Legion (An Apocalyptic Horror Novel) (Hell on Earth Book 2) (32 page)

* * *

T
he door dinged
and Jamie saw several customers pour into the Donut Diner. It was a Thursday; one of their quieter shifts, but it didn’t mean a lazy shift by any means. Quieter meant a stream of customers with minimal queues. Donut Diner was always busy, especially since the malarkey with Sadie Barker.

Donut Diner was minutes away from the site of her death, an urban legend that, he believed, tripled business within the diner. When he was young, Jamie's father had purchased shares in the diner and since Sadie's passing, he'd reaped the financial rewards. His father had passed the shares onto him, an employee. Now, he had a front seat, a direct link to the success of Donut Diner.

As he wiped the worktop with a soggy cloth, he smiled, knowing he was the brains behind the death. He remembered five years ago as if it was yesterday. Him and that rich kid.
What was his name? Alex? Yeah, that was the one
. A rich kid is always prime for such a scheme. They feel entitled to do as they please and he was no different.

When they stumbled on her, alone and isolated, it couldn’t have gone better.

He remembered sliding into her, hearing her groan beneath him. He stepped to the counter, hiding his now-forming bulge. That memory would always sit in his mind.

It happened quite by accident. Fate beamed down on them that day.

He'd heard that Alex had died in a car crash last year. He didn’t keep in touch with him; they decided to go their own ways for obvious reasons. It wasn’t a surprise - Alex loved his sports cars. He probably took a bend too quick or something.

Jamie didn’t have time for the details.

The money lining his pockets was the only thing that mattered.

The door dinged again. Jamie looked up and smiled. "Welcome to Donut Diner, may I take your order?"

"Yeah, I'll have a six pack and a large coffee, please."

"Eat in or takeaway?"

"Eat in." The customer placed a ten on the counter and looked up, smiling. "Say, you're Jamie, right?"

Jamie smiled, fear prickling at his skin. "Yeah, that's me." He tapped his name badge. Beneath his name were the words GENERAL MANAGER.

"I have a proposition for you, a business idea. You have a break coming up?"

Jamie smiled. He smelt money. The guy was dressed differently, like he didn’t come from Widow's Peak. He dressed with style, a style afforded by wealth. Jamie couldn’t say no. After all, he was a shrewd businessman.

"Sure, sure thing. Give me five. Take a seat and I'll bring your donuts over."

"That's mighty generous of you."

"You're the customer. I'll be right over. What's your name?"

"Mike. The name is Mike."

Y
ou can get
in touch with Stuart at
StuartKeane/Facebook
.

P
eople say
that life flashes before your eyes when you die.

They might be right and I suppose time will tell. I always thought stuff like that was hokum and made-up, bullshit created by a number of religions to give their servants peace at the crucial time, to make shuffling off the mortal coil a little less terrifying.

I’m not dead.

Not yet.

I do feel that time is imminent.

Facing your own mortality isn’t all it’s cracked up to be.

Not that death is tapping me on the shoulder. In all honesty, with the amount of J.D. I’ve consumed in the past hour, if I saw a bloke in a black dress with a hood I would probably laugh so hard I’d die anyway. Could make his job easier, eh? Death…who’d have thunk it. Such a horrifying prospect becomes the butt of a joke in a drunk man’s mind.

Drunk’s the wrong word.

I wanted to put inibri…inb…inebrie… yeah, let’s stick with drunk.

I’m not
drunk
, just for the record. I’m a little on the way but let’s just say I’ve had plenty of practice and my body is immune to the fabled hangover. Getting drunk is rare but it takes the edge off. My friend, Jack, knows how to soothe my soul and calm my nerves.

He’s certainly having that effect now. Actually, I need a top-up, hang on…

…I’m back. Nearly dropped my pen then. I have two pens, stolen from the bar, both black. Oh yeah, I’m writing on bar napkins. I have a pile here so it should keep me busy for a while. I couldn’t find a pad and no one in here owns an iPad. I’m sat in my regular haunt, a bar called Jericho. Cool name, right? Coming here after work allows me to unwind and chill out. I know the regulars on a first name basis but rarely interact with them. Until tonight, that is.

God, this J.D. smells good. I’m going to take a sip now.

HA, guess what I just did?

I stuck my finger in the dead barman’s eyehole. Mainly because the eyeball isn’t there anymore, hence the hole. It’s more of a groove, a fleshy tunnel. My finger slid right in, warm and comfortable. It’s hot and slick and I swear I just tickled his brain in there. As I stroked the membrane, I watched the body. It didn’t move.

Shame, that would have been too awesomeeeee!

The brain felt like the top of a Twinkie. Only a little more soggy.

Man, I could kill for a Twinkie right now.

You’re probably wondering why I molested some dead guy’s newly created face anus. Well, he’s dead, for one. Second, he’s lying on the bar beside me. That’s right, my new drinking buddy is a corpse, one with a hole where his eye used to be but you probably already guessed that. The victim of a rather cool shootout. I’ll get to that.

By the time his obese frame collapsed onto the bar he was toes-up. Who wouldn’t be tempted to slide a finger in..?

