This Rotten World | Book 1 | This Rotten World

by Morris, Jacy

  Mort walked over to the back of the police car as Weasel opened the door. Dirty Kurt was still struggling in the back seat, and he showed no sign of tiring. Mort plopped down in the back as Weasel slammed the door behind him.

  As the two police officers got in the car, he studied the bites on their necks, shallow but bloody. All he wanted to do was get booked and get a good night's sleep. Mort looked at Dirty Kurt and silently hoped that they didn't have to share a cell together.

  Chapter 9: Dustin and Bill

  Dustin hung up the phone. The police were on the way. He thought about calling the owner of the bar, an abusive Chinese man who treated his employees like shit, but then figured against it. It didn't really matter to Dustin; tonight was definitely his last night slingin' suds behind the bar of The Sleazy Goat.

  He looked at the puddle of blood surrounding the old man on the floor. What a shame. He had seen the man in here plenty of times, drinking until close, but he had never quite remembered the man's name because he had always paid with cash. Oh well, it wasn't his problem anymore. He just wanted the police to show up and take his statement so he could get the hell out of there.

  After stepping over the dead young man on the floor, Dustin hopped over the counter, his beat up, old Chuck Taylor's squeaking on the lacquered wood of the bar. He grabbed a pint glass and poured himself a beer, which was at least half foam. As he turned around, Dustin noticed two things... Teach was missing and the old man was sitting at the bar looking at him. The old man's gray windbreaker was soaked in blood and his eyes were vapid. A thin streamer of bloody drool dripped from his mouth and slowly made contact with the bar, where it began to coil like a snake.

  Dustin's stomach flipped at the site. "Hey, are you alright?" The old man just looked straight ahead, his head bobbing side to side like a cobra being charmed by a snake charmer. Dustin followed the old man's eyes to see what he was staring at. Apparently, he was being mesmerized by his own image in the mirror behind the bar. Dustin raised his glass to his lips, and drained the entire beer, though it stung his throat to do so.

  When he belched, everything changed. The old man's gaze shifted from the mirror behind the bar to Dustin's face. A primal scream erupted from his bloody maw. Dustin, startled by the unexpected yell dropped the pint glass. The old man began climbing over the bar, leaving one of his dusty old tennis shoes behind in the process.

  "Easy, man. I already called the cops. They're on their way."

  The old man didn't appear to hear him, or if he did, he didn't care. Dustin backed into the bar of the office and slammed the door shut. He turned the lock on the door, and flinched as the door shook on its hinges. He yelled over the thudding, "The cops are on the way!"

  It made no difference. The old man kept pounding on the door. Then suddenly it came to him... Bill, that was his name.

  Chapter 10: Code Red and Endcaps

  Rudy hiked across the street. In the still of the night, he could hear sirens. The buildings around him made it hard to tell exactly where the sirens were coming from, and as a police car swerved around the corner, he nearly had to jump out of the way to avoid being run over. If it had been anyone else, he would have shot them the bird and tried to find some sort of rock to throw.

  But it was a cop, so he just swore under his breath, and continued walking down the street. The rain-slick pavement reflected the orange streetlights. The chill of the night was finally present, and he was glad that the mugginess of the day was finally gone.

  As he approached the convenience store, a mom and pop store run by a family of Asians who apparently never needed to sleep, he saw a man stumbling down the road in the distance. The man was dressed in a puffy green jacket with an orange lining that could be seen every time he took a shambling step. He appeared to be having some trouble walking. Rudy wondered if he were simply drunk or retarded. Either way, he hoped the man was gone when he got out of the convenience store because he looked like the type of person who would ask for spare change. Rudy had no change to spare, out of principle rather than shortage.

  The store's bell rang as he entered the store, but there was no one behind the counter. He didn't mind. He hated the way they stared at him as he walked through the convenience store's cramped aisles. Maybe it was his red hair or the fact that he weighed close to three bills, but every time he had used this particular convenience store, which was quite often, the owner had always stared at him, watching his every movement, his eyes squinted and locked on Rudy the entire time. The feel of the store owner's eyes boring into his back always left him a little unnerved. He probably had some sort of shotgun underneath the counter, just waiting for the right person to fuck with the wrong man.

  The store wasn't big enough for the amount of inventory they had on hand, so Rudy had to turn sideways to make it through some of the aisles due to all the warm beer and sodas still packed without rhyme or reason in boxes and crates. The cold soft drinks were located in the back of the store; along the way, he grabbed a couple of candy bars and a bag of chips. After all, what good was Code Red if you had nothing to wash down your gullet?

  When he pulled the door of the cooler open, he heard the door chime again. He paid it no attention, as his eyes were affixed to the 20 oz. plastic bottles full of glowing red liquid at the end of the store. He grabbed one and shoved it under his armpit. With his free hand, he grabbed another bottle and let the door of the cooler shut on its own. The intensity of the door's slam over the hum of the coolers suddenly made him realize how quiet the store was.

