Valley of Death & Zombies Read online

  Jeremiah looked for medical supplies in the bathroom closet and was befuddled by the sight of so many cigar boxes stacked neatly on every shelf. There must have been more than a hundred of them and he couldn't help opening one to discover the contents. It was filled with dirty twenty and fifty dollar bills, bound together with rubber bands. He closed the cigar box lid and left it alone, with a moment’s hesitation. Having always been good at math, his brain switched automatically to calculator mode and he tried to estimate the possible amount of money kept in the bathroom closet. Estimating the number of bills was nearly impossible, but after ten seconds he guesstimated each box could contain two thousand dollars assuming the denominations remained consistent for each box.

  The man outside missing half his face could have two hundred thousand dollars in here, he thought, shaking his head. He closed the closet door and turned to the medicine cabinet over the sink. “Lucky for him I'm not a thief.”

  Actually it was lucky for everyone, in a two hundred meter radius, he wasn't a thief. Charlie had rigged a, weight sensitive bomb under the boxes. Taking one or two boxes wouldn't have set it off, but anything over five pounds removed would have. Not being a believer in doing things half way he had used ten blocks of C-4 plastic explosives, assuming if anyone ever stole the money he would already be dead.

  Jeremiah found the medicine cabinet full of various kinds of pills in clear plastic containers with no labels on them, two empty tubes of toothpaste, a straight razor, some anti-fungal creams, an ancient looking condom package, and a small box of adhesive bandages. Grabbing the bandages he was disgusted to see a pile of old, foul smelling, filthy, towels in a pile by the wall. He picked up the least crusty feeling one and started back out when he heard a short gurgling scream, followed by an almost ear splitting scream seconds later, from just outside the trailer.

  Tripping over Skynyrd, in the dark hallway, and not realizing what it was, he ran to the front room holding the towel and bandages. More screams right behind the door made him stop with his hand already on doorknob. Shuddering, he instead leaned over to move aside the curtain and peer outside. He only looked for a second before pulling the foul smelling towel to his face and tried not to scream and or throw up.

  After a moment, Jeremiah looked back through the window and prayed silently. Issac sat on Charlie's lap, with his legs spread on either side of the lounge chair the badly wounded man was on. In the bright glare of the flood lights he saw his friend’s eyes were bright red where they were white just a few minutes earlier. His mouth dribbled blood as he pulled on the hurt man’s face. He ripped off a large strip of skin, and shoved it in his mouth, while snarling like a crazed animal. Jeremiah saw both table leg clubs leaning against the lounge chair outside and bit his lip as he tried to formulate a plan.

  Charlie hurt his throat screaming and was desperately willing himself to pass out, faint, or preferably die. Unfortunately, he continued to live much his dismay. Feeling his face being ripped off, the best he was able to manage was a deep gurgling whimper as he closed his remaining eye and cried. The monstrosity sitting on his lap, dressed like a preacher boy, made joyful noises while smacking his lips and seemed oblivious to the chattering Cha-ka who was watching her master be devoured piece by piece from the trailer's roof.

  Charlie felt the man grab a loose flap, of his left cheek and pull upward. Issac grunted loudly, then Charlie was forced to see again. He had ripped the skin up, leaving the entire front of his skull peeled back like a tangerine. His eyelid went with the rest of his face and his remaining eye looked in every direction in rapid succession. Unable to close his eye any longer, he stared at the man chewing on his face. My face. It's like a mask. It looks just like a rubber Halloween mask. This is not happening. Charlie thought, as he felt his facial nerve endings screaming in agony.

  Apparently something about the way his hair tasted did not appeal to Issac and he stopped eating when he reached it. Spitting out chunks of hair and skin Issac stood and ran to the stream. He knelt on his hands and knees and drank from it.

  Jeremiah saw Issac drinking from the stream and decided to take a chance. He opened the door to the trailer and bent down and felt the man’s heart continuing to beat. It took just a brief glance, at the mostly skinless headed man, to know he was still all too aware of his surroundings. His eye rolled around, in his peeled face, as he gurgled pitifully. Jeremiah knew moving a man with injuries as extensive as this was usually a bad idea, but he strongly suspected dragging him inside must be better than the alternative of letting him be eaten alive by his former friend. He slipped his hands under Charlie's thighs and back, and lifted him easily as Issac continued to drink and spit into the water.

