Zombie Bitches From Hell (13 page)

I gave them a ten minute head start. The sun
was rising but a thick cloud cover kept the darkness as my ally.
They had taken a narrow dirt path through the reeds by the
water—could’ve been a boat landing for local fisherman—to a small
roughly paved street that ran east. It was away from Tim and Hadley
but I needed to accomplish something and besides, the old fucker
had my boots.

CHAPTER 17

I kept to the brush beside the road and I
could see the men a few hundred yards distant also keeping as much
out of sight as possible. The new reality had scared even these
thieving assholes. On the other hand, they could’ve killed me.
Whatever was keeping them in hiding--the bitches of course--was
also creating some sort of brotherhood between dick swingers. It
wasn’t much of a trade-off, but it was better than nothing. I felt
that I needed to steal the guns and my boots back. I would return
the favor by sparing them, if I could.

After about a half hour of hide and seek,
they paused near a small house about a hundred yards off the road.
It had a bunch of pick-up trucks parked all around it, but they
were old and dilapidated; looked like they were the family’s fifty
year supply. A newish one was at the side door near a shed. If
there was someone in there, they were acting like no one was
home.

The three men hid by a stand of live oak that
clustered at the mouth of the dirt driveway. The grass all around
was tall enough to cover most of the parked trucks, all of them, I
now noticed, various shades of red depending on how old they were
and how much damage the weather had inflicted.

They waited a few minutes and with hand
signals moved slowly up the drive, crouched and tightly sprung as
if they were ready to pounce on something or away from it. I could
go back now but I’d be empty-handed and worse off than when I left.
When the men were fifty feet from the house, I climbed the stiff
limbs of a live oak and hid in the dense browning foliage. Whatever
they were going to do to whoever was inside was not my problem; for
all I knew the inhabitants might have been worse than these guys.
There could even be bitches holed up inside. A window was open and
a ragged white curtain hung out, rubbing the grey shingles like a
ghost’s hand stroking a corpse. I’d have to wait either way.

They sidled up the driveway and hand-signaled
each other to separate. The young boy sneaked up to a window and
peeked inside. He raised his hand, got the others’ attention and
nodded his head in the negative; he could see no one inside. The
elder son circled around back and, out of sight from my perch,
apparently signaled the same way. The old man, now clearly visible
as the noon sun peered through the cloud cover, walked stealthily
toward the back door. I could see my boots on the old prick. He put
his back against the left wall surrounding the door which had a
window in it, like he’d probably seen the cops do on the three
million TV shows that feature police. He peeked in through the
glass, weaving his head like the snake he was. He signaled to the
other two who quietly and carefully rounded the house and stood
beside him. He reached for the door knob and turned. Whether it was
my imagination of not, I heard the squeak of the knob and saw the
door open ever so gently.

The wind blew steadily and its waves were
reflected by the tall, reedy grass of the surrounding lawn. A few
grasshoppers took off and followed the wind to the house where they
collided with it with a tick, tick sound. It was then I saw the
first glint of red hair in the tall grass. At first, it looked like
some sort of huge wildflower, a Texas rose or a Japanese peony. I
rubbed my eyes. It was still there but it was not a flower. And if
it was, it wasn’t the only one. It was a woman and before long I
could make out other heads hidden in the grass; brunettes, blondes,
even a few grays. From where I sat in my tree, I could count fifty
or so. Two were behind a ’54 Chevy pick-up that had two rusted
banged-up oil drums in its bed. Behind the drums, two girls peered
out, frizzy-haired kids that were maybe ten or eleven years old.
Could’ve been twins.

One of the gray heads lifted itself to a full
standing position and I could see it was a bitch. She walked
steadily toward the door of the farmhouse like grandma coming home
from a church social. She raised her arm when she was but three or
four feet away and as she did this, a shotgun blast cracked the air
and grandma’s head burst into a million shards of brain skull and
blood. The body collapsed like a deflated balloon, but the signal
had been given.

