Zombie Bitches From Hell (11 page)

“She is very beautiful, Doc,” I said like a
lame brain. “I can see the attraction. It’s obvious.”

“You’re a thoughtful and considerate lad,” he
said. “If my son that is currently within her turns out like you,
I’ll be quite proud.”

“Well, that gives me the warm fuzzies,” said
Tim. A greenish slime oozed from Mallory’s nipples. Doc put his
finger in it.

“Interestingly, this has more nutritive value
than a human female’s breast milk. We’ve not determined all the
positive compounds in it—we’re terribly understaffed here—most of
these men have barely graduated from high school. That is, in fact,
my greatest fear, that their genes are not…well, to be frank, up to
snuff.”

“Bummer,” said Tim.

“Oh, it’s a bummer all right,” the Doc said.
“That’s why I was hoping Kent would stay here with us. You, too,
Tim, if it would make a difference to Kent; help him to be
persuaded to stay. I think you’ll see there are unlimited
possibilities for fun as well as work. Don’t tell me now. Think on
it. We’ve all the time in the world. Well, maybe a little less than
that, but you get my drift. I’ve got one more thing to show you
here before we move on. Step this way.”

He led us up the main stairs from the lobby
of the hospital. All those stupid posters were still up, asking
people to donate blood for the Red Cross, safe sex, obesity, all
the major defects of body and mind. What a bunch we were, I’m
thinking. Maybe Old Lady Walters was right about the end of the
world. I was beginning to not give a fuck.

At the end of a long hall on the first floor,
a dark green double door with armed guards on both sides opened to
another ward room like the one downstairs. Women were milling about
behind a wire fence. Some were strapped to the walls. A sign said,
BEWARE! ELECTRIC! with a yellow lightning bolt. The women were, of
course, all victims of the virus, but they were all pregnant. The
more advanced they were, it seemed, the more likely they would be
strapped to the wall.

“I’ll wait outside,” said Tim. I could see
that memory was overpowering him.

“Stay out of trouble, my boy. We’re not
patient with trouble makers,” Doc said. He chuckled. “I’ve made
rather a bad pun, haven’t I?”

“Yeah, that’s a funny one, Doc. Ha!” I
responded. “Patient. Get it, Tim?”

Tim left without a word, went into the
hallway.

“Don’t worry about Tim,” I said. “He’s a good
guy…just been through a lot, ya know.”

Doc Walters stood there eyeing me like I was
sitting at a poker table and just raised him twenty grand and he’s
thinking, “Is this donkey bluffing me or does he have the
nuts?”

“These are the ReGens who have been
successfully impregnated by our men. Each one of them receives the
best care we can give which, admittedly, is not the best for
obvious reasons. But they are fed and seen to. We clean them up
periodically and check on their progress by anesthetizing them.
It’s a simple matter to release nitrous oxide into the ward and
while they are under, we do our servicing. Very humane and very
productive.”

The ReGens were moaning and chittering—a
sound like the clicking of teeth together. They began to gather at
the electric fence and stare at us. Beautiful women with eyes the
color of white house paint, hair long, unkempt straight. They would
gather and stare—not quite blankly but as if trying to understand.
One of them looked at me and clenched her teeth, started to reach
for the wire but was stopped by another. I thought for a moment it
was a random act. I hoped it was. But were they regaining something
lost. If they were regenerating their bodies, why not their minds
as well? No way, I thought. No way.

Then I remembered those nuns. The way they
were able to speak and coordinate an attack.

“Look, Doc, we got to get going,” I said.

“Not yet, boys. I’ve asked you to stay and I
think you should see all the work we’re doing here. You can’t judge
a book by its cover, can you?”

Without waiting for us to respond or, more
likely, not giving a shit, he walked down the hall holding me by my
arm.

“Tim, my boy. Wait here for us a moment,
won’t you. Jack here will bring you to the reception area,” Doc
said. As if on cue, a tall, beefy orderly showed up. In felt tip
pen his name “Jack” was written on his white shirt which was three
sizes too small. His arms bulged like they had yams under the
skin.

“No, I think I’ll stay with you two,” said
Tim.

