by Mark Tufo
I was at a loss, Yorley was a dead end, and I had no fresh leads on getting some food. Manny was quiet for the moment, but he was a petulant child who would rear his head sooner rather than later. I just kind of stood there in a vapor lock. For so long, I’d been hunting or plotting revenge, and now I basically had nothing. I still wanted to kill the woman who had originally shot me and left me for dead and definitely Yorley, but I had nothing to go on. Wasn’t like I could get on the internet and do a search. Search … that word started to roll around my brain. At first, it was the size of a pea, but as it began to roll quicker it grew in size until soon it was the size of a small boulder smashing around inside my head. Search, yes, one of those. A phone book would work, although of course there was going to be ten thousand Garcias in the San Francisco area. I had to hope that Yorley, first off, had a listed number, and second, that she had a landline in a terrain that was getting more and more dominated by a cell type of life, and third, that the phone was in her name. Bitch like that, though, she wouldn’t let a man use his name, most likely she was the bull, so that shouldn’t be a problem.
It took a lot longer to find a damn phone book than I expected. I’d walked the streets looking for a booth for a couple of hours and when I figured that wasn’t going to yield any results, I finally got the brilliant idea to go into a hotel. The concierge had to have one. How the fuck else would they know what numbers to call for escort services? What a strange world we lived in. Prostitutes were illegal, but as long as you put yourself in the yellow pages and labeled yourself as a “professional dater,” everything was kosher. My heartbeat quickened as I grabbed that monstrously antiquated, wasteful book of phone numbers. There were way more chances of this being a dead end than a gold-filled pot at the finish line. But there was a part of me that saw this as preordained. Yorley and I were somehow intertwined; one of us was going to die and one of us was going to be triumphant. That we would meet again was already in the cards. The dice had been thrown, the die cast, and all that other supernatural shit. Besides, I needed to rip her ovaries out through her neck. So there was that.
Five hundred fast-breeding Garcias were in the book. Good thing the fucking z-poc happened when it had, probably be ten thousand of them by now. Of those five hundred, fourteen had a first name that started with a Y. I didn’t give a shit about Yadira, Yago, Yoel or the wittily named Yazmin. That left ten Y Garcias. That was doable; that was extremely doable. Plus, it gave me something to do. Two were close enough I could walk there in the next hour or so. The day was looking bright. I was just about fucking skipping when I heard the sound of an engine. Manny pulled his head up. He’d been checking on our wounds, making sure everything was still working the way it was supposed to. Scarlett was in the corner, I think making “brrpp” sounds with her finger running up and down on her lips. I’d deal with her eventually. I was stuck in a sort of no man’s land. There was a vacant lot to my right I could hide in, or I could run across the street, nothing was obviously open, though, and I could find myself pulling on a locked door when they rolled up. Plus, they were driving, so they were potentially food and I didn’t necessarily want them to pass on by. I had to play this like I was scared though. A woman alone on the street was suspicious in its own right.
I went into the overgrown vacant lot, ducking down low. I was thinking about a way in which to “reveal” myself that wouldn’t look overly obvious when the vehicle stopped directly across from me. The occupants nicely released me from that responsibility.
“I can see you,” he called out. “I have infrared; just stand up slowly with your hands where I can see them.”
“Fuck.” I had no doubt they were talking about me and not some other unfortunate person who had been spotted. I’d not been expecting to see what I did as I slowly got up. It was an older car, a Hearst, fifties maybe, with large fins riding down the side. Instead of the traditional black, it was painted in a dark metallic green. A large purple circular painting or a sticker was affixed to the passenger door, two crossed swords overlaying a shield and a globe, with some Latin words.
“We’re not here to hurt you. We’re here to help!” The man waved, putting down his infrared device and casually picking up his rifle. “My name is Heath, and I’m a part of Monster Squad!”
