Representing the U.S.A.

Zombies of Dungpileton

   Chapter 14

 This is a fictional web novel

All characters, living or dead, and locations or events

in this novel are entirely fictitious or merely coincidental

The Dungeon of Most Holy Trinity Church of Dungpileton

His back was fileting skin from repeated lashes of the Cat o’nines whip and yet the rogue botanist remained silent as he hung shackled to chains that were bolted to the ceiling.  He refuse to divulge any information including the identity of his accomplices.  One of them, Race, stood outside the dungeon’s locked door.  The botanist understood why Race knock him out cold in the church with the butt of his desert eagle pistol.  This was not the first time one of them had to take the hit to allow the other time to devise a plan for escape but it was still clever thinking for Race to convince Pastor Zhou to use a zombie hooker as the giver of pain, knowing the botanist would enjoy it.  The only flaw in the plan was Race was not allowed to be present.   Time was running out and he had no acknowledgement the refuge crew had received his location coordinates from cell phone texts.  

Zhou was growing impatient. 

He should have broken by now!  I think we will have to come up with other persuasive measures.

The pastor approached the botanist, peeling off a ribbon of skin from his back and consumed it.

Mmmm!  I don't often find such a fit individual for my stew.  I’m growing tired of the bland residents of this town.  Let’s give this another thirty minutes and then decide what other tactics to use.  We need to take care of this matter and find out the status of that other biologist. 

That other biologist was Jessica Walters.  After her release from the hospital she sought the isolation of her field work which took her to the coastal boundary beaches of the San Bertram refuge.  However, her field work placed her at the exact location where a clandestine pipe from Dungpileton was spewing sewage into the Gulf of Mexico.  Fearing the discovery of his pipe the mayor of Dungpileton ordered a squad of zombie rednecks to find and kill her. 

Ten minutes later the whipping solicited the first response from the botanist but it was not a cry for mercy rather, it was a moan.   A moan one would not expect from someone whose back resembled bloody, tenderized steak.  This was a moan of ecstasy.  The jig was up.  Smiling, the botanist spun his body around to look lustfully with redolent eyes at the hooker.  

After I get out of here how’s about I put you on retainer as my number one dominatrix?

Incensed, Zhou picked up a pistol.  

Enough!  I don’t care why the mayor wants this freak alive.  He dies now!

Almost simultaneously with the pastor’s decree came the sound of loud explosions and gunfire from automatic weapons outside the dungeon.  Race burst through the dungeon door, immediately firing a round into the head of the zombie hooker.  Turning around he faced a zombie pointing an automatic rifle at him.  A split-second later the zombie’s torso disintegrated under a fusillade of .223 mm rounds from a Gatling gun.  Realizing his disadvantage Zhou pressed a button on his wristwatch to trigger a sensor which opened a closet door.  He entered it, running down a passageway exiting out the church.  The door swung closed and automatically locked.  The gunfire abated a minute later.  Race retrieved a key from the mutilated guard to unshackle the botanist.  He slumped to the floor, gazing with forlorn face at the dead hooker.

Why it is every time I fall in love with a woman, she dies?  I just can’t win.

The Victoria refuge crew – Vince, Bryce and Damian stood in the chamber’s doorway, unperturbed  by the sight of the naked botanist.  Behind them Stickler Bach put down his Gatling gun.  He was called Stickler for his pedantic attention to detail and love of Johan Sebastian Bach.  It was this characteristic which allowed him to rebuild the Gatling gun from discarded metal at the refuge.  To power the gun he used his contacts to procure defective lithium batteries the Boeing Corporation had buried in a landfill outside Seattle.  It took a collective deception from the crew to get him to the church.  He was told there would be a gun fair at the church and was anxious to show off his weapon when all hell broke loose as he and the crew confronted dozens of zombie rednecks.  They were easily dispatched by Stickler’s gun.

What’s the ammo count?  Race called out. 

The count averaged 30 rounds and two grenades per man with 500 rounds in the Gatling gun.  Race realized this was not enough fire power to take out the hundreds of new zombies in the church. He told Stickler to fire into the closet door.  It splintered into hundreds of pieces after a three second barrage.   After putting on the guard’s trousers the botanist followed the group through the passageway and away from main congregation.  Only one zombie stood guard in the parking lot.  His distractive glances towards the church allowed Vince to quietly approach from behind.  His Bowie knife punctured the zombie’s midsection, perforating his kidneys but instead of falling to his knees he turned around to face his assailant.  Remembering the zombie’s kill point Vince swung his knife upward through the lower mandible and into the brain to finish protruding out the top of the skull.  Vince held the knife in place, relishing the sight of the blood geyser.

