The Meat Zone

"Where did you learn to use a blade?" the man with a big scar on his left upper arm asked. The wound looked like it was serious. It resembled a centipede. The stitch marks looked crude. It looked like to be his own handiwork. It must have been a major accident, like a crash or something. Or worse. If it was a bite, it would have been a completely different story. A nasty wound like that could slowed you down.

In here, when you get hurt, you're good as dead. There was only one rule. Avoid being bitten. That's it. Anything else, like broken bones or the chills, they are considered a luxury. You'd be fortunate to only have those.

Lance gripped the machete tightly in his hand tight. His knuckles turned white. It wasn't even a good choice of a weapon. It wasn't as sharp as he wanted it to be. But that didn't matter now.

He looked at Malcolm. He had a toothy grin. Teeth all yellow. He held a shotgun across his chest. It looked custom-made. He had several bright red slugs strapped across his torso..

"The way I see it, I'd say you've gotten through hell once before," Mal said, grinning. His lips chapped and cracked.

He was right though. He'd been through more than his fair share of hell. Enough for him to learn a few moves.

Lance looked around him. Some of these people weren't going to make it. There was a young man with them. You could see it in his eyes. The fear. The tears welling up. Another was a woman, breathing heavily. Hair disheveled. She kept swallowing as if to keep herself from throwing up. She wore a soiled dress with pretty flowers all over it. The cardigan she was wearing had some dirt caked on the front. It could've been blood. Or it couldn't been mud. She had a pistol in her hand. Wonder how many bullets were in it?

"Bet you're wondering?" Mal asked, "Why them? Why us?"

Lance shot Malcolm a stare.

"It don't matter now. By choice or not, this is where it all ended up for us. The end of the line. Question is whether you'd just stand there and let them tear you apart, or you fight. Either way, we all die, eventually." Malcolm said, cocking his shotgun.

The metal grating in front of them started to roll up. Yellow lights flooded in. Everyone started to fuss. Some readied themselves, some cowered. There were faint cries and whimpers.

"This is it baby," Mal shouted, raising his shotgun, "No turning back now. Whatever you do, don't get bitten," he added, screaming into the light.

They call it The Grinder.

For some, it was an implement born out of necessity. Others thought it cruel. But one thing's for sure, it's kill or be killed. The rules are simple. All you have to do is kill at least five of these chompers. And a door will open. It doesn't matter whose kill opened which door. Just get through any of them. Even if it means killing one of your kind.

The participants entered the arena. They were met with floodlights interspersed around the perimeter. You'd expect for an audience and their maddening howls. But only darkness lay beyond the lights and the low hum of the electricity.

Out of instinct, the group huddled together. It was a normal reaction. Like a school of fish. You'd have greater survival if you stayed in the middle. Some of the participants started to cry. Then someone angrily told them to shut up.

Lance had his wits about him. He knew the rules of game. Better yet, he knew how to play the real game. The one outside of the walls; that was the biggest game of all.

It was chaos out there. The Grinder was just reprieve, a pit stop.

"See that?" Mal said, pointing at the metal doors at the far side of the arena. "That's where they come in," he added.

Once the red lights at the side of the door light up, the chompers are let loose and it's game time.

Everyone had their eyes on those lights. They were quiet, just waiting for the ball to drop.

Then the lights started to turn and light up. They're faces washed with it. Perhaps a foreshadowing.

"Oh my god oh my god oh my god," a girl said, closing her eyes, holding on to her weapon of choice, a baseball bat.

Everyone held their breath when the doors swung open. Old man Gerry, who was carrying a rifle, squinted. He couldn't make out was beyond those doors.

"What the heck are they waiting for? Why won't they charge in and get this over with?" Gerry said, readying himself.

"Wait for it," Mal said under his breath. Lance heard him.

He gripped his blade real hard.

The chompers stood still like scarecrows out in the field. For awhile it seemed like nothing was gonna happen. Malcolm squealed in delight. Clearly he was enjoying this. This will not be the last he'd be in this arena.

Then suddenly like over-charged mechanical puppets, the chompers dashed towards them. Fueled by an insane drive to devour everything in its path, these chompers moved with unprecedented speed.

