Horror Stories: A Macabre Collection (7 page)

Bark scanned the area, looking for a break in
the mayhem, while Spotz looked for a place in the fence to sneak
through. Spotz found an area of the fence that had been cut and
used many times over. Bark couldn’t find anywhere to go once they
crossed the threshold of the fence. He looked back at the tunnel,
and was surprised when he saw people staggering out into the light.
On the wall opposite them, behind the fence was a gathering of
flesh-eaters. They were pulling on the fence, sticking their hands
through, gnawing at the mesh. They had to move; there was no going
back and no other choice.

Off in the distance by the dock were two
boats being boarded. A horde of slow moving ghouls were approaching
the scene. They were kept at bay by a group of Police officers.
Their patrol cars were parked as makeshift barriers creating an “L”
shape with the building behind them; which was a strip mall for
tourists. The officers had shotguns and were firing wildly. The
boats, one of which was a commuter ferry, and the other a large
dinner cruise boat, were being loaded with people. A simple point
and a grunt led them (Bark and Spotz) in a hurried run to the dock.
Gore was strewn about. They found themselves stepping over body
parts and dodging groping, dead, swollen hands. Spotz stepped into
a puddle of blood and innards. It was slick, causing him to lose
his footing. He fell forward, jamming his wrist into the dirt. Bark
came up behind him and pulled him to his feet, kicking one of the
ghouls in the gut to push it away from his friend. They drew more
attention to themselves from this little stunt and found that they
had a small cluster of blood soaked savages to their backs. They
pushed on, almost at the dock, the Police were too busy fending off
the large horde that they didn’t notice Bark and Spotz running to
the boats. They did however notice the smaller secondary horde
behind them. If they didn’t acknowledge the threat this posed they
would be totally surrounded. The youngest of the three officers,
officer Warden, stepped up and moved closer to them. He was a bulky
man, athletic, with a squared frame and small fingers. He cocked
his shotgun and took his aim. He squeezed off a shot and then
pumped and shot again. He thinned the cluster by two. He stood his
ground and convinced his fellow officers to close the gap between
them and himself. The officers continued to pick off their dead
attackers.

Bark and Spotz had made it to the dock,
making quick progress toward the boats. The small ferry had
exceeded its capacity and shoved off. The larger boat looked to be
full, but held its ground. It was further down the dock and you had
to get to the upper level to board it. By the time Bark and Spotz
got to the upper level, they saw why the boat hadn’t taken off. A
commotion had stirred up, a man who looked like the captain of the
ship was trying to calm everyone down, but the people were not
listening. As they got closer they heard some of the arguments and
by the time they boarded the boat they had a good idea of what was
going on.

“She’s turning into one of them!” Shouted a
burly man from the crowd.

“She’s just sick, we’ve been running for
miles!” The girl’s mother fired back.

“Fuck that, she must’ve been bit!”

“Yeah, get her off the boat!”

“Knock it off, or you can all get off!”

“Let’s just leave already. Why don’t we
leave?”

“We’re waiting for the cops. If they didn’t
show up we’d probably be dead.”

“Well, where the fuck
are
they?”

“Listen to the gunshots, asshole, they’re
still
shooting those crazies!”

The bickering and bitching seemed to be
endless. Bark was numb to the noise. It was an exchange of insults
and curses, question marks and exclamation points, finger pointing
instead of helping hands. Bark was all-to-used to this side of
humanity. He was quickly shaken from his thoughts as the gunfire
became erratic and closer. The people on the ship shifted their
collective attention to the lower level of the dock. Officer Warden
was leading the other officers toward the boat; they were being
followed by a horde of lurching assailants. The crowd watched in
unabated awe as the officers shot these attackers point blank.
Brain matter misted the air, chunks of skull and flesh fell to the
ground and blow back stained the dark blue uniforms. One of the
officers panicked, he was grabbed by multiple clawing hands and
pulled into the crowd. He managed to shoot one of his attackers as
another officer assisted by shooting another creature. There were
too many, however, and the officer was bitten on the shoulder. He
screamed as teeth broke through his shirt and skin, the attackers
jaw clenching down and twisting. Tearing a chunk of flesh from the
officer’s shoulder, he screamed and began shooting wildly. More
hands pulled the officer back and down. His screams turned to
gurgles. He fired again and again. The last shot he fired before
being silenced hit his fellow officer in the hip and lower stomach.
The wounded officer fell to the ground, holding his gaping wound.
The bloodthirsty flesh-eaters groped at the hole and began to pull
the man’s insides out. Two officers were left–Warden and Nicolini.
Nicolini was one of the few female officers in the department. She
was a looker with thick lips and natural curves. She went to grab
her fallen friend but instead, officer Warden grabbed her by the
arm and started running.