How does this knife taste, bitch!

When the zombie dropped to the ground the botanist removed his shirt and donned it.  It was immediately stained red from his lacerated back.    Stickler remained hidden until the rest of the group, walking casually with concealed weapons, were able to reach their vehicles.  One vehicle stopped to collect him and his weapon as they all rendezvous back at the botanist’s house. 

Dungpileton - Sector 6

The Botanist’s house

Fuck me! The rogue botanist’s chest shot forward as Vince Santiago peeled off his bloody shirt.

Any other time cannabis was the medication of choice for the botanist but the treatment to heal his back required external medication.  Fortunately Vince had his EMT triage bag.  He had seen much worse. 

Stop bitching you pussy and hold still.  This is going to use up all my bandages and anti-bacterial salves.  Do you have any?

The botanist still squirmed.  He asked Race to go outside to collect several stalks of Jewelweed (Impatiens capensis) and Aloe (Aloe vera).

With plants in hand Vince crush them to produce a viscous, sticky goo which he applied to the botanist wounds.  The subsidence of pain was immediate, allowing him to break out his Roor bong and a few grams of a strain of Chiesel cannabis for a group discussion of what to do next.  After passing the bong around the men stared into space, each thinking intently for what seemed to them several minutes although only seconds had passed.  Finally, Stickler broke the silence.

What just happened?  One minute I’m installing a new carburetor on an airboat and the next I’m killing zombies.  How am I going to explain this to my supervisor?  This is great weed by the way.  Do you have anything to eat?

There’s hamburger in the fridge replied Damian.  Best I’ve ever eaten. 

Stickler Bach was a tinker but not the tinker of watches and toasters.  He lived to build heavy weaponry from scape metal; a skill he acquired as an armament specialist in the Navy. After leaving the Navy he disappeared into the mercenary underground.  With knowledge and tacit approval from the U.S. Government he traveled incognito from Russia to Southeast Asia where he plied his skills for rebel groups from Chechnya to Burma.  For a time he and the Chechen rebels fought the Russian forces to a standstill but the outcome of the war was a foregone conclusion in favor of the Russians.  Stickler found himself pursued day and night by agents of the Russian Foreign Intelligence Service but evaded capture in the North Caucasus by crossing into Georgia.  There he took on the disguise of his great, great grand uncle – General George Custer.  Making his way back through Europe he used his contacts to return to the United States where he decided to lead a quiet, peaceful life as a mechanic for the Victoria National Wildlife Refuge.  Ever paranoid, he kept his George Custer appearance. 

From experience Race knew most men would be outnumbered and out-gunned by the zombies but these men were the kind which had numerous weapons caches they wanted to keep away from a future gun confiscation efforts by President Obama.   He made a note to himself to buy stock in weapon and ammunition manufactures after this ordeal was over.  There was always a profit to be made from conspiracy fantasies like gun confiscation.  Time now though to come up with a plan.

Alright, we may have thousands of rounds of ammunition and dozens of heavy weapons but this town has nearly 20,000 residents and we number only 6 people.  Who else can we trust from the refuges in this area?

Damian spoke first.

There’s Sam Fiskar at San Bertram.  He has an underground armory.  Also Jared Fitzgerald but he’s new and I can’t vouch for him other than he’s a hard worker.  

He’s more than that, retorted the botanist.  Much more and he is exactly what we need stop the zombies.

The group looked at the botanist with puzzlement.  He explained.

You know him as Jared but he was also known by a more sinister name, the Reaper of Hippies.

