wetting his chin. In a flash, the thing’s gaze passed from blunted confusion to murderous intensity. At nearly a full run now, it came at Jimbo and the crowd held its breath in anticipation.
Jimbo had always been a big guy and one who never had much call to use what little brains God had given him, but fighting was something he knew down deep in his bones. He’d grown up fighting off his older brothers for lunch money, dinners, extra desserts, even for his first taste of liquor and women. As he grew older, he’d been able to turn his natural ability and hard head into a rather decent income. He was a man who instinctively knew how to hurt people and, if he were to be completely honest, he sorta liked doing it. So, when the undead man lurched his way toward him, Jimbo had already set his mind on the task at hand and developed a plan.
The dead thing took another couple of steps toward Jimbo, coming in wide open and accessible. The thing’s hands reached out and clawed feverishly at the air. Its mouth was a pitiless, wet wound which tore savagely across the lower part of its face. Saliva continued to pour from its chops like a rabid dog’s. Dirt and dried blood lay caked in clumpy lumps across the vicious wound in its belly.
Seeing as how the dead thing had yet to meet much in the way of resistance in the pursuit of food since returning from the cold embrace of the grave, it now attacked—showing no fear and little hesitation. His deteriorating brain saw no reason to believe that the living man now standing before him would be anything other than his next meal. With an additional step or two, he’d come to within arm’s reach of his goal.
Jimbo moved a lot quicker than a man of his bulk should and came in low. He quickly slapped aside the dead man’s outstretched arms and stepped into what he called his 'pain zone.' He drove his arm over the thing’s grip and struck him across the side of its head with his forearm, just at the wrist. Its head cracked around like a whip and it stumbled from the concussion of the blow, dropping to one knee. The dead man shook his head to clear his vision and looked up, pupils faded to a milky white. A cold hatred burned in its dead, hungry eyes.
The thing climbed awkwardly to its feet and made another grab for what it still thought to be an easy meal. Jimbo did a little hop in the air and threw a forward 'bash in the door' kick, striking the thing square in the middle of its chest. Stale air blew out of its still lungs in a whoosh. In no time, the expelled air reached the crowd, smelling of the grave and rotting meat. Some of the women outside the corral held their hands over their noses in a vain effort to mask the smell.
The dead man’s body folded in on itself and fell to the ground by the force of the kick. It landed flat on its back, arms and legs thrashing. For a moment, it wobbled back and forth in the dirt like a turtle trying to right itself. The zombie’s limbs flailed about in an uncoordinated spasm, its arms and legs whirling crazily in the air.
As the thing tried to sit up, Jimbo leapt high into the air and came down with both feet—hard—on the thing’s chest. His heavy boots were driven with debilitating force onto the dead man’s sternum. A loud cracking sound echoed across the pen.
The crowd 'oooh-ed' and 'awwww-ed' as if they’d experienced the blow firsthand. Blood, black and oil-like, pumped from the thing’s mouth in lumpy pulses. A tortured, confused look dissipated like mist from the dead man’s features. Its labored attempts at drawing breath broke the stillness in an asthmatic pant.
Jimbo squatted over the crushed thing and, for a second, watched it burble and cough as it struggled for breath. The giant grabbed his opponent and lifted him from the ground and put him in a half-nelson in a quick motion. From a side-sheath, he deftly drew a blade and cut deep into the musculature of the thing’s neck. As deep, maroon dribbled out and onto the undead thing’s chest, Jimbo cut and twisted the head around on the stalk of its neck, working it back and forth. His actions were accompanied by stomach-turning, wet, crunching sounds. A garbled choking came from deep within the throat of the dead man. Jimbo pulled and wrenched and soon, his efforts were rewarded. The thing’s head came away from its body, dragging a portion of its shattered spine along with it.
The crowd became very silent as it watched Jimbo claim his grisly trophy.
By now, Jimbo’s bare upper body was drenched in gore. He stood slowly, hefting the severed head by its hair. The dead thing’s eyes danced and whirled in their sockets while blood fell dark and cancerous from its mouth, nose and stump of a neck.
