Dead Horizon Part 1

Dead Horizon.

by Carl Hose.

Introduction.

Zombies have always been a favorite of mine. I can watch anything by George Romero over and over again. My wife and I spend hours playing Left for Dead and Left for Dead 2 on the X-Box.

I never tire of the walking dead.

In an effort to provide a fresh (unlike many of the star characters in this book) and enjoyable reading experience, I've combined cla.s.sic components of the zombie mythology with story premises not typically found in zombie tales. The result, I think, is a collection that will surprise and entertain even those who may not particularly care for the walking dead In this collection, you'll find a zombie-flavored take on the Jack the Ripper myth in Dead and Living in Whitechapel, an Edgar-Allan-Poe inspired tale called The Thing in the Attic, and social, racial, and substance abuse themes in Tax Cuts, There Goes the Neighborhood, Born Again, and Line Em up. There are twisted s.e.xual themes in Scoring, Scoring Too, and The Dead Are Coming, as well as B-grade humor in Zombie s.h.i.+ft, Toxic Shock, and A St.i.tch in Time.

There's a lot more, folks, but you don't need me to hold your hand. I'll leave you to discover the rest of these decaying morsels on your own.

Scoring.

A girl ambles toward me. She must have been beautiful once, before she became one of them. Now her blonde hair is filthy with grave dirt and her complexion is like clay. She died young, I can see that much. Late teens, maybe early twenties. Judging by the ragged line I see around her neck, I imagine she met the wrong end of a knife. Maybe a jealous boyfriend went nuts and cut her throat for cheating on him. Maybe it was just some weird psycho in a dark alley. Those were the days, though, when all we had to worry about was your standard everyday psycho.

s.h.i.+t ain't that easy anymore. Not since the G.o.dd.a.m.n death plague.

I watch the chick make her way toward my cabin, stopping when she reaches the fresh dead body between us. You have to use some sort of distraction when you play the game. Scoring is dangerous without something to occupy the dead. I know people who try to score without the distraction, but it ain't healthy, if you know what I mean.

The dead girl takes the bait. She'll be easy, I can see that already. She kneels over the corpse and bends down to eat from the open wound in its stomach, pausing now and again to lick the blood from her thin, crusted lips. Her attention is completely focused. She won't even know I'm there. I can score and be gone before she finishes her meal.

I'm careful as I walk toward her. The d.a.m.n things can be a little testy sometimes. I pause every so often, making sure she keeps on eating. I walk right up to her. She watches me as I get a little closer, but she keeps right on digging through the b.l.o.o.d.y contents of the dead corpse's stomach, stuffing intestines into her mouth like fresh sausage.

She's wearing a dress. That makes it easier. Trying to get pants off the walking dead is hard work. Takes up a lot of your time, which don't leave much left over for the actual score.

I'm the Scoring champ in my area, I ever tell you that? There's a couple of guys I know ain't too bad, but none of them ever came close to topping my record. I once scored twelve times in a day.

The dead chick is still occupied. I lift her dress and take down her dirty panties. She glances back at me real quick, like I'm a minor irritation or something. Mainly she just cares about the food in front of hera"all that stringy, b.l.o.o.d.y meat dangling from her lips like spaghetti. I never kiss the walking dead. You don't know where their mouths have been. Kissing is one thing a fella learns to live without nowadays, unless he's got a steady, living chick he can turn to for such pleasures.

The zombie b.i.t.c.h has a surprisingly tight little p.u.s.s.y. Cold but tight. I stick my d.i.c.k in and start to f.u.c.k her. Maybe it's just wishful thinking on my part, but I swear she wiggled her clay-gray a.s.s against me a time or two, like she was enjoying it, I mean.

I finish with my dead little s.l.u.t just about the same time the corpse she's feeding on opens its eyes. That's what you got to watch out for with a fresh corpse. They're dead one minute, next thing you know, you got the son of a b.i.t.c.h coming after you.

I go back to my cabin and fetch my shotgun. I shoot my little f.u.c.k friend first, then I blast the other one. Get them in the head and you can be sure they stay dead. Once you do that, you want to burn the bodies for that extra bit of a.s.surance. I fetch a can of gasoline from the shed, douse both corpses, then toss a match and watch them turn to ash. That's all she wrote.

Back in my cabin, I shut the door and throw the bolt. I'm safe here. The windows are covered with thick pieces of wood and layered with sc.r.a.p metal. Those things aren't very strong. Sometimes at night, they scratch and push at the door, but they ain't got the strength to get through my barricade. It's annoying, but I've learned to live with it. Used to scare h.e.l.l out of me, but I take it in stride now. They eventually give up and wander about their business.

