No Flesh Shall Be Spared (33 page)

"These dead-assed sumbitches… They ain’t shit!" one good ol’ boy was saying over the dusty top of his Meisterbrau can. He looked around at his red-eyed audience and gauged their compliance. He then cursed under his breath and wiped his hand absentmindedly at a dollop of bird shit that had splattered down one sleeve of his faded green Army jacket.

"The fuck they ain’t, Bubba. I’ll tell ya… I saw a group of ’em tear that ol’ boy Richard Johnson limb from fuckin’ limb over at McGurgie’s Feed Store," another man was saying. "You remember Dick Johnson, doncha? He was that big ol’ boy what worked over at the aluminum chair factory over in Harbison County. He married that ugly, thick-ankled gal from Eatherton with them big hooters. I tell ya, those dead bastards went after him like he was the main course at a got-dam Chinese boo-fay!"

Bubba shot a look of annoyance and absentmindedly crossed himself. "Don’t speak ill of the dead, Cecil."

"Shit… why the hell not? It’s not like they’s gonna hear us!"

The crowd laughed at Cecil’s wit which was usually about as sharp as a bowling pin.

"Anyway," Bubba continued, "seeing ’em thisa way… Hell. I don’t think much of ’em, ya know? Buncha slack-jawed, drooling motherfucks is what they is."

Cecil sensed more comic gold here and offered, "Well hell, Bubba… If they ain’t nothing and you’re so goddamn brave, why don’t you just jump inside that pen and give ’em a few licks?"

The crowd nodded its approval and punctuated the air with guffaws, half-formed opinions and snorts of hillbilly derision. As one, they all looked questioningly at Bubba, waiting for either an answer or for him to wisely back down.

"Sheee-it, Ceese, I may have fallen offa the goddamn stupid truck, but it wasn’t fuckin’ today," Bubba said wiping at the accumulating dust in his eyes.

The crowd collectively nodded their approval at Bubba’s newfound wisdom. Most had come to know the man as just a "cunt’s hair above a retard," but sometimes, even a retard could have what the alkies called "moments of clarity." The group fell silent and considered the depths of what many called "country wisdom."

A sudden slow ripple started toward the back of the crowd; a slight disturbance in the throng which spread outward. A pair of men pushed their way through the multitude, politely asking to be excused but insistently moving forward, until they arrived at the side of the corral. To the crowd, it was evident that they were not from ’round here. Both their dress and demeanor said as much. The first man, the one who looked to be in charge, was built well, although not particularly tall, with short business-like black hair and a heavy brow which cast his eyes in perpetual shadow. The other guy was a regular Baby Huey: big, broad and muscular with hands like Easter hams.

"Gentlemen…" the in-charge guy said, pitching the volume of his voice at just below a shout. He bowed slightly toward one of the women in the crowd and smiled broadly, "…and ladies… My name is Weber… Joseph F. Weber and this…" He made a grand gesture toward his compatriot, "…is my associate, Jimbo. Say ‘Hello,’ Jimbo."

"Howdy!"

Jimbo’s face broke into a smile that was more painful grimace than overt cordiality and the crowd collectively took a small step backward in response. He stood there, grinning like a corpse and absentmindedly working his huge hands open and closed. The two stood silently, the group having given them respectful breathing room, looking like bizarre versions of Steinbeck’s George and Lennie.

Weber leaned congenially against one of the wooden rails and gazed out over the scene before him. Casually, he crossed his legs at the shin and breathed in deeply, allowing the crowd a few minutes to settle down. As silence descended back over them, he took a moment and gazed out over the corral. He’d come here wanting to be heard and, if he was anything, he was a patient man. He would wait until they were ready to listen to all that he had to say. When an expectant quiet was in effect, he cleared his throat and began to speak.

"Did I just hear you one of you boys say something about jumpin’ in there and mixing it up with this… thing?"

Bubba looked over at the man and then quickly away. It was one thing to talk this kind of bullshit to idiots like Cecil and the others, but once strangers such as this got involved, he stood to potentially lose some pride.

"Shee-it, Slick," Cecil said. "We was talking about it, but ’round here we also talk a lot about assfuckin’ Shania Twain. Both have about the same chance of happening."

