Gruesomely Grimm Zombie Tales Part 13

Erzats Ladies' Man Based on: Das Ratsel Clint had always dreamed of travel. So, when the zombies rose and wiped out almost all of humanity, he actually saw it as an opportunity. After putting down his mom and little sister, he loaded up a backpack and set out with his Great Dane, Shakespeare.

The first night was actually a little bit scary. Only fifteen years old, and having never left his hometown of Salem-with the exception of a fifth-grade field trip to Seattle-sleeping that first night in an abandoned and rundown barn was creepy...and much colder than he ever imagined.

The second day, he did his best to avoid the slow moving figures that wandered the roads and open fields. Late in the afternoon, he was wandering through what, at least if he was following his map correctly, was Mount Hood National Forest. He'd grown up his whole life seeing that state icon from his window and never even been close. One of his favorite movies was The s.h.i.+ning, and he longed to see Timberline Lodge where it was filmed. Since it was late spring, he figured that the weather couldn't be too awful.

As he and Shakespeare wove through the pine forest, Clint tried to make sense of all the horror from the past three weeks. It seemed to have started in New Orleans. There were reports of Cajuns emerging from the bayou in droves. From there it gets a bit sketchy. n.o.body can say for certain how it was that the first cases showed up as far away as Bejing and Rome a mere four days later. And he had no idea if there was any truth to the rumor that England had secured itself in time to be the only clean zone on the planet.

Of course, none of that mattered to Clint. The televisions had gone off first, and the radio stations were only a couple of days behind. He hadn't seen a living person in over a week. And that one had been pulled down by a dozen of those things in the yard across the street.

So now, Clint walked along with his dog. Once he checked Mount Hood and Timberline off his list, he was gonna head for Yellowstone Park. Clint was a bit of a geology nerd besides being a movie buff. He really wanted to see Old Faithful.

As the day wound down, he began looking for someplace to camp for the night. He hadn't seen any zombies wandering the forest, so he wasn't too worried. Plus, Shakespeare growled something fierce whenever one of those things was close. It was late in the afternoon when he came to a stream. Only a stone's throw away, a girl was busy filling a huge plastic container.

Clint felt the same old awkwardness flood him that he normally experienced any time he was in the vicinity of a pretty girl. Still, she was the first living soul he'd seen in a while. Clipping the leash onto his dog's collar so the giant canine wouldn't bound ahead and frighten her, Clint stepped out of the brush and to the bank of the stream.

"Hey there," he called, startling the girl enough to make her drop the plastic jug.

Wading out, Clint grabbed the container as it bobbed past. He held it up and waved at the girl who was still staring with a look that was part surprise and part fear. As he waded out of the stream and started walking up the bank, the girl remained stock still.

"I'm sorry I scared you," Clint said. "It's just that Shakespeare and I haven't seen anybody in a while and I got excited."

The girl glanced at the dog as the two approached her. For a moment, Clint was worried that the black and white pony-sized beast might frighten her. That is until she reached over and scratched him behind his pointy ears.

"Nice doggy," she smiled.

"So," Clint did his best not to stammer, "do you know of any place that my dog and I can stop for the night?"

"Well, my aunt's cabin is just through the trees," the girl offered.

"That would be so great."

"Only..." the girl paused.

"Yes?"

"Look," the girl took a deep breath, "there's no easy way to put this so I'm just gonna say it. She's a meth freak. Half the time, she doesn't even seem to know I'm there."

"So, do you think we should keep looking for a place?" Clint asked.

"No." The girl glanced at the sky which was turning the deep blue of dusk. "Just be careful, and I wouldn't go in the back where the kitchen is."

"We appreciate it. My name is Clint, by the way," he set down the water jug and extended his hand, "and this is Shakespeare."

"I'm Chelsea, pleased to meet you."

They walked back to a clearing where a dingy double-wide sat on cinder blocks. Clint didn't say a word as Chelsea led them to a door towards the rear of the trailer. As they got closer, Shakespeare began to lag, and eventually, the Great Dane sat down and refused to go a step closer.

"What's that smell?" Clint asked.

"That," Chelsea sighed, "is my aunt's meth lab."

"It smells like cat pee."

"Yeah, that's as good a description as any I guess."

"How can you stay here?" Clint asked.

"I don't know if you've been paying attention," Chelsea replied, "but it's not safe in the city."

"I get that." Clint scratched his dog behind the ears. "But surely there must be someplace-"

"My mom tried to eat me!" Chelsea cut him off. "I only remember seeing my aunt a few times, but it was the only address of a family member who lived in the state. So...I managed to get the car most of the way, until it got wrecked. The last ten or so miles I did on foot. I never ran so much in my life. When I got here...I basically collapsed. When I woke up, I wanted to leave, but I've got no place else to go."

