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    All The Dead Are Here - Pete Bevan's zombie tales collection


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    WARNING: Stories on this site may contain mature language and situations, and may be inappropriate for readers under the age of 18.

    UNTITLED PART 4 by Clitoris Rex
    October 23, 2008  Short stories   Tags:   

    Wet floors.

    Open doors.

    …A priest mounting a thrashing, made-up corpse from behind…her makeup smeared.  Her giant hoop earrings spinning in wild circles from her ear lobes.

    …A legless, armless trunk of a woman is chained in midair by an “X” of chains.  She sits pelvis high.  A half-crazed traffic cop leers from the corner, not moving yet.

    …short whacks of consciousness capitalized by the taste of bile, punctuated by the slam of gunshots into windowless rooms.

    …A decomposed nurse’s outfit…no bottom jaw.  No way to say “no”.

    Rooms full of money.  A hand covered in gold.  The stink of chugging generators.

    Wet bodies hit the floor.

    Slick with blood.

    Open door, open door.

    “Cuuuuuunnnnnnttttttssssssssssssssss”, he chokes through a graveyard of bleeding teeth.

    “What’s your name?”

    He spits, groans.

    “Fuck”

    “Last name?”

    “You.”

    “Alright Mr. Fuck You, do you know where you are?”

    “Cunnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnn…………………tah.”

    A crazed, ragged laugh.  Half closed eyed roiling about their sockets.

    “Fine, well here’s the situation.  You’re in my shop motherfucker.  Your leg is fucked up, and if I don’t help you, you are going to die.”

    “Cunt-ah cunt-ah cunt-ah cunt cunt cunt ah-roo”

    Another, more saturated laugh.

    “He’s gone man, fix him up.”

    “I’m not gone…anywheres…”

    He groans and pushes himself up against the wall, making a clean trail through the blood and oil.  He blinks and clears his vision.

    “Not gone…not gone…I’m… RIGHT FUCKING HERE!”

    He screams so loud that the gunshots get quiet.  His eyes go red.

    “Alright then.  You here.  Good.  But you don’t have long so I’ma make this quick. You got a rep.  I know all about you and what you do.  I might could use you, so I am going to fix you up and turn you into one of my hitters.  Just don’t fuck with me.  I ain’t no Driver motherfucker, and I don’t take shit like your boy Prick.  If I did, I would be cadaverous right now.  Just like him.  You respect me, keep your shit together, and I’ll take care of you.  If you don’t, I will eat you my motherfuckin’ self.  Got me?

    He blinks again, licks his lips.  They stare dead into each other’s eyes.

    A gun goes off.

    The priest comes, moaning.

    Through the blood, he coughs, “What kind of shoes are those?”

    No answer.

    “Alligator?”

    “No.”

    “Rattlesnake?”

    “No.”

    “Ostrich?”

    Fuck no.”

    “What then?”

    “Zack.”

    Another long, ragged laugh.  Longer than before.  The look on his face is pure, maniacal joy.  His mouth sweats blood.

    “Alright man, you got my vote, now fucking fix me the fuck up.”

    “You got it, Mr. Fuck.”

    So I sent my doctors to go to work on him.  The way he did his knee, he’s not going to end up a hundred percent.  Pimp limp for sure.

    What had happened was I got a call from one of my A&R guys.  He was scouting some talent out by the old stadium, near this fucked up bar.  The talent, she must have been a gymnast, cuz she was still fit, still wearing her sports bra.  Prime real estate for drilling, but she was tough.  My scout watched her rip Fuck’s boy in two.  By the time I got there, she was about to go to work on him so I put a stop to it.

    I got guys who work for me.  Guys who get their hands dirty for a few pills or a few rounds with a Zombitch.  It’s nice to have those people, but every once in awhile, I handle my own business, get my own hands dirty.  I don’t want to lose my mode for this kind of work.  The second you need others to do a job you can’t do yourself, that’s the second you are in the wrong line of work.

    Plus, I needed this guy, so I wanted him to owe me. So, without scuffing my shoes, I gave her the lead root canal myself, yoked her, and stuffed her in the limo.  He saw me, he knew who saved him.  Plus, I picked up an asset.  A stacked bitch like that will put up a fight.  She’ll probably net me some supplies, some ammo.  Maybe even a real bitch for those long cold nights.

    I don’t believe in the “no-win” scenario.

    ———————–

    I smack him with the side of the blade and his head hinges open.  The crack of that skull gets me every time.  Depending on how long they’ve been up and rotting on their feet, it always sounds different.  The real dead ones, it just caves like rotten fruit.  The fresh ones have more snap to them.  Crack.  Crack.  Crack.  I duck slightly and throw one over my shoulder; his head hits the cement and opens up.  More slick spills on the ground.  I’ll need to watch my footing.  I’m still getting used to the brace on my leg and there’s three more at the end of the hall about 25 feet away…giving me about 10 seconds to take a coffee break.