The Cedar Lakes

San Bertram National Wildlife Refuge

The Cedar Lakes are formed from water discharged by Cedar Lake Creek.  The lakes fluctuate in salinity depending on how much tidal action brings in water from the Gulf of Mexico.    Jessica was excited to have the last of her sutures removed.  It allowed her full mobility to continue her surveys of migratory shorebirds on the small sliver of beach which separated the lakes from the Gulf, particularly the piping plover (Charadrius melodus).  This small, federally listed endangered bird is seen on the coast during early spring then migrates to the mid and eastern U.S. to breed before returning to the coast in the summer.   Many are banded on their legs with colored plastic sleeves, allowing surveyors like Jessica to keep a record of their migratory patterns.   Each band color represented where they were banded.  Her favorite plover, Split Band, had several bands. One of those bands was split by black and white coloration.  It had returned to the refuge for the last three years and Jessica looked forward to seeing her old friend as she set a camera in position by her government vehicle.  A noticeable scent of sewage gave her pause but she discounted it, knowing the locals use this area as their private dump.  She was unaware the city of Dungpileton had conspired with local refineries to install a pipeline which illegally spewed a toxic stew of sewage, heavy metals, and waste petroleum into the Gulf not more than 100 meters from her position.  The city also collaborated with the Texas Commission on Environmental Quality to allow illegal discharge from laboratories that needed to dispose of radioactive isotopes.  The buildup of toxins and radioactive waste was insidious; impregnating the minute crustaceans which were the primary food of the plovers.  Over time the bio-accumulation of radiation mutated their DNA structure, altering brains to give them self-awareness and strenghtening beaks and skeletons as hard as steel.  

 Jessica was always in constant motion to keep up with the plovers as they scoured the beach for food but now they remained static for her observations.  She watched as plovers arrived to line up in rows facing her direction.  Each row of plovers extended their banded legs for recording then moved away to allow the next row to display theirs.  Wide-eyed, Jessica continued to photograph the bands until the last bird presented itself – Split Band.  It stood atop a large, dead blue crab (Callinectes sapidus).   To her astonishment the bird, eyes glowing red, grabbed the crab with its beak and lifted it over its head.  It walked towards her and, three feet from her position laid it at her feet.  Jumping on the carapace Split Band cracked it open with one peck.  It withdrew a small piece of crab meat and placed on Jessica’s shoe.  She picked up the meat, bit into it and voiced her gratitude to the little bird.  It hopped around gleefully then skittered away abruptly with the other plovers.   Confused, Jessica called out to her friends, pleading with them to return.   It was seconds later that she understood why they left as a faint cacophony of diesel truck engines and the music of Lynyrd Skynyrd grew louder.  As two trucks drove towards her, Jessica could make out the confederate flag on a pole secured to the exhaust pipes that were positioned upright on each side of the cab.  Each redneck was adorned with a wife beater t-shirt and ripped blue jeans.  In their wake was a trail of discarded Pabst Blue Ribbon beer cans. 

 

She was unsure of her next move.  Part of her wanted to run but another tried to convince herself the red necks would drive past her.  Surely they weren’t stupid enough to harm someone who is working for the federal government?  As a precaution she retrieved her Beretta 92 A1 single action pistol from the cab.  She slid the barrel back to load a single tungsten-iron alloy tipped round from a 15 round magazine.  She held it behind her back as the trucks approached, stopping twenty feet from her.   For a moment there was no activity then both trucks turned off their engines and music.  One of the pot-bellied drivers disembarked as the stench of his unwashed body permeated the air.  He walked towards Jessica then turned around towards his brethren.  Noticing a bulge at the base of his skull Jessica positioned her index finger on the trigger of her pistol but still kept it behind her back.   With unspoken acknowledgement from the group the zombie looked at her then screamed and charged.  In one fluid, spilt-second motion Jessica brought her pistol in front to double-tap two bullets into the heart of the zombie.  The two rounds quickly exited out his back, hardly disrupting his pace.  He continued his charge.  This time a single round to his head dropped him to the ground – dead.  11 bullets, 15 red neck zombies left.

The other zombies looked at the body in mute confusion then piled out of the trucks.  Five instantly fell to the ground from head shots, their bodies causing the rest to tumble over themselves.  6 bullets, 10 red neck zombies left.   This gave Jessica precious seconds to put distance between her and the zombies as she ran down the beach but her petite frame lacked the ability to outrun the larger zombies.  Despite their girth the zombies did not feel the pain of physical exertion for the first time in years and soon made up the distance.  Realizing that running was fruitless Jessica turned around to put three zombies down.  4 bullets, 7 red neck zombies left.   

