Zombies & Other Unpleasant Things

Zombies & Other Unpleasant Things

A collection of somewhat disturbing tales scribed by

William Bebb

Copy editor Monty 'Danger' Hyman

Cover graphic artist Hadden Smith IV

The following collection of relatively tasteless tales is dedicated to all the nightmares that have ruined many nights of peaceful slumber and often made it impossible to go back to sleep.

This anthology of stories is a Hands on Productions & Publication, copyright 2013. All rights reserved. Any distribution of this anthology without the expressed written permission of the author is illegal, rude, crude, and subject to U.S. and international laws that don’t include decapitation of violators, but should. These tales are purely a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents described are solely the result of the author's overactive imagination or are used fictitiously. Any similarities to actual real companies, products, events or people; living or dead or undead, is a coincidence. So don’t get your panties in a wad if you see a name you recognize and find it offensive; it’s just a coincidence.

Smashwords Edition, License Notes

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be resold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

handsonpp@aol.com

You can visit the Hands On Productions & Publications website for updates and more information at www.sites.google.com/site/hoppublications

Other works of fine literature by this author include

Valley of Death, Zombie Trailer Park (Keck)

Zombies of All Hallows Evil (Keck)

What the Keck!? Zombies of the Caribbean (Keck)

Chronicles of the Undead, Volume One: The Emperor of Bayonne Prison

The Tiniest Invaders; Book One, Coexistence

The Tiniest Invaders; Book Two, The Meandering Menace

Upcoming Novels:

Chronicles of the Undead Book II; Twisto's Town (Expected by Spring 2014)

The Tiniest Invaders; Book III Conclusion (2014)

KECK Legacy (Coming eventually)

PREFACE & VARIOUS OBLIGATORY WARNINGS

Hi.

It shouldn't need to be mentioned, but I get so many goofy reviews and emails from readers who complain that my writings are gross and disgusting that I thought it might be worth addressing what I write about yet again. I do not create stories about puppies chasing butterflies around a sunny meadow or anything else sweet, warm, and fuzzy. Granted, I sometimes do enjoy reading stories like that, but they are not contained herein.

Stories about the undead tend to be messy, violent, and yes even a tad gross on occasion. Someday, when I'm through with my blood and guts obsession, I may try and write a warm fuzzy zombie tale. But I assure you this collection contains nothing like that.

Why short stories?

Perhaps it’s because I'm a masochist. My writing style tends to meander and trudge along wherever the characters take the story. So, sometimes this necessitates a very long 'short story', such as The Fall of Bayonne Prison. With a little more work (Okay, a lot more) it could probably have been made into a full-length novel all by itself. But for a variety of reasons I chose not to do that.

Is it still a short story, a novella or a novelette?

I don't know, but I like it and hope you will as well.

The rest of the stories are truly 'short', for the most part, and the majority do not involve the undead at all; hence the title & Other Unpleasant Things but I like them all quite a bit.

A LAST WARNING REGARDING MY ILLITERACY

Please don’t bother reading any further if bad grammar is a pet peeve of yours.

Perhaps someday I will be able to afford a full time staff of copy editors whose sole function (in their pathetic persnickety excuses for lives) is to place commas in every location where needed in my stories, excise extraneous ones, and fix my great many grammatical errors, but sadly that day has not yet arrived.

(Woe is me)

Contents

The_Fall_of_Bayonne

Waking_at_2:47_AM

Disgusting_Campfire_Tales

Southwestern_Road_Trip

Fortunate_Cookie

Chef's_Surprise

Story_Notes

Giving_Thanks

Sneak peek This is one of my favorite scenes from – The Emperor of Bayonne Prison

The Fall of Bayonne

(Approximately one year prior to the events portrayed in Chronicles of the Undead; The Emperor of Bayonne Prison)

The warden's office was crowded with every commanding officer at Bayonne Correctional Facility in attendance. It was standing room only as they listened to Warden Michael Massengail's sometimes rambling speech. With the exception of Commandant Lazarde, all the officers were standing in a large semicircle near the walls. The middle-aged commandant was seated in a high backed chair across from the warden and occasionally nodded while appearing to listen to Massengail's long and sometimes contradictory address.