“Fuck this, let’s go, he’s as good as dead
now!” He huffed.

She didn’t respond. She ran, they both darted
for the stairs and quickly made it to the second level. On board
the boat, the two officers silenced the crowd and told the captain
to shove off. They did just that. They stared at a dock full of the
walking dead. The fallen officers were now among them, badges
covered in gore, intestines dragging along the dock. Everyone was
quite, they couldn’t help but stare at these things that used to be
alive. It was almost too much to handle. Bark grinned a little, it
was almost a smile, he was happy as shit to be alive. Spotz noted
his friend’s expression and mimicked it.

The sick girl that was the center of
attention earlier was nearly forgotten now. Her long dark hair
covered a chunk of missing flesh from her neck. Her mothers arm was
draped around her shoulder, she tried to keep her warm, the little
girl’s body temperature was dropping. Her stomach pained, her
complexion paled, her eyes grew dark. She was hungry.

* * * * *

Hell Comes for the
Hurried

* * * * *

I’m supposed to be thankful today. Thankful
for the wonderful bounty before me, thankful for the air that
stings my lungs with its bitter, sinister cold, and thankful for
all that I have. Well, all I have is regret and a heart that
refuses to give up the ghost, a belly nowhere near full of charred
rabbit meat and cold moonshine. I have the vague memory of a world
that was chewed to the marrow. I have the memory of my family. And,
I have a picture of them, which I guess I’m thankful for. It’s the
only picture I have left of my wife and our son—though it’s so
tattered I can barely make out their faces anymore. It’s as if they
are ghosts caught on film. But am I thankful? –No. Not till I’m
dead. Sure, I could’ve easily checked myself out countless times in
the years that’ve passed. No, I’m not a religious person, though I
do believe in God, and I most certainly believe in hell. I believe
my family is waiting for me. Waiting where all the good-hearted
dead go, were I hope I can go, and I don’t think suicide will get
me there.

So I sit here among these people I’ve
traveled with, their names don’t matter to me, and to be honest,
neither do they. We still look out for each other though. It’s just
that I’ve grown cold, beyond numb—I barely even speak nowadays.
There is nothing to say, and small talk is bullshit. I’d rather
keep my thoughts to my self. Some of the folks I travel with like
to tell stories or talk about the glory days of a world
half-remembered. I like to find the dead things and make them
deader. I pretend that every one of them is the one that took my
family away. It’s the only time I feel anything other than nothing
and regret. And once I finish off this moonshine I’ll be ready to
do just that.

The last swig bit me like a viper and hissed
all the way down. I got to my feet, grabbed my club and headed away
from the fire and out from underneath the bridge. I admired the
sight once I got to the top. It was early evening and the sun was
setting behind the river. The destruction was breathtaking. It was
a bombed out skeleton of a city—a modern day dinosaur with its
broken bones reaching for the sky. I stood across the river taking
it all in. We were heading there tomorrow, on the big old road to
nowhere through the city and beyond. We’d probably set up camp in
the ruin one of the buildings—a library would be nice, or a museum.
I could bury myself in a book, or make a display for the human race
at the museum. Either way would be a fine way to kill time before
time kills me.

