Storm of the Undead Page 14

  Hands slammed against the security door, informing me some of the undead had returned their attentions to the center.

  “Can't go back,” I whispered, deliberately not looking at the dying man at my feet. Not that it helped much as I could still hear him whimpering and making pained noises that made my blood run cold. “Forward into the mouth of hell.”

  Part Two

  The Circus Minimus

  Chapter Eleven

  Sodom and Gomorrah would blush

  When the city planners first laid eyes upon the presentation for the West Palm Beach Convention Center, it was a given their beady little eyes were alight with dollar signs. Not merely from the revenue to be made from the center, but from the vast possibilities for embezzlement, bribes, and extortion. Over the span of the center’s life, every conceivable group of businessmen, entertainers, and sports team waltzed through the area, drawing millions of dollars of revenue. At least twenty percent of the center’s income had more in common with the custodial staff than with the city planners, as in undocumented. Large amounts of unreported cash afforded the planners a lifestyle envied by the head’s of drug cartels.

  However, as depraved as the planners were in their private lives, even they could not have imagined the orgy of violence and moral insanity visited upon the center by the Circus Minimus. In truth, though, the planners could hardly be faulted for their lack of vision as the members of the Circus Minimus took it as a personal challenge to top the twisted actions of their comrades. Epic acts of one-up-man-ship were not only the order of the day, they were encouraged by Bad Eddie. For his part, Bad Eddie often set the standard for insanity through his gladiatorial spectacles, principally by allowing the Surgeon to have his way with the first three would be survivors. Once the least respected aircraft technician in Jupiter, Milo Fitzroy had blossomed from his previous incarnation of an introverted scarecrow to the living avatar of the Angel of Death. In those quiet moments between massacres, Milo would reflect on the factors which transformed him from a closeted serial killer to a post apocalyptic God of Death. Stressors designed to break his spirit had been applied to Milo from the earliest days of his life, but instead of shattering his will and personality Milo drew great strength from his sufferings. Strength which permitted Milo to detach himself from the pathetic societal boundaries imposed by lesser minds upon the intellectually enlightened. More than once, the feckless morons assigned to educate Milo were overhead to state the lanky boy, and later young man, was the most intellectually gifted in whatever class he found himself in. Pride, a rare and treasured emotion, swelled within Milo whenever he overheard the words, even when the inevitable follow up statement of emotional instability hit the ground.

  Fools.

  Breathing deeply, Milo began the first of several dynamic strength exercises he remembered his thought processes as a child. In the third grade, Milo understood not only the meaning of the words, but the meaning behind the words. Not that he believed them for a moment. No, not Milo. Unlike his cootie fearing classmates, Milo had already developed a certain mental and emotional discipline. It aided his personal quest for self discipline that any outburst, of any kind in his home would be punished, harshly. So harshly, in fact, he would long for the long gone days when Milo’s mother would lock him in the basement of their Connecticut home. Her creativity in respects to corporeal punishment, sadly, very nearly outstripped Milo’s capacity to endure. The sewing needles in his back had been the worst of her ‘corrections’. Not least because she utilized a hundred of them before Milo had passed out and collapsed, which was arguably worse than the ‘correction’ itself. Was it any wonder Prudence Fitzroy, Milo’s mother, held the special position as the first of many to join Milo’s garden?

  Not only that, but she was the beginning of his Coat of Many Faces. He smiled as his eyes fell upon the Coat, lovingly laid out across a cheap particle board desk. The tanning of human flesh to the consistency of fine leather had required dedication of the type scholars wrote books about. One face after another, one kill after another, until Milo collected enough garden inmates to begin his Coat. The rise of the undead proved a godsend to Milo. It freed him to work in the open, to take the choicest flesh from the herd of humanity without fear of repercussion. No longer would he be required to skulk through the shadows for months before acting. In the few months since the undead rose to consume the sheep of humanity, Milo had managed to collect a hundred lovely faces for his Coat.

