Thursday, May 30, 2013

THE UNDEAD REVOLUTION - Part Two


*The Undead Revolution contains graphic violence, sexual situations and very coarse language.
Intended for a mature 18+ audience only.

THE UNDEAD REVOLUTION

Part Two


Slipknot blasts from the speakers of our van, officially blasting out my eardrum and causing me to lurch up from my position in the back seat.
“Mornin’ sunshine.” Ratchet slides a box of canned food in beside me and slams the van door shut. I rub the crust from my eyes and then lean forward and strike New Kid in the back of the head with my open palm.
“Fucking nice work, Douchebags!” I shout as I jump through to the front seat. “Do you wanna wake the fucking dead?”
“Well I’m not leaning into to wake you again. Last time I did you nearly blew my head off.” New Kid says. It’s weird, even though Rosso had been the one to give him that stupid name well over three months ago, it kinda stuck. I don’t even know if I’ve ever asked the dude his real name. It’s probably some d’bag, new age shit like Denin or Brine, or fucking Byron.
“Occupational hazard, I guess.”
“Where’s Chubs?”
New Kid shrugs, “Said he had to take a leak.”
“No one goes any-fucking-where alone? How many times do I have to fucking say that to you dickheads?” I glare at Ratch, who’s been around long enough to know better. They both have. “How long ago?”
“I don’t know, like five minutes or something?”
“Fuck!” I say, pulling the gun from my belt and checking the clip. “You didn’t think to go with him?”
“Dude, I am not gonna stand around and watch him piss.”
“I think he was checking out my pork sword last time I went for a pee run.” Ratch says, “Man, we really need to find some chicks before we all start batting for the same fucking team.”
“Like you idiots would have any fucking clue what to do with a real live woman if you saw one.” I check my side mirror, the side New Kid’s sitting on, too, and then my rear view. And then I check them again before opening my door and easing out. “You fuckers stay here, shut the music off and don’t start the van until you see us in your rear view. You got it?”
“Holy shit.” New Kid exclaims, “Are you actually gonna let me drive for once?”
“Hey, Newbie, how long you been here?”
“I don’t know, a couple months, why?”
“Fuck is that all, it feels like years.” Ratch jumps through to the front seat, grabs New Kid in a head lock and nuggies him until his hair is standing on end.
“Fuck you, douchenozzle.”
“In all that time have I ever let you drive the van?”
He hunkers down in his seat, “No.”
“Exactly. Now shut the fucking music off. I want you idiots prepared for anything.”
I ease the passenger door closed and slide the gun out from the back of my jeans, silently heading for the corner where I assume Chubs will be. There’s an electrical superstore just around the block and oddly the power in this neighbourhood just never went out. From time to time we ride by here to see if the flat screens are ever playing anything worthwhile, like some kinda emergency broadcast. We stopped checking it about six months ago, but who the fuck knows, maybe Chubs has decided to check it again? It’d be just like the little shit to wander off alone and wait for the rest of us to bail him out.
As I round the corner I can see I’m not wrong. Chubs is standing in the middle of the sidewalk with his face practically pressed to the glass. I’m just about to rim him out when I hear him groan. I raise my gun and stalk forward silently, expecting the worst. Shit! Those fucking idiots caused us to lose some one else. Why? Because they were so god damn afraid that seeing another man’s meat might make them gay.
Fucktards. Chubs isn’t interested in cock, at least not at the moment, anyway. You wanna know how I know this? Because he’s jacking off to some fucking Jane Fonda video playing on all seven flat screens facing the window. And not young Jane Fonda, either. That might actually be understandable, the woman was a fox, but no, Chubs is whacking his willy to some freaking grandma wearing baggy skin and lycra like it’s still fucking 1987. It’s like watching a friggin’ train wreck, like it was in the first days when the people you knew got bit and turned into animals before your very fucking eyes. A horror you just can’t look away from.
He groans again and shoots his load against the glass before collapsing against it. Jane’s bending over facing the screen and Chubs’ semen is running down her wrinkly, lycra covered legs. Bile rises up my insides and I finally find the strength the form words, “Dude, fucking put it away!”
Chubs goes rigid and white as fucking Casper. “What are you doing here?”
“What am I doing? What the fuck are you doing? I thought you were a Rotter dude! I nearly put a bullet in you!”
“You were watching me?”
“I came to make sure the Zombies didn’t make a meal out of you! Jane Fonda? Seriously? There’s some things you can never fucking unsee!”
“Sorry, man. The TV’s started working again. I don’t know why they’re playing this shit. I didn’t question it, I just . . .” Chubs’ cheeks are beet red as he trails off.
I turn, so he can get his shit together, and spot two ugly-ass zombies staggering toward us. One of them is a fat, balding dude with a haggard looking suit, weirdly he’s carrying a moldy, blood-encrusted Dunkin’ Donuts bag in his hand, seems like congealed blood and Rotter goo have fused it to his Rolex, the other Z is a skinny blonde who looks like a junkie. I roll my eyes. From one fucking fix to another. Guess they traded donuts and crack for the better white meat.
