Zombie Bitches From Hell (28 page)

“It was only a minute before his hydraulic
reproduction pod penetrated those buns and when he orgasmed his
machine oil into Michael, he blew him up from the inside, showering
the serene lake with bits of blood, colon and stool in a most
egregious fashion, startling a pair of mallards into flight and
making the fish jump for a hundred yards in every direction. It was
such a sad ending for our hero, but Terminator learned the dangers
of man-love and would never be a threat to humanity again, not if
he had anything to say about it. As the oboes and piccolos danced
their sad dance in my headphones, Terminator took what was left of
Michael and carried him to an old well nearby, tossing him in as a
tympani thrummed away and the music ended with three cymbals
crashing as the lifeless body fell down the shaft and landed in an
antique wheelbarrow that some wayward youths had dropped down a few
years earlier as a prank on a local pig farmer. Surely, no
cinematic scene could have been more profound. I dabbed at my tears
with the brittle end of my pillowcase and cursed my mother for
insisting on starching my bed linens. Jesus, they were stiff as a
priest’s collar and crunched all night long as I moved to the inner
rhythms of my sleep. I wish real life was more like the movies.

“I had started seeing my ex-wife, Susan,
again. Old loves die hard and while I had fallen in love with
Robert, Sue never left my heart, my achy, breaky heart which
creaked and groaned when I re-lived those moments with my childhood
sweetheart. Unfortunately, Robert had discovered my liaisons with
her by following me one day and seeing the two of us at a small
café in the village. We were only talking, but it might as well
have been a major doggie-style sex party on the sidewalk. Robert is
one of those ‘hold it in, then explode’ types so I was not prepared
when he cross-examined me that night as I lay in bed early
complaining of a headache. He caught me in the lie and when I told
him he should mind his own beeswax, he went temporarily insane. He
smashed his fist down on a glass cocktail table that I had lovingly
purchased at a designer close-out sale at Bloomies. The glass split
into large triangular shards and he picked one up, entered the
bedroom, and holding it like a dagger said, ‘I’m gonna cut your
fuckin’ heart out if I catch you cheating on me. Do you
understand?’ Well, of course I understood. I held the sheets
tightly under my chin as if that over-starched 400 count Egyptian
cotton could offer any sort of protection against a shard-wielding
queen on a jealous rampage. Even his slight lisp had vanished like
a blackbird in the night. The moments he spent looming over my
prostrate form seemed like hours. I’d thought he would never leave.
But eventually, the door to our apartment closed and I knew he had
gone for a walk to cool down and contemplate how he could make up
to me for being so violent.

“As I thought about it, I felt every inch
like Michael Biehn bathing in the lake. Robert was my Terminator
and I was filled with romantic notions of man love and how truly
repulsed I was when I saw Susan’s breasts in her tight-fitting
Gucci T-shirt. Those things are so gushy—yikes, nothing like a good
hard set of pecks on a real man. Governor Arnold, where art thou?
Art thou in the woods espying me? Robert? Robert, please return
unto me.

“I’m just a die-hard romantic, I guess. I put
on my headphones again and longingly listened to the love theme
from
Godzilla
. Oh sad Jurassic monster, come to me. Trumpet
your tragic growls. I am here. Needless to say, I slept soundly as
a log considering the world was coming to an end outside my
window.”

I’m thinking, what the fuck? when he says,
“Let’s walk to the theater. It isn’t but a few hundred feet away.
It’s a beautiful night.”

“Whatever you say.”

He takes me over to the building that used to
be one of the biggest attractions in P-Town, tells me how many
Broadway stars would do summer stock up here and on that stage.
Next door is a shuttered ice cream stand with the sign hanging off
at a forty-five degree angle. Uncle Benny’s Luscious Cream
Shop.

I walk back and forth in front of the
theater. Looks completed deserted; boarded up real tight. I don’t
want to seem too curious.

“This place must’ve been something in the
day,” I say.

“Yeah, used to be great. Let’s get going. I’m
tuckered.”

We get back in the Jeep and he drives me back
to the motel.

“Don’t suppose you need company tonight?” he
asks.

