Archive for Gary Simpson
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The explosion thundered. The Express Mart gas station that once stood on Matterson was now a plume of fire. The blue-red stripes of the building blackened as the flames of the explosion raced across the walls.
Leaning his head back, his little satisfaction, Marshall Huckman points towards the inferno.
"They don't like the smell of gasoline," he says "They stay away from it like a cat or dog would."
The older man leads me to the big platform behind the strip mall, big and empty since it used be the loading dock to a discount mega-store. Inside, one huge wall is nothing but large opened doors. Across on the other wall is a balcony, a control room that opens and closes the doors. Standing inside is Marshall Huckman in his blue jumpsuit, tinted in the red light. He's wearing his black glasses now and reading his watch. All together he looks too smart to be a dock worker.
"According to most people here," he says, "they don't see color. The dead -- the ones with eyes. They seem to get the most out of smell. Which makes it hard for people to stay together for that long. A group of people together can generate alot of stink."
He looks at me.
The man that just blew up a gas station was gone. The smaller door leading to the control room clicked open.
"It's pathetic," Marshall says "how we're holding on. Making guesses. How we slink around without know what is really going on."
He says, "I've found a way to save us." He says, "but you may not approve."
Marshall Huckman walks up the stairs and into the control room. I struggle with my broken leg to follow him. Small breaths with each step. My lungs hurt.
For a long time we stood in the small control room, both of us in silence. Windows with some kind of computer console line the wall to our right, a row of metal lockers line the wall opposite of the windows. A chair sits in the middle of the room.
Marshall begins to turn off switches including the "Intercom". Vertigo comes from looking out of the window down to the loading floor below. The red flashing light isn't helping.
Marshall Huckman starts pulling out a wrench from his jumpsuit, and begins to walk towards me pushing a chair for me to sit down.
"You might find the idea entirely repellent, " he says.
He stops and twists the chair with the wrench to keep my weight propped up. He's breathing heavier now. Heavy and white with exhaustion. Standing four feet away and I can tell just by the smell of him that he's probably been running around town the last couple of days. Not an easy feat with so many dead out there.
Marshall walks to the metal lockers. His finger slides open one dented-in. From inside he pulls out a small metal rod that looks like a baton with two prongs on the end.
"But it gets the job done," he says. And he steps towards me. Still white with exhaustion. His body still tense in his blue jumpsuit, only he looks skinnier than before. Scarecrow thin.
Lightning tears through every cell as the cattle prod spits. I can not tell where the prod hit me, only that I'm now lying on the floor. My body spasms as to knock me from the chair and the sharp pain of breathing dulls.
Marshall steps away from me, back towards the lockers. He's done with me. And he shrugs off his jumpsuit from his shoulders so it drapes around his waist. His hands reach into the locker.
Losing control of my muscles, my head rolled forward against the floor. A radio from inside the locker asked if assistance was needed. Marshall walks over, crouching down on his haunches by me. His hand feels warm as he places it on my chin, moving my head side to side as a doctor would.
He puts his arms underneath my body and hoists me up. Carrying me down the stairs, my body jerks with each step.
I was right not to trust the man calling himself Marshall Huckman.
Now I can see the floor of the loading dock and the open doors beyond. I can see the dead shambling across the parking lot.
They know its feeding time.
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Assault of the Dead
Assault of the Dead: Tactics
Gary Simpson
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