  He wasn't really very heavy and within seconds he'd managed to carry him into his trailer and set him down in a ratty old red and black plaid recliner. Jeremiah looked back outside, at his oak club, and then at his monstrous friend rolling around in the stream. Caught between two conflicted options he couldn't move. Should I help this man who was sure to die of his injuries no matter what or go out and take an oak club and bash in Issac's head. Charlie gurgled loudly behind him and Jeremiah closed the door to the trailer and locked it.

  “Don't worry. I know it hurts, but don't worry. I won't let you die, just try and relax. I'm going to see if there's something in the kitchen I can use to help you. Just... just try and relax and stop looking at me like that.” Jeremiah whispered.

  The eye followed him as he walked away then spotting an empty plastic cup he gently placed it over Charlie's remaining eye, so it would stop staring at him.

  Charlie was not amused by the kid's placing a cup over his eye and managed a slight twitch of his head and the cup fell into his lap after Jeremiah had gone into the kitchen.

  Skynyrd smelled blood as it slithered into the living room. The snake smelled Charlie and the aroma of fresh blood was intoxicating as it hurried toward the recliner. Charlie stared at his python, as it climbed up in the recliner, and heard the young man looking through cabinets in the kitchen. His eye rolled frantically as he tried to scream, but what came out was just a barely audible wet gurgling sound as Skynyrd began wrapping itself around his waist. It wasn't the first time it had tried to squeeze him to death. Over the years it'd squeezed and broken a pair of prosthetic legs and a few ribs, yet always before he'd always managed to teach it who was boss. Pans rattled behind him as the kid kept looking for something in the cupboards. What he hoped to find Charlie had no idea as the snake completed a fourth lap around his torso. His eye looked down and he saw Skynyrd's head rising so they were scaly face to skinless face.

  The bathroom was cleaner than an operating room compared to the kitchen, Jeremiah thought as he searched for something. He wasn't sure what he hoped to find as he felt almost in shock, while he tried not to think about just how wrong things had gone. His best friend had turned into a homicidal monster and nearly killed a man who miserably failed trying to kill himself. Out of ideas, he leaned against the cabinet and closed his eyes in prayer. God, what should I do?

  Charlie knew he was dead. He couldn't feel his ribs snapping, but he heard them and then saw a dead man walk in from the hallway.

  “Told ya buddy, Karma is a bitch.” Carl said, looking like he had when he'd last seen him except for the giant bloody hole where his chest used to be before the mine he stepped on had gone off. “Tsk tsk.” Carl tapped the snake on it's nose with a finger and the snake seemed dazed and stopped moving.

  “You think you want to die, don't ya Chuckles? You think anything’s got to be better than what you're feeling right now. Go on admit it.” Carl looked chagrined. “Oh that's right you've managed to paralyze yourself. You may not know it, my perverted little friend, but that might have been the smartest thing you've ever done in your whole pathetic excuse for a life.

  There's no secrets in the afterlife buddy. All those nasty things you did have been known since the moment you did them. Oh, by the way, in case you were worried about that little gi
rl you raped Kim Soo. You remember her, don't you, one nut?” Carl's ghost, looked down at Charlie's pants where the blood still oozed out of his remaining testicle. “Maybe instead of one nut, I could just call you Charlene? I have good news for you, Charlene. She escaped in one of the boat lifts, at the end of the war, and got herself adopted into a good family. Even managed to earn outstanding grades in school and eventually became a doctor. Of course, she can never have children because of the hideous things you did to her that night. But you wanna hear something funny?” Carl asked, leaning closer as Charlie's eye followed him.

  “Even after all the shit and Hell you put her through she still managed to lead a joyful productive life surrounded by people who love her. And who are you surrounded by Chuckles? Looks like you're surrounded by one bad ass hungry snake to me.” Carl laughed, stood up and smiled down at him.

