Holiday of the Dead (21 page)

Howard was pretty sure that was Martin’s afternoon Martini talking, but he also knew that it was indeed now or never. The doctor was right about at least one thing: Howard did look silly in the robe among a sea of nude bodies. He was the odd man out in this situation. For once, by not being nude, he was the outsider. And perhaps that was the whole point of this exercise. Howard Straw closed his eyes, drew a deep breath, undid the tie of his robe, and let it fall to the sand.

Howard opened his eyes. That didn’t sound right. The brochure said nothing about screaming. The brochure said he would find acceptance among the other nudists, no matter his body type. Was his greatest fear true? Was he really that odd looking? Did he truly have something to be ashamed of? Could he ever be naked again?

The woman screamed once more, and Howard scrambled for his robe.

“What’s going on over there?” Martin asked. He snatched Howard by the shoulder and jerked him toward the commotion. “Come on. They might need help.”

Howard didn’t have time to grab the terrycloth covering.

After a short nude sprint, or rather a short nude drag behind the overexcited therapist, Howard found himself standing at the waterline, very close to a woman sprawled on her back across the wet sand. She was quite beautiful, with wide hips and blond hair and full breasts – or breasts that would have been full if it weren’t for the fist-sized chunk taken out of the left one. The woman writhed on the ground, screaming blue murder and bleeding all over the place.

The hefty man relaxed at that and moved to one side, giving Martin access to his injured wife. In a gathering crowd of exposed breasts and free-swinging genitalia and plump rumps, all Howard could focus on was the woman’s mauled body. The sight nauseated him. Nudity was one thing, but this was something else. This wasn’t therapy. It was the opposite of therapy. It was … nightmare-apy.

But the woman never got a chance to answer. She just closed her eyes, gave a single violent shudder from head to toe, and then fell still. No one spoke for several seconds, which felt like an eternity to Howard. The circling crowd stood in silence and stared at the bleeding body, unsure what to do next.

At length, her husband asked, “Is she okay?”

Martin took on a grim look as he passed his hand over the woman’s eyes, closing them and answering the husband’s question without speaking.

“What attacked her?” Howard asked.

As if on cue, another woman screamed. Then another. Men joined in the hollering, and all at once, the beach was pandemonium, parting in a scramble away from the water’s edge. That’s when Howard saw them: a group of men, five in all, staggering onto the sand from the surf. They looked ill, sickly green and bloated about the neck and face. But odder than that was the fact that they were clothed. Each man sported a ragged set of combat fatigues that had seen better days. They weren’t part of the resort, neither staff nor visitors.

At first Howard wasn’t sure what the big deal was, why folks were running away and screaming, until one of the men lunged at a nearby old lady and sank his teeth into her neck. Howard stared, wide-eyed and open-mouthed, as the woman’s crimson life squirted in an arc against a sparkling background of oceanic blue.

In seconds, the beach went from pandemonium to full-scale chaos.

The nudists scattered, copious amounts of flesh bouncing and bobbing, this way and that, all in an effort to escape the mauling maniacs and their rabid attacks. Howard’s senses were overwhelmed in an instant. He could barely handle seeing other naked people, but to bear witness as they ran amuck, crawling and ducking and rolling, all in the altogether … It was just too much for him. His psyche shut down. He closed his eyes, locked his knees and seared himself to the spot. He couldn’t move. He wouldn’t move.

Howard could hear Martin calling his name, could feel the aged therapist yanking on his arm. But Howard wasn’t on the beach anymore. He was in his happy place. In his mind, he was at home, wrapped in his warm blanket, under which he had several layers of clothing on. He was not on a nude beach. He was not surrounded by excited, running, naked people.

“Howard!” Martin yelled. Then he shrieked in surprise, perhaps even pain, “Get off of me, you harpy!” The next sound the therapist made was a strangled, wet choke and cough and gurgle. After this, he made no noise at all.

Wet warmth splattered across Howard’s torso.

Howard decided to risk a peep to see what this fresh hell was, and immediately wished he hadn’t. A sheet of crimson painted Howard’s chest and tummy, but it wasn’t his own blood. It belonged to Martin, who now lay at Howard’s feet, split groin to gullet, like a human watermelon dropped on the sidewalk from very high up. Over the yawing cavity that once was Dr. Martin Jones, stooped the dead blonde. Only she wasn’t quite as dead as she had been just moments before. She stared up at Howard through cloudy eyes as she gnawed upon the loose, wet loops of Martin’s innards. Just a few feet behind them lay the twitching body of her husband, his blood-soaked groin missing a few vital organs.

Gagging, Howard turned his head from the gory scene just in time to see a certain blood-covered little old woman get to her feet, ragged throat and all. The octogenarian ran with a speed that belied her age, and then launched herself at a portly man who was doing his best to waddle to safety. The pair of them tumbled to the sand, arms and legs and naked parts entangled, gore flying fast and furious.

