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Writer
Join Date: Jun 2004
Location: The Fortress of Solitude
Posts: 40
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Gutter Zombies, part 1
Gutter Zombies
"What do you mean you don't drink?
Drinking's my entire life!
You gotta start drinking!"
-Right On, AntiFlag
“The…fu….ugh. Mornings suh….ck”
A single hand emerged from the rats nest of covers, sliding along the mattress, feeling along the ground. Marlboros… Marlboros…where the hell are the fucking Marlboros? Maybe smoking in the “bed” wasn’t such a hot idea, but then again, I was too hung over to give a flying intercourse.
Me and Blunt’s place was pretty much what you’d expect for a couple of poor assed gutter punks; an empty, one room apartment, and I mean literally one fuggin room. No kitchen, no bathroom, no bedroom even…it was just one, big, empty room. Only furniture, a couple of moth-eaten mattresses tossed right on the floor in true punk fashion.
I guess they didn’t call this place the Sleeping Rooms for nothing…sleep, drink, and screw, that’s ‘bout all the place is good for, and that’s assuming your girl is into pounding the mattress only mere feet away from a desperate, hasn’t-gotten-any-in-such-a-long-time-he-can’t-remember-who-slips-who-the-drugs, pornhound with a working camcorder.
Poor Blunt; can’t remember the last time I didn’t run one of his chicas off. Ah well, there’s always more where that came from; Blunt is the grand daddy of all that is pimp, and I’m here to pick up the overflow.
“The hell…Camels? Stupid Blunt with his stupid ass tasting cheap cigs…”, I mutter, lighting one of said cheap, ass tasting cigs up. Hey, it’s a small incendiary tube filled with tobacco and nicotine; it’ll do.
Slowly it dawned on me that there were way too many police sirens wailing outside the Sleeping Rooms for my well being…’course, one pig is too many for this neck of the woods. Too many party drugs, cheap whores, brutal ass whoppins, and underage drinking…and that’s just me folks.
Grumbling, I stagger to my feet; not exactly a morning person, ‘specially when that morning starts at four in wee hours, and the night of party hard ended at two. Maybe that ass Scarf finally got himself busted; Lord, that’d make/break my day. On one hand, I’d love to see the chick beating panzy hauled off; on the other hand, with him gone, where else am I gonna get me amphetamines? Lord knows I ain’t a happy camper without my kickers. If Johnny Law’s really coming down on Scarf, woe to the next skinhead that gets in my way, that’s all I’m gonna say.
Shuffling over to the window, I take a look at what’s going down…no way. No. Fucking. Way. Desperately, I racked my mind for something to explain this shit; was I dropping acid again last night? I thought I swore never to touch that shit again after the “incident”….I mean, Bob Fett was pretty damn pissed at me for chasing him around his apartment with a ball bat like that, but hey, I was only trying to save him from those mystic air whales flying outta the crack in his skull! He shoulda been thanking me!
“Blunt….Blunt! Wake the hell up man…WAAAAAAAAAAAAKEY WAKEY“, I yell at him, punctuating each word with a kick.
“Shut the hell up you two bit queer!”, he muttered, yanking his blankets over his head.
“Get ‘yo lazy ass up, pud! There’s like a thousand friggin cops outside!”
“Good; maybe they’re finally coming down on that putz Scarf.”
“Um…they’re like…killing zombies…and stuff…”
“What?!”, that got his attention; his eight inch mowhawk whipped up, and fixed me with a stare that just screamed “just how long have you been riding the short bus?”.
“The uneasy dead man; the dead yet still living; zombies, as in The Night of the Living. The cops are fuggin shooting friggin ZOMBIES!”
“That’s what I thought you said…Fish man, just HOW much acid were you droppin last night?”
“Not enough for this shit, that’s for damn sure.”
“Riiiiiiight…pud.”, he replied, holding out his hand. Grabbing hold of his wrist, I haul Blunt’s scrawny ass to his feet and shove him over to the window. The look on his face was classic; and if it wasn’t for the fact I was still hoping to Wobbly Headed Bob that I had been trippin, it woulda been friggin hilarious.
