Book of the Dead: A Zombie Anthology (33 page)

Stars shine in the Arizona sky above glass above desert built in desert.

She zips her coveral and tries to get her bearings. It’s the general alarm; somebody on monitor watch must have hit it.

Monitor watch?

A chil clenches her stomach. She retrieves her carbine from the tent and heads down the bluff, then around the miniature oasis and toward the marshlands. Marshwater has begun to soak through her Reeboks when she hears the screams. She stops, and chil water saturates.

From the animal pens
. She splashes toward the savanna and the nearest access corridor.

The sound of the pigs squealing in terror awakens Grace. Her room is right next to the animal pens, and she hurriedly throws on a robe and looks out the window. There is motion, but it is too dark to make out anything.

She leaves her room and hurries down the corridor, out the front door, and past the bean poles toward the animal pens. Only then does she notice that an alarm bel is ringing. Her feet are getting dirty and there is a cold draft blowing from the apple orchard. She should have thought to put on her slippers, at least, but no, if something’s happened to Bacon, or Pork Chop, she’d want to get—

She stops. The cool breeze is coming from the end of the apple orchard. In the dim light she can see two triangular glass panes are missing from the wal past the trees. What could have caused that? It could have just…
blown
in —the difference in external air pressure, maybe, or even just a strong gust. Maybe
that’s
what had upset the poor little piggies: the sound of breaking glass.

The squealing comes again, startling her. She rushes toward the pens, unmindful of cold air or dirty feet. “There, there,” she cal s as she opens the waist-high gate.

“Mommie’s here. It’s al right.” She finds the switch for the bare bulb above the pigpen and flips it up. “Mommie’s—”

Bacon is standing on top of a man. The man has arms and legs wrapped around Bacon. Bacon is gnawing on his shoulder. His round head tosses, tearing flesh and pul ing tendon.

Beside them is the gutted body of Hambone. Grace is horrified to see that Hambone is stil alive.

The man’s head comes up. Bacon’s ferocious gnawing does not seem to bother him. He opens his mouth and bites her neck. Pork flesh tears and blood gouts. Bacon squeals.

“
What are you doing?
” Grace is heading toward him before she knows what
she
is doing. “
You
get away from her!
”

Bacon slips loose. Blood squirts rhythmical y from her neck. The man stands amid snuffling pigs.

He turns toward her. Pig blood streaks his Grateful Dead T-shirt. Bloodless flaps of flesh fold from torn fabric at his shoulder.

Grace is only beginning to register what it is that turns toward her. That heads toward her with vacant eyes and outstretched arms. That needs her as no one has. She backs up a step. “No,” she says. “No, wait.” Snuffling pigs nuzzle her calves. “You can’t—you don’t
belong
—”

She fal s backward over Fatback. The frenetic pig tramples her stomach. The breath is knocked from her. Something tugs her foot. She looks up. Hot Dog’s mouth is around her instep. She jerks back her leg. The pig makes a guttural noise like the growling of a dog. Its eyes are wide and dul in the light from the bare bulb.

She sits up. The intruder bends to her. He places a hand on either shoulder. He opens his mouth.

Pork gobbets hang from green-coated teeth. She cannot get breath enough to scream. She pushes him away and tries to stand. Hot Dog tears into her calf. The intruder bends again. Her leg is burning. She kicks away. Hot Dog squeals and bites again. The intruder lowers his face to her breast. Ringing bel s and squealing pigs. His teeth come together. It burns. He turns his head.

It tears. She pushes him away. Wetness warms her hands. Tatters of herself in his mouth. Her fingers smear dark wet across his face. Into his mouth. He bites. Bone crunches. She pul s back her hand. Two fingers gone. Leg numb. Why so cold? Vague pressures. Distant sound of chewing.

Burning white flashes as he feeds the pigs feed on rip of meat stripped from bone pul tendons bitten tugged snapped like hot strands of cheese that pulse the pulse that beats… that… ebbs…

that… slows… and… fades… away.

[12]

Marly hurries along the access corridor, wet shoes squishing. The Ecosphere is very dark; they do not like to keep “exterior” lights on at night because they would be visible for miles.

At the screen door leading to the agriculture wing she pauses.

Pop. Pop-pop!
—and breaking glass.

She unslings her carbine and opens the door.

