Thursday’s Children

Herman Parkerson’s eyes were the color of pond water in the light of the full moon: silver, opaque. His lackluster brown hair was combed off his forehead in a pompadour more usual in the 1960s. Once he made his mind up, Herman never changed it.

His brother Larry asked, “What we gonna do with a sleep-deprived child on a leash?”

“Just you never mind.”

The child lay on the floorboards, the same as in his father’s truck. His young, overly curious eyes were worried. Not so with Jeanette, the other kid, who always clambered up Larry’s pant leg, grunting determined little grunts.

Larry batted at her with a stick. “Get off my friggin’ leg, you zombie brat! This kind of shit only happens in Kentucky. Ever since they put the shit in the school’s milk a few years back.” Jeanette yelped like a wild animal. “I said get down! These kids are getting on my nerves.”

“Stop foolin’ with her,” Herman said. “Besides, the male one is special. And if I remember correctly, there was some kind of disease in that milk.”

“No zombie youth who acts like a ravenous dog’s gonna muddy my trousers,” Larry said, using the stick once more. “And I don’t plan on getting bit.”

There isn’t much room on the floor of a pickup—not even when that pickup is a three-quarter-ton—and there’s no room at all for panic. The male child went by the name, Henry, and he breathed deep. He couldn’t think straight, couldn’t even sleep or act like normal 5th graders do. He told himself this journey was for show-and-tell, or perhaps his new master’s will, just like all the other rides he’d taken.

Though Herman and Larry had probably kidnapped fifty or a hundred kids in the course of five years, Larry was afraid. He had already been in the state prison for one year and a time-served court injunction, for breaking and entering. Larry was certainly afraid of going back there. But he was more afraid of Herman.

Herman had been lucky, unlike his sometimes hillbilly-sounding excuse for a brother. He had never been convicted of any crime, though he’d been tried twice: assault of a minor and robbery. Both times the complaining party withdrew their complaints. Herman never smirked at the sheriff or the judge. “Them fellows just made an honest mistake,” he’d explain, proving himself. “Could happen to almost anybody.” Herman never fucked the law; he just used idle threats and wiggled his way around it.

Larry was ranting on about the black and white. “This kid’s a real zombie. I’ll bet we can get some real money for her too. Maybe them government people who came from Washington.” Jeanette bent her head slightly upwards and tried to nip his hand without him noticing it. When she tried to go for his nuts, he once more swatted her. Henry looked on confusedly and pressed himself flat against the icy-cold floorboard.

Larry cited every high-priced elementary school kid in the county, every child from a well-to-do family that, only on Thursdays, were motivated by the strangely chiming lunch hour bells of Lodestone County Prep.

“Most of them kids have worried parents, Larry,” Herman observed. “And the community’s awfully worried.”

“Well, it don’t make no difference to a rabid raccoon whether one of these pip squeak’s parents are worried or not,” Larry laughed. “I like to think of it as a good deed, a service of sorts, taking them off their hands.”

At the head of the trail a road sign said DEAD END, but the intertwining road wandered on, around jagged rocks, hugging the streambed. Four families lived in back of the streambed and, like most hillbillies, they were all more or less kin; but some hated the others’ guts, so they closed rank against outsiders after the kids of Lodestone County Prep started turning ferocious and shut their doors against the law.

After the school guidance counselor incident, if one of these kids found their way onto their properties, the owners would fill the young ones’ mouths with lead and leave them there. But not Herman and Larry Parkerson. No sirree. Herman flipped his beer can out the window onto the pile of tins and busted pickup trucks and washing machines that was mounded up so high—for it was no different than a junkyard—outside the bedroom window of Larry’s shack, so much that it all but threatened to slide downhill into the gulch.

Herman eased along in a low, low gear. These little ruts could snap a truck in two, and he was well aware of this.

His house was a Ten-Wide mobile home, with an addition built on back. The addition was fairly well insulated. Herman’s three youngest were pure, never drank milk, and slept in the mobile because they had a better circulation and better protection than Herman or his wife. Many times the children of Lodestone Prep found their way onto his property, and when he made a career of trapping and kidnapping them, he wanted to be sure that his own kids were safe and sound.

