The Monster Apocalypse Page 4

  “What are you doing?”

  “I’m looking.”

  He searched in front of all the nearby doors, until at the back right of the corridor he found what he was looking for.

  “Here it is,” Ash said.

  “Here’s what?”

  Ash pointed at a pile of yellow goop on the ground that looked like chunky banana oatmeal. “My puke! We made it!”

  “Your what?”

  Mr. Barker tripped on a rock and smashed his chest against the ground, just before the dwarf swung his blade and nearly missed the teacher’s head by half a second. The little person swung a second time, and this time, Mr. Barker was ready. He rolled his body to the left, then to the right, then to the left again.

  “Ash! Help me!”

  “I’ve got your back, Mr. Barker!”

  But it wasn’t his teacher’s back he leaped for; it was the dwarf’s. Ash jumped so high he thought he could fly, sailing over Mr. Barker and the little guy, landing hard and loud in a giant puddle. The putrid water splashed up high and hit the dwarf in the face, just as he turned around and swung his blade at Ash.

  “Die! Die!” the little guy shouted.

  “You first!” Ash screamed even louder.

  Ash gripped his left hand around the dwarf’s arm and pulled the blade away with his right. He could have chopped the little guy in two, but he didn’t feel quite that vindictive. Instead he hoisted the blade up high, watched as the dwarf jumped up and down a few times like an agitated leprechaun, and then kicked him again, hard, this time in the crotch.

  “Owww,” the little person said. He tumbled backward, over Mr. Barker, and landed headfirst into Ash’s mushy throw-up.

  Ash stood up first, then Mr. Barker. They both looked down at the unfortunate site. Ash brought the blade down by his side.

  “I think I can speak for the both of us when I say, ewww,” Ash said.

  “You’ve got that right.”

  “Should we kill him?”

  “Nah,” the teacher said. “He may have tried to kill us, but I think he’s had enough pain for one day. Come on.”

  Mr. Barker opened the door and waved Ash inside. As soon as Ash was in the front hallway, Mr. Barker slammed the door shut.

  “It won’t lock,” he said.

  Ash crossed his arms. “Were they even able to lock their doors in the 1800s?”

  “I’m pretty sure they did. But whatever. We’re the ones with the blade now. You still have it, right?”

  Ash held it up high. “Yes, sir.”

  “Good. Let’s go.”

  Mr. Barker ran out in front of him, and Ash followed. They sped carefully down two separate hallways, then through the morgue-like corpse area, which was even weirder than the carnival freak show. They stepped into the musty old bedroom.

  Ash looked up. There was no green light, no portal.

  “What do we do now?” Ash asked.

  “Hold on.” The man didn’t even provide a warning when he transformed himself back into a wolf. He raced over to the right corner of the wall, a few feet past the wooden indoor port-a-potty, and barked, like a dog, five times up at the ceiling, the first four times really loud, the final time so loud a glass urn shattered above the bed and dropped down to the mattress a trio of bloody kidneys.

  “Oh, disgusting,” Ash said. “How many more people did that man kill?”

  “Ash!” Mr. Barker shouted. He was already turned back into his normal self. This time Ash hadn’t even seen the transformation.

  “Dude! Mr. Barker!” Ash put his hands up and shielded himself from Mr. Barker’s bits and pieces. “I can’t look at your ass a second longer!”

  “Sorry,” he said. “It’s hard to transform and keep my underwear on.”

  “Trust me, I understand the physics of werewolf transformations, but please. I can’t take it—”

  Ash was so wrapped up in his own thoughts that it took him a moment to look up at the ceiling and see the bright green glow. The window back to 2015 Grisly, Nevada, was open.

  “Oh good,” Ash said.

  But then, without warning, Ash had a change of heart.

  Mr. Barker pushed the desk up against the corner wall and reached out for Ash to take his hand.

  “Come on,” he said.

  Ash wanted to grab the man’s hand—the hand of a teacher he worshipped more than any other, and trusted over every other authority figure in his life—but he didn’t budge. He just stood there, in the center of the room.

