Resurrection X

by Dane Hatchell

  Chapter 19

  Rex entered the room naked, carrying a medium-sized cardboard box, the top taped securely closed. Penitence for his failing came more frequently. Of course, he had only himself to blame. His façade to the outside world became more difficult to maintain as each day passed.

  Short bouts of alcohol consumption and satisfying the wanton lusts of the flesh no longer caged bitter memories from The Dark Times. The temptation ever-present to crawl inside the bottle and never climb back out.

  A single low-watt light bulb shed a pale glow across the empty room. The carpet had been stripped long ago, leaving the damp chill of finished concrete on the soles of his feet. The walls had faded from white to dingy yellow. Sour perspiration and the faint metallic odor of old blood lingered in the air.

  Fleeting snapshots of his latest orgy with a bed full of decrepit Non-Dead tormented his conscience, fueling the rage of demons that drove him further into his downward spiral. “I’m sorry, God . . . I’m so sorry,” he said, the words hollow in the empty air. “I’ve failed You. I failed them. Make it stop . . . please.”

  He dropped to his knees. Jagged pains shot up his legs to his spine. Only through suffering would God believe his repentance was heartfelt.

  The bones in his legs absorbed the cold, unforgiving shock of the concrete. His memories escaped from the dungeon of his despair to force him to relive the past.

  “We can’t stay here. We must have sent a million roaches scurrying into the walls. You saw that, didn’t you?” his wife said.

  “I know you’re terrified of roaches, Marta, but you must ask God to give you the strength to overcome your fear. There’s a pack of demon-infested dead bodies out there that want to eat us alive. We won’t stay long, I promise. Jacob needs to rest. Look at him,” he said, pointing.

  Their son had plopped down on a wadded tarp, his eyelids heavy from exhaustion and the fever.

  A clamp lined with barbed wire hung from a nail on the wall. He placed the clamp on his left bicep and tightened the wing nut until the barbs bit into his skin. Waves of nausea almost emptied his stomach. After his system adjusted, he took several handfuls of dried rice from an open bag, and slung them on the floor. He began the slow journey across the room, traveling on his knees.

  “You can’t leave us here! The roaches are everywhere!” she cried. Enough light filtered through the dirty window to see tiny heads protruding from cracks and crevices around the room.

  “Jacob is in no condition to travel. That drug store we passed can’t be more than half a mile back. Hopefully, the area’s clear this time. Anyway,” he clapped his hands three times and the roaches slid back out of sight, “they’re more scared of us than we are of them.”

  “We should never have left the others.”

  “I didn’t trust the leaders. I heard they were planning things that would have harmed both you and Jacob.” He was reluctant to speak of the moral depravity the strong were about to impose on the weak.

  “Don’t leave us here alone.” Marta’s tears flowed, and her voice quivered.

  “All the doors have locks. You’re safe. We need more water and food. I should be back in a couple of hours. Just stay in prayer. The Lord will see us through this. I promise.”

  “You promise?”

  “Yes, dear. I promise. I won’t let you down.”

  The grains of rice pinched nerves against bones. When the pain in his knees overpowered the bite of the barbed clamp, he twisted the wing nut tighter. “Why did this have to happen, God? Why? I trusted You. I trusted you.”

  He stopped for a moment to catch his breath, and then continued to crawl. “I know You’re there. I know it was part of Your plan, but my mind is weak. I struggle to accept it. I’m weak. Keep me focused. Keep the true vision fresh. Bind the devils that accuse me.”

  The trip to the store had been without incident. He could feel the power of the angels leading his way. Surely God was on his side, for he found an ample supply of drugs to treat Jacob’s fever, as well as food, water, and even a few bags of hard candy.

  His outstretched arms with his hands clasped in prayer hit the wall at the end of the room. The rice was embedded in his skin. Turning to a sitting position, he slowly unscrewed the wing nut, and let the arm clamp fall to the floor. Uncontrollable tears flowed as he brushed and picked out the stone-like grains from skin.

