Zombies & Other Unpleasant Things

  The way leading to the psychiatric ward was a whooping cheering wave of very disturbing sounds.

  The ex chef had a moment (a very brief one) when he considered going to investigate, but then the sound of running feet coming from the same direction as the maniacal shouts and screams convinced him that hiding might make more sense. Hurrying across the hall, he opened the door to the linen storage room and scurried back behind the racks of freshly laundered sheets that smelled strongly of bleach and detergent. A tear ran down his chubby face as the smell reminded him of Ramone's Restaurant and a way of life that was gone forever.

  Even with the door shut the sound of running feet, excited screeching shouts, and howls were impossible to ignore. After overturning a large canvas laundry basket and pulling it over his huddled trembling chubby body, LeBeouf stuffed both index fingers in his ears and did something he hadn't done since he was a child; he prayed.

  LeBeouf prayed principally not to be found, but a close second hope was that Dr. Hagan would be okay. Over the months spent at Bayonne, fervently hoping his psychiatrists and lawyers would be able to get him out, he'd managed for the most part to blend in and not attract attention.

  Some of his fellow prisoners seemed actually fairly normal, but the many nightmarish monstrosities masquerading as humans far outnumbered them. LeBeouf learned only a month earlier that the medical advisory parole board had begun reviewing his psychiatrist's appeal. The tumor that had been found and removed from a part of his brain which regulated violent tendencies greatly interested a group of researchers from Johns Hopkins in Maryland and they had written numerous letters to the parole board as well. All of this had deeply impressed Dr. Hagan when he learned of LeBeouf's case.

  But he only learned of it after the ex chef and convicted murderer had almost been killed in a fight with other prisoners. LeBeouf had been in the infirmary for almost two weeks and if not for Dr Hagan's desire to have him remain there after his broken ribs had been treated, he would have once more been sent back to the cell block controlled by the Sabres gang.

  He had been beaten so badly his cracked ribs were still wrapped in bandages even as he cowered inside the linen closet and prayed.

  The external defibrillator that was part of a crash cart was probably the oldest piece of equipment in the entire medical facility. A bulbous headed man was in the corner of the treatment room playing with the rheostat knob that controlled how many joules of direct current the defibrillator would administer.

  Dr. Hagan watched him switching the various buttons until he pressed the green one that charged the system. A quiet high pitched whining sound made the tinkerer tilt his head at an angle.

  It reminded the doctor of an old RCA advertising image of a dog sitting beside a phonograph.

  “Dr. Hagan, my old buddy, did you know I always loved playing doctor when I was a child?” Ezekiel asked, lifting a scalpel and waving it playfully in the air.

  Dr. Hagan closed his eyes. He knew his life was in the hands of a murderous psychotic freak; a man who was convicted of murdering almost forty people,and most of them had been children.

  “Now really, you make me sad, doctor. Closing your eyes, like that. My father was a surgeon and wanted me to be one too some day. I guess my decision to go into the entertainment field was a disappointment for him, but it’s never too late to learn a new trade,” Ezekiel stopped speaking and made a sound of disgust when he saw that Hagan hadn’t opened his eyes yet. He leaned down and whispered, “If you don’t open those pretty hazel colored eyes, I guess I’ll have to slice off your eyelids. You don’t want that. Or do you?”

  Hagan sighed and opened his bloodshot, exhausted, and apparently pretty hazel colored eyes. He looked up at the bald man leaning over him and said, “Listen to me Ezekiel. This building could be on fire. Untie me now and we’ll forget any of this happened.”

  Ezekiel looked like he was thinking before saying in a trembling voice, “Don't call me that again. My name is Twisto and you know it.” Then his voice went back to normal as he asked, “By the way, you have children. Right?”

  “I don’t see what that has to do with anything.”

  Ezekiel/Twisto looked up at the ceiling and spoke loudly and beseechingly, “They have eyes but do not see.” Then swooped down to Hagan’s ear and whispered, “Answer the fucking question. Do you have children?”

  “No, I’ve never been married.”

