Eat'em (23 page)

In Memoriam

A special thank you to those Immortal few who have sacrificed to make this book possible. These individuals have contributed to the making of Eat’em, either financially or through their time and energy. They deserve my sincerest gratitude and have earned recognition in the pages of this story.

Financiers:

Lisa Fuqua

Ronnie Monroe

Chelsea Mirelez

Dallas Webster

Sherri Jo Morris Webster

(Continued)

Deborah Ahlstrom

Trey Kegley

Na Lo

Amy Dominguez

Cameron Webster*

Travis M. Webster

Mark Bauer

Brentt Morris*

Nikki Kube

Matthew Deo

Trevor Dyllan Schreckengost*

Mike Morris*

Terry Webster*

The band
Hello Jamie
for their likeness and lyrics to the song
Pocket Knife
as read in Chapter 43:

West Albaladejo – singer/songwriter

Ronnie “The Rooster” Monroe – guitarist

Jordon Lennon Downes – bassist

Mark Mirelez – drummer

Early contributors
:

Mary Duncanson

Von Jocks

(Continued)

Darrell Morehouse

Amanda Stone

Jace Roscoe

Becky Crook

Natasha Smith

Author Photo:

Darryl Erby

Test Readers and Editors:

Dallas Webster

Terry Webster*

Jason Boyd

3D Render Eat’em Art:

Jaime Bengzon

Cover Artists:

Milan Jovanovic*

Benjamin Roque*

Friends and Encouragers:

Patrick Valentine Rivers

Caleb Fonville*

Dale Gomes*

Shannon Ramsey

Benjamin Cheng

Nick Scharold

Lee McLendon

Derek Flagg

Kristian May

Byron Talley

Oren Hammerquist

David House*

Webster & Morris family

There are many others whose kind words and encouragement have helped guide me through the five year journey of creating these characters and writing this story. These are the names of people who specifically helped make this story what it is, whether through their kindness, generosity, or brutal honesty. Some of them impacted the story directly, and some of them had a more subtle impact on myself or the inspiration within these pages. All of them, however, are owed a debt of gratitude.

*Denotes only the most faithful of contributors, whose generosity has earned them a character specifically named after them within the pages of this novel. Sure, most of them died, but it’s a small price to pay for immortality.

Coming Soon

Get’em

The drive to my old home was uncharacteristically quiet. I sat up front with Val, while the lieutenant slept in the back seat. His chest rose and fell rhythmically, each breath a trial in and of itself. Every so often one of Bellecroix’s inhalations would catch and for a moment it appeared as if he wouldn’t breathe again – but he did – his airway would open with a choppy gasp and he would fade right back into a drawn out lungful of air.

Valentine drove with the window down. His shaggy copper hair whipped across his face as we soared through deserted roads, weaving between one accident and the next, heading south on residential streets calm and panicked all at once.

Eat’em lay across the dashboard in front of me, poking his tail through the cracked window, watching it bob against wind current like a lure swaying from the bow of a fishing boat.

The cab was reticent. Hope dissipated. The world outside reeled in shock from sudden pestilence. My heart swelled and I fought back the tears, which scratched at the back of my crimson eyes, threatening to make them redder.

“Can we listen to some music?” I asked. “The quiet is going to drive me mad.”

Val clicked on the radio without a word. The omnipresent gods of irony controlled the airwaves today.
Down with the Sickness
by Disturbed tore into my eardrums, as my uncle’s thousand dollar speakers burst to life.

I turned it off with the same immediacy, but the damage had been done… within seconds, Eat’em began to hum the tune as if the song were still playing. I could almost hear the words “Madness is the gift that has been given to me.” It was the worst song I could think of to get stuck in the pint-size demon’s head.

Dixie still lived in the same apartment. It was the same one she lived in when we met, and the same one I moved into before getting arrested for the homicide of Dr. Reeder. The small single-room domicile wasn’t anything to be excited over before, but in recent history it’d fallen to the destruction of vandalism as much as time. The words “Devil’s Bride” were spray painted across the door in bright red. Windows were cracked, some shattered out completely, spatters of dried egg spotted the side of the building.