The warden was sweating in spite of the quite cool air conditioned temperature in his office. He was appointed warden by his uncle when he was elected Governor of the great state of Louisiana three years earlier. Up until recently it had seemed like a nice comfortable job that required very little intelligence; something Massengail had never been blessed with an abundance of. When it came to handling occasional problems with the inmates or guards he always could rely on the commandant, who had a knack for walking tall and hitting hard.

Wiping sweat from his forehead with a damp handkerchief, he sipped some water and continued speaking. "You men are supervisors and need to start taking your responsibilities more seriously. The number of guards not reporting to work has increased to unacceptably high levels. You men need to get your subordinate's asses back here. We can't keep all the prisoners in lock down indefinitely. It's just not right.

I've spoken to the governor and assured him we can handle things without the National Guard getting involved here, because I know we can do it. I realize all of you are capable and dedicated to your careers of keeping these men locked up, but that's simply not enough.

If necessary, I will call the Sheriff's Office and the District Attorney first thing tomorrow and have arrest warrants written up for your absent guards. It may be unorthodox, but under the Governor's Emergency Martial Law provisions I can have it done. I checked with my uncle… uhm that is… the governor just a few hours ago and he confirmed I can do that.

When you leave this meeting, all of you need to make your people understand if they don't come into work they will end up locked up in one of our cells. Am I clear on that?"

When the assembled supervisors all answered that they understood, Commandant Lazarde was snapped out of his plans of driving down to the coast after this pointless meeting. His wife and children had already left with enough food and supplies to stock his sailboat for several months at sea.

He hadn't decided where they would go yet but until things calmed down and the unprecedented number of violent outbreaks, mass murders, and all the crazy rumors of people in various places going unaccountably insane and attacking others stopped he would trade his commandant's cap for his skipper's hat and hit the high seas.

After his address, the warden dismissed everyone except Lazarde and Captain LaShod. He waited until the three of them were alone before pulling a bottle of scotch out of his desk. He poured three shot glasses halfway and stood up saying, Gentlemen, would you join me in a toast?

Lazarde stood and took one of the glasses, while LaShod picked up the last one. They looked at the warden and waited.

Massengail stared at the amber colored liquid in his glass for a few moments and then at both men before saying, I was never cut out to be a warden. You both know that if it weren’t for my uncle’s connections I’d probably still be an accountant in New Orleans. He sighed and closed his eyes before resuming. But I am the warden and it’s my job to keep these men locked up. It’s your jobs to help me do mine. So, I offer this toast to our holding the line, duty, stability, and a return to sanity.

LaShod and the commandant raised their glasses. All three were clinked softly together and both men said, Hear hear, before drinking.

The warden swallowed his drink and gazed out the window beyond the cell block buildings and down at the squat Death Row structure near the deserted athletics field.

Commandant Lazarde glanced quickly at his wristwatch and worried about how bad traffic would be driving down to the coast, while LaShod only watched the warden expectantly.

The execution is still going to happen this afternoon, the warden announced after several seconds spent leaning against the wall while continuing to stare down at Death Row. He coughed and continued. "Relatives of that poor murdered girl have been calling every day for the last week, worried that it would be postponed again because of the riots or something equally stupid.

This morning they called from Bixby, less than fifty miles away, and said they'd be coming down this afternoon. I don't want to hear either of you bitch or complain about not having enough manpower for this execution either.

If that girl's family can travel all the way from Baton Rouge to watch that giant sack of shit die, I won't deny them the satisfaction of witnessing that."

LaShod cleared his throat and said, We'll have to pull at least one guard from each of the cell blocks for the execution, but we'll put on a hell of a show for them. The only hitch is Dr. Hagan won't be able to attend. All of the infirmary and psychiatric ward's support staff have stopped coming in to work. He's running the show down there pretty much by himself. But don't worry, I think we can slip a lab coat on one of the guards at the execution and no one will know the difference.

Does Hagan need someone to be assigned there, perhaps one of the guards? The warden asked.

Captain LaShod looked over at the commandant but he seemed not to be paying attention to the conversation. He cleared his throat and said, A guard already swings by every hour to check on things and give him a break. So I guess he's doing okay, just exhausted like all of us.

The commandant nodded as if he were listening while staring at the globe of the earth set on the corner of the warden's desk. His thoughts were in fact very far from Bayonne.

Bermuda shouldn't be too bad. Hurricane season's just about over. With fair winds we could be there in less than a week. All we have to do is find a nice remote island and drop anchor. Then I can sit back and work on my tan while the kids build sandcastles and hunt for seashells.

Lazarde... are you paying attention? The warden asked breaking the commandant out of his thoughts of tropical blue skies and sunshine.

He nodded and said, Yes sir. The execution shouldn't be any problem.

You will be attending, correct? The warden asked in a way that definitely sounded more like an order than a question.

Lazarde glanced at his watch before saying, Of course I will, but I need to run a few errands first. I'm afraid my wife is taking all these televised reports of rioting in the cities a little too seriously. You know how silly women can be. He laughed awkwardly and then added, Don't worry, warden, I wouldn't miss seeing Maurice Grenauld get what he's so richly earned. Although if he got what he truly deserved we'd take him out back and drop him over the south wall for the gators to eat.

The warden smiled at the thought and said, We'd probably get letters from some animal rights nuts complaining about how we were mistreating the alligators by feeding them shit.

The commandant and captain laughed appreciatively before the warden sent them off to take care of their various duties.

Captain LaShod had the commandant sign the papers needed for reassignment of the extra guards from the cell blocks for the execution before he could leave the administration building. He noticed his boss seemed to be an awful hurry and followed him out to the front steps and watched him walk quickly over to his Mercedes located in its assigned parking space right next to the warden's old Dodge. He shook his head and thought about the warden's messy divorce that happened the previous year. Poor guy. I guess she must have cleaned him out. Heck, even my Subaru is newer than the warden's car.

The number of vehicles was only a fifth of what usually filled the lot between the administration building and combination library and inmate visitors center. Even with visitation hours having been indefinitely canceled, the great many empty spaces were hard not to notice.

He glanced over at the collection of five story dark gray cell block buildings and wondered how many prisoners had noticed just how few guards had come in to work. Of course, all they had to do to notice would be to see that random cell searches hadn't happened for over a week and lock down procedures had been in place for the last three days.

When the klaxon alarms brayed and the amber rotating lights mounted on the mammoth slowly moving gate heralded the commandant's departure, LaShod watched his supervisor driving out very much in excess over the posted speed limit of ten miles per hour.

The young guard standing beside the gate watched the Mercedes leaving with a notable wishful look, as if he knew already what LaShod only strongly suspected; the commandant would most likely never return to Bayonne.

LaShod forced a confident expression on his face and walked across the courtyard. The young man was watching the approaches to the gate with a diligence that the captain wished everyone else had. As the gate loudly began closing once more, LaShod noticed movement coming from near the library building.

The small rechargeable cart was whirring down the handicap ramp with Charles aka Crazy Carl at the wheel. The old black trustee waved cheerfully to the captain as he drove across the nearly deserted parking lot and LaShod only stared back watchfully.

He didn't think Carl was crazy enough to try driving through the closing gate in a cart that could only do maybe fifteen miles per hour, but there was always the chance. If he'd had his way the old man and his assistant in the library would be in lock-down along with the rest of the inmates, but the warden could be a very stupid man sometimes. Although, in LaShod's opinion, delivering books to the inmates seemed beyond stupid; it was borderline insanity.

When the mammoth gate clanged solidly shut, he stopped watching the cart as it continued off toward Cell Block-A to deliver fine literature to the incarcerated. He saw the young guard standing alert, most likely because of his boss' close proximity.

Those socks you're wearing don't look regulation black, the captain said, having spotted nothing else to note about the young man’s appearance.

No sir, I uh... didn't have any more black ones. The laundry's been closed up since the lock down and these are all I had left that were clean.

You could have gotten some from home, couldn't you?

I haven't been home since last Thursday, back when the warden offered overtime to anyone willing to stay on the grounds until things get back to normal, sir.

The captain nodded and glanced back at the parking lot before saying, You must really need the money.

No sir. That is, I mean I like the money but until everyone returns to work I just wouldn't feel right about leaving the commandant and you so short handed.