They stood in silence for a moment. Finally, Clint unhooked Shakespeare's leash and nodded. He followed Chelsea to the trailer. It was one night, surely he could spend one night here.

When he walked inside the door, he was immediately struck with doubt. If the smell was bad outside, it was ten times worse inside. The girl grabbed a rubber mask and handed it to Clint. She pulled one on, showing him how to pull the straps tight, then led him to the very rear of the trailer, to a tiny bedroom.

"You can sleep here." She pointed to a spot on the floor.

"Chelsea?" a raspy voice called. "Is that you?"

"Yes, Aunt Gerry."

"Is that a horse laying out in our yard?" A haggard looking woman with sores on her face and arms stopped in the door. "And who do we have here?"

"It's a dog, Aunt Gerry," Chelsea replied. "And this is Clint. He's pa.s.sing through and just needed a place to crash."

"Good evening," the stringy-haired woman cackled, trying to sound friendly. Clint couldn't look away from her red, rheumy eyes. There was something very unsettling about them. "Well, Clint, make yourself at home. I'm a little busy...cooking something..." she giggled at her own joke.

"Thanks for the hospitality," Clint said, not quite knowing what else to say.

Aunt Gerry gave Clint one more look up and down, then turned and left. Chelsea pulled the door shut and climbed into her bed. It was getting dark, the only light coming in a soft glow from the other end of the trailer.

"Whatever you do," Chelsea yawned, "don't accept anything from her. Besides most likely being contaminated with who-knows-what, it always has a price."

Clint settled in. He felt bad for the girl, but had no idea how he could help. He wanted to ask her to join him and Shakespeare, but his shyness kept the offer locked away. Almost surprisingly, he drifted away and slept peacefully until morning.

When he was getting ready to leave, Aunt Gerry came outside and approached the boy and his dog. "You stick it in her last night, boy?" she cackled.

"No!" Clint said mortified.

"You shoulda," Aunt Gerry leered. "She's a sweet piece, that one."

Clint was shocked and unable to respond. He clipped the leash to Shakespeare's collar and mumbled a thanks as he shouldered his pack.

"Brought ya a little something." The woman held out a strange gla.s.s tube and a piece of foil with a few chunks of something that looked to Clint like rock salt. "Take a hit on this and you'd be sure to come back and see your Aunt Gerry."

At that moment, Shakespeare jumped up on the wasted away figure of a woman and knocked everything to the ground. The gla.s.s pipe shattered and the rock-like stuff scattered in the tall weeds. Aunt Gerry howled in anger and Clint took off at a run into the woods. He didn't stop for quite a while. When he did, he sat down. He noticed a pouch had been stuffed in his pockets. It was more of those dirty looking opaque rocks. He tossed them away and settled under the tree to take a nap, trusting Shakespeare to stand watch.

As he slept, a raven landed, drawn by the glint of the rocks. The bird swallowed one, flapped wildly for a moment, and died. Shakespeare scooped it up in his mouth and returned just as his master awoke.

"Good boy." Clint patted the dog's giant head. "Maybe we can find someplace to cook this up."

He took the bird from the dog and dropped it in a pouch. All day they journeyed through the forest and couldn't seem to find their way out of it. At nightfall, they finally came to a narrow road and followed it until it pa.s.sed an inn with a dull glow coming from within. Clint stepped inside, Shakespeare coming in on his heels.

After handing the raven over to the man behind the counter in exchange for a discount on the stew that would be made with it, he took a seat in the corner and read an old newspaper from the last days before the world fell into chaos.

Little did Clint know that he had stumbled into a den of cannibalistic murderers who were nearly mad from such overuse of meth. His good fortune was that they were in between tweeks. That, and the rocks Aunt Gerry had stuffed in his pocket were from a lethally bad batch. They used the raven in the stew and ate it all before Clint was able to even get a bowl.

Out on the back porch, the barkeep, Aunt Gerry, and the murdering meth-heads stood around the pot, shoveling spoonfuls of the raven-laced stew in their mouths. No sooner had they taken a few bites than they all fell dead, for the poison of the bad batch of meth had spoiled the meat of the raven.

