The Cerberus Incident Ch. 02

Chickasaw was just twenty miles to the east of the truck crash. It made sense. They had been making their way east for about a week.

Binkle found the first place to stay in Chickasaw, the only place, and parked the Camaro outside the Thurston Motel. He got out and got his duffel bag out of the back seat. He paused to look around. It was a quiet town. Already, the place smelled like death.

He rented a room and dumped his duffel bag on the bed and crossed the street to the Friends & Neighbors Party Store. He bought a local paper, the Chickasaw Herald, a six pack of beer, a bottle of Jack Daniels and a bag of potato chips. Back in the motel room, he dumped all of it on the bed, turned on the television and sat down with a beer.

The tv had only two channels. Both showed porno movies, and the picture was fuzzy on either one. He stuffed a handful of chips into his mouth and tilted the beer to his lips.

The Chickasaw Herald was filled with touchy feely local interest stories. Binkle flipped through each section until he found something useful: The Police Blotter. He scanned the list.

Nothing terribly interesting. A story about a break-in at the video store. A pistol stolen from the back of somebody's truck. It was the story at the bottom of the column that caught his attention.

Two teenaged kids were killed when their car drove off the Cashun Bridge into the Altamoora River. Bodies yet to be recovered. Alcohol suspected.

Binkle folded the paper and threw it by his duffel bag. That was that. Those two kids had to be the company Harmony said this town was expecting. All he had to do was find them before they killed someone.

Chickasaw did not have a hospital. In the morning, Binkle drove to the Froggerton Funeral Home, the only one in town. The only person on the menu was an old woman named Hattie Place, looking puffy in her blue dress and blue casket.

Binkle slipped into the back room of the funeral home. Against the wall were three stainless steel examination tables, but there were no bodies on the tables.

"Hey, kid, what are you doing here?" someone said.

Binkle turned to a chubby man in a black suit.

"Uh, I think I made a wrong turn."

The chubby man frowned. "Be careful where you go around here, young man. This area is off limits to patrons."

"Yes, sir," Binkle said, and stepped out through the door.

The town's only graveyard was all the way back on the other side of town. He combed up and down the rows of graves. To the west, the sun was setting behind the trees. He took off his sunglasses and squinted to watch.

In the far corner of the cemetery, by an overgrown lilac bush, were two fresh graves. One was still open, with the name Hattie Place on the headstone, and a birth date from sometime around the turn of the century. The other was for a nine year old girl, and had a picture of her sealed behind glass on the headstone.

Binkle looked around. It was getting dark fast. What else was there? The kids weren't at the morgue, they weren't in the ground already. What did that leave?

At the top of the hill in the middle of the cemetery, he looked down the road to the west. In the shallow valley between two hills was a bridge that spanned across the river. He nodded. The river.

The Cashun Bridge led out of town to the next county. Binkle parked the Camaro at the near end of the bridge, where the police had set up yellow barrier tape. He looked around to make sure no one was watching, and scurried down the gravel slope.

Along the near bank of the river, a pair of deep grooves had been cut into the dirt, leading into the water. All around that area in the mud were footprints and tire tracks, where the police must have pulled the car out.

Binkle found an old log. The crickets had begun to chirp. The sun was gone behind the trees and the sky had turned purple. He sat down on the log and took out the sword.

* * * *

Delton pedaled hard. He was supposed to be home before dark, and he was late. His Momma was going to paddle his behind so bad he wouldn't be able to ride his bike for a week.

Just ahead in the street, a light was shining through the holes of a sewer grate. Delton stopped pedaling, letting the bike coast. The light got brighter.

The sewer grate popped off and landed in the street. Delton skidded his bike sideways and fell off, staring at the shafts of orange light coming from the hole. He heard a growling noise.

Something jumped out of the sewer and landed between it and Delton's bike. He gave a shout and scrambled away, then stopped.

It was a dog; old man Herger's poodle, in fact. Delton stood up. The dog yapped. How did it get in the sewer?

The dog sniffed the air, turning one way, then the next. It gave a snarl and trotted off down Rayford Road on its short legs.

Delton picked up his bike. The light in the sewer was gone. He shook his head and got back on the bike. Old man Herger shouldn't let his dog run around like that.

* * * *

Nothing happened. Nothing moved, nothing made a sound, except for the constant chirp of the crickets and the occasional splash of fish. But no zombies.

Binkle checked his watch. Almost two in the morning. Usually, if they didn't show by midnight, they weren't going to show. He gave them five more minutes, then decided to go back to the motel.

He climbed the gravel slope to the road and the Camaro and drove slowly back toward town. The moon followed him the whole way.

He had his left elbow resting on the open window and the cool night air blowing through his hair. They might show up the next night. Maybe they wouldn't show at all. Then again, he might have picked the wrong people. That old woman, what was her name? Hattie Place. She might have been the one. He decided to go back to the graveyard and see if she'd dug herself out of the ground.

He was passing a white fence and a driveway and heard a scream over the rumble of the engine. He stabbed the brakes and the Camaro skidded to a stop at the side of the road. He grabbed the sword and ran to the fence.

Well back from the road was a farmhouse. The porch light was on, but the scream came from the barn, to the right of the house. Binkle ran up the drive past an old pickup truck. A young woman had her back to the barn doors. Her shirt and jeans were torn, revealing her bra and panties. Laying in the dirt near her feet was a man. Something bumped against the doors from the inside and she screamed.

"Help me, please, help me," she said when she saw him.

She had long, dark hair and wide, frightened blue eyes, and a pair of big, beautiful boobs in her bra that moved in and out of view under the torn shirt.

"What's wrong?" Binkle said.

"S-Someone tried to bite my arm."

She held out her arm. The sleeve was torn. The doors bumped and she screamed again.

"My boyfriend and me, we heard this noise in the barn, like ... like someone moaning. We came out to check and someone attacked us," she said.

Binkle switched the sword from his left hand to his right hand. He pointed at the guy face down in the dirt.

"Who's the guy?" he said.

He nudged the guy's shoulder with his foot, but he didn't move. Behind the barn door came a low moan, and something bumped against it and the girl screamed.

"He's my boyfriend. That thing in the barn, it hit him over the head," she said in a hysterical shriek.

Binkle squatted next to the unconscious body and lifted his head.

"Do you always date guys with bald spots?" he said.

She folded her arms over her chest and looked pissed.

"Ok. Fine. He's my Dad's business partner. He likes to buy me things. And I like to let him fuck me," she said.

She set her jaw with a smug, defiant look. Binkle let the guy's head drop in the dirt with a thud and stood up.

"You're cute, kid. How old are you?"

The thing inside the barn bumped against the door again, but this time her defiant look did not waver.

"I'm ... sixteen," she said.

Binkle hesitated and looked at her a little more closely. Her face turned down.

"Fourteen," she said.

Binkle tried not to grin, but it came out as a smirk. He pointed at the barn door.

"Is the door locked?"

She nodded. "I set the latch."

Binkle held out his hands.

"Come over here. I don't think he can get out."

She stepped away from the door cautiously. It bumped and moved out slightly, like someone was pushing from the inside. She jumped into Binkle's arms.

"What's your name?" Binkle said.

He peeled back the torn sleeve of her shirt. She had no bite wounds or scratch marks. That was good. He didn't want to have to kill her, too.

"M-Mary. What's yours?"

"Josey."

He drew the sword. Mary's wide eyes stared at the shining black blade.

"I think there's two of them in there. I hit one with the shovel," she said.

Binkle put her behind him.

"You did good. I'll take care of it from here."

"You're not going to kill them, are you?"

He shook his head. "They're already dead."

He turned to the door. They bumped against it from the inside. He shook his head. Zombies were so stupid.

He lifted the latch. The wide door swung open. Binkle stepped back. His heel slipped on a rut. The door konked him on the head and he fell over backward.

There were two of them. They emerged slowly from the darkness of the barn, moving stiffly like they had no joints. Their skin was bluish green and they looked ... young. These were the teenagers. One was a girl and the other was a boy. The boy's right arm hung loosely at its side, dangling by shredded skin.

"That's the one I hit with the shovel. That's the one," Mary said, shouting hysterically.

Binkle picked himself up and brushed the dirt off of his jeans.

"Don't let them get too close," he said.

The boy zombie ripped off its severed arm, raised it like a club, and swung. Binkle ducked. The arm hit him in the shoulder.

Binkle thrust the sword into the center of its chest. The zombie groaned and fell backward, tripping over a wheelbarrow. The sword jerked out of Binkle's hand.

The girl zombie turned toward Mary, who was backing away.

