skyward then leaned forward, doubled over, arms hanging, and gripped his calves. He stayed like that for a long time.

  "What in the wide world of sports are you doing?"

  "Stretching. Dharma's pleasant companionship but I'm not used to the long hours."

  "Shit, son. Don't do that in public. Christ. You're gonna embarrass me."

  ***

  Red Wolf sat at a small wooden table near the front of the saloon. Two men played guitar on stools, by the bar. A passable imitation of Lynyrd Skynyrd filled the room. Men - rough men in motorcycle boots, dungarees, and workshirts - waved mimeographed rations at the young waitresses working the tables. A few women, older and scantily dressed, moved through the bar traffic, laughing and winking. A bartender poured whiskey and served warm beer to the men.

  Jake pushed his way through the crowd to the table, palmed a waitress' rear as she passed and winked at her scowl. He flopped into the wooden chair and tossed a handful of rations at Red Wolf.

  "Damn, that's like going to the principal's office."

  "What?"

  "The council. They reamed me good for losing a horse. Kept talking about field expansion and livestock conservation." He winked at Red Wolf. “I didn’t say nothing about your aim. Or lack of it.”

  “I feel bad about it. But maybe it’s my karma.” He cocked his head. “Or yours.”

  Jake motioned to the waitress.

  "What're you drinking?"

  "Tea."

  Jake looked at the bald man sitting next to him. He squinted his eyes.

  "Listen, I know you're batshit and all, but you got to be kidding me. We've been out for near thirty-six hours, outriding God knows how far, and brought back that herd of revs. All you're drinking is tea?"

  Red Wolf nodded, a small smile playing at his lips.

  Jake shoved away from the table and stood. He went to the bar. The other man remained sitting, watching the rough trade around him, and sipped his tea. Jake returned holding two beers in one fist and a bottle in the other. A pint of Jack Daniels.

  "You said we're smoke and fire and water and all that other shit. Well, have a drink. Be pure and calm and...whatever else you need to be...but have a drink with me."

  "I am drinking with you." He took a sip of his tea.

  "No. A drink."

  His voice soft in the clatter of the saloon, Red Wolf said "I don't need it, Jake. I'm content to have some tea and sit here with you. I've eaten dinner, now I'm watching all these good people enjoy themselves and I am content. What more is there?"

  "A shitload. Drinking. Fucking. Fighting. Killing the revs. Riding."

  "Ah." Red Wolf held up his hand and waved to the waitress. S
he pushed through the crowd.

  "What'dya mean, 'ah'?"

  "Getcha something, honey?”

  "A bit more hot water, if you'd be so kind."

  She giggled, a strange sound coming from her lined face.

  "Sure thing, honey." She looked at Jake, frowning. "You want something?"

  "Yeah," he grinned, "A coupla shotglasses and a whole lotta you."

  She walked away, tray held high.

  "What'dya mean, 'ah'?" He unscrewed the cap on the pint and took a sip, hissed, swallowed, then shook his head. He held his hand up to his jaw, stuck a large unwashed finger into his mouth and probed at his missing teeth. He winced. "I really miss ice."

  "I meant 'ah,' riding."

  "Yeah?"

  "I asked what more is there. You said riding. I said 'ah.'"

  "Oh." He felt around his jaw, testing the limits of the damage.

  "Exactly."

  Jake stayed silent. He sipped at the beer until the waitress passed by again, plopping two shot-glasses unceremoniously on the table. One tipped over and spun around. He righted it and filled it with whiskey.

  "So, what about fucking? That's bout as pure as it gets."

  "Yes. Sometimes I want to have sex. But my wife is dead."

  Jake looked at the waitresses. Tears formed in the corners of his eyes. One spilled down his cheek before he could wipe it away.

  "Yeah." He sniffed, wiping his nose on his sleeve. "But she wouldn't mind. I mean, we're still here, ain't we? It's such a goddamned monster of a world. Would she deny you comfort when you can find it?"

  "Is it comfort? Or is it forgetfulness? I don't want to forget her, and I don't want to replace her. And are we talking about your wife, or mine?" He drained the contents of his mug. "I do like the tea. And riding Dharma, as well."

  Jake stared down into his shotglass for a bit, then held it over the beer and dropped it in. The warm beer frothed. He picked up the glass and downed the drink in one long pull from the mug.

  "Ah."

  "Ah."

  "We've been offered another job. New horse for me, new guns. Motorcycle armor for both of us. A sweet job. Riding escort for a scavenging operation. We gotta find more chain-link for the fields. Gonna push all the way into West Little Rock, if we can, hitting hardware, liquor and gunstores. While we're gone, they're gonna double the size of the races and be waiting for us to bring back the biggest herd of revs yet. Two horses to a man, no stopping."