Horror Buffet : Six Servings of Tasty Terror
Date: 2012-10-07 05:00:00+00:00
Description: Six stories to satiate your horror craving. Three flash fiction pieces separate three short stories totaling nearly 14,000 words. Zombies, ghouls, vampires, and even a mysterious vigilante are presented for your pleasure. Excerpts from Resurrection X: Zombie Evolution published by Post Mortem Press are included.
Publisher: Mind Hemorrhage Press

Horror Buffet

Dane Hatchell

These stories are a work of fiction.  People, places, events, and situations are the product of the author’s imagination.  Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or historical events, is purely coincidental.

Copyright © 2014 Dane Hatchell

Cover Copyright © P.A. Douglas

All Rights Reserved.

No part of this story may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted by any means without the written permission of the author.

From Severed Press:

From Severed Press:

From Severed PRESS

Other Titles Available from the Author

Resurrection X: Zombie Evolution

A Gentleman’s Privilege: Zombies in the Old South

A Werewolf in our Midst

Apocalypse³

Club Dead: Zombie Isle

Dead Coup d'État

Dreaming of an Undead Christmas

It Came from Black Swamp

Lord of the Flies: A Zombie Story

Love Prevails: A Zombie Nightmare

Pheromone and Rotten

Red Rain

Soul Mates

The Garden of Fear

The Last Savior

The Turning of Dick Condon

Time and Tide: A Fractured Fairy Tale

Two Big Foot Tales

Two Demented Fish Tales

Zombies of Iwo Jima

Zombie God of the Jungle

Zombie’s Honor

Table of Contents

Do Unto Others

New Shoes

Need

Prison Bitch

How Do You Eat a Whole Human?

The Corn Has Eyes

The sun broke over the eastern horizon casting an orange glow on Reverend Flake’s small farm. The air was thick with moisture. Dew glistened on the grass and weeds grew in the crop fields. The nocturnal animals had bedded down for rest.

The Reverend started his daily chores well before sunup, sitting on an old wooden stool squeezing milk from his two cows into a metal bucket. After the cows had been watered and fed, he moved over to the chicken shack for the ritual egg gathering before having breakfast with his wife and daughter.

When the sun rose high enough for his tired old eyes to see, he hooked the yoke to his loyal mule and plow. With the snap of the bridle reigns the mule began his walk, turning the soil for the spring crops.

Reverend Flake’s only son was serving in the army, fighting Hitler in Germany. Several members of his flock had pledged the day before to come by and give him a hand. Planting was a daunting task for one man to take on alone.

Not one of the well intending had shown. He was disappointed, but understood. Their farms and families came first. In his heart, he felt God would provide. When the time was right, God always provided.

The earth gave way under the heavy iron plow turning clumps of grass roots to the sky, sending worms and insects scurrying from the light of day. Sweat formed on his brow as the day heated, and stung his eyes as the salt and grim trickled from his forehead.

As he paused a moment to dab his face with his handkerchief, his eyes focused on a man approaching from down the road. He had a long sack slung over his shoulder.

The Reverend squinted his eyes and shielded the sun with his forearm. This man was not one of his parishioners. In fact, he did not recognize him at all.

A tall, young man with broad shoulders greeted the Reverend with a cheerful smile. “Morin’, sir. My name’s, Pickings. James Pickens. They call me Jim.” He removed the straw hat from his head and held it to his chest.

The two shook hands. The man’s biceps bulged through his worn flannel shirt.

“Good to meet you, Jim. I’m, Reverend Flake. Reverend James Flake. I guess we got the same Christian name. Now, what brings you here, boy?”

“Well, sir. I’m working my way down south. I hear they needs some help in them oil fields. I’m looking to go down there for some steady work,” Jim said, with a gleam in his bright blue eyes. “Sir, I’ll give you a day’s hard work if you can feed me and put me up for the night. You don’t have to pay me or nothing. I’ll be on my way first thing tomorrow. Once I get to town, I figure I can hitch a ride.”

“Son, you don’t know it but you’re an answer to my prayers.” The Reverend slapped him on the arm. “You help me get my crop planted and I’ll make things right.”

Jim walked past the Reverend and grabbed onto the plow. He put his bottom lip under his teeth and made a whistle that startled the mule from its rest, and sent it plodding forward again. The Reverend retrieved a bag of corn from the barn and started planting in the newly tilled soil.

As the hours passed, the morning gave way to noon. Without much enticement, the Reverend convinced Jim it was time to rest a spell and break for lunch.

Back at the farmhouse, the two left their dirt encased boots on the front porch, and met the others in the kitchen.

“This here is my wife, Edna. That there is my daughter, Elisa,” the Reverend said.

Both women gave their cordial hellos. Jim politely retuned the greeting. His eyes fixated on Elisa, not sparing more than a half second glance at Edna. He was so enchanted a shotgun fired by his head would have gone unnoticed.

Elisa was dressed in a sheer white blouse that contoured to her ample bosoms. Her aging denim skirt hung well above her knees, exposing her long legs, firm calves, and perfect feet.

The Reverend closed one eye and raised one brow. This boy was just like all the others, smitten by the sin of lust for his daughter.

The three sat down to a lunch of ham and biscuits, with fig preserves on the side. They washed the meal down with fresh cold milk. Jim dominated the conversation, asking three questions for every one asked of him.

Jim’s eyes darted around the room as he spoke. The Reverend found his shiftiness curious. He excused it for being nervous around Elisa. Eventually, Jim calmed down and relaxed.

Unknown to them, Jim was looking for something in particular. Something that most people had in their kitchen. A jar. A special jar. A jar that contained cash money. Jim spotted it in a corner of a top shelf behind a ceramic rooster. The rooster had dried butter beans glued to it to look like feathers.

There were other odd knick knacks made from vegetables in the kitchen and throughout the house. After lunch, Jim inquired about them.

“Oh, that’s Elisa’s art. She uses vegetables from the garden. See that picture right there,” the Reverend pointed to a wall in the living room. “The cows, the pasture, the whole picture is made from beans.”

Jim walked up to the picture. Sure enough. Elisa had glued hundreds of painted beans to a canvas, producing a somewhat realistic scene.

She sure is talented,” Jim said. “As talented as she is pretty.”

The Reverend pulled Jim aside, and whispered, “Look, son. Don’t be getting too close to her. She looks sweet and innocent, but she’s unstable. You know what I mean?”

Jim stared back blankly. No, he didn’t know what the Reverend meant. And figured it was just the Reverend’s way to scare him away from his daughter.

“Don’t doubt me, boy. She’ll hurt you. You do as I say. Now, let’s get back to work. Daylight’s burning.”

Jim had hurt a few young girls along the way in his lifetime. A few wives too. He left them all with broken hearts. He knew better than to let the tables turn on him.

The day melted into evening, and the evening into night. The two men retired from the field, and the four shared supper together. They passed the night with storytelling until the tiredness of the day set in.

Jim was to bed down in the room attached to the woodshed. Edna provided him with clean sheets, a pillow, and a blanket for a comfortable stay.

While he prepared his bed, he saw Elisa though his window. She was in the house, in her room, by her window looking up into the sky at the full moon. Her long blond hair covered her left bosom. He swore he could make out the naked image of her right tit through her thin nightgown.

The water pump in front of his room and a towel and bar of soap on the chest-of-drawers gave him an idea. He was going to set a trap and make himself the bait. Off came his shirt to the floor, followed by his pants and underwear. Jim went outside and posed by the pump.

Pretending he was not aware of Elisa, he pumped a pail full of well water, dipped the soap in it, and lathered up in the cool night air. The moonlight glistened off his nude chest as he flexed and tightened his muscles as to work out the soreness of day.

He chanced a peek toward Elisa’s window. He was surprised she was no longer there. He didn’t know if he had embarrassed her or if his plan had worked, and she was sneaking outside to see him.

Thoughts that she might have gone to tell the Reverend he was acting lewdly outside her window made him worry he might have acted hastily. He realized he needed to stop listening to the little head between his legs and forget about the girl. He needed to just take the money and run.