The Ten-Wide could be described as a pale green, only that the addition wasn’t painted. Inside, somebody had the radio on. Johnny Cash on the main station, singing, “Let the train blow the whistle”. Herman’s six captured kids bayed like hungry dogs in both welcome and alarm.

“Shut your damn mouth, you stinkers!” Herman hollered.

There was a tiny area near a shed where barbed wire had been put up. One prissy little blond-haired girl, no older than five or six, lay inside a chain link yard, chin in the dust, having what looked like a Grand Mal seizure. Henry was at the edge of the pickup, hungry, teeth bared in a snarl. The boy was obviously turning, or at least in mid-phase. If Larry hadn’t had that good grip of the leash, Henry might have jumped out the truck where he would see just what was what and starting clawing and biting away.

Zombie children were what. Some of Herman’s kids were from small income, mediocre families. Some were middle class in the county, and two others had the distinguishable air of richness. However, their thick, purple vein-displaying faces and dead white eyes with small black irises were unmistakably dangerous-looking and spine-chilling. Some of them ate livestock. All of them hunted humans.

“Hey,” Larry said, pointing to Henry. “Listen to this runt moan.”

“Don’t mess around with him,” Herman said, facing him. “This kid’s from one of the more affluent types in the county. Big bucks.”

“I believe he wants to tangle with Miss Muffet over there. Ain’t that a laugh.”

The prissy blond with the undead eyes stood up, groaned and stretched. She had the look of death mixed with hunger in her, and her mouth was watering and her teeth transfixed as she eyed the two men. When she finally spotted Henry, an ungodly smile took to her sleep-deprived face. Henry raised a hand involuntarily, and forwarded a slight moan in response.

Prissy—for that’s how she was nicknamed—was undisputed top zombie of the captured pack. She’d been in on some rough feedings, both human and livestock, and never once thought twice. Behind the veins her face was pale and deep.

Herman climbed out of the truck and stretched. Somebody had strung a rope across the window of the Ten-Wide. The plastic words BEWARE THE LIL’ BOYS AND GIRLS had dangled from it. Prissy paced in hunger. Sections of old bicycle shedding served Herman’s kids as housing from the weather. They didn’t think a whole lot, but slap a couple of boards across for a roof and the young ones stayed more or less dry, useable, sellable.

Prissy had a big enclosure to herself. It served as a better pit for kid-scratching than cockfights. Prissy was what was considered a full-turned. She’d won a couple of child-on-child money matches, the stupidest hillbillies from the poor sections of the county coming off broke. She was a feisty little bitch. Herman thought he could sell Henry as a sparring partner, depending if the boy showed spunk. No use in an undead boy that’ll just play dead.

“Larry, you bring that boy over here.”

“Right on it, brother.”

Herman looped a short lead of barbed wire through Henry’s leash and started parading him back and forth before the enclosure gate. Larry went on back to the pickup, hunkered down with his fingers, and put it through Jeanette’s collar. The black child was biting her tongue. Larry yanked at the leash and shook it and said with an agitated mutter, “Brr, brr.” The little black girl became excited. “Herman, this one’s causin’ trouble again. You better get the shotgun out in case we have to off her.”

“Then let’s see how she gets along with Blondie over there.”

Prissy’s lips drew back, her eyes smoked and she froze, trembling, as the little black girl was brought forward, just beyond her reach. Jeanette whimpered like a mutt, in terror. But this wasn’t puppy stuff. If Larry hadn’t held her, one of them would have pulled away and attacked.

“Look, flesh!” Herman shook the fence until Prissy rushed at it, clicking teeth just shy of the heavy steel wire. Herman grinned. “Friggin’ amazing. They’ll even eat their own kind. Just proves they retained some thinking capacity.”

“If this child’s worth five hundred bucks, how come you’re fixin’ to feed her to Prissy?” asked Larry.

Herman’s left hand was on the latch, an aluminum bat in his right hand. The black child slowly walked over to him, blank-stared and drooling. Herman looked at the wet spot on the toe of his boot. “Well, ain’t you the one,” he said softly. The next minute he opened the gate, and instead of Henry, threw Jeanette inside.