I stoke the fireplace and pour myself a shot of whiskey. I still got a lot of good whiskey left, thank G.o.d.

I feel good. I always feel good after I score.

I didn't use to do it, you know. Thought it was a disgusting sport first time I heard of it. s.c.r.e.w.i.n.g dead things just didn't seem proper, even if they did move around. Times change, though, and a man has to make some serious choices. Things are too crazy now, what with zombies being the dominant species and all. It's hard to find a live person to f.u.c.k, and to be honest, not really worth the effort. I'd just as soon stick my d.i.c.k in some walking corpse and be done with it.

Once I realized this was the way it was always going to be, I decided to try scoring, and h.e.l.l, I been hooked ever since. Like I said, I'm the best there is in this neck of the woods. Scoring truly does relieve stress. Everybody seems to be doing it these days, sort of like a national pastime. Maybe even worldwide, I don't know.

I ain't much of a traveler. About the only time I go out is to score. Other than that, I'd just as soon stay in my cabin and drink my whiskey. It's too G.o.dd.a.m.n insane out there for me, if you know what I mean. Back before I got into scoring, I used to jerk off a lot. Still got a couple magazines left over from when life was normal, and I break them out now and again, just for old time's sake.

That first time I scored, ahhh, the memories. They say you never forget your first. Mine was a cheerleader. Found her wandering the streets in town. She still looked pretty d.a.m.n fresh. She couldn't have been dead more than a few hours.

I watched her amble over to a dead dog and start feeding on it, chomping on the guts, down on her hands and knees, her pretty little face buried in its stomach. Seeing that a.s.s all raised up like it was, I couldn't resist. I was scared as h.e.l.l, but I went for it. I snuck up there and yanked her little white panties down. Started doing her. Just like that, I got me a piece of that chick, and believe me, it felt good.

Submissive babes. The walking dead give that concept a whole new meaning. They don't complain. You can f.u.c.k them all night if you want, long as you keep a lot of distractions on hand.

I miss b.l.o.w.j.o.bs, though. That's another thing you don't get these days. Sticking your d.i.c.k in a zombie's mouth is like spoon feeding it. Try it if you want, but I ain't responsible for the outcome.

Something catches my attention outside. I think it's one of them. Wait a minute, I hear a voice. A female voice. She's calling for help.

I go to the door, slide open the peephole, and look outside. Sure enough, there's a woman out there, standing on my porch, banging at the door in a panic. She's glancing over her shoulder, panicked because a couple of rotten corpses are coming her way. I throw the bolt, open the door, and drag her inside. She throws her arms around my neck and sobs against my shoulder, thanking me profusely.

My cabin is in the mountains, away from everything. I wonder what brought this girl to my door, then decide I don't really care. I'd rather think of it as a gift from the G.o.ds.

I offer her whiskey. It's all I have, and she seems to be grateful for it. She's a bit calmer after she drinks some.

One of the dead things starts scratching at my door. The girl panics again. I tell her they can't get in, which calms her down a little. She relaxes and asks how she can ever repay me.

I ask her how she feels about b.l.o.w.j.o.bs. . . .

Weeks have gone by. The dead don't make it up here as often as they used to. There are times when days pa.s.s without one of them stumbling by. The girl has begun to get on my nerves. She gives good b.l.o.w.j.o.bs, but they ain't worth the ha.s.sle of living with her.

Thought I'd like it, having a live girl around and all. I figured it would be nice to f.u.c.k something that f.u.c.ked back. I especially looked forward to feeling a soft, wet mouth on my d.i.c.k again.

It was at first, believe me, but the honeymoon is over. The girl talks too much. Mostly b.i.t.c.hing. I can't stand it. I mean, the dead ones never talk back. That was part of the pleasure.

I miss Scoring.

The girl is at it again, yapping about this, yapping about that. I watch her sweet little mouth as she complains about the state of things. She sounds like a f.u.c.king poodle.

Yeah, I'll miss her b.l.o.w.j.o.bs, but like I said, it ain't worth the ha.s.sle. I offer her one last shot of whiskey. That's another thing I hate. The b.i.t.c.h is drinking up my whiskey. I add a little poison to the last whiskey she'll ever drinka"something left over from the days when I had a rat problem.

The rats are gone now. Zombies like to snack in between meals. There's only one use for the poison now. She's sitting in my cabin.

Rat poison is a good way to do it. Much better than hacking her head off or blowing her heart out with my shotgun. This way, you see, she looks presentable when she comes back. I'll build a special little room to keep her in. The b.l.o.w.j.o.bs are out, but at least I'll be scoring again. . . .