I heard her following me but I hoped she’d
leave after a bit, but of course she didn’t. I wasn’t that lucky.
She was damn near feral, completely animalistic and why we saved
her I still don’t know. She was part of a “fuck hut” we came across
months ago down by Jamesburg off the old highway. The girl was
barely into double digits by the looks of her. She was filthy and
had no idea how to interact with others, not that any of us really
did, but she made it extremely uncomfortable. Who knows how many
times she’d been raped—it was all she knew. She looked at you as if
you were going to, and was confused when you did nothing. At times
it was almost as if she wanted to be fucked, as if that were the
only way she could have contact with another person. If I had a
heart it would break, but it didn’t. Her movement and posture
resembled an ape more than it did of man. I turned to look at her
as she hid behind a pile of rubble. She grunted at me and I shooed
her away. She scampered off, heading back to the group. Good
riddance.

I walked for a few minutes, heading toward
the road which eventually took me to the bridge. Both of which were
cluttered with broken down vehicles, many of which were weathered
and rusted. Come tomorrow, getting across would be interesting. I
wondered if we even could. Something stirred on the bridge. I heard
a noise, and stared right in its direction. From the shadows
emerged one of the dead. Its eyes gone long ago, its skin wrapped
like tight leather around its bones. It looked like a mummy
whittled out of wood. I stepped closer to it, my club at my side.
It met me part of the way. I stood staring at it, staring into its
eyeless holes looking for something to hate. It came at me, stiffly
and weakly. I let it grab hold only to push it away. I let it do it
again, and again. How the hell did these things turn the world into
a nightmare? The thought gave me rage and I used it to swing my
club at the deader. I knocked it to the ground, its leathered hide
scraping on the pavement. I put my foot to its head and slowly
pressed down, it gave no fight and if it did I didn’t notice. I
stomped full-force on the deader's head, heard a very satisfying
crunch and looked at the dark ooze coming from its ears. It looked
like oil. I raised my foot to stomp it once again, and once again I
was satisfied with the noise I made—it was music, and violence was
the instrument. I was so focused on what I was doing that I didn’t
notice the other creatures that crept out from the shadows of the
bridge. Three more, and they were just as slow as the dead bastard
who finally found rest under my foot. One of them had been
disemboweled long ago, staggering forward with an empty hole where
her stomach should’ve been. I could see the upper crest of her
pelvis and the base of her spine. The rest was covered by skin that
hung in clumps like rows of jerky. None of them had clothes, one
barely had any hair, not that it mattered what they looked like.
Nothing mattered, really. I hoped they would kill me but I knew
they wouldn’t be able to. Even against three of them it was easy
work. I had my fun of course then quickly put them down.

I was beginning to sober up and that was a
bad thing, a very bad thing.

It was on my second jar of moonshine that I
returned to near oblivion. I was almost drunk enough to enjoy the
stories being told within earshot of where I stood on wobbly legs.
I heard one part of a story that involved Mick Jagger and it only
made me think of my dead friends on the bridge. It almost made me
chuckle—the thought of Mick and The Stones being responsible for
the death of death. I smiled, briefly, and it felt unnatural and
dirty on my face. I wiped it off and took a swig from my jar.

The river moved fast and rough. It looked
almost green. I could see a few people from the group down near the
river talking amongst themselves—it could’ve been an argument the
way they were moving, but I stopped paying attention, and moved
closer to the fire. The fire smelled terrible, like hot piss on
burnt rubber, but I took it in all the same.

A memory came to me then, one of fire—a fire
that didn’t smell of piss and rubber. It was a Thanksgiving years
ago, our first Thanksgiving as a new family, just the three of us.
I fought and fought for us to be by ourselves. I was sick of
sharing the day with her family, and for once I wanted to just be
by ourselves. The fire then smelled great and it heated most of the
house. Our son was crawling around like a maniac and we kept
chasing after him—but I must say I had a hard time crawling after
him. I was heavier then, and my knees hated me for it. It was the
best Thanksgiving I had as an adult. I wish I could go back to that
day, back to a day on the couch with a giant heap of mashed
potatoes, a cold beer, a beautiful woman at my side and my curious
little creation roaming the floors in search of brightly colored
toys to put in his mouth.