2 Death Rejoices

by A. J. Aalto

  “Y'all gon’ make me lose my mind, up in here, up in here.”

  Did I know Varney, Batten had asked. Yeah, I knew Paul Varney, better than most. He'd been my high school sweetheart, and in one saccharine, rose-tinted moment, he had almost been my first lover. I say “almost,” because Harry had interrupted us, picking Paul's Mustang up over his head and tossing it into the Welland Canal at Lock One. With a horrified, pimply-faced Paul in it. I was pretty sure I was the last girl Paul Varney ever wanted to talk to again. Thankfully, Chapel would be dealing with him.

  Something crashed in the forest to my left. My voice failed in a strangled squeak and I wheeled on one heel to face the noise. Stiff and wary, I continued to work my mouth around the lyrics to soothe my jumpy nerves. “Y'all gon’ make me go all out, up in here, up in here.”

  I didn't see danger, just deep shadows playing peek-a-boo behind the trees and slip-sliding under the bushes. Nevertheless, something told me not to move, not to make a commotion or draw attention to myself.

  I sang under my breath, “Zombies make me act the foo’, up in here, up in here. Ghoulies make me lose my cool, up in here, up in here.” Weird Al, eat your heart out. Oh, jeez, don't eat my heart. Crapnoodles.

  Nothing there, I told myself, but there was one spot along the brush line, one place that gave me a bad feeling, a pee-my-pants feeling that had nothing to do with logic and everything to do with instinct. Something trembled there, wobbled as if shifting its weight with difficulty from one foot to another.

  Imagination, I thought fiercely, turning off the iPod, shoving the ear bud away. In my gut, I sensed it wouldn't step out of the fertile shadows until I passed some imperceptible line drawn on the road in front of it, maybe the spot where the gravel turned to pitted asphalt for a quarter mile until dropping back to gravel.

  It's waiting for you.

  A stupid thought, utterly stupid, not to mention arrogant. Waiting. Why me? Because your revenants killed him. It's not Dunnachie. Isn't it?

  I caught myself taking a step backward toward the fish camp and forced myself to stop.

  “Shiver me titties,” I whispered at myself in the gloom. “I am not slinking back to Kill-Notch like a chicken-shit.” I supposed it made me a bad feminist that I wished I'd brought him, or any sort of manpower, with me. I could live with being a bad feminist, mostly because I'd be alive to do so.

  “So, we're just gonna stand here?” I asked myself.

  While I listened for movement, I realized I was hoping to hear the panting of some raving sex maniac waiting to jump my ass. Perverts, I understood. Probably, I was one. Probably, I'd laugh with relief if a mere would-be sexual assailant leaped out of the shrubbery with a stun gun in one hand and his cock in the other. I imagined he'd jump with his cock in his hand, anyway; letting it flop around while he pounced seemed like it would be painful. Point: internal genitalia.

  “Please be a human psycho, please be Ted Bundy, please be Jeffrey Dahmer,” I began chanting, straining to hear anything, some clue, something to hope for. What I heard then was the bubbly jingle of someone's iPhone Marimba ringtone followed by a cajoling murmur on the wind, distinctly human and oddly dampened as though it were digital and at the same time magically magnified. Calling-forth. Not calling me, calling it, the figure just beyond sight but close enough for my warning bells to clamor.

  I whipped Batten's Taurus out of my waistband and held it in a teacup grip, the way Harry had shown me with my Beretta. It never occurred to me until that second that there were different ways to hold different guns, or if it mattered; if I survived this, I'd ask someone.

  The bushes rustled. I didn't see any movement, but I felt it. Something had come a tiny bit closer. Fear ramped through my nerve endings like a shrieking alarm. Must run, my brain cried. Must go quick like a cricket in a blender! Whirrr! The other half of me needed to stay, needed to see his face, needed to be sure.

  “You want me to cross the line, I'll cross the line,” I whispered, moving the gun to hip level like a Wild West gunfighter, doing a smooth sidestep onto the asphalt. I sounded braver than I felt, inching along the road until I was directly across from the wobbling shadow. I sang out, “I crossed the li-ine.”

