Undead Fleshcrave: The Zombie Trigger (25 page)

To that, Dax said nothing. Neither did any of the others. The hum of tension in the air was even thicker now; Mark felt it and he knew the rest of them did too. Here it came. There were far too many people present for them all to fit comfortably-and legally-inside the Tundra. They knew that. The cops knew that.

“Looks like you punks have been rolling around with a shitload of people in the back of that truck right there. Unrestrained. No belts. Pretty sure I don’t have to spell that shit out to you lot of metalfaces…”

“Metalheads,” Muscles corrected Moustache once more, his eyes roving around the group, but this time the guy didn’t bite.

Instead he took another step closer, the capacious bulge of his gut straining his uniform to the point where Mark expected to see a couple of buttons pop off and fly across the concrete.

“You know what?” Moustache said. “I’m going to have to ask you all to get out of the vehicle and step away from it.”

Though there were actually only two of their party still inside the vehicle, or what could be considered inside it―Lizette in the tray, and Scarlett in the front passenger seat—the command was for them all to move away from the Tundra.

Shit,
Mark felt a cold fist of fear grip him and squeeze. This was not good, these cops weren’t about to run simple licence and registration checks, and Mark already knew from the pointed question about their whereabouts prior to here that the main spokesperson for the quartet was angling to hear Black or Dax admit they came from the hotbeds of undead activity.

His hopes that this wasn’t about to turn into a colossal fuck up, or some extremely bad outcome, plummeted like a sinking stone.

Muscles stepped in closer to the Tundra, standing between the two petrol pumps.

“Out of the vehicle, Miss,” he said firmly to Scarlett, a hard edge to his voice.

“That means you too, lady,” Moustache said to Lizette. “Get your ass out of the back of the truck.”

“What the fuck for?” Dax railed, flinging his hands wide in an expression of query. “What…”

“Pipe down, man!” Mark hissed desperately, seeing the likelihood of this situation not becoming far worse than it needed to be, starting to slip away, with Dax deciding to antagonise.

They were already in shit for the unrestrained folk travelling in the back, anything else the cops could pin on them at this stage would be added bonuses for their reports.

Only, Mark knew that unbelted passengers and smartmouthing off to authority figures wasn’t the main agenda of these officers right here. Not at all.

“Okay, you fucking metalhairs,” Moustache said, and his voice hummed with barely held back aggression and antagonism. “You been listening to the radio at all? On your way from Zonaria to your Blackwater Park concert?”

“Why would we do that?” Dax asked, and again, though Black’s order was for all to remain quiet, he didn’t step in to pull Dax up. It was beyond that point; it didn’t really matter who did the talking. These guys were exactly the type of police they’d all been hoping to avoid. No chance of that happening.

“Why would you do that indeed?” Moustache mused. “Too busy filling your mindless heads up with that headbashing zombie shit music.”

“Headbanging,” Muscles pointed out helpfully again, to which Moustache paid no mind, his eyes fixed on Black and Dax, somehow managing to encompass them all.

“Which brings me to another point. How soon are you pack of degenerate fucks likely to turn into goddamn flesh-eating freaks, roaming around my goddamn neighbourhoods? Bringing your shit from wherever the fuck it is you’ve really come from to fuck up my towns? ‘Cause you metalbrains sure as shit aren’t from this neck of the woods, bet your ass you aren’t.”

Oh fuck,
Mark told himself. He saw Moustache’s hand twitching over the butt of his firearm. The guy looked like there was nothing better he’d like to do than draw that piece and start snapping shots off before any of this bailed up crew did morph into flesh-eating freaks with a hankering for pork.

Dax turned an incredulous gaze towards Muscles, then jerked a thumb at Moustache.

“Your partner playing with a full deck of cards?” He wanted to know. “What the hell kinda shit is he babbling about? Been inhaling too many of them powdered doughnuts again?”

All of a sudden both of the police officers at the rear and side of the Tundra had their hands full of pistol, Moustache aiming at Black, Muscles covering Dax. Muscles gestured with his free hand towards the other patrol car and it released its occupants as well, both officers also stepping out with drawn weapons.

“Everyone, move your asses. Over to the other side of the pumps! Now!” Moustache ordered in a strident bellow, his voice snapping like a whip. “Now, pronto. All of you, move your fucking asses. Quicksmart. Think I won’t hesitate to shoot you zombie metal fucks right in the skulls, then you test me and you’ll find out.”

Reluctantly, but surely, the entire congregation of them complied with the shouted bidding, any move misconstrued as noncompliance would be sufficient for the cops to open fire, and the whole lot of them knew that.

These gun-toting uniforms were the first of the lynch mob witch-hunting mentality, ready to bring pitchforks to the party on any metalheads wandering into their spheres of existence, bringing the alleged apocalypse they knew was unfolding in other towns and cities to their locales.

