Authors: Richard Johnson
Machinegun
fire erupted and bullets whizzed around the combatants. It wasn’t clear who the
targets were, but Charlie felt his opponent go limp and warm blood gush down
onto his own face. He wondered if the next bullet had his name on it.
Then there
was some hurried shouting in a coarse, foreign language. Charlie pushed the
body aside and stood up next to Rob as Chinese soldiers emerged from the
forest, their weapons raised.
“Fuckbucket,”
Rob said.
They were
captured, and in deep shit, but at least they were alive. For now.
Trent
instantly knew who the scoundrel was before him. It was not a good thing. Even
worse, the leader of the Gutter Punks recognized him in turn.
“Well, lick
my gnads and call me Choppy. If it isn’t the biggest asshole cop in all of
Chicago. My old buddy, Officer Trent. Or as I once called him, Officer Gank,
for ganking my dope every chance he got.”
“Hello,
Xavier,” Trent said in a subdued tone. “Nice place you have down here.”
“This isn’t a
dialogue,” Xavier said and turned to his men. “Tie ‘em up. If anyone gives you
problems, throw their ass in the pit.” His henchmen quickly pilfered everything
of value from the trio and led them to an opening in the pipe, which happened
to be an access station to the surface. Littered with crappy furniture, horror
movie posters, and empty bottles, it resembled an unkempt teenager’s basement
bedroom. But the reality was much, much darker.
The Gutter
Punks were an informal gang that had made the Clockwork Orange crew look like
amateurs even before the apocalypse. Afterwards, their depravities had grown
tenfold. This group of maladjusted hooligans used to ride the trains into the
city every spring from out west, looking to drink, fight, forage, and fuck
their way to notoriety, and not necessarily in that order. Now the
man-bun-wearing hipster douches were the lords of the underground, raiding
Chicago from below while keeping one-step ahead of the zombies and foreign
invaders.
Trent and
company were handcuffed to a steel pipe as the Gutter Punks hurled insults,
garbage, and several solid punches. Xavier grabbed the raccoon and began gently
stroking her head. “So well mannered. I hope it tastes good too.”
“Elvis, sic
balls!” Russ shouted in desperation, but the raccoon merely licked Xavier’s
face. “Damn.”
Xavier nodded
to one of the lower ranking members of the group, a fat teenager wearing face
paint. “Jester, we’re gonna show our little friend here the kitchen. Let me
know if they have anything interesting to share. If they don’t, I’ll be back in
a bit to ask some questions myself. With a blowtorch.” He rubbed Trent’s hair
and left, taking the other members of the gang with him.
This left
Trent, Marquell and Russ in the dimly lit room with the guy known
affectionately as Jester. The giggling teen with a ninth-grade education was
happy to have a captive audience for once, and was bound and determined not to
screw up.
Trent had
always told people he hated clowns, when in reality they scared him half to
death. This meant Jester’s clown makeup was terrorizing the crap out of him.
The young
thug noticed that Trent’s eyes were plastered shut. “What’s wrong, piggy?”
Trent kept
his mouth closed as well, which of course was something Russ was physically
incapable of doing.
“What’s with
the face paint?” Russ asked. “You part of the KISS Army or something?”
Jester rolled
his eyes. “KISS? What decade do you think this is?”
“That’s what
I said,” Marquell noted to nobody in particular.
“If you
really want to know, I’m a Juggalo. Maybe the last one,” Jester answered with
pride.
Marquell
whispered something and the pride in the teen’s voice turned to a threat of
violence. “Got something to say, smart mouth?”
“Just the
Lord’s prayer.” To Marquell’s trained ear, it was obvious the young man was a
weakling and a follower, one that was only playing the ruffian while using his
false bravado to hide the scared child underneath. And so Marquell kept the
discourse open, something that had saved his own life numerous times. “Why do
they call you Jester? he continued.
The Gutter
Punk smiled, happy to be talking about his favorite subject. “It’s ‘cause I
like to tell jokes. Before the end of the world I wanted to be a comedian or an
actor.”
“I got some
good ones for you,” Russ said. “Who was the country singer with the biggest
boobs? Conway Titty.”
Jester
groaned. “Weak.”
“Okay, that
was kind of a dad joke I guess,” Russ said. “You’ll like this one, though. What
do you call a thousand lesbians with machine guns?”
“I’ll bite.
What?” Jester asked, trying to hold back a grin.
