This Rotten World (Book 1)

by The Vocabulariast

  "Look at him," he pleaded through grit teeth.

  Katie, finally understood, and it broke her heart. She would never be the same again. She moved to the old man and pulled Kevin off of him. Immediately, he began attacking her, and she knew that something was not right. The thought of disease sprang to her mind, and the fact that the boy in her arms was cold only made matters worse. She shoved Kevin away, hoping that something would be jarred loose in his mind. He fell across the room, knocking over a bookshelf in the corner. The books tumbled about his head, but he paid them no mind. His only concern seemed to be reaching her and taking a bite out of her flesh. A dark voice in the back of her mind asked her why she kept resisting. She tamped it down in the corner of her mind where she kept her secrets, the dark ones she had never told anyone.

  He was upon her again. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw the old man crawling backwards. He was trying to move as silently as he could. Eventually he succeeded in dragging himself into the other room. When Katie was sure the old man was out of the room, she tossed, Kevin, gnashing and clawing off to the side. He landed with a thump against the wall, and then she turned and ran out of the room, slamming the bedroom door behind her.

  She slumped to the ground with her back against the door. For a second, there was absolute silence, except for the labored breathing of herself and the old man. Then the thumping began. For the second time that night, she held the door against a loved one who now wanted nothing more than to devour her flesh.

  His skin glistening with sweat and his shirt covered in Kevin's blood, the old man looked at her and said, "Well, Katie, bar the door."

  "How did you know my name?"

  The old man laughed out loud, the sort of laugh that you can't help but love. Deep and raspy with age, it echoed throughout the walls of the old man's stuffy bedroom. Katie didn't know whether to laugh with him or cry. It rose up within her, like an infection from out of nowhere. Together they laughed as her dead son beat upon the door outside. Madness was creeping in. It would serve her well.

  Chapter 22: Making Stories

  The glass shattered, and that was all there was to that. Zeke had already loaded as many shotgun shells as he could into his shotgun. He racked the weapon and steadied it with one hand. He looked at the window to see the used-car salesman pawing through the bars. He was slicing his arm on the glass, but he didn't seem to care.

  "I've had about enough of this shit," he said to no one in particular. He pulled the door open in one smooth motion and clomped out onto the porch in his polished, black army boots. He about giving the man a warning, but the dark part of him decided against it. Zeke raised his shotgun as the man turned and squeezed the trigger. Shreds of flesh splattered the light blue porch along with a healthy dose of other red matter. The man flew backwards and fell onto the ground. Zeke reached into his pocket for another cigarette, just as an ambulance pulled onto his street.

  With his shotgun tucked under his arm, he was looking down trying to light his cigarette when he saw movement out of the corner of his eye. Zeke couldn't believe what he was seeing; the man on the porch was rising from the ground. It didn't matter that he had just taken a shotgun blast to the chest, he was rising anyway.

  The cigarette fell from Zeke's mouth as he mumbled, "No fucking way." Disbelief was replaced by rage. Somewhere in his mind, he saw the flashing lights off an ambulance, he heard the ambulance doors slam shut, and then he heard some sort of shouting. He was too busy racking another shotgun shell to pay any attention to what they were saying. Without hesitation, he leveled the shotgun at the car salesman's head, squeezed the trigger and flinched when his face was speckled by splatters of blood from the man's exploding head.

  The headless body slumped to the ground, and Zeke pumped his shotgun one more time. He stood over the body and gave it another blast just to be sure. He calmly walked back to the front door where he had lost his cigarette. He bent down to pick it up, but there was blood all over it. He broke it in half, and then he walked back inside. He plopped his shotgun down on the couch and then pulled a fresh cigarette from the pack in his pocket and lit it. He walked through his Spartan house and into the kitchen, a cloud of smoke following him. With a trembling hand, he turned on the hot water and leaned over the sink, as if he was going to throw up. Steam rose from the sink and billowed around his head.

  He had killed people before, in the name of freedom, in the name of democracy. Somehow it was different when you did it out of self-defense. He didn't feel good. He tossed his cigarette in the sink where it hissed.

