The Living Dead 2 Part 14

Renny yanked his fingers clean and the lid seated with an iron clank. An old pal of his had once broken three fingers by not letting go soon enough, after chasing a frisbee into the sewer. That made Renny think again of Barb. Maybe it was getting time to let her her go. True, she'd come to his rescue and handled herself well enough tonight, but what if Victor was some kind of go. True, she'd come to his rescue and handled herself well enough tonight, but what if Victor was some kind of curse curse or something, specific to her? or something, specific to her?

You don't pull back your hand in time, you lose. And it wasn't his fingers that Renny had been parking inside of Barb, most of the recent past.

Just now, in fact, he was up for another bout. His body urged him to hurry home to her. She would be fresh out of her bath, tasty and scented, and Renny wanted to ride her until she screamed for real.

"Do you hear something? A noise, or-"

"Oh for Christ Christ sake, Barb!" sake, Barb!"

"I'm serious. Stop it."

Feeling like a wiener, Renny backed out and listened to the double-time of his own heart, backdraft from his urgent need to climax, soon--sorta-like-immediately. Barb listened intently-she resembled a grade-schooler trying too hard to concentrate-not for sounds from the heart, but telltales of nearing monsters. She was still head down, a.s.s up after coyly asking Renny to do her that way, that way, and she clung to the mattress as though it could render her some psychic truth. and she clung to the mattress as though it could render her some psychic truth.

"I don't hear anything, babe, except maybe your own paranoia bounc-ing back at us from the walls." Fed up, he grabbed his smokes off the nightstand. Pretty glib, he thought, for a guy who was strangling on a rope of living dead ligaments about an hour ago.

"I thought I heard the seat fall down in the bathroom."

"My fault. I left it up." When Renny strove to impress, he could be the most courteous, thoughtful man on earth. Then, as he procured what he wanted, he let the courtesies slide. Like tonight: He'd left the seat up on purpose, a territorial a.s.sertion he knew she'd notice, yet tolerate. The brilliant trick of Renny's life was that he made sure people always noticed him when he was being a swell guy, so there was less risk of him being singled out when he was being a t.u.r.d of ethics. Voila-he was known far and wide for being fair, wise and trusty. No way he'd ever sleep with another man's partner, or murder someone, or even think think of doing the deed. of doing the deed.

Even to someone already dead.

Renny could take blame artfully, too-whamming it back the way a tennis pro returns a smarta.s.s serve. Like the toilet seat thing.

"I admit I left the seat up, babe. Your house, your rules. But that fuzzy cover on the tank makes it fall down again, and-"

"Shh!"

He smoked in silence, having scored his point. Barb took the ciga-rette from between his lips, stole two quick puffs, and replaced it as though afraid of being caught tampering with the evidence at a murder scene.

Renny gave up and went to use the bathroom. He left the seat up.

"Barb, there's water all over the bathroom floor. I think maybe your pipes are backing up. Roots, maybe."

"Oh, no! Is it all-you know, messy?"

"Just water. Like a big splash, all over."

"Renny!"

That brought him back quick enough. What a man.

As he skidded in barefoot, he caught Barb shrinking and pointing. Something had just moved near the juncture of wall and ceiling above her cosmetic table. Renny squinted. The something was low-slung, slid along lizard-fashion, and was now watching them both coldly from seven feet up.

"What the h.e.l.l is it?" said Renny. "A rat?"

"You ever see a white rat with no hair, with eyes that big? Jeeezus, Renny!" Barb could see pretty well in the dark after all. "Where's the bat?"

Renny almost chuckled. "I'll get the d.a.m.ned thing. Whatever it is."

She stopped him, open palm to naked chest. "No you won't, either, Renny. Now, I've been doin some thinking, and you're a nice guy and a good man and a good male protector and all that, and I haven't been holding up my end on this deal, and like you said, this is is my house...so let me do this. It's my turn." my house...so let me do this. It's my turn."

When Barb let loose with stuff like that it stopped Renny deaf and dumb; how could he even consider dumping a woman this good?

She watched his cigarette glow near the bathroom door. "You just stay right there and hit the overhead lights when I tell you, okay?"

"Yes'm."

"Go!"

