Read Online Cutthroat Chicken by Elizabeth A. Reeves - Free Book Online Page B

but most stuck, as had been intended. The rich aroma of spice-laden meat filled the air. The creature shifted its arm again, first with too small a motion, then a wild flailing of the limb.
    That first movement was followed by an awkward kicking of a pair of equally battered legs. The movement was disjointed and awkward. It roared with frustration.
    His baby was not a graceful thing.
    It lifted its head.
    Blank eyes met his.
    “Maaaaasterrrr,” moaned his creation.
    If he had hands, he would have rubbed them together. He had to settle for yet another triumphant crowing.
    He ran circles around his creation as it staggered until it was very nearly upright. It leaned forward, its arms drooping towards the floor. One shoulder was already starting to break away from the body. That arm could almost reach the floor. It gave his creation a lop-sided unsymmetrical look.
    Damn it. Perfectly cooked always meant falling off the bone.
    Oh, well. It would do. He thought it was beautiful, and it would be perfectly serviceable, too.
    His little victims, the players of his new style of cooking show, didn’t know it yet, but they had just added chicken-fried zombie to their menu.

Chapter Twelve
     
    “Do you hear something?” Abe Braun raised his head, looking back over his shoulder.
    Goldie Locke grimaced at him as she pulled and pried at the exit she was hoping they’d be able to somehow yank open so that the few survivors would be able to escape.
    And then she’d deal with Fred herself.
    She hadn’t told her plan to the others. She knew that they would protest. They wouldn’t want her to go back and face her doom.
    But, it was her responsibility. If she had kept a closer watch on Fred, he never would have be able to kill fourteen people in three hours. Fifteen, counting the light technician who’d lost it.
    The door just wouldn’t budge.
    “I hear it,” she said through gritted teeth. “Come on, there has to be something we can do to get this open. Why doesn’t this place have any windows? At least we’d be able to shatter the glass and get out that way.
    “It’s a studio,” Abe Braun said, grunting as he slammed his shoulder against the door, to no avail. “We like to be able to control our own lighting. Sunlight doesn’t make for reliable television.”
    “Nobody expects the zombie apocalypse to start indoors,” one of the crew, a young man with a baseball cap and an impressive black eye, quipped. He kicked the door with a ninja kick, but it didn’t even shift.
    “It’s just like it’s wall, not a door at all,” Chef Aire-Craft muttered.
    Goldie Locked turned to him, her mouth slightly open. “Oh. Good point. I guess this could just be an illusion of a door, or… or, I suppose it could be completely sealed up.”
    Abe Braun shook his head. “There has to be ventilation somewhere, or we would still be breathing in smoke. No, there’s fresh air getting in here somehow.”
    They all looked up at the ducts in the ceiling, a good fifteen feet over their heads.
    “I don’t know how we’d even get up there,” Goldie Locke said. “I might be a witch, but that doesn’t mean I can fly.”
    She ignored or simply didn’t see the shocked expressions of her companions. She rubbed her chin thoughtfully as she stared at the ducts.
    “One way or another,” she muttered. “I guess we need to try and find a ladder.” She stopped in her tracks and spun back around, her mouth dropped open and excitement in her eyes. “I have an idea,” she said eagerly. “This is a cooking show, right?”
    The cast and crew did their bests not to roll their eyes. Some succeeded better than others.
    “Your point,” Chef Aire-Craft said dryly.
    “Vents,” Goldie Locke said. “It’s fire code. Stoves and ovens and deep fryers… they all have to have exhaust hoods, right?”
    Her optimism was contagious. They grouped together so they could make the trek back to the kitchen.
    The site of the fire was even worse than they had