  It had been two days since he had left for ‘two hours’ to get supplies. When he was ready to return as the hero to his wife and son, the streets outside became littered with undead. He had found a ladder to the upstairs attic and watched through the fins of an air vent, until he believed it safe enough to travel.

  Each minute of the two day vigil felt like hours. His mind created a thousand scenarios of doom and destruction of his precious family without him. “Get thee hence, Satan!” he would retort at every doubt of God’s protection.

  After arriving at the building, he threw the supplies to the side, and frantically tried to open the door. It was locked. He gently knocked, softly calling Marta’s name.

  After agonizing moments of frustration, he thought, ‘Maybe she’s asleep, or maybe sick from fever, too, like Jacob.’ With his fear about to consume him alive, he left the building’s door, and searched for the window that led to the room where they had taken sanctuary.

  The sun shone down at an angle that struck the dirty window and turned it into a mirror. He couldn’t be sure of what was inside.

  He searched the ground for something to break the window, and found a baseball-sized chunk of concrete and some oily, red rags. After wrapping the rags around the concrete, he banged on the glass until it shattered and broke.

  Foul gasses escaping the dead bodies of his wife and son chastised him for his late arrival. He moved his head away from view of the ghastly sight and struggled for a breath of fresh air. Cold shock washed down his back. The image of his wife and son burned forever in his soul.

  Rex slowly rose and walked across the bloodstained rice, to where he had left the cardboard box, and picked it up. What were Marta’s last thoughts before she died? Was she cursing him? Was she cursing God? He desperately wanted to believe she had caught the fever from Jacob and both had died that way . . . died before . . . .

  The image flashed in his mind like the sun going nova in a dark room. His wife’s twisted form lay covered with thousands of roaches. A large number were dead, squashed during her hopeless battle to keep them off. They were being cannibalized by their brethren, and her body was still providing food for the ravenous insects. Jacob had been stripped of every ounce of flesh, leaving only his skeleton. He had been dead, or too weak at the onslaught, to put up a fight.

  “My poor baby . . . .” he sobbed. “I’m so sorry. So, so sorry . . . .”

  He set the box down at his feet and peeled off the tape. Small German roaches spilled out like water gushing from an artesian well, seeking food, warmth, and a place to lay eggs.

  As the insects crawled around the room, up his feet and legs, over his body, he turned out the light and tried to imagine her horror.

  Her words, ‘You promise?’ echoed in his mind.

  Chapter 20

  Ben had a seat at the bar with his back to the bartender while waiting for his fourth beer, his gaze wandered around the dark room, surveying the night’s prospects. The guy-girl ratio appeared near even. He preferred it that way, as he didn’t like to have his options limited once he entered “the pit.”

  The Full-Zombie political movement had given birth to a subculture who referred to themselves as Z’ers. Z’ers wore white faces and black eyes, the tattered clothing and prosthetic gaping wounds, but espoused none of the principles meant to advance the rights for the Non-Dead. The Dark Times had created a new breed of anarchist bent on breaking societal chains by exploring all the avenues hormones and virility offered. The Z’er disguise concealed them from the judgment of others.

  “Here’s your beer,” the bartender said, androgynous behind the m
akeup. Ben had first thought the bartender was a black woman with short hair, now, he wasn’t so sure. Ben looked in vain for an Adam’s apple—that was always a give-away.

  The music faded between songs, and the distinct exhaust rumble from a Harley Davidson motorcycle cut in. The engine stopped before the next song begin. The old wooden door to the underground bar opened, turning a few heads. A tall figure wearing a brown leather jacket and faded blue jeans strolled in, his biker helmet still on his head.

  Ben laid a five on the bar, spun around on the barstool, and put the bottle to his lips.

  The rider strode toward him as he slowly removed his helmet from his head. The white makeup on his cheeks slightly smeared from removing the helmet.

  Ben lowered the bottle and nodded to the rider.

  The rider responded with a smile and raised his hand as the bartender approached.