“Fish”
“Yo”
“There’s fucking zombies out there.”
“You see ‘em too?”
“They’re eating the pigs.”
“So…you see them too?”
“I don’t think you get it….you woke me up and there’s zombies out there.”
“Dude…you see ‘em too, right?”
“YES!”
“Shit.”
Reaching over, Blunt snagged the pack of Camels out of my hand; whipping a cig out, he looked at me rather expectantly. Figuring he wanted a light, I held my Zippo up, and sent him one step closer to blackened lungs.
“One question Fish.”
“Just one?”
“You woke me up for this?”
….
Ugh. That was Blunt in the nutshell right there; scary part is, he’s the brains of this here operation. Lord knows my mind boiled alive in the chemical soup I call a circulatory system years ago…and let’s face it, I wasn’t all that bright to begin with.
Even as he plopped back down on his mattress, I was pulling him back to his feet; Blunt may not never worry ‘bout nothing, but me, I don’t exactly see sitting here waiting for a horde of flesh eating corpses to come claim my young, nubile body as a good time. I is a sexy bitch; ain’t no way I’m gonna let the walking dead gnaw away at this hot ass.
Once I got Blunt goin, he made the executive decision to get our shit together and split right quick; maybe such a course of action shoulda been obvious, but, like I said, my mind is more than a bit fried; logic ain’t my strong point no more.
Stripping off my sweatpants, I quickly slip into a thick pair of jnco jeans, and my leather motorcycle jacket; between those and my steel-toes, I figured I was pretty well protected…not like Blunt in his hoodie and bondage pants…
Getting our stuff packed was quick and dirty; we lived out of our knapsacks more often than not. We’d only been in Climax City for about a month and a half, or there abouts; as light as we travel, neither one of us had really unpacked. We hadn’t planned to even stay this long in the city, but a certain little chica had caught Blunt’s eye, and we ended up getting sidetracked. Not that it really bothered me none; Climax was a resort town, with plenty for me to do. Hell, once Squirrel and Yoda showed up, things began to kick some serious ass ‘round here.
You see, about four years ago, my sister, Irene, turned up beaten, raped and dead. I almost didn’t survive it…hell, Blunt pretty much self-destructed; she was his fiancée, and if I ever saw a couple more bat-shit stupid for each other, Lord knows I can’t recall ’em. In one month’s time, she woulda been eighteen, and the two of ‘em were gonna get hitched. Blunt dove head first into a bottle on the day they were supposed to be wed; as for me, well, before her death, I was straight arrow to a fault, but afterwards…hell, you saw the chemicaled mess I was when I woke up, so is it even really in question anymore?
A few months later, Blunt showed up on my doorstep, said he was going on a road trip: you in? Throwing a couple pairs of clothes into a knapsack, we were on our way, and didn’t look back for four wild, mind-numbing, self-destructive, best goddamn years of my life.
We had been on our way home to see our families when we “passed through” Climax City and got sidetracked. It wasn’t like they were expecting us, so what’s was the harm, eh?
A piercing scream rang out in the chill night’s air, momentarily drowning out the sound of gunfire. The police were losing, and losing bad; made sense, really. One time they decide to do something useful instead of writing tickets, and they screw it up big time. Bad cop! No doughnut for you!
Suppose my distaste for authority was showing through, but whatever. The distinctive metallic click of a magazine sliding home came from my right, and I caught a glimpse of Blunt sliding his Beretta into his pants’ waistband. Oddly enough, green-haired, Mohawk boy here had been raised by a pair of police officers; kid was one hell of a shot.
Me, I preferred to get down and dirty; maybe not such a hot idea with zombies, but what the hell? Ya only live once…still, Blunt had the right idea, as per usual. Rummaging through my bag, I run across my switchblade. Slipping it my pocket, I grab my Louisville Slugger, take up my pack, and slip out the door.