  “What a small world, me neither. What with my career and various hobbies, I just never met the right kind of woman; one who enjoyed having a really good time. Hang the consequences! The kind of girl I could take home to meet the parents. You know what I mean?”

  Hagan nodded. Not because he understood what the very dangerous man was getting at but because it seemed like a pretty good idea.

  When he first regained consciousness, he found himself stripped naked and strapped down on the treatment table with the examination lights all turned on to their brightest settings. The restraints were cinched down so tightly that it took a Herculean effort just to take a deep breath. This was made even more difficult by the doctor's racing pulse as he hoped security would soon arrive. He actually held little hope anyone would be coming as the clock on the wall continued counting off minutes and the distant sounds of gunshots and screams from outside showed no sign of lessening.

  Before the doctor awoke, Twisto had found a bottle of talcum and his smiling face was covered in a layer of white powder that did indeed give him a clownish look. When Hagan first saw him, the clown was slicing the brown rubber bulb from a syringe typically used for sucking out or squirting things into a patient's ears or nose.

  The terrified doctor had to admit that Ezekiel had an ingenious way of improvising a clown costume with very little to work with.

  “No kids you say? That's sad. Personally, I just love children,” Twisto said with a disturbingly creepy emphasis on the word 'love' while stroking Hagan's genitals.

  “Listen to me, Ezek-” The doctor started to say before Twisto grabbed on to both of the doctor's testicles, squeezing and twisting them fiercely. At that point Hagan screamed and the clown glared down at Hagan's contorted face.

  “Say that other name one more time, doc, just one more time! I double dog dare you!” Twisto bellowed as Hagan screeched and begged him to stop.

  The clock was hard to see clearly as tears filled the doctor's eyes. He had no idea how long the clown squeezed and twisted his testicles before finally releasing them but it seemed like hours.

  When the clown's face appeared again it was smiling. “Do you believe in God?” Then before the doctor could respond he continued. “I sure do. When the cell doors slid open all I could think of is Moses and how he held out his staff and God opened up an escape route for him and his buddies. Is that crazy, or what?”

  Doctor Hagan had no idea how to respond to such an obviously loaded question.

  “Do you know why the cell doors opened up for me and my pals? I'll tell you why. I prayed for deliverance from bondage, just like Charleton Heston... I mean Moses did, and my prayers were answered.” Twisto said then looked up at the ceiling shouting, “Thank you, oh, great poobah in the sky! Free at last, free at last, thank you God! I'm free at last!”

  Doctor Hagan sighed and nodded because it seemed the clown was at least sort of right. Whatever had happened to free the inhabitants of the psychiatric ward was definitely, if not miraculous, beyond his terrified ability to comprehend. He held absolutely no hope that whatever Twisto had planned for him that it would be good.

  As if he'd read the doctor's mind, Twisto pulled a saber saw from behind his back and said, “Of course, it would be blasphemous to not thank God for our deliverance without a proper sacrifice. It's really a shame you didn't have kids when you had the chance, doc, because when I'm done you won't be able. Of course, I guess you could adopt. Faggots and dikes do it all the time. Why not a eunuch?”

  “Please don't,” was all Hagan could think to beg as Twisto moved down towa
rd his waist.

  “And, if you don't mind, I think I might borrow some of your lovely frizzy hair. Has anyone ever told you how much it looks like it belongs on a clown?”

  Hagan could only whimper in response.

  “Besides, this won't hurt a bit. I promise,” Twisto said before giggling as he got to work.

  He broke his promise about it not hurting.

  Coughing on smoke caused LeBeouf to wake up as he struggled to breathe through the acrid choking fumes. With no way of knowing how long he'd slept, he tried hard not to cough. The small storage room felt hot and it was hard to see through the smoke that was quickly filling it. He stood and crept to the door leading to the hallway while struggling to breathe. His eyes watered and stung as he listened at the door.