  “Jack Daniel’s, neat.”

  The bartender gave him a sheepish grin and grabbed a bottle off the shelf.

  Must be a regular, Ben thought.

  She served him a glass of whiskey and waited with the bottle poised to pour again.

  The rider picked up his glass, locked his gaze onto hers, and downed the drink in one gulp—never breaking the connection.

  She filled the glass again and left the bottle on the bar after he handed her some folded bills.

  “Riding must be thirsty work,” Ben said.

  “Riding is the best part of my job. It breaks the monotony of my profession.”

  “You work on Saturdays?”

  “I work on any—sometimes every—day of the week.”

  “Well, that pretty much sucks the big one. Good thing you have the night off.”

  “I’ll drink to that.” The rider lifted his glass in a mock toast.

  Ben licked his lips. “My name’s Volvagia. Call me Vol.”

  “El-Rod, nice to meet you. Do you mind?” he said, gesturing to the stool next to Ben’s.

  “Sure, have a seat. I’m just here feeling sorry for myself, trying to catch a buzz to ease the pain.”

  “What’s got you in the dumps, brother?” El-Rod asked.

  “It’s stupid, really. I’m kind of hung up on this girl. Sometimes she acts like she’s into me, and I think there’s a chance. Other times she seems preoccupied when we’re together, and I just feel like a bother.”

  “Where is she tonight?”

  “Oh, we were together earlier, along with some other friends. I tried to get her to go out for a late movie, but she wanted to get home.”

  “That’s too bad. Why didn’t you invite her to come here? Perhaps the thought of some action would have captured her fancy more.”

  Ben laughed to himself and shook his head. “You don’t know this girl. She wouldn’t be caught dead in a zombie bar like The Coffin Club.” Ben raised his bottle again for a drink and wiped his mouth with a finger. “We go to the university together. She was into the Full-Zombie political movement and lured me in. She’s one of those radical types. You know what I mean? People looking for a cause to fight for. If this were a different time, she’d be saving the spotted owl instead of the Non-Dead.

  “I got into the political movement to get into her pants. So far, I haven’t even made it to first base. The only redeeming factor about the whole thing was finding the Z’ers. I hadn’t thought much about going to a zombie bar. Thought the people might be too weird for me. But one day after a rally, where I was Full-Zombied up, I passed The Coffin Club. Since I was already dressed for the part, I decided to stop in a have a drink—just to check things out. I’ve been coming ever since. I don’t know what I’d do if I didn’t have this place to come in and unwind.”

  El-Rod laughed. “Well, I must admit, if I didn’t have this outlet to let off some pressure, I might go off the deep end.”

  Three guys and one girl sat at a table close to the wall, to the left of El-Rod. Two of the guys were tied in deep discussion. One wore a fishnet shirt and black vinyl pants. The other wore a white shirt with the collar pulled up covering his neck, a black vest, and black leather pants. The girl wore a purple crushed velvet dress with a plummeting neckline that held her bountiful breasts in check. She was engaged in conversation with a male dressed Full-Zombie, his hair sprayed with black and silver glitter.

  “Get your hands off my woman!” Fishnet Shirt yelled, after glancing over at the girl.

  “What? All I did was ask if she wanted to go to the pit with me,” Zombie boy said.

  The bartender opened her cell phone. “Looks like the shit’s about to hit the fan.”

  El-Rod stood and raised his hand to her. “I got it. Goths just don’t know how to act in a zombie bar.”

  El-Rod slowly approached the table, his arms outstretched. “Gentlemen, gentlemen, please. This is no way to act in a place of love.”

  The two Goth guys were both on their feet, staring down Zombie boy at the table.

  “Hey, fag, if I want any shit from you, I’ll squeeze it out,” Popped Collar said.

  “Allow me to present you with my card.” El-Rod reached inside his jacket, pulled out a gold plated Colt .45, and pointed it in Popped Collar’s face.

  “It can be redeemed for a one-way ticket if you so desire, but I don’t think you would like where I would send you.”

