Bitten (15 page)

“Just shut up and keep undressing,” Hanson ordered, rubbing himself even harder.

Jennifer dropped her jacket to the floor. Hanson grabbed her by the hair and bent her over the massage table. Then he ripped off her pants and was about to insert himself when o
ut of the blue, a deafening gunshot tore through the bath chambers and whizzed past Jennifer’s head. Wincing, she recoiled in fright and screamed as blood splattered all across her bare ass and thighs.

The high caliber blast tore Derrick Hanson’s head right off his shoulders. A squirt of blood shot out of his neck cavity, and his headless body teetered then fell over. Blood spatter sprayed Jennifer Hurley’s chest and face, dabbing her in crimson polka dots.

Big Tony turned to see who the hell was firing but a bullet drilled him right in the chest and the big oaf collapsed to the ground.

Hurley looked over toward the stairwell to see Jared Ba
rnes holding his smoking rifle. “Are you alright?” Barnes asked.

“Uh
… yeah. At least, I think so,” Jennifer replied, her voice still a little jittery, as she pulled back up her pants and got dressed.

Barnes rushed over and grabbed her
by her arm and helped her up. “Come on, let’s get packed up and get the hell out of here.”

“Just one thing first,” Jennifer said. She walked over to
her knife that she’d dropped when she got clocked in the back of the head, picked it up, then went back and lopped off Derrick Hanson’s dick. Taking the severed penis in her hand, she found the decapitated head, opened its mouth, and shoved the dick into it.

“
Remind me never to piss you off,” Barnes said with a raised eyebrow.

Jennifer looked over at Barnes and smiled.
She wanted to tell him her dark secret. She wanted to tell him about the real reason her marriage failed. That she was taking medication to help cope with her schizophrenia. With the world falling apart around her, she could really use a good shoulder to cry on. But in the end, she decided to keep it her little secret. In her mind, her other self was droning on about not bringing old skeletons out of the closet. “Shut up,” Jennifer said to herself in a low whisper.

“What was that?”
Barnes asked as he tossed her a duffle bag full of their belongings.

“Oh, nothing. I was just thinking out loud.” Jennifer flung the duffle over her shoulder and followed Barnes into the elevator.
“Wait, shouldn’t we wait here for the others?”

“Don’t worry. I know exactly where
they are. We’ll pick them up along the way to Bradley’s Air Force Base.”

“Okay, genius. Now what?” Jesse Zanato said with disdain as he eyeballed
Sargent Ulysses Noble. The two of them were stuck on top of an overturned prison bus. Noble’s pack and gun were on the ground five feet away from the bus, which was now surrounded by a swarm of zombies.

“You were the one who was supposed to warn me if there were any Walkers
approaching while I searched inside the damn bus. Instead, you almost get your stupid fucking face chomped off and, as per usual, I had to save your sorry candy-ass.”

“
You make it sound like it’s all my fault. I didn’t see them coming from behind the back of the bus. Besides, saving my ass comes with the job, Captain Commando. What kind of marine sucks at his job?!”

Noble pressed his fingers and thumb together and moved them like a yappy puppet—as a way of ridiculing Zanato’s constant whininess.
Then, with his other hand, he made the form of a gun and pretended to blow the hand-puppets brains out.

“Ha-ha. Very funny,” Zanato informed.

From across the street a door creaked open and out from the darkened entrance of the local bar, an Irish styled pub called Finnegan’s, stepped a cowboy. Not just any old redneck either. But a boot and chaps, fully decked out in leather, Marlboro Man.

“What in the…
” Noble asked in a puzzled voice that trailed off. Still unable to believe his eye rubbed them and took a long hard look.

“Yup. A cowboy,” Zanato affirmed. “
Boots, hat, and everything. Right here in the city.”

The cowboy wore snake skin cowboy boots, black jeans, and a black duster jacket with coattails down to his calves. He looked like
a young Clint Eastwood on a bad day and his face sported the dark shadow of 4AM stubble. He held a high powered MP7 submachine gun in one hand and a bottle of Johnny Walker Black in the other. Effortlessly, he tossed back the bottle and finished it off in one go, then tossed it over his shoulder, sending it high into the air. He raised his gun, squeezed the trigger, and by the time the empty bottle crashed to the pavement and shattered had already mowed down a dozen of the zombies that were pinning Noble and Zanato down.

The sudden bursts of fire caught the attention of the other dead-heads who loitered about the street. Growling, they turned
toward the noise and mindlessly staggered into the line of fire. The gunslinger reached behind his duster jacket and pulled out a second MP7. With both weapons blazing he severed the heads off the walkers with high velocity fire.