  “Well time's a wasting old buddy, so let me cut to the chase here. Remember when I said paralyzing yourself was the smartest thing you'd ever done. I wasn't kidding. You are destined for Hell, pal. I'm not saying you don't deserve it, but thanks in part to that kid over there in your kitchen the powers above wanted to offer you a lifeline. And lucky me, I get the pleasure of offering it.” Carl used two fingers, picked up an ancient badly stained magazine full of photographs of naked children, then set it back down so the front cover was hidden and shook his head. He stared at Charlie, with a look of complete disgust, for several seconds then continued.

  “You can choose door number one, and Skynyrd here will finish your miserable excuse of a life in less than a minute and have an upset stomach for a week, I'm sure. Plus you'll get to suffer for all eternity in Hell.” he smiled and leaned closer. “You know how preachers, my dad included would describe it as a lake of fire and how your immortal soul will be tormented for all eternity? Well, my perverted little friend, that doesn't even begin to come close to just how hideous it truly is.” Carl leaned back and ran his fingers softly over Skynyrd's head. The snake's tongue flicked the air again. Charlie's eye looked around frantically as he gurgled a loud a series of nonsensical syllables.

  “Sorry Charlie, but I don't speak faceless Chomo.” Carl said, looking down in disgust. “Now where was I? Oh now I remember, you can choose door number two. I can get Jeremiah's attention and he might be able to save you. And here's the really good part; you get to spend the rest of your life atoning for your sins and trying to become a good person. Personally I have no doubt you'll choose door number two and then try to delude yourself that I was a hallucination brought on by shock or something and go back to being what your best at- A degenerate perverted worm of a man. Bet you're thinking a lot about that aren't ya? Is this really a ghost or just a figment of your demented imagination. Who knows? Hurry up and choose Chuckles because even though I may be a ghost your nasty trailer is really creeping me out.”

  Charlie looked at the floor and his head shuddered a little bit from left to right.

  Carl rubbed at his eyes in an exaggerated pantomime of crying “Oh boo hoo, I lost my legs and an arm. Oh pitiful me, I lost a girl I thought I was in love with because she let me fuck her before she stole my van. Bless my heart, I lost a marijuana garden in the middle of nowhere while real living people with real lives fight for their very survival. Hurry up and choose Chuckles, Skynyrd's coming out of her daze and I've got to hit the road. Just think your choice, I'll know what you choose. Oh, one last thing Chuck, if you choose to live there's no guarantee you won't end up in Hell anyway so Caveat Emptor old buddy.”

  CHAPTER 11

  Gripping the dusty steering wheel tightly, with her wrinkled arthritic hands, Mrs. Remlap's face was a combination of snarling insanity and confusion with more than a dash of outright terror thrown in. She bore little resemblance to the members of NASCAR racing, but the old Chevy Nova roared down the trailer park road fishtailing with it's tires squealing sending a plume of dust in it's wake just the same. Her eyesight was not very good during the day and just before the crack of dawn, with one headlight smashed out during a collision with wooden crate, it was safe to say as her late husband often would about other poor drivers she was bat shit blind.

  The engine coughed uneasily when she slowed down to make a left turn and headed for the trailer park's exit. A jackrabbit standing on it's hind legs stared at the one headlight as the car picked up speed. It roared closer with it's motor shattering the early morning quiet, as music played louder after she her failed attempt to turn off the stereo. In her terrified state of mind, she accidentally turned the volume to its highest setting. The right front tire spun past the furry animal, within literally a whiskers distance, and quickly continued into the darkness.

  The jackrabbit twitched it's nose, blinked, then looked over it's shoulder, and felt running footsteps coming toward it. The running things smelled of death, madness, and man- three things it didn't want any contact with. It raced to it's burrow, and was safe inside, as it heard the running footsteps pass by. It closed it's eyes and shuddered in the dark safety of it's home.

