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Flesh Ravenous : A Zombie Horror Series -Book 2
 

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Flesh Ravenous : A Zombie Horror Series -Book 2


  FLESH RAVENOUS

  A ZOMBIE HORROR SERIES

  BOOK 2

  JAMES M. GABAGAT

  Copyright © 2017 by James M. Gabagat

  This is the work of fiction. All characters, names, places, and events in this book are of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to places or persons, living or dead, is coincidental.

  The reproduction of this work in any form, electronic or by other means, without author’s permission, is illegal and punishable by law.

  PULP DUMMY DREADFUL

  “Duwende”

  JAMES M. GABAGAT

  Copyright © 2017 by James M. Gabagat

  Reviews for James M. Gabagat’s Flesh Ravenous Book 1

  “I didn’t find this book particularly scary. It was loaded with sick humor and jokes suitable for a lowbrow audience, and much of it was too offensive for my taste. It was pretty offensive.”

  —some guy on the internet

  “Oh no. Is this another one of those novels that the author chops up into sections so they can sell it in separate, unfinished parts to make more money? I understand if most of these indie authors are broke, but they should stop doing that.”

  —some other asshole on the internet

  “WOW, this zombie story had me on the edge of my seat! I didn’t find the humor offensive at all. The plot was…Well, story plots are so overrated. And so what if this is a novel sold in separate parts—it’s a legitimate art form. There are thousands and thousands of zombie books out there, but this is without a doubt my favorite. I literally soaked my only pair of panties from all the excitement of this book. James, your ass better pay me now.”

  —a hooker

  8

  Hit Him Hit Him HIT HIM!

  Lawrence

  Sonya reached the driver’s side door of her Honda just as three of the dead appeared, moving across the driveway at a blurring pace toward Lawrence and party.

  Ally rushed over to the passenger’s side and tugged on the handle of the locked door. “Sonya, hurry,” she said, “get it open.”

  Lawrence, with Tristan alongside him, followed up behind Sonya.

  The leading dead thing, a slobbering woman in pink hospital scrubs, sped her run, growling so horrifically that the sound made Lawrence ground his teeth hard. The scrubs woman approached, her sickening, slobbery cry never ceasing, her eyes bulging and unblinking. Lawrence and Tristan swung their weapons downward when she came at arm’s reach. Scrubs-woman’s head split apart with an explosion of blood, flesh chunks, brain chunks, and skull fragments. Half of that head fell at Lawrence’s feet. He immediately kicked it aside. Scrubs-woman’s body went limp and collapsed sideways onto the pavement.

  “Ah, fuck,” Tristan shouted. “Fuck!” Blood and Scrubs-woman bits had splattered on his clothes and cosplay armor.

  A gunshot sounded, and the second approaching dead runner, a tubby man in mucky pajamas, dropped to his knees and dove forward onto his face.

  The shot was from Sonya, who was already in the car with Ally. “Get in!” Sonya shouted to Lawrence and Tristan as she started the engine.

  Tristan pulled the Honda’s door open, threw his weapon down on the car floor, and dove onto the backseats. Lawrence followed in, tossed his axe inside, and slammed the car door behind him.

  Sonya fired a second shot, which brought down another of the dead. She stepped on the gas. More of the dead, alerted by the gun blast, started to pour out from the backyard. The car was already in motion, skidding away, heading down Revel Street. The runners gave up their pursuit.

  Lawrence and Tristan got settled in back.

  Tristan looked down at his clothing and gear and made a grunt of disgust. “Sonya,” he said, “do you have any paper towels or baby wipes in here?”

  Sonya flashed him a look in the rearview mirror. “Why the fuck would I have baby wipes in here, Tristan? I have pads in my glove compartment. Wanna wipe yourself with those?”

  “Eww, no.”

  “They’re not used, dumbass.”

  “Tristan,” said Lawrence, “don’t worry about the blood. You’ll be getting more on yourself later today.”

  “But it’s diseased blood,” said Tristan. “Oh, man, if this goes in my mouth…”

  “So don’t put it in your mouth, then,” Lawrence snapped, “it’s that simple.” Only five minutes outside the house and he already regretted having Tristan come along. “What’re you gonna do, eat it? You gonna eat it, Tristan?”

