Fortunes & Failures - 03 (7 page)

She thought back to the last time she’d been tied to the post out by the front gate. It seemed like there were more of those things. She couldn’t see over the heads of the first few rows, but it had seemed like more. Not only were they louder, but she remembered thinking they looked smashed in pretty tight.

This couldn’t be good. If there were enough that she could hear them from her room on the backside of the house…there must be lots. Then, she remembered feeling that sensation that was both disgusting and a relief. She felt The Big Man shrink and slither out of her. He was finished. Only…he hadn’t. Then, he rolled off of her. Now, he lay there, snoring. On his back beside her. She could smell the beer.

An idea began to form. It had been a while since he’d tried to make her use her mouth on him. In fact, he’d only recently healed from that encounter. But, he’d untied her for it. For some reason, he wanted her untied and kneeling. If she could wait until he got really drunk next time, perhaps she could convince him she was ready to try it. It would be gross and disgusting, but if he passed out, like he was now, maybe he would forget to tie her up. Or, if he did tie her up, maybe he would be so drunk that he would do a bad job of it. Then, she could get away. She didn’t care to where. Just away from here.

The Big Man made a noise, almost like a soft cry, in his sleep. She heard, then felt the worm wetness as his bladder let go. All she could do was lie there, helpless. For now.



The Jenifer-zombie trudged slowly along the litter strewn street with over a hundred more just like her. Something had drawn them this way days ago. But whatever it was had not only escaped, but it was long forgotten.

They walked, and Jenifer-zombie walked with them. Sometimes, the geography would force them to change directions. Other times, a sound would vibrate dully in their heads, and other times, they would ‘see’ the heat. That meant something, but none of them could remember the concept of warmth.

Jenifer-zombie knew nothing. There were no longer even vestiges of her former self that knew what a doorknob was or how to operate it. If the heat vanished into someplace, she would claw, scratch, and bite at a wall just as soon as at a door. That was why none of her fingernails remained. That was why jagged bits of bone poked through the worn fingertips. That was why most of her teeth were jagged, broken shards decorating her grey gums.

Like so many others, it was increasingly difficult to tell that Jenifer-zombie had been a ‘she’ simply by looking at her face. The flesh had been rubbed or scraped away in places during the hours or even, sometimes, days that she spent in futility trying to scratch and chew through a wall or door. Only her matted-with-gore long hair and the one exposed breast from where her shirt had been torn could positively identify the Jenifer-zombie as having once been a girl.

A man from one of her brethren leading the pack sent up answers from many of the dead throats. With a suddenness, the pack changed direction and, while only slightly, picked up the pace. The briefest flash of a message, the only one that still fixed in the small piece of jelly in the otherwise dead brain of the Jenifer-zombie, signaled food. This was the only thing it understood.

Food.

Nudging aside others while simultaneously being nudged aside, the Jenifer-zombie struggled to get close to the front of the pack. Only those in the front actually fed. The ones in the middle either arrived after there was nothing left, or whatever was left was already joining the mob.

Only a few rows of heads remained in front of Jenifer-zombie now. There it was. The heat. Food. Three forms stood in an open field. They didn’t move. Sounds vibrated, but the Jenifer-zombie no longer recognized screams…or anything else. In fact, a scream was no different than a breaking window, an idling engine, or a gunshot. It was simply a vibration in the head that meant one thing: food.

As a pack, the mob, with the Jenifer-zombie close to the front, staggered across the overgrown but open terrain of a city park. The three figures remained stationary, none of them turning to flee as the wave of undeath neared.

Jenifer-zombie was one of a dozen that swarmed and latched onto the figure on the right. Jagged, bone-tipped fingers dug into the soft flesh of the belly. A tear opened quickly; hot strands and thick clumps tumbled into greedy dead hands. The momentary relief of the gut searing cold receded for the briefest of moments.

All three of the figures were pulled apart, leaving nothing behind to return and join the ranks. In less than two minutes, it was over. The mob, Jenifer-zombie now in the front ranks with blood smeared on her face, coated in a fresh layer of crimson, moved on.

