Extreme Zombies, page 34
Robert had been a pick-up man then, though he’d been new to the job, not much more experienced than Kenny. He had known what to do. But like so many others, he couldn’t bring himself to do it. Instead, he’d used the hours before they Went Bad to take them down to the basement, bring down some furniture and some toys for Bobbie, though he knew damn well they’d never be used. Then he dismantled the stairs, tossed the wood into a corner of the basement, and hauled himself out. He locked the door, but he didn’t barricade it, even though that would have been the sensible thing to do. It would’ve been too much like he was putting them in a cage, as if they were nothing more than animals. He installed the panel opening right away, finishing it just as his wife and unborn child began to stir. That had been three years ago.
He knew keeping his family like this made him a hypocrite, and worse, that it prolonged their travesty of an existence. Or rather non-existence. He often lay awake at night, wondering if on some level they were aware of what they had become, of what they had once been, what they had lost. And if so, somewhere within the dead lumps of flesh that used to be their minds, did they suffer? Did they long for release?
If so, it was a release he was too weak to grant them. He needed them if he were to keep his sanity in this hellish nightmare the world had become. Providing for his family’s needs gave him a purpose in life beyond driving a traveling crematorium. Not much of a purpose, maybe, but it was something.
He turned away from the door, turned off the flashlight, and stuck it handle first in the back pocket of his worn jeans. He walked into the kitchen and opened the refrigerator. There was no light inside because there was no electricity. There hadn’t been any for years. He didn’t use his fridge to keep things cold, though. He used it because it sealed tight when it shut, holding in the odors of the provender he gathered for his wife and child.
The stench was rank, worse than what he had to put up with on the job. But he didn’t care; he’d gotten used to it by now. He reached into the fridge and pulled out a plastic garbage bag. Inside were the remains of a dog he had found two days ago on his bike ride home from work. Deaders preferred human flesh above anything else, but when they couldn’t get it—and people had gotten pretty damn good at learning how to avoid getting munched since the plague or whatever it was first struck—they turned to animals. Some deader or other had taken a few bites out of the dog, but not many. Either the deader had been satisfied with what it had taken, or more likely, something had scared it off. Perhaps a hunting patrol cruising the streets.
At any rate, Robert had picked up the dog, which had been relatively fresh then, put it in his bike basket and brought it home. He hadn’t given it right away to his family, though. He didn’t like to feed them too often. It made them more active and restless, Emily especially. Besides, dog was a treat. Most dogs were wild now, and hard to catch. Normally he fed his family squirrel or rabbit caught in snares he’d rigged in the backyard, though the animals weren’t as easy to come by as they had been before the deaders appeared.
He took the dog to the basement door, feeling something squirm through the plastic. Maggots, most likely; the dog had lain out for a while before he’d picked it up. While he’d seen and done too many things since the world changed to be squeamish, he’d rather not touch maggots if he didn’t have to. So he left the dog in the bag, though he did untie it. He squeezed the animal, bag and all, through the panel opening. It was a tight fit, but he managed to get it through.
He heard the rustle-thud of the bag hitting something, and then another, louder thud. He realized with horror that the dog had struck Emily and knocked her down. He shined the flashlight through the opening and confirmed his guess. Emily lay on the ground, arms and legs waving in the air like a turtle that had rolled onto its back. Her nostrils flared, and she turned her head toward the plastic-wrapped dog. Quick as a crab, she righted herself and scuttled over to her prize. As she began tearing at the plastic, Robert was amazed anew at how fast normally slow and awkward deaders could move when they were starved and within striking distance of meat.
She pulled the dog out of the bag, lowered her head to its maggot-covered body, and took a bite. As she chewed, worms fell from her lips, pattering to the basement floor like fat, white raindrops. The baby, scenting meat, shrieked, the sound so near to that of a living infant as to bring tears to Robert’s eyes.
Emily looked at the baby as if she’d never seen it before and couldn’t quite figure out what it was. Then she bit off another hunk of dog and crawled on hands and knees toward little Robbie Jr. Once she reached the baby, she chewed for a moment, then lowered her face to the baby’s and kissed its mouth.