Jeanette moaned.

A normal zombie or a half-turned won’t hurt a newbie. In Kentucky it was an abnormality. But Prissy wasn’t normal, and to give the blond credit, the fight was over before she knew who she was fighting. Jeanette just saw something alive but deader than dead fly at her, and before she could submit, Prissy had her mouth in flesh and with superior strength flung the helpless child sideways.

Jeanette was the main course, Prissy having broken her neck.

Herman and Larry had learned that a broken neck or a fatal blow to the head was the only way to kill them; otherwise, it was a gore fest. Jeanette felt no pain, only surprise. Another thing about zombies was that they felt no pain. Her sleep-deprived eyes faded into pale and colorless balls, her mouth fell stiff and crooked, and her nostrils flared upward for a final whiff of air.

Henry didn’t know Jeanette was dead—how could he?—when he broke free of Larry’s grasp, pulling through the razor-sharp wire lead and past Herman. There came a horrendous moan and Henry crashed through the gate and into the pit.

Larry was surprised. “What the—”

“Looks like we have us a natural born killer,” Herman laughed.

Unlike most zombies, Henry fought symbolically, to establish dominance. To Prissy, it was different; it was threatening. But like many of Lodestone’s children, Prissy fought to kill, fought to eat. She weighed fifty pounds, he weighed seventy-five. Four- year age difference. From Herman’s everyday work at this, he saw that Henry had speed and endurance. He had strength and fighting skill.

“True what they say, Larry,” Herman then said.

“And what’s that?”

“Milk does a body good.”

Henry bit and Prissy slashed, flaying his ear to the skull as loads of wet blood flew. She fastened her Barbie doll choppers into his face and jerked him over. He came back, grunting and snarling, perfectly balanced, and scored her flank as she came to meet him. In the open pit, where Henry had plenty of room to maneuver and claw, the outcome might have been different. Inside the bicycle sheds, Prissy would crush him and tear his intestines out in the solemn darkness.

Herman laughed. “Just like an old Shepherd, eh, Larry?”

At that moment, a head popped out of the Ten-Wide. It was a redheaded girl, wearing rollers in her hair and rubbing the sleep out of her eyes. “Daddy, whatcha doin’?” she asked from the window groggily.

Herman looked up to see his oldest daughter. “Honey, you go back to sleep. I won’t be out here for more than two shakes. I’m with your Uncle Larry.”

She shook her head. “Are you playin’ rough with the children again?”

“It’s just feeding time, baby. Like I said, I’ll be there in a bit. Now you just go on back to sleep, you hear?” Herman’s daughter closed the window tight shut and the two of them went back to watching the brawl.

Henry and Prissy were going at it for a whole ten minutes. She gnawed at his arm, cut him, bled him. Henry rushed forward in lockjaw-mode, ripping a chunk of the girl’s leg off. It was like an underage massacre that wouldn’t stop. The boy fought high on his swings and grasps where, short and round, Prissy aimed teeth-biting attacks low. When the boy had been tossed into the pit and Jeanette bitten to pieces, Larry had been stunned. Mentally they’d already damaged bone, tissue, and flesh, which meant they’d either spent or blew their price on his car payment. He felt neither of them would bring anything now; the mass rot was settling in on Prissy and Henry’s slack little bodies. “Somethin’ tells me that blond you adore so much is gonna kill that new boy of ours,” he whispered to Herman.

“Don’t be too sure of that,” Herman said, bearing confidence. “This boy’s one hell of a fighter.” He wasn’t only confident but entranced. Though the boy looked as if he was losing, he was all game, coming back slashing at the girl.

The blood pounded behind Henry’s eyes. The parts of his body that had been bitten into didn’t hurt him—for a zombie couldn’t observe its own wounds—but it destroyed his balance. When Prissy lunged, he dropped farther down, turned and raked her chest with his decayed fingernails. Prissy landed hard, the shock of the fall actually flipping Henry on his side, but he flailed wildly back to his feet before she could seize and retain her advantage.

It seemed as if he was about to get torn to pieces, but at the same time it didn’t occur to him to quit. He snarled his death song and went for the big bite, similar to the one they use in the straight-to-video horror flicks. A tremendous jerk pulled Henry off his feet once more, and a heavy kick crashed into Prissy’s neck.