  “What is it? What’s the matter?” Mr. Barker asked. “Ash, the portal closes in thirty seconds! I won’t be able to get it back!”

  “I just…” His mind was racing. He felt himself getting choked up, even though he knew the only rational thing to do was to jump back into the portal. “We went back in time, Mr. Barker! I can learn so much! I can explore an entirely different century!”

  “But you don’t want to stay here!”

  “Why not?”

  “They don’t have movies here!”

  Ash took a step forward. “Damn. That’s a very good point.”

  “Ashley Gorman,” Mr. Barker said, his eyes wide and bloodshot, sweat dripping off his face and every pore of his naked body. “You grab my hand, and I’ll take you to every city, and every time period, that you could possibly want.”

  Ash thought for one more moment. “Will you take me back to the fifties and let me meet Alfred Hitchcock?”

  “It’s a deal!”

  Ash smiled so big his whole face went red. He grabbed Mr. Barker’s hand and jumped on top of the desk.

  “Have I mentioned before how weird it is that you’re naked right now?”

  “You’ve said it before, yes,” Mr. Barker said. “Step on my hands. I’m going to hoist you up!”

  “But wait! What about you?”

  “I’ll make it.”

  “But there’s only a few seconds—”

  “Ash! Goddammit! Go!”

  Ash stood up on his teacher’s hands, pressed his chest against the wall, looked up at the giant green hole in the ceiling—and silently prayed.

  “One!”

  “Two!”

  “THREE!”

  Ash jumped and zoomed through the portal. Up, up, up. Faster, faster, faster.

  All the way home.

  Chapter Four

  “MMMM, BRINNNN!”

  The zombie trudged forward, an exaggerated smile on his face that suggested less that he was hungry for human flesh and more that he wanted to give his daughter an overdue hug.

  Brin stared at her father Kristopher, a man she adored and looked up to, a man she missed so much every day for the last year that some nights she had trouble falling asleep without crying. And suddenly, without warning, and without a chance for her to even catch her breath, there was her father, in the flesh—even though it wasn’t really him. He recognized her, he knew her name, but the figure in front of her, his tuxedo torn to shreds, his hair falling out, his sharp yellow teeth dashing for her throat, wasn’t her dad. The man was gone for good.

  But Brin still couldn’t keep herself from saying it: “Daddy!”

  Crispin Cleaver, a short, pudgy boy no older than thirteen, sat on the cold cement ground behind her. He screamed at her to do something, anything. She had just killed the zombie version of his older brother Colin, then lectured him about how he couldn’t let his emotions keep him from killing these freaks of nature, even if they did happen to look like members of their own family.

  And now here he was, waiting for her to annihilate the zombie, just the way she did his brother, but she was doing nothing—nothing except crying.

  The zombie grabbed her by her arm and shoved his sweaty, melting forehead against hers. He opened his eyes wide, and then his mouth even wider.

  “Daddy! Daddy, nooooooo—”

  “Get away from her!” Crispin shouted. He knew he probably had a tenth of the strength of this half human, but he jumped up anyway and raced over to help his new frien
d. He pulled her away, a mere second before the zombie took a big bite out of her chin. “I said, get back!”

  “Crispin!” Brin screamed. “What are you doing?”

  He stepped back, grabbed the lead pipe from Brin’s shaking hands, and turned toward the zombie. “I’m returning the favor.”

  The zombie showed no hesitation, and certainly no remorse for the kid. He licked his green lips, shook his head, and rushed toward the frightened duo. “BRINNNN. COME BACKKKKK!”

  “No!” Crispin shouted and swung his pipe at the creature. He hit him against the rib cage, then swung a second time, upward, against his face.

  But nothing happened. Before it even touched his cheek, the zombie grabbed the pipe and kicked little Crispin back down to the ground. He tumbled against Brin’s legs, and she immediately reached down to pull him back up.

  Brin’s father raised the lead pipe up high, proud and victorious, then tossed it over his shoulder, like it was nothing more than a crumpled up piece of paper. He stepped toward Brin, just as she kneeled down and pulled Crispin against the wall. The zombie blocked the exit. There was no way out, no escape.