The second floor landing was pandemonium; the drunks, whores, and assorted lowlifes who tenanted this place were all milling about in varying states of undress. Searching in my pocket for a stray barbiturate, or tablet of something good, I try, unsuccessfully, to shut out the dull, panicked roar.
“The fuck is going on round here?”, roars a familiar drunken slur. I swear, if I didn’t depend on the dick for my kicks, I woulda put Scarf down the day I got here. Blunt wanted to anyway; he saw the man as competition. ‘Course, that’s a matter of opinion; me and Blunt only sell the lighter stuff, weed, E, maybe some misappropriated prescription meds here and there. Heroin, coke, and the real bad shit, we didn’t touch…stuff’s more trouble than it’s worth.
“Well, Scarfie, near as I can figure, Hell ain’t got no more vacancies.”, I mutter.
“Fuck you Fish”
“Ain’t into dudes, man”
“I oughta fuck you up, you little shit”
It was right about that point Blunt strode out of our room and smacked the skinhead upside the head with his skateboard.
“Starting shit when everything’s going to hell; how long you ride the short bus for man?”, Blunt slung his battered skateboard under his arm. Transport, weapon, way to show off; there were a thousand and one uses for a handy dandy skateboard, so sayith the Blunt.
Whatever idle threat Scarf was about to make was drowned out as the front door of the Sleeping Rooms exploded inward, showering glass shrapnel among the poor bastards milling about the ground floor. A living nightmare flew through the doorway; I caught a glimpse of a creature that looked like a cross between a hairless ape and a bipedal iguana.
A symphony of screams arose from the lower level as it tore into the fear-crazed mob; even those on the second level began to panic, some barring themselves in their rooms, others standing stock still in shock; a few of the more crazed hurled themselves down the stairs, trying to make it out the ruined door…those jackasses were the first to die.
A horde of living dead began pouring in, taking down anything that was living; even as the main tide swept through the ground floor, the dead flew in a torrent up the narrow stairs, two at a time.
Looking at each other for a bare moment, Blunt and I both seize Scarf and launch his big ass into the flowing tide of inhumanity, momentarily scattering them, knocking most of the buggers back down the flight of steps. A single zombie made it to the top, and the bastard was the lucky recipient of a skateboard to the head and a ball bat to the gut, flooring it.
“Bitch!”, we scream in unison.
“Blunt?”
“Yo.”
“Now what?”
Turning, Blunt sprinted down the hallway, with me hot on his heels. Throwing the window at the end of the hallway open, Blunt climbed out onto the fire-escape. Glancing back, I saw a few of the other tenants following suit…or falling victim to the walking dead flowing up those stairs. Talk about getting your ass chewed out.
Pounding up the fire-escape, I follow Blunt up to the roof, wondering what the hell he was thinking; roof equals dead end jackass!
“Blunt, what the hell man?”, I yell, running up to his side; clutching my ball bat, I glance around nervously, waiting for the hammer to come down. The dynamic duo, Blunt and Fish, they’ve been in some bad shit before man, real bad shit, but this was pushing it.
A shriek sounded out behind us, cut off as quickly as it began; glancing over my shoulder, I see another of those reptilian bitches tearing into Lisa, our next door neighbor; a third climbed over the edge of the building and took down Holtz, a skinhead that ran with Scarf.
Blunt seized my arm and yanked me forward; running for all we were worth, we hurled ourselves over the five foot gap separating the Sleeping Rooms from the laundromat next door, one of those apeguanas following hard.
The laundromat’s roof was smooth and on a small incline; without even seeming to think about it, Blunt threw down his skateboard, quickly pulling ahead of me. I already knew what he was planning; the crazy bastard was gonna try and jump it! It was at least twice the distance of the other, and the idiot was a thinking we were gonna jump it!
Like I said…he’s the brains of this here operation, and when he ramped off the edge of the building, I followed, screaming obscenities. Fear plus amphetamines can make a person almost superhuman—almost. This much ass just wasn’t meant to fly over the streets, lookin like Spiderman after a pie-easting contest.
