The Hungry Dead (15 page)

The weak headlights on the old clunker flashed now and then on a zombie or two lurking along the wooded road, but as he got farther and farther away from his roadhouse, Henry encountered no more of the undead creatures. He breathed a sigh of relief and kept driving while he tugged a handkerchief out of his pants pocket and blotted at his bleeding forehead.

At that moment the car rounded a sharp bend and someone—or something—stepped out in front of him, giving him no time to determine if it was living or living dead. He jerked hard on the steering wheel. A tie-rod snapped with a loud ping, and the car swerved out of control, braking and squealing and finally crashing into a tree.

Rocked by the crash, Henry stayed slumped over the wheel for a long time, and if anyone had seen him at that moment, he would have been thought dead. But no, he started to move. He could hear that the engine was no longer running, even though the headlights were still on. The door on the driver's side was sprung open wide.

Henry was stunned when he saw that the “person” he had swerved to miss was turning toward him and moving in his direction—and as it got closer he saw that it truly was one of the undead. He yanked hard on the sprung door, but he couldn't get it to close. And the zombie kept coming closer.

Henry punched at the headlight switch, dimming the lights so they wouldn't drain the battery, then he jiggled and twisted the ignition key, but the engine refused to start. He tried once more to shut the sprung door, but it wouldn't budge. Summoning his courage, he shakily got out of the car and frantically looked around for some sort of a weapon. His eyes fell on a broken tree branch in the road, and he snatched it up just in time, for the zombie was now upon him. This one in life had been a thirty-year-old account executive for an ad agency, and he was still wearing a three-piece pinstriped suit that probably had been his normal work attire.

Henry rammed the jagged end of the broken branch into the zombie's chest, knocking the creature back but not felling it. He swung the branch at it a couple of times, landing some glancing blows, but the zombie still wouldn't back off. Suddenly Henry swung his club at its knees, knocking its legs out from under it, and it fell hard onto the asphalt. Then it tried to crawl away, but Henry hit it in the head and face again and again.

Finally the creature lay still, and Henry stood over it for long seconds, breathing hard. He dropped his club right there.

He went back to the car, got inside, and tried once more to make it start. Nothing doing.

He remembered the heavy metal flashlight he had used earlier to smash at the zombie hands that were groping at him, and he picked it up and clicked it on. Surprise! It worked, emitting a bright beam.

He yanked the key from the ignition and, flashlight in hand, came around and unlocked the trunk, casting the beam on a pile of Smokey's junk: balled-up grease-stained clothing, crumpled-up road maps, empty whisky bottles, and more. Henry rooted in this mess, found a toolbox, and opened it. He tossed aside a lot of tools he felt would be useless to him, then selected a large, heavy screwdriver with a ten-inch shaft and a big, thick plastic handle. He hefted it like a knife and tested it by making stabbing motions. Then he tucked it under his belt.

He went back to the body of the vanquished zombie in the pinstriped suit and picked up the club he had used to do it in.

Then, utilizing the glow of the flashlight beam, he started hiking down the road.

Slam used a long stick to poke in a small fire and fish out what was left of the generator cable. Bearcat watched him and said, “Insulation burned off pretty good?”

Slam said, “Yeah, man.
Ow!
It's too hot to handle!” He yanked his fingers away from the flame-discolored copper.

Bearcat laughed and said, “Don't waste our drinkin' water. Piss on it to cool it off. We gotta get it rigged before some of those things smell us out. Here they come! Shit! Hurry up!”

Sally stared fearfully at the approaching zombies. She was bound and gagged, slumped against a tree, the flames of the small fire flickering on her worried, scared-looking face. The pickup and motorcycle were parked nearby, and sleeping bags for Bearcat and Slam were spread on the ground, not far from the fire. The trees in close proximity to the makeshift campsite were widely spaced apart, but farther back they were more dense and more threatening.

Bearcat drew his pistol as he eyed five or six zombies that had emerged from the dark foliage.

Slam hurriedly unzipped and peed on the hot copper cable, making it steam and hiss.

