The Corral

Before…

An immense flock of birds circled high in the air over the rag-tag compound set up in an open field on the outskirts of town. The spiraling cloud was made up of aggressive crows and seagulls mostly, but smaller robins and sparrows flew alongside the larger birds like Pilot Fish. They shadowed their larger brethren and eagerly picked up any bits of meat left discarded. Having been reduced by their hunger and fear to a ravenous scavenging horde, the avian multitude wheeled about in the early morning’s sky like a pulsating Rorschach inkblot. Their mass cavorted in the air like kites set lose from their tethers, whirling reminders of an innocence now lost.

The green pastures spread out below were once fertile farm land, but now the fields lay forsaken and well on their way to seed. The hills rolled like emerald waves; terra firma breakers created by the undulating spasms of the Earth. Abandoned farms punctuated the silent and foreboding landscape like forgotten play sets, their crops left to rot now that no one was there to tend the fields. Half-starved farm animals milled about the hills and glens aimlessly; lost livestock dutifully sought the care of farmers, most of who were either dead or still in hiding. Cows and sheep grazed on low-lying grasses. Milking cows lowed with discomfort as their udders swelled to almost bursting. Columns of acrid smoke billowed dark and pungent from smoldering fires on the ground, their onyx plumes obscuring any view. Deep within the flames, corpses lay smoldering.

The flock lazily spun above the mass of activity which ebbed and flowed within the roadside encampment. The birds’ small, obsidian eyes locked in on the commotion as they continually scanned the landscape for any remnants of food left behind by Men—either living or dead. In truth, they weren’t in any position to be picky. Food was food and when the world went as crazy as it had, both man and beast were grateful for whatever provisions they could find.

Groups of heavily armed men and women roaming the countryside had become a common sight in the past few weeks; masses of humanity whose sense of dread could only be calmed by the possession of their weapons and by the safety of their vast numbers. In reality, it was their fear that brought them together and—like glue—kept them that way. An uneasy alliance had been forged more out of necessity than any real desire or sense of camaraderie, for when The Dead crawled from their moldy graves, men became afraid and their fear hung in the air like the black smoke from their fires. Every species responded to this fear in its own way: birds took flight and searched from overhead for food, stray livestock searched in vain for their owners, and Man had come together into a tribe and did what it had always done best—fight.

The militia was more than a hundred people strong and they wandered the camp in fits of nervous energy. More and more though, it was becoming obvious that the fear they’d felt in the beginning was being replaced by something resembling an unbridled bloodlust. In the last few weeks, these men and women had begun to work more as a fluid army rather than as a frightened mob. They had set about forging themselves, despite their panic and the obvious sense of danger, into a small but entirely self-sufficient military.

Every man, woman and child gathered here had endured the initial terror and confusion and was now bound and determined to be a survivor of this dark page in human history. Some had been lucky and got picked up by the group early in the conflict. Others were not so fortunate and were left to fight The Dead alone for days. Of those assembled, there were few who could not tell, if asked, horrible stories of loved ones and their "Changing."

The compound was not really anything more than a dozen or so Winnebagos pulled off-road and parked in a haphazard circle. Here and there, tents had been thrown up hastily, if for nothing else than to keep the cloud of flies from the group’s hastily scavenged food and to offer a safe place to catch an hour or two of much needed shut-eye. It was a slapdash set-up, but it was proving to be an effective one.

Off to one side, near the back, a corral for the captured Dead had been erected using split rails and whatever nails could be found lying around the nearby farmhouses. The fencing wasn’t particularly strong, but then again, it didn’t need to be. The Dead were fairly weak when alone, banded together it wasn’t their strength that was proving dangerous, but rather their numbers. Across the entrance to the pen, someone had spray painted a board to read "Purgatory" and hung it with some old baling wire.

A gathered crowd was a constant around the railings. The Living all stood there, smoking and drinking and gawking at the restless Dead. All of them were sure to keep a safe distance from the railing and out of reach of anything inside, each having seen the cost of getting too close. But gather they did for they all felt a deep compulsion to try and understand—or rather to confront and come to terms with—the very beasts which had thrown their lives into such chaos.

"These dead-assed sumbitches… They ain’t shit!" one good ol’ boy was saying over the dusty top of his Meisterbrau can. He looked around at his red-eyed audience and gauged their compliance. He then cursed under his breath and wiped his hand absentmindedly at a dollop of bird shit that had splattered down one sleeve of his faded green Army jacket.