  He didn't know why he did it, but he looked up at the circular security mirror to see the man from outside approaching his position. The man bumped some stacked six-packs of Genesee Cream Ale, knocking the green cans to the ground, but he didn't seem to care. He continued his approach. Rudy looked over his shoulder to see if the owner was visible yet, but he was nowhere to be seen.

  Rudy turned to the approaching man and said, "Hey, how's it going?" His adrenal glands had dumped their contents into his circulatory system, and he felt the impending doom of a fight or flight situation coming on, as he was not especially skilled at fighting nor flighting. The man simply looked at him, his head down and his arms outstretched towards him. His fingers clawed at the air.

  Rudy backed up against the wall as the man slipped on a can of Genesee that he had knocked over. He tumbled forward, cracking his jaw on one of the aisle's metal endcaps. There was little room to maneuver or run, so Rudy began to slide sideways down a narrow aisle that would take him to the counter and near the front door. He was at the counter when the man in the back of the store finally got back to his feet. His jaw was crooked, and blood dripped down the front of his shirt, but he kept approaching, clumsy and plodding, but with a determination that made him seem more like a robot than a man. Rudy had images of The Terminator dancing through his head.

  The man came closer, and Rudy looked at him, fear bubbling up in the back of his throat. He fumbled around in his pocket, and pulled out a twenty dollar bill. He crumpled it up and threw it on the counter. "Keep the change," he yelled as he bolted for the front door, the bell again chiming.

  If Rudy had bothered to walk behind the counter, he would have seen the store clerk lying on the ground in his own blood, bite wounds covering his throat and arms. But Rudy didn't see him; he ran out of the store, clutching his Code Red, chocolate bars, and a bag of chips in the chill night air.

  "What the fuck is wrong with people?" he wondered aloud.

  When he had reached safety, which in this case was a block up the road, he stopped, tried to catch his breath and turned around. There was the man, still spilling blood from his nasty jaw wound, coming out of the door of the convenience store... nothing in his hands. His head looked one way then the next. Upon spying Rudy, the man began a slow plod in his direction.

  "Fuck." Rudy clutched his goods to his body and began running, something he hadn't done in a very long time. Five long strides into it, he already knew he wouldn't be able to kee
p up the pace.

  Chapter 11: The Munchies

  Teach lumbered down the street, clutching a dirty bar rag to the ragged wound on his shoulder. The rag wasn't completely soaked in blood, but it was getting there. He knew that he probably should have stuck around at The Sleazy Goat, but the warmth that flooded through his body couldn't be contained. He had to be in the cool night air. Luckily, he had walked to the bar, and the brief sprinkling of rain that fell on his head was welcome relief. His head began to steam in the night air.

  He wobbled side to side in his brown corduroy pants and Dr. Marten's boots. His old sports jacket had pads on the elbows, and the streetlights swam in front of his eyes. His stomach grumbled, and he started to feel hungry. The void in his stomach felt as if it were expanding, and he began wondering when he had become such a lightweight.

  Teach toppled over a bush that seemed to pop up out of nowhere. He dropped the towel that he had been holding over his shoulder and didn't bother picking it up. As he shoved himself up off the ground, he noticed that the blood from his shoulder was no longer pouring out of the wound. His stomach grumbled again, and he clumsily brushed himself off and began walking again. Eggs? Maybe he'd make himself some eggs.

  He stubbed his toe on the concrete step that led up to the porch of their two-story house. The lights inside were off. The windows upstairs were open. What was he doing? Food? Food... food.

  ****

  Her eyes snapped open when she heard his footsteps in the hallway. She flinched when his keys dropped to the ground. She hoped he didn't wake Kevin up. She loved her husband, but one night a month, he was a monster. Hopefully, he would simply make himself a snack and crawl into bed without incident. Of course, there was a twenty-percent chance that he was hungry for something else.

  Katie squeezed her eyes shut and tried to will herself back to sleep, but the noises from the kitchen didn't sound like normal Jason noises. His footsteps were stumbly and the periodic stomp of him trying to catch his balance kept her from dozing off again. He must have really tied one on.

  She sat bolt upright in the bed when she heard the clatter of pots and pans on the ground. Who knew being married to a teacher would be so annoying? Great, he gets three months off and acts like a damn high school kid in the middle of the night. Meanwhile, she would have to get up at 7 in the morning and make breakfast for Kevin then take him to his Boy Scout meeting, all with no sleep because someone needs their hand held in the night because he drank too much.

  Katie threw the covers back and slid her feet into her slippers. The air was cold on her bare legs, so she put on her bath robe. She walked silently down the hallway, pausing to listen and see if Kevin was still sleeping or not. She didn't hear anything, so she walked softly down the steps to the bottom floor.

