Undead Cheesehead (Monsters in the Midwest Book 3) Read online

  Undead

  CHEESEHEAD

  Monsters in the Midwest, Book 3

  Scott Burtness

  For Liz.

  My love for you is undead. Dying. I meant undying.

  In loving memory of

  Gorgeous Frank the Velvet Tank

  We miss you, little guy.

  All places and characters in this book are fictitious. Any resemblance to actual places or persons living, dead, undead, or in Wisconsin is purely coincidental.

  Also, reproduction in whole or part of this publication without express written consent is strictly prohibited. As in, don’t do it. It’s bad.

  ***

  Copyright © 2017 Scott Burtness

  All rights reserved.

  ISBN-13:

  978-1543247442

  ISBN-10:

  154324744X

  I really appreciate that you’re reading my book and hope you have fun with the folks up in Trappersville, Wisconsin.

  Please consider posting a review and telling your friends about “Undead Cheesehead.” Reviews for writers are like applause for actors. We love ‘em!

  And now…

  It Had to Start Somewhere…

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  The Final Chapter

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  It Had to Start Somewhere…

  The Tabanus sudeticus followed the scent of decaying flesh through an open window and into the confines of a box-shaped world. It had no thoughts, no plans, no aspirations. Those were the burdens of more evolved creatures. Only one desire occupied the tiny ganglion of nerves that served as the horse fly’s brain. It was time to feed.

  The densely-packed olfactory nerves of its antennae twitched and sent it circling down until it landed on a patch of jaundiced skin. Serrated mandibles began to saw back and forth. When viscous blood welled up, the fly’s labium extended to soak up the precious fluid.

  Something in the blood aggravated the fly. After scrubbing at its eyes and mouth, it took to the air and buzzed angrily back and forth across the room. Again, it tried to feed. Again, the blood’s strange taste pushed it back into the air. After a third attempt, the fly’s wings froze mid-flap, and it dropped unceremoniously to the ground. Lying on a smooth, hard expanse, its legs twitched once, twice, and then were still.

  ***

  Roland’s head poked through an unmarked door. After confirming there was no one else around, he pushed harder and stepped into an unadorned hallway. A smooth, white floor was mirrored by a smooth, white ceiling supported by smooth, white walls. Light made its way from cleverly hidden fluorescent tubes to infuse the hallway with an even, unrelenting glow. Even if there had been an object to cast a shadow, the ubiquitous whiteness guaranteed that no shadows would be allowed. While Roland marveled at the strangeness of it, Carmen quietly shut the stairwell door behind them.

  “Why do I feel like we just stepped into the future?” she whispered. “It’s like a spaceship down here.”

  The other office temp nodded in agreement. “Remember the movie Alien? Looks like the medical bay on the Nostromo.”

  “And someone just broke the no-dork rule. That means I get the first hit.”

  Satisfied that they were alone, Carmen produced a small, tightly-rolled joint. Grinning in response, Roland flourished a plastic lighter, flicked it, and held the small flame up. After his coworker had inhaled deeply, he took the joint, filled his lungs, and waited. When Carmen nodded, they exhaled in unison, creating a large cloud of sweet-smelling smoke. Carmen managed a second hit but coughed abruptly when she heard footsteps in the stairwell. With nowhere to run, she hid the joint behind her back and tried to look innocent.

  “What are you doing down here?” the newcomer snapped as he stepped through the door.

  While Carmen suppressed a giggle and tried to wave away the smoke, Roland stammered a response.

  “Uh, we thought the conference room was down here,” he quickly offered. “We’re temps for accounting.”

  The stranger scowled, which was surprising. The expression was well-suited to the man’s emaciated face, but it seemed out of place for a Get Wellies employee. The people Ronald had met so far had been a pretty jovial lot. It was hard not to be when your job was making stuffed animals with customized ‘get well’ messages embroidered on their plush little tummies. The man’s lab coat and clipboard were also unexpected. Why would someone be dressed like a scientist in a stuffed animal factory?

  Ronald asked the question, but the man just scowled some more before saying, “The main conference room is on the second floor.”

  The pronouncement was so sharp, so severe that the unfortunate temp automatically held up his hands in defense and took a nervous step backward.

  “Sorry. We’re new, and um. We got lost.”

  “You’re not new anymore,” the man in the lab coat snarled. “You’re fired. Follow me.”

  Before Roland could think of a response, the man spun on his heel and strode down the all-white corridor. The newly unemployed office temp followed with a resigned shrug, trailed a few steps behind by an also unemployed but still-giggling Carmen.

  ***

  A low croak pushed against the prevailing silence of the room, followed by the soft scrape of a fingernail along stainless steel. Nearby, but much harder to hear, one of six tiny fly legs twitched and mouthparts flexed. Another croak and scratch was answered by another twitch from the fly before silence returned.

  ***

  “Ahhhh. Aaaahhhh.”

  The faint sound echoed down the strange hallway, folding around itself and taking on a more ominous tone. A shiver squirmed down Roland’s spine and set his arm hairs on end. The man they’d been following stopped abruptly at the sound, a look of confusion replacing his glower.

