Masters of Taboo Presents: Cannibalism, Digesting The Human Condition (Limited Edition) Page 7

  “Charlie, you think the DEA is going to come after us for losing the Dead or Alive?”

  I didn’t give a shit. “I sure hope not, Skip.” I was just talking to keep us going. Overcoming me was the deadly realization that our lives were at threat. I didn’t want this to happen, having to deal with the sickening feeling that we were not going to get out alive.

  I couldn’t let Karen down by not returning. It would be awful. And probably destroy her. If they never found us, I would have to be declared legally dead. Probably would involve Otis of all things. That was going to be messy. Real messy, and she would find my secret porn collection.

  The darkness was giving way to light and we could see a little better. As the upper sky, approached, sunlight curved around the Earth and lit up the atmosphere. Anyone who worked the nightshift knew this well. Sunrises were always more beautiful than sunsets.

  Then it became clear that the weird buoy was back. As we studied it, we realized it was headed to us. And it had that funny burlap sack attached to it. Almost looked like a body. Weird. Then a low roar, and a slight vibration in the water. Increasing. It dramatized our feelings…does a school of sharks warm up like this? Was it some tribal behavior clicking in before…

  “What the hell is that?”

  I had no idea. The Gulf was screwing with us bad.

  “I’m not sure.”

  Suddenly there was a million bubbles released just one hundred feet in front of us, loud jets hissing, and amazingly, the broken broomstick buoy lifted up out of the water and either our hallucinations kicked in full or before us was a conning tower of a submarine.

  It was a damned submarine. Its metal sides were rusted, water-stained and barnacled, it had been around. But it floated! And we were rescued – again!

  “Hells bells. I don’t believe it!”

  We were saved.

  “Yes!” We high-fived, our energy flushed back into us like a major drug rush, and we were headed for rescue and warmth and hot chocolate.

  “I’m buying Karen her next one piece!” Skip yelled.

  “I’m letting you!!”

  The submarine now sat at its waterline as its powerful pumps showered us in seawater being expelled to maintain positive buoyancy. Elated and stunned, little did we know what was going to happen next. The story should have ended here, but it didn’t. What we were in for would change us forever.

  “Hey, wait…”

  Something didn’t seem right. As the light level increased, I could see this was an old pile of junk. It looked like it was 100 years old, like Jules Verne, barnacles and rust all over. Pieces of metal stuck out at jagged angles, bits seemed broke off.

  “Skip – they’re drug runners.”

  “They’ll fucking kill us.”

  Fear twisted my stomach, but nothing was in it that could come out. I wretched, knowing that we just entered a whole new plateau. We got rescued all right, rescued by death.

  “Damn you Gulf! You screwed us!”

  “Charlie, what do we do!?”

  Suddenly a creaky old hatch opened on the deck and sailors poured out. They were the worse looking rag-tag crew I had ever seen, and looked thoroughly unwashed and beaten.

  Little did I know how lucky we were that the light was still low, and we couldn’t see the worst of it. One of the crew pulled a plug and a rubber raft instantly inflated via compressed air and it accidently knocked a crew member aside. But oddly the crew member tore in half and went over the side like a rag doll.

  We were still hallucinating…hopefully. The shabby crew lowered the raft over the side, and clambered down into it.

  One thing about being in the water, ships and boats seemed larger than life. The submarine was huge and towered over us, and the yellow rubber raft seemed big too. Then a smell hit me. Like a bullet to the brain. It was the smell of rotting animals, rotting flesh. Skip looked at me, he smelled it to. It was awful. The crew paddled and reached us, and I was getting terribly nauseated.

  I didn’t care how bad it was, we were saved.

  My eyes had to be betraying me; the sailors got uglier as they got closer. Thoughts were swirling around like crazy. It was the zombies. Again.

  We were beaten and exhausted, and it was impossible to resist, so there was no conflict about getting into the raft.

  Crammed with the crew in the little raft, my eyes finally focused, and just enough light let me see, that the crew were indeed zombies. I froze with fear. I could feel Skip’s fear. We traded looks – probably our last.

