Zombie Kong - Anthology (6 page)

We descend through several cavities until we arrive inside an otherworldly cathedral vault filled with massive, convoluted columns rising up to meet dangling rock formations seventy feet above our heads. A geologist’s fantasy of flowstones, stalactites, stalagmites, soda straws, and helictites fill the chamber. Our breath clouds in the freezing air. I feel like a field mouse standing inside a giant Tyrannosaur’s fleshless, dagger-toothed jaws.

A muffled noise ahead from the next chamber. Tompkins clicks off his light and we crouch in the clammy blackness, waiting, not daring to breathe.

A hammering sound, and a muffled cry of pain.

Tompkins turns around and clicks on his penlight. His fearsome scarlet face floats briefly in the gloom, as if he is about to deliver the world’s most terrifying campfire story.

“This is it,” he says, his lips hardly moving. “They’re up ahead. Make sure your rifle’s safety is off and whatever you do, don’t fucking shoot the men or me. If you panic and try to run, I’ll leave you here and you’ll never find your way out alive. Got it?”

I nod, my heart trip-hammering. In a second it will stutter out of rhythm and stop.

“When I give the signal, switch on the light under your barrel. Hopefully that will startle them long enough.”

Long enough for what?
I wonder.

Tompkins unties the climbing rope and stows it. We creep forward and round the corner. Tompkins whispers,
“Now!”
and we fire up the lights strapped to our Kalashnikovs.

In traditional tales of the macabre, the author, if he or she is worth a damn, never fully reveals the monster. The more you
don’t
see––the more your cranked-up imagination is forced to fill in, drawing from its own reserve of childhood terrors––the better. But I wasn’t spared the sight of them, so why should you be?

What I see when we round the gigantic cone of slippery, textured rock is a thousand times worse than any shaggy Lon Chaney Jr. Universal Studios creature or jerky Willis O’Brien animation.

There are five of them, hunched in a rough circle around a mammoth shelf of rock. They turn slowly to look at the sudden source of illumination and I see that they all wear the same vacuous expression as the butchered steer. Their cavern nightworld is obviously fed by tributaries of the same stream we laced with enough Green-6 to dose the population of a good-sized town.

In the moment before their roars ricochet off the wet limestone walls, I gather some quick impressions. They are at least forty feet tall, with a gorilla’s thick raven pelt, massive torsos and large conical skulls. I note the deep-socketed eyes––now soulless––and protruding jaws lined with powerful square teeth designed for chewing tough vegetation. Now those wide, wrinkled vegetarian faces are smeared with gore and shreds of flesh and bone.

The stone buffet is littered with human and bovine body parts and bits of uniforms. One of the giant gorillas hoists one of Tompkins’ wounded men from a nearby pit and dumps him onto the makeshift table. The soldier––I think it is Evans––tries to scramble away, until a second gorilla pins him. A third gorilla brings down a huge flat ax-head of chipped stone, severing both of the soldier’s legs mid-thigh.

Tompkins howls like a banshee and advances, opening up with the AK-47. The gorilla holding the large cutting stone snarls and pitches backward with a deafening crash. Tompkins adjusts his aim and fires another burst and a second gorilla topples.

“Harris!
Fire,
goddamn it! Aim for the skull.”

I brace the rifle stock against my shoulder and sight on a third zombie gorilla. Squeeze the trigger and stagger forward. I scream above the roar of the gas-operated weapon as it sprays bullets into the beast and vaporizes a gallery of slow-drip millennium wall sculptures.

My wounded gorilla and the two remaining others retreat into darkness, probably into an adjoining chamber. I keep my rifle trained in that direction in case they charge. My breath comes in tight gasps and the barrel of my rifle trembles like a dowsing rod.

Tompkins scrambles up onto the stone shelf. Evans has bled out, both femoral arteries severed. Tompkins moves to the other side and peers into the pit.

“Harris, Weller is alive. Get your ass up here and help me.”

I lower my rifle and jog forward, and that is when a sapling-sized stalagmite sails out of the darkness like a prehistoric javelin and skewers Tompkins. He staggers backward, eyes and mouth wide, and disappears into the pit with a thud. I fire blindly into the void and then my clip is empty.
And Tompkins has all of the spare ammo and grenades.