Another growl arose, and with it, Howard found his feet, running full tilt toward the bathhouse in the distance, sprinting away from the blonde and her now-rising husband. All around him, people were screaming and fighting and dying. He’d lost track of the five soldiers, but that no longer mattered. It didn’t take a genius to realize what was happening here. Perhaps not the why, but Howard had a handle on the what. The original five were just the beginning; for each following victim that struck the ground, there came a new threat.

Make that a nude threat.

Howard skidded into the bathhouse, and whipped about to close the door behind him. Handle in hand, he paused – for a millisecond, a breath, a single heartbeat – to stare at the carnage. The beach was alive with the unclothed dead, some walking, some running, some slithering along on their blood-slicked bellies, all seeking fresh flesh to rend. The panicked crowd ebbed and flowed in all directions, a naked throng manic for shelter. Most fell under the mauling hands and gnawing teeth of their crazed nudist brethren before they could find safety.

Howard slammed and locked the door behind him, praying the thin barrier would hold. Within seconds of his securing the door, a flurry of pounding arose from it. Whether it was hapless victims seeking help, or the maniacs hot on his trail, he didn’t stick around to find out. Howard set off again, running the length of the narrow bathhouse until he emerged from the opposite end. He had to get the hell out of this nightmare resort.

The gravel walkway that led from the bathhouse to the main entrance cut his bare feet as he ran along, but Howard ignored the little bites and pushed forward, seeking a safe haven from this insanity. He was in good shape, though not an athlete by any stretch of the imagination. But he supposed that with the right motivation – such as fear for life and limb – he could and would run for a very long time. The walkway ended in a parking lot, which Howard forwent, seeing as how he’d left his keys in his pants. And his pants were in his room at the hotel. And the hotel was back there, with those things.

Howard slowed at the end of the lot, near the road, stopping for a moment to catch his breath. As he stood, stooped, with his hands on his knees, heaving for precious air, he heard the roar of an engine behind him. A bright red Mustang zipped past him, but before it reached the road, it came to a screeching halt. At first Howard thought the driver was stopping to offer him a ride. The driver’s side door swung open, and out popped a screaming brunette woman, heading for the bushes along the drive.

“It got in my car!” she yelled as she ran past Howard in a wobbling limp.

No sooner had she spoken than a blood-soaked man leapt from the confines of the car and set off after the limping woman. The man was missing his right arm, but his injuries didn’t seem to slow him one bit. Howard never got a chance to react, and neither did the woman. Like a rabid beast, the one-armed man snarled and lunged for the limping gal, dragging her to the ground with his single hand, and spilling her blood across the asphalt with nothing but his gnashing teeth.

The sight of this once again encouraged Howard to flee. He leapt over the struggling couple and ducked into the still-running car. Slamming it into gear, Howard put his pedal to the metal, burned rubber, and left a smoking trail behind him as he fled the scene. He had to find help. And fast.

The village that bordered the nudist resort was a mere five miles away. With the help of the sports car, Howard was able to reach the town in record time. Along the way, he found a towel draped across the passenger headrest, and used it to clean the blood from his body, trying his best to stay on the road as he retched and wiped. He pulled onto Main Street doing an easy eighty, and came to a screeching halt just outside the first building he found, a place called Mother’s Diner. The diner was bound to have a phone, as well as other folks he could warn. Others had to know what was happening. The world needed to be warned of the dangers on the beach. Howard sprang from the car, hustled up the sidewalk and burst into the busy diner.

“Help!” he cried. “Please help me!”

All movement and sound in the diner ceased, as every patron stopped what they were doing – some in mid-bite, some mid-drink, some mid-conversation – and stared at Howard. A woman shrieked, not very loud but enough to set Howard’s already frayed nerves on edge. He spun in place and pressed his face against the glass doors of the diner, seeking the source of the woman’s concern, certain something or someone had followed him here.

There was nothing. No one.

Howard turned again to face the occupants of the diner. “Please. Call nine-one-one. There’s been an accident on the beach.” Taking a few steps forward, he raised his hands, entreating them for help.

Another woman screamed. Mothers and fathers throughout the room covered their children’s eyes. The diner seemed to shrink away from him, as a whole, shying from his oncoming form. Howard was bewildered. Why would they reel from him? He wasn’t one of those things. He was alive! He was trying to warn them!

In all of his struggle to survive, in his race for his very life, he didn’t have time to stop and dress. He hadn’t even thought about it. So there he was, standing bare-ass naked in a diner filled with fully dressed folks. And he also realized that he just didn’t care. All at once, his fear of being nude, of seeing others nude, of nudity itself, seemed silly. Meaningless. Stupid. In the face of this real threat, this terrible ungodly happening, being naked ranked very low on his list of concerns.

At the top of that list was getting out of this alive.

As for everything else, as far as he was concerned, clothing was optional.

THE END

UNDEAD SIDE OF THE MOON

By

Lyle Perez-Tinics

To Whom It May Concern:

My name is Elroy Collins and I am sitting in a prison cell awaiting punishment for a crime I did not commit. The trial is over and I have been convicted of the murder of my team and every resident at the Moonlit Resort. The only thing left for me to do is to write down my side of the story, so I am writing this as a true and honest account of those events. Perhaps someday, this letter will help prove that the Zilith Corporation covered up the truth.