Pheromone and Rotten Read online

  Pheromone and Rotten

  Dane Hatchell

  This story is a work of fiction. People, places, events, and situations are the product of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or historical events, is purely coincidental.

  Copyright © 2014 Dane Hatchell

  Cover Copyright © P.A. Douglas

  All Rights Reserved.

  No part of this story may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted by any means without the written permission of the author.

  From Severed Press:

  From Severed Press:

  Other Titles Available from the Author

  Resurrection X: Zombie Evolution

  A Gentleman’s Privilege: Zombies in the Old South

  A Werewolf in our Midst

  Apocalypse³

  Club Dead: Zombie Isle

  Dead Coup d'État

  Dreaming of an Undead Christmas

  It Came from Black Swamp

  Lord of the Flies: A Zombie Story

  Love Prevails: A Zombie Nightmare

  Red Rain

  Soul Mates

  The Garden of Fear

  The Last Savior

  The Turning of Dick Condon

  Time and Tide: A Fractured Fairy Tale

  Two Big Foot Tales

  Two Demented Fish Tales

  Zombies of Iwo Jima

  Zombie God of the Jungle

  Zombie’s Honor

  Pheromone and Rotten

  *

  Pheromones: chemicals capable of acting outside the body of the secreting individual to impact the behavior of the receiving individual.

  *

  “So I says to him, ‘At least you don’t have to fix me breakfast.’ And I ran from the room before he could ask me my name,” the tall, slim, muscular black man said, examining his toenails, deciding if they needed additional filing. “Are you listening to me? What you doing up in the bathroom all this time?”

  ‘Believe,’ by Cher, played softly in the background as he sat on a fuchsia green couch with his feet propped on an ebony stained coffee table. The street outside of the seemingly abandoned warehouse was quiet. The evening gave way to the night in the Faubourg Marigny neighborhood near the French Quarter, New Orleans.

  Pleased with the curvature of each nail, the man began to apply the first coat of polish. The nail polish was delightfully named: Sparkle-icious.

  “Dykie, I says—”

  “I heard you, Tutti. I’m trying to decide if I should shave the hairs on my chin or wax them off.” Cathy Guidry called back, examining her face in the mirror under the unforgiving overhead light.

  “Girl, if I were you I’d go for the wax, and don’t stop at the chin. That thing under your nose is getting so fuzzy I’m afraid it’s going to craw away one day. You got enough sideburn action going on you could be an Elvis impersonator,” Tutti said, blowing his handiwork dry.

  Cathy backed away from the mirror, admiring her five foot two, one hundred-sixty pound body. She thought she looked hot in her white wife-beater tee shirt and men’s tightly whitey underwear. “Ha, ha. You’re so funny. This team doesn’t need another Rock Star anyway.”

  Tutti’s eye’s brightened. “That’d be the shit! Me channeling the spirit of Little Richard and you the spirit of Elvis. I could help you with your costume. Vegas period, baby.”

  “No thanks. I’ve earned my mantle as The Dyke the honest way. I’ll never forget that day they sent me in to repair the water leak on the nuclear reactor core. I couldn’t get it to stop, so I held my finger over it until the reactor was safely shut down. I soaked in enough radiation to kill ten people. Instead of dying, Mother Earth spared my life and rewarded me with my super strength for saving the environment. I went from a blue-collar pipefitter to Superhero. Gaia be praised. I think I’ll stick with The Dyke. Why, the very mention of my name strikes fear in the hearts of evil men.”

  Tutti under his breath, “Straight mens too.”

  “What was that?”

  “Noth-innnngggg,” Tutti sang out.

  The chartreuse phone on the wall came to life playing its unique ring, ‘Gloria,’ by Laura Branigan. Tutti sprang from the couch and leaped over the coffee table nearly spilling the bottle of Sparkle-icious. The Dyke darted out the bathroom, brushing the door facing, and knocking a piece of molding to the floor.

  Tutti’s hand reached the handle first. The Dyke’s hand landed on top of his. Tutti wrinkled his nose and smiled. The Dyke sighed, and walked away.

  Lifting the handle to his ear, “Tutttiiii Fruttiiii-ahhh. Oh, Rudy.”

  “Tutti Frutti. It’s not Rudy. It’s me, Mayor Andrew,” the voice said.

  “I knows who it is. That’s my signature greeting. Now, Mr. Mayor, what can the purveyors of justice do for you and our lovely Crescent City?”

  Andrew cleared his throat. “We have a sensitive situation that requires your utmost discretion. Four residents of a special wing of River’s Edge Psychiatric Hospital have escaped and are now wandering the streets. I need you and The Dyke to subdue them, and then contact me personally. I’ll have a van ready pick them up.”

  “The hell you say? Are your little piggy-wiggies too busy stuffing their fat faces with hot beignets? You send squirrels out to gather nuts, not Superheroes.”

  “Eh? Oh, as I said, this is a sensitive matter. If I send the police in it will have to go on record. You see, these escapees are victims of a military experiment gone awry. They are very dangerous. I need super fortitude to prevail against them. Only you and, The Dyke, can capture and bring them back safely.”

  Tutti sighed. “A hero’s work is never done. We’ll do it Mr. Mayor, but I expects some shrimps and champagnes sent up when we’s finished.”

  “I knew I could count on you two. You will find them in the area around Napoleon and Magazine Street. Just don’t get too close to their mouths. They have a tendency to bite,” the Mayor said.

  “A whop bop-a-lu a whop bam boo,” Tutti finished.

  “What?” the Mayor asked.

  “You know, that’s my signature goodbye,” Tutti said, right before the phone went dead.

  The Dyke was already dressed and ready for action. Her red gloves and red boots matched, but clashed with the old Chicago brown of her outfit. A mask that resembled a brick covered her eyes. Smashing her fist into an open hand, she said, “Whooee! I’m ready for some action.”

  Tutti Frutti shook his head. “I knows your costume is supposed to look like a brick wall, but that horizontal pattern is not very flattering. If thems bricks were going vertical it would take ten pounds off of you.”

  The Dyke scratched around her crotched. “Are you going to lollygag around here all night? Get your ass in the Prius.”

  * * *

  “Okay, Antoine. We’re here to have the best time we can. I know you can’t turn on the charm like you used to but don’t do anything to scare the girls away. It’s going to be dark in the club. You’ll stand out because you’re so tall. When the girls come over, I’ll do my thing. If all goes well, I get the girl and take her home. You can leave and clean out an alley.” Curtis Johnson was a good foot shorter than his cousin Antoine Washington. The two had been an inseparable pair since childhood, except for the weeklong period when Antoine was dead.

  Curtis continued, “Now, if you see any of those knuckleheads that sold you that bad dope don’t overreact. Just point them out, and we’ll wait until they leave. We’ll handle it our own special way.”

  Curtis stood decked out in his best jeans and a Calvin Klein micro pinpoint rollup shirt, unbuttoned. He wore a plain gray tee shirt underneath. An amulet hung from a gold chain across his neck. It was an exact match to the on
e that Antoine wore.

  The amulets contained a mysterious power. A power that bound the will of Antoine to obey the commands of Curtis. Such in the practice of Voodoo, the Boker makes a slave of the undead, raising it as a Juju zombie.

  Curtis was no practitioner of Voodoo, but his and Antoine’s Grandmother was. She roused Antoine from the grips of death and returned his spirit to his body. The amulet linked Curtis’ and Antoine’s souls together, one knowing the thoughts of the other.

  The music playing outside of Bazoo’s Night Club had Curtis in the mood for a good time as he and Antoine strolled up to the bouncer at the door. Curtis handed the 300 pound head-shaven muscle two legal Louisiana drivers licenses and waited for him to hold it next to his face before making a shit eating grin to match the one on his ID.

  “What’s the matter with your pal over there?” the bouncer nodded toward Antoine. “Why does he have a cage around his mouth?”

  “That’s not a cage, he uh, had some dental work. Yeah, he got in a car wreck and the dentist wired him up.”

  “Can he talk?” the bouncer asked.

  “No. I do all talking for him. He’s cool.”