Two men on either side, each pointing guns. The foursome of police were outnumbered by their metalhead quarry, trapped in the middle, but the presence of four loaded guns was a massive equalizer to say the least.

“On the fucking ground! Right now, you long-haired zombie motherfuckers, all of you! Down on the ground. Lay face down on the concrete. Do it, or you’ll be eating concrete!”

“You’ll be eating lead, is what you’ll be eating,” Muscles said, earning a glower from his partner, not pleased to be shown up once again.

The other two said nothing, but both advanced, guns aimed out in steady two handed grips.

Again, a failure to conform looked like an unwise decision for future survival, not with these high-strung blue clad whackjobs, certain they were in the presence of an undead army waiting to happen. Moustache certainly didn’t need much of an excuse to start unloading his sidearm into these perceived monsters and his muscular buddy probably wasn’t far off following the lead if that eventuated. The other pair seemed like subordinates to Moustache and Muscles so it was a fair bet they would immediately be ready to take their cues from the others.

The fear gripping Mark now was almost overwhelming, squeezing his heart and constricting his bowels to a paralysing level. This squadron of authority figures were so dead certain they had a pack of zombies in the making right here, they were about to start backslapping each other, high fiving and congratulating one another on thwarting the apocalypse in their provinces, at least prolonging it for a while. But first, they had to eliminate that threat and Mark knew how they planned to do that.

This couldn’t be how it ended. Gunned down, or rather, shot unceremoniously in the back of the head while they all lay helpless and useless, face down on the concrete of an unattended service station. Mistakenly believed to be part of the undead epidemic, zombies waiting to be birthed merely by way of being part of the heavy metal community.

All of them were forced to lie in a line, heads towards the front doors of the service station, arms above their heads with hands clearly visible so the gunmen could witness that none of them possessed lethal weapons.

CHAPTER TWENTY ONE-POLICE PERVERSION AND A SHOTGUN FACELIFT

With his cheek pressed to concrete that felt cold against his skin, despite the fact that it was a sunny day, Mark stared blankly at the person in repose next to him, Heather on the side he was facing with Dax on the other side of him. He knew Miranda was sprawled on the other side, beside her another of the girls, and then the rest spreading further up to where the two lesser cops stood, stiff-legged with tight grasps on their weapons.

“Motherfuckers,” the strident boom of Moustache rang out. “Look at this, these sons-of-bitches are armed with knives.”

Mark guessed the police were moving among them, patting them down, frisking them, and disarming those with their weapons on them. Soon enough, he was proven correct in that assumption when rough hands were on him, frisking him none too gently, prodding, poking, and ultimately locating his knife. He felt the comfort of the weapon vanish, ripped away with a satisfied grunt.

“Well, what the tarnation have we got here, boys? Fucking knives upon knives with these metalface fucks. Brenner, Haines, Harris, any of you boys know anything about fucking zombies?”

A chorus of varying responses carried back from the addressed officers, most in the negative.

“Nope. Me neither. But as far as I know, those living dead bastards don’t usually need to be carrying around knives. I guess these sons-of-whores and goth bitches are planning ahead, maybe going to carve up some of their meat before they mutate into their true forms.”

“Boss, I may not know that much shit about zombies,” this was the voice of Muscles, the guy referred to as Brenner. “But I’m pretty sure you’re getting a bit mixed up with werewolves and vampires there. Once they turn, they don’t turn back. That’s zombies, I mean. Those fuckers are dead. Or, that should be undead.”

“You saying if we shoot these unholy fucks right here they’re going to come back to life?” Moustache/Boss grunted.

“Not if we shoot ‘em in the head. You gotta kill them by shooting them in the brain. Kill the brain, kill the zombie. That much I do know,” Brenner said with confidence. “Or before they turn zombie. Like now. My vote is to shoot them all now. Before they turn.”

“Now, hold on just a minute there, Brenner. I’m cooking up some brainwaves here.” Boss said, a malicious note of glee slithering into his voice. “Don’t go jumping the gun about plugging ‘em all right now. At least not with bullets. If you catch my drift.”

“Go on,” Brenner suddenly sounded interested. “I am catching your drift.”

Although the stern directive was issued for all of those face-down on the concrete to keep their traps shut and speak when spoken to if asked, Dax just couldn’t see fit to adhere to those orders.

“How are we any concern to your town if we’ve already come through it?” Dax interjected from his awkward floor-hugging position. “We aren’t likely to create any sort of these fantastic zombie troubles you’re referring to in your town, so how the hell do we even pose a threat?”

A rush of sound followed by a solid brutal thump and a grunt of pain indicated to Mark that one of the foursome, probably Boss himself since he was nearest, just kicked Dax hard in the ribs.