M
y actual drinking buddy
, Richard, didn’t fare much better. To be honest, I hardly know … knew the guy. I came here from work just under two hours ago and he tagged along for the ride. Nice guy, but retarded in the fact he stutters and can’t speak properly but if he’s drinking and keeping his tongue occupied (drink, stripper’s nipple, whatever) then he’s a blast. It’s when he talks that I want to decapitate him and tell him to
Shhhh.

Needless to say, someone beat me to it. During the chaos a Chinese guy, all short and screeching, lunged at him with a fire axe. I didn’t think to duck but it didn’t matter. Once the blade sliced into Richard’s neck it stopped dead. Probably lodged in a vertebra or muscle. Richard isn’t the muscly type though, so I’m going with the spine. God’s creation saved me this day. And the Chinese man’s lack of upper body strength. Remind me to attend church if I get out of here alive.

Richard died but not before spraying me in the face with his gaping gash of Hades. Blood got in my eyes and nose and ears and mouth and J.D. and, before I knew it, I was screaming at Richard to turn away because he was tainting my J.D. and getting my only Ben Sherman shirt covered in bodily fluids, and he obliged and plunged forward and landed on the axe which sliced through the remaining spine, and his head bounced along the ground all the way over
there
. Another body, also dead, sat with her legs spread, is now the final resting place for Richard’s head. Pussy and Dick’s head. HA!

Dick’s head.

Hilarious!

Why do I find this amusing? I just got a little excited and carried away. The above paragraph turned me on a little. If you’d seen what happened in the past hour, you’d be disconnected and cold too. But, napkins pending, I will get to that.

Also, I kill people. I’m a psychopath. Yes, you heard that right. Which explains the previous comments in all their psychological glory.

Shhhh. People don’t know this, I’ve got some issues. I keep them to myself. I want to be able to blend in, and bragging about my bloodlust…well, that’s not friendly, is it? I actually came here with Richard for a reason. I was going to kill him in the alley out back. It’s not monitored and doesn’t have CCTV so it’s the perfect location. A man can only take so much of that fucking stutter. Obviously I’ve been denied the pleasure of killing my workmate. I don’t hate the Chinese but I’m not their biggest fan right now.

Anyway, this isn’t about me.

We’ll get to that.

So you’re probably wondering what the chaos is all about? Lemme tell you!

When I…sorry, we (Richard and I) got here, we started the drinking with a Bud. It’s normal practice to line the stomach before the good stuff. Anyway, the TV was blaring behind the bar, some football game, before a NEWS FLASH appeared, stopping the game short. I heard half of the bar groan in unison. As a result I didn’t hear the beginning and I had to make do with reading the headline. The words were scrolling along the bottom and they said: MYSTERIOUS OUTBREAK. STAY IN YOUR HOMES AND DO NOT ANSWER THE DOOR.

Well, as you can imagine I found that highly amusing. It’s like something out of a Carpenter or Romero film. Horror films ain’t real. Even for a psycho like moi. They always get the little details wrong, which ruins it for a seasoned pro like me.

Richard turned to me and pointed at the screen. “Y-y-y-oou see-e t-t-that?”

I swigged some Bud. “Probably just another swine flu panic. Nothing to worry about.”

Richard nodded at that point and returned to his beer. Good boy!

Ten minutes later, the NEWS FLASH hadn’t gone away and the bar people were starting to get irritated. The bar (the actual bar where the booze is kept) was tucked into the corner of the room so everyone else was to our right. I was against a wall on my left. I liked this position. I don’t want any fags coming up behind me and…I’m only joking. I love gays…erm…

M
oving on
.

I don’t have anything against gays. I’d only kill them if they touched me. Luckily for the gay community, it hasn’t happened yet. Why am I confessing this to you? Well…I’ll probably be dead if you find these and if you don’t, I’ll be alive. Check your missing persons list…hang on, you won’t be reading this if I’m alive… paradox!

Anyway, so the patrons are getting a little annoyed. Richard’s face is smeared with panic and fear so I shake my head at him. “It’ll be fine. We’re in a bar full of testosterone and pool cues and I know the barman has a shotgun under the till. We’re fine. Safer than a bank vault.”

Richard nodded, unaware of my own minimal fear and the fact I just told the biggest whopping lie of my life. I lied and it got Richard killed. Which was the plan, I suppose. I could work for the government.

The first person to die was Jimmy, one of the pool freaks. You know the kind; the guy who stacks coins on the table for constant, competitive games of pool. I noticed his skin was a sickly shade of pale and sweaty and he swore it was a dodgy curry from the night before. His friend told him to take something for it and he did.

A chunk out of Sonny’s throat, his pool opponent.

Jimmy pulled away with a chunk of viscera between his lips. Sonny helplessly clutched at the bloody chasm in his throat. Crimson soaked his chest as he bled out before our very eyes. Gurgling erupted from his exposed jugular, the noise echoed around Jericho. No one stepped forward to help him, no one could. He was dead before he hit the shiny wooden floorboards.

I agree that was an extreme way to win a game of pool but…never mind.

