The Monster Apocalypse

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FOUR

"MMMM, BRINNNN!"

The zombie trudged forward, an exaggerated smile on his face that suggested less that he was hungry for human flesh and more that he wanted to give his daughter an overdue hug.

Brin stared at her father Kristopher, a man she adored and looked up to, a man she missed so much every day for the last year that some nights she had trouble falling asleep without crying. And suddenly, without warning, and without a chance for her to even catch her breath, there was her father, in the flesh—even though it wasn't really him. He recognized her, he knew her name, but the figure in front of her, his tuxedo torn to shreds, his hair falling out, his sharp yellow teeth dashing for her throat, wasn't her dad. The man was gone for good.

But Brin still couldn't keep herself from saying it: "Daddy!"

Crispin Cleaver, a short, pudgy boy no older than thirteen, sat on the cold cement ground behind her. He screamed at her to do something, anything. She had just killed the zombie version of his older brother Colin, then lectured him about how he couldn't let his emotions keep him from killing these freaks of nature, even if they did happen to look like members of their own family.

And now here he was, waiting for her to annihilate the zombie, just the way she did his brother, but she was doing nothing—nothing except crying.

The zombie grabbed her by her arm and shoved his sweaty, melting forehead against hers. He opened his eyes wide, and then his mouth even wider.

"Daddy! Daddy, nooooooo—"

"Get away from her!" Crispin shouted. He knew he probably had a tenth of the strength of this half human, but he jumped up anyway and raced over to help his new friend. He pulled her away, a mere second before the zombie took a big bite out of her chin. "I said, get back!"

"Crispin!" Brin screamed. "What are you doing?"

He stepped back, grabbed the lead pipe from Brin's shaking hands, and turned toward the zombie. "I'm returning the favor."

The zombie showed no hesitation, and certainly no remorse for the kid. He licked his green lips, shook his head, and rushed toward the frightened duo. "BRINNNN. COME BACKKKKK!"

"No!" Crispin shouted and swung his pipe at the creature. He hit him against the rib cage, then swung a second time, upward, against his face.

But nothing happened. Before it even touched his cheek, the zombie grabbed the pipe and kicked little Crispin back down to the ground. He tumbled against Brin's legs, and she immediately reached down to pull him back up.

Brin's father raised the lead pipe up high, proud and victorious, then tossed it over his shoulder, like it was nothing more than a crumpled up piece of paper. He stepped toward Brin, just as she kneeled down and pulled Crispin against the wall. The zombie blocked the exit. There was no way out, no escape.

"What are we going to do?" Crispin asked.

"I don't know," Brin said, "but thanks for helping."

"It didn't do anything!"

"I know. But you tried."

The zombie stopped in front of them and looked down, not moving for a moment, almost torturing them with the anticipation.

"MMMM, BRINNNN," he said, staring fondly into his daughter's eyes. Then he looked at Crispin, not with affection, but much more like a piece of meat. "MMMM, SECONNNNNNDS!"

The creature dropped down to his knees and grabbed for Brin's face, but she was ready for him; she leaned back and struck him hard against his legs with both of her feet. She waited to watch him tumble to the side, bash his head against the wall, and black out. At least that's what she thought would happen. She was the hero of this story after all.

But he didn't trip or fall; he just pulled her back up to her feet, brought her arm to his mouth, and dug his teeth into her flesh.

"Noooooo!" Crispin screamed.

"Daddy! Oh God! Oh God!" Brin watched in repulsion as her father closed his eyes in delight and tore a piece of flesh away from her upper arm. Blood spewed out of the wound like water and spilled down against the cement.

"No," Crispin repeated. "No, no, no!" He closed his eyes and pressed his hands over his ears, as tears started welling up.

"Owww," Brin said, pulling her arm close to her chest as she watched her own father munch on a chunk of her flesh like it was a tender piece of filet mignon. When he swallowed, she felt vomit hurtling up her throat. "Dad, that's disgusting!"

"MMMM," he said, yet again. He put his arms out in the air and crept toward Brin's face, his diseased mouth open wide, his eyes bulging out of their runny yellow sockets.

She couldn't go anywhere. She couldn't do anything. She could only stand there, in horrific pain, starting to hallucinate, as her zombie father rushed toward her, for the final time.

Brin looked down at Crispin. She knew once the zombie killed her, he would be the next to go. She didn't so much care about her own wellbeing, as much as she did the little boy's. She couldn't, she wouldn't, let him die.

The zombie lunged for her throat, but she dropped back down to the ground, hard, against her knees, against a pool of blood that splashed up into her face. She turned to Crispin fast, like an animal trying to defend itself, and reached out for him.

"Throw me the lead pipe!"

Crispin opened his eyes. "What?"

Brin's father dropped to his knees, too, and grabbed hold of her legs. He pulled her toward him—her feet toward his wanting mouth. She tried kicking him in the face, three times, but even that didn't work. He didn't seem to feel any pain. Nothing could stop him.

"Nothing except this goddamned pipe!" Brin shouted.

Crispin rolled the pipe all the way up to her bloodied fingers, and just as her father's sharp teeth grinded up against her toes, she turned over, sat up, and swung the lead pipe as hard as she could against her father's skull.

This time it struck, with the force of a sledgehammer, hitting him against his left cheek so hard, the whole side of his face exploded, chunks of his cheeks and lips and chin—and even a little of his sideburns—colliding against the wall beside him. He fell backward, stunned more than anything else—but still very much alive.

Brin leaned toward him and swung at his face again, but this time he was prepared. He grabbed the pipe, yanked it out of her grip, and threw it back behind him. Brin watched the pipe roll away from sight, away from the back room, down the hall, into the darkness.

"Shit," she said.

"He's not dead?" Crispin asked, now full-on crying. "How can this thing not be dead? He's like a machine!"

The zombie crawled toward her so fast, he was on top of her before she had a chance to jump back up to her feet. He pressed her hands down to the cold ground, and dug his knee against her arm wound.

"Owwwww!" she cried. "Daddy! For God's sake, stop!"

"Brin!" Crispin shouted. "He's going to kill you!" He jumped to his feet and raced toward the zombie, but Brin's father slugged the little boy in the throat, sending him back down to the ground. Crispin hit his head against the cement and started coughing uncontrollably.

"Oh God! Crispin!" Brin tried to look back at the boy, but her dad had her pinned to the ground, his left hand pressed against her chest.

He just stared at her for a second, like he was still contemplating whether or not he wanted to feast on a second chunk of her flesh.

Brin tried to move. She couldn't. She wanted to say something to make him stop. But she had no more words.

She had put up the best fight she could. But there was nothing left to do. Nothing... but wait to die.

"MMMM," he said for the final time, before he dashed his head straight for his daughter's face and wrapped his mouth around her skull.

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