Zombie Wastelands: First Strain

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Soil Breaking Me Down

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Yee to the haw Grueheads and I shall commence this communication by stating the downright obvious. Hot diggity damn it’s hot! That’s right, it’s a scorcher today in Texas and my latest escapade takes me to a seedy bar miles from civilization for an exclusive tête-à-tête with none other than horror icon Mad Brad Potts. Sounds like a mouth-watering prospect right? That it may be but events have taken a turn for the worse en route after I ignored the surprisingly sound advice of an aging gas station attendant named Cleatus. Now I’ve watched enough horror movies to be aware that I should take anything from a gas station attendant with a hefty pinch of salt and, when his name is Cleatus, well that pretty much cements it. The dude had a grand total of three decaying teeth in his face and none of those looked like they’d seen a spot of toothpaste since the seventies. As Cleatus rattled on about how foolish it would be to continue my expedition, my focus instinctively returned to that minimalist fender of gnashers. Indeed, I became so mesmerized by those wildly flapping lips of his that I practically ignored his stark warning and scuttled off back onto the dirt track. I may well live to regret that one you know.

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Anyhoots a few kilometers down the beaten track and, would you believe it, my back tire has just blown out. That leaves me smack bang in the middle of nowhere, a good 35km from my destination, with absolutely no fluids that don’t consist of my own piss and vultures ominously circumnavigating my coordinates, readying their talons for the imminent swoop. Fuckers aren’t getting any of my coulis and any such attempt will culminate in my size eight-and-a-half deeply burrowed in their balloon knots, big toe first. However, it is fast becoming clear that these scavengers are to be the least of my concerns as a ravenous militia of famished flesh-eaters are currently advancing on my position, hell-bent on sinking their incisors into whichever hunk of gristle they can get their hands on first. I have plentiful time to plan my escape as these are good old-fashioned American zombies, shuffling like arthritic pensioners and groaning as if their hemorrhoids are beginning to chafe. Poor dumb bastards, their only requisite is for a light snack but they ain’t going to find it in Keeper. Like the cyclops from Krull, I already know how I will meet my maker, and that will be a myocardial infarction, not being torn limb from limb by the undead.

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Now anyone who knows their zombies will be only too aware that they pose the greatest threat when they approach en masse. Unaccompanied they’re a thorn in one’s side at very worst but, should they attack in sufficient enough quantities, then they can really fuck up your afternoon. Fortunately for me an old Chevy pick-up truck has just rattled past, making a welcome pit stop to assist me in my perilous quest for escape. Inside are a couple of mercenaries, Bubba and Clint; redneck types armed to the nines with double-barreled shotguns and electrified cattle prods. Both appear to be mildly perturbed by the horde of skin-crawlers re-enacting the video for Thriller before them although, in Bubba’s case, there clearly isn’t much going on behind the peepers. I’ve taken dumps with a higher I.Q. than this chowderhead and they smelt better too come to think of it. Will someone teach this numpty how to apply roll-on or a swift bullet to the back of his head would save us all the misery.

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“Get the fuck in boy…NOW”

Firstly, I’m no boy you inbred turd, I’m the Keeper of the Crimson Quill and you may want to scribble that on your hand so you don’t you forget it. That said, while Clint’s opening statement has rattled my cage some, his associate Bubba can only offer up a boar-like grunt while dribbling all over the upholstery. Thus I shall take Clint’s advice and jump on in before shit gets any more real. Needless to say, after several minutes of watching Bubba scratch his hairy beanbag like a flea-bitten mule, I’ve begun to question that decision along with my fast fading sanity. Meanwhile Clint sits game-faced next to me stroking his barrels, presumably in wait of some more zombie heads to shatter like adolescent hymens and I’m assured he does plenty of that too in his downtime. I’m reasonably certain that both men have engaged in intercourse with a billy-goat at some point and, in Bubba’s case, he even has a photo in his wallet to prove it. I’m starting to ponder whether I was actually safer with the zombies you know. There’s certainly not a great deal between them with regards to I.Q.

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After what seems like an age, we have now finally arrived at our destination, The Monkey Spanker, and it couldn’t have arrived any sooner for my liking as there’s only so many times I can sniff Bubba’s fingers before it ceases being funny. From the outside this ramshackled establishment doesn’t appear to be the sex palace I’d envisaged or has been reported but, fuck, it has to be better than sitting in silence with Mungo and Charlie Manson right? A small posse of pulse-free planks have congregated around this fortified den of iniquity and, no sooner has Bubba’s free hand pulled up the hand brake (while the other still rummages around down the front of his dungarees), than his compadre begins dropping smoking shells on the dusty ground. With heads popping around me like punished pimples, I make my way up to the boarded up windows and peek through the small opening between the boards to grab me one of those look-sees.

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“Open the motherfucking door Otis or I swear to God” appears to be the secret code to gain entry as Clint harasses the owner of the bar into hastily shuffling over with a jailer’s set of keys to allow us entrance. Alas, there is no sign of the legendary Mad Brad Potts as yet and the tiny peep-hole only reveals only one corner of the establishment and the heady aroma of Tequila, sweat and cum that I’m pretty sure is customary. However, once the door swings open and I step over the pile of twitching carcasses fashioned by my new “acquaintances”, I am greeted by a sight for the sorest of eyes. Evidently it is business as usual as an ample-chested and mercifully 100% natural vixen slides up and down a greased pole clad only in a Stetson. That is all the invitation I require to scurry inside for closer scrutiny and hopefully a confabulation with the man himself. I do believe that makes it game on.

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Click here to read Second Strain

 

Truly, Clearly, Really, Sincerely,

Keeper of the Crimson Quill

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Copyright: Crimson Quill: Savage Vault Enterprises 2014

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