There was a ring of sincerity in the young man's voice that almost startled LaShod. It was unusual to find a guard of integrity. He nodded and asked, Your name is Rikert, right?

He saw the kid nodding and asked, You started working here, when was it? Last month?

Yes sir, well actually, this is my fifth week.

How old are you?

Sir?

I know employers aren't supposed to ask stuff like that but tell me, just between us, how old are you and why did you want to work here of all places?

The young man nodded and said, I'll be twenty-five next month. As to why I came here... well, sir, the unemployment agency suggested it. Jobs have been pretty hard to find over the last few years.

The captain laughed ruefully at that and said, Yep, they sure have.

Sir, um can I ask your opinion about something?

Sure.

Do you think the commandant will be coming back? I mean, things have been kind of weird lately with all the crazy rumors and I just saw his face as he drove out through the gate. And ... well sir, it looked like he was crying.

The captain looked up at the flock of geese honking noisily overhead and waited until they'd passed by before saying, This is just between us Rikert. You got that? He saw the kid nod and continued. No, I don't think he's coming back. What's more, I don't think the rioting beyond these walls is going to pass and things will return to normal, at least not anytime soon.

Do you think the rumors of some kind of disease or... or whatever it is that's making people go nuts are true?

He sighed and nodded.

They both stood silently for several seconds before Rikert asked, What should I do?

You seem like a smart kid. Haven't you noticed nearly all the guards who have still been returning to work have also been kind of young? Most of the old timers, like me, have probably already decided things will only get worse and won't be coming back.

But... that doesn't make any sense. I mean, well, isn't this probably the safest place to be if trouble breaks out. He saw the captain roll his eyes and continued. "What I mean is, we've got the guns and the inmates are all locked up tight in their cages except when they go to the cafeteria to eat.

Bayonne is sort of like a castle. You know, like in the middle ages and crap. We're safe in here, right?"

Wrong. Yeah, Bayonne is a big imposing place, built way back during the 1930s with its forty foot high granite walls. But right now we guards are outnumbered; very badly outnumbered. This place may look like a castle, but if we aren't careful it could easily become our tomb.

So, what are you saying? I'm stupid to stay here?

The captain sighed, shook his head, and said, You're no more stupid than I am. Which I guess isn't really saying much. He laughed and shook his head again before adding, Besides, where would you go if you left? Most of the big cities are going nuts.

I'm confused. You say staying is stupid and leaving is crazy. What do suggest?

The captain looked around to see if anyone was nearby before whispering, I've chosen a handful of guards I trust with a secret. Can I trust you- no shitting around now- can I trust you to keep my plan quiet?

Rikert nodded and said, Yes sir.

Your shift's up in forty-five minutes, right?

Yes sir. I get half an hour break before I'm supposed to take over guarding the cafeteria.

When your relief gets here meet me at the power station building, and don't tell anyone about this. I mean it. This is deadly serious. Do you understand me?

Yes sir. I understand. I won't tell anyone.

Good, now just act natural and go do your job. I'll see you there.

What do you think? You saw Captain Shit Stain, out there by the gate, didn't you? An inmate with a pencil thin mustache asked loudly as he stood at the bars of his cell’s window.

Yeah, I saw them. But, how should I know what's going on, Vito? Maybe he wants the kid to suck his dick or something, the short heavily tattooed Hispanic in the adjoining cell answered.

Jose, you're so stupid it actually hurts my head. I'm telling you something is up. First there was all that rioting and shit on TV we saw, just before they put us on lock down. And over the last week fewer guards are coming in to work. I'm seriously telling you, something stinks.

Have you flushed lately? Jose asked and laughed at his own deeply appreciated sense of humor.

Vito grunted in disgust and looked down from his third floor cell at the deserted common area below. The stainless steel tables and benches bolted to the concrete floor reflected the overhead lights. It was just as empty as it had been all day, except for the guard who did his quarter hour visual inspection and quickly retreated back down the hallway to the office near the exterior door. Vito wasn't the only inmate that had realized things had changed. For one thing the rules of absolute silence had apparently either been canceled or just forgotten. Cell Block-A was awash with yells, screams, and even an occasional spontaneous profanity laced sing along.

Rumors always flew fast and furious in prisons and Bayonne was certainly no different, although Vito suspected the vast majority were total bullshit.