  Human beings were both exceedingly hard to kill and wickedly fragile. Case in point was the bloodied and bruised pile of useless flesh lying all but unmoving before him. The thing still weeping in pain hadn't presented much of a challenge given Milo’s knowledge of physiology. If the pitiful, weeping creature at his feet had lasted long enough for Milo to break a sweat then Milo would have happily granted a swift, clean death. That, however, had not occurred. The fight ended almost before it began which sentenced the wretch to a prolonged, grisly ending.

  Gazing upon the vanquished with disdain, Milo strode naked across his small room to pick up his treasured scalpels. As his fingers caressed the cold steel, Milo’s nervous system was alive with a near carnal excitement. Excited as he was Milo took a moment to shake tension from his muscles, the better to enjoy the moment to the fullest. Deep breaths, a ten count, and Milo fell upon his prey in a savage assault.

  Blood covered Milo in seconds, and the previously silent victim filled the Center with a symphony of agony.

  High above the cage, and Milo’s rooms, Bad Eddie sucked on a bottle of sour mash and occasionally took a hit from a massive bong he used a propane torch to spark. The combination of the two ignited his imagination, of course hearing the screams from Milo’s latest toy helped some too. In his mind’s eye, Bad Eddie could almost visualize the flash of scalpel and crimson fluid. He loved to watch Milo work, nearly as much as he loved his booze, drugs, and slave girl fellatio.

  It was the little things in life that kept Bad Eddie going.

  Given the overwhelming evidence of undead encompassing his newest real estate acquisition Bad Eddie could use all the little things in life possible. A long pull from the sour mash fueled the twisted process by which his fundamentally flawed decision making paradigm operated. At least three of the hangers on, men who wished to prove their worth to the Circus Minimus, had mentioned their willingness to battle an amalgam if it lead to membership in the elite. As an elite member of the Circus, they would have access to all the drugs, booze, and women they could ever want. Bad Eddie knew how to take care of his people. Of course, given the shrinking pool of resources it was only natural for him to keep the number of his people to a minimum.

  In the alcoholic haze that passed for Bad Eddie’s thought processes it occurred to him that no matter how tough the three men were, they couldn't possibly overcome a five zombie amalgam using nothing but machetes and tomahawks. However, it would be a good show for the Circus, and it might just lube up a few of the Free Women enough for some consensual fucking. Taking a slave girl was always fun, but sometimes he wanted more give than take. A hold over from his more civilized days, he thought. As Master of the Circus Minimus, he could take whatever he wanted by dint of strength of arms. Muscle didn't win every fight if it did then Bad Eddie wouldn't still be here. No, crazy won more fights, and nobody was as insane as Bad Eddie. For fuck’s sake, he remembered, I skinned the face off my first opponent and wore it through the next three fights. Then he had decapitated a seven foot tall brawler and violated the dead man’s mouth in an entirely inappropriate fashion. While the action itself had meant nothing to Bad Eddie, it had been necessary to terrify the others into obedience. And it had worked perfectly. Nobody dared cross Bad Eddie for fear of what he might do you to before, and after, killing you.

  Bad Eddie smiled, pleased by the notion of that evenings fight. So much so he merely pushed the slave girl away from his crotch instead of hitting, stabbing, or otherwise harming her. There would be more than enough blood to satisfy hi
s desire later on, and, in truth, the girl would still be in his room should he change his mind. Sour mash flowed down his throat in an uninterrupted river, draining the bottle in one long pull. Inebriation swept over Bad Eddie, saving the slave girl a while longer, and plunging the man into a deep sleep.

  Few noticed, distracted as they were by their own twisted pursuits, the brief absence of the undead as they chased the unseen MRAP. Nor did the members of the Circus take heed of the sudden, pitiful shrieks of pain and soul rending pleading. They had all heard it numerous times before.

  Heard it and enjoyed it.

  They had reveled in the gratuitous infliction of pain and suffering. Among the long term practitioners of non-consensual sadism, acolytes of the Marquis de Sade, a competition seemed to have sprung up as to who could utilize the most gruesome tortures over the greatest span of time.

  Evil, a concept long out of favor with the American social elite, had taken root in the wake of Outbreak Day. It had taken root and flourished in the days of panic and despair and neglect by authority. Worse, by enforcing a strict quarantine zone the authorities ensured the innocent would fall before ruthless predators.