I felt like I was getting punked, even looked around for the hidden cameras. The man got out of the car, looked to be somewhere in his late thirties. Fit and not of the thin wiry type of someone on the edge of survival but someone with access to food and equipment. Salt and pepper hair was cut clean and close to his scalp. He stank of military, except for the heavy beard—that part didn’t fit in, unless he was special ops. He still had the fucking rifle up, then I realized I as of yet hadn’t said anything.
“Scarlett, my name is Scarlett,” I gulped.
“Well, Scarlett, I’m Heath Stallcup, and it’s a pleasure to meet you. My partner over there is Sam Wells.” The other man was scanning the area, looking for threats. He turned and nodded to me when Heath mentioned his name. “It’s safe. I promise you can come with us.” He lowered his weapon and beckoned me to come forward. “This is your lucky day, darling.” Heath was smiling.
“It certainly is,” I said softly as I approached.
“We have a facility we can take you to. You’ll be safe there.”
“I would like that.”
“We just have to complete this mission, and we’ll head back there.”
Sam never turned around or looked in the rearview mirror once I was in the car. He was all business, looking around for danger. Heath, on the other hand, became a chatty Kathy, began telling me who the Monster Squad was and what they were all about. I heard his words, but all I could think about was meat, and why was it still yammering. If I listened to Manny, you would think we hadn’t eaten in days and that our stomach was in danger of sucking itself into its own self. Scarlett herself was really hoping that the monster hunter up front would be able to help her. That was a laugh because he was dead; he just didn’t have the good graces to realize it yet. Within five minutes, Sam had stopped the car. We were in front of DB Coopers Toy and Game Emporium.
“You see anything?” Heath asked Sam. Sam shook his head.
“You stay inside here. Scarlett, we’ll be right back.”
“I’d rather not,” I told him honestly, getting out.
“If you come, no weapons; we’ll protect you.”
That I wasn’t expecting. I would have to find another way to deal with them. I nodded.
“Okay, you stay close to us then,” Heath said.
“Of course. I certainly wouldn’t want you to get away.”
Sam turned and was looking at me funny.
“From me, I wouldn’t want you to get away from me.” I think that appeased him. Didn’t matter much; I was going to end this soon. Sure, they seemed to have a haven for wayward souls, but it would be heavily guarded by military personnel and the chances that I could rampage through their ranks without getting caught and shot were marginal at best. I would eat these two and then continue on my quest. Monsters around the world would owe me one.
“Okay, just stay quiet and stay behind us,” Heath urged.
The front of the store had seen better days. Glass was blown inward and outward. A serious battle had been waged here. My guess was that the newest gaming system had come out and there were limited supplies. The fight had started outside and had been dragged in when the doors opened in the morning. Couchy and his friend Tater had shot up Geekster and Nerd Man pretty good in their quest for a Fun Station or a Z Crate 420. The first few feet inside of the store were layered in blood, literally. Like someone had filled up containers of the crap and threw it at the walls and let it pool on the ground. The sheer amount of people that must have died here was impressive. No intact bodies was all the information I needed to know that zombies had won the day here.
Sam was in a typical strategic pose, slightly bent at the knees and back, rifle up. Where his head moved, so
did the rifle. He was very careful and deliberate when he laid his feet down to not make any noise. Heath was doing the same, his tactical boots silent as he moved. We were clear of the blood zone, toys lined the shelves. I knew there were zombies here, but they did not yet know we were. That was about to change real quick. I had to convince a reluctant Manny that we were going to need to share this meal. These two were too dangerous, and the chances I could take out both weren’t great even with the element of surprise. Manny sent a short screeching burst of the zombie speak out. Immediately, Sam’s hand went up in the universal “halt” gesture. Had he heard it?
“Zombies,” he whispered without turning around.
Yes, there were zombies, just not enough. Five to be exact; that was how many had responded to Manny anyway. These two could dispatch of them easily enough, and we’d be back at square one.
