The Killing Floor

by Craig DiLouie

  Wendy

  The Bradley hums along the road, its crew sweating at their stations and its squad of four shooters raggedly singing a rap song popular when the world ended. Wendy looks at the optical display, scanning repeatedly for targets, chewing on a piece of nicotine gum and blinking at the head rush. She is addicted to the gum, not the nicotine. Her eyes sweep the indicator lights, confirming the vehicle’s big guns are ready to party. Then she glances at the man sitting next to her and smiles like a school girl.

  I love you.

  She says out loud: “It’s like an oven in here today and I have to pee.”

  Toby grunts. “I’ll turn up the air conditioning.”

  She laughs. “Now there’s an idea. We spent over a million bucks on each of these things, and nobody thought it might be a good idea to put in some air conditioning? Come on, guy.”

  They are in high spirits after the supply drop. They now have a tuned-up engine, full tank of diesel with a good amount of spare fuel, functioning weapons systems and enough ammunition to obliterate anything in their path.

  Toby produces a protective mask provided for crew use in the event of a nuclear, biological or chemical attack. A plastic hose dangles from its filter.

  “Observe,” he tells her. “This hose connects the mask to an air purifier that has a fan.”

  “I’m not peeing into that tube.”

  Toby grins. “I have a better idea.”

  He removes the hose from the mask and tucks a length of it down the front of her shirt.

  “Oh my,” she says.

  “Now check this out.”

  The commander flips a switch, forcing air across her chest, drying the sweat pooled between her breasts.

  “Now we’re talking,” she says. “Welcome to civilization.”

  Steve chimes in over the radio: Did you show her the hillbilly AC, Sarge?

  Toby laughs. “You’re in the Army now, Wendy. In the Army, we make do, right Steve?”

  “That’s all well and good, you guys,” she says, “but I still have to pee.”

  ♦

  An hour later, the amored vehicle idles in front of a red brick school building. The clerestory windows installed along the roofline of the gym, dirty and glinting in the sun, are spray painted with giant, bleeding red capitals: PLEASE HELP US. Toby studies it on his optical relay, rubbing his stubbled chin and scowling. Wendy knows he does not like the risk, but this is the mission; they separated from the convoy this morning to strike northwest, back toward Camp Defiance, and search for survivors. She closes her eyes and listens to the beating heart of the engine, which sends tiny vibrations tingling along the surface of her skin.

  “I guess we’d better check it out,” Toby says.

  “I’ll go too,” Wendy tells him, pulling off her headset.

  “I guess we’re all going, then.”

  They agreed they would stay together no matter what. It is an incredible thing to realize another human cannot live without you. She never felt that way before. Understanding it as she does now, Wendy wonders how so many people survived the first days of the epidemic. The disease took the ones you loved, and then put on their face, demanding you kill them or die yourself. You have seconds to make this decision.: How would you choose?

  The threat of this choice is neverending. It can be forced on you at any time. It is the plague’s greatest weapon.

  They follow the squad out the back of the Bradley and fan out. After a few minutes of squatting in the heat, Wendy realizes they are looking at her.

  “It’s your show,” she tells them, shaking her head. “I’m just tagging along.”

  She remembers driving in the back of the Bradley during the first days of the epidemic with Paul, Ethan, Todd and Anne, warring with Anne for leadership of the gang. She was a police officer, and felt it was her responsibility to take care of the others.

  Later, marching down a desolate highway in a blizzard of ash falling from the fires of Pittsburgh, she realized she was not a cop anymore. Her precinct was gone, and so was her city with its courts and jails and laws. She had no responsibility to anyone except a detective named Dave Carver, the man who saved her life when the Infected overran her precinct, and that responsibility did not require her to help others, only survive.

  Charlie Noel nods and whistles at his shooters, who stand as one and follow, rifles leveled. They look and act like professional warriors, but just a few months ago, Charlie was a traffic cop, Stu Guthrie a bartender, Sharon Yang a paramedic and Ana Cruz an architect. Infection has gone on for so long it is the past that now seems like a dream, not the nightmarish present.

