Living With the Dead: Year One

by Joshua Guess

  When the zombies started turning up on the Kentucky side of the river, panic took over within hours. Matt hoped to get his store’s valuable supplies into the hands of those who needed them, rather than looters who wanted the power that came with a monopoly on essential goods. He didn’t want to leave me alone, so we headed for his pickup. I put my little beagle mix, Skip, in his crate behind the seats, and we went to assess the situation, dodging the groups of zombies that were beginning to clog the streets.

  At first, people still went through the motions of trying to do business, but things quickly spiraled out of control. Fights broke out all over the store, and some people began wheeling their top-heavy shopping carts right past the checkout counters. Nobody tried to stop them. Most of them were openly carrying guns.

  I got worried about leaving Skip in the truck in case someone stole it. I got him out, put on his leash, and rushed back inside to find Matt. He was in the warehouse, and a large truck was backed up to the loading bay. Any other time this wouldn’t have seemed unusual, but this was not a normal day. Matt was backed against a pallet of canned vegetables, his hands in the air, facing five men with shotguns.

  I froze, as Skip began to growl. I recognized the man in front. I’d seen him many times when I stopped by the store to shop, or talk to Matt about borrowing his truck. His name was Mason. He was taller than Matt, but thinner, though working in a warehouse had given him tight, ropy muscles. He had sandy hair that was always in his eyes, and he seemed shy, occasionally nodding at me but never speaking.

  He didn’t look shy now.

  Matt, foolish, responsible Matt. “You can’t just drive off with all this stuff, Mason! People need it. We have to help people coming in here get the things that might keep them alive.”

  A dry, emotionless laugh was Mason’s reply. “Hey, dumb-shit, you don’t get it. It’s every man for himself now.” Gunshots were heard through the loading bay door. “See? They’re here already. Me and the boys are gonna set us up a supply depot. This will make a real good start.” His eyes cut to me. “Maybe your sister’d like to join us. I bet she’d be real popular.”

  Matt took a step toward Mason, and in an instant Mason brought up his gun and fired. Matt flew backward, the pallet behind him rocking with the impact. That hadn’t been a warning shot. It hadn’t been to wound or incapacitate. Mason had shot Matt in the face, and I’m sure he was dead before the first drops of his blood hit the floor.

  I screamed, and Skip barked and lunged at the end of his leash. Mason swung the gun toward us, then dipped it down, pointed directly at Skip. “We don’t need this noisy little fucker.”

  His finger tightened on the trigger, and I let go of Skip’s leash. “Go, Skip! Run!” He leaped forward just as the gun went off. He yelped, but kept going, right out the back door.

  I sank to the floor. I looked at my dead brother, and hoped Skip would keep running and find somewhere safe until I could get him. I couldn’t wrap my head around what was happening. There were monsters outside, roaming our streets. This guy, who was barely older than I was, had a gun pointed at me. I began scooting backward, getting my hands under me so I could get up and run.

  “Oh, no you don’t, sweet thang,” Mason said. “Ellen, isn’t it? Miss Ellen Hale, always so cool and proper. Well, them days are over.” He moved toward me, swung his fist, and that’s all I knew for a while.

  ***

  I couldn’t feel my arms. The only light I could see came from a narrow crack between two broad metal doors. I made out the shapes of crates and boxes stacked around me, and concluded I was in the back of the truck Mason and his goons loaded with stolen merchandise. The engine rumbled, but we weren’t moving. The lack of motion may have been what nudged me back to consciousness.

  A quick inventory told me my hands were bound behind my back, and my head throbbed. In the dim light, I discovered the chill I felt was due to my shirt being pushed up under my arms, exposing my bra, and my jeans were unbuttoned and unzipped. They remained in place, though, and I hoped that was a good sign.

  The doors banged open and I squinted, ducking my head away from the light. “Well, the princess is awake.” I recognized Mason’s condescending, contemptuous drawl. I didn’t say anything. “Ignore me if you want, princess. Won’t do any good.”