“Think Scarl—I mean Tim.” I breezed past my mistake as an idea popped into my head. I let Manny know the sequence of events, and he let his friends know. Scarlett hid deeper from that ear-splitting, mind-numbing communication. I got closer to the shelf and threw my elbow out there, knocking over a bunch of dolls and glitter. The resultant clatter was extremely loud in the quiet cocoon Sam and Heath were trying to construct. I smiled as Sam turned to see the source of the noise. There was a look of disgust when he realized what I’d done, then a quick moment of realization that I’d set him up when he saw my predatory grin then heard heavy footfalls coming down the aisle at him. He might have been able to stop them, but not the two that had launched themselves over the shelving to his immediate left.
I’d bent over, and as I stood, I grabbed a handful of the “pixie dust” in my left hand, and in my right, the elf-like doll that must have gone with it. Sam got hit from the side, knocking him to the far side of the aisle. Heath was shooting at the two zombies coming down the aisle. One had part of his head blown out. I waited until he killed the second before I screamed out.
“Help me!” Could have got a fucking Emmy for how desperate I sounded. Well, the female voice was good for something besides saying dinner was ready, I suppose. As Heath turned, I tossed a fistful of the eye-aggravating, metal-shaving-like pixie dust, aka glitter, straight into his eyes and mouth. He was blind, and even more so when I jammed the fairy doll feet first into his right closed eyelid. I’d not realized just how hard I’d hit him, at least until I had dislodged his eyeball. He let his weapon drop down, the tactical sling holding it in place by his chest. His hands reached up to wrap around the body of the doll. I wasn’t thinking, I was just acting, and I couldn’t help myself. I reached down and grabbed that optic nerve dangling orb and popped it into my mouth like a gumball. I wrapped my tongue around the flavorful globe before crunching my canines down. A thick jet of jelly like fluid dispersed within my mouth. This was punctuated by Heath’s screams.
Sam had taken bites to the face and neck and lost three of his fingers down the throat of one of the zombies, yet he fought on. He might have actually succeeded in winning if I hadn’t grabbed the knife from Heath’s sheath and plunged it into Sam’s belly. Whatever fight he had in him flew out the hole in his gut when I withdrew the blade.
“Why?” he asked as he slumped to the ground, two ravenous, rabid, feeding frenzied zombies on top of him. They were shaking their heads back and forth as they bit deeply and tore chunks of him away like lions on the savannah.
“Why? Because I’m a monster of course!” I laughed. Heath was trying desperately to rub out the small bit of dust from his one good eye. I’ll give him that, he was a trooper. Had a doll shoved halfway into his skull, and he was trying to fight on. I grabbed his rifle before he could attempt to. I was rewarded with a right cross to the side of my head. With the palm of my hand, I smacked the head of the doll. The feet had to be scraping his frontal lobe. I was giving him a lobotomy by pixie. Heath got rigid, looked like he was at the position of attention. I hit the release on his sling and pulled the rifle free just as a lone zombie came to claim a prize he thought was his. I gave him 5.56 reasons why it wasn’t. The two zombies taking care of Sam looked up momentarily and then went back about their business.
“Can you still hear me, Heath?” I asked as I placed his rifle on the shelf. His blood-streaked good eye tracked it, but very slowly as if he were on a deliberate delay. He looked over to me. Confusion arched his eyebrow then anger forced it down. He’d known what I’d done. Good, that made this better.
“I’m betting getting skull-fucked by a fairy wasn’t on your to do list today. Did you know that fairies were once considered to be a part of the undead? I think it was the Celtics that thought that. Generally, the little beasts were full of menace and malice. Well, you know the old axiom, ‘Live by the monster, die by the monster.’” His eyes pleaded as I moved my hand up and grabbed the body of the doll, twisting it slightly from side to side while also putting some pressure on it. Water and blood leaked from his good eye. Nothing moved except that eye and occasionally his hands, which seemed riveted to his sides, clenching and unclenching. Oh yeah, those two things, then his bowels loosened, so technically three. But who’s counting? I didn’t know why I wanted to inflict so much pain on him; maybe it was because I was indeed a monster and his reason for existence was to purge the world of me and things like me. I took that as a personal affront. As well I should, I suppose. Anyone that wanted to kill me needed to die. If he was to be my example to the rest of these soldiers, then so be it.