  Now I could see it more clearly: the outline of a man in the darkness cast by early morning's heavy mantle, just standing there, wavering unsteadily. When my worries were confirmed by a parting of leafy brush, I did not feel reassured by what I saw.

  Neil Dunnachie's corpse was no longer wearing much of its pale brown Lambert County deputy's uniform; rotted fabric hung in slimy tendrils from its mostly-naked chest. Giant, putrid, purplish-black blisters marred most of its face; full-blown Yersinia repens was ravaging what was left of its one-armed corpse. Its remaining arm, the right one, foamed creamy fluid around tissue that was turning color. Black putrefaction, my science supplied. I wished it hadn't. This definitely put the zombie, factoring in the Revenant Coefficient, at just over one week risen.

  “Hey, Neil. What's shaking?” I said. “Other than my knees, that is.”

  It just stood there with its dark regard, that terrible yawning emptiness in its eyes. Sorry, eye, singular. Its left eye was covered with a drooping flap of skin that had peeled down, maybe by the efforts to escape so many pounds of wet lake mud.

  The cool soaked silt of what Harry had once called Dunnachie's “ripe grave” at the bottom of the lake had kept the rest of the corpse remarkably preserved until now, in that near-total absence of oxygen, surrounded by minerals that inhibited bacteria, fungus, and putre-faction. Its trunk was coated in adipocere, cheesy grayish-white grave wax, and though the last week out of the grave had taken its toll, Zombie Dunnachie's face was still mostly recognizable.

  The look in its eyes, however, was not. They glared flatly with pure drone thoughtlessness mixed with base hunger, a hunger that could not be sated, the hunger of the grave. There was nothing human in that look.

  “Who summoned you?” I asked it aloud, knowing I wasn't going to get an answer. I wondered if it could even hear me; were the eardrums decomposed, nerves limp and lifeless? What was it waiting for? What was it thinking, if anything?

  As if hearing me, Zombie Dunnachie said, “Rend bowel … rend bowel …”

  “Aren't you supposed to moan ‘braaaaaaains’ and shamble toward me?”

  “Rend. Hack. Bludg—uck.” It opened its mouth and its tongue fell out with a little splut. The undead chief deputy didn't seem to notice. I looked at the slab of rotten meat wriggling in the dust.

  “You dropped your tongue, there.” I pointed helpfully.

  “Wem bowow.”

  “Well, now nobody's gonna take you seriously.”

  “Errrrrggggh!”

  “That's more like it! Who's a good zombie? You are. Yes you are!” I'm sure there are plenty of people who say you should respect the dead. Those people are probably talking about friends, families, or strangers laid in state, or lost at sea, or something. When it was a guy who had tried to set your house and Cold Company on fire, and who was currently trying to mumble around a mouth full of nothing and was patient zero in a do-not-want zombie outbreak, and who had been a massive dickbag to me when he was alive? I was going to taunt the shit out of his corpse. And when it made its move, I was ready for it.

  The thing didn't walk, hell, it didn't even shamble or limp, it lurched, head tilted forward like it was working against heavy wind. Its legs — uneven because something below the hip was clearly broken and it only had one foot — wheeled and wobbled stiffly. The slow-moving horror of it was worse somehow. Logic told me I could outrun it. Hell, I could out-walk it. So I did, walking away in the direction of home, speed-walking, swinging my arms, still holding Batten's gun. Every time I glanced back, stumbling toward the safety of Harry and my home, it was still coming, coming, coming, mindlessly tracking me with only one intent.

  It was upwind of me; the rich spoiled stench of it cruelly prodded my gag reflex, as if I could afford the time to retch while I half
-ran. Hot bile yurped up in the back of my throat and I swallowed hard to clear it. Behind me, I heard its bubbling moan; my shoulders jacked up in disgust and I turned, braced myself, brought the Taurus up, sent up a quick prayer, and fired.

  The bullet went through the zombie's center of mass, tearing a messy hole through its midriff, then ricocheted off something beyond it with a ping-wheeeeer! It wasn't enough to stop the creature, but I was pretty excited about my aim.

  “Lucky shot,” I told the dusk, and fired again.

  One side of the zombie's face blew off in a party-time spray of jaw-bone confetti.