Jimbo walked slowly toward the side of the corral, extending his hand and the head it held like an offering to both his partner and to the crowd. The crowd collectively took a step backward. One woman off to the side vomited and turned away.
Weber smiled broadly and turned to the crowd, centering his gaze on both Cecil and the good Hansford Tillman. He dropped his arms around the two men’s shoulders and patted them like a brother on their backs.
'Gentlemen… I think our point is made, don’t you?'
He turned and extended his hand in anticipation of his payment. The faces of the gathered people were a mixture of disgust and amazement. It was pretty clear that the mountain of a man before them was more than he seemed and could handle the reanimated dead with apparent ease.
'I think it’s fair to say that Jimbo and I are both owed our payment.'
By this time, Jimbo had arrived at the railing and looked inquisitively at Weber. His boss acknowledged him and continued to keep his hand extended in order to accept the money the locals were digging reluctantly from their pockets.
When Jimbo saw the winnings being handed over, he knew that there would be no trouble. Mr. Weber had taught him to always wait until the money had been exchanged before relaxing. In other camps, at other times, people had periodically been unwilling to pay, figuring some kind of fix was in. Like that was possible.
At those times, Mr. Weber would remind them all of what Jimbo had just done to a thing he cared little to nothing about. He would then suggest to them the kind of damage Jimbo could and would inflict once he had a certain vested interest.
As if by magic, the money would always appear.
'Hell, Mister,' Cecil said sounding repulsed. 'I don’t rightly believe what the fuck I just saw, but yeah… I think you have indeed proved your point.'
Jimbo now smiled to this crowd like a child seeking praise and casually tossed the head over his shoulder. The thing hit the ground with a wet 'chud' sound and rolled to a stop at Bubba’s feet. The dead man’s eyes still twirled in their sockets as the severed head rolled to a stop in the dirt. Bubba looked nauseated and pulled away as if his mother’s sex-soaked panties had been laid at his feet.
As Jimbo wiped his hands off on the thighs of his pants and stepped out of the corral, Mr. Weber finished gathering up their money. Once clear of the railing, he stood to his full height and once again smiled for all to see. The crowd took a hesitant step back and gave him a wide berth.
Both Weber and Jimbo knew down deep in their bones that they were on to something here. This same scenario had played itself out now for weeks. The two of them would come into a camp like this, wait for an opportunity, and then they’d make their move. The whole deal was starting to look pretty sweet. And if they were careful and played their cards right, this gig could turn into something substantial. Mr. Weber would often talk to Jimbo late into the night about how rich all of this was going to make them both.
For Jimbo’s part, he was just happy to have someone he could trust. Life was hard when your thinking was simple and it was important to have someone you could rely on. Mr. Weber could do the thinking and the talking… and Jimbo would do what Jimbo did best.
The arrangement seemed a good one, at least to Jimbo’s way of thinking.
As long as Jimbo could keep from making a mistake and keep himself from getting bit, things would be fine. Besides, there was plenty of money and food and women for them both. Mr. Weber was his friend and Jimbo was sure he wouldn’t let anything bad happen.
'Well, folks…' Weber said as he rolled his winnings into a tight ball and shoved it into his pocket. 'I appreciate your patronage. Now if you’ll excuse us, Jimbo and I must be on our way.'
Weber had learned that it was important to get while the gettin’ was good. Make your score and hit the road was proving to be the best course of action for them. He’d come to know that if you gave the fleeced sheep long enough to think about it, they’d forget about the danger and the implied threat and decide they’d want their money back. Gambling losses had a way of making people braver than they should be. Sooner or later, the image of Jimbo tearing a dead man to pieces would fade and only the hole in their pockets would remain. It would be shortly after that they’d remember the guns in their hands and the vastly superior numbers. It was better that the two of them would be halfway to the next bivouac by then.
Weber patted Jimbo on the back and directed him back the way they’d come through the crowd. As they walked along, the mass of people before them once again parted and made way. Once they’d moved by, the crowd
