Zombie Revolution

by K. Bartholomew

  The arm he chewed was big and yellow and for a moment I wondered if it could have been Hogan’s.

  “Fuck, I was not just a coward in Hollywood, I was a coward in everything I did.” I now referred to Wendy, the girl I’d been obsessed with many years ago. I’d never in my life found love. It was simply one other area of my life I was too gutless to risk rejection in. Well, I was never rejected, but I never found love either. Did that mean I’d won? Fuck no! I was the biggest loser I knew. Although I never regretted urinating in Dekker’s car, I did regret not taking my chances when they presented themselves to me – And there were many chances.

  There was no going back now though. I’d since found out from Doug that my stalking gear was found in the bushes outside her house and that a restraining order had been put on me. It was safe to assume the restraining order would have now expired due to the passing of time and a zombie apocalypse, but I was still way too gutless to show my face in Newton, Massachusetts.

  I guessed that if I’d learned anything from my sorry life, it was that you never knew when everything could change, when your world could tip over on its head and you’d be left with nothing but regrets and things you wished you’d have done when you had the chance. I should’ve taken my chances when they were there – I should’ve lived! Sure the presence of the z’s had forever prevented me from returning to Newton and seeing my dad, Doug and Wendy ever again and for that, I would always despise them. But I couldn’t place all the blame on the z’s.

  For the first time ever, I accepted responsibility for being the gutless son of a bitch that I was.

  My hand involuntarily balled into a fist, a feeling I hadn’t experienced in many years.

  Damon swallowed a hunk of forearm and that was when I noticed an equivalent quantity of flesh appeared to have been pushed out from his anus. Then he took another bite, swallowed and again, his pants bulged that little bit more from the extra chunk of beef he’d consumed. This z was more than full. So full in fact that his body couldn’t physically take any more. Yet he simply continued eating regardless, without a care for consequences or cholesterol. His body wrenched and then he shook his leg. A fist sized quantity of chewed up, yet undigested meat dropped out from the cuff of his pants leg. That was when I noticed the pile, the miniature dung heap that had gathered below this specimen.

  I felt sick; both physically and emotionally. “Disgusting! To think I allowed you to influence me.”

  I wiped away the tears and to my surprise, my hand was still clenched into a ball. I looked down again, I just couldn’t help myself. Amongst the pile of flesh and organ mounting up in the dirt, lay a small red ‘H’ backed by yellow emblazoned on a piece of cloth. It was Hogan’s ‘Hulkamania’ bandana.

  Damon took another mouthful of arm, which was followed a couple seconds later by what looked like liver dropping from his pants.

  Oh Hogan - What a way for such a glittering career to finish. What a way for my boyhood hero to end up.

  I saw red.

  I slammed my fist into Damon’s head.

  It hurt like hell, but the creature fell backwards over the wall he was perched on and disappeared out of site. I had to finish this up quick or they’d all be on to me. I ran to the wall and leaped on top of it, stepping on Hogan as I did. He made an audible squelching sound that almost made me slip.

  Damon lay flat on his back, a little confused and trying to sit up, a hard task when considering his belly was full and on the verge of bursting like a balloon. He appeared to realize the predicament he was in, but not how to get out of it.

  I jumped from the wall. An experience which, to my mind went in slow motion, almost like a scene from Raging Bull. I free fell through the air, arms flailing and for the slightest of seconds, I wondered if I finally saw a hint of recognition in Damon’s face. His belly took the full force of my lanky and malnourished frame, but it was more than enough as I sank down into his gut. Under the immense pressure, his stomach ripped apart from both sides as gunk, red, green and brown sprayed outwards like a fountain.

  I gathered myself, not quite recovering from the most disgusting moment of my life. Internal organs hung from numerous openings, some lay on the floor several feet away. As I stepped from Matt Damon and on to the slop ridden floor, I saw he was still alive, lying and writhing in his own guts.

  Man – Were these things hard to kill or what.