The zombies surrounded their prey.  Seeing one zombie in front of another Jessica dropped both as a bullet exited out one head and into another.  The Gulf was at her back and the firing of three more bullets left her with two zombies and no bullets left.  Turning to run into the surf she tripped and hit her forehead on driftwood as she fell to the ground.  A zombie grabbed her leg, opening his gapping mouth to bite into it but was met with a kick which dislocated his jaw.  It hardly stunned him.  Now groggy, Jessica crawled quickly backwards as she looked for any debris to use as a weapon but only seeing thousands of empty Pabst beer cans coming in with the tide.  She crawled towards the surf but the zombies were already standing over her.  Readying herself for a horrific demise, Jessica saw one zombie frantically trying to grab at something on its back when a projectile shot out from it chest and landed by her side.  It was Split Band and now hundreds of his fellow plovers were swarming the zombies.  Their beaks and claws ripped skin from bone as if it was tissue paper.  The sand ran red with flesh and blood as the zombies spun around grabbing at the birds but each one easily broke from the zombie’s grip and renewed the attack.  It appeared the plovers were keeping the zombies upright as they rendered the bodies.  A moment later the plover-covered zombies stopped moving then the birds flew away, leaving disassembling skeletons to fall on the sand.  

It has been a traumatic month for Jessica.  First the still unexplained attempt to kill her in her home and now a horde of rednecks nearly ate her.   Thanking Split Band and his friends she returned to the vehicle to nurse the bloody knot on her forehead.   

Goodbye Kahn

Hawk Release

In early March I was driving on I-10 east outside Columbus when I noticed a raptor on the side of the highway only a few feet from passing vehicles.  It did not appear dead so I swung around on the feeder road to capture it.  It didn’t notice me approaching until I threw a t-shirt over it and brought it back to my car.  I found a box at a gas station to transport it to Angleton where I took it to the Gulf Coast wildlife Rescue facilities (Donate to http://www.gcwr.org/).  This non-profit was operated by Dana Simon.  She identified it as a mature male redtail hawk.  This was a large male but mature females are always larger.  The diagnosis was it suffered a head trauma but no broken bones or wings.  She was confident it would be rehabilitated within a month.  It recovered within 10 days and I was allowed to release it back in the wild on a country road away not far from where it was captured. 

Be free beautiful raptor.  Return to the bosom of Mother Earth!

Zombies of Dungpileton

 This is a fictional web novel

All characters, living or dead, and locations or events in this novel

are entirely fictitious or merely coincidental

Chapter 12

Race sat in the back of the black SUV in the parking lot of Dungpileton Whataburger.  The two zombie assassins sat in the front and it was hard to not stay fixated on the back of their heads.  The bulges indicated they had been zombie for months.  This time though he noticed a two inch protuberance at the skull base which every so often wiggled around.  A breathing appendage?

The zombies gazed forward, intently focused on their prey - Damian Siegfried and the rogue botanist inside the restaurant.  Both had joined their co-workers for lunch on this day, the every other Friday when they were mandated to be furloughed from work as part of the federal budget sequester.   This topic of conversation was avoided, mostly to not hear I told you so from the botanist who was right in predicting congressional republicans would sooner lay off workers than tax their millionaire masters.  Instead, Vince Santiago brought up the death of the mayor’s nephew. 

I knew that sick fucker wasn’t going to live when they sent him to Dunpileton General.   The Center for Disease Control has named it the number one hospital for antibiotic resistant staph bacteria.  People check in but they don’t check out.  That dick went gangrenous after they sewed it back on.  Handling it after it was cut off was nastier than picking up severed limbs. 

Vince’s knowledge of the hospital stemmed from his moonlighting duties as an EMT.   He relished the graphic accidents he encountered, more so for their conversation value around his co-workers. 

Bryce Jackson, the Minnesotan native, waited for Vince to finish then saw his opening.

Now that I think aboot it that dick was probably infected after ya put it in a beg to take home to suck for the night.  Dontcha know that then?

The group laughter enraged Vince.  Had his medication kicked in he would have been indifferent to the insult.

Fuck you!  Fuck all you faggots!

Despite the jovial atmosphere  Damian was mostly lost in thought.  Word on the street was he had a bounty on his head for what he did to the mayor’s nephew.  It was better to amuse himself by flicking french fries off the table and watching the botanist pick them up to eat. 

“Five second rule!” the botanist proclaimed.  As if the fries were not infected by the roach eggs on the floor within that time frame.