Jim dried off and returned to his room, blew out the candle, and got in bed. Elisa never showed up, but thankfully neither did the Reverend. It was too early to put his plan in action, so he closed his eyes and drifted off to sleep.

He awoke to crickets chirping and looked at his watch. It was after 2 AM. Time for him to make his move.

After dressing and sneaking across the yard, he entered the kitchen through the back door. The old wooden floors creaked underneath his feet. Ever so slowly he moved, step by step, until he reached the corner, and stood on his toes to get the jar behind the ceramic rooster.

The metal top scraped against glass as he twisted it off. The noise sounded ten times louder in the calmness of night. He resumed his task more slowly, until the lid came off in his hand. In all, he counted over eighty dollars in the jar. It was probably the life savings of the humble Reverend.

Placing the jar back on the shelf, Jim was nearly to the door when he heard Elisa whisper his name.

Jim froze in his tracks. His mind raced. He turned and saw her holding a candle a few feet away. “Oh. Hi, Elisa,” he said softly. “I . . . I couldn’t sleep. Came for a glass of milk to help.”

She turned her head to the side. “I’ll get you one.”

Seeing her voluptuous figure pressing against her nightgown made his little head influence his better judgment once again. “Say, get you one too, and we’ll have it outside under the stars.”

After she poured the milk, he took her by the hand and led her out. Jim leaned close by Elisa’s side, letting her hand go, and then slipped an arm around her waist.

“Are you happy here? Living with you Ma and Pa?” Jim asked.

“Why wouldn’t I be happy?” she asked.

“Life on a farm can be hard. You ever get a hankering to go to a big city? Maybe you should go to Hollywood. You’re pretty. You could be a star,” Jim said.

“Hollywood is sin city, my Pa says. Only a Jezebel would parade herself that way across the big screen.”

Jim finished his milk, took Elisa’s glass from her hand, and set both on the ground. “Why don’t you come away with me? I ain’t going to Hollywood. I’m going down south to work. You could come with me. We could get married and have children.”

“Pa says I can’t get married. He says I’m cursed, and that I’ve got to live out here on the farm for the rest of my days,” Elisa said, without emotion.

“Cursed? Why the only curse I see is that he’s got you hoodwinked on staying here. You’re young and beautiful. You need to leave your parents, just like Adam and Eve’s kids left them. Be fruitful and multiply or something like that.”

Elisa frowned. “You shouldn’t be talking such nonsense. That’s the Devil talking.”

“The Devil talking? Why, I tell you what, I saw you looking at me when I was bathing out here. You liked what you saw. I know you did. I know women, and I know you want me.”

Elisa took a step back. “Jim! What kind of girl do you think I am?”

Jim stepped toward her and gazed intently. “I can see with my own two eyes what kind of girl you are. Now, why don’t you come on into my room? I can make you feel real good.”

Elisa turned her head from one side, then the other. “Pa says, if thy eye offends you, pluck it out.” She reached in a pocket of her nightgown, and pulled out a kitchen knife.

Jims face lit up in surprise. The moonlight reflected off the blade as she thrust it up under his left eye and into his brain.

*          *          *

“What are you making there, Sweetheart?” the Reverend asked Elisa as she was working on a project at the kitchen table.

“I’m making a jacket for my People-corn,” she said, tying a knot in the last stitch and biting it in two. “There. I’m finished.

“People-corn, what’s that?” he asked.

She got up from the table and went to the kitchen sink. An ear of corn lay on a towel next to it, a small pair of pants wrapped on the bottom end. With her back to her Pa, she put the jacket around the mid-section and straightened the clothing out. “There, it’s finished. What do you think? Ain’t he pretty?” She turned around and held the People-corn for him to see.

Adorned to look like a miniature human, the ear of corn was complete with two of the bluest human eyes pinned to the top end, just under a tiny straw hat.

The Reverend shook his head and said to himself, “I warned that boy.” Working the field would have to wait. He had another grave to dig behind the barn.

The End

Do Unto Others

Nick Ott wanted to shut his eyes and blank out the image of the room and the implements used to inflict his suffering. Not that closing his eyes would do anything to quench the pain. He grasped for any type of relief from the excruciating agony his entire body had been suffering.

His anguish was so intense he could not remember what normal felt like. The constant abuse kept his mind impaled to each succeeding second. He hoped if he could just close his eyes that somehow he could recall memories of pleasant times or create a fantasy that offered some respite. To somehow distract himself by blocking the images of the ghastly devices that were used on him as if he were a corpse on an autopsy table.

Never had he imagined the panoply of pain the body was capable of feeling. He was in horrid wonder of the creative methods of his torture. Such ingenuity, as one area of nerves became overloaded to the point of numbness another set would be targeted to overwhelm. The pain continued to be fresh. The pain continued to be unique.

Nick thought about death, the various ways to die. Drowning had always terrified him. The thought of not being able to breathe used to break him out in a cold sweat. Burning at the stake would engage every pain nerve in the body. He had feared death by fire the worst. However, the pain the blow torch brought to his genitals while it roasted to a black crisp lasted longer than if his whole body had been doused in gasoline and ignited. How he wished he had been set on fire. His life would be over now.

Nick never imagined finding himself in such a predicament. Events such as these happened in ancient times, or by ruthless military regimes in backward countries. The portrayals of sadist capturing and torturing people were nothing more than fictitious creations of authors and movie directors, designed to sell the next book or the next sequel to the movie.

What demented mind thinks like this? he wondered. His body felt fresh waves of pain as his mind uncontrollably recalled the abuse endured.

The knife used to split his tongue in half was dull and chipped. Nick had felt the cold blade as it traveled every individual millimeter. Blood mixed with saliva drooled down his chin, dripping down to the floor like unholy rain.

Through the haze of shock he wasn’t able to identify the next tool his abuser chose from the table; an odd device that resembled a pear with a long threaded screw on the end. Nick winced in anticipation of being bludgeoned by it. Instead, the man stepped behind him, and he heard the sound of liquid squirting from a bottle. He was unprepared as the pear shaped object was shoved deep into his rectum. Burning pain shot through his groin area. If the sodomy alone had not been severe enough, the outside halves of the pear widened at the turning of the screw. The pain grew exponentially, until he felt as if his bowels pushed up to his throat.

Nick had heard of death by one thousand cuts. He wished so badly that it had come true. His captor used a box cutter with the barest of blade exposed to make tiny cuts over his entire body. Surely he had been cut a thousand times ten. Every cut a sharp maddening pain, fresh each slice. Over and over again, until it felt like an army of ants consumed him one bit of flesh at a time.

Other things had been done to him. With hammers, with saws, clamping tools, and pointed objects of every variety. Toes crushed, soft tissue mashed, cuts as deep as bone itself. His captor was thorough, ensuring that each individual fingernail on both hands had its own sliver of bamboo shoved underneath.

Nick’s throat was sore from constant screaming and so dry that if given the chance he would cut his wrist to drink his own blood, and invite the darkness of death to comfort him.

His torturer had told him the reason for his unfortunate fate, but he could no longer remember. The cruel man now sat across the room with elbows propped on the arms of an ornate mahogany chair, enjoying a cigarette. The stale smoke mixed with the metallic smell of blood and the pheromones of fear.

As he hung by his arms from chains attached to the ceiling, Nick went to speak—to beg the man for mercy once again. Whether the mercy came in the form of being released or a swift end to his life he didn’t care anymore. He hadn’t cared for a long time if he lived or died. He only wanted relief.

His torturer stood from the chair and adjusted the arms of his dark suit. He walked to the table of implements and chose what Nick thought was a pair of pliers. He was mistaken.

The man seemed refreshed, eager to return to his work. With the fish skinners in hand, he maliciously peeled the sin off of Nick’s entire body, starting at the face. Most strips were small, the tiny cuts having weakened the tension of skin. As the skin peeled off, the man dusted the exposed dermis with table salt. It added to the pain, and minimized the much needed blood to preserve consciousness.

With his laborious task complete, the man stepped back to admire his new creation. He acted very pleased.

A full length mirror in its black stain stand decorated with chrome knobs faced the wall next to the chair. The man carefully retrieved it and moved it in front of his victim. He positioned it so the victim could see the masterful artwork he had created.