The grass was swarming with zombie bitches.
The fifty I saw was just the tip of the proverbial iceberg. There
must have been three hundred. They were chittering and shrieking
like a biblical plague from hell. The guns started firing and
bitches were blown to pieces. Shotguns loaded with rifled slugs
that could bring down a grizzly made holes the size of bowling
balls. Heads were shattered, limbs lopped off, legs left dangling
by stringy sinews. But they kept coming on. They surrounded the
house and started scratching and tearing at the door. The idiots
inside fired through the door, which only helped the bitches’
cause, because the door flew open with one shotgun blast and
knocked four bitches to the ground. They got up, and with huge
splinters of wood from the shattered door sticking in their faces
and tits and bellies, they still came on.

I could hear the men inside shouting and
calling to each other. These undead gals were piling up at the open
door as the men inside fired and the old bastard that took my boots
stuck his head out of a second story window and fired down at them.
He fired both rounds of his double barrel shotgun and the awkward
angle made the butt jump up and hit him in the face. He fell
forward and was dangling just out of reach of the zombies but one
of them climbed on the accumulating heap of bodies and reached his
hair and yanked him down just as one of his sons grabbed for his
foot which had hung up on the window sash.

The tug from below was just too strong. The
boy looking out the window yelled “Pa! Pa! They got Pa!” just as
they covered the old fuck like locusts. They did not kill him,
though. They lifted him up screaming and kicking and dragged him
toward a large tree that spread its limbs over the dirt drive. My
God, I thought, they’re so organized.

A gray-headed one indicated to one of the
blondes with her hand and she returned from the shed with a coil of
rope. They tied him to the tree and stood there looking at him,
smelling the air but mainly just staring at him as he struggled and
screamed.

Meanwhile, other women crowded through the
door and shouts, screams and long howls of pain mixed with sporadic
gunshots escaped from the windows and mingled with the locusts
clacking and the distant caws of crows from beyond the woods. In a
few minutes, the sounds ceased and zombies quietly and slowly
exited the house each with a bounty of limbs, muscle tissue, inner
organs and genitals. Most of the undead were covered in blood as if
they had been washing their hands in it. They joined the others
surrounding the still kicking and screaming old man and shared the
bounty with them. All of them now patiently watch the old man
writhe.

With a signal from the gray bitch, two of the
younger ones start stripping the old guy down in a very orderly
fashion. They remove his—my—boots and toss them far, as if to keep
him from using them ever again. They land in the tall grass about
thirty feet from where I’m hiding. I slip off the stinkers they
traded with me in preparation for a pick up and getaway. But I
continue to watch. This must be the fourth stage development of the
bitches. Some form of intelligence returns; communication through
grunts, chittering and hand signals. This is at least good enough
to organize, launch an attack and a whole bunch of other
maneuvering which to me means the end of the world as we know it
and forever into the future. This ain’t Earth anymore. It’s the
Planet of Bitches.

In short order he is stripped naked. He is
struggling and cursing, but the more he does the more they stare
and tighten his bindings. They look at him as if he is some weird
specimen never before encountered. Many of them who do not
participate in the stripping have a weird way of tilting their
heads, like dogs that are hearing a strange but appealing sound.
The ragged clothing is passed around to the onlookers who sniff it,
examine it and lick at it, particularly the crotch of his pants and
the armpits of the shirts. Two of them have a tug of war over his
stained boxer shorts but a scowl from one of the grays puts a quick
end to that and the red-headed victor stuffs the shorts in her
mouth and stands there with a vacant, serene expression like she’s
tasting caviar for the first time. I nearly puke from the thought
of those asshole smelly, scorch-marked rags that fucker has wrapped
his putrid crotch in without a washing for maybe a year or more.
Reminds me once of a college girl I knew back in the good old days.
She’s driving this Mazda convertible into the service department on
a hot Denver afternoon with the top down and she’s wearing tight
jeans and a sports bra top. I volunteered to follow her to give her
a lift back to the dorm while her car gets its oil changed and
other shit like that, which now seems so trivial and unimportant
and fucking dumb that I cannot believe anyone ever cared about that
kind of stuff now that the world has gone so far down the toilet.
But it was good, those days, and I would trade both nuts to go back
there and do nothing but give lifts to girls and guys and anyone
who needed them just so that I don’t have to be here and now
today.

