Zombie Bitches From Hell (24 page)

Cheers of moronic macho delight fill the air
as shit kicker rock continues to blare in the background. Rex steps
onto a small wooden platform shaped like the bow of a ship, which
dangles precariously over the dry, dusty ground under his massive
weight.

“Our first contestant is last week’s
champion, our dark-complected friend known simply as
Buckwheat!”

The crowd roars as Tim and I and the rest of
the audience inch forward, crowding for space around the rusty,
slimy railing. A garage door across the field cranks slowly up and
two muscular skinheads yank a tall black man out from the darkened
recesses under the walkway and throw him into the arena. They
quickly retreat as he turns and bangs helplessly against the
closing door.

The crowd taunts him now, openly harassing
him and tossing plastic cups at his head. He avoids the walls,
massive chest bare and clad only in too-tight cargo pants, no socks
or shoes.

His hair is matted and his eyes furious as he
reaches quickly for an axe handle and strides to the middle of the
field. His chest is scarred with long, pale swatches of missing
skin.

His eyes are wild with rage as the crowd
taunts him with racial slurs; he flicks them off with his free hand
while swinging the axe handle furiously with another. The vengeful
act whips the crowd into a lather of crying, cursing, jaunts and
jeers and applause as the crap music reaches its crescendo.

After a blistering guitar solo Rex breaks in
and spits, “Now, welcome to the stage that feisty little beauty
known as Bambi!”

I feel a mild vibration beneath my feet and
the man known only as Buckwheat looks in our general direction; his
eyes grow large and he backs away, hoisting the axe handle with
both hands now as in a split-second a furious bitch launches
herself at him, mid-field.

Bambi is lithe and limber and dressed in
tight, clingy yoga pants that read “Juicy” over her ample backside.
She’s bare-chested, tits bouncing firmly with every jog step she
takes. Her feet are encased in shiny pink running shoes, which kick
up tiny puffs of dust as she races to attack Buckwheat.

She reaches Buckwheat in seconds, fearlessly
launching herself at him with a speed that is nearly breathtaking,
almost surreal. Buckwheat, big as he is, falls back, stumbling as
she tears at his hair with bent fingers and fierce nails. Blood
spurts onto the ground, making a long, wet streak as at last
Buckwheat manages to slide his axe handle between him and Bambi. He
literally has to pry her off and down onto the dirt.

He wastes no time, kicking her in the ribs
and forcing her at least six feet across the grainy gray sand. She
barely flinches, leaping up and flying at him again, claws
outstretched, face a mask of rage and hunger, but he is already
swinging the axe handle and it connects with her stomach, sending
her reeling; but not for long.

They trade blows, but he is human – and
flawed. He is strong but slow; she is maniacally rageful and so
damn quick. Three minutes and his cargo shorts are in tatters and
splattered with blood, all of it his own, and everywhere he steps
blood falls onto the sand in thick, wet clumps.

Still he manages to hold her off with the
bloody end of his axe handle and she circles him warily, looking to
wear him down. The crowd grows restless, eager for a violent kill
and Rex readily responds.

“That Buckwheat is too damn good!” he opines
over the grainy loudspeaker, whipping the crowd into an instant
lather. “Let’s introduce some new blood! Gentleman, I give you
Sushi-Boy, our newest fighter in Zombie Fight Night!”

The crowd roars as a medium-sized Asian man
is forced from yet another grumbling garage door and into the
bloody arena. Buckwheat barely turns but Bambi senses an
opportunity and sprints for the new guy before he can reach for the
nearest chainsaw.

He sees her, panics and runs. The crowd boos,
pelting his half-naked body with plastic cups and cigarette butts
and chicken legs as he stumbles but retains his balance as he
finally reaches for an axe from the wall of weapons.

Bambi is right on his tail but out of nowhere
Buckwheat tackles her with a mighty crunching sound, making the
crowd go wild and relieving me as I watch Sushi-Boy scramble away
to relative safety.

He catches his breath, axe handle in the
dirt, hands on knees, before plodding back to help Buckwheat. By
now Bambi is all over the larger man, tearing at his torn
shoulders, yanking at his bloody biceps when Sushi-Boy
approaches.