  There didn't seem to be anyone around, but as he opened the door he realized there really was no choice except to go. Staying put would kill him just as readily as running into any of the escaped lunatics. The deserted hallway actually seemed far less smokey and he paused to take a few deep breaths and tried to think what to do next. There was all manner of things strewn across the tiled floor; rolls of bandages, broken bottles, bedpans, and many other things he couldn't readily identify.

  He crossed the hall to look in the room where he'd been talking with Hagan earlier. It was trashed. Furniture was overturned, desk drawers were lying on the floor along with piles of forms and various pieces of paperwork, but what caught his attention more than anything else was the broken windows. He hurried over and peered out through the metal bars.

  The infirmary was built at the rear of the administration building and though the angle was odd and it was hard to see much through the billowing clouds of smoke, the flames erupting along the first and second floors down below were impossible to miss. He reached down and felt the floor. It didn't seem hot, but he didn't know if that meant he was safe or not. Standing up once more, he looked down beyond the barred window in hopes that there were firetrucks in the courtyard. No, it can't be!, his mind screamed upon seeing hundreds of his fellow prisoners running about with the main gate standing wide open.

  There was sporadic gunfire and he wondered how he'd missed hearing that and the yells coming from outside up until that point. What should I do? I can't stay. It's only a matter of time until the fire reaches here.

  Running from Dr. Hagan's office into the hallway, he could feel the heat much more intensely than he had by the windows. The smoke was growing thicker too and as he started toward the main exit he realized there was something he could use in the examination room up ahead. Dr. Hagan had shown him the portable oxygen tanks and masks when he'd been given a tour a few days earlier.

  Somehow, the exhaust fans and air conditioning units were still working and as he ran through the swinging door leading to the examination room it once more felt cooler. Hurrying through the smoke to the air tank storage closet, he failed to spot the weakly struggling man strapped to the table. The equipment had not been tampered with by Twisto and his friends and LeBeouf quickly slipped on a mask that covered his mouth and nose. He opened the valve on one of the green oxygen bottles and took his first clean breath of air. His eyes were still watering and the stinging sensation seemed to be growing worse with each passing minute, but he was happy just to be able to breathe.

  When he saw one of the field backpack kits used for treating convicts in their cells, LeBeouf didn't pause before strapping it on and shoving the oxygen bottle inside. There was very little room in the bag, but once it was securely tucked inside the kit his hands were freed from carrying it. He started back toward the doors and again almost missed spotting the man strapped to the table. If his foot hadn't slipped in the blood on the floor he probably would have. He grabbed the table to keep from falling and saw Dr. Hagan's face through the smoke.

  “Oh, God. What did they do to you?” LeBeouf asked while quickly removing the restraining straps. He got the ones holding his legs to the table off first and then hurried to get the ones securing his hands to the table.

  When the doctor's hands grabbed onto LeBeouf's arm he assumed his friend was acting out of panicked fear. It wasn't until Hagan bit through his skin and tore off a chunk of his flesh that LeBeouf realized he might have been mistaken. Yelling in pain, he backed away as Dr. Hagan climbed off the table and promptly slipped in the pool of blood on the floor and fell in a heap.

  “Dr. Hagan, it's me LeBeouf; Maurice LeBeouf,” he said, thinking that perhaps the doctor was delirious.

  Hagan slid his naked bloody body across the tiles and tried to grab LeBeouf's foot.

  “What's wrong? Don't you recognize me?” He asked while dodging back toward the doors.

  As the swinging doors opened, he got his first good look at Hagan's face and felt as if he was about to pass out. His eyes were glazed over, and hanging partly out of his chewing mouth was the piece of skin he'd bitten from his arm.

  He ran back into the hallway and stared at the bite wound between his wrist and elbow. No veins or major arteries appeared to have been torn, but a sizable amount of blood was dribbling onto the floor. Placing his other hand over the bite wound, he staggered toward the main exit.

  The lights failed as he was passing the admissions area where guard's would bring patients to wait for treatment. He got only a brief glimpse of an old man standing in the room beside the broken windows. Whoever he was, LeBeouf had no desire to speak to him. Part of the reason was that the old man's face was covered in blood and his wide open frantic eyes were staring at him, but the other reason was more practical; the building was on fire and steadily filling with more smoke.