  “Who else is down here?” he asked sharply.

  Roland held up his hands. “I don’t know. Look, we didn’t mean to cause any trouble. Really.”

  “Shut up,” the man responded brusquely. “Stay here. I’ll be right back.”

  The lab coat billowed behind the man as long strides took him down the hallway. Suddenly, he turned and disappeared into the white wall. Roland blinked, wondering for a moment if the pot had been laced with something a little more interesting. Carmen started to clap.

  “That was amazing!” she said. “We work with magicians.”

  “This is serious, Carmen. I told you we shouldn’t have snuck off. Now we’re gonna get fired.” Roland slumped against the wall. “I hate getting fired.”

  Carmen responded with a devil-may-care grin. “Well, people should do what they’re good at, right? We’re good at being terrible employees. Now c’mon. I want to see where he went.”

  “He told us stay here. We’re in enough trouble already, so we should just stay here.”

  Carmen moved to stand directly in front of him, tiny roach to her lips and lighter flicking. After a short puff, she held it out
. “We’re blazed and fired. What else could happen?”

  ***

  The corpse sat up. Collapsed lungs filled with clean, pathogen-scrubbed air. The mouth that had previously been frozen in a rictus snarl began to work, opening and closing methodically. Fixed and clouded eyes twitched left, then right, the cloudiness dissipating as the irises expanded and contracted. An uncoordinated arm raised up and thumped a bony wrist against its forehead, its cheek, and finally its nose. Halting, jerking movements pushed the wrist back and forth across the nostrils. Other senses started to return. Eyes registered light. Tongue tasted ozone and antiseptic. Nose smelled Lysol and a faint trace of decay. Ears heard a sharp gasp and a short burst of static followed by a voice.

  “This is Allen. We’ve got one. We’ve actually got one. Get down to morgue B-seven.”

  The corpse turned its head on creaking neck muscles. The light became more nuanced, revealing shapes and motion. Like flame for a moth, fresh blood for a shark, the movement and sounds drew the corpse forward. Shifting its weight, it slid on a hard, smooth surface. Inch by slow inch, it scooted toward the irresistible movement. A moment later it fell and landed on its face.

  “Crap,” the voice said, followed by another burst of static. “You have to get down here! It just fell off the table and is crawling, I repeat, crawling toward me right now. I’m going to try and get it back on the table.”

  The corpse didn’t know what crawling was, or table. It only knew hunger and that food was within reach.

  The fly didn’t know crawling or table, either. It too only knew hunger and that food was within reach.

  ***

  Roland almost didn’t see the door, so perfectly did it blend in with the surrounding white wall. When he did spot the thin line of its edge, he stopped so suddenly that Carmen ran into him.

  “Hey! Use your signal,” she chastised. “Some people are walking here.”

  Once he noticed the door, he also saw the small plaque next to it. Printed on a white rectangle almost indecipherable from the wall were small, light grey letters.

  Morgue B-7, Disposal Preparation

  What the hell? he wondered. Why would Get Wellies have a morgue?

  Before his weed-addled brain had time to consider the implications, a muffled voice reached his ears from beyond the closed door.

  “Crap,” the voice said. “You have to get down here! It just fell off the table and is crawling, I repeat, crawling toward me right now. I’m going to try and get it back on the table.”

  Carmen’s eyes went wide as they met Roland’s.

  “Spooky,” she said in a dramatic stage whisper, then opened the door.

  The slight change in air pressure sent the smell of antiseptic and rot washing over Roland and a fly spiraling right at his face. He ducked the fly and looked up to see… two men dancing. The angry scientist guy in the lab coat was wrapped in the embrace of a mostly naked man, and the two swayed back and forth. Roland glanced over at Carmen and saw his own stunned confusion reflected on her face. When he returned his attention to the strangely dancing couple, he saw the naked man bring his mouth down to the scientist’s neck. A geyser of red erupted and poured down the white lab coat. When the bleeding man started to scream, Roland’s only lucid thought was to wonder what Get Wellies animal was best for someone that just had their throat ripped open by someone else’s teeth.

  ***

  Jerry shifted and squirmed in the reception area chair. Restless, he stood and walked over to a wall covered with framed articles about Get Wellies’ work in the community. His eyes wandered across the accolades until they settled on a glossy photograph showcased in an expensive-looking picture frame. A quick inspection revealed that the photo was from a ribbon-cutting ceremony for a new hospital. Apparently, Get Wellies’ CEO had made a sizeable donation.

  “That’s pretty impressive,” he commented to the receptionist across the waiting room. “Five million? Guess I got into the wrong business. I should be selling stuffed animals, not paper,” he quipped. A good-natured laugh started in Jerry’s belly, but got stuck in his throat when the receptionist skewered him with a cool stare.

  “The community is very proud of Get Wellies’ contributions.”

  “Of course. Of course it is…” Jerry offered as an apology, although he wasn’t sure what he was apologizing for.

