Cannibal Corpse, M/C
Tim Curran
Published by Permuted Press at Smashwords.
Copyright 2012 Tim Curran.
www.PermutedPress.com
Cover art by Zach McCain.
“Only the dead are without fear.”
—Tomas,
Chapter One
The wormboy cut in close, trying to sideswipe him, but Slaughter was ready: he brought out the big .357 Combat Mag and let it bark a couple of times. It was like thunder in the still air. The first round went wild, the other right on target. The wormboy cried out as the side of his throat was blasted to hamburger. He flipped off the shit- brown Duo-Glide Panhead, and hit the pavement, skidding on his face and leaving a greasy smear on the road. His bike went careening away, flipping over, spinning away in a shower of sparks.
Slaughter circled him, bringing his hog to a stop.
He hopped off, a tall wiry man in a greasy, road-weary jean vest emblazoned with club patches, his bare muscular arms sleeved with prison tattoos. He wore a black bandanna on his head and steel-toed motorcycle boots. On the back of his vest there was an oval logo patch with a horned deathshead over crossed pitchforks, a snake hanging from the fanged jaws. Above it, the top rocker read: DEVIL’S DISCIPLES, M/C. And below it: PITTSBURGH.
“Let’s finish this,” Slaughter said.
The wormboy didn’t stay down dead, of course, but scrambled to his feet, his graying worm-holed face contorted in a mask of anger. He pressed one gnarled, fleshless hand to his wounded throat, trying to stem the flow of black bile which passed for blood in the walking dead.
He made a low growling sound like a kicked dog, gnashing yellow teeth together, anxious to sink them into something warm and pink and full-blooded.
Slaughter put another round in his chest, then planted a third right between his eyes before he could pull the SS dagger in his belt. The contents of the wormboy’s skull sprayed across the road. He folded up, dropped to his knees, and hit the pavement face-first. As an afterthought, he shuddered and vomited out a slime of green drainage. There were maggots in it.
“Fucking wormboys,” Slaughter said under his breath, spitting tobacco juice into the ruined, blood-speckled face.
But it wasn’t done and he knew it.
He pulled his Gurkha knife from the black leather sheath at his belt and went to it. The
But that wasn’t what Slaughter was going to de-limb.
He hacked off first the right arm, then the left. He hacked through both legs and then decapitated the wormboy. It was nasty, dirty work. And when he was done, there was blood right up to his bicep and spattered over his face. He got a towel out of his bag and wiped the rancid blood clean, polishing the Gurkha knife to a lethal gleam before sliding it back in its sheath.
Satisfied, he walked over to the wormboy’s remains.
The arms were still moving, fingers clawing.
There was still life in the head. Glazed, yellow-white eyes stared up at him; the teeth gnashed.
Slaughter kicked the head and it rolled into the gravel.
He fired up a cigarette and waited there, crouched by the side of the road.
The wormboy was dead, but that didn’t mean there wasn’t anything still alive
Slaughter ducked away from it.
He didn’t know what that shit was, but it had a weird narcotic effect like getting shot up with a Thorazine cocktail. You got hit and you were done. Within seconds, you were down on your knees, your limbs rubbery and ungainly, your eyes glazed over. And once you were nicely numb and doped, the worm would pay you a visit, slide right in anywhere you were open—nose, mouth, eyes, ass…they weren’t picky. After that, death came within six hours and within twelve, you woke back up with a real nasty appetite for human flesh.
There were stories making the rounds that junkies were squeezing out worms for juice, cutting it with heroin and coke and shooting it. Maybe it was bullshit, maybe not.
Slaughter crouched there, smoking, thinking of eighth grade American Lit. They all had to memorize a poem and old fat ass Mrs. Buntz gave him Poe’s
“Yeah,” he said, blowing smoke out through his nostrils. “Dig it.”
It was still fresh in his mind and never had those words made sense like they did now. The point of the poem was about human mortality, he knew, about people carrying on like death was not a solid, grim inevitability when in fact its shadow was cast over every living thing from the point of birth. For in the end the worm conquers all.
“The play is a tragedy and it’s called ‘Man’,” he paraphrased. “And its hero is the conqueror worm.” He stood up. “But you won’t conquer shit today, my friend.” He stomped the worm to paste, looking down that lonely stretch of highway snaking away through the green Wisconsin hills towards Minnesota. Somewhere out there was the great Mississippi and on the other side, the Deadlands. Like the name implied, the Deadlands was a great wild wasteland of roving gangs, scavengers, nomads and mutants, and the walking dead that stretched clear to the Pacific Ocean. The cities out there were cemeteries and the towns were tombs. Some of that was from the Outbreak itself and some of it was from the ten megaton nukes used to contain it. Deadly clouds of fallout and radioactive dust storms were still blowing around out there, people said. Back east, things were secure. After the Outbreak—the worm infestation that brought the dead up out of their graves—and the wars that followed, the military had reorganized and launched one cleanup op after another until nearly all the zombies were exterminated. You got west of Pennsylvania, then it was the Wild West all over again. The frontier. The politicians kept saying that the army would continue the cleanup, pushing ever westward, but as things stood, the army had enough problems securing the east.
Which was just fine with Slaughter.
