UNDER THE BED

Genre: Horror

UNDER THE BED

By Randy Romero 

            Blake Fitzgerald–or Fitz, as he colloquially referred to by friends, neighbors, and co-workers alike–had seen one too many horror movies. He used to love them as a kid, when these films had virtually no effect on him. Now, as an adult, one horror movie was enough to invoke many sleepless nights.

            And like many others, Fitz was consumed by the irrational fear of letting one of his appendages dangle precariously over the side of his bed.

            What if there’s some strange, unearthly creature lurking under my bed? What if a monster grabs me and pulls me underneath? As long as I keep my arms and legs tucked under the covers, I’ll stay safe.

            Call it paranoia. Call it superstition. Call it primal fear. But if he let just one leg dangle over the side of the bed, he left himself vulnerable to any mystical demons that theoretically resided under his bed.

            The weather was mild. But under his covers, he was sweating up a storm. He couldn’t turn the heat down. The thermostat had been stuck on 75 degrees since the day before. It would take at least a few days for a serviceman to come and repair it.

            Oh, grow up, he thought. You’re being ridiculous. This is real life, not a movie. Nothing’s going to happen if you decide to kick off the covers or let your arm hang off the side of the bed.

            But he couldn’t have been more wrong.

            He slipped one leg out from under the covers and let it drape over the side of his bed.

            In mere seconds, a cold, scaly hand wrapped tightly around his ankle. Its ragged claws dug deep into his skin, drawing massive blood and crushing the bones beneath.

          He screeched as he was wrenched from his bed and dragged underneath. One more bloodcurdling scream echoed through his quiet neighborhood, loud enough to wake the dead. And the night was silent again.

THE WITCHING HOUR

Genre: Horror 

THE WITCHING HOUR

By Randy Romero

“Good evening ladies and germs, and welcome to another edition of ‘Last Call’ with yours truly, Ron Hall. And I’ll be keeping you company all through the witching hour. It’s exactly twelve midnight here on the east coast. And I’ll be here ‘til the break of dawn to take your calls and rant and bitch as much as I please in between. But first, I’ve got a little music for you. This one is a special request and it goes out to Sherri in Bay Shore.”

Hall loved to run his mouth, but he also liked to get paid to sit around and do nothing. Song requests were his favorite. All he had to do was pop in a CD, press a few buttons, sit back and relax. Or he’d chat with Nikki, who was always in the booth with him.

            Hall filled his mug with coffee and decided to Irish it up with a little shot of whiskey from the flask he stashed in the top drawer of his desk.

            “Easy on the booze,” Nikki told him. “I don’t want you slurring your words on the air.”

            “It’s past midnight on a Wednesday. Who else is listening at this hour besides alcoholics?”

            “Loners, insomniacs, horny truck drivers.”

            “Thanks for the lovely image.”

            Nikki Baldwin was Hall’s producer, technical assistant, and station manager all rolled into one. Hall busted her chops on a regular basis, but he had a lot of respect for Nikki. The girl was tough. As tough as nails, Hall thought. She was the only girl that Hall knew who drove a motorcycle. And boy, could she throw a punch. Hall found out the hard way when he accidentally dinged up her bike. He’d been drinking and the roads were icy and he just sort of slid into it. She was pissed, but she didn’t hold any grudges. She slugged him once and told him they were even, and Hall didn’t beg to differ. She didn’t even ask him to pay for the damage.

            The song came to an end, and Hall was back on the air. “I’ll never get tired of that track,” Hall commented, not even sure what song he’d played. Nikki had the lineup, and Hall just pushed the buttons and ranted on-air, mostly about politics or the most recent celebrity scandals.

            “I’ve got another one coming up for you. This song goes out to Otto in Springfield, New Jersey.”

            “I’ve got a caller on line one,” Nikki whispered. Ron looked down at the phone and saw line one was blinking. Nikki held up her notepad. She had written JAKE FROM BAYONNE, NEW JERSEY in all capital letters to let Hall know who was on hold. Hall had gotten used to the rather primitive setup over the years. They still used landlines and they played CDs when most stations were using MP3s or burning songs to their laptops and playing them off of that. And he had also adapted to Nikki’s unique methods of communication. She was constantly scribbling notes and holding them up for him to see.

            “But first, we have a caller. Jake from Bayonne, you’re on the air. What’s on your mind, Jake?”

            “Hey, Ron. How’s it going?”