  As my eyes adjusted to the brightness, I saw pallets of food, bottled water, and other items stolen from the wholesale club, as well as cases of bourbon. I surmised we’d made another stop, looting the Buffalo Trace Distillery on the north side of town, while I was unconscious. Fabulous. I read enough novels to know liquor was a high-value commodity in any survival situation. I also knew enough about mean drunks to be even more afraid.

  Mason climbed into the truck and reached behind me. He grabbed my bound wrists and jerked me to my feet and then out into the early March sun. I saw that we were behind a run-down two story hotel off the highway. The windows were boarded up, and I noticed signs of a recent fire scorching the walls to one side of the back door. A power pole canted against the building.

  He pushed me ahead of him, and I was ridiculously grateful that my shirt slipped down to cover me, though I had to shuffle, thighs together, to keep my jeans from slipping down. We went up the stairs to the second floor. I heard other women calling from behind doors fastened with latches and padlocks. Some were shouting for help, but mostly I heard sobbing. I wondered how long it would be before I was doing the same thing.

  Near the end of the hall, Mason unlocked a door and pushed me inside. A stocky, greasy-looking man stood near the bathroom, which was lacking a door. The Welcome Wagon, I supposed. Mason handed me off to him and left, with a final visual grope before the door closed.

  I looked around. The room took “no-frills” to a whole new low. There was a bed with a pillow and blanket, and a table with two plain chairs. That was it. No lamp, since it appeared the building had no power. No dresser. Nothing on the walls. After my hands were released and I asked to use the bathroom, I found no shower curtain, and the lid to the toilet tank had been sealed with some sort of epoxy, leaving no access to the metallic bits inside.

  When the jailer departed, I heard the snap of the lock and curled in a ball on the bed, as tears squeezed past my tightly-clenched eyelids. Matt was dead, for offering what would have been no more than a token resistance to the group of armed thieves. Skip was missing, maybe hurt or dead. Did zombies eat dogs? Since I’d seen my first zombie only twenty-four hours ago, I didn’t know much about their habits and behaviors, except that they’d eat me if they got a chance. Maybe a gunshot was the cleanest death any of us could wish for now.

  It must have been a couple of hours later when I heard the lock rattling. A tall, gangly guy of maybe eighteen entered. He set a tray on the table and tossed a small, cloth bundle at me. I shook it out to see a light green t-shirt style dress.

  “Go put that on,” he said. “Take everything else off, and give it to me, except your socks. You can keep those.”

  I stared at him for a second, unable to comprehend. When I came out of the bathroom wearing the dress over my own bra and panties, I was sent back and forced to remove them. He left me a small lantern, cautioning me to use the battery sparingly, because I’d be forced to “earn” another one. He took my shirt, jeans, bra, underwear, and shoes.

  Before he left, he said, “Mason will be up soon. He breaks in all the new ones. But I think I’ll see about getting a turn with you when he’s done.”

  I shuddered. Though it had never been much of a mystery, I now had confirmation. I would be raped. Repeatedly. Death-by-zombie was starting to sound like a good exit strategy.

  Though I wasn’t hungry, I ate the canned stew and sliced white bread on the tray, and drank the bottle of water. My spoon was plastic. I mused that unless the zombies were somehow defeated soon, sliced white bread from huge assembly-line bakeries would be a thing of the past.

  Then I began searching the room for any means of defense or escape. I knew it was hopeless
. I was a bookworm, not an action movie heroine. Climbing through ceiling vents or scaling walls was completely beyond me. The hotel seemed well-fortified, with plenty of armed guards. And even if I got out, un-shot, the streets were crawling with zombies.

  My window had thick plywood over it, except for about six inches at the top. I guessed they weren’t worried about zombies smashing in second floor windows, but they wanted to keep their captives in, without eliminating the only natural source of light. The sunlight faded, and I turned on my lantern, unwilling to subject myself to darkness. Just after that, I heard the lock, and Mason entered the room.