  “Oh!” I cringed, half-rejoicing, half-horrified. I turned and beat asphalt for a solid ten seconds before wheeling around to a full stop; I widened my stance, let my breath out, and fired off another shot.

  The bullet took a bowl-shaped chunk of the zombie's skull cap clean off, whirling back in a puff of hair and waxy skin.

  “Fuck yeah, my aim is good.”

  Zombie Dunnachie stumbled back on its heels and looked like it was going to topple backwards, but righted and surged forward. I aimed once more, sighting down the barrel, but a fresh wave of zombie stench, much stronger thanks to the gaping holes I'd just made in it, hit me again, this time forcing bile and coffee up out of my mostly empty stomach unexpectedly hard. I was belatedly glad I hadn't been able to partake of the pastries, because bear claw barf was not going to help anything.

  I didn't have time for this, and begged my body not to vomit a second time. My body didn't pay any heed, and I doubled over. By the time I was able to straighten back up, the zombie was right in front of me.

  Its remaining arm flapped into my face. I jolted back from exposed bone with a yelp and my heel hit the soft side of the road near the ditch. I instinctively knew I wouldn't survive if I fell; I threw my gloved hand forward to grab hold of something and it landed on a greasy-slick shoulder.

  What remained of its maw opened and came for my mouth like it wanted to suck face, tongue-stump wriggling like a chewed prune. I ducked and a desperate plea leaked from my mouth as I fought to remain upright, Keds digging gravel and sand. We wheeled, a couple of awkward dancers, and I wrestled it back with a shove. It grabbed a handful of my ponytail and its mouth gaped again.

  Raising the gun, I pistol-whipped it in the face. The nose crunched to one side as it staggered back a step, and it stepped forward to come at me. Then something in its hip went with a sound like a snow-laden branch snapping and it toppled backwards, pulling me down by the hair with it.

  I landed on its freshly-ventilated midsection. It was like dropping hands-first on a punctured leather sack filled with bone soup; whatever dead air and gasses of decomposition that had been inside belching from its mouth and both ends of the bullet hole, stinking of blood and corruption, filling my sinuses with hot copper and rot. My chin hit its breastbone with a crack, and I wasn't sure which of us busted something. I managed to pull my hair free, but as I did, its kneecap took me in the brow ridge hard enough to make my eyes water. I pushed away, and it felt like my hands might go right into its gut and plunge out the other side. A swinging elbow caught me in the nose, and for one moment, a ribbon of brilliant yellow pain rocked my face.

  Yowling, I pushed, trying to get to my feet again. Up close, the thing's speed was alarming, and its arm shot out and tripped me. I went sprawling in the gravel in a graceless textbook belly flop. Shards of rock tore through my jeans, and the pain startled a thin cry from my constricted throat. An oily hand seized my thrashing ankle and hauled, yanking me through the grit toward what was left of its face. One bite, one fatal skin-breaking bite, and I'd be done for. Yersinia sarcophaginae was lethal in less than an hour, Yersinia repens was infectious, forcing me to rise. I saw stars.

  I kicked back at it, rocketed up and forward, dropping the gun, punting it in my haste to retrieve it, almost going back to my knees as I scooped it and ran. I felt fingers try to find purchase again on my heel and I whisked away, pelting down the road.

  Again, I heard the weird, distant buzz of a digital voice command. Dunnachie's zombie hunger came roaring back with another tongue-less “Errrrrggggh!”

  I surged through the pre-dawn darkness towards the cabin, over the transition from weathered asphalt to uneven dirt and gravel, Keds kicking up dust in a cloud as I dodged pot holes. I cut through the yard of a neighbor's cabin two doors down, making a beeline for my place instead of taking the road's longer curve. This particular neighbor had dogs, and judging by the size of the piles of poop I was seeing, huge ones. I bolted in a zigzag path, caring less about the shit than the zombie, but knowing I had enough of a lead to dodge bigger, messier spots of feces.

  I passed the cabin that the Feds were renting, wishing one of them was there, wishing I had a key. I went up the front porch and up over the railing, swinging my legs over like a pro gymnast on a pommel horse, and promptly landing with a thud on my hip, not at all like a pro gymnast. When I got up, my fence, my yard, and Hood's truck were in view. Hood was nowhere to be seen.