The hundred-watter Barb kept in the ceiling fixture blinded them. The thing on the wall recoiled and dropped behind the mirror. Renny and Barb heard it hit the floor and scrabble into the shadows.

"See it?"

"I see it," Barb lied. She shielded her eyes and groped around until she found the bat.

"I don't see it."

Renny could see the tail of Barb's cat, poking from beneath the dresser. It was a miserable calico Renny felt was responsible for every one of his sneezes since he and Barb had linked up. When it wasn't skulking around the kitchen trying to eat everything in sight, it was shedding pounds of hair and clawing the furniture to ribbons. It had some kind of inane cat name Renny could not retain. It didn't listen when Barb told it no. It never had.

It had probably knocked the toilet seat over, numb little fart.

The tail twitched in that spastic way that announced the cat was revving up for the old chase-and-disembowel routine. Barb told the cat no, no, loudly. It didn't listen. loudly. It didn't listen.

She tried to block it with her foot, but the cat executed a tight dodge and zipped under the dresser, way ahead of her. There followed an un-seen, brief and violent encounter that sounded sounded pretty awful, though nei-ther Barb nor Renny could see any of it. pretty awful, though nei-ther Barb nor Renny could see any of it.

The cat's tail whapped Barb in the chest. The cat was no longer con-nected to it. Tufts of calico fur followed, held together mostly by blood.

Barb began making cave-person noises and wedged herself into the combat zone, dealing short, blind strokes with the bat. The bureau be-gan to scoot with each hit, bunching the area rug.

The intruder darted out from the far side. It looked like a hand.

"Barb, it's a hand." hand."

"What!" Barb backed off, frantic and hollow-eyed. "What! What! A hand? I don't care! care! It hurt my cat!" It hurt my cat!"

"Barb, it ran under the bed." Renny stepped back from the edge, just in case Barb started swinging again.

Hot for combat, Barb spun. "It hurt Rumplecatskin!" The kill light was in her eyes.

She swept aside the dust ruffle. Two eyes returned her gaze from about a foot in. Then it charged, before she could bring the bat into play, and got a tight grip on her throat.

It was Victor's hand, all right. He'd grabbed her throat enough times for her to make a lightning ID. Whatever else had befallen Victor's mor-tal parts, his right hand was still strong and mean as ever. Barb's wind was cut and in seconds she'd see the purple spots. Victor knew exactly exactly how to throttle her. how to throttle her.

She collapsed into a heavy, spread-legged sit-down as Renny dived across the bed, not as fast as he could have been. He didn't really want to touch it. The severed wrist terminated in a reddish-white bag of muscle, like the fat, nontapered tail of a Gila monster. Renny grabbed that end and tried to yank it off.

G.o.dd.a.m.n it, but this was getting to be much more trouble than any-thing any-thing was worth. was worth.

Barb's face had shaded to mauve. Renny crawled in tighter, bent back the clutching index finger, and heard it pop pop as he broke it at the base joint. as he broke it at the base joint.

Shouldn't he just let it polish Barb off? Would this all be over then?

Nope, he thought as he levered the middle finger out of the flesh of her neck. No way he was going to be beaten and humiliated by disorganized body parts. He c.o.c.ked the finger away savagely and smiled when he heard it snap. he thought as he levered the middle finger out of the flesh of her neck. No way he was going to be beaten and humiliated by disorganized body parts. He c.o.c.ked the finger away savagely and smiled when he heard it snap.

There were eyeb.a.l.l.s on the back of the hand, and they swivelled a full one-eighty to glare at Renny. The pupils dilated. Barb was sucking wind in big horsey gasps, her face flushing crimson.

Renny remembered the first time he had ever shaken this hand. Howyadoo. Victor Jacks was the sort of guy whose very existence dared you to be better than him, and promised to humiliate you if you tried.

The thumb and ring finger could not hang on alone; apparently Barb had smashed the pinky, a lucky hit with the bat; it jutted crookedly, alienated from the choking operation. Renny pried the hand free and chucked it across the room as Barb fell down. The hand bounced from the wall to the floor, leaving red impact smears. Clumsily, it tried to locomote.

Barb stumbled over and started stomping on it. She got gook all over her heel, slipped and nearly fell again. This enraged her enough to bash the hand with the bat until it didn't move anymore.

Both of them squatted down at a safe distance and got their first really clear look at it.

