Extreme Zombies, page 22
“Go,” he said disgustedly.
We fled—not out of fright, but out of respect. We walked slowly to the pipe, our eyes fastened on the old man’s robes. The farther we moved away from him, the more our wonder turned to dread. Finally, we panicked. As I’m bigger, I managed to push in front and began scrambling with maddened intensity down the narrow confines of the aqueduct.
I should’ve been too tired to move, let alone pull myself by my fingertips over miles of jagged stone, but I moved with a speed bordering on the supernatural. Our flight must have lasted many hours, but I can barely remember it. Once I must have slept, as Collins woke me with a pinch to the ankle. Sometime later I shit myself, the rancid smell an unwelcome reminder of the thing in the tunnel.
Finally, after losing three fingernails and a boot, I found the rock giving way to clay, and knew we’d made it. The tunnel grew wider, opening into a cave that the aqueduct passed through. The incline leveled off as the night sky came into view up ahead, revealed to us through gaps in the vines that dangled over the cave mouth. Grabbing Collins by the arm, I started to run forward, laughing as I approached freedom. If only I’d thought to use Collins’ Zippo, we might have made it.
I didn’t even feel the first few strikes, and had collapsed to my knees before I understood what had happened. Collins stepped back screaming, and went down hard.
The moonlight barely reached us in the back of the cave, but I could see well enough to know
I was fucked. Cobras, dozens of ’em, rearing at me out of the darkness, long fangs sinking in and ripping out, over and over and over.
It didn’t sting so much as burn, my whole body incinerating from the inside. I felt the snakes writhing underneath me, the fire growing and growing, and they didn’t stop. They were all over me, fat coils of scales rubbing, hoods flaring, and the noise—the shick, shick, shick of snake sliding on snake—and the screams . . .
After a time, they stopped biting. Every few minutes one would experimentally strike at a twitching limb, but the onslaught had ended. I should die, I thought, any second the fire will cool, and I can rest—sleep—die. But I didn’t. The burning intensified, the sickness so bad I could feel my skin crack and ooze as the venom rotted me alive.
Then I remembered the Colt.
It took me a spell to jam my bloated finger into the trigger guard, and as I raised it, the gun went off. At this the snakes under and on me were striking and thrashing again, but I couldn’t care less. In the cave’s dimness, I could see Collins’ serpent-covered body still convulsing a few feet away, could hear his whimpers, soft but clear. I couldn’t get up, so from where I lay I put five round into Collins’ back, then put the barrel in my own mouth and pulled the trigger.
Thum-thump. Sleep. Thum-thump. Staring at the ceiling, can’t sleep. Light enters the cave, snakes everywhere, slithering over and under and through us, out into the sunshine. Watch the light on the wall through my ruined face, feeling cold metal in my throat, hearing the damn heartbeat sound, louder and louder, and I’m dead. But I’m not. Heartbeat getting louder until I can’t think, all I want is to die but I can’t and it hurts, the fucking thundering heartbeat, and I’m clawing at my chest, digging through purple layers of poisoned meat until I find the bastard and put my fingers through it and tear at it until most of it comes off in my swollen fist and I squeeze until it’s dribbling gore—and I realize it’s not my heart that’s making all the racket. Now I’m moving, ripping at Collins’ breast, and he’s pushing me away, saying, “Get offa me, get offa me.”
I find his heart, the bullet holes making it easy, and I crush the fat, warm thing and I still fucking hear that thum-thump, thum-thump, and Collins’ moans, “Lie down, we’re dead, we’re dead,” and the burning’s only gotten worse, and I watch the light dying away, but the snakes don’t come back, only the stars.
“You still awake, David?” Collins asks. I try to answer, but my jaw’s blown off, so I only gurgle up blood.
“Reister,” Collins whispers after a while, and the starlight glimmers just like the old man’s eyes, and I can see fine, even though I’m dead. The burning’s finally cooling, but the noise is getting worse with every second. It takes some work, some real fucking work, but I conjure up Reister’s face—Reister’s damned, damning face—and I remember. Even though it hurts, I remember.