  At the end of Revel, Sonya made a right. Only a few of the dead lingered on this street. They shambled and wandered aimlessly without a destination. They didn’t appear much of a threat.

  “Hey,” said Ally, “isn’t that Ian David?”

  “Where?” Lawrence stuck his head between the two front seats to peer out the windshield. There was Ian in his torn up Italian suit a distance down the street, with skin pale and crusted blood around his mouth. “Well, shit.” He laughed to himself. “It’s him.”

  “Is it really him?” Tristan asked.

  “Yup.” Lawrence tapped Sonya on the shoulder. “Hit him, Sonya.”

  “I don’t want to,” she replied. “Wouldn’t that ruin the engine?”

  “Come on, Sonya, you know you want to. Hit him. Hit-him-hit-him-hit-him.”

  Ally had a smile. “Yeah, hit him, Sonya.”

  “Hit him,” said Tristan.

  Without a word, Sonya sped up the car. She laughed, loudly and excitedly, as though a sudden rush of stupidity took over her.

  And as senseless dead as he was in life, Ian David ran toward the car with hands before him, fingers like claws, mouth opened wide with teeth bared.

  “Look at this idiot coming at us,” said Lawrence. “Wow, what an ambitious go-getter this guy is. Man, Ian, you’re such a go-getter.”

  “Hold on to something!” Sonya floored the gas.

  The front of the car rammed into Ian with a loud, metallic bump. The sharp, heavy jolt from the impact made everyone bounce in their seats. Everyone whooped and hollered out cheers as that dead asshole of a lawyer rolled up the windshield and over the hood. Lawrence and Tristan looked back to see Ian flip and crash down onto his head. Blood splattered onto the street. Ian tumbled with arms and legs whipping in a peculiar manner.

  “Sonya slowed the car. “Yeeeaaahhh!” she cheered.

  “Oh shit!” Tristan let out a lively laugh. “His head exploded!”

  “Oh my God,” said Ally, “that was fucking excellent!”

  Lawrence rolled his window down, stuck his head out, and shouted, “Take that, Ian, you stupid, dumb douchebag!” It felt good for Lawrence to see the smiles and hear the liveliness and laughter of his friends. Even if Ian were one of the living, their reactions would’ve been the same.

  As Sonya continued driving at a near crawl, the four observed the rows of houses along the neighborhoods. Lawns were overgrown, windows were shattered on many homes, and a few skeletal remains littered the streets. A few homes had windows boarded with backyard fence planks, disassembled front yard picket fences, an array of different doors, bedroom doors, bathroom doors, closet doors they must’ve been. It all looked like last-minute attempts at defense. As they traveled further away from Revel Street, the sight of the dead lessened till none were in sight. It made Lawrence wonder if he and his housemates were the only survivors within the vicinity of several blocks. There were no signs of the living.

  “We could raid these houses,” said Sonya.

  “We could,” said Lawrence, “but I don’t trust it. None of these houses seemed well-prepared. Any bit of food could’ve been eaten. Anybody living in them would’ve turned
by now. If there happens to be anybody living inside, they’re likely half-starved and half-mental by now. These aren’t the kinds of people we wanna encounter.”

  “It probably isn’t safe to encounter anybody,” said Ally.

  “Not exactly true. What about Joni and her parents?”

  “You guys,” said Tristan, pointing out his window, “look at that.”

  They passed a pack of the undead shambling away from a house. Close to a dozen of them, all in business attire, suits, ties, pencil skirts, and formal blouses. Clothing bore a few shreds and bloodstains. One of them was a man holding a cellphone to his ear. His mouth moved, as though babbling, but of course there was nobody on that line. Lawrence imagined a scenario, where these business people were attacked within a carpool van. There was blood on the faces and hands of these dead things. Fresh blood, red and still dripping. Their fierce, malevolent eyes locked onto the car as it slowly passed by.

  “Better floor it, Sonya,” Lawrence said.