Still, when I came to, I was pretty damn impressed with myself.
Reality came back to bite me in the ass shortly after; the throbbing pain piercing my admittably thick skull was ringing out a message bright and clear:
WAKEY WAKEY PUD!
My eyes slid open with some effort; coming more fully awake, I found my body to be a mass of aches and pains. Damn, I could use a few hits of X right about now…but I suppose it had to wait until I figured out where in the name of Wobbly Headed Bob I was.
Struggling to my feet, my steel-toes sank down into the sea of green plastic puddling out around me; if that rank ass smell didn’t give it away, the garbage bags sure as shootin did. I landed in an open dumpster; how’s that for luck?
But still, I survived a four-story plummet to the mushy “earth”; like I said, I was pretty damn impressed with myself. But, hey, it’s like they say, Bumbles bounce.
A low moaning wafted in from the dark night, and hoisting myself up to peek over the thick steel edge, I saw a small blonde staggering into the side of it, arms outstretched, groaning deep in her throat. Okay, generally speaking, I like the situation that calls for any female, of any description or age, to cry out at me like that, but the big, bloody hole in her stomach pretty much screamed “HEY! I’M A FUCKING ZOMBIE DAWG! WOOF! WOOF!”.
Still, had to admit, she was one fine chica. If it wasn’t for the whole flesh-eating thing, me and living dead girl here coulda had some fine necrophilia time, but, as things stood, she was going down.
Climbing up on the edge of the dumpster, I whip out my switchblade and peg her in the head with it. The blade struck her in the forehead at a downward angle and exploded through the backside of her head, passing right through that ever-classic zombie G-spot: the brainpan. Hopping down, I glance up and down the alley, looking to see if anyone else wanted to throw down; no one did. Too bad. I was looking for trouble mate, believe you me.
Crouching down beside the dead (again) body, the thought occurred to me that since it looked like the entire city was sucked into the ninth concentric circle of Hell, I’d probably find said trouble sooner rather than later.
“Shit…all I want is to smoke a bowel with my buds with a naked hottie in my lap, sittin around a fuggin bonfire singing kum-bi-ya ; is that SOOOOOOO much to ask?”, I mutter, ripping my knife outta the little thing’s head. Wiping the blade clean on her blouse, I slip that bad boy back into my pocket.
Hell, this works too. Always bragged I’d live through a horror movie; time to prove it.
The Southside of Climax City’s a warren of interconnecting alleyways, footpaths, and interconnecting back roads; police didn’t show their faces down this way much, not even their fancy pants Rapid Response Team. Unit…which was kinda odd. Not the fact that they didn’t show up down here, but the fact that a hick assed tourist town like Climax would have a terrorist response squad to begin with. Sure, that Napalm company, what their names, Burke, did a helluva lot business outta this place, but what the hell, you know? If you were gonna fuck with Burke, you hit one of their factory complexes in the Midwest, or one of their mammoth (which, for the burn outs among the audience, means big assed) office complexes in NYC, Austin, or some place like that. Not a little shit town like Climax City, Indiana.
Still, Climax was a rich bitch sort of town, real yuppiesville. Down here in the Southside, just a hop, skip, and a jump away from the warehouse district, was practically a ghost town; why in the name of all that is THC and PCP the cops choose down here to make their stand against the deadites is beyond me.
To my way of thinking, Main Street oughta be crawling with the deadite scum, but the back streets should be relatively clean. If I could make it to the warehouse district on the other side, I could probably hook up with a fully gased automotive of the big rig sort. If the mess I saw on Main Street outside the Sleeping Rooms was any indication, the roads of Climax must be pretty fucked up, and a tractor-trailer was just the right thing to muscle through it.
Besides, I needed to find a phone, post haste mi amigos. Blunt was out there somewhere, bereft of his sidekick; without me to pull his ass outta the fire at the last second, how is he gonna save the day? Once I had my big rig, I could call up the little pud’s cell and be like “Have no fear, Fish is here, bitch!”.
