Rednecks Who Shoot Zombies on the Next Geraldo (3 page)

“I’m sorry,” Muss said to both of them; the sexless voice was pathetically comforting. “I was aimin’ at the zombies.”

“Oh.” The kid looked at the zombie road kill. “It’s okay, I guess. Billy Paul got bit really bad. I think I got shot. My leg keeps bleedin’.”

Muss picked up Billy Paul and loaded him into the back of the jeep. Tom helped Bobby Ray.

The convoy had moved up the road to meet them. Everyone was out of the trucks, watching the fields expectantly. They dispersed as soon as Muss started barking orders. Tom saw Doc approach from behind one of the trucks, the wheels of his oxygen tank squeaked annoyingly. Doc walked to the jeep and used a pencil to examine Billy Paul’s shredded mouth. Tom got the feeling he was more interested in the aesthetics of the bite than he was in helping the boy.

“Why don’t you look this kid over,” Tom said as he helped Bobby Ray from the jeep.

“I have to—” -
caaa
- “get a bandage,” Doc wheezed, then disappeared again between the trucks.

Muss came over, looked briefly at Bobby Ray’s wound. “What happened back yonder, Bob?”

Bobby Ray put a finger to one nostril and blew the other one clear. “Oh, man, it was like somethin’ out of a fuckin’ war movie, man. The trains came in, we set up to herd’m inside and nothin’ happened. Usually they kinda fall out and walk real calm like. But this time, nothin’. You couldn’t even see’m in the cars. They were all huddled in the back—every one of’m—all crouched down, like they was waitin’ to spring. And that’s exactly what they did. They just went nuts, climbin’ over shit, breakin’ things down, attackin’ everybody and just bitin’ the shit out of everythin’. We were shootin’ ‘em like crazy, but there was too many of’m. I conked heads with somebody and got knocked out. I remember thinkin’, ‘oh man, don’t let me pass out,’ then nothin’.”

Doc came back. He gave Bobby Ray a shot and applied a bandage over his wound. “He’s got a—” -
caaa
- “bullet in there. He’ll have to go back. I’d better—” -
caaa
- “take him.”

Just then, the garbage truck pulled back into line. The loader, with its chain-link top, was overstuffed with writhing zombies that the other militiamen had captured.

“We need you here,” Muss said. “You.” Muss pointed to another young guy cradling an AR-15. “Take Bobby Ray back and get somebody to fix him up.”

“It was really weird, Muss—when I woke up, I mean,” Bobby Ray said. “It was all quiet, most everybody was dead. A bunch of zombies was standin’ at the front doors of the slaughterhouse, mesmerized-like. Another bunch came out and then they was all lookin’ at each other like they was decidin, what t’do. Then they started draggin’ everybody inside and I heard the grinders start up...”

Muss sighed. “Okay, get movin’ boy. Go get fixed up.” Muss waited until Bobby Ray and the soldier drove away before leaning close to Billy Paul’s face. “Can you hear me, boy?”

Billy Paul didn’t move.

Muss lifted him off the jeep and walked over to the garbage truck. Muss pulled the Magnum from its holster, aimed it between the rear bars and shot one of the caged zombies in the head. The other zombies cringed back in fear. Muss leaned Billy Paul against the bars, then quickly stepped back. The zombies lunged forward greedily and tore the body to pieces. Tom turned away, but not before he caught a glimpse of the ghouls pulling dismembered portions of Billy Paul through the bars. After that, Tom could barely hear a thing—just some snapping jaws—before the driver activated the loader. Tom heard it move up and dump the mass of dead flesh in back; bones snapped with metallic thuds.

“That oughta keep’m busy for a while,” Muss said flatly.

“Maybe we should scrap this whole thing,” Tom said out loud so everyone could hear.

“Fuck no.” Muss took a quick look at the garbage truck. “We’re gonna clean the slaughterhouse up, set up a new crew, and get it goin’ again. Shit, Junior, we got hungry mouths to feed.” Muss laughed at the joke; some of the others tittered uncomfortably.

Tom looked at the dirty faces of the militiamen in the darkness. Only a few were laughing—Diane and Blaine among them—but most were just looking at Tom. Looking
to
him, maybe. “All right—we’ll go.” Tom said. “But if it’s as bad as the kid said it was, or if those things are still running around, we get out.”

Muss smiled. “Damn, boy, yer developin’ a knack for this army shit, ain’t you?”

***

An hour later, and they could hear the slaughterhouse generators humming softly in the distance. An hour after that, and they could smell smoke in the cold air. Two small orange fires burned on the horizon. The hum of generators—and a higher pitched whirring—was louder, beginning to get inside their heads now.

Tom looked at Muss, who stared straight ahead at the road. The little epiphany back at roadside—the subtle division of forces, so to speak—didn’t seem to register with Muss then, but not a word had been shared between the two of them since. It was obvious that Muss was mulling it over.

Finally, the slaughterhouse came into view just a few miles ahead—a long ugly structure punctuated with smoke stacks and squat, aluminum turrets. Finally, the slaughterhouse came into view just a few miles ahead—a long ugly structure punctuated with smoke stacks and squat, aluminum turrets, one of which was peeled open and burned. It was reminiscent, somehow, of an English castle abandoned on the Moors. Rubbish fires at either end of the compound burned like weird tiki torches.

Muss stopped the jeep in front of the convoy. The roar of the generators was almost deafening. Muss pulled the earphones off Bigelow’s head and yelled at him: “Take a truck and kill those fuckin’ generators. Meet us at the herd hole.”

Bigelow nodded, grabbed an Uzi, then hopped into the nearest truck behind the jeep. Bigelow pulled the truck out of line and rumbled on ahead. The convoy followed, but stopped about halfway between the road and the slaughterhouse.

The yard was deserted. Tom didn’t see any corpses anywhere. Except for the fires and the single trashed turret, there was no sign of any kind of battle. As Muss drove them around to the train tracks, a bunch of high-wire pens in the backfields came into view. They were deserted, too. Even through the agonizing roar of the generators there was an eerie calm in the air.

Muss steered the jeep past a huge smokestack into the depot area. Nothing. No trains on the tracks, no idle cars or engines that had drifted up-road. There was an operator’s station not too far ahead, but that was similarly abandoned. The “herd hole” made up the rear entrance to the slaughterhouse. A crude, outdoor hallway, fashioned out of PVC pipe and flimsy tarpaulin, connected the building to the train tracks. Apparently, the trains stopped here, and the dead were herded into the slaughterhouse via the crude walkway. It was pretty torn up—Tom noticed that in most places, only the PVC tubing remained intact.

Muss turned the jeep around to leave when, at last, the generators faded out. “Fuck, finally,” Muss groaned. Tom didn’t say anything. He worked his jaw so his ears would pop. “I guess we go in, then,” Muss said, and drove the jeep out front.

Bigelow and two of his men were walking around the front smokestack when Muss and Tom returned. Muss cut the engine, and then there was total silence. Tom didn’t know which was worse: the vision-blurring whine of the generators and the saws or the silence. There were no birds in the air, no cars on the road, no dogs barking in the distance. It was times like these when Tom most acutely felt the loss of the old world.

“The survivors must all be inside,” Muss said, climbing out of the jeep. The men began checking their loads of ammunition and equipment.

“Or maybe the deadheads just ate them all,” Diane offered.

Muss ignored her, regarded the entrance to the main building for a moment still unsure what to do, then: “Fuck it.” Muss motioned two men to each side of the double steel doors directly in front of them. Muss gestured again and the men pressed on the handles. One of them nodded. Muss and Tom and the others leveled their weapons. The men at the doors shoved them inward.

Nothing was waiting for them on the other side. The front area, at least, was as deserted as the yard.

Tom didn’t realize he was holding his breath; he was waiting for what he thought would be a stench of unmatched proportions. Strangely, it wasn’t nearly as bad as he expected. In fact, the Stronghold had been much worse.
 

At that moment, Tom knew, somehow, that killing stray zombies would be the least of their problems. He and the militia were about to see something far worse than the carnage of the slaughterhouse workers. What that was, Tom had no idea, but Muss was right about one thing—this was going to be bad.

“Is anybody gonna do anything?” Diane asked. When no one answered, she shoved past them and crossed through the doorway. Poking her head back outside, she cried in mock horror, “Oh, save me, save me!”

Muss and Tom went in. With the squad in tow, they maneuvered the front area cautiously, partitioning off to search the copy room and kitchen. Nothing. At the end of the short hallway ahead was another steel door.

“What’s through there?” Tom asked Bigelow.

“Storage for the zombie-hash. Careful, though. Packing crews pile the pallets over your head.

“Just do it,” Tom said.

Muss gave Tom a venom-look as Tom followed Bigelow to the front, waited a beat at the door, then threw it open.