Piles of dead
zombie meat littered the city street. Barrels smoking, the cowboy slid the guns back into their holsters, pulled out a fresh bottle of booze from inside his jacket, opened it, and took a long hard drink. Wiping his mouth, he looked over at the dynamic duo sitting atop of the bus with mouths agape, and without saying a word, the cowboy turned and walked away. The spurs on his boots clanked up the road as he went.

Noble and Zanato just looked at each other as they shared a “What the fuck?” moment.

Just then they heard the rumble of an truck engine. Both men turned in time to see a midnight blue Chevy Silverado barreling toward them. It swerved around the piles of dead bodies and then pulled up next to the bus. The driver’s side window rolled down and Barnes poked out his head and looked up at them. “You guys look like you need a lift.”

Noble could see Jennifer Hurley sitting shotgun. She smiled and waved to him. He smiled back. “Man, am I glad to see you guys!”

Ulysses Noble jumped down off the bus directly into the bed of the pickup truck. Zanato began to follow but Noble put his hand up and stopped him from hopping down. With a stern look he pointed toward their gear still lying in the street.

Zanato sulked as he slid off the other side of the bus
. As he proceeded to climb down he tripped over the pile of dead Walkers and tumbled to the pavement. Zanato sprang back up, pretended nothing had happened, and scurried over to where he’d dropped the bags. He tossed them up to Noble, and asked, “So are you going to tell them about the cowboy? Cuz you gotta’ tell them about the cowboy.”

“Cowboy?” Barnes laughed. “What cowboy?”

“You wouldn’t believe us even if we told you. Let’s just get the fuck out of here and get to the base, fucking ASAP.”

Peeling out, the
midnight blue Silverado kicked up a spray of gravel and tore down the deserted streets and made for Bradley’s Air Force Base—the last safe refuge in the entire disease ridden city.

FLICKERING
SPASTICALLY ABOVE RACHAEL’S HEAD, the single 60-watt bulb buzzed, faded, and went dark. It suddenly lit back up with a vengeance and buzzed energetically, as if it were a firefly hanging on to its final spark for dear life. Just like she was—hanging on by a thread.

Stripped bare and humiliated,
her hands were tied above her head, and she was strung up just high enough so her toes could just barely the ground, but not enough to alleviate her entire body weight. She’d hang for hours, and like being hung upon a crucifix, eventually she could no longer support her own body weight and she’d slowly asphyxiate. A few minutes later she’d wake up lying on the cold dirt floor, naked and shivering. On the walls all around her she could make out cans of food and jars of pickled items. Everything from preserved pig toes to pickled onions. A few minutes after regaining consciousness, there’d be a flash of light and Hank or the reverend would enter the cellar and, like a sadistic ritual, repeat the whole damned routine.

Each time she died though, she resurrected again. But
the constant deaths and rebirths were wreaking havoc with her memory, and she wasn’t exactly sure how long she’d been in the pit. A week maybe? She knew their goal was to humble her, break her, and make her submit to their fear tactics. But she wouldn’t. They could keep her locked up in their cheap little facsimile of hell forever and a day and she still wouldn’t give in. What kept her going was the thought of being re-united with her son, Hector.

Behind her, the door slowly creaked open, and she heard two sets of footsteps enter. Soon
Reverend Campbell’s smiling face was crouched down beside her. His jackal-like appearance and snake-oil salesman grin sickened her.

“My child, y
our cleansing is nearly complete. But before you can join us there’s just one more thing you must do.” Before she had time to respond he grabbed her cheeks and pinched hard as he pulled her face to his. “All you have to do is ask for
forgiveness
.”

Rachael mustered up a laugh, and then said, “Screw you, asshole.”

The reverend’s face grew livid, and he grabbed Rachael by the back of her hair and pulled her to his face. “Hear me now and heed my words. If you insist on this sinful rebellion against God, I am afraid we will have to find other ways to make you repent of your corrupting infidel behavior.”

Rachael spat in Perry Campbell’s face.
Taking out a white and purple embroidered handkerchief from out of his inside breast pocket, he merely smiled and wiped himself off. Then he turned to Hank and placed his hand on his shoulder, and said, “By the authority vested in me by God, I pronounce you man and wife.”

“What?!” Rachael gasped
, kicking her legs and trying to spin herself around so she could look them in the eyes. “You have no right. You can’t do this!”

“I have the power
,” insisted Campbell. His words dripped with chauvinism as he dismissed her worth as easily as he’d dismissed pleas for mercy. Perry Campbell was not a man of mercy. This much was made perfectly clear to her. “Now you’d be wise to accept our hospitality. I wouldn’t want to have to repeat the ceremony for others. Am I being clear?”