Somehow, the idea that Blunt might be dead never occurred to me; I know my bro better than anyone else, and let me tell you, he’s a helluva scarier than anything haunting these…um…haunted streets.
Picking my way down the alley, putting as much distance between me and Main Street as possible, I haul ass for the warehouse district, pausing only long enough to pop a stray pill I found in my pocket. Still couldn’t have told you what it was, but I do know I have sparkly happy feelings once it kick in…which was a damn sight better than the bruised, battered, and generally pissed off shit that was floating through my mind before. I needed all the happy feelings I could get man; anger is bad karma, and there’s enough bad mojo floating around this place.
After an hour or so, I found myself completely lost in the labyrinth of the Southside slums; dilapidated, caving in two stories surrounded me on every side. Back in the day, when Climax City had been a mining town, this place had been a richy rich type neighborhood, the kind ‘o place your fat housewife would brag to her old biddy friends that ya’all lived in. Once the depression hit, this place pretty much went to pot (mmmm…pot), and never really filled back up. The city council had made numerous plans to clear the area, but they never got around to it; when I showed up, they were arguing about where to get the funds to subsidize a project that damn big.
All things I didn’t want to know, but then again, when you’re a recreational user of coke like me, you tend to pick up some strange facts when you’re hanging out in the bathroom with some asshole stranger at a party trying to score some of “The Dandruff of Christ”. But, it’s like my hero Dennis Leary once said, Jews would be hanging out in there with Hitler if he had coke; they’d be going, "I know you didn't do it. *snort* I like your mustache. *snort* Fucking Himmler. *snort*".
Dennis fucking Leary man…
Still, the place was an absolute mess of interconnected streets and by-ways, just begging to get someone lost, raped, and mugged…and while I wouldn’t mind getting a good “raping” right now, getting lost and mugged by one ‘o those apeguana’s didn’t constitute what I’d consider to be a “good thing” right about now.
I ran into a bit of trouble here and there, but honestly, lone zombies like the ones I was running into down here didn’t really amount to a bona fide threat; they all did the exact same thing. A growly type, moany thing, the throwing out of the arms, and the retard charge, all classic hallmarks of a Climax City zombie attack. There were just so many ways a big guy with a baseball bat could deal with this; poor little buggers never really stood a chance.
What kept me worried was listening for the muffled pitter patter of scaled feet supporting a squat, four hundred plus pound body; guess I was so focusing on the apeguanas that I forgot to listen for other tell tales…
The smell slapped me across the face like a thirty ought to the back of the head. Two years back me and Blunt had hit Mardi Gras, and somehow or another I fell through an open manhole; never mix jello shots with cheap whores and even cheaper weed, all I’m gonna say. So there I was in a Louisiana sewer, home of fat assed bayou rednecks and spicy Cajun cooking, in the middle of one of the biggest drunken parties of the year, throwing my guts up…guess what I’m getting at is it didn’t smell like no bed of roses. It was, officially, the vilest thing I had ever smelled.
This was about a thousand times worse. A slaughterhouse with one hell of a serious plumping problem might start coming up on the sheer reek of this shit…maybe. Just standing there, stopped dead in my tracks, I was fighting a losing battle against the bile trying to force its way up my throat.
Still, it was a one-way alley; my choices were pretty god damn limited. It was either forward into that nostril burning, stomach churning, and frankly terrifying stench, or back the way I came…
“Fuck it.”
Always forward, never backward. I knew what was back there: the same circles I had wandered in for what seemed like an eternity, populated by half-seen phantasms that’d strip me of not only my life, but my very humanity if given half a chance.
A philosophy on my life, and a metaphor for my current situation; nice Fish man, nice.
Even though I didn’t think about it at the time, I was scared as all hell under my buzz; if I hadn’t been feeling the mind-happying effects of those pills I’d popped earlier, I don’t think I could have kept going. Hell, I know I couldn’t have…but in retrospect, it’s a damn good thing I had. Ever see a lizard monster with its brains sucked right out through two big assed holes in the back of its skull? Well, I have. About half a mile back, as a matter of fact.