Silence, except for my rasping breath. The most intense terror arcs through my nervous system.

I hear muttering sounds and the shuffling of feet from the dark anteroom.

I imagine them bursting into view, their powerful black fingers grasping me, transporting me to the cold stone shelf in their great dining hall, holding me down while one of them butchers me like a chicken.

I rip free the flashlight from my useless rifle, wheel, and run. I hear––or in my panic imagine I hear––low hooting and grunts and heavy footfalls behind me.

I pass the body of the first gorilla and skid to a stop. I shine my light on the beast’s neck below its blood-soaked face.

Impossible.

I see a large gray plastic collar with a bulge on the side, battered and cracked, bearing a thin metallic plate engraved with a long sequence of Vietnamese script and numbers. It looks like a serial number.

* * *

I kept my mouth shut about the effects of Green-6 and the incident at Phu Bihn Valley. Violating my nondisclosure could have meant a life sentence in a military prison. And who would have believed my story? Would you?

I was offered a plum job in agricultural sciences at Dow Chemical, but I resigned from SOG. I spent most of my adult life teaching chemistry at a quaint little university in a modest Midwestern city. The kind you might drive through and think is pleasant enough, but not enough to explore except for topping off your tank and a quick meal. I married my girlfriend and she bore us two sons. Barbecued on weekends and attended Friday-night football games. Professor Harris––a regular Mr. Chips to my students. I am still on the faculty today––department head, in fact. And yes, the company paid me a discreet visit in the summer of 1977, wondering if I was interested in helping recruit talented young men and women. I politely declined.

I did develop a serious case of adult claustrophobia and fear of the dark. And I had terrible night terrors for many years. Bethany knew that I had served as a scientific advisor for the Army in Vietnam, and she didn’t press me for details.

Many times when the dreams return, I feel torn between slaughterhouse screams and hysterical laughter.
Those giant radio-tracking collars with VC serial numbers.

They’d had their own version of SOG, too.

STEVE RUTHENBECK

Lyceum

The attack happened a little after 1:00 p.m. on a Wednesday.

Thomas Beckman slouched in the bleachers of the Oak Lake Central Gymnasium, one body among the student body. A motivational speaker sat on the half-court line below. He spun a basketball on the index finger of each hand, another ball on top of his head, and two more on the tips of his shoes.

“Follow your dreams,” the man said. “I did!”

A vague tightness formed in Thomas’ chest that might have been shame. Graduation loomed, and with it, the end of procrastination. Classmates talked about colleges they planned to attend and careers they planned to pursue. Thomas’ dreams went no further than getting White Space 2 when it was released next Tuesday and asking Danielle to prom.

Currently, Danielle sat two rows below Thomas. Dark hair hung halfway down her back, and he could see the curve of her cheek. The feelings that rolled through him were as close to growing up as he had ever felt. Otherwise, he viewed adulthood as some rough beast stomping closer. It had nothing to do with him stepping out on his own.

“And whatever happens in life,” the man with the basketballs continued, moving the ball on his head to his nose. “Remember, put a positive
spin
on it!”

The gymnasium roof peeled back, and a gigantic simian face peered in, red eyes burning. The creature’s matted black fur had fallen out in places, revealing mottled skin. A Volkswagen-sized hand reached, pushing a great stink and a cloud of flies before it. The paw picked up a clump of screaming students, and the beast bit into them like an apple.

“ZK attack!” Mr. Jablanski cried.

The rush for the gym exits carried Thomas along with it, even as its undertow pulled others down and cries of pain rose above the cries of fear. The evacuation piled up at the doors, where teenagers bottlenecked into a mass of straining limbs and strident shouts. A basketball ended up among their feet and was kicked back and forth.

The ZK pushed its head and shoulders through the roof breach. The edge of the wall acted like the back of a chair when a person performs the Heimlich Maneuver on themselves, and the monster spewed vomit over the scene.

Drenched, students behind Thomas fell to the floor and writhed. The stink grew unbearable. Tears and gagging plagued the throng. Thomas stumbled through the door and into the hall. He unknotted himself from the kids around him and gasped for fresh air until his lungs and eyes cleared themselves of the foulness. He caught a glimpse of Danielle. She had made it out, as well. For a moment, their glance met…

What are you looking at?