She senses fresh meat and springs from
Buckwheat, leaving him sprawled in the dirt, grown muddy with blood
as he shakes his head and struggles to his feet. Sushi-Boy
approaches but is given pause by a ravenous Bambi, literally
licking her lips of the bigger man’s blood as Sushi-Boy stands,
trembling, with the axe in hand.

The crowd stills, realizing what’s about to
happen. It’s like every skinhead in the stands knows that Sushi-Boy
is doomed, outmatched, even before he starts. The man is thin and
obviously in shape, but his face is gentle and passive; he’s no
match for this warrior woman with the glazed eyes and bloody claws
at the end of each finger.

It would be like me standing down there,
holding an axe, wondering if I’m getting ready to use the right
end. Some warriors are born, others are made; and some men are
never meant to draw blood.

Bambi inches forward, fakes left to draw
Sushi-Boy into committing with a massive swipe of his axe and, once
she’s free of it, she dips in right and slashes at his face,
ripping off flesh down to the bone.

Sushi-Boy howls and drops to his knees, hands
trembling and rushing to stem the tide of blood spurting from the
exposed flesh just below his nose. Bambi gnaws on the thick flap of
skin, licking her lips before crouching to bite into his neck,
growing more rabid with each ounce of blood and tearing back and
forth like a bulldog into a throw pillow; Sushi-Boy goes limp and
pale, his body and the sand beneath him drenched with blood as
Bambi rips him limb from limb.

Her tits are slick with blood, her neck awash
in gore as she pauses to relieve Sushi-Boy of his lower jaw with a
swift, sickening “thwock” sound, like your Uncle Mort stepping on
Puddy Tat road kill.

She yanks down his pants and gobbles his dick
and balls as the crowd cheers and whoops like a bunch of fucking
rednecks, which they are, at a conservative republican rally, which
they are not. She is so intent on devouring Sushi-Boy limb by limb
that she ignores Buckwheat, who after creeping up on her finally
has the drop until some skinhead on the audience screams, “Look
out, you bitch!”

Bambi hears Buckwheat and ducks. Buckwheat
swings and misses and is so intent he loses his balance, falling in
the muddy dirt at Bambi’s feet. She licks her lip as he writhes on
the floor, desperate to rise from the muck and mud, hands gripping
the soft, wet, bloody sand as Bambi launches herself at another
tasty human morsel.

At the last minute his hand finds Sushi-Boy’s
fallen axe; he grabs it, whips it around and slams it into Bambi’s
neck. It sinks halfway in, giving her a crooked, bent expression as
she lands with a shudder to the ground. Still writhing, she wails
and scratches as Buckwheat stands, yanks out the axe and
methodically chops her to bits.

The crowd roars, then boos, until at last Rex
breathes heavily into the microphone and barks, “Sorry, Buckwheat;
the crowd has spoken. Looks like one bitch isn’t enough for you,
so… let’s double the fun!”

With that, two garage doors open, revealing
two starving zombies fresh on the scent of drawn blood. Buckwheat
wisely crouches near Sushi-Boy’s body, standing behind the crumpled
comrade as the zombies tear toward the living man only to be
distracted by the bloody remains of poor Sushi-Boy.

As the zombies crouch to feast on fresh meat
Buckwheat inches closer to the wall of weapons, grabbing the
nearest chainsaw and clinging to a garage door as if for
protection.

But it’s not protection he seeks. Instead,
Buckwheat ignores the feasting zombies, focusing instead on the
nearest garage door. A whiff of apprehension flutters to the crowd
and my gut feels funny.

Cheers turn to jeers as I yank Tim back away
from the railing, our precious places quickly filled in by curious
skinheads, all flinging cups down at Buckwheat. I drag Tim down the
rickety steps and pass by just as the bloodied warrior jams the
chainsaw blade into the garage door in a fire of sparks and slices
through the lock.

Shots ring out, ricocheting off the flimsy
tin door as it flies up to reveal a dozen hungry, ravenous zombies
who don’t rush toward Buckwheat, who don’t mind the bullets
whizzing past their heads, who don’t rush the stands but who
instinctively begin climbing the struts attached to the nearest gun
tower directly above.

“What are they doin’?” Tim asks as we hit the
ground running.

“I think they’re trying to escape,” I grunt,
sprinting for Rex’s tent where he’d casually tossed his taser after
silencing Bambi less than an hour earlier. I grab it and crouch
toward the main gate.