  The water in the sink was piping hot, and he put his hands underneath the tap, enjoying the burn of the water, which somehow felt right. He splashed some water on his face to get the blood off. His head still throbbed from where he had hit his head on the porch, and his hands burned with the heat of the water. He dabbed his face with the old hand towel that hung from the cupboard handles underneath the sink. He stared out the window that looked onto his plain backyard. Square, completely devoid of personality, and 100% unnecessary... just like him.

  That's when he realized he was being watched. He turned around to see two cops standing in the doorway of the kitchen, red and blue light ricocheting off the walls behind them. Their guns were trained on him. Zeke turned away from them, turned off the tap water, and giggled a little bit, more to himself than to anyone else.

  "Boy, have I got a story for you guys."

  Chapter 23: Check-In Time

  Clara sat in a hospital room, lost in thought. She was thinking of ways to un-see the things that she had seen. Short of a lobotomy, she wasn't coming up with any ideas.

  The door to the room swung open, and a frazzled looking nurse walked into the room. Immediately, Clara popped to her feet and then sank back down into the chair in pain. Her ankle had swollen to twice its size. The nurse saw her pain and began examining her ankle.

  "Where's Courtney?" she asked as the nurse, a pretty young blonde, began testing out the flexibility of her ankle.

  "Is that the man they had to strap down?" she asked.

  She nodded her head and hissed through her teeth as the nurse tested her ankle a little too liberally.

  "They've got him up in observation."

  "Can I see him," Clara asked.

  The nurse looked up at her, obviously wondering how much she should tell her. "I don't think that's such a good idea."

  Clara couldn't believe what she was hearing. "Are you going to let me see him or not?"

  The nurse looked at her apologetically and said, "That's not really up to me."

  "Well then who the fuck is it up to? I'd like to talk to them right now."

  The nurse gently let Clara's foot back onto the ground and said, "It looks like you have a high ankle sprain, but we'll probably want to get some X-rays just to be sure."

  She didn't know why she did it, but Clara slapped the woman across the face and pulled her closer by her shirt. "I don't give a damn about my ankle. I want to know what's happening with my man. Now either you're going to tell me, or you're going to be a very unhappy person."

  The nurse's already big eyes became even wider. Someone at the entrance to the room cleared their throat. "That won't be necessary." It was the doctor who had taken charge in the E.R. Dark bags had appeared under her eyes, and her hair, despite being bound in a ponytail, seemed to have a mind of its own. She stood there looking at her, her hands in her pockets.

  There was something of her mother in the woman, and for a second, she was slightly embarrassed of her behavior. She let go of the nurse, and she backed away, thankful that she still had all of her teeth. At least that's what Clara hoped she was feeling.

  "How is he?" Clara asked the doctor.

  The doctor pursed her thin lips and said, "Not very good."

  "What does that mean? Why won't anyone give me a straight answer?"

  The doctor walked across the room and sat down on the wheeled examination stool. She pulled the rubber band from her hair and let
her brown locks dangle free before gathering it up with her hands and putting the rubber band back in place. "It's complicated. Your husband seems to have some sort of infection."

  Clara shook her head and ignored the husband comment. "What sort of infection?"

  The doctor looked out the room's window before answering. "That's the complicated part. We're not sure what type of infection it is. He's burning up, and we're pumping enough antibiotics through him to cure the plague, but he's not responding. There's no cognition there whatsoever."

  Clara sat back in her chair and let the doctor's words sink in. As far as she could tell, there was no sign of hope. "Can I see him at least?"

  The doctor looked at her and thought for a second. "Normally, I would say it was a bad idea, but maybe you can get him to respond to you."

  The doctor stood up and began to walk out of the room. Clara attempted to stand, but her ankle wouldn't allow it. The doctor moved to help her by putting her arm under her shoulder. "We've got to get that checked out."

  "After," Clara muttered, "after."