  “What are we going to do?” Crispin asked.

  “I don’t know,” Brin said, “but thanks for helping.”

  “It didn’t do anything!”

  “I know. But you tried.”

  The zombie stopped in front of them and looked down, not moving for a moment, almost torturing them with the anticipation.

  “MMMM, BRINNNN,” he said, staring fondly into his daughter’s eyes. Then he looked at Crispin, not with affection, but much more like a piece of meat. “MMMM, SECONNNNNNDS!”

  The creature dropped down to his knees and grabbed for Brin’s face, but she was ready for him; she leaned back and struck him hard against his legs with both of her feet. She waited to watch him tumble to the side, bash his head against the wall, and black out. At least that’s what she thought would happen. She was the hero of this story after all.

  But he didn’t trip or fall; he just pulled her back up to her feet, brought her arm to his mouth, and dug his teeth into her flesh.

  “Noooooo!” Crispin screamed.

  “Daddy! Oh God! Oh God!” Brin watched in repulsion as her father closed his eyes in delight and tore a piece of flesh away from her upper arm. Blood spewed out of the wound like water and spilled down against the cement.

  “No,” Crispin repeated. “No, no, no!” He closed his eyes and pressed his hands over his ears, as tears started welling up.

  “Owww,” Brin said, pulling her arm close to her chest as she watched her own father munch on a chunk of her flesh like it was a tender piece of filet mignon. When he swallowed, she felt vomit hurtling up her throat. “Dad, that’s disgusting!”

  “MMMM,” he said, yet again. He put his arms out in the air and crept toward Brin’s face, his diseased mouth open wide, his eyes bulging out of their runny yellow sockets.

  She couldn’t go anywhere. She couldn’t do anything. She could only stand there, in horrific pain, starting to hallucinate, as her zombie father rushed toward her, for the final time.

  Brin looked down at Crispin. She knew once the zombie killed her, he would be the next to go. She didn’t so much care about her own wellbeing, as much as she did the little boy’s. She couldn’t, she wouldn’t, let him die.

  The zombie lunged for her throat, but she dropped back down to the ground, hard, against her knees, against a pool of blood that splashed up into her face. She turned to Crispin fast, like an animal trying to defend itself, and reached out for him.

  “Throw me the lead pipe!”

  Crispin opened his eyes. “What?”

  Brin’s father dropped to his knees, too, and grabbed hold of her legs. He pulled her toward him—her feet toward his wanting mouth. She tried kicking him in the face, three times, but even that didn’t work. He didn’t seem to feel any pain. Nothing could stop him.

  “Nothing except this goddamned pipe!” Brin shouted.

  Crispin rolled the pipe all the way up to her bloodied fingers, and just as her father’s sharp teeth grinded up against her toes, she turned over, sat up, and swung the lead pipe as hard as she could against her father’s skull.

  This time it struck, with the force of a sledgehammer, hitting him against his left cheek so hard, the whole side of his face exploded, chunks of his cheeks and lips and chin—and even a little of his sideburns—colliding against the wall beside him. He fell backward, stunned more than anything else—but still very much alive.

  Brin leaned toward him and swung at his face again, but this time he was prepared. He grabbed the pipe, yanked it out of her grip, and threw it back behind him. Brin watched the pipe roll away from sight, away from the back room, down the hall, into the darkness.

  “Shit,” she said.

  “He’s not dead?” Crispin asked, now full-on crying. “How can this thing not be dead? He’s like a machine!”

  The zombie crawled toward her so fast, he was on top of her before she had a chance to jump back up to her feet. He pressed her hands down to the cold ground, and dug his knee against her arm wound.

  “Owwwww!” she cried. “Daddy! For God’s sake, stop!”

  “Brin!” Crispin shouted. “He’s going to kill you!” He jumped to his feet and raced toward the zombie, but Brin’s father slugged the little boy in the throat, sending him back down to the ground. Crispin hit his head against the cement and started coughing uncontrollably.

  “Oh God! Crispin!” Brin tried to look back at the boy, but her dad had her pinned to the ground, his left hand pressed against her chest.