  I looked behind me, and for a moment saw nothing. Maybe I'd lost the zombie? No, the wobbling shadow came around the side of the neighbor's cabin, and its wet snarl was followed by smacking noises carrying through the frail dawn.

  The rosebushes at my fence with their tearing thorns didn't hamper my rush; I'd feel whatever scrapes and slashes they left later. I reached the Ford F 150, grabbed the tailgate, and hauled myself up, sneakers squeaking on the black-painted metal. The latch on the tailgate gave and fell open with a bang, jerking me down on my hips. I scrambled up into the bed. Hurry, hurry, it's still coming. How is it still coming? I blew half its fucking head off?

  Wrestling Batten's knife from my pocket, I sawed at the bungee cord strapping the propane tank to the flat bed, my feet crinkling the blue tarp it rested on. When the cords came loose, I turned and faced the zombie.

  Zombie Dunnachie stood nearly twenty-five feet away, looking at me with what was left of its horribly blank aspect, an empty vessel waiting for command. Curds of something thick and sickly leaked from the side of its face where the cheek had been before my bullet tore it to shreds. It growled at me from a thick, clotted throat.

  “Dude, remember me? I'm the chick you tried to barbecue. Molotovs.” I started to wipe and snort the blood that was streaming from my nose and caught myself; the zombie was awfully wet, and the plague bacteria could be anywhere, including on my face now, or my gloves. I kicked the propane tank as hard as I could and watched the tank bounce off the edge of the tailgate, spin quickly on its side, rolling to a stop at the zombie's feet. Foot and stump, I mentally corrected.

  I brought Batten's Taurus up, sighted on the propane tank, and said, “Your turn to burn, asshole.”

  I pulled the trigger. The bullet hit the propane tank, dented it, and went ricocheting off somewhere. Perfect shot, but no kaboom. There was supposed to be an Earth-shattering kaboom, my inner Marvin the Martian informed me.

  “No way,” I raged, stunned. “James Bond is so full of shit.”

  I fired off two more rounds, with the same result. Zombie Dunnachie didn't flinch, even when I heard one of the bullets smack into its flesh somewhere after deflecting off the canister. Its dried-up raisin face pulled into a broken grimace, remaining shards of teeth slick with brown goo. And then it moved to step over the propane tank.

  I looked around helplessly; my eyes fell on Hood's shotgun propped behind his seat, safely locked in the cab of the truck. Turning my face away from the back window, I used the butt of Batten's gun to bust it out. The jagged edges of the safety glass traced thin, shallow scrapes up my arm as I grabbed the shotgun. I said a quick prayer (Mighty Morrigan, battle maiden, please don't let this gun be loaded with birdshot!) jacked the stock to my shoulder, and spun around.

  The zombie had moved forward, but its leading leg, the one that still had a foot, was buckling at the kneecap, and it hadn't quite cleared the tank. Raising its blistery face up to me, it hissed around the remains o
f its tongue.

  A Canadian city girl until the age of twenty, I had never fired a shotgun before, had only ever seen it done on TV. I pulled the trigger, but it was locked. While Zombie Dunnachie pulled his other leg across the propane tank in my direction, I frantically searched for a safety, found it, and clicked it off. I brought the shotgun back to shoulder height, leaving what I thought was a sensible space between my shoulder and the stock. I pulled the trigger.

  Two things happened at once. One, the recoil damn near knocked me on my ass, spinning me in a shrieking circle, and driving me against and nearly over the truck's cab. My cry was swallowed by the other thing: the spectacular boom of the propane tank exploding.

  Flames shot straight into the night sky like the mouth of hell yawning open in my face. I heard rather than felt my head smack thetruck's sheet metal. Falling to my knees, I grabbed the tarp and whipped it over me, rolling up like a well-armed but terrified burrito. Burnt hunks of zombie flesh, singed organs, and bits of shattered bone rained down on the tarp in a great pattering mess. The fireball rose and roiled with black smoke, a life-saving thunderstorm, a sweet sound I'd remember forever. With the explosion still ringing in my ears, I huddled in the truck's bed with one sweaty, gloved fist holding the tarp until ham-sized chunks of cooked meat stopped thudding the hollow metal and splattering the yard.