  Just 48 hours ago Skip and I got a firsthand look inside of the black barge of death in the DEA boatyard. Cannibalism at it’s worse, as if there was not so bad, cannibalism and bad cannibalism. What the hell was going on in the Gulf? Our Lady was turning on his. Mother Nature sticking it to us.

  But wait. Are cannibals zombies? Or vice-versa? What the hell? What the hell was I thinking?

  I immediately bolted over the side – but wretched hands, wrapped around my arms and legs, holding me down by the limbs and making me feel more venerable than a naked newborn at birth. I looked over at Skip…and suddenly projectiled vomited. The vomit shot out like a shotgun going off in his throat. If there ever was a red flag tossed, this was the moment.

  And what the hell was he holding in his stomach? Had he had some energy bars he was not telling me about?

  The so called zombies held us down. We struggled like hell, but they had us. The audio part of my brain then screamed…’listen to these creatures’….and I separated Skip’s and mine screams like a professional sound mixer in a studio…and could make out these bizarre moans and groans, with a signature, sounds, noises that I had only heard at a zoo. Cockatoos, giraffes, lions, hyenas. But we weren’t at the zoo and I was sad. Sad that I was confident – that I was not hallucinating.

  A CRACK cut through the air making me jump, then another. It was a small handgun. Some kind of shit was going on way up on deck of the sub.

  “Charlie, we’re going to die. This is it. Adios, amigo.”

  I could cry, but I was too dehydrated.

  Our inflatable rubber raft bobbed up and down next to the big, curved rusted hull of the sub. The waves were gentle, but the idea of crossing over to it was mindboggling, on so many levels.

  “Charlie, we’re dreaming. This isn’t really happening. All the studies show that we will hallucinate…and obviously, it’s right now.”

  How could Skip refer to ‘studies’? We just stepped into a fantasy zone. Pure illusion. Okay, he was right.

  Then a hand grabbed my shoulder and yanked me back, flat in the raft, looking straight up in the sky. Three zombies leaned over me and stared at me like I’d never been stared at before. I had a sense they were objectifying me…like a man staring at the women’s flesh…and not the person, the only difference is that they were staring at me like a nice, juicy, freshly cooked steak. Or more appropriately, steak tartar.

  Then one of the zombies stretched it’s mouth wide open and bent down to bite me when another CRACK… cut through the air. The zombie’s arm was instantly severed at the shoulder, flipping and twirling around, splashing into the drink. The zombie screeched and pulled back.

  A deep, raspy voice barked, “You idiots, bring them on board. Do you all want to die…again?”

  It was a woman’s voice of commanding power, intimidation, violence and total control.

  “Bring them onboard!”

  The zombies wrapped rope around us. We had no control of ourselves and were dragged up the hull like ragdolls, scrapped along the sharp barnacles that seemed welded to the sea washed hull. My arms and legs had dozens of small cuts that bled heavily. Blood was everywhere and created great interest from our new friends. We were French fries dipped in ranch dressing at a crowded McDonalds after school let out. A shark feeding fest about to happen and of all places to end it all, was on the deck of an old drug dealer submarine. Zombies. No one is going to believe this. My God, the only zombie I ever saw was in a movie, The Night of
the Living Dead, the black and white one from the ‘60’s. The only difference now, is that we were in living color. Or dead color.

  I had never heard of a real zombie incident in my entire life. Had you? And now I was the star of my own, along with Skip.

  As they lifted us up our energy to fight was gone. We fell onto the deck exhausted like limp rags. I lifted my head, a sense of doom coming over me. I got a good look at the conning tower – and could make out a weathered, aged swastika. What in God’s name was a swastika doing on the..

  Skip yelled out. “Das Boot. Das fucking Boot.” I looked around more and sure enough, we were on deck of a World War Two German U-Boat. Ah, don’t you love hallucinating? Out in the middle of the Gulf, confronting Western culture’s old arch rival? They weren’t only zombies - they were Nazi zombies.

  We were double screwed. The Gulf really shit on us this time.