 The skinny ones move a lot faster, but they’re still easy as piss to take down once you know how. Donuts here, is a much bigger challenge. Yes, he’s slower than Crack Whore, but he’s got more grunt on account of the spare tyres he’s carrying. You might be able to outrun him but once a guy like that gets you on the ground, you’re as good as dead.
Chubs knows this as well as I do and he must be feeling pretty suicidal right now because he turns to me and says, “You want me to take out the big guy?”
He pulls the baseball bat –my baseball bat; it’s on loan because a little over a week ago we woke up to a warehouse crawling with the dead and only made it out by the skin of our teeth, Newbie and Chubs had both lost their weapons in the process and we hadn’t found them replacements yet– from its resting position against the glass and I watch on in horror as his spunk forms a sticky arc between the bat and the glass.
“You got your junk spunk on my bat?” I’m abso-fucking-lutely livid.
Chubs wipes the sticky shit on his jeans, “Sorry man.”   
“Shut the fuck up.” I spit and slide the safety back on the gun, thrust it in the back of my jeans. It’d be easier just to shoot these two in the head, but I can’t risk drawing more Rotters to us without knowing how many are following these two stellar citizens of the undead community. I pull the hunting knife out of my belt and leap for McFatty as Chubs goes to bat with Crack Whore. Dude’s taller than me, wider too, so instead of butchering him head on I twist to the right as he lunges for me. With his back to my front side, I kick out and watch his knees give away. I hear the snapping of brittle bones, but he doesn’t feel that like the living would. I ride his heavy ass to the ground and shove my knife up through the gap between his skull and spine until I reach brain. With a hard twist I yank out the blade, wipe it on his suit and look over at Chubs to see whether or not he hit a home run. He’s beating that bitch into the ground, better still he looks like he’s having the fucking time of his life.
I pry the Dunkin’ Donuts bag from off the Rotter, unclasp the Rolex and slide it onto my wrist. After frisking his pockets and coming up empty, I hit gold when I hear the crinkle of a packet of cigarettes. I yank them out and stare at the green and white packaging. Fucking Alpines.
I stash the pack in my back pocket, and watch Chubs go a few more rounds with the dead woman’s head before I signal him to stop and we head back toward the van. Just as we’re rounding the corner, a rotting granny lurches into the two of us, she falls right into Chubs arms, her mouth connecting with his bare flesh. He’s screaming like a fucking banshee and too useless to use his bat to club her over the head, I thrust my knife underneath the jaw and push through until I feel it slide through her soft and hard palettes and yank it hard to the left and right. I glance down at Chubs’ arm, assessing the damage so I know how bad the bite is but there’s no blood anywhere.
“Where’s the fucking bite, Chubs?”
He’s shaking his head in disbelief, “I don’t . . . I . . . there isn’t one.”
“Bullshit! I saw her mouth connect.”
“I swear, Dude, look,” he holds up both arms for me to see. There’s not a single mark on him anywhere. “She mustn’t have any teeth.”
My knife is still buried hilt deep in her skull so I use my other hand to lift her gum. It’s revolting in there, all slimy gums and black ichor, like poking your finger in a bowl full of sloppy Jell-O, but there’s no teeth. Chubs lets out a startled laugh of relief. “No fucking teeth,” he crows. I start to pull my knife free and the old lady’s jaw begins to move with it.
“Shame I had to off her, she seems just your type, Chubs.” I say with grin and wiggle my knife up and down so the old lady’s jaw works like a talking dummy, “You wanna blow job, young man?”            
He pouts and scowls like a little kid. “That’s not funny man. She’s probably someone’s grandma.”
“You know, Chubs, I think we should keep her. Let’s call her Jane.”
“Fuck you, Flint.” My laughter follows him up the hill as he makes his way towards the van. I drop the granny and clean the blade on her cardigan before strolling up the hill, sucking back on a cigarette as I go. When I know Ratch has had enough of waiting for me –I can see his hand hovering over the horn, daring me to take just one second longer, the little fucker would do it too, just to piss me off– I stub out my smoke and climb inside the van.
 “Took you long enough,” Ratch says over the screaming noise through his ear buds –he drives me fucking nuts with those things, one day a Rotter’s going to get the jump on him because he’ll be so fucking deaf he won’t hear their moans over that Emo shit he listens to.
“Chubs made a friend or two.” I say cryptically and flash the Rolex.
“Sweet.”
Out of the corner of my eye I see Newbie turn to chubs, he sniffs in his direction and screws up his nose, “Dude, why do you smell like Jizz?”
Ratchet turns to me with a shit-eating grin, “Wanna ask me again why we won’t go on a piss run with him?”
“Shut up and fucking drive, you dick.” 




All work of fiction on this site is © Copyright of Carmen Jenner 2013 unless stated otherwise.
DO NOT COPY, REPLICATE OR REPRODUCE WITHOUT PERMISSION!


1 comment: