Authors: Hell of the Dead
The fucking priest.
Everyone neglected stared through one set of eyes. They knew. They accused. He couldn't hide.
Jacoby slammed on the brakes. The zombie slid off the vehicle.
Wasting no time, Jacoby floored it and rolled over the zombie. A mere speed bump on the road to safety.
He chanced a look back. The zombie was motionless on his back. Eyes forward, Jacoby yelped as he found the rest of the zombies in the road.
No time to think.
Jacoby veered off the narrow road. He slowed in time to merely hit a tree rather than plowing into it.
The few seconds it took for him to come to seemed like a few hours. He was definitely groggy, perhaps in need of medical attention.
He crawled onto the road.
The zombies watched him.
Turning back, he witnessed the zombie he ran over now getting up, eyes always on the constable.
Jacoby had no choice but to run away through the jungle.
Chapter 40
The bartender couldn't sleep, but that was nothing new. He couldn't remember the last time he slept during the night. He really couldn't. He didn't trust the operation of the bar to anyone else. So he stayed awake as much as he could. Sometimes he left the bar in the hands of the constable. Jacoby was a lot of things, but he wasn't a thief. There wasn't much money to be ripped off anyway. No one in town was remotely wealthy. Most who came in paid in promises. "I promise to pay you back when I get back from the city. There's work there." He never argued because he never cared. He got the liquor and beer from disreputable sources who stole their supply. He paid for the stock mostly in promises as well. What did it matter?
He couldn't remember the last time he slept at night. He tried and failed to think of the last time he slept at all. He was sure it was recent, within the past month. He distinctly remembered waking up in his upstairs room. The sun shining through the window woke him. It was day. He had an erection then. Rare for his age and condition. His blood didn't flow like it did in his youth. How long ago was that?
He gnawed at his brain while drawing slowly on a warm beer. He sat behind the bar, not really waiting for the day's first customer, just sitting. Without him wanting to, he let more recent events drift into this thoughts.
The troubles in the jungle.
Everyone talked about it. The death cult. The massacre. The police from the city showing up with their guns and jeeps. He was tired of hearing about it, but this was a memorable event that the town hadn't experienced in years. The townspeople turned their noses up when the white men came and built their church so that was a non-event. No, the last newsworthy event took place nearly twenty-five years ago. The bartender looked around at it.
The walls were dirty now, but they weren't much cleaner back then. He couldn't remember what color they used to be. The bar was the original one and it looked like it. He chuckled at all the beer that was spilled there over the years. All the people who used to come in, but didn't any more because they had moved on in one way or another. He was the only oldtimer left. That didn't bother him because it didn't matter. His brain moved back to the present troubles.
He wasn't worried like some were. Yes, those outsiders were a threat, but so far the town was left alone. It was often times a beneficial relationship because those loonies would shop and drink and fuck in the town. And they paid with money, not promises. So let them do whatever they want as long as the cash kept coming and they left their depravities out.
But they didn't leave the town alone.
He allowed a shiver to run wild throughout his body.
The grocer. His pregnant wife.
The bartender overheard the constable tell someone that her head was cut off. It looked like a machete did it. He couldn't remember what the grocer looked like.
The bartender tired of thinking. He believed thinking never resulted in anything good. So he stopped and finished his early morning beer.
Chapter 41
She woke up where her last john left her. On her back. In bed. She thought he was still on top of her, but it was just the weight of the blanket in her half-sleep. She got the blanket from an open-air vendor in the city quite some time ago. She never bothered to wash it. She thought it had lice in it. She thought she had lice, but then again she always itched.
Especially lately.
It just wasn't the constant appearances of the limp dick constable or the men who came in from the jungle that made her skin and other parts crawl. No. This had been going on for a few weeks now. The itch she couldn't scratch. The burn when she peed or shat.
She rolled over on her side. Something squished between her legs.
She considered that she probably passed whatever she had to several men already. She was sure the constable would be suffering soon if not already. Good.
A bottle bluntly crashed to the floor in the bar downstairs.
He already started, she thought. Oh well. I'll be starting any minute now. Not that drinking numbs anymore.
Unlike the bartender, she didn't let her restless mind wander to the town or her somber situation. No, she wasn't in this bed, in this bar, town, or this country. She was in America. In a nice city. Not like the smelly and filthy places in this country. No, a real, bold city. She would have an apartment where she'd have a TV and a hot shower. She'd have clean clothes. Nice clothes. She'd work in a store. She thought she'd like to sell nice things to nice people. People she wouldn't have to fuck. She'd never fuck again until she found the man of her dreams. But she couldn't dream that big so she didn't know what he'd look like. She'd change her name to something American like Marci or Kim. She looked forward to air conditioning.
The fantasy played itself through like it did a thousand times before, leaving her with her reality.
Sleep had completely left her and she'd be back in bed soon enough. She got up and went downstairs.
***
The stairs numbered fourteen. She counted each one. When she reached the bottom, she looked through the doorway at the bar proper. Her thoughts hit zero and her limbs went numb.