Nick saw the image. At first his mind couldn’t grasp the reflection was of a human being, much less that he was looking at himself.

Despite all the horrors he had experienced, seeing himself reached a hidden part in his mind and snapped the last bit of remaining sanity.

Hoarse laughter gurgled from Nick’s throat as he twisted his body with new found strength.

Realizing his victim was beyond the threshold of pain, the man made two incisions on Nick’s abdomen with a surgical knife. The intestines fell to the floor in a bloody mess. The man tied the large intestine around Nick’s neck and removed one of the chains from around his wrist. Tying the intestine to the free chain, the man then pushed a button on the wall which lifted the chain and tightened the intestine around the Nick’s neck, cutting the air from his lungs completely.

*          *          *

“Hey, handsome. Looking for a date?” the small framed woman asked, after the clomp of her six inch heels on the pavement came an abrupt halt.

A thin faced man propped against the window of a poorly lit jewelry store. His black derby shadowed his eyes but did nothing to conceal neither his large nose nor the festering sore on its tip. He made no attempt to look in the direction of the woman’s voice.

Even in the night the paleness of the woman’s skin was evident. Skin that hadn’t seen the light of day for months, if not years. Her deep purple blouse plunged at the neckline revealing flat sagging breast and the outline of her ribcage. She chewed gum in rhythm with her heartbeat, shifted her weight to her left knee, twirled her jet black hair with her finger, and waited for an answer.

The man was as motionless as a mannequin. He dressed in a black wool suit with perfect fit and fine detail. The two-button jacket sported thin lapels, four-button cuffs, and front flap welt pockets.

A match exploded in yellow flame directly in front of his face and cast aside to the ground after lighting the cigarette. The man took a long drag from the cancer stick and offered the woman one from the pack held in his other hand.

The woman took the cigarette without a word and pulled a lighter from the side of her handbag, and set it burning. Taking a puff, she asked, “You want to go down the alley or back to a room?”

The man tilted his head back, and their gazes met. His gaunt face and thin mustache made her left eye twitch in repulsion.

The man’s eyes widened. The frozen features on his face contorted in animation. “My child, it is a dark and dreary night. A time of night not fit for men of respect or women of virtue. Has life not offered you many paths? Is not the world teaming with opportunity? How is it that you have become a random piece of debris floating down a river of human sewerage?”

An unusual feeling overtook the woman. Cold fear laced its damp tentacles around her insides. Her mind told her to run, but her legs were somehow paralyzed by the mysterious man’s presence. An engulfing power surrounded her, and penetrated her mind. It was if he were reading her past of all hidden sins.

“Speak,” was all the man said.

Like a repentant child, the woman confessed. “I’ve been scared all my life. I’ve been afraid that no one loved me. Not my parents. Not my friends. No one. I was a burden to my parents as a child. My father never wanted me, and my mother resented me because of it. I was always in the way. Always a wedge between them and the other things they wanted in life,” the woman paused. Tears trickled down her face and dripped off her chin. “But I tried. Really. I tried to make them love me. I listened to what they said. I did everything they wanted me to do. I just wanted them to love me. But it was never enough.” She stopped as her tears turned to sobs.

She wiped her face with her hand and sniffed back snot, took another puff from her cigarette, and composed herself. “I tried to win friends, but all they did was take advantage of me. I tried to get men to love me, but all they did was use me and throw me away. I had no one,” she paused again. “No one! Do you hear? No one!”

“Yet I find you on the street. You are certainly with purpose now. You are no longer alone, are you?” the man asked.

“No . . . not since I met, Raoul.” She lowered her head and formed a bitter smile. “I showed up in this town off a bus with nothing. He took me in and took care of me.” The woman looked back up at the man. “He had me believing that he loved me. But he was no better than the rest.” She resisted tears. “Who are you? Why am I telling you all this?”

The man gave her a gentle smile. “My dear, I am, Judgment. Destiny has chosen you this night and will change the course of your life.”

“Look, Mister. If I don’t bring enough money back to Raoul, he’s going to change the course of my life by ending it.”

“Then I will grant you the power of judgment over Raoul.”

The sadness on the woman’s face twisted to anger. “Mister, if that were true then I would make that man pay in so many different ways. Sometimes I want to rip his throat out and chop him into pieces. If I had that power I would get my revenge.”

“Perhaps,” Judgment turned his head to the right and looked at the night sky. “Perhaps not,” and turned his head to the left.  Looking directly at the woman, he reached out and grabbed her hand.

The world through the woman’s eyes changed from the dark streets to a time past where a young boy the age of ten was on the porch of a rundown house, peering through a window. The woman walked up behind the boy to see what he was watching.

It was a woman sitting in a chair giving oral sex to a man. When the man finished, he handed the woman some money. The man was replaced by another, and the woman continued her sordid act.

The woman sensed that this boy was Raoul, and the woman was his mother.

The scene changed inside the house. Raoul was now inside and the woman watched his mother suffer a beating from a man. The scene changed from one man to another. It was obvious that the abuse had been over a long period of time and with numerous men. More than she cared to count. Raoul’s mother suffered at the hand of the men she brought into her life. Raoul had learned to disrespect women from his mother’s treatment.

Judgment let go of her hand. The woman’s eyes now filled her mind with the world of the present.

“Raoul may be a perpetrator of vile acts, but he too is a victim of abuse,” Judgment said.

The woman shook her head. “I didn’t know. I never thought of it that way.”

“The time of judgment is at hand. What is the fate that you choose for, Raoul?”

Her eyes weary now, she said, “Raoul is just a sad man caught up in a crappy environment. Who knows what he would be like if his life had been normal? I don’t like what he has become. I can’t hurt him though. I . . . I can’t make him pay that way. If only I could break out of the cage I’ve grown into. I wish that for Raoul, too.”

“So as you judge.” Judgment tipped his hat, turned, and walked away.

A fat brown envelope lay on the sidewalk where Judgment had stood. The woman bent cautiously forward and lifted it from the ground. Inside was a stack of crisp one hundred dollar bills, all right side up, and facing the same direction.

She stopped counting at ten thousand dollars. Destiny had certainly changed her life.

*          *          *

Raoul awoke in a large cold room hanging by his arms from chains connected to the ceiling. The room smelled of vomit, feces, and putrid meat. He swallowed to keep the bile down as it rose up in the back of his throat.

His last thoughts were of talking to a strange man. Someone that he would not normally become engaged in a conversation with. He couldn’t help himself though. The man had approached him, and Raoul had been compelled to answer his questions.

Raoul’s feet barely touched the floor. His arms were becoming numb from the blood struggling to flow its way up. He twisted himself around and looked about the room.

A chair and a mirror were to one side of a wall. A table with industrial tools and what looked like surgical instruments to his right, a rusty door behind him. The concrete floors were stained in black and auburn, and felt greasy under his feet.

The door creaked open. He spun around in hopes of salvation. It was the well-dressed man, the last person he had spoken to.

His immediate reaction was to curse and demand to be freed. But something about the presence of the man made him hesitate. It wasn’t fear. It was uncertainty. The man emanated a power Raoul felt he wasn’t worthy to challenge. He hung silent, and waited for the man to make his move.

Judgment made his way from behind Raoul, set a bottle of water on the table next to a claw hammer, and stood before his victim as he lit a fresh cigarette. He took a deep draw as the match lit the end, and blew out a stream of smoke toward Raoul.

“You may speak,” he said.

The grip of reverence loosened enough for Raoul to find his voice. “Let me down from here. Please.”

Judgment lifted his eyebrows. “I’m sorry. I can’t do that. You are here by your own decision.”

Raoul heard the words, but they made no sense. He didn’t ask to come here, yet there was a connection to the conversation with the man and the reason why he was here. What was it that happened before he blacked out?

He remembered he and the man were talking. Talking about problems—business problems. A territorial dispute with a Russian rival spilled over into his business district. The man had taken hold of his hand and his mind was transported back and viewed the Russian’s life growing up. When his mind returned to the present, the man had asked him to make a choice.

