Rednecks Who Shoot Zombies on the Next Geraldo

Rednecks Who Shoot Zombies, on the Next Geraldo

by
 

Chris B. Lacher and Marc Paoletti

Copyright © 2011 by Chris B. Lacher and Marc Paoletti

Graphic Design Copyright
 
© 2011 by Marc Paoletti

This ebook is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental. All rights reserved. No part of this publication can be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, without permission in writing from Chris B. Lacher and Marc Paoletti.

Appeared originally in
Phantasm Magazine #4
, published by Iniquities Publishing

eNovellas by these authors:

Wetlands

Rednecks Who Shoot Zombies, on the Next Geraldo

Jorge, El Raton Volador (by Marc Paoletti)

eAnthologies by Marc Paoletti:

The Day the Radio Did Most of the Talking and Two Other Stories

Bound by Blood: 3 Stories of Dark Crime

Risen: Three Tales of the Undead

Waking Up: 3 Stories that Blur the Lines of Reality

In Repose: An Illustrated Tale of Love & Death (illustrated by Michael Lark)

For more information, visit
www.marcpaoletti.com

Introduction

If memory serves (and it seems service is much slower, these days), John Skipp told me he was collecting stories for
Book of the Dead 2
, so Marc and I decided to write "Geraldo" together. I don't recall who came up with the idea or the title, but Geraldo Rivera's talk show was still pretty popular then, the dick—so that's where the title came from.
 

We're both still pretty happy with both—story and title—even after all these years. One thing that I do recall very clearly, the zombie art scene was all Marc's doing, and that's what really makes this story stand out for me. It's a brilliant and natural extension from the Bub character in Day of the Dead, and it's brilliantly done (I didn't write a word of it, nor did I ever want to change a word of it, either). Big Bub salute!
         

—Chris B. Lacher

As usual, Chris is understating his contribution. If it wasn’t for him, I wouldn’t have ventured to co-author a story of this length so early in my writing career—heck, I wouldn’t have wouldn’t have become a writer, period.
 
It was his counsel and friendship that started me on the road to becoming a published author.

Plenty of other people can say the same since
New Blood Magazine
—the mag that Chris founded, and I was lucky enough to co-edit in a very modest way—helped many horror authors get their start, or at least gain traction. Authors whose names you’d recognize.
 

“Geraldo” was a lot of fun to write, and I can’t imagine writing it with anyone else. We wrote it years ago, but the fun of that experience stays with me to this day. Okay, enough of this smoke-blowin’. Let’s get this show on the road…
         

 
— Marc Paoletti

Rednecks Who Shoot Zombies, On the Next Geraldo

by

Chris B. Lacher and Marc Paoletti

The sun was setting, the air didn’t hardly stink at all, and the drive only took him ten miles out of town.
 

The prison complex was visible from the main highway. From his seat on the prison bus, Tom could make out the concrete fingers of cellblocks. At center was the administration building bordered by a massive present wall topped with spirals of razor wire. To the left was farmland, once used for planting and furlough programs; now it was nothing more than pits of black mud, thick as tar.

Static crackled over the intercom. Tom looked to the driver, a fat unhealthy piece of work that looked like he’d been around forever.
 

“Up Shit Creek Without A Paddle Tours would like to thank you all for joining us today,” he snickered. “If you’ll look straight ahead, you’ll see the last stop on our tour, The Texas New World Facility, formerly the Huntsville Federal Correctional Institution.” He turned on Tom and smiled broadly. “Yer new home, dipshit. Should I continue?”

Tom stared at him.

“I’ll take that as a yes. Strongholds like this one here were formerly used ta train special teams of commandos to seek and destroy deadheads. But then the politicians got hold of ‘em and they went belly up. Now they’re just full of rednecks and weekend warriors that the government hires ta run halfway houses for pieces of shit like you—end’a story.”

“Up yours,” Tom said.

