by T. W. Brown
The two reached the ground floor. He pushed open the emergency exit door and took a look around. They were only going to be visible from one lookout tower at first. He scanned the depleted row of vehicles. An army-green truck sat parked at the bottom of the wheelchair ramp. It was one of those heavy-duty types with four wheels on the rear axel. A reinforced, black front bumper would serve his needs perfectly, but first…
“You two stay here,” Peter whispered.
He couldn’t see anybody in the gun-tower, hopefully that meant that whoever was on watch was either actually doing his job and keeping an eye outside the facility, or, and this was quite likely, sitting on the floor drunk or asleep with his radio turned up so that he would wake up if anybody tried to contact him.
Slipping from car to car, he pulled all the keys out of the ignitions. Shaw insisted that all vehicles be gassed and have keys in the ignition in case of emergency. What worked to his advantage could be equally used against Shaw’s men. Sneaking back, satisfied he’d bought them as much time as possible, Peter signaled the girls to come down to the big truck.
Once everybody was inside, he turned to the girls, “It’s gonna be a bumpy ride, and they’re probably gonna start shooting as soon as we crash through that gate. This is your last chance to change your minds. I can’t promise we make it.”
“Then why are you running?” Shari asked plainly. “You’re a guy…and a doctor. You have a free ride here with these people.”
“Because,” Peter shrugged, “they’re animals. And my grandmother would be so disappointed in me if I lived like these people.”
“Your grandmother?” Erin asked, sounding completely baffled.
“She survived the Holocaust,” Peter said. “She used to tell me stories…but we don’t have time for that now. Just accept it for now…if you’re curious, ask later.”
“Let’s go,” Shari whispered, gripping her sister’s hand.
Peter turned the key and the truck roared to life. Gunning the engine a couple times to confirm to himself that it was going to run well, he shifted to reverse and rolled back. As soon as he was clear, he wrenched the steering wheel and brought the big vehicle around. He thought he heard shouting as he shifted to first.
“Hang on!” he warned as the truck began to pick up speed. Finding second, he heard the sound of a machinegun as he rounded the arcing corner. He’d cleared the first tower and felt just a little confidence growing within. The next tower was just now coming into view. He had a straight shot to the gate from here, and by the time the guns came to bear on the truck, he should be through them. The zombies outside would give the few tower-gunners plenty to worry about.
The truck hit the gate with a metal-screeching crash. Peter downshifted and slowed in anticipation of the turn he would have to make. Zombies bounced or spun off the front bumper of the truck. The ones directly in front were mowed over like so much grass. He reached the main road that ran along the front. He wanted to turn right, but it seemed that direction hadn’t been cleared by Shaw’s men yet. He’d have to go left, back across the front of the picnic basket-shaped building.
Except for the odd, struggling zombie, the road was mostly clear except for…
“Are those crosses?” Erin asked, leaning forward.
“Looks like it,” Shari said, placing her left arm protectively across her sister and urging her to sit back.
“What’s on them?” Erin leaned across her sister’s lap to look out the passenger side window.
“Zombies,” Peter said grimly. The truck was zooming past the walled-in complex and, as he’d hoped, the gunners were now too busy with the small flood of zombies pouring in through the breached gate to worry about him.
“Those are women!” Shari gasped. “All of them, and all zombies.”
Peter remembered hearing about certain females being punished this way. He’d managed to avoid attending any of those ceremonies.
“Wait!” Shari yelled. “Stop the truck!”
Peter’s foot instinctively lifted off the gas, but almost as quickly came back down. “That’s not possible,” he said, shaking his head. “Besides the fact that there are zombies everywhere…I’m not giving one of those machineguns the chance for an easy kill.”
“But…Ruth…” Shari began to cry, face pressed against the glass.
“What?” Erin leaned over. “Nooo!” She screamed.
Peter glanced over, but all he saw were the crosses spread every ten feet or so along the side of the road with nude female zombies writhing on them.