Clint heard sobs from behind a closed door and was surprised to discover a young girl bound to the bed in the room. He freed her and then went searching for the bartender to give him what for. In no time, he discovered the congregation of corpses on the back porch. Now there would be no one left in the inn except the bartender's former hostage. The girl was so grateful that she showed him the bas.e.m.e.nt where the belongings of all who had come before had been ama.s.sed. There were piles of treasure that held no value in a post-apocalyptic world like wallets and purses full of cash, ipods, and suitcases full of hastily gathered trinkets. Clint said he had no need for any of it and that the girl could keep it, then continued on his journey with Shakespeare.

After wandering for a long time, he finally came to the parking lot of Timberline Lodge. A band of survivors had claimed it and even elected a leader; a voluptuous woman named Bonnie who now went by the name Jasmina. She had a contingent of four female cage fighters who had been staying at the lodge when the apocalypse began. (They had been largely responsible for ensuring that Jasmina won the election.) For fun, they let it be known that Jasmina would give it up for any man who gave her a riddle that she couldn't answer, but that if she did solve the riddle, that man would be tossed in the octagon erected out back containing five zombies. She would be allowed three days thinking time, but Jasmina was so amazingly clever that she always guessed it sooner. Nine men had already met their horrid death in that cage, torn limb from limb by a pack of eager zombies.

Clint got one look at Jasmina and signed up, besides, his lifelong love of The Hobbit inspired him to believe he had a sure-fire riddle that would perplex the peroxide-blonde beauty.

"Here is my riddle," he said once he was escorted into her room. "One killed not, yet killed twelve. What is it?"

She didn't have a clue. She thought and thought but she couldn't even hazard a guess. She and her cage fighting coterie poured through every book of riddles she possessed, but it wasn't there. When she could think of nothing else to do, she slipped downstairs and told her friend Heather to cozy up to the young man and see if she could get him to talk.

Being a bit of a nerd, Clint was tongue-tied by the beautiful brunette named Heather. She had to basically invite herself up to the room he'd been allotted. When she walked in, the first thing she saw was the Great Dane, Shakespeare. When the dog bounded up to greet the stranger brought in by its master, Heather turned and tried to run. She tripped and fell part of the way down the stairs almost breaking her neck.

The second night, Jasmina convinced one of her former stripper coworkers, Mercedes, to see if she could cozy up to the young man. Once again the new woman was scared witless by the pony-sized canine, even though all he wanted was a good scratch behind his pointy ears.

The third day, Clint overheard Heather and Mercedes gossiping over their sangria about how Jasmina was steamed that they hadn't cracked Clint's riddle. He congratulated himself for a job almost-well-done and returned to his room. He was more than a little surprised to discover Jasmina, wearing a ruby-red wig and jade-green contacts in a failed attempt at a disguise, waiting in his room.

Now he saw this as a personal challenge beyond just the obvious danger of being tossed into a caged oct-agon with a bunch of zombies. Obviously he was close to winning. So this is how Bilbo felt, Clint thought.

The poorly disguised Jasmina was scratching Shakespeare behing his ears. She immediately s.h.i.+fted to that mode she used back in the strip club when she wanted to empty a man's wallet without him being able to do so much as lay a finger on her. In fact, that habit was so ingrained; it was the driving force behind all she did now.

Clint let her think that he was oblivious as she clumsily attempted to draw the answer to his riddle. He went so far as to feign drifting off to sleep.

"One killed not," she said. "What is it?"

"A meth poisoned raven that was made into stew," he replied.

When she had the answer to the riddle, she went to creep away, but he s.n.a.t.c.hed the ruby-red wig from her head and Jasmina was forced to leave it behind. The next morning, no surprise, she announced that she had the answer to Clint's riddle.

The cage fighting coterie was sent for to witness the answer Jasmina was eager to give. She got a bit of a twisted thrill out of seeing men-even though Clint barely qualified-tossed into the cage to fight zombies with their bare hands.

Clint asked to be heard and said, "She broke into my room in disguise and that is how she knows the answer. She obviously wasn't going to figure it out."

"Can you prove it?" the largest and fiercest of the female cage fighters asked after the four brutish women put their heads together for a moment.

Clint produced the wig. Jasmina tried to protest, but the quad of brutal hotties held up their hand to silence her. Inside the wig was a tag: Property of Bonnie Jones.

"We find in favor of Clint," the tiniest of the fighters announced. "Give it up to him, Bo...er...Jasm-ina."

So, Jasmina accompanied Clint to his room after casting one pleading glance over her shoulder. As it turned out, it was Clint's first time and his eagerness made the experience a delight for them both. The two hooked up and are actually a bit of a couple now.

23.