The bus slid to a stop in front of the main gate. A guard appeared on the rampart overhead. He was tall and thin, wore a soiled red baseball cap and munched on a sandwich. He had an AR-15 slung over his shoulder. He turned and whistled at the men watching from the search towers. The gate cracked in two and ground slowly inward. The bus jostled into the complex.

The prison, formidable from the front, looked much less so from the inside. The present wall, once tall and majestic, had gaping holes where the concrete blocks had succumbed to age and neglect. The gaps had been patched haphazardly with the rusted chassis of cars and old pickup trucks bound together with mounds of rusted concertina wire. Scattered piles of stony debris lay overgrown with black moss. The yard surrounding the administration building was home to a bone yard of antiquated armored vehicles. Broken down hulks of tanks, half-tracks and armored cars sat scattered about like rotting teeth, their olive drab coloring and U.S. Army insignias long since faded. Three mechanics dressed in soiled gray jumpsuits with one of the hulks. Automatic weapons lay against their toolboxes.

The bus driver parked in front of the administration building. Still using the intercom, he said, “Okay—jus’ head on in that building there and follow the arrows on the floor and they’ll check you in, good and proper.”

Tom got up. He walked the length of the bus, flipped off the driver, and stepped outside. He felt his feet sink to the shins in the black mud.

One of the mechanics, cheek straining from a wad of chew, spat brown syrup in Tom’s direction.
 

“Hey, tough guy,” he chuckled derisively for his friends, “you’re in for a real show, bud.”

Tom ignored him and continued inside. He followed a clique of faded yellow arrows, which led to an office.
 

Someone was reclining in a chair behind a metal desk, but Tom wasn’t sure if it was male or female. A nameplate read MUSS. Thick-rimmed glasses were perched on a boxer’s nose, a cigar stub was wedged between wet, ruby lips. Short, dark hair covered a round head that was set flush to a pair of hunched shoulders. The breasts could have been the result of encroaching obesity. Tiny, black eyes were pressed into a round, puffy face. Doughy hands clutched a clipboard. Muss didn’t look up.

“Aggravated assault, armed robbery, grand theft auto. Hell, boy, if you had nigger-lynchin’ here this would be the perfect resume.” Muss laughed robustly.
 

Tom stayed quiet.

Muss shifted in the chair, tried a different approach. “Yer pappy ran this place for three years, did you know that, boy? Yeah—you’re startin’ to see the connection here, now, huh? When the army decided to bail outta places like this, when they realized they were losin’ too much money, yer pappy promised he’d retire his commission and stay on here with us. That would’ve been the most selfless thing a commander could do for his men. But the truth was,” Muss snorted, “he was planning on leaving us behind—jus’ takin’ all the money we had left and leavin’ for greener pastures, the fucknut.”

Muss stood up, came around the front of the desk and said, “Yer pappy was one hell of a soldier—and a hell of a thief. He cleaned us out. So I guess shit don’t fall far from a dog’s ass, now does it, Junior?”

“My dad was an asshole. So are you. Least he wasn’t stupid, too—“

Muss punched Tom in the stomach. Tom doubled over.

“No need to be rude, Junior. Ain’t my fault a college boy like you went bad and got an itch for robbin’ convenience stores.”

Tom hitched a breath.

Muss looked him over for a bit. “Oh, lighten up, boy—that’s all in the past. You’re here now, and you’re gonna be with us for a while. Might as well have some fun with it.”

Muss helped Tom to straighten up, got in tight so Tom could smell his sour breath on his face. “I know I will...”

“So I’m here on account of my old man?” Tom asked. He coughed out more air.

“Yep.”

“Then let’s get to it,” Tom said.

Muss clapped Tom on the shoulder. “Tough guy—I like that. Okay, c’mon. I’ll give ya the grand tour.”

***

The main cell block extended like an infinite concrete gutter—an endless grid of bars and cement that looked as cruel and cold as a sci-fi dystopia. Fractional light filtered in from two enormous vents in the ceiling—mustard colored smudges of twilight on dead-gray walls.