Apart from the killer hand and about four inches of forearm, there were Victor's eyes. Eyes that had always been the color of pastel blue enamel, opaque eyes that did not deal in emotional shades, with the hair-trigger flecks of silver buried deep like vague rumors of madness. The eyes were seated across the first three knuckles on the back of the hand, and looked roped down by strings of muscle and threads of optic nerve. One eyeball had just been imploded by Barb's death-dance. At last, Renny could recognize the bulbous bag that hung off the far end of the wrist.

"That's his heart."

The whole a.s.semblage reminded Renny of something that Victor might jerry-rig on his auto workbench. He was known to be miraculous when it came to solving your vehicular woes with a bent coat hanger, spit and a soldering iron.

"His heart." heart." This was not the sort of news Barb was eager to hear. "His This was not the sort of news Barb was eager to hear. "His heart, heart, oh G.o.dddd...how could it be his oh G.o.dddd...how could it be his heart, heart, they took it they took it out, out, you beat him to you beat him to pieces, pieces, didn't you break his hand? didn't you break his hand? Last Last time?" time?"

Renny honestly could not recall.

"I mean...he didn't have no head, head, Renny! What'd the eyeb.a.l.l.s do, Renny! What'd the eyeb.a.l.l.s do, roll roll here by themselves-?" here by themselves-?"

As they watched, the heart-end caved in, voiding blood in a final death-spurt. It made a large, wet, wide stain on the finished wood of the now-exposed floor.

It appeared to Renny as though it had farted. It was kind of funny. "Wow. You really really broke his heart." broke his heart."

She began slapping him. The blows were openhanded and basically harmless. "Renny, G.o.ddammit, that's not funny! That's his f.u.c.king hand! hand! It's been around my throat plenty of times, and for a minute there I could actually It's been around my throat plenty of times, and for a minute there I could actually see see him, like he'd come back whole to beat me up again, and him, like he'd come back whole to beat me up again, and it's not funny!" it's not funny!"

Barb was a pace and a half from an asylum. Her tirade petered out and left her sobbing. Renny did the right thing and tried to hold her. She let him. If he had given her a Kleenex, she would have dislocated his jaw.

"Okay, okay. Sorry I'm such a jerk."

Pangs of selfishness could occasionally make Renny feel guilt, or some-thing like guilt. More important right this minute was the abrupt de-duction he'd made while keeping an untrusting eye on the no-longer--moving hand thing.

Victor had been slabbed and gutted...and had come walking back. He'd had all his bones busted and he'd come blobbing blobbing back. And Renny had dumped Victor in the sewer and Victor had come back again, from the sewer. Up through the toilet, just like those urban legends about scuba-diving rats, and snakes, and crocodiles, all of which the eyeball-hand resembled. back. And Renny had dumped Victor in the sewer and Victor had come back again, from the sewer. Up through the toilet, just like those urban legends about scuba-diving rats, and snakes, and crocodiles, all of which the eyeball-hand resembled.

"Look, babe-I know what this thing needs. I'll make sure there ain't nothin left this time."

"And how do you plan on doing that?" Barb had regained enough of her equilibrium to peek at herself in the bureau mirror to ensure she didn't look too too messed up. messed up.

Renny lifted the interloper by its broken pinky. He could feel himself piling up jungle smarts by the minute.

"You got any charcoal starter out back?"

It stank. Truly. It sizzled when it burned, a roundly unappetizing spectacle that Barb forced herself to witness. They both watched it cook down and Renny periodically batted the chunks apart with barbecue tongs until it was reduced to black goo and bone ash.

Barb plodded back inside to take her third shower in twenty-four hours. There was just no washing Victor off her life.

Renny watched the goo smolder and bubble on the coals. Kind of like pork, the smell.

He rubbed the smoke from his reddened eyes and finished up, not really wanting to enter the house again. He no longer wanted to play bed games with Barb. He just wanted to get some sleep.

By the time Barb towelled off, she discovered Renny deep in slumberland. Igg, Igg, she'd have to change the sheets despite her shower. A job for tomorrow. She sat on what was, de facto, "her" side of her own bed, successfully not waking her partner in crime. she'd have to change the sheets despite her shower. A job for tomorrow. She sat on what was, de facto, "her" side of her own bed, successfully not waking her partner in crime.