The world calls them by no other name.

Zombies. The undead. The infected. Whatever.

But the Meat Zone calls them chompers. Just like the iconic Pac Man. Literally a mouth on steroids. However, they have no real use to the things they eat. They don't shit. Or whatever comes out of the other end would be the same state it came in. Some chompers eat and eat until everything would burst out of their rotting stomachs. Their bowels were useless. They have no use for food or nourishment.

Later, doctors and scientists would find out that these zombies were operating on an ancient instinct. A regression of some sorts. A reptilian urge.

A truly dead corpse, a rotten one, with the brain all decomposed and liquefied will not reanimate. Fresh ones like these chompers here, who probably have died days ago are the likely candidates. Killing them was as simple as obliterating their brains. Cutting their heads off will work but it won't totally kill them. Even if you cut the head off of the snake, it will still prove to be dangerous.

With nerve-wracking speed, one of the chompers charged into the fray. Grabbing anything it could get its hands on. Unfortunately, the girl with a bat just stood there, frozen from fear. The last thing she probably saw was the sky. The chomper ran her over like a truck. She got pushed a few feet away. She managed to scream for a few seconds before her life ended. The chomper took a bite of her lips, tearing it out of her face before eating the rest of her.

The woman with a pistol hyperventilated as several chompers tore into the bat-wielding girl. Her innards thrown all over the place.

Everyone scattered like rats caught in their hiding places.

Lance stood focused. A chomper came speeding his way. Instead of fleeing, he charged towards it. He could hear its teeth clacking. With a front-handed swing, he swung his blade as hard he can, zipping by the chomper. There was no gracefulness in his movements. There was no Kung Fu-like choreography whatsoever, like the ones you see in the movies. His movements served him a purpose. No matter how clumsy or messy his execution was, it served him well.

Losing his balance, from the momentum of his swing, he stopped a few feet from the chomper, who went by him a few steps. It dropped to the ground like a rag doll. He looked over to his side and saw piece of the chomper's skull, with the hair still attached to it, on the sand. He was able to slice through its crown, enough to render it permanently incapacitated. Or dead. That's one for point for him, and for everyone else for that matter.

"Listen to me," Lance told the woman with her pistol, "You have got to use that thing, or you gonna have to use it on yourself. Then I would have to cut off your head. Your choice," he added. Lance felt awful for telling her that. But they weren't exactly in the middle of a tea party. The woman shot him an icy stare. Lance backed off. He swung his blade a couple of times unto a charging chomper. It's guts spilling out. The chomper fell to its knees and started eating it.

The chomper raised its head, still chewing on its own innards. It started to squeal like a stuck pig. She took aim, extending her right arm and took a shot. The chomper's head exploded.

Malcolm carefully timed his shots, making sure each one was well worth it. He downed three more, taking out their legs. A legless chomper was easier to kill. He went over and smashed its head with foot.

Surprisingly, that took less effort than Malcolm expected. Probably its head was too rotten.

Two men, probably brothers, were being tailed by a couple of chompers. These men were young and they were fast. But soon they'd grow tired. If they didn't do something about it, they'll end up being one of them.

Years later, those who participated in the Grinder would realize what it stood for, separating the strong from the weak. If you survived the Meat Grinder, you'll probably survive the challenges that awaited ahead. You'd be an asset for the new world.

Unfortunately, not the same can be said from one of those two men. One of them lost tripped and lost his footing. The other sped away. Nothing can stop him from running. Not even the screams of his companion. He had to run.

"At this rate boy," Malcolm shouted across the arena, "Only a few of us will make it."

Lily, was now making strides. She was able to down two more chompers. One was an easy target. It was the girl with a bat. She was on the ground, while the chompers were digging into her. She wasn't completely turned yet. The agony on the girl's face, the quiver on her lips as she was being eaten alive, pulled at Lily.

She took aim.

Lily closed her eyes for a moment and then shot her. It was good shot. Even she was surprised about that.

All around her, the chompers were picking at them one by one. Her world started to spin. She felt like passing out. But she held her ground.

Then suddenly she was tackled. She hit the ground hitting her head. That made her dizzy. The chomper was on top of her. Soon, the rest will be on top of her too.