Weber smiled and stood there, as if thinking over the likelihood of both ideas. To his mind, he was willing to watch either of these events taking place. But then again, one was going to adhere to his agenda… and one was not. Finally, he decided to get back on point. He looked the crowd over and pitched his voice slightly louder so that those in the back could hear.

"Folks…" he said, his manner now demanding both attention and admiration, "I just happen to have a hundred dollars caysh money in here," and he patted his right breast pocket, "and it’s been burning a hole in my pocket for a while now. So… I am willing to wager any of you—or all of you—that my boy, Jimbo, here will not only step into that corral with these Undead bastards, but I’m willing to bet that he’ll step out of that very same corral again with neither cut nor scratch. Further… I’ll bet that he will, before he leaves the confines of that pen, send each and every one of them back to Hell!" His voice rose to a full shout on the last word.

The crowd laughed as one. They’d seen some crazy shit during the last few weeks and they’d heard tales of some things that bordered on the impossible, but this…

This was just beyond ridiculous.

"I’ll go you fellas one better," Weber continued. "Jimbo will not only go in there and kick this thing’s zombie ass, but he’ll make good and sure that the slobbering sum-bitch is dead—and dead for good this time."

Bubba looked over at Jimbo and tried to size him up, to get a sense of the kind of man who would agree to such nonsense. Upon closer inspection, Bubba decided that the man was big enough, but he sure didn’t look crazy. He looked about as stupid as a circus freak, but the behemoth just wasn’t selling "crazy" all that well. After a bit of thought, Bubba decided that the giant must just be too goddamn dim-witted to be afraid of dying. Either that or he was just plain suicidal. Hell, being as ugly as he was, who could blame him?

"You’re either a fuckin’ liar, Mister, or your boy here is stupider than he looks," laughed Cecil, as he looked over toward Jimbo. "No offense, Haystack…"

"None taken," was the grumbled response.

The crowd nodded its agreement with Cecil and was soon muttering a host of varying opinions. They knew Cecil to be about as full of shit as a colostomy bag, but… hell, when a man was right, he was right.

"Well," Weber continued, "shall we put both my comrade’s skills and his mental instability to the test then? A hundred bucks, folks… is all it’s gonna take."

Weber looked at Cecil and Bubba.

"You want in on any of this, Boys? Hell, if he is indeed crazy and destined to die, it ought to be worth that much just to see these things tear him to shreds, right?"

The crowd muttered quietly, their heads moving back and forth as they discussed the idea. All of them had seen people die at the hands of the dead before, it had become pretty much standard operating procedure these days. But none had ever seen one go to his death willingly. And besides… entertainment was sort of hard to come by, given the current state of things.

Finally, a man named Hansford Tillman who’d once worked alongside the aforementioned (and ultimately doomed) Richard Johnson at McGurgie’s Feed Store stepped forward and held out his hand. Benjamin Franklin’s crumpled face smiled up from his sweaty palm.

"Ok, I’m in!"

"Hot damn, Son!" Weber shouted, clapping Jimbo on the back. "Now, we got us a right fuckin’ sportin’ contest here."

And with that, Jimbo silently pulled his shirt off over his head. Once off, he balled it up and handed it to Weber. He arched his back, stretching the muscles in his shoulders and stooped down and under one of the corral’s rails.

Weber deftly pulled a small spiral-bound notebook from his pocket and took any and all action, dutifully writing down the amount of each bet by its maker’s name. After all of the bets were made, he stuffed the notebook back into his pocket. A hush fell over the group while others, who had also been in the camp, wandered over to see what this new brand of commotion was all about. When they saw Jimbo step into the corral, every eye locked on the center of the pen. Inside the enclosed space, the lone zombie milled about, seemingly unaware of the man who had entered into their midst.

Jimbo strolled lazily out toward the center of the corral, raising and lowering his arms as if he were a great bird trying to fly away. A pink blush of exertion blossomed over his previously pale skin. He took in big lungfuls of air as he worked to infuse his muscles with oxygen.

"What the hell’s your boy doin’ in there, Mister?" asked Bubba. "That doughhead think he’s a chicken now?"

"Pheromones, my good man," Weber explained. "He’s sending out his body odor to attract the bastards. Pay attention now. Despite your disparaging opinion of him, Jimbo is a true artist. He won’t be doin’ this more than once."