The Dead Are Coming.

"Shoot the G.o.dd.a.m.n thing, Billy Ray," Wyatt yelled.

While Wyatt desperately shoved fresh rounds into his pistol, his buddy Billy Ray sighted a .357 magnum and fired off a round. The bullet smashed a hole between a zombie's eyes and exited the back of its head, carrying with it a shower of dead gray matter.

Wyatt got his .45 loaded and spun into action, facing a lumbering creature that came at him from his right.

"Go to h.e.l.l, you dead f.u.c.k," he said.

He squeezed off a round that caught the dead thing in its right eye. The zombie stumbled backward and fell.

"Christ, they're everywhere," Billy Ray said.

"Everywhere," Wyatt agreed, firing off two more rounds that struck pay dirt.

Billy Ray reloaded, sighted in on a dead waitress, and squeezed off a round that nearly took her head off her shoulders.

"Looks like she might've been cute, back when she was alive," he said.

"Stop thinkin' with your d.i.c.k and focus on the job, will ya?" Wyatt said, quickly dispatching another of the dead things.

They worked diligently to mop up the mess around them. Barely fifteen minutes went by before they'd wasted thirty zombies.

"Miller time," Billy Ray said, nodding at a bar across the street.

The bar was deserted. A lot of places were deserted these days. People were afraid to leave their homes, even to go to work. Wyatt and Billy Ray helped themselves to a couple of warm beers.

"This is the life," Billy Ray said, feeling around his s.h.i.+rt pocket for a pack of cigarettes. "We got it made when you get right down to it."

"Yeah, we got it made," Wyatt said.

Billy Ray lit his cigarette. "Benefits are good, and where else can you go around killin' without gettin' your a.s.s in trouble?"

Wyatt took a swig of beer and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. "That's true enough," he said. "I just wish somebody'd show a little appreciation is all."

"f.u.c.k 'em," Billy Ray said. "I don't do it for appreciation. I get off on this s.h.i.+t. Those dead f.u.c.kers need to be wasted, and I'm just the guy to do it. All those dumb a.s.ses cowering in their houses, hoping the G.o.dd.a.m.n death plague goes away. Not me. f.u.c.k no. I make the s.h.i.+t go away."

"Bingo, bro," Wyatt said, holding his gla.s.s up for a toast.

He downed his beer and jumped behind the bar for a bottle of whiskey. He took a long pull and winced.

"We're a couple of heroes is what we are," Billy Ray said.

Wyatt helped himself to a cigarette from Billy Ray's pack and stuck it in his mouth. He had the lighter halfway to the cigarette when he heard a noise that sounded like feet shuffling over broken gla.s.s. It might have come from the storage room.

"Can't even get a G.o.dd.a.m.n break," Wyatt said, shaking his head.

He headed for the back room with whiskey bottle in hand. A dead black man was lumbering around in the storage area. Half his face was missing. The exposed cheekbone glistened red. His right eye hung down where his cheek used to be.

"I hate when somebody does a half a.s.s job," Wyatt said.

"You need help in there?" Billy Ray called from the front of the bar.

"I got this one," Wyatt answered.

He broke the whiskey bottle over the zombie and lit it with his lighter. "Burn, baby, burn," he said, then he lit his cigarette off the zombie's flaming arm.

"I smell somethin'," Billy Ray said when Wyatt returned.

"Yeah, roasted zombie," Wyatt said, laughing at his own joke.

"You lit the f.u.c.ker on fire?" Billy Ray asked.

"Yep."

"In the G.o.dd.a.m.n storeroom?"

"Yep."

They looked at each other a moment, then realization dawned on them. "s.h.i.+t," they said simultaneously.

They headed for the exit. Wyatt turned back to grab a new bottle of whiskey. He barely made it out by the time a series of small explosions rocked the bar and the building was engulfed in flames.

"That was dumb," Billy Ray said, scratching the side of his head as he watched the bar burn.

"Yeah, that was dumb," Wyatt agreed.

They watched the bar a minute longer, then Wyatt said, "Well, whatta we do now?"

"I'm kinda hungry," Billy Ray said.

"There's a place down the street that serves the best G.o.dd.a.m.ned cheeseburger around. Owner still comes in and does business."

"Sounds good to me," Billy Ray said.

The diner was two blocks down, on the corner of Fifth and Mill. Billy Ray and Wyatt walked down the center of the street like they owned it. The likelihood of a vehicle coming by was almost nil.

"After dinner, what say we head over to the nasty side of town," Billy Ray suggested.

"I guess we could do that, seein' as how we've worked pretty hard today. A man's gotta relax, right?"

"Right. A man's gotta relax."