“Go fuck y
ourself, you God-sized-dick-bag,” Rachael spat in disgust. Hank abruptly laughed, but caught himself short as Campbell shot him a disdainful look.

“Sorry, Reverend,” Hank
apologized, lowering his eyes in embarrassment. Campbell merely scowled and then said a terse, “You’re forgiven,” and stormed off.

Looking back at Rachael with lustful intent, Hank
eyed her up and down and smiled with that nauseating grin that Rachael had come to loath.

“We’re not actually married
, you know? Not legally anyway.” Rachael went on. “He doesn’t actually have any legal precedent to make this a binding contract. Anything you do to me will be considered rape by a court of law. Did you hear me, Hank? Rape.”

“Ain’t no matter. A man has needs. At least this way I can attend those needs without spending an eternity in the
cooker.” As he stood there admiring her like a combine acquired in the spoils of war, he licked his lips, and then with his grimy hands he reached up and squeezed and massaged her buttocks. Rachael tensed at his touch, but she knew that she could still reason with him. Hank wasn’t evil like the reverend and his bat-shit-insane whore of a wife. Hank was just simple minded.

“Wait. Listen to me. You don’t want to do this, Hank. Deep down inside I know you’re a decent guy.
This is beneath you.”

“You don’
t get it. The reverend just gone married us. You’re
mine
now. Besides, can’t rape my own wife, now, can I?”

“That’s not how it works, Ha
nk. Real men don’t rape girls.” Rachael deliberately chose to use the term girl instead of woman. She knew that if you wanted to hit the emotional heartstrings you plucked them delicately. This meant softening language to invoke a greater sense of empathy. Men responded more to the idea of a little girl being raped than a woman. Especially fathers. Using the term ‘girl’ implied an innocence of youth. Unless you were a pedophile, your natural reaction would be to feel disgust and immediately recoil from the very notion. It worked in court all the time. She anticipated it could work now.

Hank slid his hands up her
hourglass shaped sides and stroked the arch of her hips. He then reached up and groped her breasts from behind. Rachael remained quiet. She knew that even the slightest bit of protest, a grunt or a moan, even if in disgust, might trigger a reaction of excitement. “Look, Hank, they’re just using you for their dirty work. Listen to me. You need to stop and think about this. What you’re about to do is wrong. Just ask yourself, what will they think? What will they say when they find out you raped me?”

The fact that she couldn’t see
his face only made her feel that much more uncomfortable. She braced herself for the worse, but before anything could happen the cellar door flew open and a small army of maids rushed in.

Rachael recognized
at least two of them immediately. They were the ladies who had bathed and washed her earlier. Like bulldozers, they used their numbers to plow Hank into the corner of the cellar. They weren’t nice about it either. He slammed up against the shelves with a harsh thud and grunted as the air was knocked out of him.

“What’s the me
aning of this?!” and angry voice rang out. Sister Mary Campbell glided into the crowded cellar and looked scornfully down at Hank, who due to unlikely circumstances, was caught with his pants down. “Did she give you her consent?”

Scrambling to zip himself back up
in the presence of the Queen of the castle, Hank hemmed and hawed, “Well…”

“Yes or no, Hank. It’s a simple question.”

“No, ma’am.”

Throwing out her arm with dramatic flair, Ma
ry Campbell shouted her orders to her maids. “Take her to my chambers and prepare her for tonight’s ceremony.”

As the large burley women pulled
Rachael down, she looked back at the pastor’s wife. In a weak voice she managed to whisper, “Thanks.” Still, it felt like a betrayal to herself to thank the woman who had recently shot her through the heart.

“You can thank me later, after the
ceremony.”

“What
ceremony?” Rachael asked.

“Holy Communion, of course.”

Soon enough, Rachael found herself back in the bath. A bucket of lukewarm water poured down onto her head as a gaggle of women scrubbed the dried blood and filth from her body. Once again she was being cleansed and made presentable for the congregation.

A stout woman whose name could only be
Hilda, Rachael imagined, had the arms of a German discus thrower and breasts the size of cantaloupes. Hilda reached under Rachael’s arms, and with a mannish grunt, hoisted Rachael up and propped her onto her feet next to the side of the tub. This time the train of maids brought a black dress made of lace and fine layers of tulle. Worse than the frilly folds and playful short length, bordering on smutty, was the v-cut which ran all the way down to her navel. The entire dress was far too “Black Swan” for her tastes.

Mrs. Campbell had taken leave
to attend to some business but Rachael could hear her chatting out in the hallway with a few of the younger girls who wanted to see what they referred to as the “Dark Angel.”