“Militia
Etheridge,” Russ said, already laughing at his own joke. It became so quiet you
could hear the zombies scratching at the walls in the pit. “Hey, comedy’s hard,
you got anything better?”
Jester broke
into a reasonably good Andrew Dice Clay impersonation. “You know, date rape
drugs aren’t all they’re cracked up to be. When I take ‘em I can’t even stand
up, let alone rape anyone. Oh!”
Russ and
Marquell fake laughed at Jester’s performance while Trent still cowered in fear.
After a few minutes sharing more of his terrible jokes, the comedian wannabe
let his guard down ever so slightly. “Look, I’m not that bad of a person, but
these guys were the last people around. It was either fit in or die.”
Now Trent
began to wonder if the kid was playing “good cop/bad cop” with them, a tactic
he had done countless times himself. He decided to find out, and slowly opened
his eyes. “Hey, buddy. Why don’t you let us go? You can come with us and get a
fresh start. Nobody can live in a tunnel forever. Except for rats. You don’t
look like a rat to me.”
“Sorry, dude.
I can’t risk it. But let me know some good info and I can probably make things
easier for you. I mean, you guys aren’t so bad. I feel sorry for what they’re
gonna do to you.”
“What’s
that?” Trent asked.
“You’re
probably better off not knowing, but that raccoon is gonna be the appetizer. We
don’t exactly get a lot of fresh protein down here.”
“For real? I
survived zombies and now I’m gonna get eaten by scurveball dipshits?”
“Gutter Punks
and cops just never got along. Like a cats and dogs type of thing. Plus, it
sounds like Xavier hates you with a passion.”
“What about
me? I ain’t no pig,” Marquell said.
“How do I put
this? You didn’t pass the blackground check.”
Marquell
shook his head. “Is everybody in this damned tunnel racist?”
“Hey, I’m not
racist,” Russ said. “My second wife was black. Hell, one of my kids was black.
At least I think he was my kid. He was pretty damned tall come to think of it.
Either way, I had to pay child support. I mean, I was supposed to pay child
support.”
“Shut it,
hillbilly,” Jester said, switching back to bully-mode once more. He realized
time was running short and his task was still unfulfilled, which meant Xavier
was just as likely to use the blowtorch on him. He was a dick like that.
“Thank you,”
Marquell added.
Jester
got into Marquell’s face. “As I said, I’m looking for useful stuff. Like, if
you have a stash outside or a safe house or something. And what Xavier wants most
are females. They don’t last very long down here on account of—”
Russ cut him
off. “They already took my stash. Two-fifths of whiskey, one flask of rum.
Mostly cheap stuff, but it sure gets the job done. Hell, I bet they’re getting
drunk as skunks right now.”
“And they
didn’t want to share it with you,” Marquell said, stirring the pot. “Not very
nice of them. I guess you’re the low man on the totem pole.”
“For reals?
Man, you’re full of it.”
“Honest,”
Marquell said and pointed to Russ. “You can smell that Joe Dirt looking
motherfucker’s breath. He was drinking all damned day.”
Alcohol was
the one thing that kept Jester going, so he turned to Russ and leaned in,
breathing deeply. “He does smell like a hobo that just… argh!”
Russ’s head
shot forward and he chomped down hard, ripping away Jester’s painted nose as
well as his upper lip. It was obvious the truck driver savored every bite as
his eyes rolled into the back of his head.
The young man
slumped to his knees in shock and convulsed, instinctively pulling the trigger
on his pistol. The bullet blew a hole in Jester’s foot and he fell the rest of
the way down, landing on his ruined face. He had told his last joke.
Russ’s feral
hunger sated, he snapped back into the moment, licking his lips. “Juggalo? More
like Jugga-licious. We’re talking Arby’s Big Montana right there. Could’ve used
some Horsey Sauce though.”
“Okay, now
what, smart guys?” Trent asked as Jester writhed around, moaning for his momma.
“Ask
Marquell, this is his plan. He told me to bite the dude,” Russ said.
Just then a
Gutter Punk brandishing a machete burst through the door at the sound of
gunfire. “What’s wrong with Jester?” he asked.
“Case of the
Mondays?” Marquell suggested, buying some time.
Trent
shrugged. “Nah, it looks like he’s having a Shaq attack.”
“Real funny.”
The man saw the massive amount of blood and advanced towards Trent, raising his
blade to strike. “Let’s see who’s laughing when I cut your tongue out.”
