Tim Meyer - Less Than Human

Otis knocked the zombie in the head with the stock of his shotgun. The zombie fell on its side, snarling as it rolled across the ground. It tried scrambling to its feet, but Otis was there with his boot, jamming his steel-toe boot into the side of the zombie’s face, which dented on impact. Rotten teeth tumbled out of its mouth. The rancid stench was nauseating, even to Otis, who had smelled worse over the years.

“You sumbitches,” Otis murmured, bringing his foot down on the back of the zombie’s head. It crunched beneath his boot like shards of glass. Otis ground the corpse’s head into the dirt, rotating the ball of his foot while applying all the pressure he could muster. Once finished, he stomped on it several more times, making sure the dead remained dead.

Otis’s eyes found Floyd, or what the zombies didn’t have a chance to finish. His stomach was ripped open, most of his organs removed, becoming nothing more than chew toys. His mouth was agape, forever capturing that horrific final moment. Coagulated blood stained his lips. His right ear had been torn off, leaving a flap of skin hanging down his face.

Otis shook his head. There were no tears in his eyes. Otis wasn’t sure when the last time he cried, if he had ever done such a thing. He thought about Momma, what she would do if she saw her son’s brutal demise on the surveillance camera mounted in the trees. Otis thought about dragging his brother back to the house so that the vultures wouldn’t snatch up his remains. That way, Momma Barker could give her son a proper burial.

But that would take time—time Otis decided he didn’t have. Besides, he spotted a trail of footsteps leading away from Floyd’s body. Four different sets. They got away, Otis thought. Sumbitches got away and Floyd didn’t. The fact that the contestants had (so far) survived this apocalyptic obstacle course and his brother hadn’t enraged him. He felt his face grow hot and it wasn’t because of the orange globe in the sky or the bush on his face.

Otis marched on, following the contestants’ trail, more motivated to claim a kill than he ever had been.

Josh was not quite finished puking into a bush when Ben Ackerman strolled along side of him. He glanced up, a thick strand of upchuck hanging from his mouth. Ben loomed over him. He put his hand on Josh’s back.

“Is it the smell or the withdrawals?” he asked.

“Both,” Josh answered. “I think.” Vomit exploded out of his mouth once again. “They’re close? The zombies, I mean?”

“About twenty paces back. It’s hard to lose them.”

“How many?”

“Enough to give us problems if they catch up,” Ben said. “Plus, there’s still two more Barker brothers out there.”

“Unless Ross and his crew did as well as we did,” Josh said, sounding somewhat hopeful.

“Yeah,” Ben replied. “But we can’t be too sure of that.”

Josh brought himself to his feet, feeling a little better. His stomach remained uneasy. The feelings his body produced from the lack of drugs was still riding him like a pissed-off demon. The dragon needs to be satiated.

Victoria and Paul Scott jogged over to them.

“Guys!” Victoria gasped, almost breathless.

“What?” Ben quickly asked.

“It’s Ross and the others.”

“What about them?”

“They’re in the middle of the field,” Paul said nervously. “Just standing there.”

“What?” Josh asked. “Why?”

“Dunno,” Paul said. “But they better do something quick. If the zombies don’t get to them, those sick bastards are sure to find them.”

“Shit,” Josh muttered. “Have they lost their minds?”

“Sure as shit seems like it.”

Ben opened his mouth to speak, but he was interrupted by a thunderous boom. It had come from the direction of the open field, where previous contestants’ vehicles lay not-so-hidden. The four of them rotated toward the thunderclap.

Ben and Josh exchanged glances. Then they ran.

“Where tha fuck ya’ll think yer goan?” a familiar voice spoke from behind them. “Ya’ll left my brother fer dead. What’dja ya’ll think ya were goan just walk outta here ’live?”

Zombies limped toward them. Despite the approaching killer, the foursome continued walking towards the pack of corpses. Towards a longer, more agonizing death.

The shotgun bellowed. Over the stench of the dead, gunsmoke prevailed.

“Stop moving, or I mow ya’ll down right-fuckin’ now!” Otis screamed.

Ross stopped, holding his son from taking another step. Tabby put her arm across her son’s chest, stopping him from moving toward the zombie herd that had gained numbers.

Slowly, the four contestants turned toward their psychotic host. He gleamed at them, a wide southern smile spreading his fluffy beard apart.

“Thas’ better.”

“Just get it over with,” Ross muttered. “That’s the least you can do.”

“The least I can do? Naw, naw. Ya’ll let those fuckin’ dead things tear my brother ’part. Ain’t nuthin’ but blood and guts left of him.”

“We had no idea,” Ross said. “Please.”

“We didn’t even see your brother,” Tabby added.

“Bullsheet,” Otis said, raising his gun. “I saws the arrows. He was trackin’ ya’ll. I ain’t fuckin’ stupid.”

“Please…” Tabby pleaded. Tears rolled down her face. She looked over her shoulder. The dead were closing in. If Otis didn’t hurry up and shoot them, she was going to have to make a run for it. She didn’t have a choice. Running was better than becoming zombie food. At least it gave them a chance. “Please, just let us go… there’s no need for this… madness.”

“Don’ think so, lil lady.”

Tabby cried harder. “Goddamn you… Goddamn all of you…” Behind her, she heard snarls. Then, something gentle—perhaps the wind—brushed the hairs on her neck. She screamed, grabbing Anthony’s hand. She took off, toward the tree line, as fast as her legs could carry her.

Otis followed them, firing in their direction. As soon as the gun clapped, pain exploded into his kneecap. Before the big oaf knew it, he was on the ground. The gun flew from his hands. It landed in the tall grass, several feet in front of him. He wasn’t exactly sure what had happened, but he knew he was hurt. He rolled over onto his back and looked down. His kneecap was not where it had been for the first thirty-eight years of his life. It had shifted to the side of his leg. Pain he never knew before infiltrated his body.

Standing over him was Ben Ackerman. Otis remembered smacking the stupid bastard over his head when he was in the middle of a very important phone call. Something about his ex-wife, or kid. Sheet , he couldn’t remember. The pain that entered him overcame his thoughts. Ben waved a tree branch in the air, threatening his other knee.

“Hi there,” Ben said.

“You sumbitch,” Otis replied, then screamed when Ben took the branch to his other leg. He watched as his other kneecap became detached, floating to the side of his leg. Beneath his camouflage pants, he felt his legs become wet with blood.

“My friend wants to shoot you,” Ben said. He nodded to Paul Scott, who held his brother’s gun across his chest. “But you won’t be getting off that easy.”

“That’s Cooter’s gun,” Otis grumbled.

“Not anymore,” Paul said, grinning.

“Where he be?”

“Let’s just say, Cooter won’t be going on any more hunts,” Paul boasted.

Otis rolled his eyes, grimacing. “You sumbitches.” He tried to move, but couldn’t. His legs went numb and useless. He was too rotund to bring himself to his feet anyway.

“Now…” Ben said. “About a way out of here. I believe you have a certain pickup truck you’ll no longer be using.”