"The fuck they ain’t, Bubba. I’ll tell ya… I saw a group of ’em tear that ol’ boy Richard Johnson limb from fuckin’ limb over at McGurgie’s Feed Store," another man was saying. "You remember Dick Johnson, doncha? He was that big ol’ boy what worked over at the aluminum chair factory over in Harbison County. He married that ugly, thick-ankled gal from Eatherton with them big hooters. I tell ya, those dead bastards went after him like he was the main course at a got-dam Chinese boo-fay!"

Bubba shot a look of annoyance and absentmindedly crossed himself. "Don’t speak ill of the dead, Cecil."

"Shit… why the hell not? It’s not like they’s gonna hear us!"

The crowd laughed at Cecil’s wit which was usually about as sharp as a bowling pin.

"Anyway," Bubba continued, "seeing ’em thisa way… Hell. I don’t think much of ’em, ya know? Buncha slack-jawed, drooling motherfucks is what they is."

Cecil sensed more comic gold here and offered, "Well hell, Bubba… If they ain’t nothing and you’re so goddamn brave, why don’t you just jump inside that pen and give ’em a few licks?"

The crowd nodded its approval and punctuated the air with guffaws, half-formed opinions and snorts of hillbilly derision. As one, they all looked questioningly at Bubba, waiting for either an answer or for him to wisely back down.

"Sheee-it, Ceese, I may have fallen offa the goddamn stupid truck, but it wasn’t fuckin’ today," Bubba said wiping at the accumulating dust in his eyes.

The crowd collectively nodded their approval at Bubba’s newfound wisdom. Most had come to know the man as just a "cunt’s hair above a retard," but sometimes, even a retard could have what the alkies called "moments of clarity." The group fell silent and considered the depths of what many called "country wisdom."

A sudden slow ripple started toward the back of the crowd; a slight disturbance in the throng which spread outward. A pair of men pushed their way through the multitude, politely asking to be excused but insistently moving forward, until they arrived at the side of the corral. To the crowd, it was evident that they were not from ’round here. Both their dress and demeanor said as much. The first man, the one who looked to be in charge, was built well, although not particularly tall, with short business-like black hair and a heavy brow which cast his eyes in perpetual shadow. The other guy was a regular Baby Huey: big, broad and muscular with hands like Easter hams.

"Gentlemen…" the in-charge guy said, pitching the volume of his voice at just below a shout. He bowed slightly toward one of the women in the crowd and smiled broadly, "…and ladies… My name is Weber… Joseph F. Weber and this…" He made a grand gesture toward his compatriot, "…is my associate, Jimbo. Say ‘Hello,’ Jimbo."

"Howdy!"

Jimbo’s face broke into a smile that was more painful grimace than overt cordiality and the crowd collectively took a small step backward in response. He stood there, grinning like a corpse and absentmindedly working his huge hands open and closed. The two stood silently, the group having given them respectful breathing room, looking like bizarre versions of Steinbeck’s George and Lennie.

Weber leaned congenially against one of the wooden rails and gazed out over the scene before him. Casually, he crossed his legs at the shin and breathed in deeply, allowing the crowd a few minutes to settle down. As silence descended back over them, he took a moment and gazed out over the corral. He’d come here wanting to be heard and, if he was anything, he was a patient man. He would wait until they were ready to listen to all that he had to say. When an expectant quiet was in effect, he cleared his throat and began to speak.

"Did I just hear you one of you boys say something about jumpin’ in there and mixing it up with this… thing?"

Bubba looked over at the man and then quickly away. It was one thing to talk this kind of bullshit to idiots like Cecil and the others, but once strangers such as this got involved, he stood to potentially lose some pride.

"Shee-it, Slick," Cecil said. "We was talking about it, but ’round here we also talk a lot about assfuckin’ Shania Twain. Both have about the same chance of happening."

Weber smiled and stood there, as if thinking over the likelihood of both ideas. To his mind, he was willing to watch either of these events taking place. But then again, one was going to adhere to his agenda… and one was not. Finally, he decided to get back on point. He looked the crowd over and pitched his voice slightly louder so that those in the back could hear.

"Folks…" he said, his manner now demanding both attention and admiration, "I just happen to have a hundred dollars caysh money in here," and he patted his right breast pocket, "and it’s been burning a hole in my pocket for a while now. So… I am willing to wager any of you—or all of you—that my boy, Jimbo, here will not only step into that corral with these Undead bastards, but I’m willing to bet that he’ll step out of that very same corral again with neither cut nor scratch. Further… I’ll bet that he will, before he leaves the confines of that pen, send each and every one of them back to Hell!" His voice rose to a full shout on the last word.