She kicked and scream. The chomper was scratching at her face, at her chest. She held it by its throat.

The chomper snapped. She turned her face away from the bite, missing her by an inch. She pulled at its hair, tearing the its face away from her. The hair started to peel from the skull. Once the piece of hair detached completely, the chomper's head snapped back even closer. This time it almost took a bite out of her face. She screamed. Thrashing her head from side to side. This was it. This really was it for her.

Lance buried his machete unto its skull. A rattling sound came. A door opened at the far side of the wall.

"Go now," he shouted at Lily.

She pushed the chomper off of her.

Lily ran, crying and heaving, and headed for the door. Once there, she looked back at Lance. Gave him a silent gesture of gratitude. He nodded his head. She did too.

"So that's how it's gonna be, huh?" Malcolm said, laughing, after seeing that little exchange with Lance and Lily. "Well, I'll be darn," Malcolm added, laughing some more. He loaded his gun with what was left of his slugs.

Fewer and fewer of them remained. Some were on the ground flailing. The others already made it out.

Lance met up with the rest at the middle of the arena. Old Gerry was still with them. Malcolm and two others, a man in his 40s with thinning hair and a girl, who looked to be too young to be in this mess. She was carrying a knife. I doubt it'll do much but it's better than nothing. How was she able to survive this long?

"If you all want to make it out," Lance said, "We're going to have to work together," he added.

"Malcolm, how many shells do you have with you?"

"Got three loaded in the chamber."

"And you?" Lance asked Gerry.

"About 4 son, or so, I'm not sure," Gerry said.

"Okay, kill as much as you can. Remember for every 5 of them, the doors will open. When you run of out of ammo, that means its your turn to get out," Lance said, taking control of the situation.

"Here," Gerry said, handing him the rifle. "I'll stay. I've lived long enough. No one's waiting for me on other side. Wife and kids got killed long time ago. I wonder why I keep fighting and surviving this long."

Lance looked at him straight in the eye. A sort of familiarity ran through his expression. Old man Gerry saw it too, that kindness, which felt more like remorse and sadness. In that instant, both Lance and Gerry had an understanding, a connection.

"No old man," Lance muttered, "This is not THE day to die. When there's too much death around, it has overstayed its welcome. Death has no place here anymore," he added, pushing the rifle back.

Gerry nodded.

With that, the last remaining Meat Grinder participants, became the pioneers of the new world. They went in through Grinder, risking everything, seemingly gaining nothing. But years later, they would find themselves sitting on the thrones of their own kingdom, their own piece of war trophy.

Malcolm cocked his shotgun.

"Kill them all," he shouted, blasting the head of one of chompers headed their way. The head obliterated to a fine pulpy mess. Gerry aimed and shot two chompers on the left. They crumpled.

Lance waited. Somehow, something in him flipped. It was an urge. It fueled him. It felt like something in his head just uncovered itself, revealing what was there all along. It is true that when humans are pushed to the brink of life and death, they'd find a way to push back. It's like your body's immunity kicking in, only in overdrive. It's like evolution but on a microscopic level.

Waiting. Still waiting. Then with efficient speed, Lance dashed forward, slashing left and right, then left again. Chompers falling left and right as well. They're necks either almost severed or completely off.

Is this the work of the Grinder? Like God's hammer? A catalyst maybe?

Lance winced as blood splattered across his face. A chomper's head exploded near him. He looked back. Gerry's rifle was smoking. That was an incredible shot. Very precise.

Lance kept at it. Slashing. Decapitating. Amputating an arm or a leg. Behind him, the doors opened. Old man Gerry headed out, looking back.

Lance kept tracked of the ones still on the arena. The girl with the knife was on a pace of her own. Plunging the knife into the chompers' meat bag of a body. She was quick. Her smaller frame made it possible for her to dodge. Sticking the knife in and out of these walking carcasses. It looked more like she was playing tag.