  LeBeouf hurried on toward the exit and managed to trip over something in the murky smoke filled hallway. His knees slammed hard against the tiles and he bellowed, “Merde!” before collapsing to the floor and rolling onto his side in pain.

  The battery operated emergency light beside the green glowing EXIT sign located over the door beckoned him, but the best he could manage was a very slow agonizing crawl. Gradually, he noticed the smoke actually seemed less thick as he got closer. I can do it. It's just another ten feet, if that, he thought and struggled to keep moving.

  When the oxygen tank was empty he noticed and paused just long enough to pull the plastic mask down around his neck. The air rushing in through the open door felt cool, almost cold in comparison to what was in the hallway. I'm almost out. I did it! LeBeouf realized with an odd smoke smudged smile on his face.

  With just inches left to reach the threshold, the undead Dr. Hagan staggered out of the smoke behind LeBeouf, peered down momentarily and pounced on his back.

  He felt the clammy hands clawing at his face and neck before rolling over. Hagan rolled too, but didn't let go. LeBeouf resorted to French again without realizing it and shouted, “Casse-toi!” (which roughly translates to “Fuck off!”) and punched his attacker in the face. It was hard to tell who exactly he was hitting because LeBeouf's eyes were watering and itchy feeling from being exposed to so much smoke for such a long time.

  Hagan's undead corpse didn't seem even momentarily bothered by the foreign swearing or the fairly strong punch to the face. He simply grabbed LeBeouf's fist and started gnawing at it like a dog with a bone.

  “Hyah!”

  LeBeouf heard the shout and had no idea where it had come from. But, his badly bleeding hand was suddenly free of whoever it was that had been ravenously chewing on it. There was a metallic clang next to him as he sat up against the wall. He felt around and his blood slick fingers found the metal oxygen bottle that had slid out of the med kit backpack.

  “Fight fire with fire!” The same voice once more called out from the smoke filled hallway. This was followed by the sound of coughs, grunts, and growls. LeBeouf couldn't care less what was going on as he once more crawled for the open doorway.

  The sidewalk outside was illuminated by the red and yellow flames of the administration building, which was an inferno with fire and sparks blowing up into the night sky.


  LeBeouf paused only momentarily to gape at it before continuing forward. The clatter and clang of the oxygen tank being dragged behind him by the hose was loud, but the sounds coming from inside the hallway and out in the courtyard seemed much louder.

  LeBeouf kept crawling until he reached a tall razor topped chain link fence and only then tried to stand up. Every muscle seemed to protest this relatively simple maneuver, but within a few seconds he was leaning back against the fence.

  There was a loud scream coming from beyond the doorway followed momentarily by a shadowy figure of a man trotting out.

  Though so tired he felt ready to embrace death, LeBeouf managed to lift the only thing he had to use as a weapon; the oxygen tank. His hands were trembling as he raised it up and started to swing it at the figure.

  The man swerved gracefully off to the side and easily avoided being clobbered. “Hey, don't hit me. I'm the one who just saved your life. I am not your enemy. The undead ones are.”

  “Who? What? What the hell are you talking about?” LeBeouf sputtered in confusion.

  The old man, who used to be called Mr. Jacobie, in a different life, bowed and said, “You may call me Cato. There is no need for gratitude. The spirit of life dictates we are comrades in the battle against the unclean spirits.”

  Oh crap, it's one of the psychos! LeBeouf realized as he struggled to lift the oxygen tank again. It seemed much heavier than before.

  A flaming figure staggered out of the open doorway and headed toward the two men, but Cato seemed unafraid as he snatched the oxygen tank out of LeBeouf's trembling hands.

  “Come, unclean thing. I shall grant you eternal rest,” Cato called to it and seemed to almost dance across the sidewalk and circle around behind it.

  The flaming figure stumbled but did not fall as his burning hands reached out blindly in search of... of what precisely LeBeouf had no idea as he slid slowly away along the fence.