  With her arm slung over the doctor's shoulder, they limped through the hospital. As she took in the chaotic state of the hospital, Clara couldn't help but sense that there was an air of discomfort permeating the entire place. Everyone seemed to be in motion, grave looks and pensively chewed lips were everywhere.

  The doctor, Joan she had said her name was, didn't say anything, but Clara could feel the tension in her shoulders. Something was not right. When Clara commented on it, Joan merely brushed her off, but she could see the unease in the corner of her mouth, as if she almost wanted to say something but didn't quite know what to say.

  They boarded an elevator, and Joan punched the button for the sixth floor. They waited in silence as the door slid shut. When the doors opened again, they began their ponderous approach. Armed security guards lined the hallways, and it appeared they were doing everything by the numbers. A white sign with red letters in the hallway read, "Quarantine Wing."

  They weren't kidding when they said that he had some sort of infection. "What do you know about this infection?" she asked as they hobbled towards the checkpoint.

  Joan gave her the truth. "We know next to nothing about the infection, but we do know that antibiotics seem to be ineffective. The victims lose cognition, and as you saw before, seem to be driven to consume human flesh. It's a nightmare. I suspect that the disease began as some sort of airborne virus, like the flu, but your husband presents an entirely different sort of scenario."

  "How so?" Clara grunted as her ankle sent pain up her leg.

  "Well, according to your report, your husband was never sick, and he contracted the infection from some sort of bite. If this disease continues unchecked, and we don't find a cure, we're in for a very bad time."

  As they approached the main desk on the floor, an armed security guard stepped in front of them and blocked their passage. Joan showed her I.D. badge, and the man scanned it with a portable scanner. "Dr. Winston," the man said in greeting, then looked pointedly at Clara.

  "Don't worry, she's with me." The man stepped to the side and let them pass. It was all very serious business, and the hair on the back of Clara's neck stood up for a second. What Clara had just told her was too much, the possibilities too bleak. Where was her ray of sunshine peaking through the clouds? He was in a room somewhere, not exhibiting cognition as the good doctor had just told her.

  They walked past several closed doors. Through the tiny square window in one, she saw the nurse Molly banging on the door from the inside with her bandaged hand. She was no longer wearing her nurse garb. Instead, she had become one of the patients. Sweat stood out on her brow, and when she saw Clara, she let loose a barrage of profanities that kept Clara from being able to make eye contact with her.

  "Is she going to be ok?" Clara asked.

  Joan looked at her, a wan smile on her face. "We'll find out soon enough." They walked towards another room. This room had a giant observation window, and she could see Courtney strapped to a gurney, his head whipping from side to side, looking for something. His eyes were red-rimmed and his teeth were clenched.

  Joan held her card up to a security scanner, and a light on the door handled blinked green. She heard the bolt of the door unlock, and then she turned the door handle. They stepped inside, and Courtney's eyes fixed on them. For a second he was quiet, and then he began thrashing furiously at his bonds. His hands wriggled and clawed at them, which would have been comical if he didn't have the stench of uncontained violence and rage about him.

  Clara took one look into Courtney's eyes, and it felt as if a rock had dropped into the pit of her stomach. She didn't know what to do.

  Joan looked at her and said, "Talk to him."

  Clara lifted her arm off of Joan's shoulder and hobbled over to Courtney. She looked into his once beautiful brown eyes and said, "Courtney? Can you hear me?"

  His only response was a low growl. His eyes focused on her, and for a second she saw a glimmer of recognition, but it disappeared quicker than a dream, and then he was trying to get at her, straining the straps that held him down.

  "Courtney. It's me Clara. Give me some sort of sign that you can hear me." There was no sign, just more growling and straining.

  Joan put a hand on her shoulder, and reality hit home for Clara. She didn't want to do it, but tears escaped from her eyes. Joan put her shoulder under Clara's arm and guided her into another room, away from the sight of the man that would have one day been her husband.

