Tim Meyer - Less Than Human

“I wonder how you should die…” the hunter said. He pointed his rifle at Josh, while lining up the scope with his eye. “Gunshot. Fall from tree. Or zombie.”

“How’s about none of the above, motherfucker,” Ben said, taking the tree branch he acquired to the hunter’s knee. The fat man shrieked as his knee gave, his bulbous body coming down on the windshield, cracking it on contact. The glass spider-webbed from the point of impact. The hunter’s rotund figure slowly rolled down the hood of the car, landing in the wet grass below. Josh watched Ben pounced on him like a jungle cat. Victoria and Paul rushed out of the woods, joining him.

A sick joy ran through Josh as he witnessed his three friends beat the man within an inch of his life. Ben repeatedly hit him with the stick, while Victoria and Paul continuously kicked him. The ribs. The chest. Directly in the face. Josh listened to the sounds of the First Little Piggy’s body breaking with the same satisfaction he would with a new song from his favorite band.

He maneuvered his way through the branches to a position where he felt comfortable jumping. Josh let go of the branches, landing on both feet. The impact left a sting, but nothing compared to the searing pain that ran down the right side of his body.

Josh joined his friends.

Paul had taken the gun from the hunter’s clutches. His handkerchief had been removed, revealing a bloody, almost unrecognizable face. Josh thought it was the one who had been introduced as Cooter.

Ben stepped back from the violent scene. Around them, zombies grew closer.

“We don’t have to kill him,” Ben said. “The zombies will do that for us.”

Paul switched off the gun’s safety. “But I want to.”

Ben placed his hand on Paul’s shoulder. “Killing a human is much different than killing a zombie.”

Paul laughed through his nose. “These people aren’t human. They’re less human than the fucking zombies.”

“That may be,” Ben agreed. “But if you pull that trigger, you’re no better than them.”

Beneath his bloody mask, Cooter chuckled. He meant to say something, but scarlet fluids filled his mouth, sputtering down his chin.

“I disagree,” Paul said, then yanked the trigger.

The gun roared. A dark, red hole appeared on Cooter’s forehead.

Above them, birds screamed while abandoning their nests, fleeing into the bright morning sky.

Floyd Barker followed four shadows deep into the woods. He pulled the trigger on his crossbow, but his targets were too far away. The arrow sailed into the distance, disappeared. He stopped to reload when he heard crunchy footfalls behind him. They were closing in. He abandoned the crossbow, removing the long, segregated hunting knife that had been strapped to his leg. He looked up, seeing a blur rush toward him. He barely caught a glimpse of the monster’s face before it barreled into him. Its tongue hung from its mouth, bloody saliva trickling down its chin. It snarled, a resonating inhuman sound that echoed through the woods. Floyd drove the knife deep into the runner’s chest, but it didn’t prevent the creature from taking a chunk out of his neck. Floyd hollered girlishly as the zombie spit the bloody clump of flesh out and dove in for seconds. Pushing the zombie off by grabbing its tattered shirt and flinging it sideways, Floyd spat obscenities. The zombie stood its ground, snapping at Floyd’s wrist, catching his flesh between its teeth. It peeled Floyd’s skin back like a roll of duct tape. Withdrawing his arm from the creature’s mouth, Floyd screamed when he saw his own bone beneath the torn flesh. His uninjured hand took the hunting knife, plunging it between the zombie’s eyes. The corpse fell to the ground, puss and other infectious fluids bubbling out from the knife wound.

Floyd glanced around, hoping Otis and Cooter heard his screams. However, only figures Floyd saw trudging through the forest were the dead.

He cursed himself and his brothers for being so stupid. Did they really think they were going to survive this? How cocky could they have been? Now he was left alone, bitten and bleeding, his veins pumping the infection throughout his body.

Shee-it, Floyd thought, as half a dozen zombies closed in on him, licking their lips, ready to satisfy their seemingly unquenchable hunger.

“Did you hear that?” Tabby asked. “Sounded like someone screaming.”

“Maybe that redneck bastard got what he deserved,” Ross stated.

They continued jogging through the forest, parallel with the electric fence that kept them inside the parameters their captors had designated. Ross eagerly checked for a break, a missing section of fence that the dead could’ve created. They had passed one zombie who had tried breaking out of the arena, but paid the price dearly. The smell of his fried, dead flesh made Anthony puke. Everyone in the group almost followed suit. Ross hoped the Barkers wanted to save fuel for their generators and thought they had kept the fence inactive between “hunts.” If that were true, and he prayed it was, then the zombies could have broken out during those opportune times.

As they kept moving, Ross began losing faith in his theory.

“How much longer are we gonna keep running for?” Landry asked his father.

“You tired, boy?” Ross asked. “And you want to be an All-State running back?”

Landry laughed beneath his breath. They had probably already ran the length of five football fields, but he opted not to argue that fact with his father.

“I could use a quick breather,” he admitted.

In agreement, Anthony exhaled dramatically.

“I think we could use one too,” Tabby said.

Ross looked around. There were no zombies in his line of vision, even though the forest reeked of them. They weren’t far away. And who knew where the hunters were lurking. For all he knew, they could be squatting in one of the trees with a sniper rifle. Ross scanned the tall maple trees. They provided excellent coverage. As his eyes bounced from tree to tree, he expected to hear the gunshot that would end his life.

“Okay, but not too long,” Ross said. “And let’s stay away from the fence while we’re at it.”

“I thought you said the fence was our best bet for getting out of here,” Tabby said.

“I did.” Ross nodded to the top of the fence. A camera had been mounted to the top of the fence post, peering directly at them. “But we’re being watched.”

Ross put his arm around his son, steering him toward the middle of the arena.

“We can’t go back there. We’ll be sitting ducks in the open,” Tabby said.

“Maybe they won’t be expecting us there,” Ross said. “Maybe there is a way out, back where we started. And maybe there won’t be any cameras either.”

There were too many “maybes” in his logic, but Tabby didn’t argue. Instead, she comforted her son, throwing her arm around his neck. He smiled weakly. She mouthed the words “I love you” not knowing how many opportunities she had left to tell him. Anthony’s smile grew wider.

Together, the four of them walked toward the core of the arena where the smell of the dead became very bold.

Otis approached the gaggle of corpses. They were on their knees, crowded around their recent victory, rummaging through the sack of skin for inner parts and other tasty treats. Below the zombies, through the slick red mess that pooled outward, Otis recognized the pair of boots and the pant legs that stuck out of the feeding frenzy. Sheet, he thought. He raised his shotgun and started breaking up the party. The zombies looked away from their meal, their faces covered in slushy crimson fluids, growling at the intruder. One by one, Otis thinned the crowd until one zombie remained. It looked at Otis warily, then returned to snacking on his brother’s intestines.