The Sunday Serial, Vol. 1, Part 8

The zombies are growing more persistent, and Ryan’s defenses are faltering rapidly.

“Tar” finished filming recently, and my baby has the “Class Cut” wrapped up. She wants to tweak it a bit before she puts it on YouTube, but I’ll post the link soon, along with a mini-dcoumentation about the making of it. (You know, the thing I promised to do over and over again but never did, because I don’t understand the concept of obligation. I’m emotionally stunted, I’m sorry. Sometimes I have dreams about still being breastfed. It seemed relevant to add that last part.)

Hopefully, before she puts together the final “Final-Final Cut,” we’ll be able to film some extra stuff, violent-death related stuff, if I get my way, AHAHAHAHAHAHA!!! (We’re gonna gun somebody down on camera.) We shall see.

Meanwhile, what do you guys (both of you) think about posting another one-shot original story, like I did with “A Knocking at the Door?” Let me know if you’d like to see another like it, and if you guys vote yes I swear on the grave of that hooker I murdered the other night that it’ll be up by Saturday. I mean it, too. I killed a hooker. Me and like, thirteen football players. I can’t give any names, but let’s just say I’m gonna be making sweet money betting on Rothlisberger to fumble the next couple of seasons.

Aaaaannnnnd, on with the story:

 

***

 

Long Weekend

© Copyright 2011
Sean Ganus

 

Part 8

 

            I slept pretty soundly through most of Sunday morning. The boards held out pretty well, even though it was only a matter of time before the zombies busted through. Still, for right now, we were safe.

            It was nearly noon when I woke up. At first I couldn’t believe I’d slept that long, but really I hadn’t actually slept that much in the past three days, and I guess it caught up with me. Zombies or no zombies, a guy needed his rest.

            I stretched, texted my parents: “Still alive. No updates yet. Just got up. Will watch news in a bit to catch up. Love you, Ryan.”

            I called Lyndi. “What’s up?” she answered.

            “Well, Zach made it.”

            “Hah! Wow. Didn’t think he’d actually pull it off.”

            “Yeah. He’s pretty tactical for a stoner.”

            “I guess. So you guys on your way down?”

            “Not yet. The zombies hacked the truck’s tires apart as soon as he got here.”

            “Damn. Guess he’s out of a job.”

            “And surrounded by zombies. Don’t forget that part.”

            “You guys’ll be fine. Abby said her coven killed twenty more zombies, and that the other covens in the area have a plan for wiping out the rest.”

            “Awesome. Didn’t know coven’s made nukes.”

            “This is serious, Ryan.”

            “I know. It’s too serious. If I don’t piss and moan, I’m gonna go fuckin’ crazy.”

            “Well, Abby says it’s only a couple more days until they’re ready. Woulda been longer, but Nashville’s got, like, a lot of voodists in the area. Go figure, right? Think you can hold out till then?”

            “Maybe. Fuck, I might last a month, if I eat Zach.”

            “Funny.”

              “But then I’d get all twitchy like those old people in Book of Eli…”

            “Yeah, okay Ryan. I’ll talk to you later.”

            “Totally. I’ll probably be speaking zombie though.”

            “Look at that! More funny.” The sarcasm couldn’t have been thicker if it’d been wrapped in Louie Anderson. “Bye.”

            “Bye.”

            I tried Mel, like a dog looking for his lost mistress. No response.

            Damn.

            I looked out the window, saw with some suprise that Shotgun Zombie had set up some kind of workshop. He had what seemed like a pile of arms and legs on a table nearby, and a skinny, limbless zombie was strapped to a makeshift bench. Tools literally surrounded them both. Shotgun Zombie hefted a blowtorch, reached up, and pulled the shower curtain he’d rigged around his area closed. Suddenly the blue flare of a welding torch lit the little cubby. Well…shit. Things were just getting weird now.

            I wandered into the bedroom, where Rick and Zach were both smoking the remains of last night’s weed. The TV was still on.

            “Breaking: We have received confirmation of magic being used to stop the walking dead. Video evidence sent in from magic users has been overwhelmingly conclusive.”

            A video suddenly cut on, showing a stylized design painted on the ground. The camera then backed away, showing a swarm of zombies charging the group doing the recording. There was a girl…Abby, I realized, kind of proud of the fact that I recognized her from behind. Especially considering that, though I’d frequently imagined her naked, I’d never actually seen her as such.

            Which she was. Right there, on camera. Naked as fuck.

            “Damn.” I heard Zach say. “Is that Abby?”

            I didn’t answer. I was a little too mesmerized by her pert buttocks to properly process the question. Her right ass cheek had a tattoo of two serpents twirling around a rose. I felt like one of them was winking at me.