  Sonya sped up just as the dead carpoolers broke from their placid shamble and ran at full speed. One of the women of the pack tripped and spilled over from her attempt to run in high-heels. The cellphone guy—that fucking dead guy still had the cell to his ear—and two others trampled over her, their speed unhindered.

  Sonya, now at forty miles per hour, left the carpoolers a good distance away. She veered left onto the next neighborhood and slowed the vehicle. She was back to her crawling pace to observe the empty streets.

  “They were eating someone,” said Ally. Her voice was low, fearful. “You guys saw the blood on them?”

  “It could’ve been a dog’s blood,” said Lawrence. He hoped his casual tone provided her comfort. “They were probably eating a dog, or a cat, maybe. Or maybe a chinchilla. If you remember Bethany Porter, she actually lived in this area and had a pet chinchilla. Those little bastards are ugly. So, could’ve been a chinchilla they were eating.” Yeah, I don’t know how to comfort anybody. Chinchillas? Seriously? Man, you’re stupid.

  Lawrence was beginning to think being outside their suburban fortress was no big deal. The neighborhoods were seemingly empty, near deserted, but then comes the undead in suits, faces and fingers sopping red. They sure as hell weren’t feasting on a chinchilla. Surely the threats of dismemberment and slow death returned to everyone’s thoughts.

  “If we find anyone out here,” Ally continued, rightfully ignoring his pointless mention of chinchillas, “we should help them.”

  “If we can afford to help, Ally,” said Sonya. “We have to look out for ourselves.”

  “You ever imagine being eaten alive?”

  “We all have.”

  “We should definitely find more people,” said Tristan. “I mean, the larger our group, maybe the better our chances of living, the more resources we could gather.”

  “I see what you’re saying,” said Sonya, “but we have to consider our safety first.” She looked at Lawrence in the rearview. “Hey, if you’re not busy thinking about chinchillas and other random shit, do you have an opinion on this?”

  “Huh?” said Lawrence, who was indeed preoccupied with chinchillas still. Oh, shit, I was thinking about chinchillas. What’s up with that? Wait, didn’t Bethany Porter have Chlamydia? Whoa, I dodged a bullet. “Well, we should do what we set out to do first.”

  “You guys, look,” said Sonya.

  Up ahead was a white house with red spray-painting on the garage door that read: ALIVE INSIDE. Strategically placed wooden boards, aligned horizontally a few inches apart, secured the bottom level windows. The planks seemed to have held despite the shattered glass. It looked as if a dead horde made their attempt at this place.

  Sonya slowed the car, pulled to the curb, and parked in front of the white house.

  Ally looked at Sonya, eyes wide. “Why’d you stop?”

  “You said you wanted to help, didn’t you?” Sonya replied. “But I have a feeling no one’s in there, just by looking at it. This house might have supplies, at least.”

  “I’d say the people living here were prepared,” said Lawrence, “much like us. It’d be worth looking.” Through the glassless windows, nothing inside the white house seemed to stir. If there were anything living or undead, Sonya’s car pulling up in front would’ve alarmed them.

  “I don’t like how this looks,” said Tristan. “Any survivors in there could be hostile, desperate. Or whoever was in there could’ve turned.”

  Lawrence continued to monitor the house for any movement within. “That’s why we have weapons. And armor. Both of you…” He shot a finger at Tristan and then to Kyle’s sister. “You two are contradicting what you said earlier about finding other survivors.”

  “This wasn’t part of the plan,” said Kyle’s sister. “We should head over to that grocery store—”

  “Hey, listen to me…um…uh…” Lawrence drew a blank. Arlene? Erin? Edna? “…Ally.” Ally, yeah, that’s her name, there ya go. “The whole point of this—”

  “Lawrence.” Ally gave him a hard look—hard and confused. “Did you forget my name just now?”

  “Um…No.” He did. He did forget her name. “That’s not important. The whole point of getting out here was to find supplies. We have an opening and we should take it. This neighborhood is empty, and it doesn’t get any safer than this right now.” He sat back and gripped his axe. His fingers were slimy with sweat inside his gloves. He was afraid, more than he’d realized, more than he’d like to admit. Sure, it was relieving to be free from confinement, relative darkness, and Charlene, but reality was setting in. The quietness of the outside was untrusting. Lawrence pondered on his custodian days, when sweeping and mopping floors was a wearisome routine. He wondered why he was so miserable those times, why he was so miserable to go home to his dinner of Doritos he’d dip in mayonnaise and cheap, low-quality beer of an unknown brand. He wondered why he hated his life back then. “We need to seize this opportunity.”