The crowd laughed as one. They’d seen some crazy shit during the last few weeks and they’d heard tales of some things that bordered on the impossible, but this…

This was just beyond ridiculous.

"I’ll go you fellas one better," Weber continued. "Jimbo will not only go in there and kick this thing’s zombie ass, but he’ll make good and sure that the slobbering sum-bitch is dead—and dead for good this time."

Bubba looked over at Jimbo and tried to size him up, to get a sense of the kind of man who would agree to such nonsense. Upon closer inspection, Bubba decided that the man was big enough, but he sure didn’t look crazy. He looked about as stupid as a circus freak, but the behemoth just wasn’t selling "crazy" all that well. After a bit of thought, Bubba decided that the giant must just be too goddamn dim-witted to be afraid of dying. Either that or he was just plain suicidal. Hell, being as ugly as he was, who could blame him?

"You’re either a fuckin’ liar, Mister, or your boy here is stupider than he looks," laughed Cecil, as he looked over toward Jimbo. "No offense, Haystack…"

"None taken," was the grumbled response.

The crowd nodded its agreement with Cecil and was soon muttering a host of varying opinions. They knew Cecil to be about as full of shit as a colostomy bag, but… hell, when a man was right, he was right.

"Well," Weber continued, "shall we put both my comrade’s skills and his mental instability to the test then? A hundred bucks, folks… is all it’s gonna take."

Weber looked at Cecil and Bubba.

"You want in on any of this, Boys? Hell, if he is indeed crazy and destined to die, it ought to be worth that much just to see these things tear him to shreds, right?"

The crowd muttered quietly, their heads moving back and forth as they discussed the idea. All of them had seen people die at the hands of the dead before, it had become pretty much standard operating procedure these days. But none had ever seen one go to his death willingly. And besides… entertainment was sort of hard to come by, given the current state of things.

Finally, a man named Hansford Tillman who’d once worked alongside the aforementioned (and ultimately doomed) Richard Johnson at McGurgie’s Feed Store stepped forward and held out his hand. Benjamin Franklin’s crumpled face smiled up from his sweaty palm.

"Ok, I’m in!"

"Hot damn, Son!" Weber shouted, clapping Jimbo on the back. "Now, we got us a right fuckin’ sportin’ contest here."

And with that, Jimbo silently pulled his shirt off over his head. Once off, he balled it up and handed it to Weber. He arched his back, stretching the muscles in his shoulders and stooped down and under one of the corral’s rails.

Weber deftly pulled a small spiral-bound notebook from his pocket and took any and all action, dutifully writing down the amount of each bet by its maker’s name. After all of the bets were made, he stuffed the notebook back into his pocket. A hush fell over the group while others, who had also been in the camp, wandered over to see what this new brand of commotion was all about. When they saw Jimbo step into the corral, every eye locked on the center of the pen. Inside the enclosed space, the lone zombie milled about, seemingly unaware of the man who had entered into their midst.

Jimbo strolled lazily out toward the center of the corral, raising and lowering his arms as if he were a great bird trying to fly away. A pink blush of exertion blossomed over his previously pale skin. He took in big lungfuls of air as he worked to infuse his muscles with oxygen.

"What the hell’s your boy doin’ in there, Mister?" asked Bubba. "That doughhead think he’s a chicken now?"

"Pheromones, my good man," Weber explained. "He’s sending out his body odor to attract the bastards. Pay attention now. Despite your disparaging opinion of him, Jimbo is a true artist. He won’t be doin’ this more than once."

Those who were close enough to hear the exchange looked at Weber like he was a couple of wheels short of a skateboard. They’d all been trying their damnedest to not attract these things for weeks now, and here was this big ol’ boy trying to do that very thing. The general mumbled consensus was that both of these city boys were about as crazy as shit-house rats.

Cecil snorted, spit, and pronounced, "This is gonna be a goddamn slaughter."

"Indeed it will. Care to get in on the wager there, Buford?" said Weber as he looked the older man clearly in the eyes.

"Ok, goddamnit , you’re on, Slick!"

Weber and Cecil shook hands to seal the bet and then they, along with everyone else who had been listening, returned their attention to the corral. Weber smiled slightly to himself and nodded to Jimbo. It was a reaction that went unnoticed by everyone as they were all too interested in what was happening within the confines of the pen, but the giant man caught it and understood it all too well.

Jimbo continued to wave his arms about but he now moved toward where the dead man stood. Before long, the corpse caught hold of his scent. The man had been young, about twenty-three, when he’d met his maker from what looked like a rifle blast to the lower abdomen. His frame was not particularly muscular, but it still looked like he’d had some agility back when he still had a heartbeat. He was overall a little smaller than Jimbo in size, but even to this crowd’s uneducated eyes, it almost seemed like a fair fight.