  The bustle of the barroom had come to a complete hush, making the music playing sound louder. The two Goths turned to each other and stared blankly.

  “My friends, I don’t think when you entered the doors of our beloved zombie bar, you fully understood our rules. The zombie lifestyle is bohemian. Antiquated emotions of jealously and anger are not permitted here.

  “By what chance led you to our abode in the first place?” El-Rod asked.

  Fishnet tapped the front pocket of his pants. “Business.”

  “I thought as much. Goths are dealing some of the best weed these days. If your business is complete, nothing would please me more than to allow you the privilege to leave the premises,” El-Rod said.

  The three Goths nodded in unison. El-Rod stepped back and allowed them to pass. Before they reached the door, El-Rod called out.

  “You in the vest, hold on for a second.”

  Popped Collar turned, his face drained of color.

  El-Rod advanced with the pistol held at waist height and pulled a plastic bag from a jacket pocket. “I’d like to offer you a small gift in appreciation for your cooperation.” He handed the powdery substance to Popped Collar.

  “Th . . . thank you,” he said with relief in his voice.

  “You’re welcome. One more thing,” El-Rod’s brow furrowed, and his voice rose in pitch and volume, “don’t you ever set foot in this fucking place again.” The words forced themselves past clenched teeth. His hand holding the gun shook.

  The door banged closed as the three fled for their lives.

  El-Rod let the pistol point to the floor and chased off the anger. After putting the Colt away, he remounted the barstool next to Ben. The crowd returned to the pleasures at hand. “The roaches have returned to their dark corners.”

  “All I can say is, wow. That was smooth,” Ben said.

  “Blessed are the peacemakers, for they shall be called the sons of God,” El-Rod said.

  The words worked into Ben’s subconscious. He calculated where he had heard those very same words, and that very same voice, before.

  “Son-of-a-bitch . . . .” Ben said, his mouth falling agape at the realization.

  El-Rod downed another shot of whiskey. “What?”

  “Dude, you should be more careful. Your hair—you should have sprayed some color on it. The way you speak . . . what you say. I know who you are,” Ben said.

  El-Rod froze for a moment. He looked down at the floor, and said, “Really, how’s that?”

  “I’ve been going to church with my girlfriend, Rebecca Spencer. You know her. She has to attend for her father’s sake until the election. I’ve heard you speak more than once on Sunday morning.
You always end your messages with the peacemaker quote.”

  Joshua Hatfield raised his eyebrows and shrugged his shoulders. “So, are you going to out me to my uncle?”

  “Hell no. I actually have more respect for you now. I thought you were only a worthless, pretentious cocksucker. I’m glad to see you’re human, too,” Ben said, raising his beer bottle in salute.

  “I’m an Associate Pastor at Streets of Gold and member of the City Council. The only way I could qualify for those two positions is by being a worthless, pretentious cocksucker. I’m just doing my part to make the world go around, like my uncle says sometimes.”

  “It’s cool. You can easily find out my identity. Rebecca would never talk to me again if she knew I went to zombie bars. So, we’re in this together. Your secret is safe with me.”

  “As yours is with me.” Joshua finished his drink and set his glass on the bar.

  “How’s the buzz? Ready for some pit action?” Joshua asked.

  “Why the hell not?” Ben hopped from the stool and stepped to a narrow door on the back wall. Joshua followed close behind and opened the door for Ben. The two creeped in, allowing their eyes to adjust to the black lights in the room.

  A disco ball slowly rotated overhead, cascading stars over the glowing bodies bathing under black neon. The painted faces shone with eerie luminescence, as the whole room swayed in the sensual dance of the undead, to the bone crunching rhythm of a razor-sharp guitar.

  “Hold out your hand,” Joshua yelled in Ben’s ear.

  Ben lifted an open palm. Joshua sprinkled on powder from a plastic bag. The powder glowed blue under the neon lights.

  “Is this what I think it is?” Ben said, his smile gleamed.

  “Z-meth. Nothing but the purest.”