Damn thing was laying face first in a muddy puddle, sucked dry. Later, when I found out what kind of eight legged freak did that shit, I’d figure out that a three hundred pound gutter punk like moi was a light snack for one ‘ol them buggers.
Still, the whole apeguana shebang was still with me when I was forcing my self to put one foot in front of the other, gagging the entire way on that fucking rank assed smell.
Turning around the corner, I was suddenly wishing for the good old days of “FUCK ME FREDDY THAT REEKS!”. My bat slid from nerveless fingers, clattering to the pavement in the still silence of the dead city; staggering to my knees, I vomit violently onto the filthy back alley floor, heaving time and time again, expelling everything in my body until only a sort of dry choking remains, racking my bulky form.
I’d seen dead bodies before; hell, I made a few in my time. But shit…it was never like this man. Never. A charnel field spread out in front of me, blood puddling the ground in thick, viscous pools, intestines floating gently in the rapidly congealing mess; the brick walls of the once fine townhouses were splashed with syrupy, black blood stiffened with assorted viscera. Swarms of flies buzzed and hummed among the rotting carcasses, moving and rolling in a living carpet of repugnance, finding a sort of subsistence among the putrid stink of death.
As the heaves passed, I knelt there on all fours gulping the foul tasting air, trying to get it together. Come on Fish! This is not the time to bitch out! Count your blessings man; if the little fucks are in this many pieces, even if they’re still “alive” they can’t do shit! Get the fuck up you pud!
I couldn’t tell you how long it took me to get my shit back together; all I know is if some big ugly had wandered back right about then, tonight’s blue plate special woulda been prostrated gutter punk. Come get’im while he’s still kicking.
Slinging my pack off the shoulders, I rummage around frantically, fervently hoping Blunt didn’t walk off with the damn thing again. Encountering the object in question, I whisper up a slight prayer of thanksgiving to Wobbly Headed Bob, and whip the cap off my flask, taking a long, hard swallow.
Ahhhhhhh…liquid courage.
As the warm glow of moonshine spread throughout my body, I reluctantly screw the cap back on and slip it back into my pack. Moonshine is some hardcore shit man; a few swallows would fuck up even a die-hard substance abuser like me. As much as I needed that reality buffer, I need my wits, such as they are, about me even more
Shouldering my pack, I seize my ball bat and swing my ‘ol pal into a ready position, a totem against the vile juju surrounding me. I was acting as if the lowering tides of near-hysteria were skinheads whose skulls needed caving in. Bring it on boys, I’m ready for ya!
Swallowing heavily, I step into the killing field, treading lightly, tentatively, walking on the balls of my feet; damned if I was gonna get anymore blood on my steel toes than I had ta. No matter what you do with it, blood stains NEVER, repeat, never, come out of leather. Still though, I must’ve looked like a complete and utter jackass gingerly high stepping through this shit like that; hell, Blunt would never have let me forget it. But, then again, I was holding it together with piano wire and bubblegum wrappers here man; if I had stepped in an errant pile of guts, I woulda gone completely batshit.
“SHIT!”
Mental note: walking with eyes squeezed shut in a asinine attempt to pretend the horror isn’t there ain’t all that conducive to not banging into shit.
I had been doing a sort of half-running, high-stepping gait through that shit without realizing it; rebounding off the barricade, I slipped in a puddle of something I’d rather not think about, and flip ass-over-heels, slamming smack dab into the pavement. Christ…now THAT was spectacular.
Laying there, staring up at the early morning sky, a low whining moan of escapes my lips, expressing a sort of aversion to laying in peoples’ fucking insides. Mind whirling, vomit fighting its way up my trachea, psyche begging to burst, I struggle to find a clear, concise way to express my mounting horror, terror, and mental agony.
Then, in a single bolt of genius, inspiration struck, exploding out of me into the chill dawn air.