  They briefly inspect a pile of bodies rotting away in the hot sun in front of one of the gym doors, partly open and covered in scratch marks and blood splatter. The stench is powerful. They raise handkerchiefs, soaked with cologne, to cover the bottoms of their faces.

  “Where are you going?” Toby asks her.

  Wendy squats by some nearby shrubs and urinates.

  “Told you I had to go,” she grins.

  On the road, privacy is a dangerous luxury. If you want to be alone, you will eventually die alone.

  Stepping over the bodies, Noel shoves at the door. “There’s something blocking it.” He shoves again and a pile of furniture, stacked behind the door to block it, comes crashing down.

  Steve sighs and blows air from his cheeks.

  “Let’s do this quick,” Wendy says, gnawing her gum.

  “More bodies here,” Noel says, disappearing inside. “Watch your step.”

  Wendy follows the others into the gym, ignoring the corpses’ splayed hands brushing against her legs, and gasps at the assault of heat and smell. Their boots send empty shell casings clattering across the floor.

  The flashlights converge on the bodies of four men and women, three dressed in casual clothes and one in a police uniform. All shot in the head and partially eaten. Wendy stoops and collects the cop’s badge, pocketing it. Her eleventh, counting her own.

  Noel signals his shooters to fan out and clear the room. They call from the dark corners: All clear. No Infected here.

  Wendy approaches the other side of the gym, followed by Toby and Steve. The play of their flashlights reveals more giant red bleeding capitals painted on the wall:

  GOD FORGIVE US WE TRIED TO SAVE THEM

  At the base of the wall, twenty small children lie in a row, all dead from gunshot wounds.

  ♦

  From what Wendy can see, the children were lined up facing the wall and executed. Sickened by the sight, they turn off their flashlights and stand in the dark.

  “Jesus,” Noel says, catching up. “Who would do such a thing to them?”

  “They did it to themselves,” Toby answers.

  “You mean the cop? But why?”

  “They were under siege,” Wendy murmurs. “During the first day of the epidemic. Some of the schools had just reopened after the Screaming, remember? They barricaded themselves in with these kids.”

  “The Infected found out they were in here and started to force their way through the outside door,” Steve chimes in. “There must have been a lot of them. Too many to keep out. Too many to fight. The Infected must have been in the school too. These people were trapped.”

  “The cop held them off until it seemed hopeless, then he shot the kids so they wouldn’t be eaten, while the teachers held the doors closed,” Toby says. “It was a mercy killing.”

  “Probably made a game of it,” Wendy adds. “Turn around and close your eyes and don’t open them no matter how loud the pistol shot next to you.”

  “And then he killed the teachers and himself,” Toby finishes. “Right at the door so the Infected would eat them and spare the children from even that.”

  “It’s horrible,” Wendy says.

  “I don’t want the others to see this,” Noel says, his voice cracking.

  “Everyone out,” Toby calls across the gym. “Back to the rig. Come on, let’s go.”
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  Guthrie, Yang and Cruz take the hint and file out blinking into the harsh sunlight. They are not curious to see what the others saw. They have already seen their share of bad things.

  “My kids,” Noel says. He does not finish the sentence. He sobs once, wipes his eyes roughly, and turns to follow the others.

  “There’s nothing we can do here,” Toby says. “Might as well get back on the road.”

  “Hey, one’s alive!” Noel says.

  Wendy puts her hand against his chest. “None of them are alive, Charlie. They’re all dead.”

  “I saw one moving!” He aims his flashlight, but she steps in front of him, blocking his view.

  “You saw a trick of the light. That’s it.”

  “Just let me check. I need to be sure.”

  “No. Go back to the rig. You don’t want to see a dead girl.”

  “But you might be wrong,” Noel says, his eyes wild. He turns to Steve, his voice pleading. “I saw her move. I need to make sure she’s not still alive.”

  “I’ll check,” Steve says. He turns on his flashlight, and just as quickly turns it off. “Wendy’s right, Charlie. The girl is dead. I’m sorry, man. Come on, I’ll go with you.”

  Wendy listens to their footsteps echoing across the empty spaces. She turns to the body of the girl in the pink dress and watches her little face wink and nod in the dark. She knows the face is not moving.

  The maggots are. Wendy can hear them rustling.

  When she is sure Steve and Noel are gone, she covers her face with her hands and weeps.

  ♦

  Toby wraps his arms around her, but it is not enough this time.

  There is nothing here for them except death. They should get back to the Bradley, but Wendy lingers, staring at the blackened bodies of the children and wondering who they were before they were killed and left to rot here in this oversized tomb.

  “Are you okay?” Toby whispers, but she does not respond.

  Wiping her eyes, she wonders what kind of lives they might have had if they hadn’t died. If the school hadn’t reopened. If they hadn’t come to school that day. If they’d gone to a different school. If Infection had never happened.

  So much life needlessly destroyed, like ants crushed by a giant’s foot.

  Will I ever have children? she wonders. If I did, would they survive longer than these kids?

  Would I one day be forced to tell them to face a wall with a gun in my hand?

  “We should go,” Toby says.

  I’m done with this fucking war. I mean it this time. I want out.

  Shrugging out of his embrace, Wendy points to the corpses.

  “Toby, look at this.”

  “It’s nothing we haven’t seen before.”

  “I want you to look at it,” she says. “Really look.”

  “Wendy, please.”

  “Look.”

  “I don’t want to!” he snaps, then sighs. “Come on, Wendy, what’s the point? Do you want me to say the world is shit? Yes, it’s shit. I used to see things like this in Afghanistan even before Infection. It doesn’t matter. This is the world now. It’s filled with fucking dead kids.”

  Wendy shakes her head. “I don’t want to live in it anymore.”

  His eyes widen. “Don’t talk like that. Don’t you ever talk like that.”

  “You’re worried about me killing myself? If we stay in this world, we’ll die soon anyway. It’ll catch up to us. Look at what happened to Camp Defiance. Staying here is suicide.”

  “It’s the only world we’ve got.” His tone is pleading now. “I don’t understand. What else is there? We’re alive today. What else could we hope for?”

  “If we stay in the NLA, one day the Bradley will break down or we won’t be able to find gas, and we’ll end up in one of those Technicals. Those guys die like flies. Who knows how long we’d last?”

  “They aren’t as good as us. We’ve made it this far, haven’t we?”

  “Training and skill don’t mean anything on a long enough timeline. Eventually we would get unlucky, and then we would die or become infected. It’s not a forgiving game.”

  “All right,” he agrees. “You want to leave the NLA. And go where?”

  “The fall of Camp Defiance tells us the refugee camps aren’t safe anymore.”

  “Been there, done that in any case,” Toby snorts. “Both of us have. No, thank you.”

  “Well, if that’s the world, then we make a new world,” Wendy tells him. “I’ve been thinking about it. We could round up some survivors with skills we need, drive down south where it’s warm all year around, and find a nice island for ourselves.”

  Toby sighs as he finally understands what she wants. “You know I’d like nothing more than to do just that, babe,” he says. They are whispering now, as if afraid to wake the sleeping dead. “But the fight is here. We’re taking it back. We’re winning, making real progress. Don’t you feel it? So many towns have been cleared.”

  “Come on, Toby. We’re barely scratching the surface. The fight never ends. It will never be over. Look what happened to Paul and Ethan. They died on that bridge to save the camp, and the whole camp fell a few weeks later. None of it means anything. Eventually, the bug is going to win.”

  “You’re asking me to abandon my duty to my country. To the children who are still alive.”

  “Just as I abandoned my oath to the public,” she tells him. “To protect and to serve. I’m not police anymore. The last real police died in this room. And you’re not in the Army.”