Without a word the zombies grabbed their BXP 9mm submachine guns, each with a 32 round magazine clip.  They glanced back at Race, nodded and stepped outside the vehicle.  Race worked out his plan in his head again.  It was predicated on maintaining his faux allegiance with the thin man and mayor.  He would distract the assassins as they stepped into the restaurant thereby giving Damian and the botanist time to gun them down.  At least that is what Race hoped they understood when he text them the plan while in the SUV.  He disliked this only option because there were too many variables out of his control. 

Assumptions.  Assuming the group would not have guns.  Assuming each person would not have their individual guns out on the table while they ate.  Assuming Damian was not watching the SUV the entire time it was parked.  Notifying the botanist brought on a look of confusion from Bryce and Vince but a head motion towards the zombies holding their weapons was all they needed to realize what was about to transpire.  A distraction was not needed as Race saw the fire power of the group.  He dropped to the floor just as the zombies entered the establishment and were abruptly met with a hail of bullets.  The impacts sent them stumbling back, tripping over Race and crashing into the entrance doorway.  Race composed himself, looking back to quickly assess if the assassins were dead and upon seeing their bloody, bullet-riddled bodies, decided it was safe to get up as employees and patrons frantically exited past him.  Bryce and Victor were still perplexed but high from the bloodbath.  They nearly fired their weapons on Race but were waved off by the botanist.

He’s with us. 

As Race approached the group the tinkling of glass and a collective Oh shit! stopped him in his tracks.  He whirled around to see the zombies right themselves to aim their Mac-10’s in his direction.  Bullets trailed him as ducked behind the condiment bar alongside the botanists and his coworkers.  During the lull of the Mac-10 reloading Bryce withdrew his other weapon from its holster, a Smith and Wesson X-frame Model 500 pistol,  and trained its sight on a zombie’s wrist.  The impact of the weapon’s .50 caliber bullet left a bloody stump with both weapon and hand sent flying over the service counter into the fry queue.   Without missing a step the hand-less zombie walked towards the men, only slowed down by a torrent of bullets which disemboweled organs and shattered bones.  The crippling barage felled him but he still continued to crawl toward the men as the other zombie, having discharged all his rounds, joined him.   Suddenly it dawned on Bryce what to do to kill the zombies.

Shoot dem in da head.  I saw it in The Walking Dead dontcha know.

The men complied.  High caliber rounds exploded the zombie's heads on impact, dropping the standing one to the floor with the other.  Both dead.  Vince glanced at a large, yellow slug-like creature still writhing on the floor a few feet from the zombies.  He pierced it with his Bowie knife to show to the men.

 

What the fuck is this, he queried.  Race explained.

That is the zombie parasite.  It was using them as a host and has the ability to deaden any feeling of pain in their bodies and apparently the parasite continues to control the body after its vital organs shut down.  Damian, you will have to explain to your friends what this is all about because I have a church service to attend.

He called out to the botanist who was taking advantage of the free fries in the queue.

And you’re coming with me.

Sector 6

The House of the Rogue Botanist

Race was growing impatient.  The rogue botanist was in the back yard with his ladies - the rows of female cannabis plants Race swore the botanist would have sex with if he could find a way.  Still, this was taking long even for the botanist.  Walking outside he found out why.  The botanist was sitting in a lawn chair in the shade of a large pecan tree (Carya llinoisensis).  His cat Doobie slept on his lap.  At his feet was a brown paper bag where upon inspection was filled with desiccated psychedelic mushrooms. 

Goddamit!  Why couldn't you just get stoned if you couldn’t handle sitting with hundreds of Jesus freaks? 

The botanist disengaged to reply.

Sitting in the Man's house ain't my scene.  I need to be somewhere else when I'm there.  Can you dig what I'm saying?

I dig alright but just cool it when you're there or wherever you are and stay close to me.  

Most Holy Trinity Church of Dungpileton

Most Holy Trinity Church of Dungpileton stood adjacent to the Brazoria County court house. All county and city supervisors were mandated to hold their staff meetings in the church conference room.  After business matters were addressed the meeting was closed with a benediction.   Attendance was strictly enforced and those who protested or failed to attend suddenly disappeared less they report this violation of the Establishment Clause to the ACLU.  Under the auspices of its minister, Pastor Silas Angleton, the church vetted members according to their wealth status and slavish adherence to Christian doctrine.  This worked in tandem with the hiring practices of the county and city.  Interview questions were worded to ferret out the background of each applicant with no consideration given to those professing the faith of a non-Christian religion.  Next door to the church was the brothel which was older than the church.  City and church officials recognized from the beginning that controlling the citizens of Dungpileton was accomplished through controling the market for sex and drugs.   It was customary for the male church attendees to satisfiy their primal urges before church services began.  Foregoing condoms was a source of macho pride but unfortunately this enabled a breeding ground for numerous strain of sexually transmitted diseases which, when passed on to their wives and girlfriend often produced dim-witted offspring who were the future prostitutes and addicts of Dungpilton.  It was a closed system of non-diminishing returns. 