  I looked over the wall.

  Borgnine and several of his goons were approaching.

  Shit! I was finished.

  I doubted for one minute they gave a shit about Matt Damon. But I’d rebelled and mutinied, which would potentially cause problems for them and their wicked agenda. Wow, I never knew I had it in me.

  They neared me while I was stood in the middle of all kinds of crap that’d flown from Damon. There’d be no denying I knew anything about it. Nope – I was a dead man. I was about to end up like Hogan, various parts of whom I now stood in.

  Then the patter of footsteps echoed from up the street.

  It was Grant, who was making a solitary break for it. He ran pretty quick for a guy in his fifties.

  Borgnine changed direction and headed for the escapee.

  Unfortunately for Grant, he’d ill thought out his escape plan as up the street lay numerous z extras. I watched from a distance as Grant, the idiot, cornered himself. It all happened so fast, as they closed the circle around him and then I saw Grant no more.

  Who’d have thought Hugh Grant would turn out to be such a rebel?

  10

  The Pit

  Tag and I were woken by liquid shooting in our faces. A long haired z stood there with a fire extinguisher in his hand. We sat on wooden chairs, our hands bound behind our backs, red ball gags stuffed in our mouths. It was hard to breathe.

  “Nobody kills anybody in my place o’ business, ‘cept me or Zed.” Said the long haired zombie Maynard. He wore the kind of checked shirt you’d expect to see on a lumberjack.

  We were supposedly in a basement. At least that’s if you believed the so called script. What it actually resembled was a custom made dungeon that gave me the willies.

  I thought about finishing the movie and what would happen to myself and Tag afterwards. Would we be forced to make more degrading and factually inaccurate zombie propaganda movies? Or would they stick us both in a hole somewhere and leave us to rot? Personally and knowing what these freaks were like, I fully expected I’d end up spinning round on Spielberg’s own spit roast with an onion shoved up my butt. Though after the little stunt I pulled earlier, not to mention Grant’s forlorn escape attempt, it was highly likely we’d be consumed immediately after this scene was completed, you could never tell what was in store with these freaks. This would be the final scene of the movie and I didn’t know whether I wanted the end to come or not.

  I was fully aware of what was in store as Tag had been brought down here kicking and screaming, begging not to have to carry out the scene. I was just so happy it was him and not myself who’d be going through the door behind us. In essence, I was playing the Bruce Willis character.

  The doorbell rang.

  Maynard turned to the sound. “That’s Zed.” Oh how convenient, why not bring him down to join the party.

  Maynard left the room and I turned to Tag, who wasn’t looking forward to this.

  The dungeon was hot. Z’s shone lighting down on us which made us sweat. Five cameras caught our every facial expression.

  They mumbled something unfathomable from up the stairs. Then the sound of boots became louder as they descended into the pit.

  “How come they all beat up?” Asked the new voice.

  “They did that to each other man, they came in fighting.” In truth we had both been given a severe going over by Borgnine and his goons. Our injuries were not makeup. Maynard pointed at me. “Now this one right here, he was gonna shoot that other one.”

  “Aint that right. You gonna shoot him, boy?” He came into the light and I could see h
is face. This zombie who I knew to be Zed, wore a blue security uniform. He seemed to expect an answer to his rhetorical question. “Hey, is Grace gonna be ok in front of this place?”

  “Yeah, it aint Tuesday is it?”

  “No, it’s Thursday.”

  “Then she’ll be fine.”

  Zed took a seat, sitting with his chest against the back rest. What a dork. “Bring out the gimp.”

  “I think the gimp’s asleep.”

  “Well, I guess you’ll just have to wake ‘em up then won’t you!”

  Maynard walked behind us. I couldn’t see him but I heard the door opening. Zed remained seated, switching his gaze between the two of us. The sound of a metal shutter was distinct. “Wake up!” A metal chain rattled followed by footsteps becoming louder from my rear.