Raoul’s face lit up as he remembered. “Wait. You got it wrong. I said I wanted to make that Ruskie son-of-a-bitch suffer and die. He’s messing things up for me big time. What’s all of this? Why am I here? I ain’t done nothing to deserve this.”

Judgment searched the implements on the table and chose a pair of tweezers and surgical scissors. “I’ve already told you why you are here.”

He reached with the tweezers and pulled Raoul’s right eyelid forward and snipped it off with the scissors. Through the cries of protest, he repeated the action on the left side.

“There. Now you won’t be able to miss any of the excitement,” Judgment said.

“You’re crazy! Don’t do this. Please!” Raoul’s bowels quivered and cold fear made his whole body tingle. Why was this man doing this? What reason did he give? He couldn’t remember. “Why? Just tell me why?”

“So as you judge. So shall you be judged.” Judgment selected a stainless steel surgical knife from the table and started working on his next creation.

The End

New Shoes

Michael,

I can hardly bring myself to write this. So much has happened so fast. I wish you were here. I need you so bad. This is the third time I'm attempting to send this message. I finally have enough bars on my phone that I feel it should make it.

We had to leave Chalmette. Things just went from bad to worse. I don't know what you know about the situation over here. God knows we don't know what's happening where you are in Afghanistan.

The story hit the news that the dead were clawing out of their graves on April 1st. April first! Isn't that ironic? Fucking April fool's day! I was half asleep when I watched the news that night. It reminded me about last year's fake story that reported Taco Bell bought advertisement rights to the Liberty Bell and was renaming it the Taco Liberty Bell.

But the living dead story was still on the next day. I didn't understand how this could be happening. I still don't.

All of this is madness. I'm so depressed. There is so much you need to know. I don't know how to tell you. Please, please, please, brace yourself.

Kenny and Marsha brought their kids over to your Mom and Dad's so we could deal with this thing together. Your Mom went hysterical when she saw Mrs. May on television news. She and Mrs. May had been friends since they were in high school. Mrs. May had been dead for just three weeks and Mom recognized her immediately. As if seeing her wasn't bad enough, May’s head exploded from a shotgun blast right there on TV. Your Mom fainted when she saw that. But it may have been worse than that. She made have had a stroke then. We didn't have time to take her to the doctor.

I tell you this because your Mom died a few hours later. I'm sorry.

It happened during the night. We were all packed up ready to leave at the first light of day when the dead broke into the house. It was more terrifying than you can imagine.

Kenny and your Dad were well armed. I never knew your brother was such a good shot. You can only kill those bastards by shooting them in the head. Sometimes you have to shoot them twice.

It was during the first attack that your mother stopped breathing. When I noticed I tried to give her CPR but she had no pulse, and never took another breath. Your Dad didn't even get to tell her goodbye. He was too busy protecting us.

Another gang of undead came before sunup. We survived that. But just as we loaded up the van, Kenny and your Dad were loading your Mom in the back when one of them snuck up and bit your Dad on the arm. Kenny killed it with his pistol.

The bite didn't look bad. We put alcohol on it and a bandage. But not more than an hour later he started to go into convulsions. We stopped on the side of the highway and laid him down on a blanket. His body shuddered, and then he went completely crazy. His eyes were blood red, and he snarled like a wild beast. He wouldn't stay away from us. Kenny was forced to shoot him.

It was horrible. It doesn't even seem real when I put it into words. The children saw it all.

Barksdale Air Force Base is a hundred miles from where we are now. We're going to try and make it there. Kenny figures it's our best chance. I do too.

I don't know how to tell you this. I've been avoiding it but you must know. Michael Jr. was asleep in your old bedroom during the first attack. The zombies broke in through the window and entered the house that way. I was in the kitchen with the other adults.

I feel like it was my fault. I should have been there. He was so sweet. So innocent. He didn't deserve what happened to him. There was almost nothing left to his body by the time we got to him. I can only hope and pray that he went quickly. I can't bear to think of our little baby suffering. I never even got to take a picture of him wearing his first pair of shoes.

Don't hate me. I love you. I need you to be here with me.

-Katy

Need

Zelda had spent most of the first twenty years of her life alone. Not to mean that she was on an island somewhere void of human contact. She was alone in the world of normal.

The world of normal walked in step to the same beat: fashions of the season, tunes on the radio, slang language of the day. Her ascent into puberty was a stairway straight into isolation. The girls around her changed, becoming creatures of beauty, passion, and mirth. While she stood on the outskirts of notoriety, hidden in plain sight as boys looked past her as if she weren’t even there.

The four walls of her room became her refuge and the only friends she had were the books on the shelf. She filled the emptiness inside with food. Anything in plastic wrap or a can would do. It was the void she needed to satisfy, not the palate.

Her life came to a defining moment in the summer between high school and college when she took a stroll down one of the less traveled hiking paths at the state park.

Zelda had been walking with her mind lost in a dull gray world of her creation, on a path at the bottom of small hill. She heard screams of agony from nearby and froze in mid-step. It almost sounded animal like and made the skin on the back of her neck tingle. As the cries of anguish faded, she distinctly heard, “Help me,” from a withering voice.

Her sense of obligation won over her fears. She made the slow trek up the hill.

A handsome boy near her age lay in the middle of a spray-painted pentagram. His clothes looked fairly new and clean. Not even a hair was out of place on his head. It was as if he had lain on his back to take a nap. An odd looking ceramic pitcher set to his left side and a small fire burning in a bowl to his right. A tattered leather bound book next to him was open to a page with yellow highlighted passages.

Zelda could tell just by looking that he was dead. His body was no longer surrounded by the aura of life. She had never been around a dead body before and was surprised she wasn’t more afraid.

The wind blew her hair across her face. She brushed it out of the way while gingerly stepping toward him. Once by his side, she knelt down between the book and his body.

The wind kicked up again. The pages in the book flipped as if an unseen force rapidly turned them. She picked the book off of the ground and opened it where a thin red ribbon was sandwiched between the pages.

The words looked familiar and foreign at the same time. Scanning them quickly, she guessed the writing was Latin. The passages highlighted in yellow intrigued her. She placed her index finger under the first word and began to read aloud, “atrum sol solis orior oriri ortus, incendia est frigus, orbis terrarum inter mihi nex, ortus est totus.

The foul smell of sulfur bit at her nostrils. Acid welled in her throat. She became short of breath and forcefully inhaled to fill her lungs. A sense of power flooded through her body. It was as if her brain had been fractured all of her life and something inside was shoving everything into place.

Zelda placed her hand on the boy’s left cheek. The coolness of his skin moved her in an unnatural way. Something unknown to her conscious mind drew her nearer to him. As their faces met, she realized it was the unique smell of death pulling her. With her face just inches from his, she closed her eyes and breathed in slowly and deeply. She opened her eyes and marveled at the hue of his pale cheeks and red-blue lips. She felt her warm breath bounce off his cheek and back into her nostrils. It filled her with want and desire.

She placed her lips softly on his and gave him a gentle kiss. Her eyes swelled with tears.

She kissed him again. Harder this time. First on his lips, and then on his cheek. She then dragged her open mouth and tongue across his face until her face was sliding in wetness against his.

Zelda bit his lower lip and severed it from his mouth. She chewed the lip slowly, letting the taste of his dead flesh roll over her tongue, savoring the texture and flavor of the raw meat.

What she was doing was one of the greatest taboos in human society. But there was nothing in her mind telling her what she was doing was wrong. Nothing in her mind screaming that this was madness and to stop.

She swallowed the lip and wiped the spittle from her chin with the back of her hand. Chewing through his cheek proved to be more difficult. Her teeth were unaccustomed to tearing through fresh meat. The cheek had a different texture than the lip, but it was equally as pleasing.

Zelda fed until she could eat no more. Then, cleaned herself up as best as she could with tissues from her purse. Rationality returned, and she had fled the scene thinking that her life would forever be changed. For the better.

*          *          *

The demon that had entered Zelda during that lazy summer afternoon was comfortably hidden in her subconscious. It relished the experience of inhabiting a host and to walk among the living again, and more importantly, feed on the dead.