  He just stared at her for a second, like he was still contemplating whether or not he wanted to feast on a second chunk of her flesh.

  Brin tried to move. She couldn’t. She wanted to say something to make him stop. But she had no more words.

  She had put up the best fight she could. But there was nothing left to do. Nothing… but wait to die.

  “MMMM,” he said for the final time, before he dashed his head straight for his daughter’s face and wrapped his mouth around her skull.

  Chapter Five

  Lots more blood splattered against her face, this time of the icky green kind, when a bullet struck the back of her father’s head.

  Brin screamed as the blood splashed against her face, her neck, her chest. Her father’s zombie corpse, officially dead for the last time, collapsed on top of her, half of his skull missing, and now in chunks all over the dank basement room.

  She wiped away the gunk, scooted back against Crispin, and looked past the body, to see Mr. Barker holding a gun by his side.

  “Brin! Holy shit!” He raced toward her, kneeled down, and pulled her close to him. “Brin, are you all right?”

  “Mr. Barker?” She didn’t mean to say it like a question, but that’s how it came out.

  “It’s me.”

  “How did you find me?”

  She let her arms drop to the ground, revealing to the teacher her ugly arm wound.

  “Oh no,” he said. “No!” He pulled her arm toward him, and he examined the flesh wound; it wasn’t big enough to turn her into a zombie right away, but big enough to warrant some worry.

  “Am I going to die?” Brin asked.

  “You’re not going to die! Come on, get up.”

  Despite her lack of strength, Brin managed to find her footing with little help from her Film teacher. He held her close, then pointed to the boy.

  “Who’s this?” Mr. Barker asked.

  “That’s Crispin,” Brin said. “Where did you get the gun? And where’s the others—”

  Before she even finished her sentence, the others appeared. First Dylan entered the back room of the Grisly High basement, a look of sheer panic on his face as he took in the gruesome sight of flesh and brains. Then Anaya brushed past Dylan and slammed her back against the wall, looking down in fear at the immobile zombie as if she thought he was going to come back to life.

  Th
en came Ash.

  “Brin?” He didn’t step to any side; he just stepped on top of the zombie corpse and raced past it, all the way up to Brin. He gave her a hug before she was able to utter a single word.

  “Ash? Is it you?”

  “It’s me.” Then he noticed the wound, too. “Oh no. Brin. We have to get you to a hospital! What happened in here?”

  “It was… it was my dad,” she said. She looked at Mr. Barker, then Ash, then the other two, shocked and elated that they were all still standing, still alive and bloodless. “How did you all survive? And how did you find me?”

  “We’ll explain everything in a minute, Brin,” Mr. Barker said, stepping past the others and guiding everyone toward the basement exit. “We don’t have a lot of time. Hurry!”

  Dylan walked side by side with Anaya, and Ash stayed close beside Brin, like he wouldn’t dare split away from her again, even if Mr. Barker had that gun pointed at his head. Crispin huddled behind Brin, like he thought she was his only hope for survival.

  “Ash,” Brin said, pulling him toward her as they followed Mr. Barker down the dark, winding corridors, toward the school basement’s exit door. “I’m so glad you’re all right—”

  “I traveled through time, Brin.”

  She was devastated by the last few minutes—particularly the part when her dad chewed on her own flesh. She was in pain, with a headache, a stomach ache, a back ache, and a shooting pain running up and down her arm that felt like a dozen knives were scraping her aching bones.

  But she still forgot about everything as his words started to sink in. “Huh? How am I supposed to respond to that?”

  “I’m not lying. It’s the truth.”

  “You didn’t travel through time! Stop being a jerk!”

  “I did! I went through a portal to save Mr. Barker. I met Jack the Ripper!”

  “You did what?”

  “Yes, but then Mr. Barker killed him when he turned into a…” He stopped in mid-sentence, apparently confused whether to continue or not.

  “Ash, who’s Jack the Ripper?” Brin kept walking at a steady pace, toward the rest of the group, as Ash stopped in his tracks. His jaw dropped almost instantly.