  “Well, he may be cool, but he’s wearing a football jersey. I don’t care that it’s a New Orleans Saint’s jersey with the Quarterback’s name on it. I can’t let him in. Dress code. Plus,” the bouncer crinkled his nose, “he stinks. Smells like a dog that’s been rolling in something dead.”

  Curtis looked the bouncer in the eyes and put his body chemistry to work secreting mind influencing pheromones from various glands in his body.

  The bouncer pursed his lips. “What the fuck are you looking at, you prick? I said leave.”

  Well, I guess he’s not gay. I’ll have to turn off the charm and turn up the fear, Curtis thought. Then, he exuded a mixture of pheromones more ancient than man himself, reaching the primordial core of the bouncer’s basic instincts.

  With a gasp of horror, the bouncer backed away shivering, his mouth agape, unable to speak. His bowels gave way and he dumped a load in his pants. Then, turned and ran as if for his very life.

  “I hated doing that to him, but I had no choice. I’m really a lover and not a fighter at heart. Come on, Antoine. Let’s go in and meet some ladies,” Curtis said, just as his cell phone buzzed in his pocket. “What now?”

  He flipped the phone open and stuck it to his ear. It was the Mayor making a call on the hotline to the city’s only two sanctioned Superheroes. Curtis stuck his finger in his other ear to drown out the outside noise.

  Curtis tapped the Mayor’s phone soon after Antoine returned from the dead. As Antoine lay on death’s bed, he kept mumbling something about the police, the Mayor, and drugs.

  Tapping the phone was a small accomplishment for one with his years of service working for the phone company. His company uniform and truck provided the perfect cover for his extracurricular activities.

  “Come on, Antoine. Something’s cooking Uptown. This is a chance for us to prove that we’re as good heroes as those other two broke dicks.”

  Antoine turned and lumbered on Curtis’ heels, barely a spark in his eyes, but with a raging hunger in his stomach.

  * * *

  “If I had known we were going to walk home I would have worn a more comfortable pair of shoes,” Edna Sides told her husband, Hank.

  “I told you we were going to Casaminto’s for oysters. How dressed up do you need to go to a place like that?” Hank asked.

  “I had to wear these shoes to match my skirt. It’s the only decent outfit that I have to wear in public.”

  Hank smirked. “Then if I told you we were walking home, and you don’t have anything else to wear, you would have still worn those shoes.”

  Edna swung her purse and slapped Hank across the chest. “Don’t be difficult, Hank. You’re just too broke to call a taxi. If you hadn’t drunk all those beers you’d have enough cash to pay the driver.”

  “We rode the street car here. I can’t help it if they don’t run this time of night. Besides, the walk will do us good. We ain’t getting any younger you know.”

  “After thirty-two years of marriage, believe me, I know,” Edna said with a sigh.

  Hank tried to tune Edna’s incessant whining out. It was killing his beer buzz. He looked up to the next block just as group of sluggish moving people turned the corner and headed straight for them way. “Uh oh.”

  Four gruesome figures decayed to the point they could not be identified as either man nor woman turned their permanent rotting smiles toward Hank and Edna.

  “Hank! What are those things?”

  Hank ran his hand over his eyes, down his face, and shook his head. They were still there, looking like something the grave spit out.

  “Must be some Tulane kids pulling a college prank.”

  Four mouths opened wide and began to snap at empty air. The four zeroing in on their targets, moving as fast as their atrophied muscles would allow.

  “Hank!”

  Hank grabbed Edna by the hand. “Run, Edna. Run!”

  The quartet of terror grunted in delightful anticipation. Their feet slapping on the sidewalk as arms stretched to grasp the fleeing couple.

  The two managed to keep their distance until a plastic sounding crack reached Hank’s ears, and Edna’s hand tore from his grasp. The heel breaking from her shoe made her lose her balance, sending her down hard to the pavement.

  “Hank! Help!”

  Hank froze in his tracks. He turned and saw a ghoul appear on each side of Edna and grab tightly to an arm.

  “Hank!”

  Hank gasped, his heart pounded in his chest so hard he could hear it in his head.

  A grinning skull-like face attacked the side of Edna’s neck from the back, ripping out a large chunk of flesh.