Henry kept walking down the middle of the dark road, shining his flashlight. He kept looking left and right, in case any zombies stepped out from the tall weeds near the edge of the asphalt.

Suddenly a zombie came at him—a thirtysomething woman, short and round, about five-and-a-half feet tall and weighing around two-fifty. Her fat thighs were squeezed into large-sized jeans, and her arms were like sausages swelling out the short sleeves of a faded print blouse.

Henry backed up a couple of steps and pulled his long-shafted screwdriver out from under his belt. When the fat undead woman was only a foot away from him, he shined his flashlight in her eyes. Henry already knew that the undead were afraid of fire, and he was hoping that bright light scared them too. The woman tried to block the beam with her slow, clumsy hands. And when she raised her hands, half blinded, Henry clubbed her in her throat, and she gurgled and fell. She thudded onto the pavement, and Henry dropped his club and rammed his screwdriver blade deep into her right eye.

He stood back, the screwdriver still embedded, and watched, panting, as the thing flailed for a while and became still. Then he put his foot on her neck and pulled the screwdriver out of her eye socket.

He wiped the shaft on a tuft of grass at the side of the road.

Bearcat and Slam hurriedly strung the bare copper cable from tree to tree, encircling their campsite, and protecting all their belongings including the pickup and the motorcycle.

The zombies that had come out of the woods were getting really close now, moving stiffly and slowly, but rasping and drooling hungrily and menacingly.

One end of the cable was already connected to the generator terminal, and Bearcat let Slam pull the other end over to him, then he knelt and connected it, saying, “I sure hope this damn thing starts!”

Sally hoped the same thing. She had already been in terror of the two men, and now a pack of zombies had been added to the mix. Her eyes wide and darting, she wondered if she'd rather be raped and then shot, or ripped apart and devoured.

Bearcat yanked on the starter pulley, but nothing happened. He yanked again. And again. The motor backfired.

“Fuck!”
Slam swore. “Let's just lock ourselves in the pickup, Bearcat! We can let 'em feed on Sally here! Maybe that'd satisfy 'em enough.”

“Thought you wanted her to satisfy
you
. Anyhow, I got a powerful fuckin' urge to electrocute some of them things!”

He yanked on the pulley cable one more time, and the generator came to life with a satisfying purr.

Bearcat and Slam stood back, hefting their pistols and watching the zombies come ever closer. Sally watched too, hoping that what the men hoped would protect them, would actually do so.

Suddenly a loud
pfffft
! And they whirled to see a zombie behind them—a young undead boy that they had not noticed as he snuck up on them, then touched the hot wire. The boy was jerking and sizzling and erupting into flames, just like the one Sally electrocuted earlier in the bathtub.

Then a second and a third zombie hit the wire, and they too went up in sparks and flames.

The three electrocuted zombies tumbled and burned on the ground. And the rest of the zombies murmured and rasped, backing away.

Bearcat chortled triumphantly, tucking his pistol back in his belt.

Slam yelled, “They're leavin', Bearcat! You're a freakin' genius, by God!”

Sally woke up before the two men did and tried to think how she might be able to escape, even though she was still tied and gagged, with a ragged quilt thrown over her. She scanned the campsite, hearing birds chirping—which sounded extraordinary somehow, in the face of her situation—not to mention the purring generator sound that she hoped would continue to protect her. Evidence of its protection the night before was in the burned-up corpses lying outside the wire.

Bearcat and Slam were snoring in their sleeping bags.

And a big male zombie in a sweater and slacks was stepping out of the woods.

Sally hoped it wouldn't come any closer.

She didn't want to wake Bearcat and Slam, for fear that one or both of them would rape her, now that they felt protected by the cable and generator. They might figure they had plenty of time to “enjoy” themselves.

The zombie kept coming closer. Soon it was almost on top of her.

But the electrified cable would protect her. Wouldn't it?

The generator sputtered . . . kept on running for a few seconds . . . then died.

The zombie came closer.

Sally wanted to scream, but her mouth was dry from fear, and the squeak that came out was stifled by the gag.