Someone was holding the bartender's head to the bar top. The someone was a woman, the whore guessed, judging by the one sagging white breast that lazily flopped around. She was white, pale, and her veins poked through her skin as if she was sheathed in dry rubber. The woman ignored her. She was focused on what she was doing to the bartender.
His face was away from the prostitute, which spared the girl from vomiting at that instant. The pale woman began to punch the old-timer in the side of his head. The only sound was of his skull cracking bit by bit, a dull breaking.
The prostitute couldn't tear her eyes from the scene. She couldn't move.
One after another, the punches were heavy, punctuation marks on a miserable life. Blood spouted from the crater in his head like red water. His blood didn't flow like it did in his youth.
The prostitute feared this strange attacker would turn on her when she finished pounding the man's brains out. She wouldn't be able to fend off some brute strength. She could run only if her body shook free from its shock.
THUD.
The bar shuddered under each blow.
THUD.
THUD.
THUD.
The prostitute wished she was in America. Eating at a real restaurant. THUD. With forks. THUD. And plates upon plates of food THUD that actually looked THUD edible. And cakes for dessert. THUD. Her name would be Heather in THUD America, but THUD it would be Lisa sometimes, too. Or Kelly. She always thought that was a pretty name. The prettiest. Sure there were bars in America, but she wouldn't go to them. No more bars. No more upstairs.
She realized she was holding her breath. She let it out.
The bar wasn't shaking anymore.
The woman had stopped hammering.
She was looking at the prostitute. Or rather in her general direction, but the prostitute didn't know that. Urine trickled down the whore's bare legs. The act burned.
The ghost -- she had to be a ghost -- turned towards the whore, who held her breath again -- she's coming for me, she thought. No America for me --
-- and walked out of the bar, away from her monstrous handiwork.
The bartender slid back out of sight where he stayed for a long time. She was finished here, the young whore. She didn't want to see what was left of the old man or the town after that ghost had her way with it.
Chapter 42
The morning was still fresh. Stray dogs and chickens were the only natives up.
Two soldiers were outside the constable's office. One had his chair tipped back on two legs. He was playing with the dirt underneath his fingernails.
The other was leaning against and in the open doorway. He peeked inside at the sleeping storekeeper's children.
The girl was curled up on the bare desk. Her brother was behind it, head down, a protective arm over her.
Satisfied they were safe, he asked his partner "Quiet night, huh?"
"For some. You snored like a fucking dog."
"But I slept like a baby."
"At least we didn't have to go out there," the standing soldier said, flicking a nod toward the jungle. "They couldn't pay me enough to go out there. Shit, I'd run away like Jacoby, too, if I had to."
"I hear you, man."
The soldier who had been sitting went inside, leaving the other to settle in until the rest of the troops returned. No report from the field was needed. Captain Raymond was confident that the mission would be accomplished smoothly and with minimal casualties. He was confident because the order was
shoot first
, something the unlucky first batch did not do.
Before the man could get comfortable he noticed movement from one end of the street.
Someone staggering but with speed.
A man.
The soldier stood, straining his eyes to see who this stranger was.
He tightened the grip around his rifle.
It was no stranger.
It was Jacoby, worse for wear. His eyes were wide and wild. He was sweaty, completely out of breath, and possibly his mind.
Jacoby ran into the man, almost knocking him down.
"Constable?"
Jacoby looked up and down the street. "Those monsters --"
"What?" the soldier asked.
"They know what I've done."
The soldier soon realized that there was actually something bad in the jungle. Jacoby might have genuinely been the sole survivor, twice now.
"I have to -- get -- I have to --," Jacoby tried.
The constable made no sense to the soldier. Jacoby pushed past him to get inside the office to safety.
The other soldier inside stepped out of the bathroom just as Jacoby barged in. Jacoby began to barricade the front door with anything not nailed down.
The soldier outside stepped in. Both men watched Jacoby dart around like a madman. Both soldiers became alarmed by the constable's erratic behavior.
"Constable?" one of the soldiers said.
Jacoby slid a bookcase in front of the door. Outdated reference books dropped to the floor, thud thud.
"Constable?"
"They're coming," Jacoby said as he worked. "They're coming."
"Who's coming?"
Jacoby ignored the question. He continued to block the door with any chair, book, or table he could find.
"Where's Captain Raymond?" one soldier asked. "And the other men?"
Jacoby let out a laugh that chilled the men's souls. Insane. Frantic. Futile. It was only now that he stopped his crazed work.
The grocer's two children peeked out from the inner office. They stared at Jacoby, scared.
"This was not supposed to happen, children," Jacoby ranted. "We shot them and they kept coming. Ha. They should have died. And that priest. That damn priest." He began to sob as he spoke. "That damn priest and his accusations."
He settled down for a second, then went back to his task of barricading the door.
"I am the law," he said. "I am the law."
A heavy knock on the door stopped all.
Through the glass window set halfway in the door, a zombie stared through.
The one Jacoby ran over.
He banged his fists against the door, trying to get through.
His pale eyes were locked on Jacoby.
***
The soldiers brought their guns up to bear.
"What is that?" one asked.
The constable looked back at the soldier. His sole expression was terror.
The banging continued.
The front door shifted, threatening the safety of the office.
"The back!" Jacoby yelled. "Block the back!"