  The car ran over an old tricycle decorated with long faded pink tassels hanging out of the handle bars. It became wedged under the front bumper and a horribly loud screeching and scraping sound accompanied the disjointed bucking and shaking of the car. She glanced at the dashboard and saw red lights flashing back at her. OIL, TEMP, CHECK ENGINE, and SEATBELT, warning lights tinted the light that covered her face to bright red while sparks flew from under the car, as it kept dragging the firmly wedged tricycle down the road. The engine coughed and bucked harder as she turned toward the exit. A jumble of wrecked cars, junk, and running men blocked most of the exit. Her jaw dropped open and the adhesive holding her upper dentures in place failed utterly. The dentures, bought on sale in 1988 at half price, fell out of her gaping mouth and landed on her robe as several dozen men quickly ran toward the car. She hit the brakes, without thinking, as the first men began to climb on the hood of her car.

  The engine made one enormous fart of a backfire and died. From the eight track stereo, Jerry Reed kept singing about someone named Amos Moses as she seized the crank and began quickly rolling up the window.

  Billy heard the enormous backfire, and country music, coming from somewhere toward the park's exit as he reached for the BB rifle. Having already pumped it up he pointed it at the nearly skinless face of the man staggering toward him. The barrel of the rifle was hard to hold steady, as he laid on the ground with his foot still wedged between the old boards, it kept swinging as he tried to aim. Grandpa told him last summer the trick to good aiming was to take a deep breath and slowly let it out and when you're almost done breathing out just squeeze the trigger. “Never pull on it. Just squeeze it gently.” he had said. “Squeeze it slow and easy like you were dancing with a pretty girl.” Billy had been grossed out by the idea of having anything to do with a girl, let alone dancing, but smiled slightly as he squeezed.

  A tiny BB exploded through the man’s right eye with an soft splat sound. Grayish green slime erupted and ran down his face, as Boris barked somewhere nearby. As the one eyed man staggered backward, reaching up to his face, Billy pulled harder on his stuck foot and heard the boards creaking. Setting down his, rifle he reached down and grabbed his leg and tried to think of himself as one his favorite superheroes- the Hulk.

  Tugging on his leg, with both hands, he grunted loudly “Hulk smash puny boards!” and felt a sharp pain accompanied by a cracking of wood as he pulled his boot free of the rotten boards. The one eyed man stumbled forward again as Billy rolled off the wood and got shakily back to his feet.

  Boris yelped loudly and ran toward him and the man he'd shot in the eye. As the first rays of sunlight lit the misty clearing, he saw the dog running toward him while being chased by another man. He barked and leapt easily over the hanging chain, knocked the one eyed zombie to the boards and landed on top of him with a goofy look on his furry face.

  If they had hired actors it may have taken twenty, maybe thirty, attempts to get that pe
rfect landing and the first rays of morning sunlight landing on Boris's face while perched atop the confused flailing one eyed man.

  Billy said “Good boy, now come-” he stopped speaking when a quick series of loud cracks and pops came from the wooden well cover as it began to disintegrate.

  “No!” he shouted, dropping his rifle, and reached for the scrambling dog as the one eyed man fell into the well. There was a muffled splash and a bewildered series of grunts from below, yet Billy hardly noticed. Diving onto the dusty ground, he reached out and snagged the dog’s front left leg as the rest of it's body disappeared from view. His eyes watered as splashes and grunts came from the bottom of the well, where several rotten boards and a one eyed monstrosity had landed.

  Boris whimpered in terror and confusion, as Billy held his paw with both hands. He held tight even after the man, with half an arm missing, fell over the old chain that surrounded the long abandoned well and crawled toward him.

  Mrs. Remlap took a deep breath, locked the doors and slipped her upper dentures back in his mouth. She then took a moment to shut off the stereo. The men, or remnants of men, beat on her car as she turned the ignition key. The engineers in Detroit would have been proud of their creation as the engine roared back to life without a moment’s hesitation.

  “Thank you Sweet Jesus.” she said, putting the car in reverse, as weak morning sunlight began to filter down. The badly deformed tricycle was dragged, back with the car, for a few feet making a hideous screeching noise then broke free. Like a twisted example of what many art experts might consider a form of modern art now being displayed in museums around the world, the tricycle rolled a few feet and stopped.