Love Prevails: A Zombie Nightmare (2 page)

"This is awful," Kara said.
    

"Helps mask the smell of the livin’. You’ll get used to it," Pete said. “You won’t even notice it after a while."     

"We won’t be here that long. Just give us the fifty-cent tour. You said you’d let us go after we got here," Keith reminded.

"Well, can’t let you go until you see Chief Bronson. He’s the leader of our little tribe. Real fine man. Real strong too."  

Pete led them down the main path of the village. Human bones adorned the small cabins like a shop of horrors. Femurs tied together formed crude fences, with skulls smiling on top of the posts. One man working an ancient plow was busy digging a drainage ditch. Two living dead harnessed to the plow provided the
horsepower.
A pole extended in front with a human arm dangled from a rope as a substitution for a carrot. Three men with guns stood casually by keeping order. Two young boys crossed their path, hacking at each other with humerus bones in a mock machete fight. A middle-aged woman pounded skeletal remains into small pieces while a younger girl was using a mortar and pestle to grind the crushed bone into powder for fertilizer. 

The cabins were small and very confining from the looks. People meandered about performing chores, not paying much attention to the four new arrivals.  

The few old people they encountered didn’t even bother to look up from their work. It was as if they were trying to avoid attention. The number of cabins suggested that the populace was less than a hundred.

As they passed out of the main village, they saw a group of twenty gathered in the distance. They were overlooking the valley where the man posed as zombie bait. One member of the group saw Pete and the others approaching and alerted a tall, bearded man.           

Keith assumed from the body language of the group that this had to be Chief Bronson that Pete spoke of. Bronson was an imposing bear of a man, his full beard and long hair belied his youth. Beside him stood two women. One was tearful, her eyes focused on the ground. The other was smug and clung possessively to his side.

"Ho, Pete! A fine day it is that you have found new friends," the bearded man bellowed toward the approaching group. "Welcome, my friends! Welcome to New Paradise. I’m Bronson, and my word is law here. Who might you be?" 

Keith turned with a surprised expression toward the rest. "Is this guy for real?" he said in a low voice. He turned back around and addressed Bronson. "My name is Keith. This is my wife, Kara. That’s Steve and his wife, Jill. We’re from Bakersfield and we’re just passing through. We aren’t staying, and wouldn’t be here if we didn’t have those damn guns to our backs." He gestured behind him.       

Bronson’s brow slowly creased. He pursed his lips in exaggerated thought. "The way I see it, you wouldn’t be here if you hadn’t been trespassing in New Paradise." He tilted his head. "You might have led a gang of the undead to our village." He moved closer to Keith. "You might have endangered us all. If you did bring the undead with you, then it’s you and your companions’ responsibility to be here to help in the fight."    

"We weren’t followed, and we didn’t know we were trespassing. Just let us go," Steve said.
           

"Sorry, friend, it doesn’t work that way. You’ll stay as long as I say. And I say you leave when I feel that a chance of danger has passed."        

A cry for help erupted from the staked-out victim in the valley. His anguished voice cracked in the wind.           

"Bronson, please . . . " the tearful woman said in a broken voice. "Please stop this. Just end it now."    

Bronson turned his back to Keith and walked over to the two women. He stopped and placed a hand on the shoulder of the one crying.

She looked at him with big watery eyes. "It’s over, you’ve won . . . I’m yours . . . please end it now."      

Bronson grabbed the back of her neck and gave her a deep kiss, grinding his pelvis against hers. He let go and made a hand gesture toward Pete.

Pete called out an order. One of the men standing by the edge of the ridge blew a whistle. Pete then led the captives through the crowd for a look down to the valley.

After minutes of waiting, they saw a mixture of eight men and boys carrying spears prod a lone zombie with its arms bound behind its back toward the man. The zombie snarled and resisted until it sensed the prey in its path.          

The man had been semiconscious. The commotion of the approach snapped him into fearful alertness. His dry screams rattled in his throat. The lumbering ghoul fixated on the warm breathing flesh, and quickened its pace as much as its atrophied muscles allowed.   

The man yelled with newfound vigor as the zombie chewed a mouthful out of his cheek. The zombie gnawed off his nose next, then his lips. Then it tore into a chunk of neck. The screaming mercifully ended, but the monster continued to feed at the pleasure of the Chief.

"This is just sick . . . what’s the matter with you people?" Keith said.
           

"Ah, well, as if you’re one to judge. This was justice. This was his doing," Bronson said.

"But you said your word is the law, so the responsibility lies with you. You could have stopped it."      

"He broke the law, and it’s by my hand that the laws will be kept."

"What could he have possibly done to deserve to be tortured like that?" Steve asked.
    

"He lost the challenge."
         

"Lost what challenge?" Keith asked.

"For control of the village. The challenge to be the leader and make the decisions. I beat him fair and square, as witnessed by all. I won, he lost. His woman is mine. His possessions are mine. If I had lost, my body would be tied to the pole feeding the zombies instead."     

Kara leaned into her husband and whispered. "Save me, Keith. You said you would save me."
      

"Shhh, don’t worry, honey. Let’s not overreact. It’ll be okay. Give me some time."
          

Jill huddled behind Steve, who said, "This is your justice, not ours. We don’t belong here, let’s go."       