Drifting through the eons, the demon had witness the advancement of man. And much to its displeasure, the modern day burial practices had made feeding more difficult. No longer was its host able to raid a remote cemetery under the cover of darkness and pull from a shallow grave a tender, fetid corpse. Modern security and science with all its rank chemicals made its age old practice of eating cadavers a thing of the past. But its hunger still had to be satisfied.

Zelda applied her eyeliner and finished with a coat of lip gloss on her pouty lips. When she looked in the mirror, it no longer reflected the unkempt, self-loathing societal reject of two years before. Her radical new diet and exercise regimen had brought out the hidden features of her natural beauty. Instead of attending college, Zelda enrolled in a nursing program that allowed her to work off hours in the hospital to support herself until she earned a degree.

A lot of things had changed over the two years. The taste for testosterone rich meat gave way to that of estrogen. Her supply of meat from her last victim was gone. Tonight she hoped to rectify the situation. It was Saturday night and all the lesbian bars would be full of adventurous, loose women waiting to find solace in another’s gentle arms.

Zelda slipped on a pair of her sexiest shoes and checked herself in the full length mirror one last time. She wanted to look as desirable as she could. A ghoul’s gotta eat, you know.

*          *          *

Zelda met Caroline on the dance floor. The blaring music in the dark bar with the rays of cascading colored lights dulled the senses. The alcohol didn’t hurt either. Zelda had been careful not to drink too much and had been nursing a mojito since she had arrived. She put on her most extroverted party face and danced alone, looking like an unattached carefree girl that was easy to meet.

Caroline had danced her way toward Zelda. Despite the darkness, Zelda was mesmerized when Caroline looked at her with those large eyes through long lashes. Her full face was framed by high cheekbones and her wide mouth made her look . . . delicious.

The two danced a few songs together until they were dancing close enough for their bodies to touch. The connection was made. Caroline took Zelda by the hand and led her to a table away from the distracting music on the dance floor.

The two had spent almost an hour talking. They were on their second drink together, complements of Zelda. She had made the trips to the bar to get herself a mojito—minus the rum—and a drink for Caroline too. She added a little rohypnol she stole from the hospital to Caroline’s first drink.

Zelda had been waiting for the eyelids on those large beautiful eyes of Caroline’s to droop. So far, she hadn’t shown any effects of the drug. Zelda would usually be driving her victim home by now and wondered if the drug was past its expiration date.

The bar was packed with plenty of available women. Which made a petite, young blonde two table’s away stand out from the rest. She was alone, looking out of place. Zelda felt her staring at them with more than a common interest.

“What is it with that girl over there,” Zelda tipped her head to her left.

Caroline took a sip of her drink and darted her eyes in that direction. “Oh, I’ve seen her before. Her name is Rachel somethingorother. In the past, she and another couple of guys would protest in front of the bar carrying signs. Just a bunch of holy-rollers trying to stir up trouble. I’ve been seeing her come here alone recently. She doesn’t mingle, and she doesn’t drink. I think that she’s just confused about her own sexuality and doesn’t know how to deal with it.”

Zelda smiled and took Caroline by the hand. “So, my lovely, do you think she’s stalking you?” Zelda let go of her hand. “Your hand is like ice.”

“Sorry, I’ve been holding my mojito with that hand,” Caroline said, looking down at the table. She closed one eye and thought for a moment. “You know, I have been seeing that girl out a lot lately. Not just here. I thought it was just a coincidence, but now I’m not so sure. Maybe she is a stalker.”

Zelda shot a stern glance at the blonde. “I don’t know, but she’s starting to creep me out.”

“Then why don’t we go back to my place? I have locks on my door,” Caroline said, smiling.

Zelda smiled back, everything but the drug kicking in was going to plan.

*          *          *

Caroline parked her car in the garage, opened the car door for Zelda, and then the door into her house. “Won’t you please come in?”

There was something in the tone of Caroline’s voice that made Zelda hesitate for a moment. Caroline’s expression beckoned her to enter. Zelda stepped over the threshold hurriedly, fearing she might be perceived as being rude.

The door opened into the living room. It was tastefully decorated with dark wood and leather furniture. It gave Zelda the feeling of stepping back in time where old British men would go to sip after dinner drinks and smoke cigars.

Zelda heard the jingle of keys and the mechanical sounds of lock cylinders turning and bolts sliding into place. There was something final in the way the locks clicked. A hollow sound as if a vault had been shut. Zelda started to feel vulnerable, unlike the predator she had learned to become.

“What’s the matter, Zelda? You’re not having second thoughts are you?” Caroline said as she removed her shoes. She walked in bare feet slowly toward Zelda and held her with the embrace of her penetrating gaze.

Zelda’s wide eyes softened as she relaxed. “No . . . .”

Caroline kissed her gently. Zelda stood with her eyes closed and her mouth open as Caroline pulled away, and let her dress drop off her shoulders and then down to the floor. Dark makeup had hidden the true color of her skin. Her naked body was pale and lifeless. Zelda was in a trance and didn’t feel compelled to ask why.

Caroline led Zelda into the bedroom and removed her clothing. The bed was covered in clear plastic. The plastic crinkled and pulled at Zelda’s skin as Caroline laid her down.

“Here, let me go down on you first.” Caroline grinned evilly. Her canine teeth grew longer. She slid her face down to Zelda’s thighs and pulled them apart. Caroline placed her mouth between her legs and punctured a femoral artery. She drank deeply. Blood pulsed in to her mouth with each heartbeat.

Three loud banging noises followed a crash from the rear of the house. Caroline was fixated on her primordial need to feed and reluctantly tore herself away from her nightly meal.

Boots pounding wooden floors in the hall sent Caroline springing up from bed. The light in the bedroom clicked on, and she was face to face with three intruders. All dressed in black military camouflage.

Caroline gave them a hiss—showing her blood stained fangs. Zelda awoke from her trance and cried out in surprise.

Rachel, the blonde from the bar, followed two men. One of the men stepped away from the others and pointed a neon green plastic Super-Soaker water gun at Caroline and wet her down.

She wiped the water from her face with her hand and crossed her arms. “Let me guess. Holy water, right? And you added garlic juice. Now that is some stinking ass shit.”

The man with the Super-Soaker took a step back and turned to the other man behind him.

“Look what you’ve done to my floors. This is real ebony wood. Do you have any idea how much it cost?”

The man tossed the water gun aside and charged Caroline, with the other man following closely on his heels. Caroline brushed the rushing man away like he was an insect, slamming him against the wall. But the other man surprised her when he raised a short silver spear with a sharp wooden point on the end. He drove the spear into her chest and pinned her against the wall.

“Are we too late? Has the girl been drained?” Rachel asked.

“She looks alive. Go see about her. Looks like the vamp is still alive too,” the second man said. The spear had missed Caroline’s heart, entering too high. She was impaled against the wall.

Rachel went to Zelda’s side. “That’s a nasty looking bite you have on your leg. Did she feed very long?”

Zelda looked at her wound. “No . . . not long. I think.”

“We had to be sure about her before we could break in. There’s a night vision camera set up outside that window,” Rachel said pointing. “When we saw the fangs come out we decided to go in. You’re safe now. Thanks to God’s grace you’re safe.” Rachel gathered Zelda’s clothes and handed them to her.

“Bill, you okay? You hit the wall kind of hard,” Rachel said.

Bill rubbed the back of his head. “I’ll live. But that vampire won’t be alive for long.”

Caroline’s eyes blazed with anger. She grabbed the silver portion of the spear, and her hands started smoldering on contact. With a cry of anguish she let go.

“Whew, what a stench,” Jeremy said, the one who had driven the spear through her.

“So, what do you do now? Call the police?” Zelda asked.

“No, that’s not the way it works. We’re going to take care of the vampire and dispose of it. This is a war between good and evil. Between God and the Devil. You don’t have to be part of this, although we would like you join us. God could use more soldiers in his army.” Rachel reached out and pressed her hand on Zelda’s.

Zelda turned to Caroline. She appeared as a scared little girl, not some horrible monster. Zelda looked to Rachel. “I’d like to stay and help.”

“That’s great! A new world is going to open up for you. Just wait and see. You’ll learn about things that’ll change your life forever,” Rachel said.

“Let’s get this over with. Where are the stakes?” Jeremy asked.