“Not this time, me boy,” Doc responded. “Now
don’t fret yourself. Kent will be down in a minute. I just need to
have a private chat with him. Jack, take Tim here down to
reception. Get him a donut and coffee.”

“We haven’t had donuts in three months, Doc,”
said Jack through his teeth.

“Well then, get him some refreshments.
Now.”

Tim made a pretense of not going along with
the Doc’s plan, but Jack’s iron grip was persuasive.

“I’ll be right down, Tim. It’ll be all right.
We’re among friends here. Right, Doc?” I said knowing full well
that dividing the troops, even if there were only two of them, was
not a good strategy. I had to bet that Doc Walters was not going to
kill either one of us. Not yet anyway, and time was on our side.
Even if we had to stay a while, we’d eventually get out of
here.

Tim reluctantly went with Jack. The Doc took
my arm again and led me to an adjacent ward. As he opened the door,
a scream so shrill came from a room across the hall that for a
moment I imagined that MG would be the only one to be able to hear
it.

“Oh, this is wonderful,” said the Doc. “Miss
Wilkinson is giving birth. Come this way.” I followed him through a
red door with a hand-scrawled sign that said, “Delivery—No
Admittance---This means U!”

There was a gurney in the middle of the room
under a huge flying saucer-shaped light that intermittently
flickered between too bright and too dim. On the table with her
feet strapped into stainless steel stirrups was a totally naked
Miss Wilkinson, a zombie bitch if there ever was one. She was lanky
as a beanpole, with flat tits that were both oozing the same green
mucousy slime that we had seen before. She was tied to the table
with bright orange bungee cords that looked fresh from Casey’s
Hardware down the street. Her body, despite its thin, emaciated
appearance—she must have looked like a walking stick figure before
the GaGa claimed her—was wiry tough but covered in that very pink,
very healthy looking skin that I’d come to see as the
distinguishing feature of the ReGens. Her face had teeth that were
too big for her mouth, that gave her a skull-like look, and her
mousey brown hair, the color of dust you find behind a
five-year-old entertainment center in your den the day you move
out, was tied with duct tape. The milky eyes were another
reminder.

My first view of her was her wide open
vagina, ringed by matted, dark brown hair. What looked like a
coconut stuck between her pussy lips was the top of the head of a
baby about to be born. Surrounding her were two dudes in white lab
coats that looked like they had been on duty at a Chicago
slaughterhouse. Just below her gaping snatch was a red plastic
beach bucket. She raised her head and let out a banshee scream and
two turds squeezed out of her ass and fell with a thick plop into
the bucket. The room filled with a cesspool odor that would have
made any mortal man vomit his last three meals. But men in the
times of the GaGa have grown immune to such improprieties. And I
learned that zombie bitches still had to shit, which meant she had
been feeding, but on what or whom I had yet to discover. Another
guy in a green operating room smock stood near her head, but
clearly out of reach of her snapping jaws which were chattering and
gnashing in between bouts of screaming and grunting, grunting that
sounded like an empty rubber garbage can falling down cement
steps.

“Come on, Laurie, now push. Be a good fucking
girl and push goddamn it!” shouted the guy at her head. “Push you
motherfucking cretin bitch!” He slapped her real hard on the side
of her head. She turned to snap at him but bit into empty air
coming away with nothing. His shredded shirt cuffs were proof
positive that he had had some close calls in the delivery room in
the past.

“You know her name?” I asked the Doc with a
considerable tone of surprise. This was a first.

“Oh, yes. She was my receptionist. Lived with
a man named Gaffney in unholy

un-matrimony. She complained about him almost
every day. He was very short and, shall we say, minutely endowed.
She would call him ‘DIY’ because he refused to pay anyone to do
anything. He’d rake the leaves, clean his own chimney, haul his own
garbage—a cheapskate. I suppose that’s why they never married. He
was a lucky one; he’d been a forest ranger when the disease struck
this area, chasing around in some state park counting bear turds or
some other important government funded project.