  The community in question was Fort Collins, Colorado. Normally, Jerry didn’t cover that particular region, but a new sales manager at the paper mill was mixing things up. Jerry didn’t mind. Travel was the only thing he liked about his job. It meant he had ample excuses to get out of Trappersville. The tiny, tick-infested town in northern Wisconsin was, in Jerry’s opinion, not only the birthplace of boredom, but the place where boredom had been refined and perfected.

  “Is that your CEO?” he asked, tapping the picture.

  “Yes,” the receptionist responded curtly.

  “Who’s that with him?”

  Without looking up, the receptionist said, “President Bush, Donald Rumsfeld, and the Director-General of the World Health Organization.”

  Jerry was about to say, ‘Wow!’ but frowned quietly instead, suddenly unsure why a stuffed animal company CEO was bumping elbows with Bush and Rumsfeld. Fortunately, he didn’t need to have answers to big questions. He just needed to meet his monthly paper stock sales quota.

  Returning to the uncomfortable chair, Jerry sat and fidgeted, flipping the locks of the briefcase on his lap open and closed, open and closed. When he tired of that, he took to glancing at his watch. He’d glanced five times when he realized he was doing it in fifteen second intervals. A business magazine on the small table next to him held little appeal. The sports magazine held even less. Throwing decorum aside, he slid a horror novel from his briefcase and opened it to a dog-eared page. He was just getting back into the story when a small, yellow light began to flash.

  Tucked up in a corner by the ceiling, the light hadn’t drawn his attention earlier. Now that it was strobing, he realized that its placement ensured it would be visible from every corner of the room. His mouth formed a question, but the words froze on his tongue when he saw the look on the receptionist’s face. Terror stretched her skin tight against her cheekbones, pulled her lips up her gums, and opened her eyes so wide that the whites showed in wide swaths around the irises.

  “Please come with me, sir,” she finally said, her tone brooking no argument.

  “Um, you know…” Jerry hedged, “I think I left some samples in the car. I’ll, ah… be right back.”

  He stood abruptly and spilled his briefcase to the reception area’s floor. Stooping, he started to hastily scoop brochures and samples back inside.

  “No, you can’t leave,” the receptionist said in a tight voice.

  When Jerry looked up, he screamed. It wasn’t because she was holding the door open to the inner offices with one hand. It wasn’t even because she was pointing a pistol at him with her other hand. He screamed because a third hand was reaching through the open door and about to grab the woman’s neck.

  The receptionist echoed Jerry’s scream and turned the gun on her assailant. Three shots rang out and then the hand’s owner lurched forward. The man was gaunt and draped in a knee-length coat that must’ve been white before someone dumped a few gallons of gloppy red on it. His skin was an unhealthy shade of yellow-grey, and his eyes were bloodshot to such an extent that the irises were barely visible. As Jerry watched, the man’s mouth stretched wide and bit down hard on the woman’s cheek, sending a fresh spray of red across the front of his coat.

  The paper salesman threw his zombie novel at the pair and ran for the exit. He hit the glass door at a full sprint but violently bounced back when it didn’t open. Ignoring the throbbing pain in his shoulder, he shoved again and again, but the door wouldn’t budge.

  “Let me out!” he cried. “Let me out of here!”

  Frantic, he grabbed his discarded briefcase, slammed it shut, and swung it hard at the glass. Over an
d over again, he assaulted the door, but the glass didn’t even scratch. More shots rang out. Some struck the man in the bloody coat and spun him in a wild circle. Other missed their mark and hit the locked glass door. Cracks formed, radiating out from the center of each bullet hole. With a final desperate cry, Jerry threw himself at the door again and sobbed in relief as glass shattered around him. Rolling across the snow-dusted concrete apron, he came to his feet, briefcase in hand, and sprinted past the well-manicured evergreen shrubs framing the building’s front walkway. Voices called out from behind him to stop, stop right now, but Jerry didn’t listen. After climbing hastily into his rental car, he cranked the ignition, slammed on the gas, ricocheted off the bumper of another car as his tires fought for purchase on the slippery pavement, and sped for the exit.

  “Screw the quota,” he said in a shaky voice. “I quit.”

  Chapter 1

  Stanley’s alarm clock was a thing of beauty. A reliable wonder of plastic and circuitry with a blue liquid crystal display. “It’s time,” it buzzed. “It’s that time that you indicated was important. I’m so glad I was able to help wake you at this very important time.”

  Stanley wished he could come up with a truly wonderful way to thank his alarm clock. With its brown plastic casing cleverly colored to look like wood, a brightly-glowing display, and more buttons, knobs, and dials than a jet’s cockpit, it had served him without fail since he was in high school. He’d never been able to find a thank-you card for an electronic device, so he would just pat its snooze bar lovingly and said, “Th-th-thanks!”

  Alarm clock attended to, Stanley reviewed the list of things he had planned to start the day. Pee, poop, shower. Brush and floss his teeth. Put on clothes, eat breakfast.

  With a satisfied nod, he headed to the bathroom. A short time later, he’d crossed items one and two off his morning list and readied for the shower. The steaming hot water was nothing short of heavenly. After drying off with a thick towel, he wiped steam from the mirror.