Rachel let go of Zelda’s hand. “I left them in the truck. I’ll go with you. I need to get the body bag, and I want to get the medical kit and clean up her bite. Bill can stay here and watch things.”

Bill pulled out a 9mm pistol from his side holster and chambered a round. “I’m ready. Wooden tipped silver bullets. Custom made by yours truly.”

Rachel led the way with Jeremy following. “All right, cowboy. Don’t shoot that thing unless your life depends on it.”

Bill waited for them to leave the room, and then approached Caroline with the gun raised in firing position. “You’re nothing but the spawn of the Devil. Don’t worry, we’ll be sending you back to your daddy soon.” Bill pushed the spear deeper into Caroline until the wooden part passed entirely through and the silver part touched her skin. Caroline twisted in pain as the wound started to smoke.

Zelda moved away from the bed behind Bill.

“Yeah, you’ll be smoking even more when you get to Hell,” Bill said, just before a vase hit his head rendering him unconscious.

Caroline looked at Zelda with surprise as she grabbed the spear and pulled it out, freeing her from certain doom.

Footsteps came up the hall. Caroline sprang by the bedroom door with the speed of a jaguar as Jeremy stepped in. Her hands went straight to his head. In one smooth motion, she twisted it and broke his neck.

Rachel stopped at the doorway and gasped. Caroline grabbed her by her collar and dragged her into the middle of the room. Her fangs shot out, and she plunged them deeply into Rachel’s neck. Rachel made moaning noises indistinguishable from sounds of pleasure or pain. Caroline drank until the body became limp and there was no more blood to suck out.

She let the body drop to the floor, and gazed at Zelda while wiping the blood from her mouth. “You saved me. Why?”

“I think I did it because I don’t see you as being the monster they were making you out to be. You are a being just like any other. You have a right to survive too,” Zelda said.

“But now you know I’m a vampire. What makes you think I can let you live knowing that about me?”

Zelda bent down next to Rachel and unbuckled her weapons belt. She removed the survival knife from its sheath and pulled Rachel’s pants down to her knees. Caroline watched with a surprised expression.

Zelda carved out a slab of meat from Rachel’s thigh. She stuck it with the end of the blade and took a large bite out of it right off the knife. “It’s way too fresh for my liking. But now you know a secret about me. Our secrets can be safe with each other.”

Bill started to stir. Caroline ended his life quickly. She removed the plastic off of her bed and motioned Zelda to join her. The two spent the night together in passion as the bodies cooled on the floor.

*

Zelda put several grocery bags full of meat in the trunk of Caroline’s car. She needed to get home and Caroline wouldn’t need her car until tonight anyway. Zelda would have it back by the time she awoke from her daytime slumber.

Caroline had some friends that were going to take care of Rachel’s truck and the bodies of the two men. Zelda had known about chop shops stripping automobiles. But had not known about ‘chop shops’ that sold human body parts. The market was larger than she had imagined.

Zelda had never been in a relationship and was giddy with excitement. She was feeling love for the first time. Genuine love. There were so many things she and Caroline could do together. So many ways they could help each other. The arrangement couldn’t be more perfect.

Finding food would be less of a chore now. One body could supply them both. Once the trap was set, Caroline could drain the blood, and Zelda would have the body to eat for later.

It was a perfect match made in Hell.

The End

Prison Bitch

Gomez,

You can run, but you can’t hide. I’ve found you again, and this time you’re not getting away. I’m going to make you pay. Pay in a way that you have never imagined.

You rotten bastard! Did you think you could hide forever? After what you did me? After what you made me do? Night after night, day after day back in prison? Do you know how much you humiliated me? I told you then I would get my revenge.

You used to call me your prison bitch. You made me grow my hair long and shave my body. I hated every second of my life. And it wasn’t bad enough that you abused me. But you traded me out. You let those other animals have me.

I’ve spent a shit load of money getting those tattoos removed. The ones you gave me. Tit’s on my shoulder blades and ‘Fuck This’ on my ass. I’m going to write my name in you with my teeth!

I nearly had you two years ago too, you cruel fuck. I was just going to rough you up a bit with that night stick. I wanted you to say that you’re sorry. Even if you didn’t mean it. I just needed to hear it. Instead, I had to get all my teeth capped after you took the night stick away and broke them out. Stapling my face to the inside of a glory hole at that XXX movie theater was bad enough. But why did you have to shove that night stick so far up my ass? I had to go through major surgery. The damn nurses had an X-ray of it in their break room. They couldn’t look at me without giggling.

It was just my plain bad luck my gun jammed last year when I ambushed you. You should have seen your face. I wish I had a camera and could show you a picture. You looked like a scared girl. And I would have killed you that day. But no, you took the gun from me and cut all the fingers off my right hand and superglued my palm to my dick. I bet you thought it was funny leaving me on the sidewalk with that live pigeon shoved in my ass. Telling me it was looking for corn.

You left me there for dead. But I didn’t die. My hatred for you made me live. I joined a terrorist group just to learn how to make bombs. Do you know how hard it is to get in with a group that distrust you from the start because you wipe your ass and eat with the same hand? Do you? Well, it wasn’t easy.

I was going to blow you into little pieces and use it for fish bait. And I would have too if I hadn’t added the sulfuric acid too fast and blew my good hand off. My eyebrows have never grown back. But did that stop me? No!

I spent my last five hundred dollars paying a Private Eye to find out your email and track your IP address to where you live. And this time I’m going to get you!

The dead are walking and everyone thinks the world is coming to an end. Well, it’s not for me. My world is just beginning. The first thing I’m going to do is take you down! Actually I’m going to chew you down and spit you out! No, I’m not going to spit you out. I’m going to eat you and keep you in! Hell, I might even chew you down and shit you out. I’m not sure what happens after I become a zombie and eat you and stuff.

I’ve been waiting for the right moment. And I found it less than an hour ago. You see, I needed to find one of those walking dead bastards and get him to bite me. I can’t shoot a gun. It’s hard enough to drive with these damn clamps. But I found one blown in half on the street. Its head was still moving. So, I went up to it and let it bite me on the arm. It hurt like hell, but it’s not going to hurt anything like I’m going to make you hurt!

You hear that Gomez! I will beat you! I will win!

I’m in the car right now across the street. I see you in your room behind your computer. I’m coming to get you, and you can’t stop me.

I feel myself starting to turn. This is power! I hope I still can think on my own some when I’m one of them. I want to savor every bite of you that I take!

I’m going to hit ‘send’ on my computer, and then while you’re reading this I’m going to run and crash into your window. I feel the change coming on me. I’m finally going live up to my name!

I’m going to make you my stomach bitch!

-Lucky

How Do You Eat a Whole Human?

“Really, Natalie. I think it would be best if you brought the casserole over to the Canfield’s,” Bo said, scratching his five o’clock shadow. “You made it and everything. Mrs. Canfield is going to want to know the recipe. I don’t want to get caught up in a thirty minute question and answer session about what you used to seasoned the meat or how you sliced the carrots.”

“I simply don’t have time right now. I’m boiling the pasta, and I’ve got an organic pound cake in the oven that I’ve got to keep a close eye on. You know I can’t trust you to watch things,” Natalie said. “What’s the big deal? You like Mr. Canfield. You used to hang out with him all the time before he became bed ridden. I bet he would be thrilled it if you just stopped in for a minute to see how he was doing.”

“It’s not like we were the best of pals or anything. We drank a few beers together in the afternoon sometimes. He liked to talk about his career in the Navy, and I liked to hear his stories. We both like hockey and professional football. He’s a nice enough old man, but he wouldn’t let you get too close to him. He seemed distant, like he was passing time, waiting for death. I guess when you get that old it’s the next big event in your life.” Bo was tempted to tell Natalie the real reason why he didn’t want to go next door but didn’t want to get into it with her right then.

“Go over and see him. It’ll probably make his day. Just think. That could be you lying in bed with no hopes of ever living a normal life again.”

Bo curled his upper lip. “If the roles were reversed, then I’d want him to bring me a gun. I’d get it over with in a hurry. I don’t want to linger on for weeks or months, dragging everyone else down with me.”