  “Skip, we’re in a pickle.” Pickle? Did I just say pickle? We’re about to be eaten alive and I say ‘we’re in a pickle.’ Now I feel remorse, just like I feel sometimes with Karen. Mouth moves before brain engages. Then Skip brought me back.

  “No shit, Sherlock. Charlie, where’s our ending hallucination? The one where we each do a quick rewind…then review our lives like in 30 seconds? That would be cool. It would actually be cool. Where the fuck is it, Charley? Where the goddamn is my life ending movie!? I’m not being cheated this time.”

  Lady Gulf, just do us and do us quick. Our gooses are cooked, one could only think that if there is a God that he/she would cover us in ‘holy gravy’ and we would feel good, feel warm, feel we were in a huge cheese enchilada that wrapped around us, of eternal life, about to die. Then actually die.

  Like…good gravy on a turkey dinner. Ah, Otis. Where are you when we need you? No such luck.

  Now back to practical things, as one is eaten to death by zombies, are we bit and chewed and swallowed, or did they even chew? And would I’d eventually be crapped out…in a U-Boat toilet then pumped back into the Gulf? Or did they even chew? Or just greedily gobble us down without chewing?

  As I thought this, I instantly started to cry. This was it. This is Death but no tears came. You can’t cry when you’re dehydrated.

  The whip cracked again. Sounded so much like a gun. The zombies backed off. Their shadows wiggled over us. I leaned up and watched the controlling Nazi zombie step over to me. Intense morning sunlight cut through and gave the figure great lighting. Dressed to the nines, this was not just any zombie. Maybe an Executive Officer Zombie? The Kommandant? He snapped his cape to shape and walked over to the deck and looked over the fresh catch.

  The great thing about this Nazi being a higher officer, hopefully, is that they were more likely to give us mercy – like pilots being caught by enemy pilots. There was an empathy that overran the conflict, and saved many allied pilots. I was betting on that. It’s amazing what the mind will rationalize.

  The head zombie was coiling his whip while walking. Each step seemed calculated and in sync with his wardrobe, as if rehearsed. It was immaculate and was a stark contrast to barnacles and flesh drooling zombies. He peered over the side of the Unterseeboot at the fresh catch. He then oddly put all his attention to the whip – then cracked it. Sounded like a small caliber gun. A gun it wasn’t; but a piece of leather exceeding the speed of sound. Imagine a little piece of leather going over 700 miles an hour; just as improbable as mine and Skip’s situation, but happening right before our eyes.

  Then the black shadow of doom fell over us. It was all so cliché but terribly real. The figure leaned in and out of the burning Gulf sun, blinding us in both directions; dim and bright. The sea settled, as the sun got more intense. I bent my head over to the right and could not believe what I saw.

  Tied to the remains of the periscope, was a zombie crew member. He had been there the whole time. The head of the periscope, where the opticals were, had been severed, and I guess a zombie had been tied to the steel pole – as the lookout.

  The mystery of the burlap bag was solved.

  Another CRACK! I looked over at the Kommandant. In full oilskin trench coat and commander’s hat, SS insignias and a Knight’s Cross of the Iron Cross hanging around his neck – was a woman.

  Holding a very lethal black leather whip, she looked human – not zombie. Not that I was an expert, but I didn’t notice any flesh falling off her, or her trying to take a bite out of me. At least not yet.

  The shiny leather cloak opened and revealed a tight leather cat suit, so hot that it actually tugged at my man parts, using the last few calories in me. Men think of sex constantly. Even in the last few minutes of life. Listen up. When someone is going to get executed, they’re often offered a last meal. But most of the doomed wanted a different kind of meal. A meal with curves.

  Skip let out a loud scream while a zombie bit into him and instantly, the female Kommandant snapped her whip – it wrapped around the zombie’s neck and decapitated him in one stroke. His head bounced across the deck and landed right next to me, staring straight into my eyes. Its pupils rolled around then locked onto mine. It growled, tried to use its teeth and jaw to get closer to me, then the sub pitched and the head rolled across the deck like a melon and plopped right into the water.