"Josey? Josey, what do I do?" she said. Her face was very pale.

Binkle hesitated. The boy zombie was sprawled partly over the wheelbarrow with the sword sticking out of its chest, flailing with its severed arm. He needed that sword.

"Get to the house," he shouted.

He jumped on top of the zombie and grabbed his sword. The severed arm thumped against his leg and side. Binkle tugged. The blade did not move. It had gone all the way through and was stuck in the wheelbarrow.

"Josey, help me," Mary screamed.

He looked back. She had jumped into the old pickup truck. The girl zombie was reaching through the smashed out windows. He shook his head. Sometimes it was hard to tell who was more stupid.

He heard a snarl and looked down at the zombie.

"Was that you?" he said.

Its blank eyes stared straight up at the sky and it flailed with the severed arm.

Something tugged at the cuff of his jeans. Binkle looked down. It was a poodle, with his jeans clamped in its jaws. The poodle was ... pink. He shook his leg, but it just snarled.

"Do you mind? I'm working here," Binkle said.

The dog's eyes looked up at him and it snarled. The sword finally came loose. Binkle sliced the zombie's head off. The flailing with the severed arm stopped abruptly and dropped to the ground. He shook his leg again. The poodle refused to let go.

"Josey, I think I'm in trouble," Mary said.

The girl zombie had her by her torn shirt and was pulling her out the window of the truck. Binkle looked down at the poodle again.

"I'm real sorry about this. You don't give me much choice."

He swung the sword. The blade cut through the dog's neck. A gush of blood splattered on his jeans. The dog's body went limp. The jaw finally released the cuff of his jeans and the head rolled into a rut like a grapefruit.

The arm of Mary's shirt stretched until it tore. The girl zombie staggered back a couple of steps, dropped the torn sleeve, and reached through the window again for Mary.

Binkle raised the sword high and brought it down. The blade cut into the girl zombie's shoulder from behind. He swung again and cut halfway through its neck. The head flopped over to the side. He shoved the body over and cut off the rest of the head.

Mary peeked over the edge of the window.

"Is it over?" she said.

"It's over."

She climbed out of the truck and they looked at the body together.

"Where did they come from?" Mary said.

"The river, I think. Does it run through here?"

"Back that way."

She pointed past the barn. Her head was shaking and she had a distraught look in her eyes.

"My Mom and Dad, they went out tonight. They said I could stay home alone. Oh God. They're gonna shit when they find out what happened," she said.

Binkle touched her cheek. She looked up at him with her big, blue eyes.

"You're right. They probably will," he said.

Mary stood on her toes and kissed his lips. Binkle's eyebrows arched up.

"Thank you," she said in a soft whisper.

"For what?"

"For saving my life."

She kissed him again, deeply. He closed his eyes and let his hand slip around her waist.

Mary stiffened. He opened his eyes. Her eyes were wide, staring at something over his shoulder. She pointed and screamed. Binkle turned.

It was the poodle again, the pink poodle, only it had two new heads. Binkle cocked his own head sideways. That was a new one.

Mary hid behind him.

"What is it?" she said.

Binkle raised the black blade.

"I'm not sure. I think you should go call someone."

"Who?"

Binkle shrugged. "Animal control?"

Mary hesitated, then ran up to the house, stumbling on the steps.

Binkle swung the sword. The poodle did not move. All four of its eyes watched him. He took a step toward it. The poodle stayed. He sighed. Fine, he would just cut off both heads.

One of the heads belched and spit out a puff of fire. Binkle stopped. The other head belched and spit out a puff of fire, like the backfire from a truck exhaust. The two heads looked at each other, then it started toward him, growling, belching and spitting puffs of fire.

Binkle backed away. The poodle charged. He stepped aside and let the sword swing in a low, quick arc. The poodle yelped and stopped. One of its heads bounced off a rock like a coconut and rolled to a stop.

From the stump of the neck, two more heads grew out. The poodle turned to face him, growling, yapping and spitting fire. All three heads clunked against each other.

"Josey, I called the dog pound. They're gonna send someone out," Mary said.

"They won't help."

Something snapped at his ankle. Binkle jumped. The head he had just cut off snarled and snapped its jaws. A few feet away, the first head, laying in the rut by the wheelbarrow, was also snarling.

The poodle charged, surrounded by small clouds of black smoke and flame. Binkle tried to step around the head at his feet. It snapped at the toe of his boot. He kicked it like a football. It yelped and sailed over the wheelbarrow into the barn.

Binkle ran. The poodle was right on his heels, singeing the frayed cuffs of his jeans. Every time he managed to cut off a head, another one grew in its place. The driveway in front of the barn was littered with yapping, snapping pink heads.

He needed to find a way to keep the heads from growing back. He looked at the old truck and had an idea.

He led the poodle back to the wheelbarrow and grabbed a rake. The poodle circled the wheelbarrow and nearly caught him. Binkle cut off one of the heads. A new head popped out in its place.

They ran around and around the truck. Finally, the dog slowed. Binkle was panting. The poodle stopped, wheezing, all three tongues hanging out, blowing smoke and steam.

Binkle took the gas cap off the truck and sniffed. He took off his shirt, wrapped it tightly around the end of the rake handle, and stuck the handle into the gas tank. He pulled it out and the shirt was soaked with gas.

Now he needed something to light it. He looked at the poodle, still wheezing and steaming. He held the end of the rake handle in front of one of the heads. Gasoline dripped from the shirt. The dog's eyes stared at him.

"Come on. I know you can do it," Binkle said.

The head on the left belched, spit a puff of fire, and the shirt burst into flames. The poodle shrunk back, then charged at him. Binkle lopped off one of the heads and seared the neck with the flaming shirt.

The poodle stopped. The remaining two heads looked at each other. It charged again. Binkle cut off another head and seared the neck.

The last head snarled, digging its paws into the dirt like an angry bull. It ran at Binkle. He swiped with the blade. The poodle yelped. Its last head twirled in the air, bounced, and came to a stop with a clump of other heads.

Binkle seared the neck. The body stood still for a few moments, like it was waiting for the next head to grow out, then fell on its side.

Binkle poked the headless dog with the end of the blade. It didn't move. He kicked it. The dog, with black singes in its pink fur, rolled on its back. Its stiff, stubby legs pointed straight up in the air. Binkle frowned. That was odd.

He walked over to the barn to make sure the zombie that was beating him with its arm was dead. It was. By the old pickup truck, he paused to take a closer look at the girl zombie. She was hideous and bluish-green now, but she must have been pretty cute before she spent the night at the bottom of the Cashun River.

Between the barn and the house was the unconscious guy, Mary's 'boyfriend'. Binkle bent down and pressed his fingers to the side of his neck. He had a pulse, which was more than a lot of the other things around there.

The screen door opened with a loud squeak. Mary poked her head out.

"Is it over? Is it safe?" she said.

One of the poodle heads had latched onto the guy's ear with its teeth. Binkle pulled it off.

"It's safe. You can come out now," he said.

Mary came out of the house onto the front porch, holding her arms folded over her chest, which was covered only by the bra. She came down the steps and walked toward him, stepping carefully around the poodle heads. When she got to Binkle, she crouched beside him, next to her unconscious boyfriend.

"Is he dead?" she said.

"No. Let's get him into the house."

They carried him into the house and put him in the big, overstuffed arm chair by the fireplace. Mary grabbed Binkle's arm.

"Josey. You're hurt," she said.

He looked at his upper arm. Just below the shoulder, the sleeve of his shirt was torn and he was bleeding from a gash in his arm.

"I'll be fine," he said, and tried to cover the gash with the part of his sleeve that wasn't torn.

Mary, though, wasn't looking at his arm, but at the front of his jeans, where he had a huge hard-on hanging down in the leg. Her mouth was hanging open. He rolled his eyes. He forgot that killing got him really turned on, even if it was a couple of stupid zombies and one annoying little poodle.

"Let me clean that up for you," Mary said.

She had both hands around his wrist and dragged him over to the sofa. She left him there and ran off. When she came back, she had a first-aid kit and a warm washcloth.

"You're gonna have to take off your shirt," she said while she poked around inside the first-aid kit.

Binkle pulled his shirt off over his head. Mary was watching him out of the corner of her eye, and had a faint smile on her face like she was trying to suppress it.

He tossed the torn, blood-stained shirt on the floor. Mary climbed on his lap, facing him, with her knees straddling his hips. She dabbed at the wound on his arm with the washcloth.

"Does that hurt?" she said.

"Yeah," Binkle said.

"A lot?"