October 27, 2011

This Contest is Haunted IV

Wow. Here are the final two entries for the finest creative horror-fest I have ever been witness to. I had no idea my friends were more talented than the writers of Child's Play (I saw it for the first time the other night. It was actually pretty stupid), but you are. You really, really are.

8) The Origins of Elias

I first met Elias when I looking at a house in Mississippi as a potential roommate.  Al and Elias were sitting on the couch on the front porch when I pulled up on my bike.  We began dancing that dance of getting to know each other, except I’m pretty sure they were just making sure I wasn’t too straight-laced for the house.  The most interesting part of our exchange was when I reciprocated in asking where they were from.  Al, a pleasantly round and jolly sort, replied he was from Arizona.  Elias, being the weasel-y looking odd sort, replied he was the result of a bad night for two drunk badgers who had eaten rancid tacos.

Despite this first encounter I moved in, and quickly learned that Al, and especially Elias, were fans of whiskey.  And wine.  And chain smoking on the front porch ad infinitum.  Al worked at a factory in Swan Island, and although he commuted by bike, one day he was able to come back with an industrial sized spool of rope.  Elias, being the questionable character he was, decided to work on his knot tying.  The apex of his efforts coincided with one night I had people round for dinner.  We were eating our communal flan dessert when he entered the room with a series of nooses tied onto a length of rope.  He proposed an experiment, which was not received well by the group. 

But I digress.  This is meant to be a scary story.  In case the idea that your Craigslist-found roommate wanted to hang you and your friends (and for how long had he been planning this?) wasn’t terrifying enough.  In which case I will flesh out the mysterious origins of Elias.  Or how the night of his conception begat the man who interrupted my dinner party with a suggestion for a group hanging. 

It had indeed been a very bad night for those two badgers.  Normally without second thought for would-be predators, these two brazenly drank agave fermented in the bowels of New Mexican hell to hallucinating excess.  They feasted on their spicy spoilt trash tacos until their stomachs were distended and grotesque.  Belching and emitting the most foul of odors they caroused wantonly throughout the forests.  Until, that is, they were accosted by it. 

It was a stringy haired whore; whose body was covered in pulsating herpes blisters that popped in such rapid succession it was like young innocents blithely stomping packing material.  Its thin lips barely concealed teeth blackened by tooth decay it had developed while still in its mother’s syphilis infected womb.  It was bent over, afflicted not only with bread back, but severe spinal disintegration.  Surely this sorry collection of diseased cells with a pulse was on the verge of imminent death.  It was.  However, that biological impulse to procreate gave this monster one last ounce of strength, when, having encountered the badgers, it overtook them and had its way.  I mean, its way. Nasty nasty sex acts that that I will not pass on.  Think R. Kelly multiplied infinitely.  The badgers did not survive.

However, due to the incredible amount of biological activity that resulted from the combination of tequila from hell, trash tacos, herpes and tooth decay, a fetus developed.  Not more than 2 days later, when it had taken its last breath and evacuated its bowels for the last time, Elias emerged.  Mostly formed and ready to crawl his way to 4187 North Albina.  Ready to scare us, scare us all to hell.

9) The Godforsaken

Denver’s annual zombie crawl is upon us once again. Last year was my first encounter with this disturbing phenomenon, having just moved to the city from Wyoming a few weeks before All Hallows’ Eve. I’ve since discovered that the living dead are drawn toward urban areas as there are just far greater opportunities for feasting on human flesh than out in the sticks. I had never before encountered so many fucking zombies in my entire life.

Sure, you have your enterprising ones disguised as traveling salesmen or delivery drivers come to the ranch every so often, but being loners, these specimens are easily dealt with, relatively. You can spot them by their jaunty walk, and occasionally then have scars of gaping wounds, but they usually know enough to cover those up. Three guns are necessary. At least a twelve-gauge rifle, the biggest shotgun you can get your hands on, and a pistol with a decent kick. An initial shotgun blast to the midsection slows them down as they approach—don’t wait to see what they’re selling, to be sure, they’re peddling your goddamn demise—after the first shot, they’ll be dazed but don’t think you’re done. As they’re staggering and screaming all fucked up like—faking pain is a tactic they employ—you have to run up, getting as close as possible, and sink the rifle shot into the cranium. The pistol is for back up at close range only. And you better hope to Christ you don’t have to use it. Once they’ve stopped moving, you have about twenty minutes to sever the legs and arms, and what’s left of the head. If you wait too long, they will reanimate on your ass. This is the worst part because the smell is horrendous, and contrary to popular lore, those limbs do not easily separate from the body. Each part must then be buried at least 7 feet below ground and not within a fifty-yard radius of any of the other parts, neither from that particular zombie, nor from any others you’ve previously buried. Each spot must be clearly marked.

I was shitting dynamite when I discovered Denver’s substantial zombie population and the lack of adequate land to dispose the fuckers in. And on top of that, realizing that amazingly, I’m one of the only people in the city who knows how to properly kill and dispose of a zombie, I damn near called it quits and moved back home. But I stayed, if only for lack of money.

A year has passed, and tonight those godforsaken bastards will erupt from the ground like a gonorrheic discharge upon the streets of Denver, and they won’t leave until they’ve had their fill of human flesh. Knowing I can’t possibly eliminate the entire zombie population from Denver has been disheartening as all hell. I’m just one fucking guy after all. But that’s not stopping me from doing my damndest for the protection of the human race. A zombie infestation can get out of control faster than a Wyoming cop’ll have their hand up your ass under the pretense of a narcotics crackdown. For shit’s sake, I’m not going to let that happen.

Dressed in full camouflage, I carry a golf bag with my guns, a hacksaw, some beef jerky for fuel, and a water canteen, to the alley next to Dos Locos, a major stop-off on the zombies’ annual prowl. I hide behind a dumpster roughly twenty-five feet back from the street. A Dia de los Muertos celebration is in full swing. The playful mariachi music falls on my ears in stark contrast to the unsavory task at hand.

My plan is to pick a large male out of a pack as they pass by the entrance to the alley on their way to devour their unsuspecting victims. I’m hoping the first kill will be sufficient to scare many of the zombies back to their graves, because I just don’t have the man power or the space to sever and place more than one or two of them. If this fails, the vile, rapacious fucks will surely tear me limb from limb.

The first batch to pass is no good. Mostly females and skinny ones at that. Hard to shoot and won’t spook any of the others. Just’ll piss them off. I wait for another twenty minutes or so with no good shots. I get hungry and break into the beef jerky. Just as I’m taking a swig off my canteen the perfect specimen appears. Tall and wide, surrounded by a group of about ten other zombies and a few people dressed up for the Day of the Dead fiesta who don’t know any better. Luckily the idiot humans are on the periphery of the bunch. I drop my canteen and grab the rifle; the shotgun would probably hit the humans at this range. I aim and fire. The big sonofabitch goes down. No stagger at all. Everyone else is screaming and running away like I planned. The big one is on its back writhing. I reload and run up, center the barrel’s end near the temple. The mariachi band has stopped. The whole fucking restaurant is deserted save for two guys peaking around the corner of the building watching me. I fire again to end it. The decayed brains splatter my hands and face. The two guys look scared. One of them turns and vomits. I wipe my face with my sleeve and yell to them that everything is OK. It’s dead, I say, and the others have fled back to their graves. We are safe for another year! They run. It’s an understandable reaction from someone who’s never seen a zombie killing. I figure they’ll be fine, and set to work quickly sawing the limbs off. In the approaching distance, sirens blare, and I know everything is going to be alright.

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