Moving makes it a little better, even though the thum-thump is even louder out in the grass on the hilltop, but me and Collins are soldiers again, and even with my legs all dripping and soft I run so fast, so damn fast, it’s like I’m swimming through the jungle. I can’t hear anything but the heartbeat, coming from everything, from everywhere, getting louder and louder, and we find their footprints, and it’s so easy, so many footprints. Collins says things, and I want to answer, but I can’t, and “Besides,” he says, “they’ll be able to kill us for sure, definitely, fuckin’ A.”
Then the jungle stops, and the thum-thump, thum-thump is so loud my ears rupture and bleed, and Collins is screaming. Frank, big Frank never liked us much, and Collins is on him—heh, some guard—and Frank is screaming, too, as he drops his gun and falls under Collins.
Soldiers everywhere, flares blinding me all around, but the thum-thump is worse, so terrible it hurts more than any bullet. Then he’s right there, all three hundred pounds of throbbing fat and muscle: Reister. I want to show him, to lead him down through the tunnels to behold sights unseen by living men, so he can know, so he can understand. But watching him trip as he turns to run, shoving one of his terrified men between us, I know he already does: better him than you, after all, eh, Reister? Loyalty? Courage? Honor? Bullshit. Survival. Blood, under their fingernails or yours. Thum-thump. We run together, me and Reister, and then I’m on him, and then he’s wide open, his guts unspooling into my arms in the grass under the stars, and the heartbeat gets a tiny bit softer, and it’s fucking glorious . . .
Jesse Bullington is the author of the gritty, darkly humorous historical fantasies The Sad Tale of the Brothers Grossbart, and The Enterprise of Death, with a third, The Folly of the World, released in 2012. His short fiction and articles have appeared in numerous magazines, anthologies, and websites, and he can be found online at www.jessebullington.com.
A not-so-charming little story told from a zombie’s point of view. Snap. Snap. Snap.
At First Only Darkness
Nancy A. Collins
At first only darkness: utter and complete. No beginning or end. Eternal blackness. Thick as tar. Heavy as lead. Filling eyes, ears, nose, throat. Blotting out all light, all breath, all smell. There is no time in the darkness. No past. No future. There is only the unceasing Now.
Something not-as-black moves, turns to almost-black, then to dark gray. The dark gray becomes several gray shapes. Gray blobs grow lighter. With it comes sound, muted and warped, as if heard underwater. It is something to focus on, something to struggle toward.
The gray turns lighter. Dark shapes move inside it. The sound becomes clearer. The gray sloughs away. The sound pulls harder: it is a voice. No; two voices. One pitched low, the other high. The high-pitched voice is keening.
The gray fog melts away. The weight binding the limbs and muffling the senses disappears. With its departure comes the arrival of light, sound, smell, hunger.
There is no breath, no pulse, no words, no hot, no cold. But there is Hunger. The Hunger is the only sharp thing in a dulled and muted world. The Hunger is all pain, all need, all fear. To be Hungry is to be empty and to be empty is to be in pain, all the time. And the time is always Now.
A thing kneels down. It has a face. Eyes leaking liquid, mouth open as it makes the keening sound. It has a smell. A smell that names it:
Food.
The Hunger burns and twists and scorches and slashes. Saliva spills. There is only one thing that will make the agony of Hunger go away: food. To bite food. To chew food.
Snap. Snap. Snap.
The food screams. Spurt of blood. Gobble down the fingers. Flesh is the only good thing ever.
More. More. More.
Some more food shouts and grabs the bleeding food, drags it away.
Rise. Arms flail, fingers clutch and spasm. Unsteady legs churn. Sheets tangle. Find the food. The scent of fresh blood makes the Hunger hotter, sharper, more painful. The bleeding food is nearby. The smell of it spreads through the air like fog.
Move forward. Go to the blood-smell. Walk out door. Down the hallway. Red mist floats down stairs. Step. Leg muscles groan like timber. Step. Faces of things line the stairs. Look like food but don’t smell like food. Step.
The bleeding food is on the sofa. It is moaning, rocking back and forth. Blood on the floor. Drip. Drip. Drip. The food looks up. Mouth opens. Sound comes out. A scream: Richard. Means something. But what? No matter. All that matters is the Hunger. Eat. Move fast. Hungry.
Snap. Snap. Snap.
Blood. Flesh. Warm. Hot. Salty. Good. Eat. All of it. Teeth gnash. Jaws clench. Eat. The food screams and struggles and bleeds. Flesh tears away like wet paper. Chew. More. Keep chewing.