“When’s the last time you checked in on her?” I asked Val as we helped Lieutenant Bellecroix up a small set of stairs leading to the front entry.

“A couple weeks ago,” he said.

“And it was like this?” I knocked on the door, overwhelmed with more emotion than I could handle. I was exhausted and saddened, but excited to see my purple-haired beauty.

“Not like this, no,” Val said. “But we haven’t exactly had a large following of fans due to your dumb ass.”

“My dumb ass was trying to prevent this,” I knocked, ready to embrace Dixie the moment she opened the door.

“Good job that,” Val said. “You might as well have jumpstarted it.”

“He was our neighbor for how long?” I said, “You could be like them. You could just as easily have been added to his army of freaks.”

“But I wasn’t.”

I knocked again.

“A little gratitude would be nice,” I said.

“Gratitude?” Val said, “Ha! Okay… How ‘bout, thanks Jacob, great job on ending the world early. Thanks Jacob, life is so much better now I’m one of the most hated men in America. Yeah, telling women I’m related to the famous Jacob Caleb Brook really does a number on their panties.”

“I get it.”

“No, no, no,” he said, “Least of all let me say this! Thanks Jacob, the death of my friends, and teachers, and coworkers is going to do wonders in conjunction with all the hard work I’ve done for the degree I will now never receive, because even if all the great and wonderful things Jacob Brook has done for the world, somehow… by the grace of Jacob, of course… smooths itself over, I’m sure every university nationwide is going to jump through hoops to have me attend their campus. So, pardon me for not expressing my immediate gratitude to you for placating my most deeply desired hopes of being loathed amongst the few survivors of your insipid fantasies of grandeur. Forgive me for not praising your heroics when all I’ve done is put myself and everything I care about at risk protecting you. How could I be so selfish?”

“Dude,” I said. “I’m sorry…”

We stood in silence on my old doorstep for what felt like ages – each of us under one of Bellecroix’s limp arms as the officer drifted in and out of caring about our loving feud.

“I didn’t know, Val,” I said. “I’m just trying to do what’s right.”

“Yeah, well me too.”

Bellecroix mumbled, “I’ve never wanted to die this badly.” To which, Eat’em added, “Amen, yes.”

I knocked one last time before checking the handle.

The door of the Devil’s Bride opened to an unthinkable nightmare. A mosaic of blood and gore strewn about in a physical rendition of madness. Bloody scribbles combined together on the far wall to create a giant collage, which when observed from the front doorway formed a three letter word.

WAR

Are you worried your loved one has succumbed to the Grotesque Infection? Use this quiz to find out:

1. What color is your loved one’s eyes?
   
1. Blue, brown, green, or hazel
   
2. Blood red
   
3. Jet black
   
2. Which activity best fits your loved one?
   
1. Play video games or watch television
   
2. Play baseball or other sports
   
3. Clean obsessively
   
3. Whose your loved one’s favorite philosopher
   
1. They don’t care about philosophy
   
2. Wilhelm Godfried Leibniz
   
3. All of them
   

1. Describe your loved one’s complexion:
   
1. Old and wrinkled
   
2. Young and smooth
   
3. It’s like something is living under their skin
   
4. Red and covered in quills
   
2. What did your loved one eat for lunch
   
1. A sandwich
   
2. Three energy drinks and some antacids
   
3. Another loved one
   

ANSWER KEY:

If the answer to any of these questions is C there’s a good chance your loved one has been infected. If you circled C more than once, you should probably consider leaving their presence as soon as humanly possible. If the answer to number 5 was C, you should call the proper authorities regardless; there is definitely something wrong with your loved one. Seriously.

Chase Webster was born in Germany and grew up across the United States. He wrote for the Shorthorn Newspaper and is the author of
LA Fisher
and
Eat’em
. He is currently an Airman in the US Air Force and specializes in munitions storage and maintenance.  Recently he served in Operation Enduring Freedom.

Chase lives in Texas with his wife Ornanik “Nikki” Webster (Bug), his daughter Olivia “Little” Webster (Monkey), and their dog Hershel Thibodeaux “Tibby” Bellecroix (Bubba).

SURVIVAL NOTES: