Zombie Lesbian Flesh Eaters Chapter Five

CHAPTER FIVE - INSPECTION

Detective Inspector John McDougal sat behind his desk, brow furrowed, trying to comprehend just what it was that the young woman was trying to tell him. It would have to happen to him, of course. Just a few months to go on the force before contented retirement. Just a few months before moving from the suburbs to the house in the Aberdeenshire countryside, downsizing now that all the kids were grown up, with even young Donna at university now. He hated having to be in charge of the police operations on a Friday or Saturday night nowadays, too, but the luck of the duty roster had placed him there that Saturday night. He just couldn’t understand why the young people wanted to get so completely out of it, what they got from it, why they hurled such potentially lethal quantities of drink (and god knows what else, he thought) into themselves. He knew himself well enough to recognize that this was mostly just a sign of age. He had had his own fun when he was young, when courting Mary for instance. But that was almost thirty-five years back now. He was almost sixty, an avuncular, portly, yet recognizably fit man, carrying his former rugby-players frame with firm presence. Respected by his subordinates (and admired more than he realized), he had been highly comfortable in his job, having carved out a niche on the force where he felt like a fixture, a permanence. Having policed in Aberdeen and London since leaving school, there was little he hadn’t seen and less which surprised him.

And yet… the girl was babbling out a story which seemed the utmost nonsense, but with tremendous conviction. A bloodbath of sorts at the stripclub she worked in. (He groaned inside, loathing those dens of iniquity – he was a steadfastly religious man). Many people dead – staff, customers, all. Who or what had killed them? The girl hesitated – a classic sign of making the story up on the hoof. She looked clearly agitated, too. Was it aliens? Nazis? Had a bomb gone off – not that anything had been reported? Or was it some fire that had swept through the place (without smoke to alert anyone to it)? What he wasn’t prepared for was her answer.

“Zombies…” she said, as though hardly able to bring herself to say it. “It was like half the people in there had turned into… zombies.”

McDougal looked at her, frank disbelief written across his face. “Zombies,” he said flatly.

“Look, I’m just telling you what I saw!” she cried. “I came out of the staffroom after taking a break, so I’d been in there for about fifteen minutes. I came back in and there was a massacre going on in there. And the people… and the things doing it… they weren’t human.”

“No? In what way?” This was getting better and better.

“They had like… their teeth were really long, sharp and pointy, and they had these claws for fingernails, and their eyes were all red. Oh, they looked so disgusting…” she said, breaking down into uncontrollable sobs.

McDougal sat there dryly, waiting for Laura to regain control of herself. He studied her, as he had been trained to. No sign of intoxication on alcohol or drugs. 5’4”, slender, almost boyish build, shoulder-length brown hair, a few light girly freckles on a petite nose, blue eyes. Probably about twenty years of age. Why did those girls feel the need to strip for money? God only what he would do if Donna took it up: she was about the same age. But he knew exactly why they did it – money. There was rich pickings for a good-looking girl, and McDougal guessed she earned well, seeing how well groomed she was, the elegant few pieces of jewellery, the warm glow of a blemishless complexion.

“I ran out and my friend Nicky followed me,” she continued, head bowed. “But she wasn’t Nicky any more… she was… all wrong, not herself any more. She had blood and goo dripping from her mouth, and there was this expression on her face, like no expression, like it wasn’t her any more.” She looked up, only to see McDougal’s sceptical look. “Look, please believe me! Why would I make this up? What could I get from it? Please, just go and have a look, send out a car, anything! You can arrest me if it’s all bullshit, but I swear, I’m telling you what I saw!”

The vehemence of her appeal, despite his every rational belief, moved him. It wouldn’t do any harm to pay a visit to the club and keep the management on their toes, for drugs and prostitution were always liable to creep into such venues, and he could drop her off there, with an admonishment for wasting police time. He picked up his radio.

“Davey, can you get a car ready? I’m going to pay a visit to Private Eyes on Rose Street. Should be about half an hour. I’ll be there in five minutes. Thanks pal.” He stood up and looked Laura square in the eye. “I don’t know why I’m doing this, but I’ll have a look. God only knows what you’ve seen, but maybe something’s happened there. You can come with me.”

“Okay,” Laura said. “I’m being honest, really I am.”

“Well, we’ll see.”

The car sped along Queen Street and into the melee of Union Street on a Saturday night, delayed by interminable traffic lights and drunken revelers crossing roads with little care and less attention. Laura, sitting in the front, noticed McDougal drumming his fingers agitatedly on the steering wheel as he waited for a gaggle of high-heeled and mini-skirted girls to cross the road, raucous laughter skirling through the air like banshee wails arranging a time to meet again. “Silly things,” he said sternly. “They’ll do themselves an injury.”

Laura nervously nodded acquiescence, sensing McDougal didn’t want a discussion on the matter. Still in her work outfit, the skimpy dress felt more revealing than ever before. McDougal however kept his gaze straight forwards, total concentration on the pulsating streets.

They reached Private Eyes, parking (Laura was privately amused to notice) on the double-yellow by the doorway. They got out the car, McDougal first reaching into the glove compartment for something which he bundled into his pocket. Laura held back, waiting to follow him, but he stood there by the car.

“Hmm,” he said, looking about carefully up and down the street. With a thrill of fear and adrenalin Laura realized that he was nervous, even scared about going into the club. “There’s normally people going in and out, isn’t there?” he said. “Something might well be up. Stay close to me.”

Herself quivering with fear at what they would find, Laura agreed readily. She followed McDougal’s comforting, aging prize-fighter bulk up the pathway to the club.

The solid black door was closed. McDougal pushed it with one hand but couldn’t open it. “It shouldn’t be closed,” Laura said anxiously.
“I know,” he said brusquely. He leaned on it, pressing his solid weight firmly onto the door. Still it wouldn’t shift. “Right,” he said, moving a few steps back, preparing himself. “Watch yourself!”

Laura stepped back and watched fearfully, as McDougal took a run at the door and smashed his shoulder into it, giving a quick scream as he burst through the door and into the club. She followed him quickly, dreading to enter the foul maw of hell yet afraid to leave his protective aura.

As soon as she entered, she saw two things: McDougal standing with a look of appalled horror on his face, and what exactly it was that had been blocking the door. The impact of McDougal’s entrance had sent scattering a collection of severed arms, hands, legs, feet and (foulest of all) heads which had been stacked up against the door. They both looked about the place, an ominous quiet hanging in the air along with a fetid stench which grasped eagerly at their throats.
There was no-one there.

No-one there, true, but Hell had been here. Heads evidently torn off rather than severed (going by the roughness of the tear) had been thrust onto the beer pumps. Numerous limbs lay strewn around the place like toys in an unruly child’s bedroom, askew and mangled. A number of headless corpses – including, Laura saw tearfully, what looked like the remains of Tracy, her best friend in the whole stinking place – were lying in awkward positions throughout the place, slumped and leaking fluids from the neck. Torn strips of flesh were streaked all through the place, on the large mirrors, on the tiled bar, on the chairs. Vast pools of blood were seeping into the luxurious carpet. A portion of intestines had been flung onto the lighting system, the heat from the bulbs cooking the thin tissue and causing a nauseating reek. Hearts, livers, spleens, kidneys and eyeballs, leaking vital fluids, were scattered throughout, randomly punctuating the décor with marks of meaningless violence. In the toilets innards had been smeared across the clean tiled wall, the blood on the lights casting a malevolent crimson aura. The staffroom and managers office were similarly overwhelmed with the remains of a staggering violence.

They returned after checking the club thoroughly to the centre of the club. McDougal took a look at Laura, his face a pallid grey, and vomited profusely, knees buckling as shock and awe swept through him. “Jesus Christ our Lord,” he said, pulling himself up when finally able. “Oh God Almighty,” he said sorrowfully. “How can… how can this have happened?!”

Laura looked despondently at him. “I don’t know.” She looked about the club, heart pangs tearing through her as she recognized the gruesome remains of former colleagues and clients. “I just came into the club, out of that door there - ” pointing out the staffroom door – “and saw this massacre going on. Then I turned and ran.”

McDougal looked at her, once more questioningly – but this time because he was desperate to know. “And these things weren’t human, you said?”

“No… it was like they had got some horrible disease or something, somehow they’d changed into these… monsters.”

“And all this was done by hand?” he pressed her.

“That’s what I saw,” she said, softly. “Just all tearing into everyone, clawing them, biting them, tearing limbs off - ”

“Alright,” McDougal stopped her, before she became overwrought. “How many do you think there were?”
She paused, thinking, loathing having to recall those foul memories flooding through her brain.

“I’m not sure,” she said. “Maybe ten, maybe a dozen or so.”

“Oh… Oh boy. So there could be a dozen of these things going about the town?” he said. “Sweet Jesus.”

“But - ”

“But?” he pressed.

“That’s how many I saw do it. But there were a lot more people than that in here. Some of them are here, but there’s a lot more limbs and things lying about than there are bodies. Some people must have been able to leave when they’d had their arms or legs torn off.”

The grim implication of this statement took some time to settle into McDougal’s mind, a mind which desperately wanted to reject the horror which was confronting it, and the future horrors which were unfolding before him. “My good God,” he whispered hoarsely., eyes bulging “This can’t be happening!”
“Do you believe me now?” Laura asked bitterly.

“Aye, quine. I do.” He took out his radio. “Come in, Alpha Bravo One, this is Juliet Mike Charlie.”

The radio crackled into life. “Alpha Bravo One here.”

“We’ve got a Code Red position here, folks.”

“Code Red?” came the voice in disbelief.

“Code Red.”

“C’mon, John, April Fools Day was three months ago - ”

“This is no joke!” he shouted angrily. “Code Red! Get it into your skull right away and get your thumb out your arse!”

“Sorry chief. I’m right on it. Are you okay there?”

“I’ve got a car outside, I’ll be okay. Get all men contacted, all cars contacted, and get the guns assigned. This could be a national state of emergency here!”

“Holy fuck sir, I’ll see you shortly.”

“Hopefully.”

“I hear you. Over and out.”

McDougal turned urgently to Laura. “We’d better get back to HQ. I’ll need you to brief our people there.”

“Me?” she said in utter surprise.

“Yes, you!” he said. “You were there at the beginning. You figured out what’s happening as well. This could be an epidemic of unimaginable proportions, Laura. We have to deal with this as quickly as possible, or the entire city could be doomed!”

Nodding to her, they walked briskly out of the club, hurriedly got into the car and returned through the busy streets to the Queen Street Head Quarters.

*

Alan - or the thing that was formerly known as Alan - sat in a corner of The Pelican, hidden amidst the shadows and pulsating music of the club. Clubbers desperately sought for the attention of the harassed barstaff or exuded a manic energy which belied their consumption of less common intoxicants. The older hands sat nonchalantly on dance-floor viewing chairs, whilst those less familiar with the club stood, their territory not yet marked out, clasping proprietary bottles of beer and alcopops. Other shadowy figures stood around, almost incongruous, sought out only by the initiated for their illicit wares. The dancefloor jerked and throbbed with amphetamine energy, with dissonant sounds grinding over unforgiving beats, the lighting casting endlessly-shifting colours and patterns without ever fully illuminating the area and breaking its spell. It was just the place for Alan, a place for secret trysts in gloomy corners or hidden deals in murky areas, where the rule of law had receded with the light. He surreptitiously supped from a lukewarm pint-glass which had been left by a forgetful owner, passing the time before an opportunity arose.

His destroyed mind was working now on a purely instinctive basis. His craving to butcher and consume human flesh was at an almost overwhelming strength, yet some force for survival kept him from diving straight into the dancefloor and eviscerating a dozen euphoric dancers, some animal awareness of the laws of the jungle. It was a time for camouflage, not direct attack. Yet the scents of sweat and perfumes mingled with the pheromones in the air, giving lustfully murderous impulses in him a ravenous avidity.

Some drunken fool stumbled over him, babbling, “Sorry eh, mate!” Alan stood up, stealthily, and followed him to the toilets.

“Hey mate, how’s it going!” he said, noticing Alan step into the small toilet beside him. Alan saw a typical underground clubber, expensive hoody, baggy jeans, skate-style trainers, trendy goatee, obviously drunk. “Some outfit you’ve got there, like!” he added. Alan stood there, feral mouth dripping slime, brains smeared over his face and shirt, rigid with the desire to murder the gibbering fool. “I’m Bob! Nobody told me it was fancy dress the night as well, that’s mean contacts you’ve got there, your whole eye’s are fucking red!”

Bob stepped into the small lavatory cubicle. “Fancy a line, mate?” he said, arching an eyebrow. “Helps straighten your head if you’ve been drinking too much.” Alan stepped forward into the cubicle with Bob, who locked it. He reached into his pocket, brought out a small plastic bag with white powder in it, and began to rack up two lines of coke. Alan stood, waiting until Bob was intent on forming the lines with his credit card. “You take much charlie like, mate?” Bob asked, happy to keep babbling in lieu of conversation. “I like it, help me keep going through the night, you can just keep on drinking and drinking - ”

He didn’t get a chance to finish. Alan grabbed a hold of Bob’s head and thrust it into the toilet bowl, savagely beating his head down, banging it off the enamel bowl when Bob struggled for dear life. Bob was quickly but not deftly murdered; he had his skull shattered as well as choking to a ghastly death on the rancid piss-filthy water, Alan’s zombie state giving him the ferocious strength to hold down Bob’s head. Once the struggles from a fading Bob subsided, Alan left him slumped, head-down in the bowl. There was plenty more where that came from. He jumped up on Bob’s back and climbed over the cubicle walls, back into the toilet and then into the club itself.

As soon as he re-entered the heaving sweatbox, something seemed different, somehow … better. The infection had begun to spread. His work done, he left the club, avoiding the disgusted looks of those coming past him who could see and paid attention to the revolting sight he presented. He stepped out into Market Street and continued his route downhill, slowly trudging towards the harbour and the docks.

*

“Turn up the tunes!” cried out Dave, taking a big toke from the fat joint, to Stu, who was driving the car like he’d only just got it.
Stu pumped up the car stereo, blasting out the drum and bass mix he’d burned to a CD, the beats vibrating the inside of the Peugeot 106, the rasping MCing coming out the windows like some armed and dangerous black men ready to ruin your neighbourhood. The air in the car was thick with grass-smoke, a warm fugue which was getting both of them seriously high. They were speeding down King Street, having come from the suburbs in Bridge of Don, on their way to Torry to pick up some pills and acid from their dealer. There was to be a beach party that night at the mouth of the River Don, and Dave and Stu liked to have provisions. The grass was really nice shit, but it could make you sleepy or lazy if that was all you had, especially on an all-night beach party which would kick off after the clubs closed at 3am. They needed something with energy and the pills would do nicely. The acid was just to see what would happened; it would probably feel pretty fucking mental, sitting on the sand dunes and watching the sun come up on the horizon. Like, totally cosmic.
The beach party sounded like it would be the shit. There would be a generator for the energy, a small marquee for DJs to play their stuff, and probably hundreds of people. Once the word was out, all the clubbers, clued-up students and party freaks would make their way there. Jungle, techno and drum and bass would blast out, shaking the sand from the dunes and keeping the energy levels up until the sun was high in the sky of a new morning.

“Woop woop!” shouted Stu manically, as he came to a red light. “Must be my turn for the joint, eh!” Dave obligingly passed it over and Stu sucked on it like it a kid with a big ice-cream cone. He held it in his lungs until the lights turned to green, took another hefty toke and passed the joint to Dave, slamming his foot down on the accelerator. “Ah, marijuana…” he croaked as the smoke seeped from his lungs.

“Dig it, man!” Dave agreed, a stoned smirk creeping up his face. He finished the joint and threw it out the window. “I might take a pill just now,” he added, cheekily.

“Just now? Are you fucking mental?” Stu said, grinning. “You might not get into Kef tonight, with you pilled out of your tits,” he said, naming the club they were heading to, before the beach party.

“Ah, just a half,” Dave said, taking a pill out of his pocket. It was their last one – hence the trip over to Ralphy’s. Ralphy was a dodgy fucker (his manic, wired eyes telling a story of several pills too many) but he seemed to have drugs coming out of his ears: an agreeable situation for Stu and Davy.