From a nearby, dilapidated barn, a cluster of survivors watched, whispering feverishly. They watched until the field was empty. Then, cautiously crept out to the scene of carnage left behind.



“The lord has accepted our sacrifice,” a gaunt man proclaimed to the dozen emaciated figures gathered around. A murmur rippled through the group, punctuated by cries of “Amen!” and “Praise Jesus!”

“These who have given their lives await us in Heaven.” The man reached down into the tall grass and grabbed something. He pulled a mostly intact head up and held it aloft. The eyes shifted back and forth behind a pus-colored film shot with dark traces. The mouth open and closed soundlessly.

“Another of Satan’s imps has been captured in the rotting corpse. Our mortal flesh has served a purpose as we deplete the legions of the Army of the Deceiver!”

More murmurs of enthusiasm issued from the ragged mob. Two more heads were produced, both unrecognizable with most of the flesh torn away.

The group returned to the old barn holding the heads aloft, singing praises in raspy voices. Something vaguely resembling
Amazing Grace
drifted from the loft, carrying on the late afternoon breeze.



Charlton Shaw sat at the foot of the bed pulling on his socks. The body behind him shook with quiet sobs, but he didn’t really hear them. His mind was fixated on the fact that his “army” had been reduced to sixteen men in the blink of an eye.

They’d driven back to that small town they’d been systematically clearing of anything useful. Heath. A dot on the map that probably hadn’t mattered before the dead had started eating the living. It was just outside of Heath that they’d encountered that tiny group of survivors: two weak men—although he was certain that there’d been a third somewhere nearby—and four females.

One of those females had been a hotshot senator. The type who wanted to forbid children from saying “The Pledge of Allegiance” on one hand, while protecting folks who burned flags—the American Flag—on the streets. The other three were the senator’s daughters. One of them was right outside the compound, hanging on a cross. One of
them
. The other two were missing, along with the doctor.

How had that punk-ass kid managed to weasel his way into their good graces? He’d showed signs, but Charlton had ignored them, choosing to believe that if he placated the snot-nosed brat by giving him his choice of women and treated him with honor and respect like he did those who served in Shaw’s “army”, that the young man would…what?

He’d made a mistake. He’d given one of the book-reading liberal types the same treatment as one of his warriors. But that was his second and less damaging mistake. His big one had been letting that computer geek live. He’d seen the damage first hand in Heath. That road was a crater. Fires were still burning out of control. There would be nothing left to salvage; but that wasn’t the worst. The worst part of all was the huge loss of men. Not a single one had survived that blast.

Shaw had personally led his men to investigate why the salvage party hadn’t returned. He’d started his search by heading towards the plume of black smoke that had been so clearly visible from The Basket. He’d been stunned at the amount of damage. On the way back to The Basket they’d spotted somebody fleeing.

He’d gotten close enough to get a look through his binoculars. He’d been disappointed that it wasn’t the one that he’d let go that night back at the RV campground. But he was certain that the person in that SUV was somehow responsible for the explosion that killed his men. Plus, there’d been a female in the passenger’s seat.

They’d given chase. That lunatic had driven into downtown Newark. There was only one bridge in and out of the eastern edge of downtown. He’d seen to that weeks ago. They’d chase the scared rabbit.
That
had been his biggest mistake. They could have waited for it to poke its head out of the hole. Before he realized it, they were in the heart of downtown. The SUV had crashed and was in flames, but there was nobody inside. He and his men had fanned out…and been surrounded. Shaw was certain that they could handle a bunch of slow moving corpses. Only…there had been too many. By the time they had made it back to their vehicles and bugged out, the losses had been staggering. Most notable, he had lost Paris and TJ, his right and left hand men.

They’d been back inside the walls of The Basket for over a week, and he’d heard the rumblings. The men were angry. At
him
! There was only one way he could get them back. He would go out alone. He would bring back the heads of those responsible. He would find Dr. Peter King, and the little slut Shari, and her whore of a sister Erin. The doctor he would kill with his bare hands. The two whores would be strapped to a bed and used by every man in The Basket while their mother watched. Then, all three would be sent to a cross.