The siren is wailing again, shots ringing
out, pandemonium raging as I crouch behind Rex’s tent to watch six
bitches storm and silence the two skinheads in the gun tower. Even
from the ground I can see blood coat the struts holding it up, and
then the excitement as the female zombies begin tossing body parts
to their partners down below.

The stands are clearing now, skinheads racing
around and I spot Rex charging for his tent.

Tim opens his mouth to draw Rex’s attention
but I silence him, yanking him down behind an oil drum as the camp
leader storms into his tent and emerges seconds later with a rifle
in each hand.

His face is a hard mask, sweat beading at his
temples, mottled blood still thick across the gash left by
Bambi.

Another skinhead, one of the motley crew
who’d dined with us earlier, storms up and Rex literally throws a
rifle at him. “Stay close,” Rex barks. “Those bitches have finally
figured out how to get out of here—”

A loud smashing interrupts him as both men –
plus Tim and I – turn to see the guard tower toppling beneath the
weight of at least a dozen raging, smashing, slashing zombies.

“Shit,” Rex barks. “Those bitches ain’t
trying to get out, they’re letting more zombies in!”

A horde of bitches that have obviously been
milling around outside the camp for God knows how long breach the
gaping hole left by the toppled sentry tower. Rex’s second in
command unleashes a volley of gunfire at the streaming army as Tim
stands, stumbling forward and calling out “Rex! Rex!” as if the
skinhead leader can protect him.

Turning on his heel, Rex fires three slugs at
Tim without flinching. I crouch behind the oil drum, staring in
disbelief as Rex’s beady eyes zero in on me. He grins, mouth agape
and full of those rotten teeth, aiming at the top of my head when
Buffy emerges from the maddening crowd, eyes red with rage and
leaping toward his tattooed throat, tearing out a fist-size chunk
and bathing in the stream of blood jutting from his jugular as if
it were shower water.

While she’s occupied I grab Rex’s discarded
rifle, climb into the oil drum and slide the top over. I crouch
into a ball, clutching the gun, waiting for the cheerleader zombie
to remember me, listening as feet stumble and fall, crack and bleed
all around me, the sounds of the infestation brutal and
damning.

I peer between the heavy lid of the drum and
blink at the scope of the violence spread out before me; it’s like
mini-Armageddon, a hundred skinheads overrun by twice as many
undead, all voracious in appetite and ruthless in their level of
violence.

Skinheads scream like little girls as the
bitches tear them apart, leaving the leftovers for their comrades,
who shuffle along after the fact and gnaw the fleshy bones
clean.

It takes less than an hour for the women to
completely consume the skinhead camp. My feet bathed in heating
oil, I am spared merely because the diesel fumes that threaten to
overpower me also mask the sweat, the stench, the fear that would
otherwise have drawn them straight to my hiding place like a hound
dog to a escaped convict.

I don’t know which is worse; the violence of
the infestation or the eeriness of its aftermath. To watch these
dead women, sated and fat, stumble around appreciatively, bumping
into each other, licking their lips, already sniffing for the next
meal, is to watch the planet’s future dissolve like Alka-Seltzer in
a glass of warm water. Plop plop fizz fizz, we’re fucked.

The food supply exhausted, the bones clean,
the skinheads decimated down to the last femur and knucklebone, the
zombies begin shuffling off, one by one, led by two blondes in the
direction of the next meal.

The Massachusetts Berkshire countryside
provides them plenty of cover as they move westward from the camp,
not so much growling as mewling.

It takes many more hours for the bitches to
make their exit than it did to waste the entire camp, and only when
it is dark and the grounds have been quiet for at least two hours
do I dare slide off the top from the oil drum and slip silently
out.

My legs are cramped and sore from the hours
spent in such a small place, my boots drenched in diesel oil, my
head pounding from the fumes that, quite certainly, saved my
life.

I crouch toward the nearest tent, then one
more, then another, staying close to cover lest a zombie with her
keen eyes and even keener sense of smell sniff me out and snuff me
out. I stumble on the orientation tent, where Tim and I had been
deloused and redressed less than twelve hours earlier. I’m about to
get showered and dressed in cleaner duds when I hear leaves
rustling. Shit, I think, they’re back. I hide stupidly behind a
rack of clothing.