None of them, however, had ever seen the kind of damage someone like Jimbo could dish out when properly motivated. Weber had spent a good deal of time since meeting up with the Big Guy finding and utilizing those motivational tools.

Now Jimbo was pretty much a "point-and-click" kind of guy.

Wherever Weber pointed… Jimbo clicked.

And when Jimbo clicked, things got hurt.

The dead man turned sloppily on his feet and stumbled across the pasture toward this newfound meal. He moved with big, loping strides and gathered momentum quickly. His arms slowly rose, fingers outstretched, and reached hungrily for what lay before him. His mouth chewed the air expectantly, drool dribbling from his lips and wetting his chin. In a flash, the thing’s gaze passed from blunted confusion to murderous intensity. At nearly a full run now, it came at Jimbo and the crowd held its breath in anticipation.

Jimbo had always been a big guy and one who never had much call to use what little brains God had given him, but fighting was something he knew down deep in his bones. He’d grown up fighting off his older brothers for lunch money, dinners, extra desserts, even for his first taste of liquor and women. As he grew older, he’d been able to turn his natural ability and hard head into a rather decent income. He was a man who instinctively knew how to hurt people and, if he were to be completely honest, he sorta liked doing it. So, when the undead man lurched his way toward him, Jimbo had already set his mind on the task at hand and developed a plan.

The dead thing took another couple of steps toward Jimbo, coming in wide open and accessible. The thing’s hands reached out and clawed feverishly at the air. Its mouth was a pitiless, wet wound which tore savagely across the lower part of its face. Saliva continued to pour from its chops like a rabid dog’s. Dirt and dried blood lay caked in clumpy lumps across the vicious wound in its belly.

Seeing as how the dead thing had yet to meet much in the way of resistance in the pursuit of food since returning from the cold embrace of the grave, it now attacked—showing no fear and little hesitation. His deteriorating brain saw no reason to believe that the living man now standing before him would be anything other than his next meal. With an additional step or two, he’d come to within arm’s reach of his goal.

Jimbo moved a lot quicker than a man of his bulk should and came in low. He quickly slapped aside the dead man’s outstretched arms and stepped into what he called his "pain zone." He drove his arm over the thing’s grip and struck him across the side of its head with his forearm, just at the wrist. Its head cracked around like a whip and it stumbled from the concussion of the blow, dropping to one knee. The dead man shook his head to clear his vision and looked up, pupils faded to a milky white. A cold hatred burned in its dead, hungry eyes.

The thing climbed awkwardly to its feet and made another grab for what it still thought to be an easy meal. Jimbo did a little hop in the air and threw a forward "bash in the door" kick, striking the thing square in the middle of its chest. Stale air blew out of its still lungs in a whoosh. In no time, the expelled air reached the crowd, smelling of the grave and rotting meat. Some of the women outside the corral held their hands over their noses in a vain effort to mask the smell.

The dead man’s body folded in on itself and fell to the ground by the force of the kick. It landed flat on its back, arms and legs thrashing. For a moment, it wobbled back and forth in the dirt like a turtle trying to right itself. The zombie’s limbs flailed about in an uncoordinated spasm, its arms and legs whirling crazily in the air.

As the thing tried to sit up, Jimbo leapt high into the air and came down with both feet—hard—on the thing’s chest. His heavy boots were driven with debilitating force onto the dead man’s sternum. A loud cracking sound echoed across the pen.

The crowd "oooh-ed" and "awwww-ed" as if they’d experienced the blow firsthand. Blood, black and oil-like, pumped from the thing’s mouth in lumpy pulses. A tortured, confused look dissipated like mist from the dead man’s features. Its labored attempts at drawing breath broke the stillness in an asthmatic pant.

Jimbo squatted over the crushed thing and, for a second, watched it burble and cough as it struggled for breath. The giant grabbed his opponent and lifted him from the ground and put him in a half-nelson in a quick motion. From a side-sheath, he deftly drew a blade and cut deep into the musculature of the thing’s neck. As deep, maroon dribbled out and onto the undead thing’s chest, Jimbo cut and twisted the head around on the stalk of its neck, working it back and forth. His actions were accompanied by stomach-turning, wet, crunching sounds. A garbled choking came from deep within the throat of the dead man. Jimbo pulled and wrenched and soon, his efforts were rewarded. The thing’s head came away from its body, dragging a portion of its shattered spine along with it.

The crowd became very silent as it watched Jimbo claim his grisly trophy.

