d.u.e.s.

Death's Undead Extermination Squad. © 2020

[duesnovel-blog]

2. Good Gone Girl

Under stark sunlight, Astrid scowled at her handiwork and sniffed gracelessly at the smoke. Her brown hair was braided in two slipshod tails, tightly tied with red and yellow rubber bands, and stretched like loose horns that bobbed on the sides of her head; that the ends were freed like a cow’s switch and fluffed like pompoms made it appear as though she had an alien cheerleader strapped around her scalp. She tightened her backpack and her molotovs gave a slight clink. She had outfitted the bag with a conveyor system that responded to a sensor in one of her rings. A ragdoll hung on the zipper of her backpack’s outer pocket, by its neck, a big X crudely stitched across its featureless face.

    Astrid climbed down the outhouse, careful not to start a rock number on galvanized iron. She weighed like air but she learned the hard way how loud these things cracked under a misstep. There could be more of the undead nearby. In this new world, a stumble or a sudden loud noise invited death. She bit her lip as her feet hit gravel, grateful it wasn’t the strain she expected for her knees.

    The zombies on the ground had scorched like parched, brittle wood, two adults and a child, probably the residents of the small summer home. They swarmed her before she could raid their kitchen. Astrid gave chase, and baited them to gather around the outhouse after she had climbed to safety.

    She stopped herself from contemplating about their story, especially the child’s. Watching these things burn always served as her distraction. She distracted herself until their cluster was crisp and motionless.

    Astrid hated how they stank, but liked the music of the fire while they blazed. It was always like that. Once she saw flames, she forgot about the ocean. Fitful reds and oranges blurred placid greens and blues. Smoke was always headier than salt.

    She surveyed the small dock before reentering the main house.

    “Ay caramba,” she muttered after rummaging through a cupboard of supplies. She had found more canned food in the kitchen than she could carry, but this yielded a waterproof case of unused storm matches, the real prize, made niftier because she wasn’t looking for them. She’s never used one as a molotov wick.

    After packing, she discovered a swing in the back deck that faced the sea. Astrid grinned. She decided she had time to dally, sat there and enjoyed a can of tuna and a jar of preserved peaches, swaying her feet like the most carefree 16-year-old in the world.

    Despite the attack earlier, the afternoon had been quiet enough–still a splash of luck in her book. The day wasn’t over yet, of course. Survival needed to be qualified by the hour. Her fortune could easily tip in a blink.

    As much as she’d like to, Astrid didn’t want to spend the evening in this place. It was too large to fortify on her own. There were multiple entries and not enough time besides. Also, the roof wasn’t high or wide enough for her tent to escape notice. And very few, if anything, escaped the zombies’ notice, especially traces of survivors.

    A devious bunch, the whole lot of them. These dreadful things weren’t the brainless horde of common literature or film. For one, they fed off food and animals, not people. Astrid has seen it enough to draw the conclusion. She has also seen them abandon humans once they’ve infected their victims, more bent it seemed on making the living one of them than gorging on a feast.

    The zombies didn’t roam; they hunted.

    Like any normal fire bohème who wanted to know first-hand how humans burned without committing an actual crime, Astrid has imagined a zombie apocalypse a few times before it actually went down. She didn’t think the zombies would last this long. She thought the safest thing to do was to wait it out in a secure home with enough supplies, a few months at most, before all the infected starved to the bone. In that scenario, it would be a miracle if they could still walk at this point of the catastrophe. They’d be worming their days away, harmless at a distance, and a breeze to set on fire.

    What Astrid wanted most was her own corral, a kind of labyrinth that led to a punji pit, and an elevated platform where she could view her catch. Lure the zombies in, exit through a flap, wait for them to pile up aaaand flame-a-palooza. Her grin widened a little at the thought of it.

    After eating, she did another sweep, a quick one, and headed to where she parked the Honda Monkey. She never had a single driving lesson before this whole shit-storm, but she had to learn fast. Death had been a good motivator (whether to delay or hasten it depended on whoever was watching her drive).  Her first ride was a pitiful electric bike, unsweetened, that she found in her old neighborhood. The Monkey turned up a few days later, thank heavens, heavily equipped with kinks she was still trying to work out. Her favorites were the control panel, chockfull of flashing lights, buttons and a curious-looking knob, and the switch-controlled steam boiler attached to the rear fender that shot flames either at the front or the back of the motorcycle. Indeed a vehicle built for a fire girl who wouldn’t go near a car. She had the awkward driving stance down to a low at least, proud that she didn’t maneuver in zigzags anymore. Her face was still frozen in goggle-eyed panic everytime she was on it, but who’s to see?