Back when there had been TV to watch, Robert had seen a documentary on human evolution that claimed kissing began when mothers chewed up food to feed their infants. He wondered if Emily was following a basic maternal instinct so deeply hard-wired into her genes that not even death could alter it.
The sight should’ve sickened him, but it didn’t. Yes, it was an obscene mockery of a mother’s tenderness, but it still touched him. He’d never had the chance to hold his son, not alive at any rate. He knew Bobbie wasn’t a living being, that his movements were due to whatever force—mystic curse or perverted science—animated his dead flesh. But he wished he could touch his boy, just once. Wished he could be a father to Bobbie, a real father, and not just a man who threw down dead animals for him to eat. Food he could provide, no problem. But if his wife and son still had any emotional needs (and didn’t their keening cries always seem to hold a touch of sadness and loneliness mixed in with the hunger?) there was nothing he could do for them.
He’d tried talking to them on and off over the years, but the sound of his voice always enraged them. They only grew calm when they were fed—or, in Bobbie’s case, on those rare occasions when his mother remembered he existed and touched him, sometimes even cradling him in her arms and stroking the dry, dead flesh of his forehead. Robert had often wondered if he would be able to soothe them with his touch, had even contemplated making the attempt once or twice, but he knew he’d never survive it.
He’d even considered going down and letting them have him, purposefully allowing himself to become infected. At least that way the three of them would be together. But he knew from his time on the job that if a human body was savaged badly enough by deaders—especially if the heart and brain were damaged, or for that matter, devoured completely—it wouldn’t return to life. He’d thought about opening the basement door and then committing suicide elsewhere in the house, maybe by slitting his wrists so his body would remain intact. But once he changed, how could he be assured that he’d remember his wife and son in the basement—and if he did, that he’d still want to join them? More likely he’d try to get outside and go hunt for live meat. And even if by some miracle he found his way to the basement, there would be no one to bring them food. They wouldn’t starve, but they would remain hungry. Forever.
No, there was no way they could be together again, not as a family. He could keep Emily and Bobbie trapped in the basement and feed them like animals, but that was all. It would have to do.
He turned off the flashlight, closed the panel and latched it. There was enough meat on the dog to keep them busy—and quiet—for a while, maybe all the way until morning. That was good. He didn’t think he could stand to listen to their plaintive, lonely keening anymore tonight.
The next morning he biked to the city building to find out whether they were going to send Smoky Joe out again. He hoped Joe was going to stay in the garage; he didn’t feel like dealing with any deaders today. But no such luck. The hunting squads had been especially busy last night, and during their patrol, they’d counted a half dozen more bodies put out by townsfolk for Joe to pick up.
Kenny was already there, looking a bit more nervous than usual, but Robert was in too much of a funk to care why, so he didn’t ask. They fired Joe up and chugged out of the garage and headed for the first house on the list the hunters had given them. They had an easy morning of it. The first two deaders they stopped for had been killed by whoever put them out—one by a bullet through the brain, another by a brick or a large rock to the head—and they had no problem tossing them into Joe’s furnace.
The third stop was different. Not because of the deader; she was inanimate, too, and so petite either of them could have carried her one-handed to the truck. No, the problem occurred when Kenny, who had been silent all morning, finally decided to speak.
“We’re partners, right?”
They stood behind Joe, watching the petite woman burn. She was so tiny, Robert didn’t think it would take long for her to fall away to ash.
“We work together, if that’s what you mean,” he replied, not taking his eyes off the flames.
“Yeah, right, but I mean we look out for each other and stuff. You know, like you wouldn’t let a deader take a bite out of me, and I wouldn’t let one get at you. Right?”
Robert nodded, wondering where Kenny was going with this. “Sure.”
“Well, see, the thing is, I got a problem.”