That’s what she had asked him that day in Literature Class. Thomas had arrived early and stood staring out the window. The sun shone on green grass. A breeze made the trees throw dappled shadows. Danielle came and stood next to him.

Nothing,
Thomas replied, but his eyes were opened regardless. That moment was the best he had ever had, standing there and looking out on a just-right spring day with a girl who was interested in knowing more…

Alarms pierced Thomas’ eardrums.

A steel gate descended over the school’s main entrance. Similar gates would fall over the building’s other doors and windows, Thomas knew. All state buildings were mandated to be equipped with lockdowns in the event of Zmergencies. Since the early-warning system failed to alert them of the ZK’s approach, it didn’t surprise Thomas that the lockdown would trigger in error. It was meant for Z sieges, not ZK attacks.

Now they were trapped instead of protected.

Something grabbed Thomas’ shoulder. He spun and found himself face-to-face with Andrew Gardner. Soaked with ZK vomit, Andrew had turned Z. His bluish lips stretched wide as he lunged for Thomas’ neck. Crying out, Thomas pushed his one-time lab partner away. Andrew was clumsy with death, and toppled onto his back like a tree going over. His skull clunked on the tiles.

Other students who had been transformed by the ZK vomit (faster than normal, it seemed) flooded out of the gym and pounced on their fellow OLCC Wolves with clutching hands and gnashing teeth. Their clothes hung in tatters, dissolved by the vomit that wormed its way through flesh and into bloodstreams.

“Look out!” Mr. Jablanski bellowed. The math teacher shoved his way through the jammed hallway. Sweat slicked his bald head and his tie hung askew. He fumbled a key out of his pocket and opened a cabinet marked with a flame symbol. He grabbed the red canister and twisted a valve. “Get down!” He pointed the flamethrower toward the Zs staggering through the hall, and a jet of fire blossomed into a cloud.

Thomas dodged down a side corridor and followed other teenagers seeking safety. Danielle was among them. Her hair flowed over her shoulder as she ran. Thomas put on a burst of speed, weaving in and out of people like a football player.

The ZK’s hand punched through the wall, snatching Mark Muller and pulling him out of sight. The wall was a load-bearing structure, and a section of ceiling collapsed. Blocked, Thomas tried to go back. Flames shot through the hall he came from, and the shouts of Mr. Jablanski echoed. Meanwhile, students behind Thomas had been bitten, and they staggered toward him with a hungry gleam in their otherwise blank eyes.

Thomas picked his way through the hole made by the ZK’s paw. The beast laid on its stomach, gnawing its meal. One of its legs still stuck out of the ceiling (its foot was caught in the rafters). Thomas tried to sprint past it, and a monster hand slammed down in his wake. The ZK attempted another grab. Its fist brushed Thomas as he dodged into the lunch line hall. The force of the blow caused him to stumble. He rolled away from the seeking fingers and pushed his way into a bathroom. He shut himself inside the corner stall and locked its door. He sat on the toilet tank, feet up so they wouldn’t be visible beneath the door.

How many doors had he passed through in the last five minutes?

Thomas thought of an essay by Siegbert Becker. God didn’t carve a person’s path through life in stone. He gave them freedom of choice, but sometimes directed their path through the opening and closing of doors. A person might try something and be shut down; or they might try something and make progress. If they found themselves in a place where a decision had to be made and they didn’t know what to do, they considered their gifts, circumstances, right and wrong, and made the best choice they could.

Outside the bathroom, muffled screams and roars reached Thomas’ ears. A few gunshots blasted, probably from teachers.

What am I going to do?

Presently, Thomas worked for a commercial gardener, picking strawberries in the summer and chopping rhubarb plants into more rhubarb plants in the winter. It paid for video games and little else. It wouldn’t work as a career.

As for college, Thomas hadn’t applied to any because his grades weren’t stellar, nor were his goals. He supposed he could attend the local community college, but that seemed like giving up––doing something just to do something. Still, it was an avenue to try, and filling out an application to see what developed wouldn’t hurt anything.