Craig Dilouie - The Killing Floor

I know just who I want for the job.

“Unit 12,” he calls. “Get your lazy asses over here.”

His old police unit streams through the crowd. He can hear the clatter of their gear and their glottal grunts. They stop in front of him in their black T-shirts and load-bearing vests bristling with shotgun shells, grinning wolfishly, their heads cocked and their fists clenched at their sides. Two of them still wear pistols on their hips. Ray laughs and whoops.

“Holy shit. Look what the cat dragged in.”

Tyler Jones shoves through the milling horde, ridiculous red suspenders and all, the front of his gray work shirt black with dried blood.

“Good to see you alive, buddy,” Ray says. “Even with the bug.”

He holds out his hand, but Tyler ignores it.

“I guess Jonesy didn’t make it. Sorry about that, bud. May he rest in peace.”

Tyler grimaces, but says nothing.

“You boys,” Ray tells them, “will be my Praetorians. I’ll bet you dumb shits don’t even know what a Praetorian is. Maybe you, Tyler, but that’s about it.”

It feels good to talk, and oddly, it doesn’t bother him to have a one-sided conversation with a bunch of crazies. It’s not quite like talking to himself; it’s more like talking to a pet dog.

“Now let’s see how good you people really are.”

He pictures a pickup truck and a set of keys.

Now fetch. Howl if you find it.

His mental image of the truck expands to include several big-chested blondes giving it a soapy wash. He laughs.

If you see any hot models hanging around the truck, bring them to me as well.

He is amazed by how powerful he feels. Before he made it to the camp, all of the fight had been sucked out of him. Now he feels like a king, with a nation to do his bidding.

Not to rain on your parade bro, but again, is that you or the bug feeling so good?

He finds the thought depressing. How does one know if he has free will? How much free will can you have if you have a parasite craving to be spread?

Does it matter in the end?

The women drift out of the mob, their faces twisted into frightening imitations of smiles. Brunettes and blondes and redheads. Beautiful, all of them, even with their unkempt hair and gray skin and feverish eyes.

His heart races. He has not been with a woman since before the Screaming.

What is this? Is Infection manipulating me again?

Nope, you imagined this. The bug merely delivered.

It wants you to be happy.

Several Infected howl from the front yard. The owner of the house left a truck behind. The women continue to approach, softly hissing, their heads jerking.

Stop , Ray projects.

The woman hesitate, confused at his mixed signals. One of them lifts her T-shirt and squeezes her scratched breasts together, licking her chops while the others inch their way forward, their eyes gleaming like knives.

Oh God—

He knows of some guys who worked over Infected women. They raped the prettier ones before killing them. They justified it by saying the women didn’t even know they were being raped.

Ray remembers saying he would never sink so low.

But if I’m doomed to have the crazies as company forever. . .

Get away from me!

The Unit 12 cops turn and roar at the other Infected, shoving at them. The women shriek and melt back into the crowd.

Ray takes off his cap and wipes sweat from his forehead.

Shit, that was close.

As if I’d ever do something like that.

A little angel and a little devil perched on his shoulders, arguing over his soul.

But they wanted it.

Bro, they just wanted it because you wanted them to want it.

I’M LONELY.

His discontent passes through the Infected like a wind, agitating them. The crowd parts like massive curtains made of people. A single figure approaches. It is a woman, walking slowly like a bride coming down the aisle to join her husband at the altar.

The Infected howl again in the distance.

“In a minute,” Ray says absently, waiting.

Her hips sway as she walks. Like the other women, her hair is wild, but while this makes the others look like broken dolls, it just makes this woman more attractive. She is older now than he remembered; he hasn’t seen her in years—not since that night she looked into his face and saw only spite. He heard she married a pharmacist and returned to Cashtown to buy a house and raise a family. If anything, the years have been kind to her. She has put on a few pounds, but in the right places. Her face has aged, but she is still beautiful. Her legs, even covered in tiny scratches and insect bites, are still shapely and muscular. When she smiles, she appears human.

She was the only woman he ever loved.

“Lola.”

He takes a step forward just as the top of Tyler’s head disappears in a spray of blood.

A second later, he hears the rolling rifle shot.

Anne

You screwed that up , Anne tells herself.

Ray took a step to her right, forcing a last-second correction. Then one of the Infected stepped to the left to get out of Ray’s way, putting his head squarely in her shot as the rifle boomed in her hands.

The bullet left the muzzle at a velocity of more than half a mile per second, shattering the Infected’s skull as if it were a melon.

She relaxes for her next shot, searching for Ray through the objective lens of her scope. The M21 is a semiautomatic rifle with a twenty-round box magazine, giving her nineteen more shots at him before she has to reload.

The Infected scream and wave their arms over their heads. Shoot me , they seem to be saying. Shoot me instead of him.

Ray is still there, staring up at the hills in terror. The likelihood of him seeing her is virtually nil. She is too far away to detect with the naked eye where she is standing against the treeline, and her rifle is fitted with a suppressor that reduces visible muzzle flash.

Inhale, hold the exhale, shoot.

She fires again, and another Infected falls. They crowd around him now, swarming on top of each other. Her body shudders with disgust.

This is getting weird.

She fires again and again, dropping bodies until Ray’s pale face comes into view. He gapes at the hill where she is positioned, his mouth open in a large O .

Got you, you little shit.

More Infected lunge in front of him, absorbing her bullet and falling into a pile of writhing bodies at his feet.

Shit, shit, shit.

The rifle bangs, recoiling against her shoulder. Her view shakes. She inhales, holds the exhale and fires again. The roar of the rifle shot rolls across the valley. Her left arm trembles with the effort of keeping the weapon still.

I let you go once.

Another body drops, revealing a glimpse of Ray screaming with fear.

Not again.

The rifle dry fires with an empty click .

“Mother,” Anne hisses, releasing the empty magazine and slamming a fresh one into the magazine well. She resumes her firing stance, but lowers the rifle, blinking in disbelief.

The Infected have stopped shrieking and waving their arms. Working in eerie silence, they are building a living wall in front of the farmhouse. Thousands of people scramble with unnatural speed and precision on top of each other, creating a series of swaying human pyramids.

Anne fires at the Infected at the bottom of one of the pyramids and it collapses, spilling bodies into a massive, squirming pile.

“God damn it,” she says between gritted teeth.

She fires into the mass, draining the second magazine. When the rifle dry fires again, she flings it onto the grass with a long, bloodcurdling howl of rage.