The sight of a fast moving human being had a dramatic effect on the sluggish zombies. For a bunch of dead bodies, they could move.
Two things posed a problem for Benning. First was his need to eat. So far, he had been lucky enough to periodically break away from the zombie parade to forage for food and drink. He would then either catch up with the group or wait for another. The risks were high, chief among them being eaten himself.
The second problem was tolerating his rather odious company. Nearly all the zombies he had encountered were in advanced stages of decay and they stank to high heaven. Benning had only thrown up a few times (the vomit on his shirt actually enhanced his disguise) and by now he had learned to suppress the urge.
In addition to the smells were the sights. Here was a zombie dragging most of its bowels behind it, the intestine trailing like a slimy tail from its rectum. There was one with a gaping hole in its chest, the lungs exposed and overflowing with writhing maggots. Beside him was a female zombie with what appeared to be her entire uterus swaying from her vagina like a swollen oriole’s nest.
Worst of all, he was forced to touch these hideous beings. He walked shoulder to shoulder with them. He fell down into their fetid heaps, losing himself in a tangle of rotting limbs. As he jostled and rubbed against the cold flesh, he battled revulsion, doing everything to keep from screaming. From showing emotion.
To do so would be to blow his cover. And until he got out of the city, that was his goaclass="underline" to keep from blowing his cover.
The sun was hot on this particular morning. Benning wanted badly to remove his jacket, but did not dare. This was the suit he had been wearing when he descended the front steps of his girlfriend’s apartment and saw the first of the zombies. By the time he made it back up to her room, more of them were already there. That fateful morning seemed like such a long time ago, his girlfriend eaten by corpses, his old life gone forever. Now there was only horror...and survival.
He moved along with the procession, dead bodies that for reasons unknown refused to stay dead. It was this mystery that Benning pondered as they inched, moaning and groaning down the street.
He felt a shiver go through the loose cavalcade. The dead began to moan excitedly and their torpor vanished. He was pushed forward as they lurched into faster motion. He rolled his eyes forward and saw the cause for their agitation. A second later, he heard the scream.
People! Living people!
A young man and a woman were running up the street, away from the zombies. The woman appeared to be injured. She fell twice and each time the man had to double back to help her. The third time, he was too late. The first of the zombies to grab her was pulled to the ground by her struggles. It held fast to one of her ankles and sank its teeth into her calf.
The woman let out a long wail filled with the despair of the hunted.
More zombies took hold of her arms and another grabbed the remaining leg. They each began to feast hungrily on the girl’s limbs, ripping away small chunks of flesh. Blood gushed from the mouth-shaped wounds. Her companion was waging his own futile struggle with the decaying eating machines. A symphony of screams echoed off the empty buildings.
Benning was shoved forward. His feet tangled with fallen zombies and he fell face first on top of the girl. She gasped from the impact. The zombies looked up drunkenly from their feast. One of them continued to gnaw feverishly on the man’s left hand, his fingers nothing but glistening bones now.
Benning and the girl stared at each other and she felt his warmth. Her eyes widened in horrified comprehension.
“You!” she shrieked. “You—you’re alive!”
Benning did not answer. He lowered his head and sank his teeth into her throat. He bit down on her larynx and tore out the entire works, reducing her screams to a wet gargle, blood bubbling forth in a small, red fountain. Benning chewed and swallowed. It was a close call, he thought, taking another bite.
She nearly blew his cover.
Michael Oliveri
REQUENT VISITORS TO Dick’s message board on the old Masters of Terror may recall how he closed most, if not all, of his posts with “The Dick is pleased.” Attendees of the 2001 Bram Stoker Awards banquet may also recall Kelly Laymon closing her acceptance speech for The Traveling Vampire Show with the same quote.
Now you know where that started. I’m not ashamed to admit I used to grin like an idiot every time I read or heard that phrase.
I read this story during “KeeneCon” when a bunch of us met at Brian Keene’s place in Baltimore in late 2000. The Laymons were there, and I read this story. When I introduced the Dick character, Dick Laymon chuckled. Knowing what was coming, I stopped to assure Dick there was no relation between him and this character.
There was a lot of laughter when I read the rape scene. When I finished the story, Keene, loaded with sarcasm, asked, “So what did you think, Dick?”
Dick merely nodded, looked at me, and said, “The Dick is pleased.”
Michael Oliveri
DAM TEARFULLY EXAMINED the glossy photo of the slaughtered woman as it rested on the edge of the desk. The photo of his dear wife Ellen, the only woman to love him despite his multiple personalities.
“Please...why are you doing this to me?” he asked with a sob. He struggled to turn away, but the restraints held him firmly to the chair.
Doctor Locke peered through his steepled fingers at the simple brown book he habitually carried around. “How many personalities do you have, Mister Lewis? Do you remember?”
“Thirteen.” And he knew all of them intimately.
“You have fourteen, Mister Lewis.”
At least, for the past fifteen years he thought he knew all of them.
“Fourteen distinct personalities,” Locke said, picking up his book and tapping its edge on the desk. “Including Jude, who we need to talk to. Jude the killer. That’s why we’re showing you this picture.”
Adam cried heavily. He tried to suppress the memory of that day, coming to and finding himself bathed in blood, with an unfamiliar knife in one hand and gobbets of flesh in the other. Ellen lay on the floor at his feet...and in the kitchen sink...and on the counter...and on the table. The photo brought it all back.
“There is no Jude!” It had become a mantra for him. He said it over and over: in his lawyer’s interviews, in the initial psychiatric evaluations, even on the witness stand. But the police talked to Jude.
And recorded him.
They recorded his confession, complete with his savoring of every gruesome detail of his actions. It made the insanity plea an unshakeable defense, guaranteeing Adam an extended stay at St. Dymphna Psychiatric Hospital.
Locke sighed. He turned the cover of his book toward Adam. “Do you know what this is?” Adam shook his head and sniffled. “This is the American Psychiatric Association’s fourth edition of the Diagnostic and Statistical Manual of Mental Disorders, or simply the DSM IV. It’s the Bible of psychology, if you will. It tells me you have a problem, Mister Lewis. A serious problem your medications can no longer control. And that is why we have to talk to Jude.”
“There is no Jude,” Adam whispered. “There is no Jude...”
“Look at the picture, Mister Lewis!” Locke shouted, jabbing a finger angrily at the photo. “Look at it! Do you want this to happen again? Do you want to harm another innocent woman? You fed her fucking toes to the dog, for Christ’s sake!”
Adam threw his head back as the sudden shock took its toll on his mind, just as Locke hoped. Though his eyes were still moist and his face red, an entirely new expression unfurled on Adam Lewis’s face.