Thinning-haired man seemed to be useless until a chomper tackled him to the ground. With his forearm pressing into the chomper's neck, he shielded himself from its clacking mouth. He brought his other arm, plunged his thumb into one of its eyes, pulling its head away from him. The eye popped, white goo oozed from the it's sockets. With his other arm now free, he plunged his other thumb into the chomper's other eye, popping it as well. With better leverage, thinning-haired man pushed the head back. Then with one mighty tug, thinning-haired man pulled sideways, cracking the chomper's skull open. Exposing what was left of its brain. Blood spewed unto him, making his chest turn crimson red. He was winded. His anger still seething.

A door opened. He stood up, all bloodied and spent. He casually walked towards the exit and disappeared into the other side.

Malcolm spent the last of his slugs. He was now using the butt of the shotgun as a weapon. Pummeling the chompers' heads as they approach.

Lance slashed. Keeping his balance. His swings were made without much effort this time. An approaching chomper stopped dead in it's tracks. It's head thumped a few feet away. It walked a few steps before crumpling to the ground. Lance looked at Malcolm, nodding him off, signaling him to go through the door that just opened. Malcolm nodded in response, squealing like a pig as he rushed through the exit.

"A couple more," Lance said himself. To him, that sounded more like an expression for excitement rather than self assurance. He didn't want to admit it. But he was enjoying this.

He felled several more chompers. It became more easier and easier each time. Behind him, the sound of doors could be heard opening up. For him and the girl.

He let his guard down for a moment. He went for the door, only to be startled by a screaming banshee. This was a fast one. More menacing. It was a female. It's hair lashing about as it rushed at him.

Before he could raise his blade, the banshee tumbled backwards. It's head snapping away.

All Lance could hear was a whirring sound. It passed right by his ear. He looked behind him. It was the girl. She was breathing heavily. Her face and hair matted by blood and sweat.

Lance saw the girl's knife buried dead center on the banshee's forehead.

He went towards her and took her hand. They fled the area and went through one of the exits.

The door slammed behind them, only to be greeted by darkness. Then suddenly the lights flickered up above. It was a corridor.

Where were the others?

With the girl in tow, Lance navigated the hallway. He could barely make out someone up ahead. The lights were too dim. It was hard to tell whether it was human or a chomper.

"Malcolm?" he shouted.

"Hey boy, what took you so long?" Malcolm said in jest.

"Where are the others?" Lance asked.

"Dunno, came out and no one was here."

Lance, tugging the girl, broke out into a run. Malcolm followed.

"Where we going?" Malcolm asked.

"Out."

"There could be more of them out there."

"We made it this far. We'll take our chances," Lance said.

The motley crew snaked the corridor as quickly as they could. Up ahead, they could see an opening. Upon exiting, they were greeted by a great expanse. Before them were the mountains, caressed by the dawn's orange and purple fingers.

They finally caught up with Old man Gerry, Lily and the thinning haired man, whose name was Vic. Vic sat on the ground, the last of his adrenaline spent. He probably was feeling the crash. The others who made it out were huddled in groups. Some were crying and some were hysterical.

"Finally," Gerry shouted. His voice sounded utterly concerned.

"Why have you stopped here, so close to the arena? The dead could tear through those doors any minute," Lance asked.

"Them," Old Man Gerry nodded ahead.

Lance saw before them a new set of crowd, mostly women and children. The few men with them were either too old, too young or too weak.

"Well shit," Malcolm clamored.

Amongst the crowd, a tall burly man emerged from behind them. He looked to be the only capable individual.

"Are they the ones operating the arena?" Malcolm muttered.

"Looks like it," Vic said, pissed, "Clearly, they didn't want us alive. Rather have us dead in there. Pieces of shits."

Lanced looked up at the arena. There was a huge sign there. It said the Wall of Death. He could see a poster of man driving a motorcycle horizontally around the wall. Another caption read, Gravity Defying Stunt.

Behind the motordrome, the group could see colorful tents and canopies. It seemed to be the remains of an old amusement park. There was a huge Ferris Wheel in the center and some Merry Go Rounds and the skeleton of some other rides here and there.

"We are in a fucking school fair?" Malcolm exclaimed.

Lily stood there, shaking. The pistol in her hand making a rattling sound.

"Well, that was one hell of a ride, wasn't it? Vic countered.

To be continued...