APOCALYCIOUS: Satire of the Dead (18 page)

             
Cops ran after pedestrians barking orders but there seemed to be a lot fewer of them now. Mitch heard gunshots in the distance and from, perhaps, as close as the next block over. He watched as parents frantically screamed their children’s names in desperate searches and he felt his heart go out to them. He saw children running in helter-skelter patterns screaming in panic and pain, and then there were the disquieting guttural groans of the dead as they called to their comrades, alerting them to where the food was. Fires burned sporadically from overturned vehicles and leapt from windows of working class homes. If there had ever been a glimpse into hell, then this must surely be one and Mitch was stepping into the pit of his own accord.

             
“How’s my hair?” asked Claire, gracing him with her most dazzling smile. He wondered how someone as beautiful as her could be so damn ugly at the same time.

             
“Shut up, Claire,” he said, exiting the Action 7 news van.

             
She smiled and muttered under her breath, “You’re such a fag.”

             
Mitch slid open the side cargo door and retrieved his camera then slammed it shut, while Claire grabbed her wireless microphone and inserted her earpiece. She scanned the perimeter like a general plotting her next maneuver then stood with her back to the area with the most carnage to the left of her shoulder. “Make sure you get a panorama of this mess. Focus two to three seconds on the cop screaming, then cut to the kids; zoom in on their faces so the audience can see the fear
and
make sure you get plenty of the dead, then slowly pan to me and hold until I tell you.”

             
Mitch swung the heavy camera onto his shoulder, adjusted the zoom and did as he was told. “Fifteen minutes, just fifteen minutes,”
he muttered to himself. He followed her instructions to the letter; flinching even as the camera didn’t and then panned to Claire and held.

             
“Good evening, this is Claire Fontaine reporting to you from Leland Avenue in Parkesburg, West Virginia. The destruction is clearly evident tonight as local law enforcement and emergency personnel are working diligently to ensure public safety.

             
“Earlier this evening Chief Tom Harmon issued a stern warning for unauthorized personnel to stay off the streets, but I believe that
you
,
the viewer,
have the right to know exactly what your community is facing. At roughly ten twenty-five yesterday morning the first reports of the deceased raising from the dead began filtering in. I have personally interviewed several officers and city officials that have told me that the only way to permanently kill these reanimated dead is to shoot them in the head, decapitate them, or to cause massive blunt force trauma to the head and brain. We have witnessed, first hand, the dead eating the living.

“Officials tell us that while they are working to create a vaccine, thus far there is no known cure for being bitten or scratched. Officials also tell us that they believe it to be a virus of unknown origin and not a terrorist threat. The CDC has not returned our calls for further interviews. According to law enforcement officials, seventeen police officers, twenty-two EMT’s and Paramedics and seventy doctors and nurses have been infected. The National Guard has been mobilized and will arrive within the hour to enforce martial law…”

              Mitch lowered the camera. “Claire…” he said softly.

             
“Goddamn it Mitch!” she shouted and stomped one of her fur lined boots on the asphalt surface until she slipped and almost fell on the ice. “Can’t you shut your pie hole for five damn minutes?”

             
Mitch began backing up and almost dropped the camera. From behind, Claire heard several loud groans. Three of the dead were closing in on her and more of them followed further behind. Her eyes widened and she spun on her boot heels to look at what she already knew was coming for her.

             
Mitch didn’t hesitate any longer; he ran to the van, slid behind the wheel and locked his door behind him. He absently tossed the expensive camera over his shoulder into the cargo area behind him.

             
“Mitch!” Claire screamed. He was astounded at how fast the dead were; although some lumbered about like drugged patients at an asylum, others seemed to be regaining their motor functions. Mitch gaped in horror as he watched the jaws of the dead distend, unhinging like a snake’s. Claire’s paralysis broke and she turned back to the van, but her three hundred dollar boots slipped on the icy parking lot, and she fell into a hysterical heap. “Mi…Mi…M...” she whimpered, trying to enunciate Mitch’s name, but to him it sounded like Beaker from the Muppet Show.