  I felt a shiver run down my spine, even though I knew exactly what was coming, I’ll be honest, I was shitting myself.

  Maynard came back into view, holding by a leash, the most ghastly specimen I’d ever seen in my life. That statement holds true, even considering I’d spent the last few days making movies with zombie Spielberg. The gimp wore a full leather body suit, complete with zippers, studs and buckles. All I could see were the thing’s eyes which were lifeless and dull.

  Zed grabbed hold of the leash and forced the gimp to heal on the floor. He looked at us while rhythmically tapping his fingers across the gimp’s leather hood.

  “Which one of them you wanna do first?” Asked Maynard who studied us tentatively.

  “I’m not for sure yet.” Zed raised his finger and pointed between us. “Eenie, meeny, miney, moe, catch a human by the toe…”

  Poor Tag. It was nearly time for him to go with them through that door. For the first time ever, I actually felt sorry for what was about to happen to him.

  Zed pointed his finger between me and Tag while he muttered the words to himself. Nothing this vile creature said I could properly understand. As he mumbled his little rhyme I thought his jaw could dislocate at any second, it hung so loose. I glimpsed Spielberg behind camera 3, standing there emotionless. How would the z critics rate his movie?

  Way off to the side, mingled in there with the z sound crew stood Matt Damon. Or what was left of Matt Damon. I imagined that beneath the stinking shirt he wore, his spinal column would be visible. I guess that now I finally had his attention.

  Zed strung out the last few words of his rhyme for maximum effect. “I pick y-o-u.”

  The ‘u’ landed on me! What the fuck?

  My chest roared with the pain that emanated from an instant five-fold increase in heart rate.

  Camera 4 moved in for the close-up. Doubtless my face was a humorous combination of confusion and terror. This was so not in the script.

  “Guess that means you, big boy.” Zed licked his lips at the prospect of what was to come.

  I tried to scream but the damn ball gag in my mouth prevented me.

  “You wanna do it in here?”

  “No, drag big boy to Russell’s old room.”

  Ok, I was officially no longer a part of this sadistic movie. I demand my pink slip. Besides, who the fuck was Russell? I pleaded to Tag with my eyes, he simply looked away to avoid catching them. The bastard – This was supposed to be him, not me.

  “Sounds good to me.” Zed handed the gimp chain to Maynard who strung it over a beam. Then he tilted my chair backwards and dragged me through the door to my rear. The vibrations from the floor ran up through my body. Maynard entered the room behind us and slammed the door.

  “Cut!” The voice screamed through the door. Spielberg would have to reposition the cameras to get multiple views, including extreme close-ups of my impending sodomization by a zombie.

  I had been a bastard pretty much my entire life. Even when the world went crazy and everything changed, I had still been a bastard. But I didn’t deserve this.

  Tag had offered me the hand of friendship and I turned it down. Then Grant and Tag had wanted to escape with me and I threw it back in their faces. Was this some sort of divine payback?

  I sat, tied to my chair in the center of this new room in the dungeon. The chairs were pretty feeble. Although I couldn’t move my hands due to the strength of the knot, I definitely did feel the chair could break apart with only a mediocre effort.

  I had been a coward my entire life – I’d finally admitted that to myself. But if there was ever going to be a time I should fight back, then this was it. Did I possess the balls to do so? I knew for sure that if I raised my hands in anger at these freaks, it would be the last move I ever made. I had only to remember Hogan’s fate to realize that fact.

  The door opened and Spielberg entered in front of the camera and sound crew. The room wasn’t that large and with all these salivating z’s crowding the place, there’d be no hope of escape.

  The lights shone on me and I felt the increase in heat immediately. Cameras moved into position and Spielberg sat in his chair next to the makeup zombie.