So, she gets out of the car and goes to the
service writer’s desk and he’s all flirty and bullshit and she
says, “See you later,” and turns and walks back to where I’m
waiting and the service dude and a mechanic type rush over to her
car, open the door and sniff the seat where her sweaty beautiful
crotch was just sitting. They guffaw at each other and the mechanic
idiot gets in, starts it up and drives back into the cave-like
service department. Probably jerked off to that smell. I’m
thinking, guys do that shit. They sniff shit, sniff dirty panties
and dirty socks and other wacky crap and get off on it but girls
never do that shit. Never. Until now.

So the old dude on the tree stops the cursing
and shouting and squirming and sort of hangs there limp and given
up. But he starts pleading and tears are running down his face and
he’s saying things like he had two daughters who he loved and maybe
they could help him find them and his wife also who was sick with
the gout and breast cancer and how terrible it is that women get
breast cancer and that they should be able to get cured and it’s
not too late to stop all this killing and murdering and eating and
maybe he could get the women to a hospital where they could be
treated for whatever it is that has made them so…

But he is interrupted by a tall brunette who
stares him in the face, races up and gently takes his face in her
two hands and seems to want to pity-kiss him as if to say, “You’re
right. This is all so crazy. We should help each other, not kill
each other.” So she moves in for what looks like a giant French
kiss and she instead digs in with her teeth through his lips and
comes away with his tongue. Blood spurts from his mouth and he’s
gurgling shouting; piss squirts out his dick and another bitch runs
toward him and drinks it right from his limp worm like it’s a lawn
spigot. She gets pushed away and another bitch finishes the drink
then bites the dick clean off as if her teeth were bolt cutters.
The gray pushes her out of the way and slits open his nut sack with
a blade that appears from nowhere—might have been in her hair--and
pulls the testicles out, holds them up for the group to see. The
collective moaning and humming is deafening. She then swallows them
whole as if they were oysters from a half-shell. His screaming is
more a squealing as he continues to jerk hard at the ropes till
they rope burn their way into his flesh and he’s cross-crossed with
bleeding slits from where the bindings hold him to the tree.

The gray head turns back to him holding what
looks like a sharpened rib bone. She turns to the assembled bitches
who make a groaning, humming sound that would be enough to drive
any sane person completely schizo—but in this world, nightmares are
the rule, not the exception. She raises the bone, turns to the
tied-up geezer and chitters her teeth. He looks up, blood oozing
from his gaping maw. With a quick downward slash she cuts through
the layers of skin and muscle just below his ribcage. He screams
through the blood which spurts on the bitch. She raises the bone
again and makes another slit on his abdomen creating a triangular
flap that she peels downward to reveal the dude’s liver. She
reaches for it and tugs out one of the lobes, like an udder on a
cow. The other bitches kneel down and crawl to the guy whose head
is swaying back and forth, eyes closed like he’s praying which,
would not be a bad idea at this point because it’s as useless as
anything else the old bastard might try. But I am pitying him,
forgetting what he did and what he likely has done since
civilization vanished from this fucked up planet.

The old gray is milking the liver the way
you’d wring out a sponge one-handed and the other zombies are
kneeling and drinking sips like it’s communion wine. I can see the
bony knuckles on her hand covered in blood as she squeezes and
squeezes. When it’s wrung dry, she pulls out some more liver and
finally the dude seems dead or collapsed anyway from shock and
blood loss.

When there is no more to drink, the gray one
lets out a shriek which defies all description and the other undead
femme fatales descend on the guy and eat away, the way I’ve seen so
many times in the past. He’s not dead, but twitching, his face
contorted and jerking as the chewing, grinding and tearing finally
releases him from his agony. The thighs have been stripped to the
bone, his calves looking like corndogs on a stick with the feet at
the bottom. Eventually, the carcass falls from the tree in pieces
and the girls go at the rest of the meat. The head, as usual, is
carried off. Most of the bitches leave but some younger ones, maybe
twelve or thirteen years old are sitting picking at the bones and
gristle, chewing toes and fingers, squeezing the colon until the
shit is out of it then chomping on it like it’s a rope of salt
water taffy.