Yes!
Shaw thought as he stood.
I will have my retribution!



“While the subjects continued to show no signs of a more advanced decay, there are signs of a hibernation-like dormancy that is currently been observed to last for more than one hundred seventy-six hours, eleven minutes, and eighteen seconds,” Reginald dictated into a microphone extended above his head. “They do not process what they eat, as displayed by Subject Two who has had his entire digestive system removed. An EEG reveals no response, nor has any other monitoring systems…see readouts in notebook labeled “five” for more details.”

Reginald pressed the handheld remote and stopped the recording to take a bite of his apple. Glancing over at the containment chambers, he noticed that the one in the salt water had moved to the front and was pawing at the glass feebly with one hand.

He walked over to take a closer look. The subject’s head turned his direction. None of the others seemed to notice or care. He walked up to the thick safety glass and stared up at the dead, filmed over eyes. It seemed to consider him as well, its one hand pausing for a moment from its exercise in futility.

“Do you have any comprehension?” Dr. Reginald Cox asked…then chuckled.

Of course it didn’t. They classified that hypothesis as a scientific fact back when there were still three scientists in this bunker.

The creature began to pound on the glass. Well, as much as it could. It had no concept of drag, so, in a forced slow motion, it continued about its futile attempts against the smooth surface. Reginald reached up and placed his hand against the glass. The zombie leaned forward, trying in vain to bite him.

“Amazing,” Reginald said and shook his head. He returned to the subject strapped down to the table.

With a scalpel, he went through the process of removing the esophagus. When he was finished, he wheeled the subject into the safe room—a ten-by-ten room of stainless steel. These were the times he missed his co-workers. This was supposed to be a two-man evolution.

He unlocked the leg bindings first. The subject immediately began the slow churning of its limbs; almost like it was riding a bicycle. He unstrapped the head, then the arms. In one quick motion, he dumped the gurney sending the body tumbling gracelessly to the floor. He pulled the gurney as he backed out of the room, then slammed the door shut.

When he returned to the observation window, it was barely making it to his feet. Still, he always had the feeling in the back of his mind that these things would play possum one of these times, and in an uncharacteristic display of speed, hop to its feet and tackle him.

Reginald went the large box and peered inside. “And how is Missy today?” he asked, reaching down and gently stroking the female calico curled up, five kittens nursing at her belly. “I’m just taking one.”

He picked an orange kitten that looked like a miniature Morris. Its immediate mewling and frightened cries began. Missy yowled, rising up, heedless of the four remaining kittens which tumbled into a heap.

“I know, Missy,” Reginald said with a sigh. “But we all must make sacrifices.”

He went back to the chamber. His former colleague, Dr. Fox, stood at the window. Reginald turned the handle and opened what looked like a giant deposit box. He placed the kitten inside and closed the door. Then, operating a series of switches, he effectively opened a second odor inside the chamber and dumped the contents of the box.

He watched the subject’s head jerk to the right. Its body followed, albeit slowly, and began moving. The kitten’s eyes had not yet opened and it provided an easy target. Reginald watched, clipboard in hand, as it was scooped up. It vanished in five bites. Reginald observed furry, bloody clumps fall from the hole in the subject’s throat.

“Fascinating,” he whispered, then remotely activated the recorder.

“Subject, designated “F” consumes in the same manner as before. Removing the esophagus has no effect. Reminder: Subject F has no digestive system. Everything it consumes can be visibly seen falling from either opening. Conclusion: subject receives no nutrients, nor any other discernable benefit from consuming its supposed food.

“Excellent work today, Dr. Fox,” Reginald said after switching off the recorder. “I’ll come back and clean up you and the mess you made a little later. I’ve got a new batch of wine…and Lucy is waiting.”

Removing his gloves and tossing them in the disposal, he washed up and grabbed the one hundred twenty-eight ounce beaker of dark red liquid and headed towards the door turning off the banks of lights when he went.