DOA III

by Bentley Little

  “Best to mind your footing. I got traps everywhere. One misstep and you’ll be hating life. Those doomsday preppers were right the whole time: Hellageddon has arrived,” Stan said, shifting into park. “Follow my steps and don’t be prancing anywhere on your own. I don’t want to have to pick you up in pieces.”

  We waited for him to come around to our side of the jeep. We traced his every movement and stopped the instant he did.

  “Shit, wrong way. Ha, that could’ve been messy,” Stan said, changing directions.

  We walked up to a large barn door. There was some high-tech shit happening, but I didn’t understand any of it. He placed his whole palm on a screen and the damn door just opened like in the movies.

  “Now, some of this stuff is pretty unreliable, but most will get the job done,” Stan said.

  The lights automatically turned on as we walked inside, kind of like those freezer lights at Walmart. Rows of tables held every single known weapon from the WWII era; a flea market of antique firepower.

  “Over here, you got your handguns: Berettas and Colts. On that table, we got the more automatic ones. I’m still missing a few, but if rapid fire is your specialty, you can’t go wrong with the Thompson or the M2 Carbine. I’ve done my best to restore them, but the aging process is a bitch sometimes. Always carry a backup in case they jam on ya. Of course, if one jams up, it will most likely blow your face off. Best to check first. For a more intimate kill, I got a few Garands. Over here, we got the big boys. The M2 Flamethrower ain’t gonna do shit against these fire bastards, but the M7 Grenade Launcher will cause some skid marks if needed. All the rifles have been customized for the bayonet attachment. You’d be foolish not to grab one of those as well. You both up to date with your tetanus shots? If not, I’d leave the rusty ones alone.”

  “How many we talking?” I said, checking the scope alignment of a Carbine.

  “Depends.”

  “On what?”

  “How pissed off the Devil is. If his molten panties are in a twist, he could send everything he’s got. It could be a few or the earth could decide to open up, coating us with a whole batch of evil diarrhea. If that happens, we might as well spend our last few minutes in a circle jerk so we can at least leave this world satisfied,” Stan said.

  “On the bright side, the Devil is probably the last person we haven’t pissed off yet,” Denton said.

  “There are trenches all around. Use those for starters, but don’t go beyond them. I’ve lost count on the traps I’ve set over the years. Some are duds no doubt, but the live ones will gut you good. I felt real bad for the pizza delivery guy last year. Poor bastard triggered a mine I forgot about. Blew his right leg clean off, tossing it into a tree. If you squint, you can see the femur bone.” Stan pointed upward.

  “Did he live?” Denton said.

  “For a bit. I tried my best to seal the wound, but once the pack of wolves caught wind, he didn’t have a chance. Dragged him right off into the night. The pizza was good, though,” Stan said, a wistful look in his eyes. “Listen, we hit them with mortars first, rifles next, then autos.”

  “Then what?” Denton asked.

  “Hopefully it doesn’t go beyond that. If it does—hand to hoof combat.”

  “How do they get up here?” I said, holstering a Beretta.

  “I’m betting there’s a death pit somewhere in the northern woods. I’ve been scouting a few times but have yet to find it. If I ever do, I figure I’ll give it a go trying to implode it; seal it off for good.”

  The howling intensified as the wind shook the barn door.

  “We best be getting ready. Grab what you want and head to the trenches. I’ll fire up the tank,” Stan said.

  “Tank?” I replied. Even asking the question sounded odd.

  “Like I said, I’m a collector. Also, we’re going to need these to communicate.” Stan handed me a large metal case. “There’s some static, but these field walkie-talkies will work just fine.”

  “This old man’s crazy,” Denton said, putting on a helmet with the word Ace scratched into the front.

  “We survive the night and I promise we’ll never fish here again,” I said, spit shining a frag grenade.

  When the barn door opened, I swear I was looking at the largest bonfire ever created. The horizon of trees was ablaze, splitting the darkness. Even the full moon had a red glow to it. We jumped into the nearest trench where a mortar was already set up with about five rounds. After turning on the walkie-talkie, I rotated the dial until I heard a voice.