Robert glanced sideways at him. Kenny had taken his gloves off and tucked them in the pockets of his coveralls. He had his mask off, too, and beads of sweat had erupted on his forehead, were beginning to trickle down the sides of his face. Maybe the sweat was due to the heat from Joe’s furnace, but Robert didn’t think so. Kenny was trembling all over, but his hands were the worst. They were vibrating so fast they actually blurred a little.
“You probably heard that my girlfriend Went Bad and I . . . took care of her.”
Robert didn’t say anything, but he turned to face Kenny.
“I had to do it, right? I mean, I know that’s what she would’ve wanted me to do, but afterward . . . shit, I kept having these dreams, you know? Really fucked-up ones. So I started drinking.” A nervous chuckle. “I mean, I always drank. Who doesn’t, right? But I started in big-time, mostly at night, so I could sleep. If I drink enough, I don’t dream.”
Kenny fell silent and they watched the flames for a time. Robert decided to let the man continue in his own time.
“I hate this job. Hate it like fucking poison, but it pays well. Damn well ought to, shit we have to do. I mean, who the hell in their right mind would do this kind of work?” A pause. “No offense.”
Robert nodded for him to go on.
“Five ration slips a week is pretty good pay these days. I mean, it’s more than just about anyone else gets, except for the hunters and the doctor at the city building.”
“But five slips aren’t enough for you anymore, are they?”
Kenny shook his head. “I guess my body’s soaked up too much alcohol for it to work on me the same way. That, or maybe the shiners aren’t making their stuff as strong as they used to. I use most of my slips for booze, hardly eat much anymore, but I can’t seem to get drunk enough to get to sleep. Even when I do, I hardly ever sleep through the night. Those dreams . . . ”
“Why are you telling me this?” Robert asked softly.
Kenny shrugged, a little too nonchalantly, Robert thought.
“I figure you might be able to help me.” A nervous smile. “I know about your secret. I mean, you don’t have to be a fuckin’ genius to put it together. Your wife and kid never leave the house . . . half the time you can’t remember how old your boy is. They’re deaders, ain’t they? And you’ve got them stashed in your house somewhere. The garage, maybe, or the basement. Because you’re just like all these poor sonsofbitches.” He made a sweeping gesture to take in the neighborhood. “You can’t stand to say goodbye to your loved ones either. The only difference is, you’re around deaders all the time, and you ain’t afraid of them. You know how to handle them, so while no one else has the balls to keep their family members once they’ve Gone Bad, you do.”
Kenny stopped, a smug expression on his face, as if he were proud of his deductive prowess.
Robert felt a cold twisting in his gut, but he worked to keep his voice level. “So you know. What are you going to do about it?”
“Nothing, partner. Not as long as you give me three of your ration slips every week. Otherwise, I’ll tell the hunting squad about Emily and little Bobbie, and they’ll be over at your house before you can finish singing the first stanza of ‘Smoky Joe.’ ”
Robert said nothing.
“Look, I know this makes me a real prick, but I can’t help it, man. I need those slips! I gotta get me some sleep!”
A few more seconds went by before Robert finally said, “All right.”
“Really? You mean it?” Kenny sounded surprised, as if he hadn’t expected his threat to work.
“Yes. But make it two slips a week.”
“Uh-uh, no way.” He sounded emboldened now. “It’s three or bye-bye family.”
“All right. Three. But I don’t have any on me. You’ll have to wait until we get paid.”
“That’s only a couple more days. I can wait. But if you stiff me, you’ll regret it.”
“Don’t worry. I’ll pay. Now let’s get back to work. We have at least two more stops to make today, and if we don’t keep burning deaders, neither one of us is going to get paid.”
Kenny smirked. His expression was easy for Robert to read: he figured he had his partner by the balls now, and he was no longer low man on this team. “What do you mean, we? I’ll ride along, but I ain’t getting out. I’m never gonna touch another fuckin’ deader as long as I live. You do the burnin’ from now on, got it?”
“Got it. Now let’s go.”