    “…live broadcast… all survivors… established shelter at the northern… I repeat… Bungan Port…this is… a tactical team… emergency eva… if you hear this… your way to us… I repeat, this is a live…” 

    The radio was the only thing that’s shot about the Monkey, not that she needed it. It picked up the broadcast yesterday, and for a minute the message had seemed like a dream. But what strike of gargantuan luck would it take to find someone who knew how to navigate a boat? Much less someone who might agree to take her along. She wasn’t holding her breath to find out the odds. She turned off the radio.

    Astrid has made a nest for herself not an hour away, a deserted kamalig on the higher end of River Taloma. The stilt house she found had been almost obscured by an overrun patch of acacia and eucalyptus trees. She planned to milk that cow for as long as she could.

    Isolation remained her best bet as the number of undead dwindled in remote areas. She encountered other survivors along the way but they were flaky if they weren’t neurotic. She’s heard talk of rebuilt communities that took survivors in, but she hasn’t found one yet. It wouldn’t hurt to find a tribe, if only to complement her glaring limitations. She was mostly fine on her own. It’s the supply runs that left a hell smirk in her mouth. Scavenging was inevitable despite its infinite dangers.

    She took the shorter way back through Kanto Trenta, once a sprawling shopping district but now as ghostly and abandoned as the rest of them. She fancied scoring an outfit or two.

    Halfway back to her crib, a green Wrangler in the middle of the street made her halt. Broken down from the looks of it, with a man cowering behind, loading a gun. Astrid’s eyes widened when the other side of the street came to view. A group of undead lurched violently towards the car. A couple dozen of them, give or take two more. She’s never seen a pack this large or this enthused. Their hissing, growling noises suddenly became deafening.

    No one’s going to get out of that with a gun.

    Astrid’s fight instinct got the better of her. Instead of turning around and driving away she parked the Monkey and started to sprint towards the Jeep. Fire jarred zombies for a little while, she thought. A few molotovs could delay them. Best case scenario the man could drive the motorcycle with her on it. A head start and an elevated structure was all they needed. She had enough cocktails to torch a flock pinned against a barrier.

    In haste, she reached behind to activate her backpack’s belt mechanism. A molotov snapped into her hand in a second flat. “Quick! To the bike!” she heard herself scream at the man, snatching a butane lighter from a touch fastener on her belt.

    The man cursed when he realized what was going on, noting the motorcycle several feet away. “Why did you stop? Go back!”

    Before Astrid could reach him, the man muttered “Ah fuck it!” and stood between her and the swell of undead, facing the pack as though getting mauled first would spare her.

    Then she watched him cast his hand and witnessed bursting from it a flame more alive than anything she’s ever seen. Vibrant, thirsty and biddable fire. Astrid gasped. The molotov clenched in her hand remained unlit.

    The man glanced back at her with disbelief and a stupid halfway grin. “It works,” he said, more to himself. “It actually works.”

    Agape, Astrid stared as the zombies burned.

[duesnovel-blog]

1. Satan Gave Me A Taco

Seven weeks in and even hope was akin to pillory. The painted signs scorched Curtis’s eyes like a potent mirage, just enough faith to distend resolve from the downhearted, to prod him to cling.

    An errant, day-old broadcast from a car radio in Los Niños had drawn him back to the port city of Escalante, where privately owned marinas that rented out motorboats and lodgings speckled the coastline, and the ocean was every glorious shade of aquamarine. The looped transmission came from a tactical team on standby in Bungan Port, telling survivors to head to the anchorage for shelter. The port was a repurposed naval base in nearby Bohol Island.

    Escalante was the nearest and fastest shot. Bohol was a couple of hours’ sail east. It was also a tread halfway through off-peak season. The chances of the place being infested were low. Curtis didn’t discount the prospect of finding other survivors or any kind of sanctuary, with the same purpose if he was lucky. Going there was a risk with a point.