            “I would dive into that like a fat man dives into Thanksgiving,” Rick piped up.

            “But you are fat,” Zach replied, with the lack of concern over bluntness that a chronic high can give you.

            “Hence the severity of my cause.”

            Abby raised her arms overhead, causing her buttocks to tighten so that they resembled two hugging cantaloupes. She said something inaudible, and as the zombies charged past the seal, every single one of them collapsed into a limp pile. None of the ones behind them caught on to the phenomenon, either; they charged to the last dead man, until all of them were even deader than they were before.

            Abby turned around, fulfilling six years of wishful thinking on my part, and smiled at the camera. The image cut away from the supple, succulent feed and back to Meg.

            “Sources say that there is an effort to coordinate a magical offensive among multiple magical disciplines against the zombie hordes. A prolonged radio silence from government officials leaves little alternative to this current initiative…”

            Meg was hot, but dreadfully unnaked, and our attention waned.

            Zach peeled off his Lowes shirt, wiped his brow with it. “Man it’s fuckin’ hot.”

            “You’re keepin’ your clothes on,” Rick replied automatically.

            “Fine, whatever. Can I use your shower?”

            That wasn’t a bad idea. We all smelled like ripe skunk ass. “Totally. Towels are under the kitchen sink.”

            “I haven’t turned the hot water back on yet,” Rick told him.

            “Don’t care, it’s too hot for warm water anyway.”

            Zach sauntered off, closed and locked the door behind him. Probably wanted to secure some prime jack-off time. Couldn’t say I blamed him, though I was determined not to think about the fact that it was my shower he was about to hose down.

            “Fuck man, it is pretty hot.” I added.

            “You’re keepin’ your clothes on too.”

            I groaned. “Fine. But I’m eating the last of the ice cream.”

 

***

 

            Zach was still in the shower a half hour later. I was glad my water was billed at a flat fee.

            I scooped up the last of the Haagen-Dazs I kept hidden in the back of the freezer, bemoaning the injustice of a man denied the right to walk naked in his own apartment.

            What came next…it’s still hard to process how suddenly it happened. I guess they’d been working quietly for a while, weakening floorboards and pulling out nails. I wouldn’t have really noticed over the sounds of engines and gunfire outside, or the constant thudding footsteps above. But while I ate Haagen-Dazs, the roar of a chainsaw suddenly tore through the apartment. A second later, the blade was ripping through the beige linoleum, cutting a small, quick square through the kitchen floor.

            “Shit! Rick! Get in here!”

            He was already in the room at the sound of the saw, watching in shock as strips of plastic were spat into the air. In a second the saw blade dipped back down into the narrow, ragged hole, and a hardhat with a headlamp poked through the hole. It didn’t take more than the smell to realize what was coming up beneath the hat.

            Rick picked up the massive sledgehammer Zach had brought with him, gave a powerful over-handed swing. The hat caved, the pulpy, withered face beneath it suddenly exploding from the pressure. The body dropped, but another took its place.

            They were quick, fucking quick. One was out before Rick could swing again, and another from inside the hole grabbed the hammer and yanked it from Rick’s hands.

            POP POP POP. Three more from under the floor. They bumrushed us, and the fight was on.

            To his credit, Rick threw the fridge over the hole, effectively blocking it before the corpses of a teenage girl and a faceless cop tackled him. I revved my chainsaw, just as the fireman zombie in front of me revved his. Oh, fuck.

            I swung, the zombified boy scout taking a step back. The fireman swung back, missed me by inches. I went for his hands, missed, he swung for my throat. Near miss. Sweet fucking Jesus.

            We went for kill shots. I went to cut him in half, he went to saw me down the middle. We met midway, our blades sparking like they’d just borne lightning.

            I’m not gonna lie, it was pretty bitchin’.

            The force bounced the blades back, and we swung again. Another strike, the chains groaning in protest. Another, another, the motors sounding angry at the abuse we were heaping on them. The Boy Scout made an effort to charge, but I kept him back, slashing him across the chest and sending his bony ass crashing into the coffee table.

            Rick gritted his teeth, puffed his cheeks, and bounced his shoulders, throwing his attackers off. His hands free, he cranked his own saw, revved it proudly, and went to fucking town on the cop.

            “Try that DWB shit on me now, motherfucker!” he screamed, cutting the patrolman from the dick through his gut, before wrenching the blade out and decapitating the teenager in an unbelievably fluid swing of badassery. The body and head both whirled in different directions, and like a boss, Rick dismissively turned back to the cop, and plunged the saw back in. Cutting down from the shoulder, he shattered the collarbone and forced the thing to its knees. There was a snap of tissue and a crunching of bone, and both halves of the cop flopped to the floor.