Another smirk, and Kenny turned and started heading for Joe’s cab—and that’s when Robert punched him in the back of the neck. Kenny collapsed like a marionette whose strings had been severed, and once he was down, it was an easy matter for Robert to keep him there. He was, after all, thin and weak from malnutrition. Robert clamped his hands around Kenny’s neck and squeezed. Kenny kicked his feet and slapped his hands on the asphalt, but Robert kept squeezing until his partner’s struggles lessened and finally stopped altogether.
When it was finished, he climbed off Kenny’s corpse and stood looking down at it.
Robert wasn’t worried that any of the residents of this neighborhood had seen, and even if they had, who would they report it to? There were no police anymore. Just the hunting squads—and pick-up men like him. Of course, he’d have to make up a story for his bosses at the city building. He supposed he could always tell them Kenny had said he’d had enough of the job and quit in the middle of today’s route, but if no one ever saw him again, they might get suspicious. No, better to say that Kenny got careless, let a deader bite him, and had to be put down. He wouldn’t be the first pick-up man that had ended up that way. That decided, the only thing left to do was feed Kenny’s body to Joe.
Robert bent down, intending to do just that, but as he reached toward Kenny, he hesitated. It seemed an awful waste to just toss him into the fire. He could still be . . . useful.
Robert walked into the kitchen, a heavy plastic bag clutched in his hand. Their keening was especially loud today; it had been almost a week since he had last fed them.
“Hold on, it’s coming.”
He got the flashlight and opened the basement door panel, taking his usual step back and waiting a moment before stepping forward again and shining the light inside. There was Emily, hands clawing the air, and little Bobbie, wailing and writhing on the floor behind her. But now there was a third one in the basement, much fresher than the other two and wearing a pair of coveralls. He stared up at the light with a blank, unseeing gaze, his mouth opening and closing hungrily.
Robert smiled. “I really appreciate you helping me out like this, partner. It means a lot to me.”
The male moaned, as if in response to Robert’s words, but he knew the thing was just hungry. He lifted his find—a possum that he’d managed to hit while out in Joe earlier that day—and stuffed it through the opening. The possum struck the floor, and Emily and Kenny fell on it like starving dogs.
Bobbie screamed for his share, and this time it was Kenny who took a mouthful over to the baby, feeding the boy with a gentle kiss.
Robert felt no jealousy. Not only had he provided food for his wife and child, he’d found a way to be down there with them, if only through a surrogate. Still, they were truly a family again, in every way, and that was all that mattered.
Robert watched them for a while longer, then he closed the panel and put the flashlight away. Time for bed; he had to get up early for work tomorrow. Not only did he have a new partner to break in, he had a family to feed.
Tim Waggoner’s novels include the Nekropolis series of urban fantasies and the Ghost Trackers series written in collaboration with Jason Hawes and Grant Wilson of the Ghost Hunters television show. In total, he’s published over twenty-five novels and two short story collections, and his articles on writing have appeared in Writer’s Digest and Writers’ Journal, among others. He teaches creative writing at Sinclair Community College and in Seton Hill University’s Master of Fine Arts in Writing Popular Fiction program. Visit him on the web at www.timwaggoner.com.
What good is life—or even half-life—if you can’t get near a woman?
Zombies for Jesus
Nina Kiriki Hoffman
I was thinking about women, live ones, dead ones, and in between.
“Ante is one finger joint,” said Slim. “Any finger joint.”
I put my hands in my lap, ready to sit this one out. I’d already lost a finger this game and didn’t feel like playing anymore. There was a few clicks and some mushy thuds as the others anted up.
The flies was loud in the afternoon stillness, drifting here and there, feasting, lazy in the hot amber light coming through the canvas of the tent. I brushed one off my nose. Most of the boys didn’t bother, as their nerves was mostly dead and they had no interest in personal hygiene any longer.
Prettyboy Pritchard stood looking out the tent flap. He was the newest revival, the most whole-looking besides me, and he refused to join us at the poker table; didn’t want to lose anything and spoil his pretty wholeness; hadn’t settled into the bit-part business of the afterlife yet.