  Contained in makeshift cells, wretched survivors huddled in shared misery awaiting the next commencement of the Circus Minimus. Few held illusions any longer as to how many more sunrises they would see. Most had given in to despair resigning themselves to a quick death in the fight pit. Better by far than to slowly rot away in fear, or to succumb to the depredations of the elite. Of the sacrificial chattel, only the Fool still held any hope of escape, though all admitted it seemed most unlikely he could escape his current predicament. The Fool had pushed Bad Eddie too far in the last battle, had dared not only to not die in a grotesque, entertaining fashion but had hurled the rusted gladiator style machete at the dread overlord himself. The blade hadn't struck Bad Eddie, mores the pity, instead cleaving into the chest of the High Justice of the Circus Minimus. None knew the creatures name, but the High Justice sat in judgement of the survivors Bad Eddie’s men captured, pronouncing sentence against them for crimes real or imagined. As the sentence was always death regardless of innocence or guilt, the survivors felt a certain amount of karmic justice had come for her

  Silence ruled the arena as the High Justice burbled her last breathe through the sucking chest wound before falling from her place by Bad Eddie. Twenty feet her body fell, landing skull first upon the once polished convention floor. The shock of that moment ran through the entire Circus as, for the first time, the elite of the Circus felt their exalted positions threatened.

  High above the convention center floor, the Fool hung crucified. Naturally, the elite had first softened the Fool by thrashing him to within a literal inch of his life. Out numbered five to one, the Fool had fought valiantly, if futilely, nonetheless. No man stepped away from the Fool unmarked, yet in the end the Fool had been zip tied to structural cross members above the center floor and left to contemplate his mistake.

  None who gazed upon the Fool believed he would see the end of the night’s entertainment, not this time. For seven days the Fool had endured the unimaginable, giving hope, that most dangerous and elusive of emotions, to the broken chattel. Then he had done the unthinkable and slain the High Justice, now he hung suspended above the fighting pit. Minute drops of blood occasionally fell into the eager mouths of the resident undead. As the hot crimson fluid was lapped up by the undead they went into a frenzy of utter frustration as their instinct to feed drove them to locate hot flesh that simply wasn't there. Moaning became growling became roaring, which precipitated an increase in the survivors abject terror.

  Chapter Twelve

  Charon has split, and you are stuck in Hell

  Hell.

  It was the only way I could think to describe it later.

  Hell had come to West Palm Beach and set up shop. The first hallway I found myself in prepared me in no way for the day’s insanity because the walls were perfectly normal. The floor wasn't ankle deep in the detritus of the dead. People had not been nailed to the ceilings. The very moment I turned from this length of normality into the nearest passage, I descended into the first ring of hell.

  In their exuberance at finding a new home the members of the Circus Minimus had covered every vertical surface in a scrawling text the subject of which I could not follow. I thought, perhaps, the writings were meant to be excerpts from whatever manifesto these assholes had concocted, but the more I attempted to decipher the text the more utterly random the selection of words appeared. Also, the medium in which the words were written, likely blood, had dried, flaked, and some text had fallen away. So regardless of the texts original intention it was literally impossible to read given the missing letters and words.

  Hodge podge assemblies crammed into corners apparently served as shrines to whatever deities these whack-a-doos worshipped. Judging by the offerings left behind, none of these people were into the shiny, happy pantheons. Rounding a corner I looked out over the interior proper of the center, spotting the fighting area immediately, but having my eyes drawn to another area. An area clearly set aside for important persons. The deduction was reasonable given the elevated position, and the presence of slightly shifting bundles of material upon which had been painted names and symbols. I stared, slack mouthed, for two minutes at the banners, that's what they were, before I could bring myself to accept I was looking at the skins of human beings.

  My gorge rose, I fought to keep the contents of my stomach, and bowels, contained, and only just manage not to shit myself. Instead, I vomited. The pool of personal fluids stank, but the foul aroma emanating from the whole arena overwhelmed everything. Sweat rolled down my face, my stomach spasmed as I dry heaved again and again.