            The girl wasn’t as down as he thought, though. With his back turned, Rick didn’t notice her pull a switchblade from inside her low rider jeans. She sank the knife into his leg, below the knee. Rick hit ground, grunting in anger.

            “Fuckin’ bitch!”

            The fireman was backing me into a corner, when out of nowhere I heard:

            “Cowabunga, mother fucker!”

            Zach hurled one-hundred and forty pounds of naked stoner against the fireman, wrapping his depressingly skinny arms around the zombie’s neck. The fireman whirled, trying to shake him off. Zach held out surprisingly long, his gangly, rubbery legs wrapped pretty tightly against the creature’s waist. Eventually the fireman gave a powerful shrug, thumping Zach against the wall, and my sister’s stoner fuck buddy crumbled.

            Free of the nuisance, the fireman advanced on me. Behind the air mask I could see his eyebrows creasing in concentration over its noseless face. It looked like it was snarling, through I’m pretty sure that was just a result of it not having any lips.

            The Boy Scout made his way to Zach, blocking his way to the fireman and me. Zach sneered. “I could take you, ya little shit!”

            The Boy Scout reach behind himself to the fireman, pulled the fireman’s jacket aside. Lodged in the belt was a fire axe, which the Boy Scout withdrew. It deftly swung the axe in its fingers, as though the thing didn’t weigh a gram.

            “Well…fuck,” Zach said.

            Rick sliced and diced the cop and the teenager, but the stab wound wouldn’t let him put too much weight on one leg. Nevertheless, he was doing his best to reach me.

            The fireman was backing me into a corner. I wasn’t going to be able to throw him off. Fuck me.

            A deafening shot rang out. Steve, from the doorway. He crawled in, took a shot at the fireman. The round caught him in the temple, distracting it enough for me to hack into it under the shoulder.

            It wasn’t enough to bring him down, but it was enough damage to weaken him. The fireman elbowed me in the chest, backed off my saw, tried to lift his own overhead. It succeeded, but it was noticeably slower at doing so.

            I thought then: Fuck this dude.

            I charged in, swinging like I was Captain Sinbad fighting the six-armed statue of Kali. I knocked his saw left and right. I chopped huge, ragged chunks of flesh out from beneath the fire jacket. I chopped into its knees, though its gut. I vaguely noticed the fly as it zoomed in for me, having somehow paper clipped its midsection together. It flew in a heavy, clumsy line, before quickly being batted away by my crazed blade. I went for the shoulder.

            It stopped me there, its saw catching mine before I could make contact. Then a miracle happened.

            The chain snapped. The chain on the zombie’s fucking chainsaw snapped. In a blur I saw it wrap around his neck and snag along my blade. We shared a moment. A quick, knowledgable moment. Then I pulled. I pulled like every bullied fat kid pulls when the only kid left on the other side of a game of tug-of-war is that needling little shit who always gives you a hard time at lunch. I gave it everything, everything. There was a satisfying ripping sound, followed by a dull snap.

            The helmeted head bounced against the floor. The headless body stumbled. The headless horror swung blindly, and I sawed through one of its knees to bring it down. It spun like it was dancing on its way down.

            The Boy Scout was keeping Zach pinned, swinging left and right whenever he tried to escape. Steve aimed, carefully, caught the kid in the back. The impact rocked its scrawny frame, and Zach seized the opportunity to snatch the axe and brain the kid.

            “Fuck you, you knot tyin’ little shit!” he screamed. “I fucking hated those goddamn Camporees!” The axe made low, wet sounds as it destroyed the kid’s body. Zach’s suddenly erect penis slung about in victory.

            I sat down, caught my breath while Zach moved in on the twitching fireman. I watched with no small satisfaction as he shattered the faceplate of the thing’s mask, collapsing the torn face underneath.

            Steve nodded to Rick. “You okay?”

            “Yeah man. Ain’t serious.” Rick reached under the kitchen sink, pulled out a dish towel and started wrapping it around his leg. “Should be fine. Fuckin’ bitch.” He gave the disembodied head a kick, and it rolled like a soccer ball until Zach split it neatly in two.

            I felt like he was getting a little too into this. The least he could do was show a little restraint when it came to chopping up corpses on my goddamn carpet.

            I sighed. Whatever. I refused to worry about it. I leaned my head back, let the spilled brain juices soak into the apartment company’s rug. My eyes felt heavy, so heavy…

Advertisements

Leave a comment

Filed under The Sunday Serial

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out / Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out / Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out / Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out / Change )

Connecting to %s