“Mmm,” Stu said, turning it over in his mind. On the one hand, it was stupid driving when pilled, it was harder to judge distances, much harder to pay attention when the music just made him want to groove out, and damn near impossible to be completely safe. On the other hand, it was just half a pill, a cheeky little taster, enough for a sweet buzz but not enough to get totally out of it. “Alright, gimme half then,” he said. Dave bit the pill in two, took his half and handed the other over. They both grimaced slightly at the alkali, chalky taste but swallowed the half willingly.

“Whoop whoop!”

“Whoop whoop!” Dave cried. “Come on! Have it!”
They sped down the long straight of King Street, past the university, past Morrisons, past Castlegate and onto Union Street. At the first left they turned down Market Street, towards Torry, the road going downhill and then straight alongside the harbour and the numerous quays. At the junction with Guild Street the traffic light turned red just before they got through, leaving them first in the queue. The pill was starting to work on Stu, and with the pounding excitement of the music working its magic on him, too, he began to feel ready for driving a little longer. He indicated left.

“Where we going?” Dave said, an enormous smile breaking his face wide open, eyes shining as the pill took its effect upon him, too.

“A little drive around!” Stu said. “Feel the beats, feel the beats, man! Let’s laugh at all the prozzies peddling their ass on the street,” he said, grinding his teeth and revving the engine. At the green light they turned onto Regent Quay, part of the tolerance zone for prostitutes. It was still relatively early, only just after 10pm, still quite light, and there was hardly anyone patrolling the area. At the junction with Virginia Street Stu said, “Ah, fuck it, nobody there! Let’s head to Ralphy’s” and turned the car around. They sped back along Regent Quay, to rejoin Market Street and the road to Torry. Just as the music turned to a strange three-dimensional shape in his mind, Stu took his eye off the road to bob his head agreeably to the rhythm.

Suddenly the windscreen was filled with something; Stu ground his foot down onto the brake desperately, but too late. The momentum of the car took them into something, knocking it clear. The car skidded to a squealing, tire-burning halt.
“Fuck!” Dave said. “What was that?”

“I don’t know,” Stu said fearfully. “Let’s hope it was a fucking seagull or something.”

They got out of the car gingerly. In front of them, as they saw as soon as they got out, lay Alan, in a crumpled heap on the side of the road. “Oh fuck,” said Stu, grinding his jaws. “This is bad.” They walked over to the prostrate figure, hoping beyond all hope that he was alright. He looked a mess, blood and mess down the front of his shirt, face disfigured, hands peculiarly twisted and misshaped. No movement. “Mate!” Dave called desperately. “Oi, mate!” he said, turning him round and then pulling at the man’s shoulder, hoping for some response. Nothing came. Stu and Dave looked at each other desperately, their pupils enormous with ecstasy and fear.

“We can’t report this!” Stu said. “Not when we’re both pilled!”

“Maybe we can revive him,” Dave said hopefully. He squatted by the man, trying to detect a pulse on his chest. “I’m not sure,” he said, “can’t tell if there is one.” He began to thump on Alan’s chest, then slapped him on the face. “Wake up!” he shouted, his face directly over their victim. Suddenly an Exorcist-jet of acrid, vile-green vomit blasted out of Alan’s mouth onto Dave’s face.

“Fuck!” he cried. “Cunt’s not dead!” He stood up, disgustedly wiping away the repulsive sick.

“Even if he’s not, we’ve half-killed him,” Stu said, trying to reason. “We’ve ran into him on the influence of drugs. That’s a fucking jail sentence right there. He’ll probably die if he doesn’t get help, but if he does, we’re fucked.”

“So what are we going to do?”

The insanity of the idea Stu laid out was staggering, yet it seemed the only way out for them. After a brief, whispered, panicky discussion, they pulled Alan off the road and into one of the numerous small openings off Virginia Quay. Dave went further down the street, looking for one of the large black wheelie bins. They opened it up, lifted Alan up into it and let him drop into the rubbish within, gently closing the lid with enormous relief. Out of sight, on of mind. Luckily no-one had been driving about to see them carry out their dastardly plan.

They got back into the car and made their way to Ralph’s flat. There was still a night out to be had and a beach party to go to.