             
Mitch turned the key on and started the engine. He reached to put the gear selector in reverse then paused. He left it in park and opened the glove box instead. He withdrew his faithful, old backup; his compact digital video camera and flipped it on to peer through the viewfinder through the partially fogged windshield. “It would be unethical not to show the public, right Claire?” he muttered.

             
He believed that no one deserved this fate more than Claire did, but then he thought of his girls. Mitch had always tried to be a good role model for them. His wife occasionally, half-jokingly referred to him as a ‘righteous dude’. The dead were now only a few steps from where the reporter cowered, frozen by fear.

             
“Damn it,” he muttered and grasped the door handle. He slid out of the van and grabbed a tire tool that he kept beside the driver’s seat.  “Hey! HEY!” he yelled at the zombies. They looked toward him, but quickly turned their attention back to the reporter that lay on the pavement, crying and rubbing her twisted ankle. They stepped closer to where the closest prey crouched on the ground. Claire’s paralysis finally broke and she began to crawl, still sobbing uncontrollably, toward the van as she mumbled incoherently in hitching breaths. Mitch realized as he crept forward that the zombies had managed to call for others of their kind. The dead groaned in hunger and rage. Mitch could see that there were now about fifteen more converging on them from all directions. With his left hand her grabbed Claire under her arms and hoisted her to her feet and, with his right he swung the tire iron and hit the closest zombie in the forehead. It went down on the ice, but it wasn’t finished. Mitch began to drag Claire backward to the van. “C’mon, Claire!” he yelled in her ear. She clutched the collar of his coat knocking him off balance, spilling them onto the ground in a heap. “C’mon, c’mon…” he griped impatiently. Claire began screaming in his ear and he snapped his neck around to see what she was screaming about. Four more zombies, including a city worker in reflective vest and one of Santa’s little helpers, complete with green slippers that ended in curling toes and bells were closing quickly.

“I am not getting eaten alive by a fucking elf!” he whispered aloud. “Claire, if you’re not going to help me then get in the damn van!” he shouted at her. She nodded her head enthusiastically. She kicked her heels off and limped to the van as fast as she was able and got in the driver’s side. An immediate thought of dread washed over Mitch: She was going to leave him. He heard her put the van in gear and the tires spin on the ice. The tires made a whirring sound as they fought to find traction; he knew that if she would just ease off the gas a little she would start moving. He couldn’t worry about her right now, though, he had his hands full. He slammed the tire tool across the jaw of the elf and it knocked the zombie down, its jaw clearly dislocated, but it wasn’t out of commission yet. He cracked it in the knee cap and heard the bone break and he hoped that that would slow it down some. He turned his attention to the construction worker and swung for the side of its skull; he could feel the metal crush the side of its skull and it went down in a pile of flailing limbs. He heard himself scream as he felt fingers digging into his coat. He spun to break free and his legs went out from under him again as he fell to the frozen pavement, the zombie landing on top of him; the zombie had once been a nurse, but all resemblance to humanity had vanished when she opened her mouth so wide that he heard the tendons in her jaw cracking, before she bit into the shoulder of his coat. Her teeth hadn’t broken the skin but she wasn’t letting go either. He slammed the point of the tire iron into the back of her skull, penetrating her head. The tool slid into the skull about six inches and he twisted the tool around, effectively scrambling whatever was left of her brain. Mitch tried to push himself up with his free hand and felt a foot step on it and when he looked up he saw a national guardsman staring blankly down upon him, a line of drool and blood hanging heavily from its lips. The guardsman dropped onto all fours and sunk his teeth into the top of Mitch’s chest and snapped his clavicle. Screaming in pain, Mitch pulled the tire tool out of the nurse’s head, which was still clamped securely to his coat. Even as he felt hands grabbing his ankle, he heard Claire begin to scream again. Two more of the dead had broken the driver’s side window and were dragging her from the open frame. She tried to fight them off, she ripped out tufts of their hair, pieces of scalp clinging to the hair and she dug her long, red nails into their eyes and clawed deep furrows into their faces, but they did not respond to pain, intent on only one thing; spreading their infection and feeding. They wrestled her from the window and slammed her onto icy parking lot. Mitch dreamily wondered what had happened to her boots.