            “It’ll be going a lot smoother once I get this coffee in me,” Ron said, taking a sip from his Justice League mug.

            “I hear that. But yeah, reason I’m calling is I was listening to your show last night about Pilgrim State. Really scary stuff.”

            “Thanks. It wasn’t meant to be scary, but when I heard the place was being demolished, it brought back a lot of memories from my rebellious teenage years. I’m not ashamed to admit that place always gave me the chills. Do you have a story about Pilgrim State you want to share?”

            “Well, Ron, I personally don’t believe in monsters or demons or vampires. But I’m a firm believer in the afterlife.”

            “So you believe in ghosts or spirits?”

            “Absolutely. So this story goes back to my days in high school. I was a jock and–”

            “We forgive you for that. But please continue.”

            Jake from Bayonne, New Jersey gave a forced chuckle and then went on. “Yeah, so I was a jock and every year, the football team would go up to Pilgrim State and explore the grounds. It was a mandatory thing for new team members, a way to weed out the tough guys from the chicken shits. The place has been closed since I was a kid. The buildings are dilapidated and crumbling. Bums use it for shelter. But anyway, before I ramble on, let me tell my story.”

            “Please do. It’s past midnight and I’m trying to stay awake here.”

            “We were in one of the basement tunnels, and we weren’t looking for it, but we ended up stumbling upon the morgue where they used temporarily store any deceased patients. The place was empty, obviously. But my friend was standing near one of the empty cabinets, and he swears to this day that something reached out and touched his arm.”

            “Was it one of you guys playing a prank on him? Messing around?”

            “It definitely wasn’t me. I was standing all the way across from him. I never knew whether to believe him or not. But it certainly freaked him out and he still talks about it to this day. He remembers that it had dry, coarse, almost scaly skin.”

            “Interesting story, Jake. I’m sure since this was back in high school, there were no drugs involved. No mind altering substances. But thanks for the call, man. Have a great night.”

            “Hey, Ron, before I go, one more story.”

            “Alright, what the hell. Nobody’s listening anyway.”

            “Remember how I said I don’t believe in monsters? Well, I didn’t believe in monsters. But we saw something in the basement of one of the buildings that made me think otherwise. It was this…shapeless mass. Colorless. Odorless. It seemed harmless. But the closer we got, I could swear it was moving. It was like pulsing, like it was breathing or something. I got really close and it started to slither away. And that’s when…hey, what the fuck is that?”

            “Whoa, whoa, Jake, you can’t use that word on the air, buddy. I know I said nobody is listening, but the FCC will have my butt on a platter if they get wind of this.”

            “Ron, I’m walking to my car and there’s something standing at the end of the street. It, it looks like a person, but I see, I see wings. It has freaking wings like jutting out of its shoulder blades. Ron, I-I-I got to call you back. What the…no, no, no! Get away from me! Get the hell away from me! Get off–”

            The call was disconnected and a brief silence filled the air as Nikki and Ron exchanged bewildered glances.

            “Thank you, Jake from Bayonne. And whatever you’re on, please share some. But I think Jake actually raised a good question to explore tonight. Do you believe in monsters? Not the political monsters. Not that monster in the white house. Not the crooks in the street or the cops on the beat. I’m talking about the figurative monsters, not the literal ones. The Frankenstein’s, the Dracula’s, the flesh-craving zombies, the ghosts in the attic, the demons in the cellar. Do you believe in monsters? Do you think monsters are real? Or can we make them real simply by choosing to believe in them? What’s your take on all this?”

            He checked the phone lines, expecting Jake to call back and have the last laugh on him. But he saw no blinking lights. “Otto in Springfield, I haven’t forgotten about you. Here’s a little Iron Maiden coming your way.”

            Ron dropped his headset and swiveled around in his chair to face Nikki. “The hell was that?”

            “Just another crank caller. We got at least ten of those a week. When you come back from this next song, you’ve got another caller on line three that wants to weigh in on your monster debate.”

            The song faded out and Ron rejoined the program. “Hope you all enjoyed that track, if you’re even awake. Rich in Ronkonkoma–boy that’s a mouthful–you’re on the air. What have you got for us?”

            “Evening, Ron. Long time listener, first time caller.”

            “Glad to have you on the air, Rich. What’s on your mind?”

