Joel Arnold - Fetal Bait Apocalypse - 3 Collections in 1

The man frowned. “You don’t—” He swallowed. “You don’t look so good.”

Jill instinctively reached for her face. God, she could just feel her skin loosening, creasing, the wrinkles growing…

“I’m fine,” she insisted.

The man pulled out his cell phone and shook his head. “You need a doctor.”

She knew it was bad, but the guy didn’t have to be insulting. “I’m fine .”

The man hesitantly put his phone away and backed off. Talk about a confidence buster! Jill glanced at her watch. Five minutes to nine and still no Betty.

Maybe I should reschedule the interview.

Three minutes to nine.

But for this job, rescheduling was as good as saying no thanks. Their schedule was packed — the human resources director told her on the phone she was one of twenty interviewees. And to cancel this close to the interview…

Two minutes to nine and still no Betty.

She had to get in there, had to take her shot, make-up or not.

Come on, come on…

She took a deep breath. Confidence.

Her husband had always told her that it’s what’s inside that counts. But wasn’t that just a nice way of calling her ugly?

No, come on. He’s right. Show some confidence. Talk a good game. Let your inner light shine through.

Who’d said that? Oprah? Doctor Phil? Her mother?

She stepped out of the car. Adjusted her dress. Tossed her shoulders back and held her head up high.

That’s it. You can do this. Think positive!

When she stepped into the building, the security guard flinched behind the desk. “Jesus, lady!”

She ignored him. Stepped into the elevator and pressed 8. The elevator rose. As the doors opened, the receptionist shrieked and ducked behind a cubicle. Jill snorted and walked past. If they don’t like me for who I am, then they have a worse problem than I do, she assured herself. She’d find the conference room herself if she had to.

She passed a deliveryman on his way out. He doubled over, retching.

That’s just plain rude, she thought.

She found the conference room, knocked once and entered. Barbara Manning, the human resources director, looked up and froze.

Jill reached up and tried to push the flaps of skin back onto her face. “Sorry I’m late,” she said. Her upper lip dropped with a splat onto the large oak conference table.

Ms. Manning opened her mouth, but nothing came out.

Jill quickly shoved a drooping eyeball back into its socket. She tried her best to smile, to maintain her confidence despite her lack of Esteem . She winced as her left ear dropped onto her shoulder. She made a mental note to get her dress in the wash right when she got home.

She cleared her throat, dislodging her front teeth. She held out her hand, waiting for Ms. Manning to shake it. “Sanks for giving me a chance to meet wis you today,” she whistled around her missing teeth.

Her tongue flopped onto the table.

Confidence , Jill told herself as Ms. Manning screamed. Jill took another deep breath, the air making wet, sucking sounds as she inhaled.

Confidence .

Beyond the goalposts at the south end of the field, the undead howled and marauded within a large cage of thick, metal bars. They climbed the walls, shook them, stepped on and over each other, clambered their way to the top of the cage that rose just beyond the tips of the goalposts, only to fall back upon each other. They reached through the cage with torn, reeking limbs, reached out to grab at the humans who passed by. The cage seethed with their hunger.

Burke Smith stood on the sideline scanning the crowd for his wife, Sherry. He knew what section of the stadium she sat in, but could not see her among the crowd standing on its feet. Burke turned his attention back to the field. The undead had the ball and somehow they were winning. Burke’s team had not lost a game the entire season, yet here they were down by two points with less than two minutes to go. Burke watched his defense line up on the field, their helmets hiding grim faces. The undead wore no helmets. No shoulder pads. Just old jerseys, mud-caked and torn.

Burke remembered playing football as a kid. The smell of grass, of turning leaves, the cool autumn wind, the thrill of catching a long bomb and running, running, the feel of pure joy and exhilaration…

Now fear was his motivation. When he threw the ball or ran with it down the field, it was with anxiety, with not knowing whether the next time he was back on the field he’d be playing for the other side.

The ref blew the whistle. The undead tramped the earth, rubbed their chaffed hands together like anxious children, formed a wavering wall at the line of scrimmage. Their center chewed on the football as if teething. Their quarterback trembled with anticipation; his tattered jersey exposing glimpses of intestines hardened from exposure, of splintered ribs, the protruding ends sharp and poking into putrid green lungs.

“Hungh!” it grunted. “Hungh!” The center grinned like an idiot and pushed the ball into the quarterback’s bony hands. The quarterback stumbled backwards. Raised his mangled lips to the air and let out a guttural howl. He cocked his arm back to pass in one quick jerky motion and let loose with the ball.

It wobbled through the air toward another pair of tattered hands. The receiver caught the ball and pressed it into his chest. He ran with his head held high, his jawbone exposed and riddled with squirming maggots.

Hank Jones, one of the living, caught up to him and shoved him hard. The zombie fell face forward with an ugly crunch. Hank jumped up and brought his cleated shoe down on the thing’s back, where it disappeared up to the laces. The receiver stopped moving. The ref blew his whistle. Hank pulled his foot out and shook off bits of shredded heart and lungs.

The referees lured the undead off the field and into the confines of an electric fence with hunks of fresh meat skewered on long, sharp poles. Two men in blue uniforms carried the latest corpse off the field in a canvas bag. Armed with cattle prods, the refs urged the swaggering, shuffling forms back onto the field.

Burke sighed and put his helmet on. As he jogged onto the field he froze.

Johanson .

Goddamn. Johanson. He knew he’d show up sooner or later, but how can you really be prepared to see your best friend on the opposing team?

He’d been the best running back Burke had ever played with. Now there he was, hunkered down across the line of scrimmage staring at Burke with lifeless eyes. Shit, they’d been roommates in college, and now…

There he was. Listless. Crazed. Hungry for flesh.

There was a flash of light up in the stadium. Burke looked up. A woman ran toward the cage of the undead with a Molotov cocktail. She lobbed it and it exploded on the outside of the cage walls, spewing a rain of fire both inside and outside the cage. A security guard grabbed the woman from behind and hauled her away as humans and non-humans alike shrieked and slapped at each others burning clothes. Smoke accompanied by the smell of burnt flesh poured out from the cage. Outside the cage, the fire was quickly subdued, but inside the burning creatures tried scrambling up the cage walls, only to fall screaming back onto the others. More security guards appeared, this time with a hose. They sprayed at the cage until the fire was out. Only a few of the undead lay twitching on the ground, smoldering, but they soon arose, pieces of charred bone protruding from their parchment-like flesh.

“ It’s no different than our sex drive,” Johanson had once said. “An unavoidable biological urge to propagate the species.”

“But why? What kind of a god…”