Tim Meyer - Less Than Human

Gunshots removed him from a dream he wouldn’t remember. The hotel room came into focus faster than it had faded hours before. Dim light entered his eyes. The other man in the room rushed over and helped him to his feet, his arm still throbbing from where the car had barreled into him.

Gunshots again. Screaming.

From the look on his face, the man could tell what he was going to ask.

“They’re okay,” the man said. “They’re still in their rooms.”

The kid nodded. Opening his mouth, he found speaking difficult. His throat burned, sore and scratchy from heaving into the bushes earlier that day. He still tasted vomit, spat dry air.

The kid nodded at the door as the firearms continued singing their thunderous songs.

“I dunno,” the man said. “Other survivors, maybe.”

More gunfire. A man cheered unnecessarily loud, like an overly-proud parent at a soccer game.

“They sound happy,” the kid croaked. Short rounds of shells being emptied into the groaning horde, their chatter echoing in the night.

Then, they heard a voice that made their hearts sink.

“Help us,” a girl next door called. “We’re trapped. Please… help us!”

“Help us,” Brittany Torres begged through the small crack between the door and the jamb. A walking corpse that had passed their room suddenly changed direction, started shambling toward them. Its head splintered into a thousand pieces when a man standing in the bed of a black, muddy pickup truck aimed his shotgun and pulled the trigger. Brit recoiled. A minute later, after several additional rounds of shotgun chatter, she returned to the cracked doorway, pleading for help once again. “We’re trapped in here!”

“Brittany, get away from the door!” her mother hollered.

Huddled in the corner of the room, Victoria Torres cradled Emily, Brit’s younger sister. The three of them had been watching the parking lot for the last hour, unable to move as the slow-moving corpses quickly multiplied. As the minutes passed, their chances of leaving diminished. They waited for the dead to break down their door, bringing their doomed journey to an end.

That’s when the three Good Ole Boys showed up toting shotguns, swigging whiskey straight from the bottle, and blowing away the flesh-crazed corpses with their boom sticks. Redneck-looking motherfuckers sporting flannel shirts with the sleeves cut off and the bottom of their jelly-bellies slightly exposed. Trucker hats covered their balding heads. Brit noticed two of them had full-grown beards, while the other sported an unruly goatee. They appeared drunk, shouting wildly. Celebrating as their shotguns popped the corpses’ heads like balloons at a dart-throwing contest.

Brit called to them once again. This time, they heard her.

“Who dat?” asked the one standing in the back of the truck. The burly man reminded her of alligator wrestlers she had seen on television. “Someone out der?” he said. “Quiet ya’ll,” he hushed his companions. “Think I hurd sometin’.”

“We’re in here!” Brit shouted over the groaning horde and their shuffling feet.

The man in the truck scanned the lot, spotted Brit waving to him from the motel room. “Well, I’ll be goddamned! Cooter, Floyd, looks like we gots ourselves other survivors!” Then he bellowed “Heeee-hawww,” which attracted several dead folk. They crept over to him, their arms outstretched, craving the taste for the shotgun-wielding man’s organs. He put them down without any hesitation, laughing as their heads exploded like light bulbs, splattering against the pavement. He reloaded, letting out another alcohol-induced battle cry. “Come on out der, lovely lady. Don’t worry. Ole Otis T. Barker has come to save yer pretty little ass. Ain’t he boys?”

The boys cheered, raising their bottles in agreement.

Brit turned to her mother and her sister. “They’ve thinned the pack by half. We can make it if we run.”

“What about Ben and Josh?” Emily asked.

Her mother ignored her. “How do we know we can trust those guys?” Victoria asked. “They sound… drunk. And crazy as hell.”

“We don’t have much of a choice, Mom. We can either hope they’re decent country folk or stay here and get torn apart by zombies.” Brit arched her eyebrows, impatiently waiting for her mother’s response. “Your choice.”

“Shit, Brittany. I wish you’d discuss things with me before calling out to strangers for help,” she said, scrambling to her feet. “Come on, honey.” She helped Emily to her feet, wrapping her arms around the young teenager.

Together, they walked out into the zombie-populated parking lot.

“Well, well,” Otis T. Barker said. “Ain’t ya’ll a sight fer sore eyes.”

“They’re leaving the room,” Josh said.

“What?” Ben asked.

Josh had been watching the whole scene unfold, informing Ben about the three inebriated gentlemen in the pickup truck, firing off rounds left and right, leaving a long crimson trail of headless bodies before them.

“Yup,” Josh said. “They’re moving through the zombies. There’s only about two dozen left. That guy in the truck bed took most of them out. Dude’s a pretty good shot.”

Josh’s admiration for the man in the truck didn’t exactly comfort Ben. He slipped his heel into his shoe, then sprung to his feet. “Help me grab some things.” Ben started packing snacks and bottles of water into the plastic bags he had collected the day before. Josh scurried away from the window and helped him.

“So much for waiting for sunup,” Josh said.

Ben packed the last of their supplies, then headed toward the door. Josh grabbed the blood-stained baseball bat, resting it on his good shoulder.

“Ready?” Ben asked.

Josh nodded.

Ben pushed the door open, then sprinted toward the truck. Josh followed him. The parking lot smelled like rancid meat. A limping dead man greeted them, mouth open, ready to consume whatever flesh it could. Josh silenced its snarls by swinging the bat level with its cheek. The zombie’s jaw disconnected from the lower half of its face, disappearing into the darkness. It continued after him, hands grasping for Josh’s sweaty, warm flesh. Although it had no means to bite him, it pursued Josh anyway. Once again, he raised the bat, aiming a little higher this time. He swung for the fences. The corpse’s head snapped sideways, became detached. Well, sort of. The rotten cranium clung to the zombie’s neck by a thin strand of sinewy material. Blood oozed from the dent on the zombie’s skull. It stumbled around for a brief moment before its knees buckled, sending the thing that used to be human to the ground. Josh almost puked when he saw maggots spill out of the empty cavity where its head and neck were once attached.

He didn’t waste time ending the creature’s misery. Josh weaved between the dead, trying to catch up with Ben, who was only about ten paces away from the truck. He saw the girls had already been huddled into the bed. The burly hunter extended his arm in Ben’s direction, a drunken smile somewhat hidden in his bearded face. The man squealed when his comrade took the head clean off a zombie’s shoulders before yanking Ben into the back of the truck.

Josh hurried toward the truck, dodging the lazy attacks from nearby cadavers. He hustled, making it there, struggling to find his breath. The big oaf helped him into the bed. Josh swung his legs over the side of the truck, away from several of the approaching dead. Otis Barker took them out with ease. Josh watched in grotesque awe as their heads exploded, leaving wet clouds of crimson in their wake.