  Well Dad, I guess I really did turn out to be one heck of a disappointment. It wasn’t just me and my family name these z’s would be humiliating, it was the entire human race. I pictured all the brain dead z’s sitting around their TV screens that they’d be told they invented. They’d watch this movie and realize our extinction was a good thing. We capitulated far too easily, we put up no fight and, let’s be honest, we were weak. If we humans had stood together and helped each other out in the struggle then it would probably never have come to this, we could have defeated them. Instead, I hid like a coward in a restaurant storeroom, thinking only of myself. I should have fought for my people when I had the chance. All those who did fight went down knowing they were good, honorable men and women. They did not die as a pathetic loser whose demise would be seen by millions. I wondered how many more cowards had chosen to hide in holes in the ground instead of doing the right thing for humankind.

  If I could take anything back, I’d never have left home. I’d have taken an honest job like my father wanted. I would never have chased fame and fortune simply because I thought I was too good for a normal existence.

  Over the last few days I’d drunk my own urine, eaten human brains, watched my hero being mauled to death and trapped my Johnson in my zipper. I drew the line at being bummed by a zombie.

  Damn it – I would not go down without a fight!

  If I was finally to get my big break as a movie star then I wanted those who saw it to know that some humans went down fighting right until the very end, even when everything was lost.

  “Action!” Spielberg shouted, red drool spilling down his chin.

  Zed and Maynard untied my hands.

  Yes!

  They needed to throw me over the table in the corner. I was free!

  It was now or never.

  I lunged at Zed, smashing my elbow into his face. I think it hurt me more than him. But I’d given myself some space.

  I glimpsed Spielberg, the bastard as he flicked through his papers. “No this is not in your dumb script.” I glared at the camera and shouted defiantly.

  Maynard tried to grab me but I sidestepped. My biggest worry now was Borgnine who stood behind the cameras and was beginning to stir. I had to make my move now.

  I thought about Tag. I should have let bygones be bygones. Together the two of us could have done some real damage to these fuckers. Now, he’d be likely to get my part in this movie. Lucky him. I guess he’ll have to make up his own mind as to what’s more important; fame or self-respect.

  I grabbed the chair from the floor. Despite it being brittle, it still felt weighty in my hands.

  I lunged for Spielberg and smashed it across his face. I felt the distinct crack of teeth and bone; Babe Ruth could not have struck him better. He fell off his chair and didn’t move.

  They looked at me, licking their lips.

  Then they moved in.

  This would be painful but the pain would last only a few seconds.

  But I would die with an etern
ity of pride.

  Bonus

  Not Dead Yet (Book 1): The First 6 Chapters

  London 1860

  The table creaked as Lady Fitzgibbon dug her nails into my back.

  She’d pulled me down too hard and my bare legs and buttocks see-sawed back with her, leaving my feet with nothing on which to gain a purchase.

  “Let’s have it, Strappy.” She dug in harder while all I could do was flap about in frustration.

  Yes, Jack Strapper was my real name and a curse as much as an asset. Sure, it opened doors to the bedrooms and boudoirs of society’s ladies but once there it was always expected I could perform, which usually I could without problem. But on this occasion, in my blind lust for the tart, I’d stupidly chosen the dinner table in a freezing cold upstairs dining room. Aye, there was much a name could do for you, if you had the right one.

  I managed to clamber further aboard, the tablecloth aiding my glide as I lamented the distance to my riding crop, strewn haphazardly atop my breeches upon the floor.

  But it wasn’t just my name, full of connotation, that opened doors and provided access to what my peers could only dream.

  No - More than anything, it was my reputation.

  Reputations can build or destroy not only people but entire civilisations. And once a reputation is earned, one must do all he can to maintain and cultivate it. Without reputation, a man is nothing.

  The only problem was my reputation was one big fraud.

  My reputation was built on lies, manipulation, cowardice, staggering coincidences and most of all, a seemingly never-ending run of incredible good luck.

  But as long as the likes of Lady Fitzgibbon and the rest of England knew no better, well then, who could blame me for milking it like a Jersey cow with an extra teat?