  Her screams were drowned by a high-pitched ringing that burned in Hank’s ears. Cold fear engulfed his body with incapacitating numbness. Darkness encroached the edges of his vision and squeezed out every bit of light. The world turned upside down. Hank fell to the ground clutching his chest, struggling for his last gulp of air.

  * * *

  Tutti Frutti exited the Prius before The Dyke set the transmission in park. He adjusted the cuffs of his white spandex sleeves, pushed his sweatband higher on his forehead, and lightly fluffed his mound of hair. A rainbow scarf hung on the back of his neck, draping down on his chest. “It’s more humid than I thought tonight, but I must sacrifice for fashion.” He wrapped one end of the scarf around his neck, covering any hint of exposed skin.

  “Fashion my ass. You’re just trying to protect that large Adam’s apple on your chicken neck with that Kevlar scarf. Ever think about using that thing as a weapon? I bet you could chop wood with it,” The Dyke said, pulling at her waistband.

  “Mummy said that my Adam’s apple was a sign of intelligence, a gift from God to be admired and cherished.”

  “Your mother was a crack addict. Now, get your head in the game and your face out of the mirror.” The Dyke snorted loudly, cleared her throat, and spat out a yellowish blob of phlegm.

  “Heads up, my female Hercules, down yon street two blocks away,” Tutti said pointing, the other hand firmly snuggled on hip.

  “Race ya!” The Dyke said, after she lowered her head forward and sped toward the skirmish.

  “Cheater! Have you no shame?” Tutti sprung off his left heel and ran in hopes that his long stride would eventually overcome her early start.

  The two arrived at the horrific scene side by side. An undead cannibal tossed aside one of Edna’s arm bones, now picked clean of any pink delicate flesh, and then began gnawing on a leg, paying no heed to the heroes.

  The other three were busy deconstructing Hank. Feeding like pigs from a trough. One gnawed at his cheeks. One started at a foot and was working his way up the leg. The other was gorging itself in his ripped open abdomen.

  Tutti Frutti and The Dyke slammed to an abrupt halt. Tutti latched on to The Dyke’s arm in shock.<
br />
  The zombie chewing inside the abdomen came up with a mouthful of intestines. A putrid stench permeated the air as gasses released from the bowels.

  Tutti fell to one knee and heaved up the raspberry tart and black currant tea he had for a snack earlier.

  The Dyke turned her nose to the air with a discriminating look on her face. “Suck it up, you pussy. I’ve smelt worse than this in a gay bath house.”

  Tutti steadied himself by placing a hand on each thigh and stood straight. “I’m okay. I just needed to find my inner Ch’i. Stand back, Dyke. I got this. Get the cuffs ready. They’s going down.”

  Exhaling all the bad air out his lungs, Tutti inhaled with an open mouth until he was ready to burst, and yelled at the top of his lungs, “Tuuttii Fruuttii-aye-aye-aye-aye-aye-aye-aye.”

  The words oscillated in pitch like a banshee siren, electrifying the air, making The Dyke’s skin crawl. Windows from the local businesses that lined the street started to rattle. A streetlight across the block shattered in a burst of sparks and rained bits of glass. A pigeon flying overhead tumbled from the heavens and landed with a wet plop when its body met asphalt.

  Out of air, and turning a bluer shade of black, Tutti Frutti eked out the last note.

  “Hmm, they didn’t even look our way. What in the hell did the army do to these people?” The Dyke said, as Tutti gasped for air.

  “Probably all those preservatives in those MREs. Anything that can sit on a shelf for forty years and is still edible can’t be good for you,” Tutti said, having caught his breath.

  “Well, I guess we’ll have to do it the old fashioned way.” The Dyke closed one eye and gritted her teeth. A twelve syllable fart rumbled from her trousers. Then, she laced her fingers together and pulled her palms apart, forcing a symphony of cracklings. “Fisticuffs.”

  “Shit on the dick or blood on the knife muthafuggar!” Tutti yelled out.

  The Dyke shot him a look. “What?”

  “Sorry. I had a prison flashback for a moment,” Tutti smiled embarrassingly and then closed his eyes. His soul back-flipped into the pool of eternal mind and became one with every molecule in the universe, vibrating in perfect rhythm.