I was thinking some poetic justice might be to just leave him there like that. Warn other zombies away from him and leave him untouched—well, further untouched, I suppose. A warning to others who so dared to attempt to rid the night of our darkness. Yeah, that changed quickly when I ran the idea past Manny. I pushed harder on the doll, knocking Heath over, his skull whacking the hard, tiled ground with a sickening cracking sound. We’d broken the brain shell. Like a runny yoke, his brain matter began to leak out. This was all the impetus Manny needed to start eating. He started lapping up the fluid like a thirsty dog.
“All this good meat, and you’re licking floor food. What the hell is the matter with you?”
I let Manny do his thing. Heath’s eye struggled to watch us. He held on to the light of life a lot longer than I’d expected. I’d thought about coating him in a heavy glossing of ass juice when we were done, but I’d made my point. I coaxed Manny to the employee bathroom and well, you know, took care of business. I’m not sure why I feel the need to explain this every time I do it. I think it’s because it’s such an epic event. As a 6’5” beast of a man, I’d taken some thick, burrito-sized shits in my time. More than once, I’d had to hotfoot it out of my current lay’s apartment because I’d choked that toilet up to the point where it would probably be easier to just replace it than to ever try and get my brick down through. And not once did anything I’d ever done, if I added a week’s worth, compare to what blew through my colon every time I ate a person. I don’t know if human meat just created explosive diarrhea or, more likely, it was just the vast volume of food eaten.
Sure, Manny runs fast and hot and when he sustains damage; he needs LOTS of calories to fix himself but not five hundred pounds’ worth. I don’t know how it is for women, probably a lot closer than you’re willing to admit, but as a man, shitting is fantastic. It’s a way to crap out all the shit you have to swallow throughout your day, like the person that sits in the cube next to you that smacks their lips with every chew of their bubblegum, the old woman from Sweden or some stupid place that microwaves fish heads every day for lunch. Your pinhead boss who tells you that you’re underperforming, on his way out for a golf date. The douchebag that cut you off this morning, the guy behind you at the coffee shop who can’t believe you had the audacity to get in line before him. Each and every one of them, you want to snap their necks, but instead you swallow a little shit—it beats going to jail. And then that night, well, you drop off all the kids in the pool, so to speak. It’s not just a cleansing of your colon but one of
your psyche as well. It’s one of life’s little pleasures, a break from the day, stress relief, throne sitting. It all applies, and when you do it better than anyone? Well, then it’s just that much more fulfilling. So even when Manny was done purging the system, I stayed there just a little while longer reveling in the feeling and contemplating how good it was going to feel when it was Yorley I was washing down the drain.
I stood, sighed, and spoke, “I’m coming for you Yorley.”
Scarlett took that moment to reawaken from whatever she’d been up to. “Oh, God no!”
Chapter 7
The first two houses were a bust. There hadn’t been so much as a fat baby to curb my appetite. The third house held promise. The windows were boarded up, and I could see candlelight leaking out through haphazardly pulled curtains. I thought about just striding up and knocking. Although, on second thought, that might not be the best course of action. Yorley had seen Scarlett change over and actually chase me. The first thing she’d do if she saw her friend was put a bullet in her head and then apologize if needs dictated. Stealth was going to be the better part of caution on this one. I crossed the street and hid in the shadows of some large bushes. I kept a vigilant watch for a couple of hours, and when nothing happened, I relaxed and sat back against the house to my rear.
My patience was wearing thin. Well, that’s a lie because I barely have any, so it’s already at a pretty shaved down level. Let’s just say I was getting to the point of kicking in the front door and letting the chips fall where they may. I had Heath’s rifle, I could fuck some shit up in a hurry.