  “But I thought we had a responsibility to other people. I thought we believed that together.”

  Wendy no longer cares about the survival of the species. How can I explain this to him? It is a hard thing to think, much less say to another human being. All she cares about is seeing Toby and the others in her group survive. That’s all the responsibility she can handle anymore.

  “If there was something decisive we could do, I would say let’s do it,” she says. “I would give up my life. But there is nothing like that. There is only death, and more death, until the end. Just like Paul and Ethan. What is the point? The one responsibility we have is to each other and the rest of our group. We have to find happiness while we can. I don’t believe we are dead already, Toby. I am alive and I want to stay alive. And I want to be happy while I can. It’s why I chose you.”

  Toby stands in the dark, saying nothing for a while. Finally, he takes a deep breath. “Is your mind made up about this?”

  “It is, Toby. I’m sorry.”

  She didn’t want it to sound like an ultimatum, but that’s what it is. She hopes he does not call her bluff, because she knows she could never leave him.

  But it must happen. We have to go. We’ve gotten away from the NLA, with supplies and a full tank of gas. It’s meant to be.

  “As long as we stay together,” he says. “That’s all I want.”

  She smiles, her eyes stinging with tears. “Hell, Toby, we’re practically married at this point.”

  “All right then,” he says, letting out another long sigh. Wendy can sense something breaking in him, releasing, letting go. “So, have you picked out an island yet?”

  “Thank God for you, Toby Wilson.”

  “I love you, Wendy.”

  She grins, plants her hands on his chest, and kisses him on the mouth.

  Ray

  Ray creeps out of the farmhouse breathing hard and feeling his heart pound in his chest. Hundreds of Infected mill aimlessly in the morning light, filling the air with their random, anguished cries. They stagger along without purpose, bumping into each other and growling. Some trample the garden while others lie in the tall grass. A few hold their heads with both hands and scream as if suddenly remembering who they are and what happened to them. Each moment brings more tramping out of the cornfield, grunting and wailing.

  Last night, they reached out to Ray as if pleading. Their eyes followed him as he retreated into the house, shaking with the di
sbelieving laughter of a maniac. They moaned softly, a sound like humming, as he entered a coat closet and curled into a fetal ball in the dark and the dust.

  The tiny space was hot but at least it was quiet. He started awake repeatedly until exhaustion overcame him. He dreamed of standing with Todd on the bridge, screaming his head off; he woke with a sore jaw from hours of grinding his teeth, and the hopper sting in his side, shrunk to the size of an egg, throbbing gently as if keeping time with a favorite song.

  Now Ray inches away from the farmhouse, at the mercy of thousands of Infected. He glances over his shoulder to confirm the open back door is directly behind him, in easy reach, in case he needs to make a run for it. Last night, a miracle: The Infected did not take him. Today, they appear to be ignoring him. But this does not make them predictable. At any moment, they might turn on him, snarling, and decide to have Ray on a stick for breakfast.

  He gags, slammed by a solid wall of stink. Oblivious to discomfort, the Infected eliminate their waste in the clothes they were wearing the day they were converted. Their bodies emit a sour stench that makes him think of rotting food and warm, old milk turned into thick cottage cheese chunks by runaway bacteria. One of the Infected passes close by, studying him vaguely before continuing on her way, taking little excited bites at the air.

  He can hear them breathe. The wheeze of air entering thousands of lungs. Some of them cry out with the sadness of slaves. Others shriek before lapsing into silence. The spaces in between are eerily quiet. Just the insects and the birds.

  Feeling bolder, he walks along the edge of the crowd for over an hour, studying their faces one at a time. The Infected continue to ignore him. Some stare at their feet; others blink at the sun. They don’t look very scary. They look like sick people. Like very sad, very sick people. Like him, they came from Camp Defiance; he recognizes a man who sold mead in one of the trading booths. He wonders how they ended up here.

  What is so special about this house? And what is so special about me that the Infected don’t want me for one of their own?

  ♦