Anyway, Jimmy was soon battered down by three men with pool cues. They beat him to a bloody pulp before one man, Chad, spread Jimmy’s lips and teeth across the edge of a booth bench and stamped his size twelve through the back of his head with a sickening squelch, crackle and pop.

Richard vomited on the floor. It stung my nostrils. I swear I could smell Sugar Snaps. The other men looked at Chad. “What the fuck, man? Why’d you do that?”

Chad shrugged. “Gotta aim for the head, innit?”

Another man, Travis, stepped forward. “Yeah, but a heads up would have been nice. You got skull on my new Converse.” As if to prove his point, he shook his left foot and a slab of jellified muscle flew across the room, hitting the bar. It slid down slowly and stopped halfway.

It’s still there now.

Some people. Apparently Chad and his friends believe in zombie movies. Not that Jimmy was a zombie, he was merely sick. Maybe there was news to this virus after all. All this and I just sat there. Observing. Like the sick sumbitch I am.

Richard needed some consoling at this point but I was more concerned with the shotgun the barman was holding. The barman, from this point of view, was a rotund, wheezing mess. His pale cheeks were mottled a permanent red from exertion…generated from walking back and forth once in a while. His black hair was slicked to the left, with product or grease or sweat or something that gave off a sour fragrance. That might have been his cologne. Eau de toilette indeed. His waistline bulged, testing the restraint of the trousers, belt and tucked-in shirt. Every nook and pit of his flabby belly was visibly taut against the sweaty, blue material of his shirt.

Now you tell me, would you want this man holding a Spas 12 shotgun?

In this environment, with an outbreak imminent?

No.

But he was. He shook worse than a vibrator on full speed. Sweat was pouring down his face and staining his collar. And he was aiming the gun at the patrons.

That’s when things got really bad.

The patrons were fine, it’s the newcomers that scared the living shit out of me.

The door burst open and three women stepped into the bar. I thought we’d been overrun by bikini models. I didn’t know these broads but let’s name them Sandy, Candy and Mandy. I saw thigh and cleavage and tanned, toned stomachs with belly piercings and long glorious brown hair, blonde in one case (Sandy), and bodies you could break the law for. In another location, with me and them alone…and my bowie knife…

And bloody mouths. Let’s not forget the glazed over white pupils either.

With amazing speed, Mandy sprinted the small gap between the door and the pool table and latched onto Chad. Her teeth tore into his throat and ripped with such force and vehemence I heard it from back here. It was like a t-shirt being torn. Seconds later, Chad’s dead head whipped off the dartboard behind his friends. An arc of claret filled the air, peppering the walls and ceiling and everyone below it. His torso collapsed to the floor, blood spurting from the newly formed stump.

The barman shot at Mandy and missed. The sound was deafening.

BOOM!

The spread of the bullet shredded through Travis, tearing him to pieces. His left eye dropped from its socket and wobbled on his cheek, still attached to the optic nerve. The top of his head exploded and his chest turned crimson immediately. More blood spattered the wall and booths and unused pool cues located on a rack. His body tumbled on top of another guy, Dave, and pinned him down. Dave was screaming. Mandy jumped on him too, ripping at his face with her fingernails. I saw an eyelid stretch and rip, attached to the nail itself. Then an eyeball, the white orb popped like a balloon, spraying Mandy with yellow viscous fluid. Mandy licked it from her lips.

Rufus, Graham and Clint remained. Clint, almost as if his uber cool name depended on it, pulled a revolver and fired, from near point blank range. The bearing of the bullet smashed into Mandy’s chest, spinning her backwards in the air. She landed on her head, no,
face
and her neck snapped, killing her immediately. The corpse looked like an unfortunate gym accident. Clint kicked the body over and it leaned against a booth, legs spread. Rumour has it Clint spends time on a gun range. There’s your proof. One down.

Candy climbed the pool table and leapt for Rufus. He swung a pool cue like a baseball bat, snapping the cue over her head with a stomach-churning crack. Home run! Candy face-planted the floor. Rufus finished her off with a curb stomp, smashing the brain. Two down.

Sandy ran out of the bar. I’m not sure why and it alarmed me. Zombies have no fear or intelligence or self-awareness. If that’s what they were, I mean they were going for jugulars so they share a common trait. They swarm until dead, one by one, no reluctance. Sandy indicated that she had some notion, some knowledge of danger. She ran.

That scared me into action.

Graham and Rufus pulled their guns too.

Then the Chinese man arrived.

T
he crazed look
in his eye signaled mortal danger for us all. I already told you about Richard. Once my drinking buddy was decapitated (his head came to a rest in Mandy’s crotch, as mentioned earlier), the Three Musketeers (Rufus, Graham and Clint) fired on the Chinese guy, riddling him with bullets. His body tumbled to the floor in a bloody heap. During the crossfire, a bullet hit the barman in the eye (he screamed, slapping an eye to the gushing hole. It sounded like an empty washing up liquid bottle squirting), who dropped his shotgun, which self-fired on him, hitting him in the stomach. I thought the size of the gut might save him but alas, I’m not a doctor. The impact propelled him onto the bar where he currently resides.