“What is hard to understand about keeping your mouth closed unless you are asked to speak, you filthy zombie fuck? Now you telling me you aren’t from Zonaria, you lying piece of shit? Here I am thinking of prolonging that bullet in the brain you’re on a collision course with and you start dribbling shit?” Boss grated. “Next one of you zombie scum says a word…one single fucking word…and you best believe your brains are getting scrambled.”

Mark stared at Heather next to him, her face aiming back at him. This was nothing like the enforced exhibition of skin back outside Noumena, this was some serious shit right here and her face reflected that, eyes wide with terror, lips quivering.

Mark wished he knew how to console and comfort her, and Miranda too, but he’d no idea how, and lifting his head even a fraction, just to be able to see how Miranda was faring would likely earn him his own boot to the ribs, or worse.

He couldn’t see how they were getting out of this, or what magic Black and his cohorts would be able to conjure up. With each situation that cropped up where he thought they were fucked, somehow they’d slithered narrowly out of it. But this time…

“You were saying something about having a brainwave, Boss?” One of the lesser officers spoke up, his voice a little higher and reedier than the strident bark of Boss and the deep gruff utterances of Brenner. “Before that metal weasel fuck interrupted?”

“Yeah. That I was. Now, sooner or later, all these rocker punks are going to turn into goddamn zombies and they need to be dead before then. It’s our God-given duty to make sure that happens, hell, we are all god-fearing men and officers of the law, and the way to uphold it and protect our towns, and well, even Blackwater Park, every other city these slime-sucking scumfucks are going to go infest, is, of course, to wipe them off the face of the earth. But first…” Boss paused for a moment, catching the eye of all his companions, looking around to ensure he had the utmost attention of each. “First, have a good look at the womenfolk they have here. Look at them. Be a damn shame to just let all this fine flesh go a-wasting like that.”

“I’m on the same page, Boss, shit, I think I’m a chapter ahead,” came the gravelly growl of Brenner, and to his horror, Mark realised he too was on the same page. He was pretty sure everybody else forced to lay in humiliation, at gunpoint on the shaded cool concrete, were well aware of what these folk, supposed protectors and upholders of the law, were inferring.

“Wait a minute,” this came from the guy with the thin reedy voice. “What do you mean?”

“What do I fucking mean, Haines? What the jolly fuck do you think I mean? All these folk―
these zombies
―have to die before they go all batshit crazy and start ripping us up and anybody they get to, goddamn eating them. Like what’s been going on in Armada, what happened in Noumena, all along the way here. Shit, goddamn Noumena is a natural disaster area, fucking no-go zone. Ain’t nobody going in there unless they have a couple dozen tanks or some such shit, and even then these fucking flesh-chawing, walking corpses are going to keep coming. But, before they die…before these dirty sluts here have to die, they should serve a purpose. Catch my drift now, partner?”

“I…yeah…” Haines lapsed into an uncomfortable silence, and Mark grasped at a tiny sliver of hope there. Was there any chance of the reluctant recruit being able to talk his three companions out of what they were discussing and planning to do?

“What the hell kind of cops are you?” Heather suddenly wailed. “You can’t do what you’re talking about! We aren’t zombies, we aren’t going to turn into zombies! You can’t kill us and you can’t rape us…”

Considering Mark was facing that way, he was directly in line to see Brenner appear and swing astride Heather, dropping his weight down on her from behind, sitting on her rump. He slid his gun muzzle up the side of her body, tracing it up to the side of her jaw, tangling it in her long light locks.

“Listen, zombie bitch,” he said. “You’re in no position to say anything about anything. You can all piss and moan all you want, but God knows, and we know, that the fucking lot of you are monsters waiting to happen. As soon as you get a chance you will be off tearing out some old ladies guts or eating some kid’s face off.
So
, pipe down and take what is coming to you. Everything that’s coming to you.”

He ground his body down on her for a long period of time, then eventually straightened back up, the gun in his hand going away from her face.

“Yeah, that’s a plan, Boss.” This new voice must be the one addressed as Harris, the other of the subordinate cops who hadn’t yet spoken. “I’m in full agreement with that. These whores can’t be wasted until they are made use of properly. And I know which one I want.”

“Well, I know which one I want too,” Brenner growled. “I ain’t a brunette man, and almost all these dames are brunette. Lucky for me, there’s a feisty blonde in the bunch and that’s miss mouthy over there. Already got my pecker stiff sitting there on her butt, so I’m taking her. I’m going to stick my baton up her ass.”

“Baton?” Harris snorted derisively. “Sure you aren’t overselling yourself there Brenner?”

“I’m talking about my actual baton, asswipe! Fucking funny guy, huh?”