Tom braced the door with his foot and leaned inside. Freezer steam made it difficult to see, but Tom could definitely tell that the room was completely bare save something stacked up in the corner, a narrow thing climbing all the way to the ceiling. The stark whiteness of it contrasted sharply against the smudge-gray ice on the walls.

Suddenly, Doc pushed past Tom. He crossed the room and knelt to examine the base of the thing. “Human bones,” he said over his shoulder. Tom led the squad into the room.

The tower was hexagonal, stopped flush to the ceiling. Upon closer examination, Doc explained that the foundation consisted of interlocking femurs, while ribs buttressed a main structure that housed scattered intricacies fashioned from finger bones. It appeared as if the bones had been boiled clean. They had no meat or residue on them at all; in fact, they practically shined.
 

“What the fuck is it?” Muss whispered from the doorway. Tom raised a hand for silence. Muss obeyed.

Tom found the tower extremely disturbing. The sculpture was structurally sparing, but at the same time exuded an aura of inner dynamism—as if it was built with a specific function in mind.
Why would the slaughterhouse crew build something like this?
Tom wondered. Something was very wrong.

“These bones are—” -
caaa
- “healthy,” Doc continued. “The calcification is still intact, no—” -
caaa
- “rupturing of any kind. These bones came from people who were recently killed.”

Tom swallowed. “Like the slaughterhouse crew...”

Muss grabbed Bigelow. “Tear it down—”

“Don’t touch it,” Tom barked. Muss didn’t even look at Tom this time, and moved off, leading the men back down the hall toward the main facility, toward the grinders. Tom nudged Doc forward. After they were out, Tom closed the door quietly behind them.

The main facility was just as bare. The slaughterhouse had been cleared out. But something was different here, too. The grinders gleamed brightly under the fluorescents. The conveyer belts that used to transport extracted zombie victuals to the packing plant were stilled and wiped clean. The meat hooks, normally crowded with carcasses, hung neatly polished in rows. Even the forklifts were clean. The blood and grime Tom had always associated with slaughterhouses was nowhere to be seen. The machinery was immaculate. Tom ran his hand along the warm metal of the grinder.

Spotless.

From the look on Muss’s face, this was definitely out of the ordinary.
 

Tom felt a tap on his shoulder. When he turned, the priest held out a plastic baggie stuffed with holy wafers. “Maybe you better munch on one of these.”

“Maybe you’d better get out of my face,” Tom growled.

The priest raised his arms in mock surrender, then popped one of the wafers into his mouth and crossed himself. “Body of Christ: lame snack, but no sodium,” he chuckled.

The squad passed the machines and headed down the second hallway, walking in standard patrol formation, keeping close watch for any sign of movement. They hadn’t gone ten yards when Diane, walking point, stopped suddenly. She pointed to the wall crossing ahead of them, stepped carefully back.
 

Tom looked over and saw that the sprawling section of wall—half a city block in length, at least—was smeared with blood, bone, and guts in a chaotic, hellish mish-mash. The gore coated the entire wall in a smear so big, so obvious, that Tom had missed seeing it at first. They all had. The zombies must have broken loose, butchered the slaughterhouse crew, then somehow coated the walls with the remains.

Oddly, it reminded Tom of the time he’d visited the Vatican’s Sistine Chapel with his mother. The Chapel was a structure beautiful beyond description, with immense, expansive paintings covering the walls and ceilings. Mother had taught him how to appreciate the beauty and intricacy of the works, how to savor the discipline of the artists. Tom’s favorite was Michelangelo’s
Creation of Adam
. Man touched by God.

“Fuckin’ savages,” Muss said.

Tom shook his head slowly and stepped away. He moved back a few steps and looked at the wall as a whole. And then saw the pattern. Images emerged—objects first, then figures, a landscape. The smears weren’t random barbarism at all.
 

This is an actual painting
, Tom thought with growing horror.

The mood of the lower half was dark, instantly memorable.
 

Beyond the low horizon were spots of clouds, portrayed thick and viscous as clots of blood. Below the clouds, background waters shone red with sulfurous reflections. In the foreground, a sea of nude, swollen bodies writhed at the foot of a low, concrete stage. In one corner was a pile of tiny corpses, the forms clustered together like grapes, apparently the aftermath of some wanton act of infanticide. Some of the victims were alive—prostate, abused, covered with sores. Most were not. They laid interwoven, disjointed, combating each other, falling to pieces. From the apex of the clamor jutted a single arm, impossible to tell to whom it belonged, holding up the limp body of a child.