  Sonya nodded. “I’m with you on that.” Her eyes went to the white house. “I really think it’s empty. And if anyone or anything is in there, they won’t be much of a problem for us.”

  “You’re not afraid of anything, are you Sonya?” Ally said, hints of envy and admiration in her tone. Lawrence, too, felt the same about Sonya. It felt as if Sonya was taking over the role of leader.

  “I’m afraid of starving to death. I’m afraid of my friends starving to death. I’m also afraid of living in a boarded-up house till I’m a batshit old lady. You might say it’s better than being dead, but is that the best that’ll happen to me? I’d rather live my life breathing fresh air and not shitting in a bucket.”

  “You’re right.” Ally sighed and took hold of her pipe spear. “Okay. We should go.”

  “We’ll watch each other’s backs,” said Lawrence.

  “Yeah,” said Tristan, “I’m ready.” He swallowed and released a trembling breath.

  Lawrence pulled the pistol from his belt. “Guns out first, Sonya, there’s no telling what’ll pop out.”

  The four stepped out of the car, weapons in hand, packs at their backs, and bags over their shoulders. They shut the car doors and started toward the house. They walked through the front lawn, staying close together. Lawrence, gun in his left and axe in his right, constantly looked back and spied the neighborhood for any activity. Sonya led the group, pistol gripped with both hands, finger on trigger.

  They crept up to the busted window nearest the front door and peeked through. Though dim, enough natural light made the inside of the house clear to the eyes. Lawrence saw a typical living room, couches, a coffee table, shelves against the wall. Nothing looked out of place. Seemed all was intact from a once normal world. He did notice a few unlit candles littered upon surfaces. He and Sonya glanced at one another. Ally and Tristan looked at him, as though awaiting a word on how to proceed.

  “Hello?” Lawrence spoke loudly, but didn’t shout. Any undead nearby would’ve heard and instantly made their presence know
n. Nothing came after a few seconds. “Anyone in there?”

  “Yes!” someone shouted. A man’s voice.

  Lawrence and the others turned around, as the voice seemed to come from behind.

  “Over here!” came the voice. Not from behind, but above.

  Lawrence stepped back and looked up. A window on the top level was opened halfway. A hand waved in a frantic manner.

  “Over here!” the voice repeated. “Help me!”

  9

  No Thank You

  Sonya

  Lawrence had taken apart five of the broken window’s wood plank barriers with several whacks from his axe. The group climbed through the window into the house, their Titan Storm Brigade armor of altered foam mats protecting skin against glass shards. The first thing Sonya noticed when rushing inside was the horrid smell. It was the putrid stench of rotting flesh, of death in its worst form. No doubt somewhere within were remains of something feasted upon. The four didn’t have time to find out or acknowledge the source of it. Someone was in trouble.

  Oddly, with all the noise Lawrence made with the axe, nothing inside the house came charging at them. Sonya at least expected the sounds of rustlings, footsteps, or slobbery growls. Nothing—it was silent. The group stayed close together, heads moving, eyes roving to every corner of the room. Lawrence tucked his pistol into his belt, but Sonya chose to hang on to hers. She now felt this could be a set-up, a human trap that the man crying for help could be luring them into.

  “Do you hear it?” Lawrence whispered. After whacking at wooden boards with an axe and noisily scrambling through the window, there probably wasn’t a need to whisper. “It sounds like scraping.”

  “I don’t think you need to whisper,” said Sonya.

  “Fucking give me a break, Sonya, it’s a habit.”

  Amidst the silence, there went the scraping, more a constant scratching, which came from the top level. The four crossed the entrance hall and approached the staircase. A quiet whimpering could now be heard, undistinguishable whether male or female. It might’ve been the man survivor. Maybe there was more than one survivor.

 
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