Resurrection Read Free

streamed onto the zombie’s hoary face, pooling in its blackened sockets and flooding its open, howling mouth.
    While it didn’t do anything to slow the zombie, it sure made me feel better. Although, I had to admit, the mixed scents were not an improvement. Pasta does not come up well. If I’d had anything else in me, I would have puked again.
    Motivated to create some distance between me and old stinky-puss, I pulled my legs past its thighs and sat up on its stomach, breaking its grip. Free to move, I stood up fast, spinning away to keep it from grabbing ahold again as I stomped at its head. The first shot only clipped it, snapping its face to the side, but the second got it good. I felt its head smack the ground hard as I stepped out of its reach.
    Like a turtle on its back, the zombie bucked and rolled in its attempt to get up. That gave me time to retrieve my gun. Just as the zombie got to its knees, I pressed the barrel against the back of its head and pulled the trigger. I returned it to the grave, albeit with a few less pieces attached.
    Though I knew the time spent wrestling with the corpses had probably condemned the club-goers to a smelly death, I felt obligated to do what I could for them. I ran back to the pile to see the zombies pulling bodies out of the stack, tossing them over their shoulders. They were limp and lifeless, eyes wide and sightless. I was too late.
    Frustrated and angry, the zombies ruining my night—oh, and killing people and stuff—it was time for vengeance. Better able to think things out now, I took cover behind a car and popped off a couple of rounds. As a pretty good shot, if I say so myself, two zombies fell with smoking holes in their heads. Then the second before the rest turned to look, I dropped out of sight behind the car.
    Did I mention zombies were dumb? Well, not dumb so much as plain stupid. They operate on a purely instinctual level of function, only overridden by the desires of their master. In all but the rarest of cases, they don’t think or reason on their own. They only follow orders and react within the parameters of what they’ve been told to do. As such, the second I disappeared from sight, I no longer existed to them. Once out of sight, I was out of mind.
    Unable to see me, the threat to their mission ended in their minds, they returned to their duty only to have a couple more of their buddies drop. Each time they went back to work, I repeated the process, ad nauseam. I couldn’t help but think it was a waste of good bullets.
    Crafted by a minor angel and demon pair who worked for DRAC, the ammunition I carried—D/A slayers—was made to slay both supernatural species. Though they were effective on the zombies, regular bullets would have been too. But since I didn’t have any on me, I made do, griping every time I pulled the trigger.
    After a few minutes, the rest of the undead still on site rested peacefully once more, each properly tucked in with a lead blanket. Unfortunately, so was everyone else who had ventured out to the club, it seemed. Bodies lay strewn across the parking lot in jumbled heaps. Blue faces stared up at me with accusing eyes, their necks twisted at awkward angles, throats and ribs crushed and deformed. The naked flesh of the strippers mingled with the clothed patrons in an orgy of death; a game of Twister gone horribly wrong.
    Suddenly remembering Candy, I raced back to my car to find the back door open. A torn scrap of material, the same design as her tiny little skirt, was caught on the jagged edge of the door frame. Little drops of blood stained the backseat and led out onto the asphalt. From there, a barely visible wet trail headed off toward the desert.
    That was just my luck. Even after paying to get laid, a zombie stole my girl. There is no justice.
    Frustrated in more ways than one, I followed the trail to the edge of the parking lot where I found the rest of Candy’s skirt, along with her cell phone. Not remembering her having one,