    I dump a little cocktail out onto my fist, right over my thumb.  I don’t spill any.  I look up and there is a hand out, almost touching me.  He’s groaning like he wants me to share.  I jam it up my nose and aspirate.  I drown in fire.  I choke on anger and violence.  My eyes fill with blood and I’m back.  I look up shaking and he’s 10 inches from me, his hand already on my coat.  I can smell his breath.  Everything vibrates – the world moves too slow, struggling to catch up with me.  The two behind him claw at his back, ripping off long strips of his clothes, skin.  I can’t fucking wait.

    One swipe with the lawnmower blade and his hand is still on my coat, only he’s falling forward now.  He hits the ground face first.  The two behind him scramble over him.  I hear his skull break under their boots with a fresh crack. That’s what I love about these things; they kill each other and don’t even know it.  I once saw one stomp its own “kid” to death on its way to chew the legs off a trapped teenager.

    In a second they’re both at me, crammed too tight in the narrow corridor, ripping their flesh to shreds against the concrete walls.  I consider giving them a bit of my own, just so I can feel alive again but I feel the tap on my shoulder and it all kicks in.  I get to swinging.  The first swipe takes her arm off at the shoulder.  The change in weight throws off her balance, and she falls into the wall.  The follow through splits his ribcage and nicks his spine.  His posture changes and I can see his right arm go limp.

    I take another swing.  Higher this time, and the blade sticks.  Like a log that won’t split.  This happens all the time, so I leave the blade and let her drop.  Two steps back and I get the burner out.  I check the clip, check the barrel, reload it, and get ready for the noise.  I run a bead right between his brows, blink once, and the world catches up to me, panting, “Sorry I’m late, what are you….aw jeez.”  I coil around the trigger and change my mind.  It’s just me and him…blowing him away would be the coward’s way out.  Plus my ears already hurt bad enough.

    I take a few steps back, get some speed, run toward, and sweep his kneecap.  It buckles like a wet sapling, throwing it out to one side, dropping him under his own weight.  He gets a hand out and uses it to drag himself along the floor, kneeling on his one good knee, twisting and dragging the other one.  There’s a scraping noise that’s thicker than fingernails…just bones, no finger tips.  I watch his bones leave streaks against the concrete floor…like living chalk.

    He looks up and once our eyes lock, everything leaves me.  I can’t hear or see.  All I can feel is the grit of the pistol grip in my hands.  I filed it all down into jagged peaks when I first got it…so I would know when it was in my hand.  I squeeze hard.  A little blood runs down the barrel.  A little more pools into the crease of my trigger finger.  It’s beautiful.

    One swipe and his head hits the wall.  Another swipe and he’s got “Desert Eagle 5.0” stenciled backwards into his temple.  A third and everything’s wet.  A fourth and the job is done.  He smacks the floor and everything spills out.  My hand is sticky and I’ll need to clean my gun…

    “Fuckin’ A.”

    The intercom crackles to life.

    “Why didn’t you use the burner?”

    “I did use the burner, I’m just tired of blowing out my eardrums so I skipped the loud part.”

    “What?”

    “What.”

    “Huh?  Speak into my good ear”

    “Oh I get it.  Fucking hilarious.  Fuck You.”

    “Alright, start the clean up and we’ll send in some more.”

    “Yeah, yeah.  Hey, this woman you sent in here, how come you don’t pimp her?”

    “Pssshh.  Cos’ she’s ugly as fuck.”

    “She’s not so bad…I’d fuck her.”

    “I know.”

    The reel spins off and slaps the back of the projector.  The lights stay out.  It’s black again, so familiar to me.  But its not still, it seethes against its own black borders.  Pulsing with the weight of the edges.  Something is trying to get in, but it’s just me in here.  The floor is wet and I’m dragging something.  Its heft is familiar.  The view is the same.  Nothing ahead, nothing behind.  I’m holding a huge slick bag bound with tape, chains, rotting bungee cords.  Its heavy and I’ve been towing it for a long time.  Sometimes it wakes up, whatever it is, and snakes around, trapped in the bag, fighting me.  Screaming, snarling, dripping black fluids through the seams.  It wants out, and I can’t hold on to it much longer.

    19 Comments

    1. You work hard on your story and have skill in writin. Personally, I don’t care for your subject matter. Too crass for my tastes. Have a nice day.

      Comment by Ed on October 27, 2008 @ 8:07 pm

    2. I don’t know what to say. That was um different.

      Comment by Zoe on October 28, 2008 @ 1:53 am

    3. I love the start. The gruesome poetic imagery. The dark humor of the story hits you when you least expect it. Yet it has a jagged edge too it. The end was just plain creepy with the thing squirming around in the bag. Rex is an awsome talent and I truly admire his work.

