Horror, Humor, and Heroes Page 4

  Remind me again, who are the “real” monsters? Maybe the zombies are the ones that have it right? Maybe I am just being paranoid, but I’m not the first one wearing this.

  I won’t be the last either.

  The only solace I can take is that if this happened a week ago, they’d have cut my hand off to try and improve my odds. Word came over the radio that it doesn’t help, so they called off the amputations. It’s hard enough fighting the damn things with two hands!

  A familiar face stops in front of my cot. It’s the first friendly look I’ve seen in hours. Rob gestures towards my new fashion accessory. “Sorry to hear about the badge. I’ll say an extra prayer for you. Grab your gear. We’re up for a foraging patrol in fifteen minutes.”

  Running my camping hatchet against my crowbar makes a pleasant metallic scraping sound and I follow Rob down the narrow aisle feeling the weight of everyone’s eyes on me. Passing one of the floor fans, the breeze blows my “cape” back. For a brief moment, I can feel like a hero instead of a marked man.

  I’m down, but I’m not out.

  I’ll beat this.

  I have to.

  Charlie Horse

  by Jim Bernheimer

  “Hey, how much longer do I have to blow this damn duck call?”

  Sean ignored his partner. Instead, he looked around the rubble and crumbling streets. His eyes searched for the shapes starting to move ominously among the debris.

  “Just a few more times, kid. I can see a group over there.”

  The first couple emerged from a nearby alley. Flesh hung loosely on their frames. They were definitely low quality – a couple of slowpokes holding up the rest. It was oddly refreshing to know that even the living dead had to put up with traffic jams.

  Others pushed by them. Unless they had leg injuries, the fresher ones always moved faster. In the business of zombie catching, faster meant more money. After all, why else would someone risk their neck to do this?

  At twenty feet, the greenhorn started to get a bit jittery, “Now?” Sean could hear the pitch in the kid’s voice go up an octave.

  “Almost, get them just a little closer. Wait for it, wait for it, now!” Chuck and Sean started running with roughly twenty zombies hot on their heels and shambling after them.

  “I’m getting too damn old for this,” Sean grunted. “Trolling around abandoned cities and getting chased for a measly handful of creds.”

  “Didn’t take long for you to start bitching, I think Ted owes me a cred.” Chuck laughed, easily keeping pace with him.

  Sean tried not to pant when he said, “Piss off!”

  “Aw, c’mon! We haven’t even gone a hundred yards yet. You’re slowing down, gramps. There’s still another mile to go to get to the collector. It might be time for you to start thinking about hanging up those sneakers. Not everyone can be a speed demon like me!”

  The comments were delivered with a laugh as the pair moved along. Sean glanced back over his shoulder and slowed to a jog. “We’re starting to lose the whole pack. Throttle down there kid … we only want the old and slow ones to fall off the pace. The faster ones are headed to market”

  “So, what do you think of this lot, old timer?”

  “A few A’s and B’s, most of the rest are just junk, barely even worth the cost of the fuel to get them to the processor.” Sean replied to the cocky greenhorn.

  After this season, Noel was going to offer Chuck a full share and make him lead runner. It was music to Sean’s ears and the news he’d been waiting for. He would gladly trade his sneakers in for a gaff hook and the easy life onboard the collector. “Bait running” was a job for the younger generation. At thirty-five, his cuts weren’t as sharp as they used to be and there wasn’t nearly as much spring in his step.

  He looked ahead and saw a potential problem – a pair of free range stragglers wandering between them and the rest of the team onboard Noel’s Zombie Ark. The ark was a massive, tracked, twin-biodiesel powered collection vehicle, easily the size of two pre-Apocalypse dump trucks with a large empty cargo bed. All it needed now was a cargo.

  “Stay sharp Chuck and pick it up. You want to corral those two while I handle the main pack?” he gestured to the ones ahead.

  “Sure, no prob. I’ll run ‘em around the ark once or twice while you bring the rest up. All you have to do is keep this group moving straight and I’ll merge them in when you get close. See you at the ramp, slowpoke!”

  The kid makes it sound so easy. If he starts showboating, he could screw this up.

  Still, Sean admitted that his partner had a runner’s physique and an impressive burst of acceleration. Even in his prime, Sean doubted he could have outrun Chuck.

  Zombie wrangling was known as the most dangerous job on the planet for a reason. People instinctively flee from them – also for a good reason. It took a rare mixture of greed and stupidity to have them chase you for a living.

  The rise of the undead almost toppled civilization, but like other challenges, humanity eventually adapted. People learned to accept that when life ends, that doesn’t necessarily stop the body from getting back up. Society took death as seriously as life these days.

  Enterprising folks, like the great Walter Marcus, came up with solutions to make use of the undead. Zombies require only scant amounts of meat to fuel them and a grade “A” specimen, properly cared for, would last for a full decade. Take a couple of dozen, stick them in a kinetic turbine on one side of a clear Plexiglas wall, called a turbine blade, and pay somebody to be “bait” on the other side and those stupid bastards will just push that blade around in circles for years, generating the pollution-free energy that keeps the world going around.