    But the place brought back old, uninvited memories as he drove in, the view changing from sugarcane fields to ragged cliffs to the breezy colors of a holiday town. Curtis was born in Bohol, although all he had of his childhood were vague memories of a coastal village with hills that turned chocolate-colored in the summer, peering out at the even-tempered sea.

    Escalante was Viviente’s southern port city. It was where the ship docked those many years ago, when Curtis joined his gang-grown buddies and left his hometown to embrace a smuggler’s dream, to forget the squalor of his old life and slam himself into the filthy splendor of crime, ditching two brothers in the interim between jaded teen and full-fledged brigand. He left them with generous but unwitting relatives in a callous escape under the shadow of dawn in the back of a truck.

    Seeing Escalante again blasted fresh thoughts of family. If Bungan Port was intact, parts of Bohol must’ve been spared from the epidemic. Could it be then that his brothers survived, rough-faced Antonio and little Marklin, that a reunion during dark times inevitably forgave all past transgressions, that even his heartless, evil abandonment afforded him the right to contemplate on such possibilities?

    While the city yawned, Curtis chided himself as he rolled in on someone else’s green Jeep, a gasping thing heavy with stolen gear and residual guilt. It wasn’t really stolen. You own what the dead can’t keep.

    He cleared his head to focus on the goal at hand, aware that a lot of things could happen in a day. There were almost no whispers of survivors through the cities it took to get to Escalante. True, he rarely took a pit stop, but whatever cataclysm had the island in its clutches could cover a wide ground in twenty-four hours. Bungan Port may have already succumbed. Yet the broadcast did what Curtis thought was impossible. It had breached the barriers of his despair and given him purpose.

    “Escalante Leisure Boats”, the sign read.

    Curtis left the car doors open. A massive baseball bat pocked with giant nails lay on the passenger’s seat, stained with the bit of blood he hasn’t been able to wipe clean. He pulled out a pistol from one of the holsters strapped around his leg as he approached the entrance, trying to glean groans and grunts from the usual noise. The sea was blatant blue in the early afternoon. It was quiet.

    He found two of the undead idling on the dock, barely balanced on loose bones and shrunken flesh. Minimal threat, Curtis thought. He decided to save ammo and hurried back to the car for his bat. He was more interested in the boats. Three of them, sixteen-footers by initial estimate, moored and intact.

    Curtis gave the bat a twirl, then held the handle with both hands, his legs planted steady. “Here,” he spoke.

    One of the undead jerked its head at the sound of his voice. The other turned more slowly, its glazed eyes looking for a focus. Grime dripped down their chins, lips partly maimed, their teeth black and moist from the sickness that corrupted them. A beastly noise started from their throats, a burbling guttural rumble.

    Their eyes locked on target. Snarling, they sprung towards Curtis on heavy feet. The wooden dock shook.

    Thwack! Curtis flung the first one off the dock and heard the water splash. The second lunged at him. Its holiday onesie oozed with something he didn’t recognize but smelled. He stepped out of its way and chucked it to the ground with a single swing.

    The nails on the bat had ripped the zombie’s clothing, spraying blood from its wound. The force didn’t faze it. It struggled to get up, snapping its mouth, rabidly hissing as it trashed and tried to lift itself on its arms. Curtis pinned the creature down with his foot. He smashed its head in.

    He braced himself for more, alert to any movement from the large cabin behind him.

    The marina remained unstirred.

    Curtis left the bat upright by the cabin door, readied the gun, and looked through the glass windows. The place appeared empty, but he heard a muffled buzzing and knew what it meant. He held his breath and kicked the door open, pointing his gun as he panned quickly around the large common room.

    He was alone. Only the nasty stench of decay permeated the air.

    The living area was a mess. Flies fluttered about a heap of remains that had sullied the floor. Splashed across the carpet and furniture were stains of sickly red. Curtis ignored the gore. His instinct was to look for the kitchen.

    The soft hum of the fridge brought a smile to his face. “Yes,” he delighted as he opened it. Cold beer.

    Sometimes Lady Luck threw a bone to the buggered, Curtis thought. That is, until her sister Lady Fuck buggered the buggered raw. These days the sisters seemed to trail each other closely.

    And like an unfailing refrain, Lady Fuck found him a moment later. He was well into his second bottle when he noticed something staring at him from the doorway.

    It was an enormous hound.

    Curtis stiffened at the sight of it. Its fur was an unearthly shade of black, and its eyes were aflame. It began to move towards him with a predatory yet humanlike gait.