      Comment by Tom Hamilton on October 28, 2008 @ 10:17 pm

    4. Dark as pitch. I Love it. I have to lighten my stuff up man or risk the men in white coats turning up, but Rex just sits in his dark place letting it all flow.

      Comment by Piratepete on November 7, 2008 @ 9:31 am

    5. You know how to write and the images you describe are vivid and haunting. I love reading your take on the dark and disturbed, although not my favorite topic, you do it well.

      Comment by the girl on November 10, 2008 @ 10:16 am

    6. Now this is the good stuff man!! Real Zombie action, it’s like blood splattered poetry, dude.

      More More More

      Comment by Ricardo on November 24, 2008 @ 12:01 am

    7. sorry didnt like it….. Too….. fucked up

      everyone likes d. eagles so much when they are complete overkill

      Comment by eduardo on December 2, 2008 @ 3:29 pm

    8. Dark as hell and really on the sick side. (You must be Catholic or at least have gone to Catholic school.) Too much of a gross out for me but keep writing.

      Comment by Andre on December 14, 2008 @ 1:14 am

    9. Nope. Just a Lutheran kid who fell asleep in Church.

      Comment by Clitoris Rex on December 15, 2008 @ 3:15 pm

    10. Can somebody explain the part in italics to me? The ending?

      It was good, I just didn’t understand it.

      Comment by CyanTerrorist on February 27, 2009 @ 10:27 pm

    11. I can not form a connection with any of your characters so far because they are all so dark and unlikable, but I really appreciate the story. Somebody’s gotta tell the dark tales of how the bad guys survive in the zombie apocalypse. If there ever was a zombie breakout, shit like this WOULD happen. A few years back, I was really depressed and financially strapped. I met a man at a gas station who said he was looking to hire someone as a secretary for his small business. Skeptical, I took his number and called him at a pay phone a few weeks later after my electrcity was disconnected. Unfortunately for me, the secretary position had been filled and I was to become a whore, serving Mexicans in a trailer park, Thursday-Saturday, when their paychecks were cashed and their lust was high. I lasted less than a month. I’d be at my desk job during the day, anxious that I’d be discovered by my coworkers whenever my pimp came in to check on me, nervous in the grocery store near my house which was frequented by the same Mexicans I served, hoping they wouldn’t recognize me without the wig, nauseaus and ashamed when I looked at my daughter and thought about what I did and in utter disbelief that such a world existed. That was about 6 years ago now, but to this day I wonder whatever became of a girl who was whoring with me…a beautiful senior in high school whose crackhead dad asked no questions about the large man who came every evening to pick her up for work so long as the money poured in…and I use the term “pour” loosely at $40 a pop…believe me, I know the dark side of humanity.

      Comment by Cherry Darling on November 24, 2009 @ 3:49 pm

    12. Wow. So I felt compelled to respond to this…not sure if this is for real or not, but I wanted to let you know that for some reason, whenever I see it, I see the ruthless and vile taking over after all the order breaks down. So thanks for recognizing that. As for your story, I’m blown away, if its true. Stay strong, the cool part is that the world is not like that all the time, and it definitely isn’t the way it is in my stories.

      Comment by Clitoris Rex on November 25, 2009 @ 11:00 am

    13. Im a big fan Rex, your work is flawless in caputuring the imagination. Scary stories in hell aint got shit on you!

      Comment by Vampire on December 13, 2009 @ 6:29 pm

    14. Thanks! I’m working on a couple more now…stay tuned.

      Comment by Clitoris Rex on February 5, 2010 @ 2:49 pm

    15. Interesting. Write more.

      Comment by Oppressed1 on April 14, 2010 @ 1:48 pm

    16. Wonderfully written! The action in your stories always paints such a brilliant, morbidly grotesque portrait.

      To the folks who find this tale too gross, fucked up or crass – you’re bound to be eaten alive.

      Comment by Lisa Rose on July 23, 2010 @ 12:56 pm

    17. Why oh why do I see Jason Statham as the lead in this series of stories? I like it, dark as hell and severely twisted.

      Comment by dman on July 29, 2010 @ 12:36 am

    18. I am from Baltimore and all I can think about while reading your story is that this is exactly what the West Side of Baltimore would be like during a ZPOC. For those of you familiar, imagine The Wire with zombies…

      Comment by VJ on January 24, 2011 @ 2:06 pm

    19. Surely you were awake for Deuteronomy. If not you should read it. I am sure you two would be good friends. I totally love your work. Is there a novel coming? I will buy it sight unseen.

      Comment by Mr Dirt on December 28, 2011 @ 3:44 am

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