  “This is the Iron Maiden, can you read me, over!”

  “Yes, yes, we hear you, over!” I replied.

  “Get those mortars ready, soldiers.”

  “Give me one of those,” I said, pointing to the shells.

  Denton quickly grabbed one and fumbled it just like he did on the high school football team. Everything slowed to a creeping pace as the mortar fell, clanking against a pile of grenades. I squinted in preparation of being blown to bits, but nothing happened. Instead of asking for another, I got it myself.

  “I’ve seen this on TV. You just slide it in and cover your ears,” Denton explained.

  I dropped it in and sure enough the damn thing fired, but it almost went straight up. We scattered from the trench like roaches in the light. The explosion created a new trench near ours.

  “I forgot: make sure to adjust the angle before firing the mortars!”

  As the howls got closer, I was able to shift the hot base of the mortar. The old thing could’ve used a little WD-40, but there was no time for that. Looking through a cracked pair of binoculars, Denton was playing the part of soldier.

  “We got two brigades of hogs approaching from the north. A combat unit heading east... possibly flanking us, over!” he explained.

  “Roger that soldier, you should have eyes on me soon!”

  The tank came barreling around the barn. The grinding of the tread caused all kinds of chaos chewing up the dirt. As it rolled forward, it produced a sound of shifting rust and decay. The tank came to a stop a few feet away as the barrel shifted upward.

  “Cover your ears boys, she’s about to moan in ecstasy.”

  We buried our heads so deep within the trench and stayed there waiting for the blast.

  “Come on baby, you know you want to. Don’t stop now. Is it stuck? I don’t want to put another one inside. I don’t think you can handle two. You want me to jiggle it? Here, I’ll use more oil. Ah, I think I’m getting it. I can feel friction now.”

  When she let loose, the earth shook and damn near buried us alive. I could barely hear anything as the sky illuminated with bits of red glowing hog pieces. Stan popped the hatch and came out smoking his cigar.

  “Best lay in town, boys,” he stated, straddling and stroking the long barrel.

  His attitude quickly changed as he manned the Gatling gun attached to the top of the tank.

  “Bogies at 12 o’clock!”

  Peering over the edge of the trench, I about shit myself. A mass of fiery hogs was galloping our way. I had no time to think; I grabbed the Carbine and started shooting. The grenades Denton was throwing were doing some good damage. Bits of flaming hog flesh were soaring through the air like fireworks. On the plus side, the chunks provided light, but when they landed, small new fires ignited.

  “Would you boys like some lemonade?” a female voice said.

  The sight of a frail old lady holding a tray of glasses confused the shit out of me. Between the bullets and angry hell hogs pouncing around, she was either deaf or blind or just plain stupid.

  “Stan didn’t tell me he was having visitors,” she said in the calmest of tones as a severed hog head on fire barely missed hitting her shoulder. “The lemons are nice and plump this time of year.”

  I obliterated a hell hog that was about to attack her as she lowered the tray. I could barely hear her with the amount of firepower Stan was laying down.

  “Don’t be shy, boys. There’s plenty to go aroun
d.”

  I didn’t want to be rude, so I reached for a glass.

  “Thank you, ma’am,” I replied, splitting the skull of a hog with a bullet.

  “I have a batch of cookies. They’re about to come out of the ov—” A chunk of flesh slammed against the tray causing the pitcher to fall. “Oh my, that was certainly rude,” she said, wiping excess lemonade from her face.

  The Carbine seized up, so I opted for the Thompson. It felt real good in my hands, but the discharges were a bitch. Due to the closeness, the shells kept hitting Denton in the head. Stan jumped into the trench with Betsy on his shoulder.

  “Well done, soldiers! We’ve definitely provided some hurt to the enemy. When life gives you a sack, you go balls deep,” he announced, readjusting Betsy on his shoulder.

  Without warning, he fired her. The explosion ripped through a small horde as well as toppling some trees. As the frontline of the beasts kept coming, several of them were disappearing beneath the ground.

  “Sure glad I fired those up,” Stan said.

  The crazy old man had buried tree chippers. The hogs were falling into the grinders, but that’s where the coolness ended. The output shoots stuck out of the ground like a chimney and were pointed in our direction. A wave of molten hog innards drenched us with a warm, thickened sludge. I saw the red rain approaching and ducked, but Denton wasn’t that lucky. He got pimp slapped across the face with a hefty portion of the Devil’s stew. The aroma of bacon filtered through the trench.

  “Fuck me,” he said, trying to spit out the excess.

  “They’re coming hard, soldiers. Switching to semi,” Stan announced.

  We pounded the shit out of another approaching horde. I was in the zone until I heard the sound of a guzzling chainsaw. To our left, the old lady had returned and was carving up a hog. Her frail arms quivering as the blades grinded through the skull. With the hog dead, she planted her pink slipper on the snout and pushed the carcass, dislodging the weapon.

  “Ma, I told you to stay inside!” Stan yelled.

  “I fight on the side of Jesus,” she calmly said. Revving the chainsaw and wearing a blood-coated flowered apron, I was pretty sure she cared less about the blood splattering her face.

  “Stan didn’t tell me he was having visitors,” she repeated herself while Stan helped her down into the trench. She kept sporadically firing up the chainsaw while waving it around. Denton and I were nervous as we had to duck on several occasions.

  “Easy, Ma. With your arthritis, don’t hold on the gas while idling,” Stan said, trying to control the swaying weapon.

  The horde kept advancing, leaping over the chippers as they became clogged with bone and meat. We riddled the front line with a swarm of bullets until I heard the most chaotic scream. Denton was yelling like a fat man being cut off at a buffet bar. Sparks from the chainsaw carving into the back of his helmet illuminated the trench.

  “Ma! He’s on our side,” Stan said, pulling back her arms.

  “Did I get one?” she said, adjusting her blood splattered spectacles.

  “When’s the last time you had your eyes checked?” Stan asked. “What’s that? I already watered the tomatoes on the deck,” he replied with a smile. Her white hair was saturated red.

  “Sorry about that, soldier. Her depth perception is not what it used to be.” Stan smiled, patting a stunned Denton on the helmet.

  “Time to call in some support, boys. It’s go time for the napalm. I know it’s not from the same era, but I’m trying to expand the collection.” Stan pulled out a small remote control device.

  “I thought you said fire won’t do shit,” I said.

  “Exactly, that’s why I customized the napalm to be frost instead. Pressurized dry ice is the weaponry of the future, boys. You are about to witness greatness in modern warfare. Here, put these on.” He handed us goggles before putting a pair on Ma.

  After he pushed a button, two launchers extended from the roof of the barn.

  “There’s a chance this could work. Worst case scenario, we turn into popsicles and die a painful death while waiting for our lungs to freeze,” Stan said, rotating the knob for alignment.

  The whistling of two flying bombs was mesmerizing. I didn’t even care they were coming from behind us, soaring over our heads. The metal casings glistened against the backdrop of the moon and starry night sky. I blinked when the explosion occurred. Twisting my head slightly and wiping the frost from the goggles, I looked to Denton. His long scraggly hair was blown backward and frozen. Excess dip drool was encased in ice on his cheeks.

  “T-t-t-target nullified,” Stan said with a shuddering voice.

  “Is it winter already? I need to cover the plants,” Ma said with frosty lips.

  Apparently my mouth had been open because everything in it was frozen. I couldn’t even close my jaw. My bones ached as I tried to follow Stan out of the trench.

  “Switching to secondary,” he announced.

  Exiting the trench, we entered a wasteland of ice. It was snowing during August in the South. If it weren’t for all the hogs in blocks of ice, it was actually peaceful; a winter wonderland with demented yard decorations. A bullet from Stan’s Colt shattered one of the ice blocks, obliterating a hog in the process.

  “We gotta hurry before they thaw,” Stan explained, speeding up his rounds.

  Denton and I wasted no time chipping away at the horde. Ma fired up the chainsaw and carved through the ice with ease. All of us stood over the last one with three barrels pointing at the head. That’s when we heard it: a lone howl stretching through the smoldering trees.