Those who were close enough to hear the exchange looked at Weber like he was a couple of wheels short of a skateboard. They’d all been trying their damnedest to not attract these things for weeks now, and here was this big ol’ boy trying to do that very thing. The general mumbled consensus was that both of these city boys were about as crazy as shit-house rats.

Cecil snorted, spit, and pronounced, "This is gonna be a goddamn slaughter."

"Indeed it will. Care to get in on the wager there, Buford?" said Weber as he looked the older man clearly in the eyes.

"Ok, goddamnit , you’re on, Slick!"

Weber and Cecil shook hands to seal the bet and then they, along with everyone else who had been listening, returned their attention to the corral. Weber smiled slightly to himself and nodded to Jimbo. It was a reaction that went unnoticed by everyone as they were all too interested in what was happening within the confines of the pen, but the giant man caught it and understood it all too well.

Jimbo continued to wave his arms about but he now moved toward where the dead man stood. Before long, the corpse caught hold of his scent. The man had been young, about twenty-three, when he’d met his maker from what looked like a rifle blast to the lower abdomen. His frame was not particularly muscular, but it still looked like he’d had some agility back when he still had a heartbeat. He was overall a little smaller than Jimbo in size, but even to this crowd’s uneducated eyes, it almost seemed like a fair fight.

None of them, however, had ever seen the kind of damage someone like Jimbo could dish out when properly motivated. Weber had spent a good deal of time since meeting up with the Big Guy finding and utilizing those motivational tools.

Now Jimbo was pretty much a "point-and-click" kind of guy.

Wherever Weber pointed… Jimbo clicked.

And when Jimbo clicked, things got hurt.

The dead man turned sloppily on his feet and stumbled across the pasture toward this newfound meal. He moved with big, loping strides and gathered momentum quickly. His arms slowly rose, fingers outstretched, and reached hungrily for what lay before him. His mouth chewed the air expectantly, drool dribbling from his lips and wetting his chin. In a flash, the thing’s gaze passed from blunted confusion to murderous intensity. At nearly a full run now, it came at Jimbo and the crowd held its breath in anticipation.

Jimbo had always been a big guy and one who never had much call to use what little brains God had given him, but fighting was something he knew down deep in his bones. He’d grown up fighting off his older brothers for lunch money, dinners, extra desserts, even for his first taste of liquor and women. As he grew older, he’d been able to turn his natural ability and hard head into a rather decent income. He was a man who instinctively knew how to hurt people and, if he were to be completely honest, he sorta liked doing it. So, when the undead man lurched his way toward him, Jimbo had already set his mind on the task at hand and developed a plan.

The dead thing took another couple of steps toward Jimbo, coming in wide open and accessible. The thing’s hands reached out and clawed feverishly at the air. Its mouth was a pitiless, wet wound which tore savagely across the lower part of its face. Saliva continued to pour from its chops like a rabid dog’s. Dirt and dried blood lay caked in clumpy lumps across the vicious wound in its belly.

Seeing as how the dead thing had yet to meet much in the way of resistance in the pursuit of food since returning from the cold embrace of the grave, it now attacked—showing no fear and little hesitation. His deteriorating brain saw no reason to believe that the living man now standing before him would be anything other than his next meal. With an additional step or two, he’d come to within arm’s reach of his goal.

Jimbo moved a lot quicker than a man of his bulk should and came in low. He quickly slapped aside the dead man’s outstretched arms and stepped into what he called his "pain zone." He drove his arm over the thing’s grip and struck him across the side of its head with his forearm, just at the wrist. Its head cracked around like a whip and it stumbled from the concussion of the blow, dropping to one knee. The dead man shook his head to clear his vision and looked up, pupils faded to a milky white. A cold hatred burned in its dead, hungry eyes.

The thing climbed awkwardly to its feet and made another grab for what it still thought to be an easy meal. Jimbo did a little hop in the air and threw a forward "bash in the door" kick, striking the thing square in the middle of its chest. Stale air blew out of its still lungs in a whoosh. In no time, the expelled air reached the crowd, smelling of the grave and rotting meat. Some of the women outside the corral held their hands over their noses in a vain effort to mask the smell.

The dead man’s body folded in on itself and fell to the ground by the force of the kick. It landed flat on its back, arms and legs thrashing. For a moment, it wobbled back and forth in the dirt like a turtle trying to right itself. The zombie’s limbs flailed about in an uncoordinated spasm, its arms and legs whirling crazily in the air.