Renny was different, she knew. Their relationship had turned. Flow-ers decay. Banquets spoil. Water evaporates. And their sneaky victory had soured. At first it had been a delicious, shared secret; now it had become a horrid quickmire that bonded them like a pair of panicked dogs struggling to uncouple.

She felt, well, dead dead inside, to hammer a phrase. Blown out, wasted, spent, scorching at the edges. She did not want to feel anything so much as she wanted to feel nothing. inside, to hammer a phrase. Blown out, wasted, spent, scorching at the edges. She did not want to feel anything so much as she wanted to feel nothing.

Renny was sleeping with his mouth unhinged, as usual, just begin-ning to snore. That snore would tell her that she was far, far away from his thoughts. She gently grabbed his nose and tilted his head so he no longer faced her. The incipient snore died with a gurgle.

She felt unusually sensitized, to the point where the dust on the sheets and comforter bothered her. Grit was in her eyes and she fancied more dust layered upon her soul, like wet snow. The thought that it might be the powder of dead bones made her start crying, and she never stopped.

Caught up in her own grief, she missed seeing the tenacious little gob of charred protoplasm as it wormed past Renny's slack lips, to slide easily down his esophageal tract. Soon it would renew its work deep inside of him, where the heart was.

Good People By David Wellington

David Wellington is the author of the zombie novels Monster Monster Island Island, Monster Nation Monster Nation, and Monster Planet Monster Planet, and the vampire novels 13 Bullets 13 Bullets, 99 Coffins 99 Coffins, Vampire Zero Vampire Zero, and 23 Hours 23 Hours. A werewolf novel, Frostbite Frostbite, came out last October. Another zombie novel, Plague Zone Plague Zone, was serialized on his website, davidwellington.net, but is not yet in print. Wellington's short fiction has appeared in the zombie anthologies The Undead The Undead, The Undead 2: Skin and Bones The Undead 2: Skin and Bones, and The New Dead The New Dead, and he also has a story in my vampire anthology By Blood We Live By Blood We Live. He recently made his comic book writing debut with Marvel Zombies Return Marvel Zombies Return.

George Romero's 1968 film Night of the Living Dead Night of the Living Dead established our modern image of zombies-mindless corpses with pale flesh, wild hair, and dark-ringed eyes who stumble clumsily about, hungering after the flesh of the living. Since then we've seen a vast proliferation of zombie stories and a corresponding increase in their variety. We've seen zombies who aren't technically dead ( established our modern image of zombies-mindless corpses with pale flesh, wild hair, and dark-ringed eyes who stumble clumsily about, hungering after the flesh of the living. Since then we've seen a vast proliferation of zombie stories and a corresponding increase in their variety. We've seen zombies who aren't technically dead (28 Days Later), zombies who sprint after their victims (Zack Snyder's Dawn of the Dead Dawn of the Dead), zombie dogs (Resident Evil), zombie n.a.z.is (Dead Snow), zombie superheroes (Marvel Zombies), even zombie strippers (Zombie Strippers). We've also seen zombie comedy (Shaun of the Dead, Zombieland Zombieland), zombie romance (Amelia Beamer's The Loving Dead The Loving Dead), and even zombies invading cla.s.sic nineteenth-century literature (Pride and Prejudice and Zombies). And of course we've seen David Wellington's gonzo Monster Monster trilogy, which features smart zombies, superpowers, mummies, and an epic battle for the future of humanity. trilogy, which features smart zombies, superpowers, mummies, and an epic battle for the future of humanity.

But sometimes all you're in the mood for are some good old-fashioned moaning, shambling zombies, which our next story delivers-in spades. Here David Wellington takes the zombie story back to its roots-a bunch of regular folks just trying to survive, figuring out what they're willing to do to make it, and the horrible things they have to do after the end of the world. After all the variations, parodies, and mashups, the cla.s.sic Romero-style zombie is still alive and well (so to speak) and still, after all these years, coming to get you.

The sun was coming down over the desert, painting the red rocks a hundred different shades of purple, silver, and ocher and making spiky silhouettes out of the few creosote bushes that eked a living out of the barren land. I watched the hot pink clouds scud by overhead for a while before turning my attention back to the fence.

Then my heart stopped beating.