“Enough chatter, times a-wasting. I don’t want one of these broads turning full zombie while I got my dick up inside of her,” Boss grunted, slapping his gunless hand against a meaty thigh.

“I’m hearing that,” Harris spoke up enthusiastically. “I’ll take the dyke bitch right over there.”

“How do you know she’s a dyke?” Haines wondered. “You some sort of expert on dykes?”

“My goddamn ex-wife turned into a fucking carpet muncher. I reckon I know a dyke when I see one.”

“That’s amazing.”

“Yeah, isn’t it just?” Harris said with more than a hint of bitterness evident in his tone.

“No, I didn’t mean your dyke-spotting abilities. I mean the fact that somebody actually married you in the first place.”

“Fuck you, Haines.”

“Clam up, you assholes,” Brenner cut into the exchange between the two underlings. “Got your big boy pants on now, Haines? On-board? Picked yourself a pussy yet? There’s one apiece here and one left over. Whoever that poor lass is who misses out on a go, we’ll all run a train on her afterwards.”

“Yeah, I guess…” Haines didn’t sound completely sure of himself, and Mark continued hanging onto that miniscule shred of hope that the reluctant Haines could somehow steer this away from the dangerous territory it was going into. Though it might speed up the apparently inevitable bullets in all their brains…

“Who is your pick then? Boss wants the stunner, I’m plugging the blonde, Harris thinks he’s got a dyke…”

“She
is
a fucking rugmuncher,” Harris reiterated. “And I’m gonna give her one hell of a real dicking. Let her know that synthetic strap on dildo shit ain’t shit compared to a real man’s bratwurst.”

“You mean undersized baby knockwurst?”

“Fuck
you
, Haines!”

“Haines, stop fucking around!” Brenner snarled. “You want to screw this up and have these bitches turn zombie on you before anyone gets any pussy?”

“Ah, just don’t stick your dick in anyone’s mouth,” Harris suggested. “Keep plugging along otherwise, even if they do turn. Shit, I ain’t never fucked any zombie slut before, that shit might be wild.”

“I’ll take…the girl next to the blonde,” Haines eventually said and a cold flood of chills washed over Mark, prickling him with terrible icy spikes. The girl next to the blonde Heather was Miranda.

“No! No, you won’t!” Miranda cried almost simultaneous, with Mark unable to stop himself from trying to launch up into an all fours position. “Nobody is taking me!”

“Stay put, asshole!” Boss snarled and thumped his foot down on Mark’s spine, grinding him back into the concrete. He followed through with a swinging baton, hammering it across Mark’s shoulders, shooting a blast of agony through him from neck to waist.

Harris stepped to Miranda and caught a big handful of her hair, twisting it into knots around his meaty knuckles. He brought his face close to hers, where her eyes were screwed up in pain, her mouth shaking.

“You ain’t got any say in this, you undead whore. You should be thanking your lucky stars you get one more ride on the stairway to heaven before a bullet takes out a lease on your brain.”

“Leave her alone,” Mark choked desperately, though he knew it was going to earn him more agony, and certainly her too. Instead, he was ignored as Boss wandered down towards the female he’d selected as his choice. Scarlett.

“So, how’s this work?” Haines queried, his voice still filled with hesitation. “We all just get into it at once or what?”

“Christ, you’re dense,” Harris snorted. “How the fuck do you think we’re going to manage that? With all these freaks ready to go full zombie any tick of the clock? We take turns obviously. Right, Boss?”

“Fuckin’ A. And guess who has the longest straw?” Boss said gleefully.

“If that’s a dick joke, it ain’t Harris,” Haines chimed in.

“No, it ain’t a fuckin’ dick joke, assface! It means I’m getting my end wet first!” Boss snorted at Haines. “Get her up.”

“Can’t you do that yourself? Or get one of these whores to get it up for you?”

“I’m talking about the goddam fe-male you dumb piece of shit!” Boss shouted. “Get her up and into the back of that truck over there.”

“Not doing it right here?”

“No, dickbrain. Get her up and in the truck.”

“Okay.”

Haines and Harris stooped, one on either side of Scarlett and hoisted, the hands not full of their guns used to grasp her forearms and yank her brutally right up onto her feet.

From his reclining position, his head turned that way, Mark could witness this, trying to avoid staring helplessly at Heather’s tear streaked visage next to him.

Scarlett presented no opposition at all to this, whether it would have mattered had she chosen to do so was probably of no consequence; the two underling officers had her seized in a tight and unremitting hold. Unusually, she wore absolutely no expression on her countenance, it was utterly devoid of anything. Unlike the horrified, panicked looks of sheer fear and desperation plastered across the visages of Heather and Miranda, and probably the other two women as well, for all Mark knew, there was nothing at all reflected in the impassive stare of Scarlett, as if she simply wasn’t even there behind that gorgeous face.