  “A scout,” Stan said. “Sounds like it,” I said.

  “Another horde behind it,” Denton added.

  “What are you boys doing tomorrow?” Stan said with a grin, lighting up a cigar.

  “Stan didn’t tell me he was having visitors,” Ma repeated herself again. “Would you boys like some lemonade?”

  K. Trap Jones is an author of horror novels and a ton of short stories appearing in numerous anthologies. Specializing in narrative splatterpunk horror, he draws inspiration from Dante Alighieri and Edgar Allan Poe along with his appreciation towards narrative folklore, classic literary works and obscure segments within society. His novel The Sinner won the 2010 Royal Palm Literary Award. As a product of the ’80s, he likes his movies bloody and his music heavy. He can be found lurking around Tampa, Florida. His novels include The Big Bad, The Charm Hunter, The Drunken Exorcist, The Harvester, The Sinner, The King’s Ox and One Bad Fur Day.

  L’AMUSE BOUCHE by Hal Bodner

  HAL BODNER

  Each time Joel caught a glimpse of himself in the mirror behind the bar, he was freshly astounded that any guy could resist him. His Hotness Factor, while not quite a Ten, was a solid Nine- Point-Five that strained upwards. At thirty-three, he figured he had a few more years before it would begin dropping. Barring a disfiguring accident or a freakish quirk of his metabolism or genetics, he doubted that he’d ever fall below Eight-and-a-Half, at least not before it was time for him to start collecting social security. He was living proof of the old adage that circulated in the Gay community that there’s no such thing as an unattractive bartender. Consequently, he had his choice of men. Yet, almost inevitably, no matter how good looking his conquest, Joel was surfeited by a single night of carnal pleasure—or an afternoon, or a morning for that matter. He was strictly a “Wham! Bam! Thank-you Man!” kind of guy. On rare occasions, and only if the man was both exceptionally skilled and unspeakably handsome, his desire might not fade until after the second date. Even then, he’d never wanted a chance at the trifecta.

  Joel’s admirers were legion. Any weekend saw his serving station jammed by a dozen young men clamoring for him to pay attention to things that had nothing to do with Joel mixing their drinks. Any of his erstwhile suitors could have easily appeared in an international advertising campaign for men’s cologne or designer briefs, stripped almost nude with genitalia artfully hidden from the came
ra by a strategically positioned limb or angle of the body, exquisite torso glistening with a sheen of oil to highlight a physique that was already close to godlike perfection.

  Though he had his pick of the crème de la crème, Joel sometimes indulged moderately sadistic impulses and condescended to have sex with less desirable guys, mere Seven-Pluses or Eights. He got a kick out of the expectations he raised with those one-night stands. He thrilled at the trick’s crestfallen expression of misery and rejection when he later pretended to have no memory of the interlude or when he pretended to be confused at how anyone could have possibly interpreted his whispered words of undying love as anything other than casual pillow talk.

  “It’s not you,” he would say, while gazing into the man’s eyes and holding tightly to his hand with feigned regret, “it’s me. I’m just not wired that way. If I could commit to anyone, it would be you. You know that, don’t you?” How he loved twisting the proverbial knife, especially when he came across as so sincere and innocent that no one could possibly accuse him of deliberate cruelty.

  Joel never rebuffed anyone overtly, never mocked him nor risked subjecting him to public ridicule; he earned his living with tips after all. At worst, he would assume a friendly and polite but detached attitude when mixing their cocktails. He acted as if the night they’d spent together was so meaningless to him that he barely remembered it. The resulting self doubt as his target wondered what they could have possibly done differently to make a better impression was as delicious to Joel as sipping a fine liqueur.

  Perhaps that was why, when he met the rare young man who seemed uninterested in him, or who could rebuff and ignore the subtle overtures of interest that so many other men craved, a blinding curtain of raw and scarlet fury descended. With a charming smile, a devil-may-care insouciance, and a generous dollop of panache, he always masked his anger. Inside, he seethed at the insult and he always, always avenged it.