    The beer bottle shattered as it hit the tiled floor. Curtis emptied the rounds of his nine millimeter. He aimed between the animal’s eyes and nowhere else. But the hound kept coming, its stride unwavering and sadistically slow.

    “Stop shooting, fartfuck,” the dog spoke.

    Curtis almost soiled himself. His throat made small gurgling noises.

    “I’m not here to harm you,” the hound’s mouth opened. “But you should see your face right now. It’s delicious.”

    The beast stopped a few feet away, huffing a few times, as though the air hurt it. Its voice possessed a low and eerie rasp, a ghostly echo following each word. Curtis stared at its jaw, a bite-a-human’s-neck-clean grade of a jaw.

    “I was sent for you and there isn’t enough time, so listen close.”

    Considering everything that’s happened, Curtis didn’t have the luxury of disbelief. Considering, too, that he had no real choice, he listened. After what sounded like a pitch, the hound asked if he would accept.

    Curtis was engulfed in flames as soon as he said yes.

[duesnovel-blog]

proem: The Guillotine

A misty street, unlit; midnight thereabouts. In the silence that hefted, the low grunts of the undead could be spied.

    The rip, a mauve luminescence against tiny globs of black, opened and closed at the edge of Feregal Woods. It was a cut between worlds, from which gray-skinned Emeric, an underworld lord and watchman, emerged and slunk humanside for the first time.

    Emeric felt the chaos up here. He could smell it. Death was no longer a natural consequence but an infestation, hedonistic, and far from finished.

    From the hilltop, Emeric discerned the northern city of Silay where the plague was hatched. The new illegitimate kingdom nested there, far off but marked by thunderheads that glowed ruby under the moonlight.

    The field that stretched below him was spattered in zombie. Their numbers grew where the grass ended and the desolate suburbs began, shadowy figures that limped about, groaned, and moved aimlessly under the blanket of night.

    Emeric opened his deific senses for a moment and beheld the damned.  There were so many of them. The silver glinting of their souls, imprisoned in their mindless shells, yielded to his sight. His demi-god ears could hear their screams, their boundless agony and their volatile rage. In time their bodies would rot but retain enough flesh to linger on the mortal coil, preventing new souls to enter the underworld and thus diminishing the power of the realm. It was an irreverent insult to the natural order, which made Emeric wince, revolted at the state of it. The genius of the plan was in its folly, as avante garde as evil could get.

    “Thane.” Emeric clenched his jaw, stunned with certitude that the prince was a fiend and must be stopped. Like the wayward royal, Emeric’s mother was mortal, allowing him passage to the realm that Lord Sitan could only visit through dreams. Yet unlike the prince, he couldn’t remain long in the surface. Not under these conditions; he wouldn’t be able to stand it. He was only here to do a job, to release the underworld’s most ancient weapons that could destroy Thane’s devices and prevent an all-out war.

    The empire had been late in taking the menace seriously. Gods were proud and stubborn to begin with. Also, this wasn’t Thane’s first attempt to usurp his father’s kingdom; no one in the hidden court believed it would be any different. But the infection held, far longer and more effective than the plagues devised in the past. The underworld finally had reason for alarm. Lord Sitan grudgingly accepted that an actual threat to his sovereignty existed. For the first time in its uncontested history, an air of fear crept close to the throne.

    Thane’s generals were scattered around the world, and what occurred in those regions wasn’t so different from what took place in Silay. It had only taken a few hours to decimate the city. After two weeks, the pestilence all but gagged the island of Viviente. The first wave was swift, spreading before humans could fully organize. Even some with the most sophisticated weapons fell under the surge during the infection’s earliest days. In the weeks that followed, a few strongholds were established, but for each of them survival was never more than a finicky companion. Thane’s generals were just as ruthless as their master, perhaps more. It was only a matter of time before they culled the survivors.

    Emeric adjusted his cloak. From the claws of his necklace he pulled out the lachrymatory, uncapped it and poured. He watched the incandescent liquid float, water from the five rivers that carried tidings and armaments, roiling as one.

    “Go,” he commanded. “Fulfill our retribution.”

    The water brightened, flowed upward, honed, then separated into five filaments that shot out into the night. Five stones against a giant, his generals and an army. The fate of hell rested on their shoulders now.