Larry knew what was going to happen next, so he put on a pair of sturdy gloves and lifted Henry clean off the ground before hurling him out of the barbed wire pit. He retrieved the leash again as the gate slammed, and Prissy—bleeding profusely from the carotid artery—threw herself ferociously against the chain binding, baring teeth and moaning her rage, wanting more.

Herman scowled. “Aw, you’re no fun.”

Larry was mad. “We lost a week’s pay when you threw that Negro kid in. And if this one’s worth a nickel, even in this shape, I plan to have my share. I pay bills too, you know?”

Herman laughed. “All right. Take it easy, Larry.”

Henry was tied down to a spike in the ground. He lay in the dust, convulsing, foaming at the mouth, bleeding and gasping for breath. Not finished but wanting more. Herman now said, “He’s too excited. Clip a steel chain around his neck, so he don’t take us for lil’ Prissy over there. Then give me his collar.” He then looked down at his watch. “Almost midnight. We got us an appointment.”

“Where?” Larry asked.

“The highway at the foot of the creek. It’s payday, remember?”

“You think one of those amusement park fellows will pay our askin’ price? Or one of those government scientists again?”

“Hush-hush,” Herman said, and he took wire pliers and cut off Henry’s finger and put it in his pocket. The boy growled but felt no pain. Then he took him back to the pickup, tossed the Lodestone County Prep school ID and any other items in his pockets into the woods before getting into the driver’s seat. “I’ll prove it to you in a second,” he went on, driving away. He handed Larry the decomposing finger. “You just hold onto that now. A little memento of Henry here. This boy’s worth a whole lotta money. Why? Because like any attraction, this one aims to please. I’d keep him myself, but we’re in debt. He’s one good fighter, worth all of a grand.”

“A grand?” Larry dropped his mouth in astonishment. “You serious?”

“Serious as cancer, brother,” Herman said, as the Ford pickup topped the rise of the creek. He was now in the middle of the highway, but one of the back roads.

They waited for no more than five minutes when a big sedan shined its lights, drove up, and a man in a well-tailored suit and trench stepped out. Larry stepped out first, then Herman as he honked the vehicle’s horn. “You that Davis fellow?”

“Maybe,” the well-dressed man said.

“The one from that travelin’ circus of sorts?”

Once again came a “Maybe.”

“They sent someone different this time,” Herman noted. “But I guess it really doesn’t matter, eh? You here for one of them?” Larry went to the back of the truck and brought Henry forward on his leash. “Because if you are, this one’s got lots of surprises.”

The man took notice of Henry, the condition and fleshy state he was in. “With all this rot and blood and decay, this thing you present me is full of surprises?”

“Don’t be too shied away from his bodily condition, or what’s on the outside.” Herman brought Henry up to him. “Should I put him in your trunk, same as with the other kids?”

“Depends upon the price,” the man said. “What makes you think I want him? And especially in this shape and state of mind?”

“Oh, you circus folk want him,” Herman said. “And this is Lodestone, ain’t it? Where else you gonna get a child of this nature, this caliber?” He nodded to Larry to have the boy tied down and put in the man’s trunk. “Only here. Only from me, mister.”

“How much you askin’?”

“A thousand,” Herman said.

“What?” The man couldn’t believe his ears. “Listen, I ain’t paying no hick one thousand dollars for this atrocity. Besides, you sick hillbilly, what the hell are you anyway?”

“I’m a collector,” Herman answered. “I collect sleep-deprived children. And I think you will pay a G-note for little Henry over there. Oh yeah, that’s his name.”

The man thought for a second before going into his wallet and forking up the cash, just as Herman knew he would. “My manager will hear about this.” Then he got back into his sedan, Henry tied up in the trunk of his car, and drove off. “Only in Kentucky,” the well-tailored man muttered to himself angrily, “only the hicks.”

Before Herman and Larry got back into their own pickup, the older brother of the two grinned and waved. He counted the cash—all in twenties—gave Larry his cut, and said from the window with a chuckle, “I’ll see you again next Thursday.”