Both the Bergman’s seemed locked on one in particular, their heads turning as they passed. Peter couldn’t really tell which one, but he remembered Ruth was the name of Shari’s other sister. It seemed she’d been found. Later, he’d allow himself to feel sorry for them, but at the moment, he simply wanted to put as much distance between them and this place as possible. Beside him, the two sisters held each other and cried.
Garrett stared out the window. His eyes unable to tear away from the figure still tied to the post near the gate. The head was mostly hidden from his view, but he knew that it would still be sitting in the grass, staring up at The Toy, gnashing its teeth.
“Are you still laughing, bitch?” Garrett growled.
He glanced down, his anger ramping up another notch. He could clearly see the teeth marks that decorated his shriveled manhood. The angry redness seemed to throb with his pulse rate. Three times he’d attempted to work it up to readiness, but it was simply too painful.
Grabbing the loose fitting sweats he’d found, he put them on. He didn’t care that they were cotton-candy pink, or that they barely went past his knees. All he did care about was that they didn’t rub his tender, sensitive injury.
Storming down the stairs, Garrett fumed. If he hurt, then The Toy would hurt as well. He would see to it. He stalked up the driveway to the post. There was a distant rumble of thunder as he reached down, grabbed the detached head by its long, stringy hair, and hurled it at the brick wall. It hit with a satisfying crack and burst, a dark stain visible where it struck. The now-lopsided head rolled onto one side, the eyes still moving in their sockets. He picked it up waving it menacingly at The Toy before turning and throwing it. Again and again he repeated the act each time taunting The Toy. Eventually the ruined mass broke open.
Garrett looked at his hands, horrified. His palms were sticky with a dark, sap-like goo. He ran inside finding a red jug of liquid laundry soap and washed. It took half the jug and several bottles of water before he felt clean. Looking up, he saw his shadowy face in the mirror. His eyes were wide with…fear. He didn’t want to die. Even more, he didn’t want to become one of those things!
The Toy! The Toy had seen his fear. Even worse, it still showed no fear. Well…that would change. Now.
Storming through the empty house and out on the porch, he glared at the dark, shadowy outline of The Toy and the post. Drawing the knife from its place on his belt, he moved up from behind and placed the blade on one cheek. With a flick he cut the strip cutting into the corners of the mouth.
The Toy coughed, choked, and spat. Then after working the jaw a few times, it spoke in a raw voice, “Get a little on you?”
Garrett stepped around and put his face close, “I am going to hurt you.”
The Toy seemed to consider that statement for a moment. Then, with eyes so fierce it made him take a step back before he’d realized it. It smiled! “So.”
With an angry roar, he backhanded the defiant creature. The head snapped to the side, but just as fast came back, glaring. Again, he struck and once more, it swung back, an awful sneer made worse by the blood trickling from the mouth and nose. Balling up his fist, he punched it in the center of that defiant face. This time, the eyes rolled back and it slumped down. Almost immediately it began making hoarse choking sounds.
“No, you don’t.” Garrett cut the leather thong around the throat. Anger still surging, he cut away all the bindings and tossed t
he tiny figure over his shoulders. Seething with impotant frustration he walked back to the dark house.
“Tonight you will scream. Tonight, you will beg.” Garrett vowed as he made his way up the stairs to the bedroom.
Kirsten stared up at the ceiling. It was blurry. Still. She remembered a joke she’s heard her Uncle Skip say once during a family barbecue: What do you say to a woman with two black eyes! Nothin’ you already told her twice! She hadn’t gotten the joke then. She’d only been eleven…two years ago.
The two black eyes she currently possessed were the least of her problems. She was pretty sure her nose was broken. She could barely breathe through it. Her entire body hurt. Then there was the filth-factor. She’d been tied naked and spread-eagled on this bed for at least two days. During that time, she’d been beaten, whipped, as well as poked with and sliced by that big knife that The Big Man carried. And urinated on.