  I knew, I'd always known, how close to the edge we as a species were. Over time mankind had overlain a thin veneer atop the savagery, the apex predator Homo sapiens evolved into in order to become the dominant life form on planet earth. It was an intellectual conceit created to convince ourselves we overcame our own natures, that we were no longer the vicious, ruthless conquerors of old.

  Don't fucking believe it

  Turn the lights out, stop food deliveries, and watch us devolve before your very eyes. I wasn't any different, but I halted my backward slide. These…creatures embraced their loss of civilization, their loss of humanity, and found a way to sink beneath the worst recorded behavior. Was this the fate awaiting all humanity? Would the whole of the surviving human race be forced into a sociological downward spiral until I couldn't tell the difference between the Circus Minimus and the people I'd fought and suffered for? If that was so why bother with any of this? Shouldn't I just turn my attention to becoming the most fearsome bastard on the face of the planet?

  No, shake that off. You're here for a reason Finnegan, and it's not to surrender yourself to some pitifully reasoned existential angst over the psychological self destruction of a group of assholes you know nothing about. Suck it up and find Carroll.

  As motivational speeches went, it was long on fury though short on everything else.

  Marshaling my courage I shouldered my rifle and pressed forward, eyeballing the shadows with fury and suspicion. I hate being afraid. It is a wretched emotion. It played along the edges of my brain as I moved along one side of the hallway, careful not to brush against the gibberish painted on the wall. Shadows advanced and retreated in the flickering candle light, contributing in no small part to my unease. Crazed psychopaths they may have been, but the Circus Minimus clearly understood the importance of ambience. In fact, in the movies this would be the exact moment the freak mask wearing murderer would emerge from nowhere to jump scare the audience into multiple severe coronaries.

  No sooner had this brilliant observation passed through my mind than a large, powerful body slammed into me from behind. Arms as thick as my legs wrapped around my chest, pinning my arms in place. Precious oxygen fled my lungs as what I can only describe as a hydraulic press began to crush the life fr
om me. Tensing, I threw my head straight back, hoping to crush a nose. Not so lucky. Instead the back of my skull impacted with metal and I rang my own bell. Bells literally rang in my head as consciousness began a slow walk away. Low, guttural laughing issued forth from the depths of what I later learned to be a helmet. There was a particular edge to the mirth that didn't ring true. It wasn't the kind of laughing any living creature wanted to hear. The laughter of a person determined to pull your spleen out through your asshole and enjoy themselves while doing it.

  My karambit was out of reach, firmly attached to the upper strap of my tactical vest, but the fingers of my right hand brushed a folding knife in my pocket. Blood pounded behind my eyes as my fingers fumbled for the folding blade. I swear I felt a rib or two crack under the pressure, which both blew enormous hairy moose cock and helped to focus my flagging attention. Fingers closed around the slim knife and I slid the blade from my pocket, followed by a quick flick of my wrist. A three inch blade isn't much when it comes to fighting, but the instant I rammed the high carbon steel into my attacker’s massive thigh he certainly reacted as though I'd driven a spear through his chest. Unfortunately for me, however, that didn't mean the gigantic arms encircling me did anything more than slightly loosen. Sucking in half a breathe, I twisted the blade, then yanked it free before slamming it back down. A quick twist, a pull, and the unseen thug trying to merge his atomic structure with mine hefted me off my feet. In my mind’s eye, nothing which followed ended well for me so I jammed my knife into the space directly behind me. There was a scream, pitched high enough to mess up a bat’s flight path, and the big bastard dropped me on my ass.

  Air, relatively sweet and invigorating, filled my aching lungs, sending life back to my limbs. I half rolled and half skittered away from the thug who I could finally see. Gazing upon my attacker I immediately noticed two things. One, I seemed to have been assaulted by the kind of muscle headed gym rat that masturbated furiously to the DVD of the original Conan the Barbarian, and, two, judging by the shower of blood falling from his crotch I seemed to have driven my blade into his pride and joy. All the oiled up dipshit was wearing was a kilt, a steel bucket, and combat boots, but his skin was covered in small tally marks. Marks made by slicing into his own flesh. I don't know why, and I don’t want to know.