Bronson raised his voice. "I say when you leave . . . unless you want to challenge me for Village Chief."  

Steve took half a step backward, dropping his focus to the ground. Bronson’s angry scowl softened as his gaze roved across Jill’s creamy smooth skin, green eyes, and well-toned figure. He bared his teeth in a feral grin. "Maybe you should check with your wife first. If you lose, she’s mine."

Bronson turned around and walked a few feet from the crowd. "Listen up! Listen up everyone! It’s time we prepare for tonight’s festivities. Jason, Jeremy, your assignment is—"          

In the far distance a horn blew. Bronson stopped in the middle of his speech and listened.   

He glared at Keith. "Now, you see? You did lead them here. Pete, give them their guns back. Everyone load up and ready to your positions."

"What do you mean?" Keith said.
     

"The long range horn signals there are fifty or more of the undead approaching from the southeast," Bronson said. "We go out in groups of five. We’ll split you two up. Follow your group leader. Don’t worry about the women. There’ll be men guarding them."

One of Bronson’s girls told Kara and Jill to follow her. Bronson commanded all the women to stay together. Keith looked at Kara and Steve, and nodded. With protest, Kara followed as Jill pulled her by the hand.    

Six groups of five men loaded up and headed out. The attack was coming from the opposite direction of the valley. Each group kept ten yards apart and traveled in a wide line, with the intent of keeping the adjoining group in eyesight through the trees and brush.

Keith struggled to keep up with his team as it sped forward. Ironically, a few minutes earlier he was in fear of his life by the hands of these same men. Now, he was elbow to elbow joining in battle. Something inside compelled him to go with the flow. Survival had become a minute-by-minute decision. 

When the war party was about half a mile from the village, the first shots rang out. The group on the far left had made first contact. The remaining groups moved to flank the undead. More shots were fired. Keith caught a glimpse of a staggering corpse through the thick foliage.

"Don’t shoot unless you get a clear headshot. Make every shell count!" Keith’s group leader demanded.      

Repetitive gun blasts filled the air. Buckshot mowed down the undead left and right. Keith stopped, took aim, and brought his first down with a direct hit between the eyes. It brought a certain satisfaction, a new sense of belonging with this strange band of survivors. He wondered if he had judged these people too fast.  

Grotesque corpses reanimated to life powered their way through brush and around trees, driven by an unquenchable lust for warm living flesh. They were oblivious to the shotguns discharging or their brethren falling alongside.

Heads exploded, bodies fell to eternal rest under the cool shade of century old conifers. The smell of decaying meat mixed with the bittersweet smell of gunpowder.

In less time than Keith thought possible, the zombie menace met its end. He stood back and watched as the men gathered the spent shotgun shells from the ground, and then realized that it was his responsibility too.            

On the trip back, Keith caught up with Steve’s group and joined his friend. "Man, that was a rush!"

"I’ll say!" Steve said, beaming. "At first, I was shaking so bad that I was afraid to even pull the trigger. But after the guys in the group dropped a few, I sucked it up and shot one right in the mouth. The buckshot must have severed the spine leading to the head, because its head popped off and rolled on the ground toward me. I was still so jumpy I pumped another round and blew it to bits."

Keith laughed. "I got three. One of them reminded me of my boss. Well, ex-boss—Fontaine. I enjoyed taking that one down." He laughed again.

"One of the guys got two with one shot. He said he planned it that way, but I think he just got lucky."

"I don’t know. These guys operate like a well-oiled machine. It wouldn’t surprise me if he didn’t do that just to make it more interesting. We totally slaughtered them. It felt good to be on the offensive for a change."

"I know what you mean. Oh man, I just thought about Jill and Kara. We were caught up in this so fast I haven’t had time to worry about them."

"I’m sure they’re fine," Keith said. "We’ll find out soon enough."

As the victorious warriors approached the village, unexpected somber faces lined up to greet them. Two men moved up to meet Bronson. "We have some bad news," one said.

"What, did we lose someone? Was the village attacked?" Bronson said.
    

"No, the village wasn’t attacked. Elisabeth . . . Elisabeth and Teri are both dead."
     

"Dead? How?"
          

"Teri stabbed Elisabeth . . . Elisabeth grabbed a gun and shot Teri. Teri died instantly . . . Elisabeth, not long after."                 

Bronson looked down, shaking his head. "Bitches. Ah well, life goes on." He turned quickly, and strode off as if unconcerned.

Pete continued with the rest of the men toward the main area of the village. Keith picked up his pace to a trot and caught up with him.            

"What is it with Bronson? He just lost his two women and he looks more pissed off than upset."
  

Pete continued walking without bothering to look at Keith. "Elisabeth was new. Teri, well, he’s had her over half a year. Probably tired of her shit by now. Not that great of a loss to him. He’s a busy man. Life goes on, you know."  

"Yeah, I know. That’s what Bronson said, too. So what, the girls were nothing more than possessions? He’s the King? He just takes what he wants? He can always just take more?"        

Pete stopped. "Now look, Bronson doesn’t
take
anything. Any woman that’s his he has earned. It’s our way. The way of our village."      

"Okay, whatever." Keith became lost in a mixture of conflicting emotions.