Carnell, Thom - No Flesh Shall Be Spared

"I am not," panted Jeffrey as he stood up, his shirt now splattered with blood and brains, "responsible for any of this shit!"

Silence once again descended on the building with a kind of finality. Jeffrey got to his feet and cautiously approached the swinging door at the end of the hall. He caught the edge of the door with his foot and drew it open cautiously. He carefully peered inside just in case there were any more surprises. Finding none, he stepped through. Everything looked pretty normal. Well, as normal as could be expected in light of recent events. The Prep Room door was open, a consequence of Mr. Lodene’s unnatural resurrection, no doubt. The lights were still on in the room, reflecting a brilliant white from the linoleum. Jeffrey heard no sound nor saw any movement so he took another hesitant step.

No sooner did his foot touch the ground than a large shadow drifted across the doorway. Its bulk was prodigious, round and lacking in height. Jeffrey ticked off in his mind the firm’s clients in a rapid succession: Robinson, Jacob, Devon, Lodene… Harvey.

Mrs. Harvey—the big woman whose heart had blown out that he’d been working on when Marshall Howard’s phone call came.

"Shit!" he breathed out in a hiss.

Again the shadow drifted like a zeppelin past the light coming from the doorway. This time, he noticed an odd protrusion slanting down from the main form. At first, he was at a loss to identify exactly what it was. Mentally clicking off options, Jeffrey almost felt the light bulb go off over his head.

The trocar! She still has the trocar in her!

The thought made him sag in his own skin.

This just keeps getting better and better.

He almost considered saying "fuck it" and going back the way he’d come, but the decision was taken out of his hands when Mrs. Harvey suddenly shuffled around the doorframe and stuttered to a halt not a foot in front of him. Jeffrey wasn’t sure if The Dead could register surprise or not, but the look that passed over the dead woman’s face came mighty close. She hesitated for a fraction of a second and then instinct kicked in like a mule.

"Huuuuuuuuuuuuuu…" she screeched, her voice husky and raw. Her arms came up, hands clawing angrily at the air. Her body was even more rotund on its feet than it’d seemed when she was lying on her back on the embalming table. Rolls of fat, one on top of the other, rippled as she moved. Stretch marks glimmered in the light and highlighted the places on her skin where the flesh had been pulled beyond its limitations. Ten pudgy little fingers danced at the end of her hands, pulling at the air directly in front of Jeffrey’s face. She took another heaving step toward him, closing the gap between them even more.

Just as he was about to turn and run like hell, Jeffrey felt something firm poke against his abdomen. It felt like a thick finger only more solid. He shot a quick glance downward and saw the handle of the metal trocar jutting out of Mrs. Harvey’s massive belly. The butt of it prodded him firmly in the belly.

Fuck it…

With a deft move, he grabbed the metal rod with one hand and pulled it firmly from her body. Then, bending slightly at the knees, he drove the thing up toward the dead woman’s face. The metal point struck her just below the lower jaw and, because of the force with which it was delivered, passed through the mouth and soft palate, lodging itself deep into the center of her skull. The woman halted briefly from the blow and then tried to take another sloppy step forward.

"Will you fucking die already?" Jeffrey shouted.

He pushed against the bottom end of the trocar with both hands and shoved the woman back, her back slamming against the wall. She tried to speak, but the sound came out garbled, like she was trying to talk with a mouth full of marbles. Her blackened tongue caressed the metal rod jutting up through the musculature of her lower jaw. Heaving with a potent mixture of muscle and adrenaline, Jeffrey pushed upward and the instrument was driven deeper into her head. Her eyes quivered in their sockets and a rivulet of blood dribbled from one nostril. Another hard push and the trocar smashed its way straight out of the top of her skull. Her massive form convulsed as the metal tip skewered bone and grey matter. Her body suddenly went rigid and then abruptly slack. Her brain now impaled, she fell, heavy and hard, to the ground.

Jeffrey’s breath came in short, distressed gasps now as his tissues cried out for oxygen. Adrenaline burned like gasoline in his bloodstream and his heart beat like a drum in his chest. All at once he felt tired; really tired. The trauma of the past few minutes suddenly back-handed his reason and it was all he could do to keep his hands from shaking.

I just killed—or rather re-killed—five people.

What. The fuck.

Rushing across the loading area, Jeffrey headed toward the office. He cleared the doorway and noticed the clock on the desk read 1:48 A.M. Jesus, everything that had happened—Marshall’s phone call, the investigation of the funeral home, Mr. Robinson, Mrs. Jacob, Mrs. Devon, Mr. Lodene, and that fat fucking Mrs. Harvey—everything had all taken place in just under ten minutes.

Outside the office door, loud thumping sounds were suddenly heard. Peeking back the way he’d come, he peered back into the dim loading area. A muffled, baritone moaning was added to the din coming from the washing machines to his left and the radio behind him. He looked around the loading area and saw nothing. Suddenly, he realized where the sound was coming from—the shipping container. The corpse inside was no doubt banging its fists futilely against the inside of its sealed casket, trying to let itself out. Its moans were born from a combination of rampant hunger and abject frustration.

"OK… that’s it! I am done. Time to find my fucking keys and get the hell out of Dodge!"

Jeffrey surveyed the office and finally saw his keys sitting on the desk. Forsaking his suit coat on the hook on the wall, he snatched them up and headed for the door. He grabbed the doorknob and twisted. The door came open and he stopped abruptly.

What if there are more of them out here?

Cautiously, he poked his head out of the doorway and took stock of the parking lot. The area seemed empty except for his car which sat in its usual parking space at the far end under the tree. He carefully took a step out and continued to scan the lot. For a moment, his mind made every shape and shadow come alive with menace, but soon, he saw that everything lay quiet.

Thank God for small favors, eh?

He turned and quietly pulled the door shut behind him. The last thing he heard from the office as the door clock clicked shut was a voice pouring coldly from the clock radio’s small speaker. Everything he heard only served to confirm his worst fears.

…every dead body that is not exterminated will rise, Ladies and Gentlemen. It will get up and, as remarkable as it sounds, it will attack. Any person that is killed or injured will do the same. Any and all dead or bitten persons must be exterminated by destroying the brain or severing the head from the person’s neck. Fire works as well. Whatever is happening must be controlled before it’s too late! They’re simply multiplying too quickly!!

"Yeah," he said as he headed off into the night, "no shit."

The Chest

The Chest was a flat, nondescript concrete building set away from things near the back of the compound and its Firing Range. The structure lacked any adornment or sense of style. It was a cement cheese box that looked a whole hell of a lot like an exhumed bomb shelter. Its roof was flat and level with a low retaining wall which ran around the building’s perimeter. Inside its thick, unadorned walls ran row after row of wooden, floor-to-ceiling storage racks. In each frame were carefully delineated spaces, each marked with a designated number that referred to a very specific piece of equipment.