            “A lot, Ron. But I’ll keep this short. Monsters are real. They do exist. I’ve seen them with my own eyes. I watched a neighbors stone gargoyle statue come to life, like something out of Ghostbusters. And before you try to discredit me, there was no drugs involved. I’ve seen many over the years. I’ve been tracking these things for a very long time. Most of them live underground. They live for nights like tonight when the moon is at its darkest and they can blend in with the night. And some of them live within us, dormant, inactive, just waiting for the opportune moment to reveal their true forms. They will come for you. And when they do, there’s no stopping them. They–”

            Ron disconnected the call. “And thank you, Rich from Ronkonkoma. Someone make sure he’s taking his medication. Check South Oaks, I think they’re missing a patient.”

            A blare in the distance gave Ron a jolt and made him drop his headset.

            “What is that?”

            “Sirens.”

            “But we’re in a sound booth. We shouldn’t be able to hear a thing.”

            “Must be serious.”

            “Must be. Well, you’re the technical advisor. See what you can find. Check Patch or something. Or use the police scanner.”

            “Police scanner is fucked. I can’t pick up any frequencies tonight. But I’ll surf the web, see what I can find.”

            Ron returned to the air with another track ready to play, but the phone lit up with three blinking lights. “Guess everyone has insomnia tonight. Tommy in Queens, you’re on the air. Please be sane, unlike the last caller.”

            “Ron, I’ve been trying to get through to the police all night but the lines are busy. So I thought I’d try you.”

            “Good idea. The phones are wide open here. What’s going on, Tommy?”

            “It’s my neighbor…he’s sick. I’ve never seen anything like it.”

            “So call 911, that’s what they’re there for.”

            “I was on hold with 911 for hours. Can’t get through to them, either.”

            “You can’t get through to 911?”

            “Call them if you don’t believe me.”

            “I’ll take your word, for now. What’s wrong with your neighbor, Tommy?”

“Hell if I know. His skin was all discolored. Pus and fluid leaking from every hole in his body. He was trying to get into my apartment, but I couldn’t let him in. He was…my God, he was growing something out of the sides of his body. It looked like…tentacles.”

            “Tentacles? Right.”

            “Oh my God…” Tommy gasped. “He’s at the door again. What should I do?”

            “I think you should give the crack pipe a rest. Is everyone calling in tonight on drugs?”

            “I can see them, slithering around under the door. The tentacles. I can see him through the peephole. God, he looks hideous! Ron, please, you’ve got to get in touch with the police! You’ve got to tell them–”

            Another dead call. Ron Hall took a big gulp of his Irish coffee and noticed the two waiting callers had dwindled to one. He threw a CD on without thinking twice and turned to Nikki for some much needed answers.

            “Well?”

            “Nothing. Nothing on Google, nothing on Patch, Twitter, or Reddit. Nothing on any local news sites. Nothing on Facebook. Radio silence.”

            “What the hell is going on out there?”

            More sirens in the distance, cutting through the sound proof booth. “I’ve got a bad feeling about this.”

            Ron returned to the air and went to the last remaining caller. “Trent from Redfield, you’re on the air.”

            “Ron, my friends and I have been listening to your show since it started and you need to open your eyes, man. These aren’t crank calls. The shit has hit the fan out here. I don’t know what the hell is going on. There are cops everywhere telling people to stay inside their homes. They’re rounding people up and hauling them away. There’s a rumor going around that they’re calling in the National Guard. And my friend, Eric, was attacked.”

            “Attacked? Attacked by who?”

            “Not who, Ron. What. I don’t know what the damn thing was. It had this huge, pear-shaped body and three angular legs on each side, like a spider. But this thing, it had a stinger on its backside. Like a scorpion. It stung my friend. And now he’s writhing on the floor. The police won’t help him. They told us to stay away from him.”

            “How bad is it, Trent?” Ron asked with genuine concern. He was starting to become a believer.

            “It’s bad. His stomach is all black and purple and swollen. It’s, it’s, oh Christ! It’s growing! His stomach is swelling!”

            Ron could hear the agonizing screams. If Trent’s buddy was acting, he deserved an Oscar.

            “Don’t touch him, Trent. Get away from him.”

            “It won’t stop! It just keeps growing! It’s filling up like a balloon!”

            Ron wondered how long the skin could endure, how long his stomach would take the pressure. And he didn’t have to wonder long. He heard a loud pop that sounded like a car exhaust backfiring. Trent gasped, then shrieked. There were several other distinct screams and the patter of footsteps as Trent and his friends scattered.