Something heavy strikes shoulder. Neck too rigid to turn. Turn entire body. The other food is back. Shouting. Monica. Means something. But what?
The other food smells good. The smell brings the Hunger. The Hunger burns and stabs and strangles and hurts. Eat. Bite. Flesh and blood. Snap. Snap. Snap. The other food drops its weapon and runs away. Turn back around. The bleeding food moans but doesn’t move.
Eat fast. Faster; before not food.
Jaws move. Bite. Tear with teeth and hand. Good. More. Crack open bones. Belly full. The Hunger stops. The pain dwindles and fades. Stand and stare. Waiting.
A tiny spark, barely a flicker, struggles against the darkness, then abruptly leaps to life, burning hot and high, throwing light to all corners. Everything cloaked in darkness is revealed in a single searing flash, like pictures taken during a lightning storm.
A mangled female corpse lies sprawled across the sofa. The lips, eyelids, and facial skin have been ripped away. It is unrecognizable, save for the wedding ring—mate to the ring on my hand, which lies attached to the arm lying on the hooked rug at my feet.
The television hisses static in the corner. The ax lies on the floor where my sobbing brother dropped it. The mirror over the fireplace reveals a pale, hollow-eyed ghoul, blood smeared across its face, gobbets of raw flesh stuck between its gnashing teeth, a mangled knob of gristle and gore jutting from its left shoulder. I instinctively recoil in fear at the sight of such a hideous creature in my living room. Then I realize it is the only thing I can see in the mirror.
The pain of the Hunger is nothing compared to the Horror. The howling, shrieking agony that comes from knowing you are not just dead, but truly in Hell. I try to scream, but all that comes out is a low, wheezing moan, like wind rushing down the pipe organ I play at our church.
Oh God! Monica! Jesus, Jesus, Jesus, what have I done? Holy God somebody help me! Help meee!
The darkness returns, for good this time, and snuffs out the flame. The light dies, and the world is once more swallowed by shadow. Better the oblivion of the walking dead than the clarity of damnation.
The bleeding food twitches and begins to rise. It is no longer food. Catch scent of more food. Follow. Leg muscles tight. Hard to walk. Follow smell out of house. Sunlight burns eyes. Shapes up ahead. Many, many shapes. Food? No. The shapes move too slow and smell too bad to be food. The shapes are not-food.
Catch scent of food. Saliva fills mouth. Move toward smell. The not-food follows. Some walk stiff and slow; others move as fast as food.
Hungry. Must get to food. Must get to food first.
The food stands on a shiny metal thing. The food holds a stick. Shouting. Get some, motherfuckers. Get some. The not-food shuffle and lurch forward.
Hungry. So hungry. Grab the food. Claw at the food. First. Eat. Bite. Flesh. First. The stick explodes, spraying not-food brains. The blood of the not-food tastes bad. The not-food behind push the not-food up front closer to the food. All hungry. All want first bite. The stick explodes again.
The food screams as the not-food drag it off the top of the shiny metal thing. The screams go louder. Smell of blood. Push forward. The Hunger comes. Grab the food. So many hands. Hard to be first with only one arm. Snatch length of intestine from smaller not-food. The smaller not-food hisses, grabs a piece of liver from a weaker not-food. Eat. The food is quiet. The Hunger stops.
Walk. More walk. Search for food. Bump against not-food. Walk. Follow scent of food. Light turns dark. Walk. Track food. Surprise food. The Hunger comes. Snap. Snap. Snap. Teeth sink deep. The food screams. More not-food arrive to feed. Pushed aside. Food torn to pieces. Grab leg. Bigger not-food grabs same leg. Pull. Pull harder. Bigger not-food bites arm. No pain. No blood. No let go. Eat side-by-side. The Hunger stops. Walk. More walk. Dark turns light.
Splash.
Look down. Water. Sand. Water up to ankles. Water goes away. Look up. Blue. Wide, empty blue. No food. No not-food. Just blue. The darkness recedes slightly, allowing a tickle of memory: Running barefoot on the beach.
Monica?
Stand and stare at the blue empty. Water comes up to calf. Light turns dark. Water comes up to thigh. Moon. Water comes up to hips. Water goes away. Float out with water.
