[AUTHOR'S NOTE: The below is my second published work, and my first zombie short story, that appeared in October 2008 edition of Necrotic Tissue magazine. The concept came about as a discussion with my best friend who postulated, “What would happen if all the movies are wrong, and head shots don’t kill zombies?” And thus “Rednecks Shouldn’t Play with Dead Things” was born.]
“It sure is quiet out here,” bellowed Ike in his normal, boisterous voice. “Haven’t heard or seen a critter in a coupla hours.”
“Maybe you scared them away by flapping that damn mouth of yours,” chided Brian.
“We’ve been out here all morning and ain’t seen nothin’ bigger than a squirrel. It ain’t natural for these parts, not during huntin’ season.”
Buck spit a mouthful of Redman chewing tobacco into the campfire. The wad sizzled when it hit the flames. “Maybe the animals are smarter than we think.”
“Ike’s right,” agreed Ned. “It’s too quiet.”
“Shit, man,” David added. “Kinda creepy, if you ask me.”
Johnny huffed.
“You got a problem?” Ned asked.
“You guys are such wimps. Scared of a little dark.” Ned finished his Miller and tossed the empty can into the fire. “Grow a pair.”
“Like you?” Brian asked.
“Yeah.”
“If you’re so brave, why did you bring that along?” Brian pointed to the clearing where the group had parked their pick-ups. The truck closest to the campsite was Ned’s Dodge Ram with its trailer attachment. On the trailer sat a John Deere Series 2000 tractor.
“No reason.” Ned became sullen and avoided eye contact with the others.
“What’s going on?” Sam asked.
Brian motioned toward Ned. “Captain Courageous here has one fear. His wife. Since she’d never agree to let him go huntin’, he hitched up the tractor and told his wife some bullshit story about taking it into town for repairs.”
“Come on,” Ned said defensively. “You know what she’s like.”
From somewhere around the campfire, one of them clucked like a chicken, generating a chorus of laughs at Ned’s expense. Ned responded by flipping them his middle finger, which only made them laugh harder.
Sam Grodin smiled as he raised a can of Miller to his lips. He appreciated more than ever being back amongst his friends. These guys were his best friends, some of them going back as far as elementary school. They looked up to Sam because he was the only one to have gotten out of their little town in northwest Pennsylvania and make something of himself, even it meant going to Iraq to do it. He had served two tours in Baghdad, and would still be there if an IED had not left him deaf in one ear and with a limp in his left leg. None of that mattered, though. He was home.
Someone broke through the woods thirty yards away, shattering the calm with a terrified gasp. It happened so suddenly Sam dropped his can of Miller, dousing his jacket in beer. The intruder staggered toward the campsite. Everyone jumped up and looked at each other, not sure how to respond. Brian reached down and picked up his Remington shotgun. When the intruder came close enough to be lit by the campfire, they all took a step back.
“Shit, man. What the hell happened to him?”
The intruder wore a blue flannel shirt torn in several places and soaked in blood from a gaping wound in his throat. Given the extent of the wound and the loss of blood, it seemed amazing that the intruder was still alive. He sprinted toward them, stumbled, and fell to the ground by the campfire. No one went to help him. With incredible effort, the intruder rolled over onto his back and stared up at the group. He gurgled his words a few at a time, pausing frequently to gasp for air through his ravaged throat.