            “It just burst right out of his stomach! It just ripped right through his fucking chest! Never seen anything like it! Blood everywhere!” Trent was hyperventilating, and sounded on the verge of hysteria.

            “What is it, Trent?”

            “It looks just like the fucking thing that attacked him!”

            Ron didn’t care about the FCC fines at this point. He cared about surviving the night.

            The line went dead and Ron removed his headset, pushed his mic away from his face.

            Silence. Dead air.

            “I think I owe Rich from Ronkonkoma an apology,” he told Nikki.

He reached into his coat pocket and produced a crushed pack of Camels. “I quit four months ago. I never threw the pack away because I wanted to prove to myself that I had the willpower. A lot of good that did me.” He lit one and offered one to Nikki.

            “Why not?” she shrugged and accepted one that wasn’t crushed or broken.

            “That’s the spirit. If the world is going to hell, we might as well go to hell with ourselves, too.”

            Nikki grabbed her laptop. “I found something when you were on the phone. Someone uploaded a video to YouTube, about an hour ago. Ron, you need to see this.”

            She double clicked the video to make it a full screen, then she pressed play and let Hall watch. She had already seen it, and didn’t desire to view it again. So instead, she watched Hall’s terrified reaction.

            The video–shaky and blurry–was clearly shot on someone’s cell phone. The camera was focused on a green door. The man holding the phone sounded quite distraught and a little scared as he pleaded with his friend on the other side of the door.

            “Daryl, please open the door. Come on out, man. We need to get you to a hospital. Whatever’s going on, it’s not your fault. The doctors will know what it is, man. You just have to let them look at you.”

He pounded on the door. No response.

He walked a few feet from the green door and turned the camera on himself. “I know it’s a dick move to film this, but I’ve never seen this shit before. His skin, it just started like, I don’t, know, peeling off. And I don’t know what the hell was underneath, but man, it didn’t look like flesh. It was all, like, bumpy and brown and crusty-looking. He really needs to see a doctor. But he won’t come out.”

The man walked back over, the camera focused on the green door again.

“Daryl, open up!” he shouted. “Let me help you!”

            “You can’t!” Daryl shrieked.

            Nikki turned up the volume so Hall could hear the sound coming from the bathroom. He heard the glass shattering and watched as the man set his phone down. The angle was terrible, but he could still make out what was going on. The man kicked at the knob and used his shoulder as a battering ram until the door swung open. He stepped back a few feet, grabbed his phone, and went in.

The window was smashed to pieces. Shards of glass were sprinkled all over the floor. Daryl was gone. But he left two parting gifts. The first he noticed was the claw marks on the windowsill. The skin was the cocoon of skin he’d left splayed out on the bathroom floor. Daryl, or the thing that used to be Daryl, had shed its skin the way a person would casually remove their coat. That’s where the video ended.

            “Ladies and germs…I have no words to describe the events that have transpired tonight. If you’re indoors, please remain indoors. Don’t go outside. Don’t answer your doors. Don’t trust any strangers. And don’t–”

            Hall looked down at the blinking light and then up at Nikki.

            Nikki held up her notepad. TRENT – LINE ONE

           “Trent, you’re back on the air. Are you there, Trent? What’s happening? Talk to us.”

            “The thing that came out of my friend…it’s growing.”

            “Growing?”

            “Yes, growing. Expanding. And it’s sprouting new appendages. There are…oh, Christ…there are tentacles coming out of its back.”

            “Where is it, Trent? Where is it?”

            “I don’t know. It’s crawling all around the house. I’m in the upstairs bedroom. I locked myself in. I don’t know what happened to the others. I think they bolted out the backdoor. Oh, God, please help me. I don’t want to die. I don’t want to die. I don’t want to die.”

            “You’re not going to die, Trent. It’s going to be fine.”

            “Oh, no. Oh, please no.”

            “What’s going on, Trent?”

            “It’s right outside the door,” he whispered. “Wait, I think it’s going away now. I can’t hear it anymore. I think it’s–Oh shit! Help m–”

            That was the last they heard from Trent.

            More silence. More dead air. To fill the gap, Ron chose a CD and put on an appropriate tune. “It’s the End of the World” by R.E.M. came on the air and Ron abandoned his post.

            “I think I’ll clock out early,” Ron said. He took his flask out from his desk. “Join me for a drink?”

            “Might as well. It might be the last drink I ever have.”