By now, Jimbo’s bare upper body was drenched in gore. He stood slowly, hefting the severed head by its hair. The dead thing’s eyes danced and whirled in their sockets while blood fell dark and cancerous from its mouth, nose and stump of a neck.

Jimbo walked slowly toward the side of the corral, extending his hand and the head it held like an offering to both his partner and to the crowd. The crowd collectively took a step backward. One woman off to the side vomited and turned away.

Weber smiled broadly and turned to the crowd, centering his gaze on both Cecil and the good Hansford Tillman. He dropped his arms around the two men’s shoulders and patted them like a brother on their backs.

"Gentlemen… I think our point is made, don’t you?"

He turned and extended his hand in anticipation of his payment. The faces of the gathered people were a mixture of disgust and amazement. It was pretty clear that the mountain of a man before them was more than he seemed and could handle the reanimated dead with apparent ease.

"I think it’s fair to say that Jimbo and I are both owed our payment."

By this time, Jimbo had arrived at the railing and looked inquisitively at Weber. His boss acknowledged him and continued to keep his hand extended in order to accept the money the locals were digging reluctantly from their pockets.

When Jimbo saw the winnings being handed over, he knew that there would be no trouble. Mr. Weber had taught him to always wait until the money had been exchanged before relaxing. In other camps, at other times, people had periodically been unwilling to pay, figuring some kind of fix was in. Like that was possible.

At those times, Mr. Weber would remind them all of what Jimbo had just done to a thing he cared little to nothing about. He would then suggest to them the kind of damage Jimbo could and would inflict once he had a certain vested interest.

As if by magic, the money would always appear.

"Hell, Mister," Cecil said sounding repulsed. "I don’t rightly believe what the fuck I just saw, but yeah… I think you have indeed proved your point."

Jimbo now smiled to this crowd like a child seeking praise and casually tossed the head over his shoulder. The thing hit the ground with a wet "chud" sound and rolled to a stop at Bubba’s feet. The dead man’s eyes still twirled in their sockets as the severed head rolled to a stop in the dirt. Bubba looked nauseated and pulled away as if his mother’s sex-soaked panties had been laid at his feet.

As Jimbo wiped his hands off on the thighs of his pants and stepped out of the corral, Mr. Weber finished gathering up their money. Once clear of the railing, he stood to his full height and once again smiled for all to see. The crowd took a hesitant step back and gave him a wide berth.

Both Weber and Jimbo knew down deep in their bones that they were on to something here. This same scenario had played itself out now for weeks. The two of them would come into a camp like this, wait for an opportunity, and then they’d make their move. The whole deal was starting to look pretty sweet. And if they were careful and played their cards right, this gig could turn into something substantial. Mr. Weber would often talk to Jimbo late into the night about how rich all of this was going to make them both.

For Jimbo’s part, he was just happy to have someone he could trust. Life was hard when your thinking was simple and it was important to have someone you could rely on. Mr. Weber could do the thinking and the talking… and Jimbo would do what Jimbo did best.

The arrangement seemed a good one, at least to Jimbo’s way of thinking.

As long as Jimbo could keep from making a mistake and keep himself from getting bit, things would be fine. Besides, there was plenty of money and food and women for them both. Mr. Weber was his friend and Jimbo was sure he wouldn’t let anything bad happen.

"Well, folks…" Weber said as he rolled his winnings into a tight ball and shoved it into his pocket. "I appreciate your patronage. Now if you’ll excuse us, Jimbo and I must be on our way."

Weber had learned that it was important to get while the gettin’ was good. Make your score and hit the road was proving to be the best course of action for them. He’d come to know that if you gave the fleeced sheep long enough to think about it, they’d forget about the danger and the implied threat and decide they’d want their money back. Gambling losses had a way of making people braver than they should be. Sooner or later, the image of Jimbo tearing a dead man to pieces would fade and only the hole in their pockets would remain. It would be shortly after that they’d remember the guns in their hands and the vastly superior numbers. It was better that the two of them would be halfway to the next bivouac by then.

Weber patted Jimbo on the back and directed him back the way they’d come through the crowd. As they walked along, the mass of people before them once again parted and made way. Once they’d moved by, the crowd closed again, swallowing them up.

Back by the side of the corral, Cecil looked around at the awed faces of his friends and neighbors. Then, he turned and stared at the severed head laying in the dirt and moving its eyes near Bubba’s feet. Still trying to piece it all together, he ran his hand through his hair, scratching his head in thought.

"Well, son of a bitch…" he muttered softly and then wandered off to get himself another beer.