“No. I’m pretty tired. It’s been a long
day.”

“It’s been a long year,” he says.

“Thanks for the tour,” I say.

“Anytime.”

The Jeep disappears into the night and the
lull of distant waves and the smell of salt air surround me.

CHAPTER 23

The moon hasn’t risen yet and I’m thankful
for small favors. I can easily remember where the Brookstone Dinner
Theater is thanks to Terry’s tour. I stick to alleys and dark
corners, avoiding lighted windows. I can hear guys laughing as I
pass a house and see candles on a table, shadows moving and some
even dancing. Life goes on, I think to myself. The irony of these
guys being some of the last men on Earth is not wasted on me. I
hear the sound of a car behind me and duck behind a large stand of
dune grass near a tattered picket fence. It’s one of the jeeps on
patrol with its top down and two men sitting in it armed with
rifles. They have those over-top mounted searchlights and for a
second I think I’m spotted as the light catches me but the grass is
so thick and the breeze blowing it around is a perfect cover. It
goes by and I can hear Bruce Springsteen music on the CD player as
it passes. It turns at the next corner and the motor noise
diminishes to a whisper and then silence again. I walk hurriedly,
being extra careful to notice places I can quickly hide in.

The dead neon sign of the theater looms
against the black sky, heightened by the fact that the building
sits high on a sandy hill that drops off at a steep grade to the
water. I go under it and walk around the back looking for a way to
enter. Nothing. The backdoor is nailed shut with three pieces of
weathered plywood. The same for all the windows. The place is
tighter than a bank vault. If Jen was inside, she couldn’t get out.
If she had gotten out, she’d have been summarily shot; that was the
rule, wasn’t it? Ryan had made that amply clear. Any female seen on
P-Town ground was to be exterminated. Whatever foolish hopes I had
been holding onto all this time were for nothing. I sit up against
the back of the building and watch the small waves lap at the
shore, little furlings and unfurlings of black water against an
empty beach. I should be thinking about what to do next. Stay? Keep
moving? But to where and for what?

I start down the hill to the water and notice
about halfway down that there is a large drainpipe that opens onto
the hill. It’s about four feet in diameter and looks like a storm
drain. I’m thinking if any place needs storm drains, this is it.
The whole town is only a few feet above sea level. But this drain
does not lead toward a road but back to the theater. I take out my
flashlight and shine it inside. It’s dark as hell of course but
there is nothing in there; no standing water, not flotsam. Nothing.
Actually, it’s so clean it looks new. Why haven’t the P-Town
residents blocked this off? Maybe they checked the building already
and deemed it empty. Maybe they figured no one would bother wading
up a drainage pipe. They must be getting more comfortable than they
let on.

I crouch down and head into the pipe. The
flashlight beam glistens off the aluminum sides but gets blurry
straight ahead. Still, I continue and at the end the light catches
a small doorway, more like a hatch. I pull on the handle and it
slides open easily as if on well-oiled hinges. A smell of feces,
garbage and an indeterminate odor of rotting flesh makes me close
the door again. I turn and lean on it, rethinking things. Am I
insane? What am I supposed to find in here? But the answer is made
for me. The door is shoved open and two bitches leap out and grab
me, drag me back in, their grip on my arms like vices. My voice is
lost in the wind and the sand.

I’m dragged to what I am sure is my certain
death. The odor is overwhelming; rot, putrifaction, shit, cess;
every disgusting smell that humanity has ever encountered and a few
more for good measure. Now I know why no one came up this way.

“Why don’t you cunts get it over with and
kill me?” I ask real dramatic and all when, in fact, I have let go
a few ounces of piss into my pants. “Come’on, you fuckin’ bitches!
Come’on!” I even sound ballsy to myself. But they are most
definitely not listening.

I’m pushed through a door of an oak-paneled
saloon, something out of the roaring twenties or whatever they used
to call it. There are bitches standing like department store
mannequins all along the walls and some ten or so are sleeping in a
heap in a corner like cats. Most are naked, but it’s impossible to
get any more detail because it is so dimly lit.