The zombie reached for her—and fell over the “dead” cable.

It fell hard. Pulled itself up. Then, grunting and drooling, it rolled next to Slam in his sleeping bag.

Slam and Bearcat started to wake up—but too late for Slam, for the zombie was biting into his arm.

Slam screamed, and Bearcat yanked his pistol out and shot the zombie in its face. It reeled back and fell on its side, lying still.

Slam cried, “Oh, damn, damn,
damn! I'm bit!”

“Shoulda kept your leather jacket on,” Bearcat pontificated.

“Fuck you, you don't have yours on!” Slam cried. “Too fuckin' hot in the fuckin' sleeping bag!” Blood was pouring from his left forearm, and there were ugly teeth marks. Slam yanked his pistol from inside his sleeping bag, gripping it tightly in his right hand, and looked around as if he expected more zombies to come at him—but none were in sight.

Bearcat said, “You're gonna turn into one of them
things,
Slam!”

“
No!
I don't believe it! C'mere, have a look. How bad is it?”

Bearcat leaned in to have a look, and Slam cracked the barrel of his pistol down hard on Bearcat's wrist. Bearcat dropped his gun, and Slam said, “Back away, Bearcat! You ain't gonna shoot
me!
I'm gonna waste
you
first!”

Bearcat said, “What the hell's got into you? You already brain-dead?”

“See what I mean?” Slam answered. “You always treated me like your flunky, but you're scared of me now—what I might turn into. You'd waste me soon as my back was turned, like Bones and Drake.”

Bearcat tried to sound very sincere as he said, “Naw, man, they was already turned, and you ain't. I'll get you to a doctor, man. I know one who'll keep his mouth shut.”

“Thanks, but no thanks,” Slam told him. “So long, Bearcat, it's been nice knowin' ya.”

He fired twice in rapid succession, shooting Bearcat in the chest and head.

Bearcat gasped and fell dead.

Sally shrunk back in fear as Slam came over to her.

Then she thought she heard helicopter sounds in the distance somewhere, so faint that she wasn't really sure at first that she really had heard them. And Slam didn't even seem to notice. He was too preoccupied with his bleeding, zombie-bitten arm.

He said, “I'm gonna take your gag off, gal. But if you start screamin', I'm gonna drill ya. Understand me?”

She nodded, wide-eyed, and he untied the gag and dropped it onto the ground as he jammed his pistol up under Sally's throat. He said menacingly, “I gotta get this wound treated. You tell me where or I'll kill ya.”

She heard the helicopter sounds getting louder, but still Slam gave no hint he had heard them. She told him, “The hospital is—”

“No!” he barked. “I don't want no hospital! The cops'd love to get their paws on me. Shit! You hear that helicopter. It might even be them!”

Sally said, “There's a first-aid kit at my house. Iodine and bandages. It's not far.”

Slam pulled out a large switchblade knife and flicked the blade out.

Sally gulped and swallowed hard. She was afraid he was going to slit her throat now that he knew where to get the bandages and stuff.

But he said, “I'm gonna cut your hands and feet loose. And you better not try anything funny, bitch!”

She watched as he sliced through the ropes around her wrists and ankles, then she rubbed her wrists and moved her fingers, which had become stiff and sore.

Slam said, “Pick that bandana up! I want you to turn it into a tourniquet. Fasten it around my arm, a few inches above the teeth marks.”

Hesitantly, Sally obeyed, asking, “Right here?”

“No, a little farther up, about six inches. I'm hopin' this thing can be treated like a snakebite. Tourniquet might stop the poison from gettin' up to my brain.”

Sally doubted it but said nothing. She wanted Slam to maintain hope, because if he admitted he was surely going to die, he might take her with him.

“Hurry up!” he commanded. “Tie it tight.”

She did the best she could.

Then Slam said, “Let's go. Get in the truck. You're gonna drive. You better be a good little nurse and try to pull off some kinda miracle on me, 'cause if I don't shoot you before I die, I'll chomp on you afterward. No doubt in my mind about
that!”