Buck's Blunder Based on: Von dem Mauschen, Vogelchen und der Bratwurst He was big, bad, and black. His friends called him Buck. She was slender, long-legged, and Hispanic. Everybody called her Mami. He was shy, bookish, and pale. Everybody called him Cookie. They were an unlikely group of companions, but the zombie apocalypse makes for strange bedfellows.

The oddly matched trio were just one of several pockets of survivors hiding out on the outskirts of Memphis. They set up housekeeping and lived together for several weeks in peace and happiness. They achieved a symbiotic dynamic that was quite complementary, and increased their level of comfort remarkably given the circ.u.mstances. Buck's job was to slip out, scavenge for supplies and firewood. Mami brought water from the hand-drawn well and kept the fire burning. Cookie rigged little gadgets like solar chargers so that each of their iPods worked, they had enough generated power to watch a movie or two at night, and he did the cooking.

Too much of a good thing can breed complacency. One day, Buck ran into a brutha-from-da-hood. He talked big smack about how plush he had it in his crib. The homie laughed at him and told him he was still a "slave to the old ways."

"Keep doin' all da work, step'n-fetch-it," the dark-skinned brother laughed. "You tote and toil, while the white boy and his b.i.t.c.h live off your sweat."

When Buck got home, Mami had already stocked the fire and boiled the day's water. She was in her room napping until it was time to set the table. Cookie was stirring a pot of something that smelled like a spicy stew. Sitting on the table beside him was some sort of gadget that he was fiddling with.

Buck tossed his heavy load on the floor and stomped over to the basin to wash up, using plenty of Cookie's homemade soap and water that Mami had fetched earlier. They sat down together for a silent meal, then checked all the warning systems Cookie had in place and climbed into beds between sheets and comforters that Mami washed every few days. In short, they lived a life of luxury compared to most survivors.

Buck mulled over what the brutha-from-da-hood had said. The next morning, he refused to go out and scavenge for supplies and wood.

"I been y'all's boy long enough," Buck spat. "I work like a slave for the both of ya. I ain't n.o.body's n.i.g.g.e.r. It's time to flip the script. Ya feelin' me?"

Mami and Cookie tried to argue, but Buck wasn't having any of it. He was doing all the work, and it was time to make a change. Eventually, the other two gave in, they agreed to Buck's demands. The jobs were designated to be represented by three cards from the deck Mami had made for them to play with. They drew a card, and the way it ended up, Cookie had to scavenge, Mami became the cook, and Buck had to keep the fires burning and fetch water.

It went downhill fast from there. Cookie strapped on a few weapons and a backpack, Buck tossed a couple of logs on the fire and started hauling water, and Mami started prepping the day's meals.

Hours pa.s.sed and there was no sign of Cookie. Buck found himself becoming concerned, and finally went out to find the little guy. He hadn't gone far when he came up on a fresh blood smear on the sidewalk. He followed it to an alley where he found poor Cookie. Both arms had chunks of flesh torn from them and there was a nasty rip where a zombie had clamped down on one ear and torn it and a strip of flesh down the side of his neck away. Cookie-zombie stumbled towards Buck with a mouth open and dead eyes staring with flat, undead hunger. Gone was that shy admiration Buck had grown accustomed to. Taking his axe, Buck smashed Cookie-zombie in the forehead, crus.h.i.+ng his skull and putting him down for good.

Buck scooped up the meager supplies Cookie had managed to gather before being attacked and headed home. He fought back tears as he told Mami what happened. Despite their bitter grief, they agreed that it was now more important than ever that they stay together.

Buck set the table while Mami went into the kitchen to prepare the meal. She had everything ready, but couldn't figure out the propane stove that Cookie had rigged. Try as she might she couldn't get the burners to work. She leaned in with a lighter and tried to light the pilot light once she realized it had gone out. So much gas had built up that, when she thumbed the lighter, a ball of flame engulfed her head. Her gasp was her undoing as she sucked that flame into her lungs, scarring them. She slid to the floor, and slowly suffocated.

Buck was ready for dinner, but there was no sign of Mami. When he went into the kitchen to check, he saw the still-smoldering woman lying sprawled on the floor. He had no idea that the pilot light still hadn't been lit and that the burner was still on allowing propane to continue to be pumped into the room. The lantern he held acted as a wonderful igniter.

There was a 'WHUMP' and a ball of flame exploded in the kitchen catching the drapes Mami had sewn on fire. Buck stumbled out of the room, smacking at his smoldering clothes. In a rush, he ran out to the well to fetch water to put out the fire. In his haste, as he went to lower the bucket, he lost his balance and fell over the edge. He plummeted down the shaft and landed with a splash. Buck couldn't swim, and eventually drowned

24.