            They passed the flask and stared at the door to the booth. “After you,” Ron said.

            “Yeah, right,” Nikki shrugged. It was the first time he’d ever seen her scared. And it was the first time she’d ever seen Ron afraid. Actually, it was the second, if you count the time she punched him.

            “I guess we’re stuck here.”

            “Yeah. Don’t get any bright ideas.”

            “I wouldn’t dream of it. At least we have plenty of music.”

            “You know, why don’t we do that? Be actual DJs for once and forget all this talk radio crap. If anyone is out there listening, the music might cheer people up and help them get through this. We’ll be contributing, doing our part. It’s the least we can do while we’re stuck in here.”

            “I like it,” Hall said. “Did I ever tell you I used to be a musician?”

            “About a million times but I never really listen to the story. I will now though.”

            “You don’t really have a choice,” Hall chuckled. “Well, it all started in my friend’s garage back in 1998. We were sophomores in high school and we–”

            “Did you hear that?”

            “Don’t try to get out of hearing my story.”

            “No, I’m serious. I heard something.”

            “More sirens?”

            “No. It sounded like it was coming from outside the booth.”

            “I can’t see anything through the glass. The door is locked and you can’t see through the glass from the other side, so we’re safe in here as long as we remain quiet.”

            There was a faint knock at the door and for a second, Ron and Nikki forgot how to breathe.

            The rapping persisted. Ron edged closer to the door, his feet barely lifting from the ground. It was knocking they were hearing, it was scratching. Something on the other side of the door was trying to claw its way in. Something big, judging by the shadowy figure Ron could just make out through the glass of the sound booth. Something beyond natural description. Something that wanted desperately to get inside that booth.

            Hall sighed and took a big swig from his flask. “It’s going to be a long night…” 

MONSTERLAND: PART ONE

Genre: Horror/Fantasy

MONSTERLAND

By Randy Romero

PART ONE: BAT COUNTRY

            Nothing is free in Monsterland. Nothing.

            And though it may sound like an odd, outlandish amusement park or some cheap, trashy tourist trap, Monsterland is no gimmick. It’s the world as we know it.

            The vamps in Bat Country are open to trade, if they don’t rip your throat open and drain you of your essence before you get a chance to make them an offer. A pint of blood–yours or someone else’s, the vamps aren’t picky–can get you a few days’ worth of rations or enough gasoline to take you where you need to go.

            The vamps don’t fear humans because they know they outnumber us. They fear only one individual. Supreme. He doesn’t just take your blood. He takes your spirit, drains you of your memories, absorbs your intellect, relieves you of your strength, talents, and abilities and claims it all for himself. This makes him the most powerful vamp, not just in Bat Country, but the entire world.

            A black Ford Bronco rolled past the empty ticket booth, exploring the desolate fairgrounds. It was an old truck and the shocks squealed with every bump they hit, but the tires were fairly new and the brakes were still good. And it was one of the only vehicles the group possessed.

The Bronco was an ’85 model and there were no doors for the backseat, which was the only major disadvantage. Whenever they stopped, someone had to get out and lift the seat so those in back could climb out.

They parked by the Tilt-A-Whirl and Tug got out and lifted the seat for the guys in the back. Hirschfelder and Wooderson jumped out, crossbows in hand. They had guns, but the firearms were merely a precaution. Guns won’t save your life in Bat Country. But an old fashioned bow and arrow seems to do the trick, especially after you replace the arrow with a wooden stake.

            Hirschfelder and Wooderson stood guard. Murphy stayed behind the wheel with the engine running in case things went sideways and they had to make a speedy getaway. And Tug unloaded the “goods” from the back from the truck.

            The vamp hovered under the shade of a red-and-white carnival tent, eluding the glare of the sun. Tug approached with confidence. No vamp would risk taking them in the daylight. As long as he kept his distance, he was safe.

Hirschfelder listened to the creak of a nearby Ferris wheel, its passenger seats swaying in the wind. Among the defunct rides and bumper cars was Terminal Velocity, a rusted rollercoaster that was slowly disintegrating with time.

This was Hirschfelder’s town…once. He’d lost his lunch to Terminal Velocity more times than he could count. The fair used to be open for business every weekend. It never moved away like other carnivals or drifted in and out of town like the circus. And now, it belonged to the vampires.