Each side of the block was lined with multiple tiers of cells, each cell packed to capacity with the living dead. The cells were small, cramped boxes, crumbling from years of neglect. The tool-resistant bars were badly rusted, and whatever paint had coated the cell interiors had been scraped away. Zombies stared out vacantly, arms hanging limply through the bars, their moans echoing across the hall with a longing that was nearly human. Decayed flesh had sloughed off in the heat and been trampled to ruddy mush on the floor while guards with slack-eyed Dobermans patrolled the surrounding catwalks, careful to keep well out of grabbing distance.

And the smell. God, the smell—the stench of rotten meat hanging in the air like humidity—ubiquitous, stifling, putrid. Oppressive. Air with venereal disease.

Tom stopped walking. The zombies focused on him with dead, soulless eyes. Looking back at them, Tom realized that something about them was strange, but he couldn’t quite put his finger on what it was.

Muss pushed Tom out of his reverie. “You think the stink here is bad, wait’ll we get to the slaughterhouse. We’re headin’ over there later.”

They continued past the cells through a door marked RECREATION. Inside was a gymnasium split down the middle by a tall chain link fence. One side was packed tight with naked zombies, clothes lying in piles near the door. Near the clothes were baskets filled with personal mementos: watches, wallets, jewelry.

A man and woman with clipboards hovered over the baskets. The man wore a muscle-tee that read MY GRANDPARENTS SURVIVED THE HOLOCAUST AND ALL I GOT WAS THIS LOUSY T-SHIRT.

“Shippin’ and receivin’,” Muss explained. “This is where the deadheads’re stripped of all their personal stuff. What we get we trade for food, ammo—”

“A little fun for the troops,” the woman said, turning. “I don’t work cheap, you know.”
 

Tom winced. The woman was wearing a human penis, approximately six inches in length, on a beautifully polished gold chain around her neck.
 

“Who’s he?” she said, looking Tom over.

“What’re you lookin’ at Junior?” Muss said, ignoring her.

Tom was looking into the pen of zombies. He felt here the same sense of incongruity as in the cellblock.

Blaine noticed the look on Tom’s face. “The Barrio Pens,” he offered. “Just niggers and ‘cans. Mexicans...”

“Exactly.” Muss chewed the unlit cigar like it was gum. ”No decent white Protestant deserves anything like that. We burn the whites soon as they come in.”

“I think you missed one,” Tom said, pointing to a whitish drone making its way toward the front of the pen.

Muss peered over, standing on tiptoes. “Get ‘im, Blaine.”
 

Blaine put down the clipboard and pulled a pistol from a holster. He took aim and fired. The bullet tore through the zombie’s shoulder. The second shot put a bullet in the zombie’s head. Tom remembered that the most effective means of killing a zombie was a bullet in the head or total body dismemberment.

“Fucking queer, you shoot like a broad,” Muss said to Blaine, then added, “Hey, how can you tell if a zombie’s Jewish?”

Tom stared at the clear fluid leaking from the zombie’s head wound.
 

“They can still add,” Muss said, then cracked up.

Diane laughed; the penis bounced between her ample cleavage.
 

Muss pointed Tom back toward the door. To Blaine, he said, “You and Diane be in Times Square by six. We’re goin’ to the slaughterhouse. Let’s go, Junior.”

“The slaughterhouse?” Tom asked.

“You’ll find out soon enough,” Muss said, “But now, on with the tour...”

***

Muss kicked open a pair of swinging doors. They swung in on a large, single room with antiseptic lighting. A hunched figure dressed in a doctor’s smock frantically tending to a man lying on a metallic gurney. The doctor was old and frail with an oxygen tube trailing from his right nostril to a portable oxygen tank between his feet. He sucked air in harshly—made a sound on the intake—as if he was forcing air into dying lungs.