“Miles and Aubrey will be here in about an hour. Go on over there, get it over with, and get back in time to have a cocktail. I’ll make you a double martini with blue cheese stuffed olives,” Natalie said.

“Sold! I’ll be back as quick as I can,” Bo said, straightening his collar, and checking his fly to make sure it was zipped. He grabbed the covered Pyrex dish and headed out the door. His mouth felt even drier now that he anticipated the icy coldness of crisp vodka passing over his tongue.

He took the route down his driveway, across the sidewalk, and up the Canfield’s driveway toward the front door. Bo learned over two years ago not to make the mistake of crossing over the yard and going to their back door. The last time he did he found Mrs. Canfield sprawled out in the nude on a lounge chair when he rounded the hedges.

Her stomach was so large and flabby that it hung low enough to cover her crotch. Her bosoms sagged down under her armpits like water balloons. Water balloons with blue veins winding like streets on a roadmap.

Bo had been daydreaming on his way over that day and had been more startled than she when he came upon her. He remembered saying something like, “Whoa! Mrs. Canfield . . . I’m so sorry,” and froze in his tracks, embarrassed, not knowing what move to make next.

A bigger surprise came when she smiled, revealing that she was giving her gums a break from her dentures. She said her husband was in town and wouldn’t be back for a few hours. Then, asked if he would like to come inside for some lemonade. When she said ‘lemonade,’ she spread her knees apart and ran both hands under the folds of her fat and exposed her crotch, offering him a slice of her withered womanhood.

Bo then made some undecipherable excuse for leaving and bolted for the sanctuary of his own home. All he could think about for the next week was Natalie and wondered what kind of shape she would be in during her golden years. It made him shudder to think it could ever be like that.

After arriving at the door he knocked gently three times and listened for activity inside. After a half-minute passed, he knocked again. He wished he could just leave the casserole on doorstep and get back home.

Bo knocked again—harder this time. The door squeaked open a couple of inches. It hadn’t been closed all the way.

Wanting to get back home as soon as possible, he stuck his head inside and called out in a gentle voice, “Hello. It’s, Bo. From next door. Hello?” He listened intently and thought he heard a shuffling sound coming from the back of the house.

There was a strange smell lingering in the air. Bo wondered if Mrs. Canfield was experimenting with Indian cooking and was using exotic curry or crushed stinkbugs for flavoring. His stomach roiled.

Feeling the need of his martini now more than ever, he pushed the door open and looked around, but stopped short of calling out again.

Mrs. Canfield’s legs and thong draped bare ass bent over the arm of a lounge chair, and pointed in his direction, as if waiting for a mighty stallion to mount her.

Right after he thought, not again? Something unusual about her stance gave him pause. In fact, the way she was propped against the chair didn’t look like a natural position at all.

“Mrs. Canfield?” Bo said.

No response.

Bo stepped inside and set the casserole down on an end table and moved cautiously toward the chair.

“Mrs. Canf—” Bo stopped when she came into better view. Mrs. Canfield’s upper body from the hips on up was missing. A bloody trail snailed a path over the white carpet in the living room toward the kitchen, with bones with gnawed off flesh scattered about.

Bo’s head spun like the whirlpool of a flushing toilet with the aroma of fermenting sewage invading the back of his nostrils. He bent down and steadied himself on one knee.

From the hallway directly behind Bo, Mr. Canfield lumbered forth, blocking a quick exit out the front door. He bumped into a lamp, sending it to the floor, and alerted Bo that he was not alone.

When Bo first saw Canfield, he thought the old man had thrown up blood all over the front of his pajamas. Then he realized that if that was true, then he had thrown up bits of his intestine too, seeing pieces of it stuck to his pajama top. The unspeakable truth dawned on him. Mr. Canfield had eaten his own wife.

Canfield sauntered toward Bo like he was ready to slow dance. His teeth clattered chomping into empty air.

Bo stepped backward until he felt his butt cheeks mash against Mrs. Canfield’s, and found it ironic that even in death she could gross him out with her naked body.

Canfield gurgled out a chilling moan of desire and continued toward Bo.

Finding himself between a rock and a hard place, Bo lashed out with a swift kick to Canfield’s crotch, hoping to send the sick man to the ground and make a run for the door.

Canfield, though in his seventies, was a healthy man tipping the scales at a solid 210 pounds. Bo on the other hand was a boney 175 and just over six feet in height. When his shoe connected he felt like he kicked petrified wood. Pain traveled from his big toe through his foot, up his shin, and then stung like a wasp when it reached his knee.

Canfield walked into the kick like it wasn’t there. Bo only had enough time to raise his forearm in defense as blood stained dentures struck out in attack. The sound of bone crunching cracked in the air, followed by his scream that sounded more like it came from a woman.

Bo felt his flesh ripping off his arm and imagined splinters of bone left with it.

Canfield chewed on his stolen prize looking like a mechanical corpse eating without savoring the taste. His eerie red eyes showed no life, taking the appearance of a shark with only the primal urge to feed.

Bo wretched from the pain and from the disgusting sight of Canfield chowing down on his arm. In fear when that mouthful was gone, it would be time for round two. Bo let the adrenaline take over and put every ounce of strength in his good arm and slammed his fist square into Canfield’s jaw.

Bo watched as if in slow motion the bottom jaw rip away from the skull. A wad of bloody meat flew through the air, with both sets of dentures following.

With surprise now on his side, he dashed into the kitchen in hopes of leaving through the back. As he turned to avoid the kitchen table, his foot slipped on a rib marinating in a puddle of black goo, and crashed full speed into the counter, right in front of a stainless steel cutlery block set. Sensing Canfield coming from behind him, he pulled free the two largest implements from the block. One being a ten inch serrated bread knife, and the other a sharpening steel.

Bo thrust both weapons into the eyes as he turned just in time to see Canfield lunge with his toothless upper palate. The serrated knife entered cleanly and angled upward until the end stuck out of Canfield’s balding head. The sharpening steel made a sound like the heel of a rubber boot smashing into a mud puddle. Ooze of yellow, green, and black splattered everywhere, some hitting Bo in the face and across his lips.

Canfield fell on his face. His arms went limp at his side and knocked Bo back against the counter. Bo hit his head on the cabinet above.

*

When Bo awoke, he couldn’t decide what hurt worse; his left forearm or the back of his head. He felt like he was awakening from a bad dream, but it wasn’t until he opened his eyes that he remembered where he was and what had happened sometime before.

As his eyes focused, he looked around frantically expecting to see Canfield either down and out or ready to attack again. Bo was in the Canfield’s kitchen all right, but found himself all alone. No Mr. Canfield with his head now serving as a knife block. No bare assed thong wearing Mrs. Canfield. No blood. No body parts. No nothing.

Bo stood and walked around in disbelief, what in the hell is going on? A large chunk was missing from his forearm. It wasn’t bleeding or looking like he imagined: the inside of a rare steak. It just looked like a mouth sized bite was missing—perfectly normal except for that. It still hurt, and he wondered how he was going to explain all of this to Natalie.

After making a quick walk through each room, Bo trotted out of the front door and back to his house. He kept looking over his shoulder, feeling like a lion stalked him from behind and about to overtake him at any second, until finally arriving at his door.

“Natalie! Where are you? Come quick!” Bo called as he slammed the door. “Natalie?” The house was unusually silent. The kitchen was void of any of the dishes from earlier.

The lump on the back of his head began to throb. Where was Natalie? How long had he been unconscious? With a million questions but no answers, Bo searched the house without finding her, and returned outside to see if she was on the patio.

The air in the back of the house was stale, with no breeze blowing at all, and devoid of the smell of the roses that outlined the patio. No dogs barked. No birds sang. The wind chimes were dead silent.

Starting to feel apprehensive, he jogged to the end of his driveway and looked for any sign of life. To his delightful surprise, he could make out his mailman, Mr. Wilkins, walking his daily route down near the end of his street.

“Finally,” Bo said aloud, and chuckled to himself for thinking for a second that everyone on Earth had vanished somehow while he was knocked out. With renewed hope, he ran down the street as fast as he could shouting for Mr. Wilkins to stop.