  Stunned, the headless body stood up. It started looking around, possibly for its head, then walked aimlessly to the forward part of the bow and eventually just stepped off the deck and into the Gulf.

  All, the other zombies moaned and groaned with fear. Then my mouth shot off, “Don’t you damned dare bite us!”

  Everything fell silent. The female Kommandant stepped up to me with, a laser look, beaming from her eyes. Then she smiled; a sly, killer smile.

  My mouth went off before my brain intercepted.

  “Screw off you yellow belly, zombie Cuntess!” I was an idiot. No wonder I have trouble in relationships. And this is how I start with the woman who is now in control of my final destiny? Put a fork in me…I’m done.

  She cracked her whip in anger and just the tip hit me, the pain of a thousand daggers digging deep into my arm. Yeah, she was pissed.

  She towered over my pathetic pile of man flesh, staring at this bag of tired, almost dead jello. Me. Looking her in the eye, she said dead serious.

  “Don’t you ever call me a zombie. Never. EVER NEVER!”

  Her voice poured liquid fear down my throat. My stomach clenched and squeezed again, but nothing came out. Another attack of the dry heaves.

  The lecture continued. “I’m cannibal, all cannibal. Nothing else and definitely not a zombie and I’m proud of that.”

  I couldn’t believe what I was hearing.

  She went on. “I’m tender with my enemies. I soften them up with love, and soak them in vinegar, dose them in brown sugar.”

  It was like a bad dialogue in a C-movie. Unreal. But here’s the rub – that was my secret barbeque recipe.

  “And then I eat my enemies.”

  I eat my beef too, must be good for you, because she looked sensational. But I should assume she eats humans. She did admit she was a cannibal. One has to respect the openness and honesty. She just met the wrong man. Her skill set was way beyond mine.

  Then from her lips came the mindblower. “I am 93 years old.”

  Gulp. She smirked at me. “How old are you, old man?”

  “The name’s Charlie.”

  “Charlie. Charles. I like that, its tasty name.”

  “Wait a minute, Kommandant. I’m old. No fat on me. You know what that means, I don’t taste good. The best meat has lots of fat. Like a T-bone. Like at Norm’s..”

  The whip CRACKED. Then she threw a conniption fit of major proportions, in a display I had only seen in a B&D parlor at 3am in downtown Charleston. No time to explain that one.

  She walked around me, and then walked around Skip, sizing us up like the meat display at the local butcher shop. Then she froze, spun around and glared at me again.

  “You wrecked my periscope.”

>   Skip and I looked up – and the zombie tied to the remains of the scope turned his head towards us and GROWLED.

  “Get them below.”

  “Yes, Mistress Von Krause.”

  Why did that name seem familiar? We fought like hell but the zombie crew pulled us through a hatch into the old rusty hulk. We stumbled down the slime ladder and landed on the hard, wet deck below.

  Then the Kommadant climbed down the ladder and stood next to me. A zombie crew member pulled a rope that slammed the hatch shut, and spun the lock wheel tight. The second to last words we were ever to hear.

  “Dive! Dive!”

  The crew initiated the process – water values opened and a tremendous roar pierced our ears and shook the entire craft as buoyancy was brought into the negative.

  I looked over to Skip. He was bleeding from the bite.

  He looked at me with a sad surrender. I remembered that a zombie bite was a bad thing. I was going to put my arm around him…but I stopped. My survival instincts took over.

  Then…the last words we were to hear, words from the beautiful red lips of Mistress Von Krause…

  “Light the grill.”

  “Jawohl, Mistress Krause.”

  Mistress Krause. That name rang a bell. The zombie crew swung into action with precision choreography as they had done many times before. Then it dawned on me.

  That was the name of the black barge in the boatyard. Mistress von Krause.

  Yep. This was the end. As the sub dropped deeper, the air bubbles being blown out of the pressure tanks filled my ears and my brain. I wretched again…but nothing was there. My stomach was empty. As too was my mind.

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  Hart D. Fisher