Dieter jumps awake at the sound of the bel . He sits up in bed and glances at the flashing computer screen on his desk. INTEGRITY BREACH. He rubs his eyes, gets out of bed, and puts on his clothes. He fastens his belt and opens his closet to retrieve a .45 automatic in a shoulder holster and the pump 30.06 Deke gave him the day of the Food Incident.

He is halfway up the stairs to the monitor room when he hears the screams from outside. He pumps the rifle,
chuk-chik!
and hurries into the corridor, where he meets Bonnie in her white kimono. They run for the front door.

The screams have stopped by the time they are outside. Neither has a flashlight, and they stand in the darkness for a moment, letting their eyes adjust. Bonnie gestures nervously toward the animal pens, and they head that way, Dieter in the lead and Bonnie clinging close behind, both trying to be silent but making a lot of noise.

At the low barrier to the pigpen they stop. The pigs are gathered and snuffling, hind ends wiggling. Dieter vaults the barrier and claps his hand against the rifle stock. The pigs scatter, and Dieter stops in his tracks. Spread before him is emptied Grace, and before her in the flesh kneels a real live dead carnitrope. The carnitrope raises its head and opens its mouth. A quivering strip of flesh hangs on its upper lip, then slides off.

Behind him Bonnie vomits.

Dieter levels his rifle and pul s the trigger. It wil not depress. The carnitrope is getting to its feet.

For some reason Dieter does not think to check the safety, but drops the rifle and pul s the .45

from its holster. The carnitrope shambles toward him, dragging a worn wing-tip shoe through Grace. Dieter thumbs the safety and pul s the trigger. The bul et makes a smal hole going in and a large hole going out of the carnitrope’s chest. The corpse staggers back under the impact, heel squirting something rubbery from beneath, then comes forward again. Dieter aims higher and fires twice. The back of the carnitrope’s head sprays away, and behind it a pane shatters. The corpse slams backward to land in the remains of Grace.

Bil pops awake the second he hears the alarm bel . He’s anticipated something like this, and he’s ready. They’l never catch old Bil with his pants down. He pul s a Smith & Wesson .44 magnum from under his bed, snatches his brown coveral from across the back of the chair at his desk, where he has left it so that he can find it in the dark, and pul s it on without letting go of the enormous pistol. He goes to his door and raises the pistol alongside his head. Purple light flickers from his desk as the computer monitor screen comes to life. INTEGRITY BREACH, it reads, and begins blinking. Bil narrows his eyes and turns back to the door. He snatches it open and peers into the corridor.

Nothing.

The bel continues to ring.

He jumps into the corridor and lands in a policeman’s firing stance, legs straddled, left hand around right hand holding the gun, back straight, arms a little bent. He didn’t read
Soldier of
Fortune
for nothing.

He turns quickly. The corridor is clear. He straightens and moves for the stairwel and the monitor room.

Leonard is puh-puh-panning cameras like mad, searching for any sign of motion, when Bil bursts into the room. He starts, then bolts out of his chair when he sees that Bil clutches the buh-buh-biggest pistol he has ever seen, aimed square at his chest. He glances at the monitors and Bil lowers the gun.

“You sounded the alarm?”

Leonard shakes his head. “Window buh-buh-broke. In the orchard.”

Bil frowns, stil looking at the monitors. “False alarm?” He sounds disappointed.

Leonard shrugs.

Bil peers forward. “Hold Camera Five,” he says.

Leonard hits a button on the console. Bil leans until his face is five inches from the screen.

“Bring it up.”

“Do you mean zoom, or p-p-
pan
up?”

Bil glares. “Zoom,” he says.

Leonard works the controls until Bil is staring at a Ryder truck not three hundred yards downhil from the desert environment. He turns to look at Leonard. He raises the gun. Leonard raises his hands as if to ward off bul ets.

From outside they hear gunshots.
Pop. Pop-pop
.

[13]

Haiffa swims naked in cool tropical water. She cannot bear to open her eyes in salt water and so swims blindly, coming up for a breath and flipping back down again. Her long hair streams behind her; she is a mermaid. Or a Siren, perhaps, to torture the naked ears of Ulysses.

She likes to swim after making love. She likes to think of Deke lying spent on the shore, waiting for his Venus to emerge.

She swims out past the sandbar and surfaces. She waves toward the narrow shore, but Deke does not see her because he is facing the Staff Quarters to the west and scratching his head. She draws a deep breath and dives.