Every time she’d asked for water, he’d climbed up and stood over her and peed. She stopped asking after the third time. So then he’d come in with a bottle of water, drinking it in noisy gulps in front of her. He tilted the bottle her direction and she foolishly opened her mouth. With a fiendish giggle, The Big Man climbed up and urinated on her again. Since then, she simply stared up any time he came in. At least, that way, it was her own filth she lay in from that point.
“Hungry?” A big, ugly face filled her vision.
No way, Kirsten thought. She fought back a shudder at what that question might imply. She continued to stare straight up, thankful that she lacked the ability to really focus on anything.
She felt something wet and squishy drip on her lips. Horrified, she spat and jerked her head to the side. A rough hand squeezed her cheeks and wrenched her head back. A spoon forced its way between her split, ragged lips, forcing a mouthful of thick, slimy…peaches? The sound of the spoon clinking on glass made her look. She could make out a small jar with a blue label in The Big Man’s hand.
Baby food.
Another spoonful of peach slurry shoved itself into her mouth. This time she swallowed. As much as she wanted to resist…spit it in his face…it was the most delicious thing she could remember. After two jars, The Big Man produced a water bottle.
“Thirsty?” he asked.
Not a chance, Kirsten thought. She pursed her lips and glared, although she doubted he could tell as swollen as her face felt. She felt a trickle of cool liquid splatter on her face. Hopefully, she tried it with her tongue, letting it dart out. Water! Opening her mouth, she gulped greedily. Afterwards, he simply sat there, staring.
“I bet you’re wondering why,” The Big Man said after an uncomfortable moment of silence.
Kirsten nodded.
“Because,” The Big Man rose to his feet, the darkness and evil returning as if that calmness and compassion were a mask that he peeled back effortlessly, “I will not let you die on your terms. You’ll die after I’ve broken you. After you’ve begged me to kill you a hundred times, and mean it each time from your very soul. Then…when I decide I’m finished with you…I’ll toss you over that gate…and let them finish you.”
The Big Man stood, looking her over. She thought she saw him wince, then he turned and stomped angrily out of the room, leaving her to her pain, leaving her to lay in her filth.
“Wanna bet?” Kirsten whispered to the empty room.
“What am I supposed to do when you vanish into that disgusting lab for hours?” Lucy complained. She sat at the table with her arms folded petulantly across her chest.
“Would you like to join me while I work? I could certainly use an assistant,” Reginald offered meekly.
“Go in that stinky room?” Lucy waved her hand in front of her nose. “I’d rather watch you do naked yoga.”
Reginald blushed. Lucy made frequent comments in regards to the unattractiveness and insufficientness of his physique. Their previous two interactions had been less than pleasant. First, she insisted that he “bust one out” manually prior to their engaging in sex.
“Maybe you’ll last longer than two minutes,” Lucy had said, then laughed in that loud braying way she did everytime she said something cutting or cruel.
Then, she insisted that he “go down” on her. Of course he knew such things were done. He’d even seen it performed on the small collection of pornographic DVDs he kept stashed in the back of his sock drawer. That particular experience proved to be less than enjoyable. He found himself repulsed by a number of factors. The most prevalent being her apparent lack of concern for personal hygiene. Of course she spent the entire time detailing everything he did incorrectly.
“Honestly, Reggie,” she’d said with an exasperated and scolding tone, “I don’t know what you’re more incompetent with…your tongue…or that mini-mushroom of a dick!” That was followed by a healthy dose of spittle-accented, braying laughter.
“Earth to Reggie!” Lucy snapped her fingers in front of his face.
“Sorry,” he apologized. Perhaps now would be a good time to show her what he’d done. “Umm…I have a little something for you.”
“The key to get me out of this place?” Lucy grumbled.
