Sloughing Off the Rot by Lance Carbuncle Read Free Book Online Page B

before he ever set eyes on Santiago. And it briefly rendered him mad and murderous.
    On his side of the fire, Santiago set his feet and held balled up fists out in front of himself in the stance of an old-fashioned pugilist. Opposite Santiago, Crazy Talk spat the acid hatred from his mouth and tightened his muscles. He tensed up and readied to leap over the fire to attack Santiago. The hair on the men’s necks stood on end and they both broke out in adrenaline shakes. Santiago released a musty scent from his anus and a bitter taste visited his mouth. Crazy Talk’s vision tunneled and his pupils dilated. A split second before the men were to become engaged in a bloodbath, Three Tooth shouted something that stopped the imminent fisticuffs.
    “Lunkheads!” shouted Three Tooth.
    All other goings-on ceased. Feet shuffled. The men armed themselves with clubs and knives and bows and arrows. To the south of the road a gang of lumbering lunkheads shuffled toward the camp. Their raspy breathing and groans filled the air. Three Tooth drew an arrow back on the taut string of his bow and let it zip. An audible
whizzzz
dragged through the air, followed by a
squish-thud
as the arrow struck and parted layers of skin, penetrating one of the lunkies dead center of his chest. The creature dropped to his knees and screamed at the sky. He plucked the arrow from his chest and a gout of blood spurted rhythmically from the wound. His screaming died down. Within seconds, the man dropped over on his side, gasping heavily for air, and then not gasping. Not moving. Not living.
    Oblivious to their fallen comrade, the remaining twenty or so brain-dead and bloodthirsty lunkheads continued their dreadful and slow march on the camp. As they neared, John studied the dead pools of their eyes and their festering wounds. Three Tooth and most of his men (excluding Two-Dogs-Fucking, who conveniently left his bow behind at their last camp and was not motivated to retrieve it) felled the oncoming lunkies with spot-on kill shots to the hearts. And the lunkheads dropped and screamed and gave up the ghosts until there remained only one morbidly obese lunkie who persisted in his efforts to reach the men. The end of one of his legs was a shredded stump where his foot should have been. His uneven gait slowed him up even more as he limped along.
    Arrows tensed themselves for launch on the men’s bows. In some unspoken agreement, Crazy Talk, Heap-o-Buffaloes, and Throws-Like-Girl all released their arrows at the same time. Three arrows struck the one remaining lunkhead simultaneously, one arrow in each shoulder and one in his thigh. And the monstrous lump of herky-jerky meat continued in their direction, oblivious to the shafts protruding from his flesh. Heap-o-Buffaloes drew back another arrow, bending the bow almost to the point of snapping, and set the missile free. It penetrated the lunkie in the lower right part of his abdomen. The tip of the stone arrowhead peaked out through the man’s back and the flight of the arrow just barely showed itself at the front of the fat man. Crazy Talk’s bow zinged as it released another shot that lodged itself in the man’s left bicep. And the men practiced their aim on the lumbering beast headed in their direction, emptying their quivers and sticking every shot exactly as intended.
    The lunkhead still staggered in their direction, looking like a horrific bloody pincushion. And he stopped at the protective piss-barrier, wobbling on his foot and footless stump, groaning. Foamy blood bubbles gurgled from his cracked and sore-covered lips. He stood patiently, as if he were a deliveryman who had rung the doorbell and was waiting for someone to answer. Heap-o-Buffaloes left the other side of the circle and looped around to sneak right behind the persistent lunkie. Heap-o-Buffaloes lowered himself to his hands and knees just behind the brainless butterball. At the same time, Throws-Like-Girl flung himself at the lunkie and pushed on