  Doctor Marcus brought about the end of the New Dark Age and if Sean had to pick one man, who did the most to get the world back on its feet, it would be him.

  Sean was also thankful that the Marcus turbines powering the world and other “putrid green” industries created a demand for undead. For the last fifteen years, that need has given him a job.

  His feet pounded the ground leading the flesh bags slightly to the right. He’d let Chuck take the stragglers off to the left and let the kid do his thing. Together, they would maneuver the group onto Noel’s Zombie Ark, where the most dangerous cargo in the world could be transported to market.

  Newspapers labeled it the “Decaying Gold Rush.” Critics, living in their ivory towers, called it barbaric and disrespectful, but Sean had never met one willing to give up their air conditioning, heating, or other modern conveniences.

  He glanced at the overgrown ruins of this city. Pittsburgh had survived, so they just moved the capital there. Sean kept his effort up and never gave any thought to what valuables might be hidden in these collapsing deathtraps. Outside of the safe zones, greed usually meant a quick death and a change of status from team member to “Fresh-Kay” or a fresh kill – the most valuable of zombies.

  Coming to a stop, Sean caught his breath and waited for the splintering pack to get closer. Some of the ones in the back were already starting to wander off in another direction. It was no huge loss; they were pretty much worthless anyway.

  “You okay back there, Sean?” Chuck called out jogging backwards and in circles around the pair of zombies trying in vain to get him. One of them was at least “B” grade and was worth another eight credits to the team’s haul.

  “I’m fine kid, just quit hot dogging it and pay attention to what you are doing!”

  “Quit being a grump, grandpa. They can’t catch me! I’m the fastest set of legs this side of the Three Rivers! Shit!”

  Call it karma, fate, or just plain old bad luck, but the moment that came out of Chuck’s mouth, he tripped and fell backwards onto broken chunks of asphalt. Time slowed as the pair of zombies shambled towards the kid.

  “Damn it to hell!” Sean cursed and started sprinting. His hand pulled the crowbar out of the leather sheath he wore down the center of his back. One thing was certain; no one would be coming off t
he collector to help the kid. The cold-hearted bitch of a skipper wouldn’t risk anyone else. He’d have to cover over fifty yards in a hurry.

  Chuck was crawling and waving a claw hammer defensively. The kid struggled to get back on his feet, but they pushed him back to the ground and literally fell on top of him.

  Sean dug deep and throttled up. It took roughly fifteen seconds for him to arrive on the scene swinging that crowbar with a vengeance. The rusty metal knocked one backwards and shattered the skull of the other like a rotted melon. It let loose with a couple of spasms before he finished it off with a third swing.

  With his left hand covered by a thick work glove, Sean punched the remaining better quality one right in the old kisser. So long as Chuck wasn’t a goner, he could still salvage this situation and get his running mate along with the “B” grade to the truck. A kick rolled the destroyed zombie off of Chuck.

  “Come on kid! We’ve got too…” Sean’s voice trailed off and he saw most of the flesh missing from Chuck’s throat and spurts of blood coming out from under the kid’s hand covering the wound. Chuck’s eyes grew listless and dull with the look of terror freezing on his blood smeared face. He made one final weak gurgle and, just like that, the kid was gone.

  For the next few seconds, Sean vented some righteous fury on the remaining creature. Not only did he like the kid, but this nasty turn of events meant he’d be out on the ground again next season.

  Shaking rotten chunks of brains off the crowbar, Sean came out of his fog and assessed the situation. The main pack was closing – a mere thirty feet from him. Chuck’s dead, but he wouldn’t “rise” for roughly five minutes. The kid was a “Fresh-Kay” grade “A+” worth at least four times what that “B” had been. It was a cold and cruel world, but it’s like they say, “Life goes on.”

  This wasn’t the first time he’d slung the body of a fellow runner over his shoulder in a fireman’s carry, but it was the first time in several years. Sean’s muscles ached and protested with the effort as he staggered towards the metal ramp of the collector. The pack of zombies drew closer as Sean struggled to build up a head of steam.

  Noel’s shout greeted him as he clambered into the bed of the ark with the pack barely fifteen feet behind him. “Tell me he’s still alive.”

  “Fresh-Kay,” Sean gasped. “We’ve got about three minutes before he stirs.”

  Sean got behind the barrier and secured the gate behind him as the others up on the platforms used their poles to slow the catch down. Noel cut loose with a string of obscenities before returning to her calm, ruthless demeanor, “Ted, finish bringing in the catch. Sean, drag what used to be the hotshot into the cab and toss him in ‘The Pit.’ We don’t want the rest gnawing on him until the meat spoils.”

  He knew Noel was angry. She always defaulted to Ted when she was pissed – like she didn’t trust anyone else on the team. It took a rare person to be a runner and be out there playing live bait, but it took a real piece of work to be a skipper and Noel Montoya was known as “The Iceberg” for a reason.