              Mitch thought that it was ironic that the first zombie to reach her had once been an EMT, a first responder. This guy did his job well, even in death. The EMT slashed at her, clawing her cheek and leaving three long gashes with his filthy jagged fingernails. The other zombie that reached her had probably been someone’s teenage daughter; her throat had a huge chunk torn from it revealing her windpipe, awash in blood. She abruptly grabbed a handful of Claire’s long blonde hair and jerked it back with staggering force. A third zombie reached her and ripped her coat and blouse open, revealing a botched boob job while ruining her designer coat. In virtual, perfect synchronicity they bent over her and began biting, tearing the flesh from her cheek, breast, and calf. She thrashed, kicking wildly with each bite. The zombies shook their heads violently as they fed reminding Mitch of hungry crocodiles and waited to see the death rolls begin.

             
Mitch wanted to see his girls, he wanted to hug them and tell them he loved them. He wanted to tell his wife how much he loved her and tell her that he had quit his job that he was going to get them out of this hell on earth. He wanted to tell them that everything was going to be alright, but he thought there was a price for being a righteous dude. 

“I hate you, Claire!” he screamed, and then one of the dead chewed through his larynx and his curse turned to a hoarse whistle as it exited his throat.

                                                   
Chapter 15 - A Tale of Two Brothers

Dayton
, Ohio

Thomas Walters was forty-two years old, he was also a two-time loser currently out on probation, forced to find work as a janitor, cleaning toilets for a living. He was divorced and by all accounts
trouble
with a capital offense; acquitted, of course.

Since his release from the
Orient State Penitentiary he had been living with his elderly mother Enid. He was aware that people talked smack about him when he wasn’t around, saying that he was a sponge or mooch, that was sucking his mother dry, but she was all he had.

Thomas love
d his mother. There had been no other person that had given him as many second chances as she had. Deep down he wanted to make her proud. He wanted to win the lottery and buy her a big house and a new car, but mostly he wanted to hear her brag about him like she did about his older brother Trevor.

Vindication would be good. He wanted to show everyone that he was every bit as good as Trevor, if he was given half a chance. Trevor had been his father’s favorite, while Thomas had been his father’s favorite punching bag. If it hadn’t been for his mother stepping between them and taking the brunt of the beatings herself, Thomas doubted that he would be alive to be such a failure.

Luckily, Thomas Walters had been gifted by the Good Lord with a quick wit, cordial smile, contagious laugh and the uncanny knack to tell a good story. He was an ex-con after all.  He was born to be a used car salesman, politician, or con artist, if indeed there was a difference between them, and as such he was a little on the low side of moral fiber and ethical integrity: hence the felony convictions.

Thomas knew that this life of scrubbing
graffiti from the stalls and puke from the floors would not last forever. He would eventually land on his feet, like he always did, and find his feet firmly planted in someone else’s goods, but then his brother Trevor, five years his elder, had come up from Lackland, Texas to visit their mother. Thomas hated his brother. He had lived under his older brother’s shadow his entire life and found that shadow to be a virtual eclipse.

“Trevor is such a good boy,” his mother would always say to Thomas. He wasn’t sure if she was complimenting Trevor or insulting
him
with that little praise. Trevor had been All-State in wrestling at Riverview High School, gotten a full scholarship to the Ohio State University where he became an All-American wrestler and graduated Valedictorian. Then it was on to the Air Force Academy, where he graduated first in his class there as well. Now, his brother Trevor was known as General T.S. Walters. He drove a sweet government vehicle, had a chest full of ribbons and medals, a portfolio of commendations, had his own staff and could retire at ease whenever he chose.