  I backed away, putting the bed between us. “What’s the matter, princess?” Mason said. “Not happy to see me?” He pushed his sandy hair back on his forehead, and I noticed his gray sweatshirt had splatters and smears of what could only be blood.

  I tried to think of any argument that could stop what was going to happen, knowing it was futile. “Look, Mason, you don’t want to keep me here.”

  “I think I do.” He walked over and took the tray and put it out in the hall. He said something to someone, and the door closed again.

  “Well, not like this.” Despite my resolve to sound confident, my voice shook. “I can help, though. I could cook. Or if you have maps, I could figure out where you can find supplies. I’ve lived here a few years, and I’m good at research.” It was an extremely lame plea, and I knew it.

  “We got men who can do that stuff. But a sweet little piece like you, that might be even more valuable than booze before long.” He advanced, until my back was up against the boarded window. “Let’s see what you’ve been hiding. You’re not gonna be so untouchable now.” He used his thigh to hold me there, as he unfastened the four buttons that led down from the neckline of my dress. Apparently they didn’t go down far enough, because he ripped it several more inches and pulled the sides apart, exposing me.

  I tried to fight, but a backhand across the face split my lip and shut me up real fast. In books, the heroine always fights, refusing to surrender her dignity or her innocence. Not that I was completely innocent, but I wasn’t far from it. Did not fighting make this partially my fault? I didn’t think so, but right then I didn’t care. I just wanted the pain to stop.

  It turned out Mason loved causing pain. I didn’t dare think about the source of the blood on his shirt and crusted around his fingernails. It quickly became obvious he really liked blood. If he didn’t get enough of it using his fists or teeth, he used a butterfly knife. He’d open small wounds under the jaw and around the breasts, or in the fleshy parts of arms and thighs, never enough to cause serious injury, but enough to show he could bleed me dry if he wanted, and sometimes I wished he would.

  I’d like to say that first night didn’t break me, but maybe it did. I was violated in ways I’d never imagined, left with bruises to my face and thighs, and bite marks on my chest and shoulders. My mind went somewhere else, images of Matt laughing when he tossed me his keys and told me to make sure to bring his truck back with a full gas tank. Wondering if I should have left Skip in the truck that morning, and what might have happened to him if I did. Trying to equate the vision of Mason as the quiet warehouse worker with the monster who had his hand fisted in my hair, forcing me to my knees.

  When he finally left, I buttoned my dress despite the rip below the placket, turned off the lantern, wrapped myself in the musty-smelling blanket, and wept.

  ***

  The next several days passed in a blur. Food was brought twice a day, usually by an elderly man with thinning gray hair and a bushy beard. He didn’t seem to be one of the “gang,” or at least he never tried to molest me. I made attempts to get him to talk, but he shook his head and put a finger to his lips, indicating he was not permitted to speak to me.

  Each day, some men brought in buckets of water so I could wash and fill the toilet tank. The water was cold and smelled stagnant. I was given one tiny bar of soap, which I also used to wash my hair. I was allowed a second dress, and the first time Mason visited after that, he ripped it the same way he had the first. My socks were filthy, so I washed them in the sink. I couldn’t get out all the bloodstains.

  Mason came to me every day, and he wasn’t the only one. Not even close. They worked in shifts, and at any time I could be wakened and used. They usually came in pairs, one guarding outside the door while the other was with me. Sometimes it was a group, two or three in the room with me at a time. Nothing, no matter how depraved, was off limits. They told me to do something, and I had no choice. If I didn’t, I’d suffer even more.

  I hated them all, but my hatred for Mason burned in my gut. He was the most sadistic of the bunch, truly vicious. He also delighted in taunting me with memories of Matt. “I used to think about killing him, even before this happened,” he said. “I hated that obnoxious little prick.” I tried not to listen. I wondered what had happened to Matt’s body after Mason shot him.