It was bad enough to be trapped as a doll in somebody’s mad dollhouse, but it was worse to be thought of as some kind of supernatural spook.
Rachael was desperately hoping that Mrs. Campbell would let them in so they could see that she was just as plain and ordinary as they were. But when she heard Mrs. Campbell reprimand their worldly curiosity, she knew it was useless. They would either grow to fear her or worship her, simply for their lack of understanding.

Mrs. Campbell
re-entered the room with long strides which made her look like she floated. She seemed to waft across the floor everywhere she went, but it was all part of the show. Indeed, everything about her was an obvious façade. How nobody else could see it was beyond her. But Rachael was certain that whatever was underneath the plasticine face of Mrs. Campbell’s was something dark and dangerous. Strip away the mask—and underneath you were bound to discover a hideous monster.

Unlike his duplicitous wife, the evil which wore a pretty face, the r
everend merely lacked a conscience. He was a corrupt, power hungry, dictator who suffered from an immeasurable God complex. Rachael suspected he do anything to maintain his power, even if it meant killing. A true sociopath. Between the two of them, the Campbells totaled one Mr. and Mrs. Hyde.

Stepping up to Rachael’s naked body, Mrs. Campbell ran her fingers softly down Rachael’s shoulders and arm. Taking Rachael’s hands in hers, Mrs. Campbell smiled warmly. It was the first smile
that Rachael felt was genuine. “My dear sister, you mustn’t be so glum. Today we celebrate your gift of eternal life to us!”

Rachael’s eyes narrowed. “Eternal life?
My gift to you? I beg your pardon, but I don’t quite catch your meaning.”

“You shall see soon enough!”

One of the nannies came back into the room with a first-aid kit tucked under her arm. Mrs. Campbell pranced over, accepted it gracefully, and then set it on the dresser top and opened it. While she rummaged around inside, she hummed some kind of church hymn to herself. Finally, she pulled out some duct tape and looked over at Rachael with her big manic smile face. Rachael rolled her eyes as she guessed the next step. Sure enough, Mrs. Campbell tore off a piece of duct tape and twirled about as she made her way back toward Rachael.

“Seriously?” Rachael asked, unamused.

“It’s for your own good, dear.”

Mary Campbell slapped the tape onto Rachael’s lips and then gently rubbed it down. Then she leaned in and gave the lip cover a kiss.
With that Mary Campbell kissed Rachael on the lips. The kiss lasted a few seconds longer than it probably should have, which gave it an incestuous feeling. Snapping her fingers she mobilized her troupe of nannies who, falling in line, awaited their orders. “Inform my husband we will join everyone shortly.”

After the women marched out the door
to attend to their duties, Mrs. Campbell walked over to an antique dresser. It was made of oak and had a fancy wood tooling which depicted flowery patterns. She opened the top right hand drawer and drew out a gold handled dagger, which had even more elaborate engravings. Wiping the blade off with a soft cloth, she slowly turned around to reveal that eerie monomaniacal grin, presently pressed onto her face.

“Mmm-mmm!
Mmmphffft
!” Rachael protested, slowly backing away. But Mary Campbell took slow steps forward, grinning the whole time, eyes wide with a homicidal-like excitement.

Mrs. Campbell swiped the blade, coming within millimeters of cutting Rachael’s abdomen.
If Rachael hadn't jumped back, her intestines would be all over the floor right about now. Mrs. Campbell leapt across the room and grabbed Rachael’s left arm. Rachael tried to tear her arm free, but Mary Campbell had the strength of a boa constrictor, and just tightened her hold. Holding Rachael securely, Mrs. Campbell sliced Rachael’s wrist open and quickly brought it to her lips. With a vampiric delight, she lapped the gushing blood up. Mrs. Campbell continued suckle from Rachael’s wrist until her mouth was stained with the sticky red syrup. It looked like she had just gorged herself on a juicy piece of cherry pie. With a blood soaked smile she wiped her face, which smeared the blood across her cheeks, and let out and orgasmic sigh.

Mrs. Campbell raised the knife ceremoniously high above her head and looked skyward. Raising her voice, she
practically sang out toward the heavens, “Heavenly father, let His eternal life flow into my veins as it does hers! Let this blood transform this sinful body and refashion me as the undying vessel of your righteousness. I pray to thee, make me in your everlasting image! Amen.”

Rachael clutched her wrist, which was already beginning to heal
, and watched the private display of ritualistic insanity. With her mouth sealed shut, all Rachael could do was stare with wide-eyed panic at the crazed Mary Campbell, who pranced about the room like a mental patient.