Zombie Jam by David J Schow

Author:David J Schow [Schow, David J.]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: Horror
Publisher: Crossroad Press
Published: 0101-01-01T00:00:00+00:00

His brain was a boardroom riot of yelling stockbrokers. The first report informed him that aerial acrobatics did not agree with his physique. The second, enumerated fractures, shutdown, concussion, and one eardrum that had popped with the explosive decompression of a pimento vacuumed from an olive. The third, confirmed the equitable distribution of slag-hot agony to every outback and tributary of his body … and the dead taste of moist dirt, back again.

Then came the surprise, bonus news flash: He had not been gourmandized down to nerve peels and half a dozen red corpuscles. Yet.

He filed a formal request to roll back his eyelids. It took about an hour to trickle down through channels. And all the while, he could hear the geeks, eating. If they were eating him, he sure could not feel it.

He finally recognized starlight, in the post-midnight sky above him. He was on his back, legs straight, arms out in a plane shape. What a funny.

Eight pairs of reanimated dead eyes appraised his worth.

Dead bang, no argument, they’ve got me, Wormboy thought. For more than a year they’ve whiffed me, and gotten smithereened, and now I’ve jolly well been served up as payback, air freight, gun-less, laid out flat on my own flab. Maybe they waited just so I could savor the sensual cornucopia of being devoured alive, firsthand. Dr. Moreau time, kids. Here’s the part where Uncle Wormy checks out for keeps.

He tried to wiggle his numbed fingers at them. “Yo, dudes.” It was all he could think of to say. These guys didn’t want a story and were uninterested in hearing about Z.A.V.S.

The zombis surrounding him in a funereal wake configuration—three up, three down, one at his feet and one at his head — rustled as though stirred by a soft breeze. They communed, in their odd way.

Now Wormboy could discern that the skull of the Right Reverend Jerry had been perched upon his chest. He could barely see it up there. The blood-dyed and tooth-scored fragments had been leaned together into a fragile sort of card ossuary. Now Wormboy could see that one of his bullets had gone in through Jerry’s left eyebrow; good shot.

An uppercut of pain convulsed his insides and Wormy coughed weakly. The skull clattered apart like an inadequately-glued clay pot.

This caused more introspective commotion, among the zombis.

The Right Reverend Jerry had been sharked down to a jackstraw clutter of bones; the bones had been cracked, their marrow greedily drained. All through this feast, Wormboy had lain unconscious and available, mere feet distant, representing bigger portions for everybody, but he had gone unmolested for hours. Instead of tucking in, the zombis had gathered round and waited for him to wake up. They had, in fact, flipped him over and touched him without biting. They had pieced together Jerry’s head bone and now seen it blown apart by a cough from the immense fat man. They had Witnessed.

The eyes that sought Wormboy did not judge him. They did not see a grotesquely obese pig who snarfed up worms and eyeballs and rarely bathed.

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