Stare down into water. No bubbles. Scrape against sand. Scrape against rocks. Float. Shapes appear. Silver. Clicking sound. Shapes push body. Food? Grab at maybe-food. Too slow. Maybe-food disappears.
Big shape appears; very big. Circle. Food? Big shape moves fast. Teeth sink deep; many, many teeth. Jaws shake back and forth. Black blood fills water. Big shape swims away, trailing bowels and blood.
Float. Stare at sky. Dark turns light turns dark turns light turns dark turns light. Float. Tiny shapes nibble. Feathered shapes scream. Peck at face. Food? Bite. Feathered shape squawks in alarm and flies away with eye. Light turns dark turns light turns dark turns light turns dark.
Roll up on beach. Water, sand in mouth and nose. No breath. Tiny, shiny hard shapes come from sand. Pick face with claws. No eyelids. No eyes. No lips. No tongue. Darkness.
Sound. Muted by sand and rot. Voices. One high. One low. The smell of food.
Oh dear god—is that what I think it is?
Be careful.
The Hunger comes. Stabbing, burning, strangling, shooting hunger, even though there is no belly to feed. No respite for the damned.
Don’t worry. It’s been decapitated.
Snap. Snap. Snap.
Nancy A. Collins is the author of several novels and numerous short stories. In addition, she served a two-year stint for DC Comics’ Swamp Thing series. She is a recipient of the Horror Writers Association’s Bram Stoker Award and the British Fantasy Society’s Icarus Award, as well as a nominee for the Eisner Award, the John W. Campbell Memorial Award, and an International Horror Guild award. Best-known for her ground-breaking vampire character, Sonja Blue, Collins’s works include Dead Man’s Hand, Knuckles and Tales, and Sunglasses After Dark. Her most recent work is the Vamps series, published by HarperCollins. Collins makes her home in Cape Fear, North Carolina.
Life was so weird. Wormboy felt like the only normal person left.
Jerry’s Kids Meet Wormboy
David J. Schow
Eating ’em was more fun than blowing their gnarly green heads off. But why dicker when you could do both?
The fresher ones were blue. That was important if you wanted to avoid cramps, salmonella. Eat a green one and you’d be yodeling down the big porcelain megaphone in no time.
Wormboy used wirecutters to snip the nose off the last bullet in the foam block. He snugged the truncated cartridge into the cylinder of his short-barrel .44. When fired, the flattened slugs pancaked on impact and would disintegrate any geek’s head into hash. The green guys weren’t really “zombis,” because no voodoo had played a part. They were all geeks, all slow as syrup and stupid as hell and Wormboy loved it that way. It meant he would not starve in this cowardly new world. He was eating; millions weren’t.
Wormboy’s burden was great.
It hung from his Butthole Surfers T-shirt. He had scavenged dozens of such shirts from a burned-out rockshop, all Extra Extra Large, all screaming about bands he had never heard of—Day-Glo Abortions, Rudimentary Penii, Shower of Smegma, Fat & Fucked Up. Wormboy’s big personal in-joke was one that championed a long-gone album titled Giving Head To The Living Dead.
The gravid flab of his teats distorted the logo, and his surplus flesh quivered and swam, shoving around his clothing as though some subcutaneous revolution was aboil. Pasty and pocked, his belly depended earthward, a vast sandbag held at bay by a wide weightlifter’s belt, notched low. The faintest motion caused his hectares of skin to bobble like mercury.
Wormboy was more than fat. He was a crowd of fat people. A single mirror was insufficient to the task of containing his image.
The explosion buzzed the floor beneath his hi-tops. Vibrations slithered from one thick stratum of dermis to the next, bringing him the news.
The sound of a Bouncing Betty’s boom-boom always worked like a Pavlovian dinner gong. It could smear a smile across his jowls and start his tummy to percolating. He snatched up binoculars and stampeded out into the graveyard.
Valley View Memorial Park was a classic cemetery, of a venerable lineage far preceding the ordinances that required flat monument stones to note the dearly departed. The granite and marble jutting from its acreage was the most ostentatious and artfully hewn this side of a Universal Studios monster movie boneyard. Stone cold angels reached toward heaven. Stilted verse, deathlessly chiseled, eulogized the departees—vanity plates in a suburbia for the lifeless. It cloyed.
