Today I placed third in my very first writing contest. I thought I would post it here for the masses. The rules were that it had to be horror, as little gore as possible, and less than 2010 words.
Hunger
Jackson, an average middle aged guy, opened his eyes to the warmth of the summer sun and the sweet smell of barbecue being cooked over charcoal. His whole body ached, especially the back of his head and neck. That, of course, was before he felt the heaviness of a dull ache beneath his left knee. Jackson lifted his head with monumental effort and managed to prop himself up on his elbows in the grass underneath him. He looked down to his aching leg and saw that it was a bandaged stump below the knee. That was when the burning feeling began and Jackson screamed at the sudden onslaught of pain.
The screams of anguish caught the attention of a man who casually walked over to where Jackson lay crying. The man was dressed in dirty jeans and a flannel shirt with an apron that read, “Kiss the Cook.” hanging on his neck. The approaching man's face reminded Jackson of every children's predator he had seen on television. There was something haunting about his eyes that would make neighbors look twice and hug their kids tight.
“Well, hello there sleepy head. Sorry about that bump, Joel hit you pretty hard with that rifle.” The man spoke in a calm and generic accent. He carried himself like he was commanding a board room and putting on a corporate show. “Glad you could join us for some lunch.”
Jackson tried to speak, but only stammered as he looked around taking in his surroundings. The man in the apron took this as a cue, “Settle down now, there is no need to get all excited. The good news is you aren’t dead, but if you get all excited it will make you taste bitter as hell. My name is Clyde. You have my word we are going to take good care of you. After all, with the power out and no ice, we have to keep you alive so the meat stays fresh.” Clyde grinned, ”Here, have a piece of leg.” He crouched in front of Jackson and turned to take a plate from another man. In the haze of Jackson’s shock, the smell of the meat on the plate smelled delicious and sweet causing him to salivate. That was when the vomit came.
As Jackson wretched, he thought the act appropriate for the circumstances he found himself. Several months ago he had been a guard dog trainer living alone on a small compound in the middle of nowhere. For a long while, it had just been him and the twelve German Shepherds in training for acres and acres. The closest neighbors where usually seen around the common lake where fishing and story exchanges were regular occurrences.
All of that was before the televisions and radios broadcast the end of everything and then died themselves. The dead had begun to rise all around the world and no one knew why. The last broadcasts warned everyone to stay away from metropolitan areas and to seek shelter in rural communities for as long as they could survive. There had been several hunting lodges gathered a couple of miles down the road. Their owners, and likely squatters, had headed there as ordered.
It hadn't been hunting season for anything during the outbreak. After a few zombies had walked out of the lake the fish became an unacceptable risk for most, especially once a few zombies had been shot and left drifting in the water. No one knew if the water was contaminated, so no one took the risk. Jackson had stockpiled lots of supplies that seemed to be running out quickly. Then, one of his dogs disappeared.
Jackson had been practically raised in the woods. He was not lacking as a hunter or tracker, so there was little problem finding the trail of his dog and the bootprints that made a kill site. Jackson followed the trail to the nearest gathering of hunter cabins and watched from a safe distance. There on the ground was his closest neighbor staked near a large barbecue pit. Her arms and one leg were missing. He she was still alive since he could hear her sobbing softly from where he hid. The were men and women who let loose with an occasional bout of laughter as they ate at the picnic table in the center of the cabin gathering. As Jackson surveyed the scene with a dread understanding, his plan had begun to form.
It had taken two painfully slow weeks for Jackson to put his plan into motion. That plan had gotten him on his back in a patch of grass, an amputated leg, and a psycho with a plate full of human barbecue standing in front of him.
“Eww. Well, don't worry about the mess fella. Just about everyone pukes eventually,” called one of the other men from the picnic table. Jackson looked that way to see a balding man with glasses and a mouth smeared with sauce.
Jackson turned back to the man crouched in front of him,”Why? Why in the name of God are you doing this to me?”
“Oh, hell mister we were desperate. We’re all from the city. What the hell did any of us know about hunting? Clyde shook his finger at Jackson, “What we are doing to you, it’s nothing personal. Do you think any of this is by choice? It's not about what we want to do mister. It's about what we had to do.”
Clyde looked toward the picnic table, “Look over there, see those people? We could be all that's left.” He looked back down and craned his head toward Jackson a little further. “We want to live as much as you do. Maybe we just want to do it a little bit more. All of us brought our families out here because that’s what the broadcasts told us to do. But like I said, what did we know about hunting? People, on the other hand, those we know how to lure and bait. Usually it was with friendly conversation and an invitation. Other times, it was a bonk on the head like with you.”
“Families?” Jackson coughed. “Where are all the kids?” He had been watching them for two weeks and knew only the men and women at the table were in the cabins.
Clyde's response was to stand up and angrily throw the plate of barbecue at Jackson's face. As the man turned to walk away he stopped and looked back over his shoulder. “Like I said mister, we were desperate.” Clyde continued back to the table and took his seat next to a disheveled looking woman filling her mouth with food.
Jackson looked to the table and counted eight men and women. Leaning back into the grass he began to laugh through his pain and the ideas filling his head. This clearly agitated the cannibals dining on his leg. They all began to slowly get up from the table to get a closer look at the confusing sight of the laughing man.
One of the younger men looked scared and pointed at Jackson with a shaky finger, “That dude is seriously mental man! How the hell can he be laughing?”
In response, Jackson let loose with a piercing whistle normally reserved for women passing a construction site. It was all that was needed for the carnage to begin. For two weeks Jackson had been watching these predators. He had witnessed two more neighbors butchered while he hid in silent observance. During that time, he had also been sneaking into their cabins when they were all away searching for their next meal. No one bothered to lock their doors anymore. Jackson had stolen small items of clothing from each cabin, things no one would miss, and it was all he needed for his plan.
Each of his eleven remaining dogs had their target. The shepherds came charging from the nearby tree line and attacked as a single unit, just as they had been trained. The human filth never had time to reach for a rifle or knife before the dogs were on them and savagely dragging them to the ground. The bigger men went down the fastest with two dogs mauling each.
The dogs were relentless and seemed to know what, not who, they were attacking. The screams of their prey only spurred them on. None of them had eaten in the last few days and the warm crimson clinging to their muzzles urged on the wild in them all. It was not over quickly, it was not over cleanly, but the screaming it caused was the herald of justice being served.
Clyde lay close to him, ripped and bleeding, one of the dogs still grappling with a foot shaking all on its own. Jackson rolled to where Clyde lay sobbing and gurgling. It took nearly all the strength that Jackson still possessed to bring himself up to his knees and stare down at the shredded man in the apron.
“I'm sorry Clyde. It's not about what we want to do. It's about what we had to do.” Jackson let himself fall forward so his hands closed around the man’s neck, until even Clyde’s twitching foot lay still.