“He had impregnated her before one of his
week long absences. She’s the first case of a GaGa being pregnant
during the course of the disease although there are a lot of rumors
about that unfortunate situation; a good many in maternity wards
all over the world were infected with disastrous results, of
course. Most of them were killed as far as anyone knows, but little
Laurie here was not. I saved her by putting her body in a locked
morgue vault just when she died. You should have heard the racket
when she woke up in a drawer with the body of a wino that the cops
had found dead in a refrigerator box in Stanley Park downtown. She
struggled for a good five days. Ate most of the wino. When the food
ran out, she went into the hibernation state. How her unborn baby
has survived is a miracle yet to be explained. But you’re about to
witness medical history right here, right now.”

“Is her husband here? The forest ranger, I
think you said,” I asked.

“Oh no. Poor chap. They found him near his
Ford pick-up. Seems a troop of Girl Scouts were studying the great
outdoors where Mr. Gaffney was working. They came across him deep
in the woods but he almost made it out of there. Tracks of his were
found leading to his vehicle. Unfortunately, the girls were hot on
his trail. Troop 29 out of Forestdale. Seven little tykes and a
troop leader named Mary Rose LaBossa. They got him just when he
reached the truck. Yes, they did. Did quite a job on him. Ate all
the good parts, left his intestine full of his previous night’s
dinner hanging in a pine tree. Took his head with them. Might have
been a snack. Ate the thing clean; brains, eyeballs, tongue. The
whole shootin’ match, and dropped the skull from an overpass on
I-767. Trucker ran over it. Authorities only found the jaw. Mr.
Gaffney was identified through his dental records. Of course, by
the time all that happened, the world had pretty much gone to hell
in a bitch’s hand basket. Great detective work though. So, no, the
little asshole won’t be here to see his wifey give birth to…who
knows what.”

We both turned to watch the grim scene
unfolding in the room. The bitch was grunting regularly, sounding
like a race horse coming in toward the finish line. One of the
orderlies was spreading her legs apart by pressing on her thighs,
softly saying, “Come on, push, that’s it, push.” It would have been
quite a regular scene, I imagined, that had played out for
millennia, but this was different. The grunting in between the
snapping, the smell from the bucket and a new peculiar odor—a smell
of sweetness something like sweet and sour pork sauce was filling
the already too hot, too humid and too stinking room.

The Doc went over and pushed the orderly out
of the way.

“Let me take over,” he said

“Be my guest, Doc. She’s a tough one. Not
like the others.”

“You bet. This is medical history, boy, and
we’re making it.” The orderly looked at him like he was nuts, which
he most definitely was.

The Doc grabbed the baby’s head and started
turning it. Blood was oozing, the dark dead ones’ blood, that I had
gotten to see more times than anyone should have to. He was
literally unscrewing the kid from the ReGen’s vagina. The shoulders
appeared and Laurie or whatever her fucking name was, gave a scream
that could have curdled milk in every supermarket within a fifty
mile radius. I put both hands over my ears to muffle the ungodly
sound of it.

“Come on, you fucking bitch,” the Doc
shouted. He put his foot on the edge of the gurney and gave a final
tug. The baby slipped out with a resounding floop sound like
someone pulling his stuck boot out of three feet deep of mud. The
force of the pull caused the Doc to lose his balance and he fell
backward onto his ass, then flat on his back. The umbilical cord
was stretched taut as a tightrope. The bitch screamed and oozed
more blood from her snatch than I thought one undead woman could
hold. The placenta plopped into the bucket on top of the turds and
the new GaGa mother went silent emitting only a deep groan like the
sound you make when you’re trying to scare someone by making deep,
bellowing sounds into a paper towel cardboard tube.

An orderly started for the Doc to help him up
but the Doc started to holler almost as loud as the bitch. He
stopped in his tracks.

“Get it off me! Get it off me!” Doc shouted.
The baby, unfortunately for the Doc, was not a boy as he’d
surmised. It was a girl. Born with a full set of teeth that were
razor sharp. The baby bitch attacked the Doc and bit through his
pants into his balls. She was a piranha, a very hungry eight pound,
six ounce one and was feasting on the Doc. His blood was pouring
out through the tears in his pants.

“Get her off me,” he shouted, but it was too
late. I reached down to pull the baby off of him, but her head had
already made its way into his lower abdomen. He was grunting like
someone who hadn’t taken a crap in a year and was finally letting
it go. Nothing I could do. I wasn’t touching anything. I wanted out
of this place fast.