Hirschfelder let his mind drift for a moment, his lips smacking at the thought of the deep fried zeppoles they used to sell at the food stand. He could never resist them. And if it wasn’t the zeppoles, it was the cinnamon churros or the gigantic cones of cotton candy they swirled. He could almost smell the caramelized sugar and taste the fluffy pink treat melting on his tongue. Nick Hirschfelder wasn’t exactly fat, but thanks to his poor diet and penchant for Dr. Pepper, he wasn’t anyone’s idea of thin.

            He snapped out of it and refocused his energy on the task at hand. The sunlight protected them from the vamps, but they had to be wary of poachers.

            “What’s your pleasure, sir?” the young vamp inquired. He never stepped outside the tent.

            “What can I get for seven pints?” Tug asked, presenting a galvanized pail that was practically overflowing.

            “Seven pints? Not bad. Who’d you kill?” The young vamp grinned, exposing his ravenous fangs.

            “Is that relevant?”

            “No, it’s just for my own edification.”

            “We ran into some poachers on the backroads. Needless to say, they won’t be bothering anybody anymore.”

            “Did they suffer?” the vamp asked and that creepy grin edged across his mouth again. “I bet they suffered beautifully.” He stepped forward a bit, close enough for Tug to his see pallid, vein riddled skin and spiky blonde hair.

            “I can assure you they suffered plenty. And they deserved every minute of it.”

            “Splendid. Now, back to business. Seven pints can get you guns, ammo, food for your entire group, or enough gas to fill your tank two or three times. The choice is yours.”

            “I was actually interested in something else.”

            “Oh, do tell.”

            “The whereabouts of the one they call Supreme.”

            “And why would you want to know his whereabouts?”

            “He killed a friend of ours. We’re looking to return the favor.”

            “Are you really that eager to join your friend? Supreme will slaughter you, each and every last one of you.”

            “I’m aware of his abilities. Now point me in his direction.” The young vamp didn't appear to have any backup, but Tug knew the vamps always traveled in packs, and the fairgrounds were usually crawling with them at night. Surely, he was not alone. If Tug stepped inside that tent, he may never step out. But the young, spiky haired vamp could see Tug meant business, and he didn’t want to press his luck with someone who looked like he could crush someone's skull with one hand. Tug was a tad short, but built like a brick-shit-house, which more than made up for his short stature.

            “You have to go west. There’s a funeral parlor on the outskirts of what your people call The Dead Zone. You’ll find him there.”

            “We’ll need some gas to get there.”

            “I already gave you what you wanted. But I’ll throw in a full tank on the house.”

            Nothing is free in Monsterland. Nothing.

            “What’s the catch?”

            “You find Supreme, and when you do, you kill that son of a bitch. Drive a stake right through his fucking heart. Deal?”

            Tug nodded. “Happy to oblige."

***

Hirschfelder was sweating bullets. He kept glancing anxiously at his digital watch. “One more hour of sunlight,” he said. “We’ll have to haul ass back to base.”

            “Then haul ass we will,” Tug said.

            “Do you think he was telling the truth?” Murphy asked as they took off down the road.

            Tug shrugged his boulder-like shoulders. “If he’s lying, I’ll rip his fangs out with my bare hands.”

            “How do Jodi and Sabrina feel?” Wooderson asked.

            “How do they feel about what?” Tug asked back.

            “About us going after Supreme.”

            “It’s not their decision. And it’s not like we’re bringing them along.”

            “I’m not leaving them behind.”

            “I never said we were. We’ll come back for them. They’re safer out east than they are in the Dead Zone.”

            They passed an abandoned Exxon station, the ruins of a Starbucks, and a demolished fruit stand that had once been a prominent staple of the east end. They were halfway home when they ran into a roadblock.

            Murphy jammed on the brakes and they locked up, the truck skidding a few inches before it came to a shrieking halt.

            “What’s your problem?!” Wooderson exclaimed.

            “Look,” Murphy pointed.

            “What is it?” Hirschfelder asked, a quiver in his voice.

            “It’s a herd,” Tug said.

            Zombies. But these were not your gray or blue skinned George A. Romero zombies with stiff legs and rigid postures. These things were the real deal, and they could move. They didn’t wander aimlessly, they walked with purpose and intent.

            Murphy and Tug could see them as they drew closer, their blackened teeth, exposed muscle and sinew, the flesh rotting down to the bone.

            “I’ve never seen a herd this far east,” Murphy said. “Usually they don’t stray too far from the Dead Zones.”

            “Someone or something must have led them in this direction,” Tug said.

            “Could be poachers,” Wooderson said. “This could be a trap.”

            “Duly noted,” Tug said. “Everyone has a gun, right?”

“That goes without saying,” Murphy chuckled. “But I don’t think we have enough ammo to clear the path. We’ll have to double back and find another route.”

            Hirschfelder had his .22 stuffed in his waistband. Not because it was comfortable or even safe, but it was what he’d seen in movies. In the movies, nobody uses a holster. They just carelessly cram the loaded weapon into their waistband or stick it behind their backs for the sudden reveal during the big standoff at the film's climax.

Nick Hirschfelder had never even fired a gun before he joined the group. But Tug and Murphy made it their mission to teach him. Knowing how to use a gun meant the difference between life and death in Monsterland.

            But you can’t hesitate. And that was Hirschfelder’s problem. Alan Wooderson told the guys he was hopeless, that Hirschfelder would have just as much luck with a Nerf gun. But Hirschfelder was determined to prove him wrong.

            Just pretend it’s a video game, he’d tell himself. Who doesn’t love video games?

            Tug and Murphy didn’t need to pretend. Murphy, an Iraq war veteran, was more than familiar with his firearms and he felt very comfortable using them. Nobody knew for sure if Murphy was his first name or last. He refused to tell them. He’d been with the group since the beginning, before Wooderson and Hirschfelder, even before Tug came along.

            Murphy had nicknamed him Tugboat because he was small in stature, but strongly built. But everyone in the group resorted to calling him Tug for short. The nickname stuck, and Tug didn’t seem to mind. Half the time, he couldn't even remember his real name.

            Murphy, with his black sunglasses and leather driving gloves, tightened his fingers around the wheel. “Your call, chief. You want to give these undead bastards a run for their money or floor it in reverse?”

            “I know what I’d vote for,” Hirschfelder said.

            “I’m cool either way,” Wooderson said, his voice never faltering like Hirschfelder and his cowardly warble.

            As the herd marched towards them, Murphy and Tug watched one of the zombies fall to its knees and crumple in the road, its head popped like a zit. Another dropped beside it, then another, and another; the bullets ripping through their skulls, their heads exploding like falling watermelons. Tug could hear the gunfire, but he couldn’t see the shooters. He assumed there had to be more than one. But when the herd was clear and the road was littered with rotting, headless corpses, a lone man stood with his AR-15 and a satisfied smirk across his ruddy face.

            He approached the truck, his gun rested on one shoulder to let the men know he meant no harm. Tug rolled his window down and nodded, a sign of recognition and gratitude.

            “Thanks for that.”

            “Don’t mention. David Murdoch, but everyone calls me Duke.”

            “Where you heading, Duke?”

            “Anywhere but here.”

            “Need a place to crash? It’s the least we could do.”

            “I wouldn’t mind a warm bed and a fresh meal.”

            “I hate to break it to you, but we’re not going to make it home before dark,” Murphy said. “We’ll have to find a place to camp out for the night.”

            “Hey, Duke,” Tug said, “Ever been to Reggie’s?”

***

            Reggie’s Diner was always open, for a price.

            Nothing is free in Monsterland. Nothing.

            This time, it all cost was a few CDs and paperback novels Murphy had found on their latest search for supplies. They sat in a booth and Norma, a young woman with a benevolent smile and shoulder-length blonde hair, came over to take their order.

            “What’ll you have?” she asked to nobody in particular.

            “Egg white omelette,” Tug requested.

            “You can have fried or scrambled eggs.”

            “Scrambled it is. Oh, and a side of bacon.”

            “No bacon or pork related products.”

            “I’ll just stick with the eggs.”

            “They have eggs here?” Duke asked.

            “Liquid eggs. It’s not as good as the real thing, but it’s better than nothing.”       

 

“BLT,” Wooderson said. “Hold the bacon.”

            “Anything that’s fresh,” Hirschfelder said.

            “So nothing for you then,” Norma said.

            “I’ll have a Coke,” Duke said, then added, “Please.”

            “We’ve got Pepsi.”

            “What about decaf coffee?” Murphy asked.

            “We’ve got Sanka.”

            “I’ll take it.”

            “Be right back with your stuff,” Norma said and sauntered away.

            “She seems nice,” Duke said.

            “She’s not bad once you get to know her,” Tug said.

            Outside, the wind moaned as it carried through the streets. Tug cocked his head to one side and listened closely.

            It wasn’t just the wind that was moaning. Someone was out there, screaming for their life.

            He peered out through the diamond patterned windows of the diner and could just make out a vague silhouette. The silhouette rapidly evolved into the thin, frail figure of a woman with fiery red hair.

            She scraped and pounded against the front doors, begging, pleading for help. Tug couldn’t leave her out there to face the vamps on her own. “Norma, toss me the keys.”

            Tug unlocked the door and grabbed the girl by the arm, pulled her inside. She recoiled slightly at his touch and he let go when he saw the trepidation in her eyes. She was wounded, had a nasty gash above her left eye that was still bleeding.

            “It’s okay,” Tug tried to assure her. “You’re safe here. Let me see if Reggie has a first aid kit in back.”

            “No!” the girl cried. “There’s no time! We have to get out of here! He’s coming!”

            “Who’s coming?” Murphy asked.

And just as he asked, they heard the thunderous pounding on the front doors of Reggie’s establishment.

“Amber!” a man screamed so loud his lungs threatened to burst. “Get out here now!”

            “The girl is with us,” Tug shouted from the other side of the door. “I suggest you leave. You’re outnumbered. I’m trying to do you a favor.”

            “I’m the one doing you a favor, buddy. You don’t know what she’s capable of, what she did to my friends. She has to die. Or she’ll destroy everything in her path.”

            “I have no fucking clue what you’re talking about. But this is your final warning. Leave now.”

            “Have it your way,” the man said, his voice trailing off at the end.

            They waited until he was gone, then all eyes in the diner turned to the girl with the red hair.

            “So you must be Amber,” Tug said. “They call me Tugboat, or Tug for short. That’s Murphy, and Hirschfelder, and Wooderson. And that big lug over there calls himself Duke.”

            Duke tipped his invisible cap to Amber. “Evening, ma’am.”

            “Now what the hell was this fella talking about? You have something you need to tell us?”

            A gunshot echoed through the kitchen and a body dropped to the floor.

            Tug drew his gun, but by then, the man was out the kitchen and he had Norma by the throat, the cold barrel of his gun pressed to her temple.

            “I didn’t want it to come to this,” the man said, his voice cracking up when he saw just how outnumbered he really was. “But that girl is trouble. I have to end this before she spreads the plague again.”

            With the man's eyes on Amber, Murphy made a move. But the man was too fast for him and the bullet went through his right hand. Then the gun returned to Norma’s head and they were back to square one.

            “Put the gun down,” Tug said, trying to play the role of negotiator. “We can make a deal, work something out. Nobody else needs to get hurt.”

            “You foolish bastard,” the man said, shaking his head. “There’s nothing you can offer me. You give me the girl and we walk out of here together, end of story. You’ll never see me again.”

            “I’m afraid I can’t do that.”

            “Then I’m afraid we have nothing left to discuss.”

            Duke, Hirschfelder, and Wooderson all rushed at him at once. Duke tackled him to the floor and Wooderson helped pin him down. Hirschfelder was attempting to wrestle the gun from his hand when it went off, the bullet entering and exiting through the man’s skull before anyone even realized the gun had been fired.

            “Fuck me,” Duke said, wiping fresh blood of his brow.

            “It was an accident,” Hirschfelder insisted. “He had his finger wrapped around the trigger.”

            “No big loss,” Wooderson said and patted Hirschfelder on the back. “Nice shot, even though you weren’t trying to kill him. I’ll still give you points.”

            “You alright?” Murphy asked, helping a distraught Amber back to her feet as Tug consoled a traumatized Norma. Amber had taken cover under one of the booths as soon as she heard the first shot.

            “I’ll be okay,” she said.

            “Nasty cut you have there,” Murphy said, brushing her head with his mangled hand. He didn’t mean to, but Murphy was a righty, and it was all instinct. But that’s all it took. Just one drop. One drop of Amber’s blood and the virus was coursing through Murphy’s veins. The extreme change was instantaneous and sent shockwaves through his system. His eyes grew dark and gray, the color of storm clouds.

            The virus enveloped him and filled him with rage. Pure, unfiltered, endless rage.

            “Murph? You okay?” Tug asked.

            “Don’t!” Amber cried. “Don’t touch him! He’s infected!”

            “Infected with what?”

            “With me…”

To Be Continued With Part Two: CONTAMINANT