  Clara made her way to the bed in the room and lay there sobbing. She didn't know how long she had cried for, but when she was done and ready to leave, she discovered that Joan had gone, and the door was locked. Her sadness became rage, and as she banged on the door, she could hear the nurse Molly down the hallway echoing her sentiment.

  Chapter 24: Roasted Goat

  Old Han cursed the day that he had hired Dustin. He should have known better once he saw that ridiculous tattoo on the man's forearm. Tattoos meant poor decisions. Poor decisions meant less profits. But what else did one expect from a lazy American who could only find work slinging drinks at a bar? He had no pride. None of them did. Now he stood there in front of his bar, soaking up blood from the green carpet with a mop bucket that looked like it had never actually been clean at any point in its existence. Who could say if it ever had? He had bought it used for 2 dollars when he had first opened the bar.

  He looked around the bar and silently cursed it. The keys on his key ring jangled as he furiously attacked the carpet, grunting and muttering under his breath. He would have to call in that other lazy American and try to fill in Dustin's shift. The fury that flooded through his veins drove him to spit on his own floor.

  "Stupid fucking American. Motherfuck to him. Motherfuck to all of them." With a swift whisk of the dirty mop, he wiped away all signs of his anger. The green carpet was stained. He could live with that. What he couldn't live with was the thought of having to hire another lowlife scumbag off the street to serve beer to the people that came into his bar.

  He had never seen such a disgusting lot of people. Oddly enough, as much as he hated them all, he would rather be cleaning the floor of The Sleazy Goat than sharing the bed with his shrew of a wife. It was her fault that they were stuck in this lazy country in the first place. If he had it all to do over again, he would have talked her into going to France. But no, she had wanted to come to America. They could be in Paris right now, drinking wine and looking at the Eiffel Tower. But, no... they were in Portland, Oregon... America, land of the lazy, home of the idiotic.

  Within two years, his wife had assimilated to the point of being unrecognizable. With America had come her freedom. No longer was she the meek little housewife he had married in China. Instead, she was another lazy American, as evidenced by the fact that she had gained fifty pounds since they were first married.

  While he built up The Sleazy Goat into a steady income, she loafed around on her ass, eating
fast food and watching soap operas. The only thing she had ever contributed to their marriage was a quick spread of the legs, something which he increasingly cared less and less about. The hand was quicker, less messy, and didn't smell like onion rings and expensive perfumes.

  He dunked the mop into the bucket a little too vigorously, spilling blood-soaked water all over the floor. Another round of cursing flew from his mouth. It was the only form of English that he was good at, and even then, he was only barely comprehensible. He began mopping again.

  He was wringing out the mop when the door opened and a couple of ragged-looking people walked in. Their clothes were dirty, and they had a blank stare on their face. It must have been 3:30 in the morning. Stupid Americans. He would be even richer if the government would just allow them to drink for 24 hours. He had heard that's how it was in Las Vegas. People drinking nonstop, throwing their money and their lives away. At least they had a life to throw away.

  The unhappy thought crawled across his mind, tendrils of depression lacing through his brain. He took it out on his would-be customers, as he always did.

  "Bar closed. Come back tomorrow."

  Instead of turning around, they shuffled drunkenly into the main part of the bar, staring at him blankly.

  "You fucking deaf? Bar closed. You already drunk? Fuck off." Now that they had inched closer, Old Han adjusted his glasses and saw that there was something wrong with his new customers. The woman on the left was limping badly, and crusted blood had dried to her leg. She wore a dirty grey bathrobe that looked like it had recently taken a dip in a mud puddle. The man behind her was balding and one of his ears was hanging from the side of his head.

  "Get the fuck out. You leave now. I call cops!" They continued to plod towards him. Old Han pulled the mop from the bucket, set it on the floor and broke it in half with one quick kick. Armed with the sharp end of the now broken mop, he advanced on the customers. He swung at the woman, hitting her in the ribs. She didn't make so much as a sound. She merely reached for him clumsily. Old Han stuck out his foot and shoved the woman down with his free hand. She tumbled to the ground without grace, her bathrobe flying open and exposing her nudity.