A tall, dark-haired one enters the room from
an arched doorway. On either side of her are girls that stand at
least six feet tall, straight-haired and milky-eyed. They chatter
their teeth imperceptibly. The main bitch stops and the two side
bitches approach and pat me down. I go to kick one of them but her
hand grabs my leg feeling every bit as if a pit bull has clamped
his jaws on my thigh.

They then get on either side of me and hold
me by the arms and shoulders; feels like I’m tied to an oak
tree.

“Kent,” the head bitch says. “How nice to see
you.” Her voice is raspy like two pieces of sandpaper getting
rubbed together.

“How do you know my name?” I ask. Then it
dawns on me. Seconds pass. “Jen? Is that you?”

Tears run down my cheeks as I see the absence
of human light in Jen’s eyes. This whole trip has become
meaningless, and yet I would have gone crazy not knowing her fate
had I stayed back in Denver.

Jen is truly evolved, she’s one of the talkers.
She explains to me that the bitches are organized
along the lines of beehives only there are more “queen bees” than a
real hive, which has only one. She tells me that the hives are in
communication with each other but does not explain how and that
most of the zombies do not speak but respond to subtle non-verbal
signals given by the queens. It becomes obvious, as if it wasn’t
obvious long ago, that the bitches are taking over the Earth,
evolving into something powerful, albeit undead. I’m thinking this
is not necessarily a bad thing. After all, guys did a way less than
perfect job for the first ten thousand years or so.

“Jen, are you going to kill all the men?” I ask and
then realize it sounds like I’m pleading for my life which at this
point I don’t give two shits about. At least I’m thinking that but
you never know. People can bullshit themselves into temporarily
believing anything.

“Do you still love me?” I ask her. Holy crap, I
think, I never thought I’d ask such a lame question.

“Sure,” she says trying to take the sandpaper edge
off her voice and looking into my eyes. Those white, milky eyes
don’t say much but there is something there that ain’t good. “Of
course I do.”  I know for a fact that when you ask someone a
question with a yes or no answer, the “of course” is bullshit,
complete and total.

“Have the women taken over the whole Earth?” I
ask.

She looks at me as if to say, what’s it to you?

“Yes. We have left small islands for the men. We need
them. When the time for the circle to close arrives, things will be
different.”

She explains they attempt to keep at least ten
percent of the twenty to twenty-five year old bitches pregnant.

“But how do you get the guys…”  I ask forgetting
that most guys will fuck anything that moves. I had a friend named
Andy from Iowa who did sheep. Lots of guys do their dogs. It’s a
sick world but I’m not the one to judge.

“Let me show you,” she rasps. I follow her
into what was obviously a storage area. There are three wooden
tables dimly lit and on the tables are three guys each naked face
down. They are guarded by six bitches, two for each guy. There are
buckets full of stool and vomit at the edges of the room, a slop
sink and a neat row of plastic cups on a shelf near a sink. Jen
nods her head to one of the bitches who goes to the sink and lifts
a long neck beer bottle out of it.

The bitch with the bottle grabs a cup and
robotically goes to the guy on the left of the three. She signals
one of his guards who takes the cup from her and kneels down beside
the table and partly under it. I see then that the guy’s dick is
hanging through a hole in the table. She places the cup under his
dick while the first one inserts the long neck into his ass. He
groans but I can see he is too weak and too tied down with rope and
duct tape to move. She inserts the neck straight down and then
tilts it backward toward his feet slowly, working his prostate.
I’ve heard of this technique of course, hear it makes it harder to
resist if its worked the right way . The kneeling bitch starts
pulling his dick like she’s milking a cow and in maybe fifteen
seconds she has milked him of his cum in small ropey squirts while
he moans, perhaps a little more out of pain than ecstasy.

The cup is brought over to Jen, but as she
begins to look at it, an explosion rocks the place. Dust falls from
the ceiling. Then another. The bitches begin to run around madly,
with their insane chittering teeth and grunting, a few vomiting the
blackish ooze. Jen looks at me and slaps me so hard I fall to the
floor almost unconscious.

“What the fuck,” I say looking up at her as
sheet raises her booted foot as if to crush my skull. I roll out of
the way and it comes smashing down where my head used to be.