Race and the botanist joined the throng of worshipers filing into the church.  There was no intention of stopping the infection which was beyond their capabilities rather, this was a reconnaissance mission to identify the masters and terminate them before they could use the zombie parasite outside Dungpileton.  Leery of recognition, Race attempted to sit in the last pew but finding that and several pews forward completely occupied he and the botanist settled for the middle row.  People took little notice of the botanist’s vapid behavior.  It was no different than the deportment of most of the congregation.  The mass opened with the congregation accompanying a young man strumming on an acoustic guitar.

I heard the voice of Jesus say, Come unto Me and rest;

Lay down, thou weary one, lay down Thy head upon My breast.

I came to Jesus as I was, weary and worn and sad;

I found in Him a resting place, and He has made me glad.

I heard the voice of Jesus say, Behold, I freely give

The living water; thirsty one, stoop down, and drink, and live

Race followed accordingly in his songbook, taking heed of how the botanist was acting and surprisingly finding him singing as if inspired from an epiphany.  Then, as he leaned closer a sense of dread washed over him.  The words were not from the songbook.

Glory be to the Bomb and to the Holy Fallout:

As it was in the beginning, is now and ever shall be,

World without end.  Amen

Zhi Peng Zhou looked on approvingly at the congregation.  As an exiled pastor from his Chinese homeland he was given a hero’s welcome at every church he visited.  He found the gullibility of Christians was greatly enhanced if a person had purportedly suffered enormous retribution for his faith from an oppressive government.   It served his bank account particularly well.  As he was want to do, Zhi Peng relished the moment with a flashback to his childhood in the Anhui Province of China at the time of Mao Zedong’s Great Leap Forward.  This was not a pleasant memory rather, a persistent reminder to ensure he would never want for food ever again.  The failure of The Great Leap Forward to industrialize China resulted in catastrophic famines and unbearable hardships for millions of rural Chinese. 

Almighty Bomb

Who destroyed devils

To create angels!

Behold His glory!

Zhi Peng was ten years old at the time of the great famines which peaked in 1961.  He remembered a progression of animals brought to the table when the crops failed.  First poultry, then dogs and cats followed by the family mule then rats and finally hacked limbs, entrails and brains of corpses of people who died in the street from disease and starvation.  The scavenging sustained Zhi Peng and his younger sister, Chunhua, and over time he relished the taste of human flesh.  He likened it to the flavor of chicken but his family was the not the only one indulging in cannibalism.  Within weeks the streets were cleaned of corpses and Zhi Peng body withered from the meager repasts of dirt, cockroaches and slugs.  Then one morning he awoke to the sweet bouquet of human flesh boiling in a pot.  Only when his appetite was satiated did he notice Chunhua was not present. Forever.

After the famines Zhi Peng languished in the agricultural collectives for years but he never forgot the power of Chairman Mao’s cult of personality nor the delectable taste of human flesh.  Knowing power was centralized between the generals and powerful families of China, Zhi Peng decided to live in a land that was ripe for gullibility.  A land where people would sheepishly allow one person to think for them; what to eat, what to read, when to sire children.  In this land there were thousands of charlatans growing fat off their followers and still, the supply of sheep seemed limitless and waiting to be herded.  This land was his destiny.  This land was the United States of America. 

Through word of mouth Zhi Peng found a human trafficker to take him to America.  The Cold War was raging but transport ships out of China were still able to reach the States through intermediary countries.  On the night of his departure Zhi Peng gave the trafficker his life savings of $5000 and joined 200 men in a cargo container within the hold of the ship for the month’s journey.   He was assured that food and water would be provided but this amounted to a hosing down of fresh water and a sack of potatoes for everyone every other day.  The replenishing of food and water from the ceiling hatch was the only light Zhi Peng saw the entire journey.  One week into the trip the fetid smell of unwashed bodies and piles of feces became a breeding ground for dysentery as well as rampant scabies and lice.  The men partitioned into groups in varying stages of illness.  In the dark the moans of dying men was the only clue to move as far away as possible towards the container's bulkhead but this was the opportunity Zhi Peng took advantage of to survive.  He stayed with the dying, waiting for them to stop breathing then patiently consumed their eyes and penis.   No one could see what transpired but the sound of mastication was undeniable.  In time Zhi Peng gnaw through the soft areas of the bodies; looking for the vital organs but was never sure what he ate other than the heart.  The journey concluded in Seattle. 