The bottom is less than twenty feet down, here; she grabs it with her hands. Grit col apses in her palms. Sometimes she has accidental y grabbed crabs here, or scraped herself against rock, or been startled when—

—something slides across her leg. She jerks, but of course it is only a fish, though for a moment it felt—

Her ankle is grabbed. The grip is cold and firm. She whirls and opens her eyes. Salt water stings.

Dark water. She reaches. Her fingers brush the cloud of her hair. She kicks out, but encounters nothing. Her leg is tugged. She jackknifes to free herself from whatever holds her. Something with ridges. It feels like a
hand
, but that’s ridic—

Agony as something rips along the blade of her foot. Air bubbles contain her scream, float to the surface, and pop without a sound. Haiffa curls up and grabs at her foot. Her hands encounter something round, with hair. A head. But it can’t be a head, not down here. Her hands slide across it as her foot pulses into the cold water. Her fingers trace cold flesh and opened eyes.

Fol owing her next scream is a short gasp. It contains water. She forces herself to check it. Salt water in her throat. She coughs. The little air that remained to her bubbles up. Her lungs feel scoured. Her foot throbs. Her leg is pul ed in again. Two hard crescents press into her thigh, and press harder. In the sudden pain of tearing flesh she rips away a clot of hair in one hand.

Thrashing now. She tries to scream, but there is nothing. Her mouth works to cal , but the world lies above a veil of water she cannot part. The only sound is the beating of her heart.

The flailing arm that holds the hair is grabbed, is pul ed. Her mouth stretches horribly as arm muscle is pulped and torn away. Mottled red tinges the darkness in her eyes. A tone builds in her ears, the sustained ringing of a distant underwater bel . Some threshold is crossed in her brain, a line of resistance past which the instinct to breathe defeats the knowledge that there is no breath to draw. She inhales. Her lungs fil with water. Relief floods into the midst of her pain.

Coolness quenches the burning in her chest.

Something tears loose inside her. The ringing grows, her heartbeat slows. Red lace webs her vision. Pain spreads up her arm as she is drawn into a cold embrace, is held like a lover, is kissed with great passion, is consumed, while around her the water grows warm.

Deke rises from the beach at the sound of gunfire.
Pop. Pop-pop!
Pistol, sounds like. He brushes sand from his butt and turns toward the agricultural wing. He opens his mouth to improve his hearing, but there is nothing further to hear. He does not see the hand rise from the water behind him, wave a frantic goodbye, and sink again.

He picks up his jeans, shakes them out, and begins pul ing them on. “Haiffa,” he cal s. “Haiffa!”

He peers forward, straining to see in the darkness. The Olympic-sized ocean is placid.

Been under an awful long time now. Prob’ly swam out past the sandbar, but she oughta be able to hear him cal . Should check out that gunfire. Better make sure Haiffa’s okay first.

He walks to the end of the beach and skirts the ocean to the west, where the savanna begins.

“Haiffa?”

Probably somebody final y had enough of ol’ Bil y-boy and did it to him. More than likely idjit did it to himself, way he handles a gun. Damn fool could screw up a two-car funeral on a one-way street. Three shots, though.

“Haiffa!”

Wel , it’d probably take him three shots to find a brain in that head to blow out anyway, the stupid son of—

Something in the water there? Not big enough to be Haiffa, though. But what the hel
could
it be? Gator? Shee-it. Something else appearing beside it, something smal er.
Oh, forgot to tel you,
man
. Dieter’s voice in his head.
Put a little tiger shark in the ocean. Ful stock, right? Scavengers
of the deep, y’know?

Splashing as something rises from the water. Dripping as it emerges.

“Haiffa…”

Reaches the smal er object in the water, grabs it, picks it up. Brings it toward itself. Heading toward him. Taking shape from the darkness. Wet figure. Woman. Not Haiffa. Pul s the object away from its head, dangles it by its side. In silhouette he sees the object is a leg from ragged-ended knee to foot. Pul ed in again. Piece ripped away.

Deke sprints toward the beach. Fucking pistol on the towel. He splashes through the muddy ground, hits soft, wet sand, heads to the dark square of towel. Yep, pistol’s there. Smith and Wesson beats four aces, his daddy used to say. Take that to the bank. Bil had wanted the guns back. “Sure you can have it back,” he’d replied, and repeats it now. “You take it from me, it’s yours.”