“THIS FUCKING SUCKS!”
“Snap out of it you dickless, one ball wonder”, I mutter after my breath had returned, dragging myself to my feet, “I mean, sure, it smells like a rotten after-birth pumped outta a syphilitic whore, you’re surrounded by assorted viscera and pools of caked and drying blood, all black and crumbly to the touch, any of which might reach up and drag you down into a world of unliving pain and torment as one of the caniballistic living dead, but, besides that, what’s the worst that could happen? Be a man god dammit!”
The whole scene couldn’t have last more than a minute, two tops. Hell, examining the area took even less. A rough sort of barricade choked the mouth of this here alley, but I suppose you got that part already. A small green dumpster (which I smacked into face first) was lined up practically cheek to jowl with a raggy-assed police cruiser; long, tattered claw marks crisscrossed its pitted surface.
Guess we know who won that fight; whatever freak of nature that did that shit wasn’t no where in sight, and glancing over the hood, I could just make out a sort of vague, indistinct form I’d bet dollars to doughnuts was a dead pig, of the law enforcing variety.
Climbing up on the hood of the car, I take a careful look at that body; no head. Well shit, looked like somebody twisted it right off. Must’ve been one strong mother…well, whoever he (it?) was he certainly did me a favor. Saved me the trouble of bashing the poor sap’s head in.
You know, that’s kinda fucked man; dead bodies freak me out, but the moment they try and take a bite out of me, BLAMO! Not even a blink.
The other side of the alley was blocked off by an overturned S.W.A.T. van; near as I could tell, didn’t look like it had done the boys in blue too much good...oh, shit. I thought I smelled something blue.
One of the dudes decked out in urban assault gear was all slumped up against the van and groaning in pain. Okay, yeah, I fucking know, shut up. The dude’s probably a zombie without the oomph to get up and take a chunk outta my happy ass…but dude, he looked like he was all in one piece. I just had to know, even if he was bacon patrol.
Let’s chalk it up the booze, all right? All right.
Taking the last few steps over, I kneel next to the guy, gently pressing the palm of my hand against his helmet. The low grunt that rolled out of him could have meant anything; he smelled like death, but fucked if that meant anything either. Hell, I probably smelt like this guy and worse; after last night I must’ve started out smelling like stale weed smoke and week old beer, and that was before the whole drenched in guts thing. Hey, it’s not like this is a friggin beauty contest folks; survival’s like fucking. If you do it right, it’s messy as hell.
Sliding my hand around his lower jaw, I tilt his face up to mine. For a second there, he had me going; dude hadn’t been dead long enough to start rotting, but been laid out long enough for the first round of the dead man’s stiffs to come and go. Guess that was way he was so godamned quick.
He jerked at me, his clumsy dead fingers pawing at and slidin offa my leather jacket, but I had him under the jaw. His desperate, gazed eyes locked onto mine, and I almost felt sorry for him; they kinda looked like the crazy light ya’d see in a starving mutt’s eyes if he weren’t too bright. Slamming him back against the van, I never left go as he struggled; sorry pal, I know you’re hungry, but I’m kinda partial to my ass. It’s got me through a lotta lonely nights.
Setting my ball bat down, I reach for my knife, and slam it through his chin, right up into the brainpan. He jerks once, twice, three times, and that’s it folks, game over, zip your fly, you’re done. Dude’s rocking down the river Styx…thought why the river of death was named after such a shitty band is like beyond this here gutter punk.
I life a couple flashbangers off the S.W.A.T.’s corpse, but leave the guns. Blunt has an ironclad rule: You never, never, never, ever, ever, FUCKING EVER YOU PUD, give Fish a gun. It’s just like asking to get shot in the ass, ya dig?
Yeah Blunster, I dig. I’d like as not end up shooting myself.
Sighing, I rose to my feet, and walked off into the night.
-Amelia, 2004
Matthew McDonald
Love. Peace. Metallica.
__________________
If I die, pretend I said something witty and inspiring.
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