  Sean shrugged and carried his load into the open hatch leading into the cab. Laying Chuck’s body across the table, he grabbed a bundle of hemp rope and started tying the corpse’s hands and legs together.

  Just as he finished and was fitting a feeding muzzle over the dead kid’s head, the zombie started to come back to life and the force of the hydraulic gates slamming down sent a shudder through the vehicle. It meant the catch was aboard and secured.

  Feeling much older than he did ten minutes ago, Sean dragged the thrashing creature across the cab and dumped it unceremoniously into “The Pit,” a space reserved for any crew members who met an untimely end. Despite the tight confines and ever present need for space on a modern day zombie collector, nothing was ever stored in that space out of either superstition or respect.

  Sean looked down and shook his head before untying the grate and lowering it over “The Pit.” Running a worn bolt through the latch he sighed, “Sorry kid, I tried to warn you to take this job seriously, but you wouldn’t listen. Tough break.”

  #

  Like a well oiled machine, despite missing a piece, the crew of Noel’s Zombie Ark prepared to roll out. The others checked all the gates as their skipper walked the scaffolding inspecting the catch. She graded and sorted the undead cargo into their respective categories.

  Sean had to play catch up, covering both his and his recently deceased team member’s tasks. He finished up quickly and cleaned up the mess he’d made on the map table while binding the zombie. The crew began to filter back in from the upper deck.

  Noel climbed down the ladder and made a beeline for him. Smacking both hands down on the table, she growled, “I thought you said he was ready, Kirkland. You almost had me convinced that he was worth a full share! Do you have any idea how hard it is going to be to recruit some new bait for the last week of the season?”

  Sean grimaced at her. “It was a tough break, Skipper. He made a stupid greenhorn mistake and paid the price.”

  “The Iceberg” snarled back, “Well, if he was that much of an idiot, it was better we found out now before next season when he’d have been lead runner and some other greenhorn’s life depended on him. Looks like you gotta break in someone else next season, Kirkland.”

  Through his clenched teeth Sean muttered, “Maybe I won’t be here next season.”

  She glared at him. “You’ve been saying that for the last two years, but every time you come back for the money. Like I said, be ready to break in another runner next season.”

  Turning, she barked at the rest of the crew, “Why aren’t we on the move yet? We’ve still gotta check our ditches and make it to market before sundown.”

  For his part, Sean went back to the break area and grabbed the newspaper. Emptying the holes of any zombies that wandered into them didn’t require a runner. His work was done until they returned to the processor. Flipping to the sports section, he scanned the articles and looked for something to help him forget about the wretched way the day had ended.

  #

  Hours later, Sean was up on the scaffolding watching the gaffers prod the catch while the processor foreman graded each husk. Whatever grade was yelled out got stamped on the forehead and then it was herded down the ramp.

  Noel and the foreman were engaged in constant bickering. “Oh come off it, Buck. You know that’s a ‘B.’ I’ve had a long enough day without you trying to screw me over. Don’t make me file a complaint with the board. Besides, I got a fresh one in our pit.”

  “Really, do you have DBR?”

  “Of course, everyone on my crew signs it over as part of their employment contract.”

  DBR, or Dead Body Rights, meant Noel possessed the financial rights to a crewmember’s body if they die out in the field. Like the rest, Sean signed his away for the duration of the season. Often, people used those rights as collateral for major purchases like homes and vehicles.

  Sean tried to block it out. He felt sick to his stomach. This was the worst part of the job, listening to people barter over what used to be a living being. Tonight, he planned to drink himself into oblivion.

  When the last zombie was offloaded, Noel sent him and one of the other crewmembers to get the fresh kill. Carrying the body made him nauseous and Chuck wasn’t cooperating.

  Easing back through the hatch, he could already hear Noel haggling for top dollar. “…nineteen years old and he’s in great shape. They only got some of his neck and arms. The legs and everything else are pristine! Fastest runner I’ve seen in years.”

  Buck laughed hollowly, “Obviously not fast enough.”

  “No, he was just stupid.” She gestured to his legs. “See, no wounds at all. I’m betting you can get some serious credits from a racing team for him. The Derby’s coming up soon…”

  Buck tried to hide the rampant greed in his eyes, but failed. They traded offers back and forth before settling on thirty-six credits and a bonus if the body draws more than si
xty at auction. The total payout of one hundred and fifty credits was a small fortune to most. Sean’s cut would be just under twenty. Somehow, it didn’t feel like it was enough.

  Minutes later, the crew was gathered around her collecting their wages. She handed him his share plus another ten. “Buck said there aren’t any runners looking for work this late in the season. You have to go solo for the last week. I’ll need you to sign a union waiver.”

  He looked at the coins in his hand and flicked the ten chip back at her. “No thanks. How about looking around a little more?”

  Skipper stared at the chip and hissed, “Alright Kirkland, spit it out. You got something to say, say it.”