  The old man came often with peroxide, antibiotic ointment, and bandages. I always needed them. He never spoke, and the “inmates” were forbidden to communicate with each other. If the guards heard us trying to talk through the walls or doors, we were punished. It might be taking the lantern away, or missing a meal. Other times it was much worse.

  One day near the end of the second week, I got my first real information. Earlier, I’d heard shouts and the sound of feet pounding down the hall, and the rest of the morning was filled with more gunshots than usual. As I’d done on numerous occasions, I climbed up on the table and peered over the plywood covering my window. One of the fences surrounding the hotel had buckled under the combined force of what must have been over a hundred zombies. This was the most I’d seen at once since the outbreak began.

  A short time later the old man brought me what looked like boiled spaghetti doused in ketchup. After placing the tray on the table, he went back to the door and looked carefully up and down the hallway. Seemingly satisfied, he came back to stand by the table.

  “They’re all outside, fighting,” he began. “I have to be careful, though. They keep me around to do the cooking and help take care of you girls, but if I cause them any trouble, they’ll give me to the creatures.”

  Tears filled my eyes. I couldn’t speak yet, so I nodded.

  “My name’s Carter.” With another glance over his shoulder, he lowered himself into the chair opposite me. “I’m sorrier than I can say about what they’re doing to you girls. I want to help you, but I don’t know how…”

  “Ellen,” I choked. “My name is Ellen.”

  “Ellen,” he repeated. “I’m sorry. I’d help if I could.” His pale blue eyes reddened at the rims. After all he’d seen, he could still cry for us. I supposed he was just a different sort of victim.

  “Please. Carter. Just talk to me. Tell me about this place. I keep trying to understand it, to make it make some kind of sense, but I can’t.” I dug my plastic fork into the pseudo-spaghetti and forced down a bite.

  He thought a moment. “That Mason and some of his buddies figured out early on how things were probably going. They started breaking into places and taking what they wanted, knowing whoever had the best stash of supplies would have the most power.”

  “I guessed that part. They killed my brother at his store, and took me.” I choked up again at the thought of Matt. And Skip.

  “I’m ashamed to say, my grandson’s one of ‘em. He was friends with Mason before, and I have to say I never trusted him. There was something sneaky about him, like he was waiting for something. Like those people the neighbors say were so nice, kept to themselves, then they go into a mall with a gun.”

  I thought that’s exactly what Mason sounded like. Undoubtedly his access to the truck and warehouse, and his willingness to commit violence cemented him in the position of “chief” of whatever fucked-up kind of gang this was.

  “How many of us are here, Carter? How many women?”

  “About two dozen, I think. The rooms they’re not using for ba
rracks are all full.” He looked sick at the thought.

  “What else? Are they just going to keep us like this forever?” Again, I probably didn’t want to know, but Carter looked jumpy, and I knew he wouldn’t risk staying much longer.

  He scratched his beard and seemed to gather his thoughts. “They went out the other day, looking for a big enough generator to get some power going here. They found a building a ways out of town, and they want to set up another depot there. Maybe move some of the girls.” His eyes skittered across the room as if ashamed of what he was about to say. “They’re talking about using them for barter. If someone has a stockpile of something or information they want, they might trade it for time with some of the girls, maybe even buy one outright.”

  Fantastic. Another step up the sex slave ladder. Carter suddenly seemed to think he’d said too much. He listened at the window for a few minutes, then took the tray of uneaten food and hurried away, whispering a final apology as he went.

  ***

  The days dragged. I’m sure it said something about my damaged mental state that it became harder to horrify me. When a man simply came in, did his thing, and left, I was grateful. Mason continued to visit regularly, which meant I was never without fresh wounds. He also kept coming up with ways to torment me emotionally.

  One night, as he wiped my blood off his chin, he said, “Hey, that little dog you had, I think I might’ve seen him today.”

  My heart swelled with hope. For about a second. No way would Mason offer me any sort of kindness, even a shred of hope that Skip might be alive. I kept my expression blank. This didn’t stop Mason.