The codes to the keypad, Reginald mentally smacked his forehead. He needed to make sure she had those. If something were to happen to him…
“Sorry, no,” he said and reached under his chair, producing a 750 ml glass vial. A dark liquid filled the bulb at the bottom and halfway up the stoppered neck. He placed the vial on the table with a smile.
“What’s that?” Lucy leaned forward.
“A homemade strawberry wine,” he said proudly.
“Like pruno?”
“I believe you will find this far superior to some jailhouse concoction. While it is unlikely to win any Napa Valley awards, it should be more than sufficient.”
“Well get to pourin’, Reggie!” Lucy exclaimed.
Filling a plastic water glass, he set it before her with a bit of flourish. She picked it up, gave a sniff…then downed the contents. Reginald had tasted it already ensuring it was drinkable.
“Hit me again, Reggie,” Lucy bellowed, slamming the empty water glass on the table.
He poured another, this time filling the glass to almost the top. Lucy drank this serving only a little slower. Without being prompted, he emptied the rest of the vial’s contents into her still half-full vessel. The remainder of the night was actually pleasant. Lucy shared from her vast collection of dirty jokes and Reginald made certain to laugh at the appropriate times.
Later that evening, in bed, there were no cruel remarks. Lucy even indulged him in a little bit of kissing on the mouth. Reginald lay on his back feeling satisfied and actually happy listening to the droning snore of the woman beside him. Perhaps, he thought, just perhaps things will be better now.
Juan, Mackenzie, and Margaret sat on one side of the long kitchen table, JoJo and Thad on the other side. After the exchange of names, an uncomfortable silence had fallen over the group. Keith was sleeping in Margaret’s room. Mackenzie made sure the wound was cleaned and dressed. After sifting through the various antibiotics, she’d managed to coax him to consciousness long enough to ask if he’d known whether or not he was allergic to any medications. He’d said he didn’t think so.
Giving him a dose of penicillin that Juan discovered in—of all places—Mister Billing’s medicine cabinet, she waited about an hour to ensure nothing bad happened. Once certain he was okay, she managed to get a couple Oxycontin down his throat. She was never too surprised to discover the plethora of assorted medications sitting idle in people’s medicine cabinets.
“So,” Thad broke the silence, “is he gonna be okay?”
“I think so,” Mackenzie confirmed. “As long as there isn’t any infection. I have no idea how often we need to clean and redress the wound, so I’m just gonna guess and go with every four hours unless it starts to really bleed through.”
“How we workin’ thi
s?” JoJo asked, deciding to cut to the chase.
“That depends on you,” Mackenzie replied.
“We ain’t the one shot nobody,” JoJo snapped. “All we was doin’ was lookin’ for Keith’s uncle. Ain’t none of us knowed a thing ‘bout him layin’ hands on you or your moms.”
“I said I was sorry,” Margaret whispered.
“No, you really didn’t,” Thad countered.
“You went all crazy,” JoJo added.
Juan remembered the day he’d met Margaret and Mackenzie. How he’d rushed up to their house when he heard screams. After killing the zombie child that was trying to eat Margaret, she’d flipped out and pulled a gun on him, too. He understood these two men and their anger…at least a bit.
“You can’t be all pissed because of what she did.” Juan tilted his head towards the older woman beside him who sat with her head down, staring at her hands that were wringing nervously in her lap. “If you been out in this shit, you should know that there’s some bad stuff happenin’…and I ain’t just talkin’ ‘bout them deaders.”
“So that makes it okay that she shot Keith?” Thad challenged.
“No,” Mackenzie cut Juan off before he could respond. “But it makes it understandable.”
“How’s that?” Thad leaned back in his chair.
“Well—” Mackenzie started, but couldn’t find the words.
“Where you two fall from?” Juan asked, his voice becoming quiet, but very dangerous sounding.
The two looked at each other—Thad and JoJo—then back to Juan. Mackenzie saw something passing between the three men. It was like she might appraise a car in the lot…but not. There was something happening, and it felt important.