Jester rose
and jumped onto the young man’s back, ripping into his neck and feeding on the
soft tissues underneath. Moments later more Gutter Punks ran in, but they were
met by Jester and his victim, now a zombie as well. It was a bloodbath, and
when Trent saw Jester’s mangled clown-face going to work he had to shut his eyes
once more to avoid passing out from fear.
Soon the
feeding frenzy would grow and the tied up men would be dropping to the bottom
of the food chain. Realizing this, Russ did something drastic. He leaned over
and started chewing on the bottom half of his own left hand, grinding through
bones and tearing through flesh. Unflinching, he yanked hard on his hand, and
what remained of it slid through the handcuff while his pinky and ring finger
dropped to the ground. Russ’s third wedding ring rolled across the tunnel floor
and made the tiniest of clinks as it bounced off the wall, never to be seen
again.
Xavier and
the rest of his men came in and were immediately set upon. But they were better
prepared and put up a fight, blasting away at the cannibals that had been their
allies minutes before.
Trent
and Marquell yanked on their own handcuffs as the carnage in the small room
daisy chained. Jester stopped chewing on his latest victim and made a beeline
for Marquell, who was forced to jump into the air and kick with both feet. The
freak show plowed into Xavier, who then shoved him towards Trent.
Jester
grabbed Trent and bit down, but his face exploded outwards in a shower of wet
mush. Russ had shot the zombie with its own pistol. Then he turned and fired
three shots, dropping two zombies and one Gutter Punk.
The door to
the tunnel creaked open and Russ turned to see Xavier sprinting away with the
last of the zombies chasing after him, drawn by his rapid movements. Russ shut
the door and surveyed the massacre. The whole battle had taken less than a
minute.
“Seriously
Marquell, that was like some
Tango and Cash
shit right there,” he said
and beamed a reddish smile. “Mumbling the plan, knowing that only I could catch
it with my badass hearing.”
“Man, I don’t
even know what that means. Just find the handcuff keys.”
Russ searched
the corpses, found the keys, and released his companions. Then he took a filthy
shirt from one of the bodies and made a tourniquet for his hand while the
others gathered weapons and ammo. Though he didn’t feel the pain, Russ could
still pass out from the loss of blood, and so getting the wound closed up was
important.
“Looks like
we’re done down here,” Trent said and got no arguments. “Let’s find Elvis and
roll out.” They opened the door to the lair of the Gutter Punks and noticed it
was even more of a pigsty than the last room. Small lamps lit the area, as did
a working gas grill, and the scent of cooked meat was thick in the confined
space. It actually smelled pretty good.
“Awww, those
bastards.” Russ slumped to the floor when he spotted the freshly slaughtered
animal carcass on the rack. Grilled to perfection and seasoned with salt and
pepper.
Trent put a
hand to his friend’s shoulder as it became apparent that, yes, zombies can cry.
The cop even felt an odd flood of emotion for an animal he cared little for,
though his mouth watered at the smell of the meal.
“What are
y’all busters crying about?” Marquell asked as he poked around for supplies,
finding little of use.
“Elvis… has
left the building,” Russ said and shuddered.
Marquell
nodded and gave them a moment to grieve. Then he pulled the meat off the fire,
blew on it forcefully, and took a bite.
“Oh, no you
didn’t,” Russ said and rose to his feet, his good hand clenched in a fist. “That
ain’t kosher.”
Marquell
casually pointed to the corner of the room. There, next to a dirty sleeping
bag, a raccoon was happily licking up a spilled bottle of maple syrup.
Russ grinned
creepily and wiped the tears from his face with his bandaged stump, leaving
behind a glob of coagulated blood.
“Not to
change the subject, but Trent, when you find yourself hundreds of feet
underground during a zombie apocalypse and you’re still running into people
that hate you, it might be time for a life change. And that’s coming from me.”
“I’m trying,
Russ. I’m trying,” Trent said and took a bite of the roasted tunnel rat. It was
a bit salty and a bit gamey, but damn was it delicious.
“Eating rats
in the actual sewer. Winning.”
He and
Marquell ate the carcass in under a minute and then pilfered what meager
supplies they could while Russ retrieved his liquor.
The trio and
their trusty mascot opened the exit door and then climbed the spiral stairs for
quite a while until they reached the top. Eventually they exited the access
building and walked outside into the cool night air, finding themselves mere
miles from the suburbs. They had done the near impossible, but in some ways
their journey had only just begun.