When the container's doors opened only fifty men were alive and spilling out in all directions, leaving behind dozens of half-eaten corpses.  In the chaos Zhi Peng escaped to the heart of Seattle; finding a nondescript church nestled between a Star Bucks and 7-11.  It was a Sunday and no parishioners were present to hear the sermon.  Grateful for his presence the pastor and his wife took it upon themselves to care for Zhi Peng.  That night was their last.  Any evidence of the missing bodies was consumed over a month’s time and no one noticed the sermons were now given by Pastor Zhou.  In time Zhi Peng gained a following within the Asian community.  He built a larger church and become a prominent spokesman for the plight of the destitute in Seattle and Eastern Washington State.  Pastor Zhi Peng was recognized for his contribution in reducing the population of the homeless in Seattle although no one realized they were now residents of a walk-in freezer in the church basement.   Zhou’s work caught the attention of the thin man whom at that time was looking for an associate to preside over the operations of the Family on the West Coast as well as additional duties as seen fit in other areas of the country. 

The mushrooms sent the rogue botanist somewhere else and that was in a montage of events from the first two movies of the Planet of the Apes series.  He was George Taylor, the time-traveling astronaut trapped in a future where apes evolved to rule planet Earth and enslave humans who had devolved into mute scavengers.  At his side was the beautiful Nova whom he befriended after his spaceship crashed and was now signaling to him she was in estrus.  No matter that they were captives of evangelical mutant humans who worshiped a nuclear missile in subterranean caverns.  He mimicked the mutants singing in their church; hoping they wouldn’t notice Nova begging him to mate with her. 

“Wow”, the botanist murmured.  “The perfect woman.  Horny, doesn’t talk and I don’t have to pay for sex”.  He grind his groin against the pew to the consternation of Race and horror of the parishioners around him. 

Race looked around, waiting for the opportunity to leave without any further commotion.  They were far enough in the pews to escape the notice of Zhi Peng as he conducted the church service

The apes were closing in on the botanist and Nova as the sermon was approaching the sacramental part of the service.  Wafers and wine simulated the body and blood of Jesus Christ. 

The peace of the Lord be always with you

And also with you

Now nets are thrown.  The botanist and Nova are dragged to the floor, struggling against their ape captors.  Nova is frantic and Taylor the astronaut/botanist is enraged.  When Pastor Peng and the congregation greet one another to shake hands in the name of the Lord a parishioner reaches out to clasp the botanist hand.

Take your stinking paws off me you damn dirty ape!

Silence.

The Pentagon

Washington D.C.  U.S.A.

The room was unofficially known as the Cheney Chamber.  It was here during the Bush Administration that President Cheney often visited to watch the torture of Muslim detainees.  Former CIA agents recall him masturbating as the prisoners underwent his favorite torture – Water Boarding.  Now David Roland was the only occupant.  For over a week he was repeatedly beaten, electrocuted and water boarded but still his captors could not gather any information about his affiliation with the rouge botanist.  He was subjected to torture when injection of the zombie parasite did not bring on the anticipated results.  Unbeknownst to them David received the antidote from the botanist  and was able to enlist the help of a CIA lab technician to concentrate it into a vaccine which was administered by pill.  The technician died in the firefight which led to David’s capture.  Now the thin man was present, much to the apprehension of the torturers.  He was not pleased with the lack of results.

Has he said anything of value?

No sir.

Then we shall proceed with the next phase. 

With that the thin man ordered everyone out of the torture chamber.  As he existed the door he turned to David, still bound in his chair, and then glanced over to a small, ragged-edge hole in the corner of the room. 

We will see how persuasive the rats are Mr. Roland after they have you for dinner for a week. 

Roland looked up through swollen eyes to see the thin man close the door behind him.  The room was completely sealed from external sound and light.  The only sound inside was the pounding of his heart, a pounding that was usurped by the tiny patter of feet moving towards him.