Tim Meyer - Less Than Human

“Let’s get the hail outta hur!” Otis yelled to the driver.

The driver pointed out of the window. “Look, Otis! It’s one of dem runnin’ kinds!”

“Shee-it,” Otis muttered.

Out of the darkness, a freshly-turned corpse materialized. The running corpse moaned incoherently between bites of another man’s hand. The flesh-eater raced toward them with the quickness of an Olympic sprinter. No longer concerned with his current meal, the zombie chucked the gnawed hand, concentrating solely on the bags of meat in the back of the truck.

Otis aimed his gun. Fired. The shotgun roared, the barrage of bullets bringing the runner to the ground. The zombie crawled on the road, gnashing its teeth together, craving the coppery taste of blood.

“Say g’nite, mo-fucker,” Otis said, then blew the zombie’s head to bits, leaving a red smear on the asphalt.

The boys howled into the night like wolves at the moon.

As they drove off, Ben wondered if the girls had made the right decision.

“Ain’t no sense goin’ back now,” Cooter said, once they had distanced themselves from the motel. “It’d be suicide.”

“My car is back there,” Ben argued. “There are essentials in there. More water, snacks, toothpaste—”

“We got all dat sheet,” Floyd told him through his long, strawberry-blond goatee, which ended near his abdomen. He reminded Ben of ZZ Top. “Sheet, ya’ll can come back with us. We got plenty.”

“Really?” Victoria asked. “We wouldn’t want to be a bother.”

“Ain’t no bother,” Cooter said. “We like helping strangers. Lots a folks need help now. Especially since we da’ only ones with power in deez parts.”

Ben looked at him curiously. “Did you say power? ”

“Sure as sheet did. Got generators. Three of dem. Big fuckers. Got ’nuff gasoline to last us years.”

“Holy shit,” Brit said, smiling. She hugged her mother and her mother squeezed back so tightly she thought her ribs might crack.

“Mister, you don’t know how happy we are to hear you say that,” Ben said. “You don’t happen to have a working telephone, do you?”

“Yessir, we do,” Otis said. “Only, don’ know who’d pick up in a time like this.”

“I’d like to call my ex. She lives in Pittsburgh with my son. Even if she doesn’t answer, I’d like to leave a message. Let them know I’m coming.”

Otis shrugged. “Don’t see the point, but whateva. What dem Mexicans say? Mi casa, su casa, oh some sheet.”

Everyone smiled. Even Josh. His face glistened beneath the moonlight. Sweat dribbled down his neck. His hands twitched uncontrollably. Come on, man. He closed his eyes. Get a grip of yourself.

“Fucks wrong wit dat one?” Floyd nodded at Josh.

“He’s sick,” Ben answered for him.

Josh shot him a thankful glance.

Otis peered at Ben, squinting. “He bit? Don’t ya lie to me now.”

“No. No, he’s just—”

“Sheet. Looks like he tweakin’.” Otis chuckled, stroking his mustache. “Need a fix, huh, son?”

Josh looked at the redneck with leery eyes.

“Sheet. I know a tweaker when I see one. You’s a tweaker.”

Silence fell over them.

“No matter!” Otis exclaimed. “Tweakers and non-tweakers be welcome at the Barker residence. Sheet.”

“We would pay you for your hospitality, but I guess money isn’t really an issue anymore, is it?” Brit said, laughing uncomfortably, hoping to end the awkwardness.

It only made things worse.

The Barker Brothers’ (the side of their pickup proclaimed) eyes fell on her, undressing her slowly. They made no effort to hide it. Brit averted their gaze, suddenly wishing she was someplace else. Sadly, they were stranded. They were in the middle of nowhere. In the dark. The salty smell of marsh was all around them. They had no car, no way of escaping. They were at the mercy of their rescuers. The tone of the evening had reversed itself. Brit suddenly wished she had stayed in the hotel room, living dead or no living dead.

“Der other ways of payment, missy,” Cooter said, puckering his lips.

“You’ve got to be kidding me,” Brit said, disgusted. They probably had six teeth between the three of them. The idea of her lips even coming within an inch of their mouths made her want to hurl. They smelled like stale tobacco and sweaty armpits. Even the marsh couldn’t overpower their unpleasant musk.

“If you think that—” Victoria started to say.

“We just joshin’ ya. We ain’t like that,” Cooter said. “Are we boys?”

“Nope,” Otis said, grinning.

“Naw, our momma raised us right,” Floyd added. “Ya’ll meet her real soon. Sheez a peach. Just the best damn lady ya’ll ever meet.”

Ben smiled. “Sounds nice,” he said, barely able to concentrate on what was going on around him. All he wanted was to hear his son’s voice again.

“Well, what’re we waiting fer?” Otis said. “Let’s get own home.”

The ride home was bumpy due to the many unpaved roads they had taken. The rocky trip made Josh queasy and he threw up over the side of the pickup truck several times. Otis smiled at him from the other end of the bed. Josh wrinkled his face at him, not quite grinning, and not quite telling him to go fuck himself, but somewhere in between.

About twenty minutes later, they arrived at the Barker’s residence. It was lit up like a Christmas wonderland, minus the faux snow and Santa Claus decorations. The two-story Victorian home loomed before them like a lighthouse amid the fog. It wasn’t just sanctuary, but a symbol of hope. Ben felt something flow and ebb through him, a sense that maybe everything was going to be alright after all. Judging from his companions’ faces, they felt the same way. Even Emily’s face cracked a smile.

“Won’t the zombies see this place? It’s lit up like an amusement park,” Josh said. His stomach had settled for the time being.

“Naw,” Otis said, as Cooter brought the truck to a stop in the middle of the endless front yard. The dark made it impossible to tell where their property ended. “Ain’t no folks live close to here.”

“What did you guys do before the apocalypse?” Ben asked timidly.

“Construction,” Otis grumbled. “Come on. We’ll introduce ya’ll to Momma Barker.”

Momma Barker greeted them on the porch, happy to see some new faces. “Welcome ya’ll!” she said enthusiastically. “Make yerselves right at home.” She was old— really old. Josh figured her days on earth were numbered even before the dead started reanimating. She could probably pass as one of the dead, Josh snickered to himself. She hobbled around on an old wooden cane, stained dark mahogany and clear-coated with something shiny. Her lips trembled when she wasn’t speaking. Perched on the end of her nose, her glasses were much too small for her face. “I got some fried chicken in the oven. Should be done in bout fifteen minutes if ya’ll wanna wash up while yer waiting.”

“That sounds excellent,” Brit said.

Her mother nodded.

Emily smiled as her stomach grumbled. The thought of eating fried chicken filled her mouth with water. She could almost smell it. It smelled the way Victoria made it every Wednesday night after Girl Scouts. Her eyes welled when she thought about her camp and what had happened there. Her friends. Ranger Steve. The old woman, what was her name? Emily tried her best to concentrate on something else.

“Ma’am? I was wondering if it would be okay to use your telephone? I just wanted to call my son, see if he’s alright,” Ben said respectfully.

“Absolutely. Come own in, come own in.” She waved them in and the five of them were herded like lambs lured to slaughter. “I’ll take—what was your name, sweetheart?”