Wilkins continued without skipping a step. Bo figured the man’s hearing was waning in his old age. At first, he thought it might not be Mr. Wilkins at all, and perhaps a vacation relief in his place. But after seeing the shorts and signature white socks that came up to his knees, he knew it to be him.

“Wilkins! Damn it man, won’t you just stop? Wilkins!” Bo couldn’t believe Wilkins was ignoring him.

When he got to within a few feet of his mailman, Bo slowed to a fast walk, and placed his hand on Wilkins’ shoulder.

“Wilkins. Can you please tell me what’s going on around here? I—” Bo stopped cold as Wilkins turned and met him nose to nose.

It wasn’t the face of Mr. Wilkins that stared back at Bo. It was an emaciated face of a withered corpse, shaded by the wide brim of a postal cap. The eyes were terrifyingly red and evil. The smile was that of a ghoul from the worst of nightmares.

“Oh. Hello, Bo. You’re a welcomed sight and looking mighty fresh and tasty today. Perhaps you could spare a hand or an entire arm to help out your poor old mailman,” Wilkins said.

Stunned, Bo couldn’t believe Wilkins had turned into whatever it was Canfield had turned into, except Wilkins spoke rationally. That is, if asking someone for permission to eat you could be considered as rational.

“Stay back! I just want to know what’s going on. Where’s my wife? Where’s everyone? What’s happened to you?” Bo said, ready to hightail it if Wilkins made a move toward him.

“Oh, you know. The world is forever changing. It’s important that you learn to change with it,” Wilkins said, dropping his mailbag from his shoulder. “If you don’t, it’ll eat you alive.” Wilkins reached out to grab Bo with his boney fingers but only found empty air. Bo was two steps ahead of him in anticipation.

Unwilling to share any more body parts with the walking dead, Bo turned and ran without looking back. Believing that not even the fastest cheetah in the wilds of Africa could catch him now.

With the sounds of Wilkins’ snapping teeth fading into the distance, he cut between two houses and into the wooded area behind his subdivision that backed up to a county park. He pulled himself over a six-foot wire fence and snaked his way around pines, gum trees, and water oaks. Doing his best to avoid briars and bare roots low on the ground as he pioneered a new trail running at full speed.

Having no sense of time or distance, Bo found himself near the edge of the woods and right behind an area of the park where locals would bring a guitar or a dulcimer and entertain those looking to enjoy the afternoon.

A park bench set in the middle of a ten foot circle covered with limestone reserved for the musicians. Today, there was only one. The orange glow of the setting sun behind the figure outlined a cowboy hat nesting on a skeletal rotting face and a guitar that hung from a strap from around his neck. His skin was so thin on his naked body Bo could count every bone.

The figure put his hand to his mouth, cleared his throat, strummed the guitar three times, and started to sing.

“The problem is all inside your head, I say to you. The answer is easy, if taken logically. I’d like to help you in your struggle, when you feed.

“There must be fifty ways to eat your lover. Fifty ways to eat your lover.

“You Just start at the back, Jack. Eat the right hand, Stan. Don’t forget the big toe, Moe. It’s all good when you feed. Tear into that bust, Gus. You don’t need to cull much. Just gnaw at the knee, Lee. It’s all good when you feed.”

Bo felt tiny tentacles of horror creep over his skin as the singing dead Cowboy looked directly at him with his sick, red eyes.

Before the Cowboy could begin the second verse, Bo turned and ran through the woods retracing his steps. Once again, he crossed over the fence and followed it until coming to an access between two houses that led back to his street in the neighborhood.

The wailing of a siren from an emergency vehicle slowly intensified. Before Bo made it to the street, an ambulance with red lights flashing zoomed past him heading in the direction of his house.

Here was another chance someone could give him a clue as to what was going on; a plague, a virus, or a manmade disaster. Bo chased after the speeding vehicle like a dog in pursuit of a taunting rear bumper.

The brake lights flashed and the ambulance made a quick right turn into the Canfield’s driveway.

Something is wrong over there, Bo thought. None of this made any sense to him though. He had checked each room in the house. How did he possibly miss someone in need of medical attention? Bo wanted answers now and felt that he would go insane if they didn’t come soon.

He reached the end of the Canfield’s driveway, his chest aching from lack of breath, and stopped for a moment to rest. The throbbing in his head returned, and the bite on his forearm he had almost forgot about burned again in pain.

Feeling like his legs were made of lead, he plodded to the open front door and saw two EMTs standing over a body. Miles and Aubrey were off to the side holding each other, and Natalie on her knees by it, sobbing.

Bo wanted to rush to Natalie, but his feet would not respond. He went to call her name but felt the power of speech forever leave him. The throbbing in his head increased so much it clouded his vision with each beat.

Darkness colored his world as the icy fingers of death snatched him into the next one.

*

“This has got to be the strangest call I’ve ever made. I’d like to read the police report on this one,” Hector, the lead EMT said, to Billy, his partner.

Billy made a face as if trying to ward off the putrid stench in the room. “They must have been starving their dog. Looks like it ate half that old woman before it got away. I don’t know what to make of the corpse with the knife and steel in his head. And this guy,” Billy nodded toward the body of Bo, lying dead on the floor. “What happened to him? I guess the dog bit him on the arm. But what killed him? The bump on his head wasn’t enough to do him in. Do you think he was scared to death during his attack?”

Hector shook his head, hoping the police would arrive soon. He wished he had been there in time to save Bo. He felt so sorry for Natalie. She told them how Bo just went over to do a neighborly thing and bring over a casserole.

The casserole still set on the end table. Natalie found the Canfield’s door opened, and Bo and the others dead when she went over to see what was taking him so long.

“Poor woman,” Hector said only loud enough for Billy to hear. He imagined how his wife would feel if she found him dead on the floor.

A faint hum emerged from Bo’s throat, blending in with Natalie’s sobs until it rose loud enough in volume for her to hear.

Natalie gasped and looked at Hector, “It’s Bo! He’s trying to say something!”

Hector dropped to his knees beside Bo, felt for a pulse in the neck, and when he felt nothing, checked his heart beat with his stethoscope. “I’m not getting anything. It’s probably just intestinal gases working their way up through the esophagus rattling his vocal cords.”

The humming grew louder and became uniform and distinct.

“Wait . . . he’s humming a tune. Listen,” Billy said, as something about the hum sounded familiar. “I think I recognize it . . . Yeah! That’s it! I know what it is! It’s “Fifty ways to—”

Billy stopped as Bo’s piercing red eyes sprang open, gazing into his new world.

The hope that swelled in Natalie’s chest that Bo was somehow still alive deflated like a balloon bursting. Bo’s face contorted into unrecognizable evil and struck her sweet smelling soft neck with a bone crushing bite.

Void of any memories of the human he once was, Bo found himself compelled now only to exist to feed on the flesh of the living. One bite at a time.

The End

From Severed PRESS

Alien microbes mutate with the DNA of the dead, reanimating corpses to life. A cop, Rico, and a junkie streetwalker, Angie, barely escape the onslaught of zombies. As they head for sanctuary, a jealous pimp seeks revenge, and Angie’s drug addiction, become a greater threat than the undead.

From Severed PRESS

INTRODUCTION BY JOE MCKINNEY

“Scioneaux and Hatchell double-down on the horror and thrills in this gritty, action-packed zombie thriller. This one has real bite." – Jonathan Maberry, New York Times best-selling author of Rot & Ruin and Dead of night.

"Scioneaux and Hatchell give you a fast-paced narrative full of oozing bodies and narrow escapes and poignant ruminations on the fragility of a man’s body and the resiliency of his character" – Joe Mckinney, Bram Stoker award winning author of Flesh Eaters and Inheritance.

From Severed PRESS

««««« Rated “The Perfect Read” by The Bookie Monster!

“SLIPWAY GREY is just as lovably cheesy and sleazy as you’d expect from its wonderful serial killer + giant shark premise. It’s goofy, gory fun!” -- Jeff Strand, author of WOLF HUNT

Table of Contents

Do Unto Others  13

New Shoes  23

Need  26

Prison Bitch  37

How Do You Eat a Whole Human?  40