The most optimistic and fanciful bit of gossip was that Warden Massengail would be letting everyone leave soon because there just weren't enough guards showing up anymore. The proponents of that one even went so far as to say the warden would require an oath to be taken, swearing that the inmates would abide by the law from then on.

On the other end of the spectrum, the most plausible and disturbing rumor suggested the guards and all support personnel were sooner or later just going to leave them to rot in their cells. Vito didn't like that possibility, but was realistic enough to know it was by far the most likely outcome if things didn't get better.

There was a loud clang noise below and most of the inmates quieted a bit and looked down at the common area. There was a soft puttering noise and Bayonne's miniature version of a bookmobile drove inside and stopped in the middle of the floor below.

Vito heard hundreds of his fellow inmates shouting, Hey, Crazy Carl! at the old black man who got off the seat of the cart.

The old man waved as if he was being cheered by adoring fans. Vito shook his head and sat back on his bunk.

George was one of the quietest inmates of Cell Block-A, and also probably the most hungry. He stared at the concrete wall across from his bunk and could both feel and hear his stomach loudly rumbling. His ears hurt from all the yelling coming from the prisoners, but most of all from the weird guy screaming almost nonstop in the cell right next to his. George had wads of toilet paper stuffed into both of his ears, but it didn't seem to help very much.

He glanced at the wristwatch that he'd gotten in the mail a few weeks earlier and smiled sadly as he thought about the girl who'd sent it. The young man had read the letter she sent along with it over a hundred times and cried each time.

It was still over an hour before they'd be marched to the cafeteria. He sighed sadly, placed another square of toilet paper in his mouth and chewed at it slowly and meditatively.

Something flashed brightly and he looked over toward the door of his cell.

It was Crazy Carl. He was shining a small flashlight at him through the bars.

George weaved back and forth on the edge of his bunk a few times to build up enough momentum so he could stand up.

He wasn't the fattest prisoner at Bayonne but was definitely in the top ten. His nearly four hundred pound frame arose like an improbable neon orange balloon dressed in his inmate uniform and he just barely caught himself from running into the far wall of his narrow cell. He breathed heavily and yanked a wad of yellow waxy stained tissue from his right ear.

Book or magazine!? Crazy Carl shouted to be heard over the continuous yelling, most of which came from the cell next door.

George almost asked which would taste better but instead yelled back, Do you have anything about art!?

The old man nodded and went back to the bookmobile. He rummaged around through a few plastic baskets and came back a minute later holding out two magazines. They were just beyond George's reach if he decided to stick his arm through the bars, but he didn't. One magazine had a bright confusing looking splash of different abstract colors on the cover. The other had a painting of Rembrandt's that was so beautiful it made the young man want to cry. He pointed at the old master's work and was handed the magazine.

His eyes felt watery and he couldn't see Crazy Carl too clearly, but shouted something the old man almost never heard from other inmates; Thank you!

The old man nodded and continued his rounds to the other cells, although he skipped the ones where the inhabitants were screaming insanely or throwing bits of feces and whatever other nasty things they could get a hold of.

Twenty minutes later he'd finished delivering presents to the all 'good' boys of Cell Block-A. He restarted the cart and waved up at one of the video cameras mounted on the wall to indicate that he was ready for someone to come open the interior door to the hallway leading out. While waiting, he looked over at the Young Blob who apparently liked art.

George was staring intently at a photo on one of the pages in the art magazine. From his vantage point Carl couldn't tell what is was, just that it had a lot of color. He saw the look on the young man's face and could tell in addition to possessing basic manners the kid looked smart- very fat, but smart; and definitely significantly brighter than most of Bayonne Prison's other inhabitants.

When a guard opened the big metal interior door, Carl nodded slightly and drove the puttering cart down the hallway.

Vito watched from the window of his cell as Captain LaShod strolled down the access road toward the power building. It was an odd way for the captain to be walking. Sort of as if he's trying to act nonchalant or something. But, if that's his impression of not looking sneaky I can tell he was never a crook, Vito thought with a sly smirk on his face.

When the captain arrived at the big vault-like door of the power building, Vito wasn't terribly surprised to see the same guard that had been at the main gate waiting