  When she rounded the corner to the kitchen, she saw Kevin staring into it. He had a concerned look on his face, and he jumped when she put her hand on his shoulder.

  His pale face, with sleep still in the corners of his eyes, looked up at her, "Mom, what's wrong with, Dad?"

  "Nothing's wrong. Go to sleep." Katie guided Kevin gently back to the stairwell with her hand, and he took one last concerned look over his shoulder before walking back up the stairs. When his maroon sweatpants disappeared from sight, she turned her attention back to her husband, who was noisily rummaging through the refrigerator, making grunting noises, and generally sounding disgusting.

  "Hey!"

  Jason offered no response. His back was to her, so she couldn't quite see what he was doing.

  "Hey, Jason! What the hell are you doing?" she hissed, her arms folded and her voice dripping with annoyance.

  Jason turned around, chunks of raw steak hanging from his mouth. His wound had stopped bleeding, and had taken on a blackish hue.

  "What's wrong with you? You're going to get e. coli." The meat fell from Jason's mouth and made a sickening slapping sound on the linoleum. Jason held out his arms and began advancing on Katie.

  "Alright, cut the shit. I'm not in the mood. I've got to get up in three hours." Still he did not respond. She backed away from Jason just as he came within reach of her. He lunged at her and for the first time, she noticed the wound on his shoulder. His mouth opened incredibly wide, and the part of her that ran on pure instinct brought her knee up into his groin. The effect was minimal, and just as Jason was about to take a bite out of her face, she fell backwards. He toppled over her and onto the ground next to her.

  Immediately, she rolled onto her stomach, and began crawling away. Jason clumsily clawed after her. She aimed a pink-slippered foot at his face, and kicked as hard as she could. The force of the kick knocked him backwards, which gave her time to scramble to her feet. She ran up the stairs, contrary to every instinct in her body, and ripped open Kevin's door. "C'mon. We have to get out of here."

  "What's wrong, Mom?"

  "Just get up. C'mon let's go." Kevin popped to his feet and followed after her. They stopped at the landing to see Jason at the bottom of the stairs slowly making his way up, tottering back and forth and using the wall for support. He snarled at them when he saw them.

  "What's wrong with Dad?" Kevin whimpered.

  "I don't know," she said as she shoved Kevin into her bedroom. She closed the door behind her and locked it. "Grab my phone. We need to call the police." As Kevin pulled her phone from the charging dock, the wood of the bedroom door shuddered. It wasn't going to last long.

  Kevin made as if to hand her the phone, but she refused it. "Call 911," she huffed as she began dragging her oak dresser in front of the bedroom door. It shuddered again as Kevin dialed the numbers.

  Chapter 12: Haldol and Bite Wounds

  Clara was worried. The ride from the club to the hospital hadn't been much longer than 30 minutes, but Courtney was already babbling and hallucinating. The E.R. waiting room didn't seem too busy, but as it usually goes with these things, even a handful of patients seemed to be too much for the hospital to handle at once. Clara had filled out the paperwork as best as she could, but there's only so much a person can do for another person. Who the hell knows their boyfriend's social security number? Psychopaths, and she wasn't one of those. Courtney wasn't in much of a mood to be helping her answer the questions. Her first attempt at asking him his social security number had led to an incoherent string of numbers that ended after the sixth one. When she asked him if he could repeat that, he merely shook his head no.

  She pressed her hand against his forehead, and flinched at the warmth radiating from his brow. How long could it take to get into the E.R.?

  Just when she was about to go up to the nurse's station and begin making a scene, they called Courtney's name.

  Clara helped Courtney stand, which was a chore. He had lost all semblance of coordination, and after they had taken two steps, Courtney toppled forward on his face. He immediately tried to rise, but it was no use. He seemed like a newborn horse trying to get to its feet for the first time.

  The nurse that had called Courtney's name brought a wheelchair over. Together, the nurse and Clara helped the helpless Courtney into the chair, while Clara apologized and said, "He didn't even drink that much." Clara followed with a growing sense of dread as they wheeled him back into the E.R. proper.

  They sat in a room with a sheet around it and machinery seemingly stationed haphazardly. The nurse began asking questions with all of the interest of a robot, "So you say your husband was bit?"

  "Uhh, yes, but he's not my husb..."

  "And how did he get bit?" the nurse asked as she futzed with a wireless keyboard and stared at a computer screen.

  "We were at a punk concert, and this guy, he umm, well, he bit him on the face."

  The nurse started typing information into the keyboard, so Clara continued speaking, "He was fine when we left."

  "Has he been drinking?" the nurse asked rudely.

  Clara, somewhat taken aback, answered truthfully, and the nurse just nodded her head, as if that explained everything.
r />   "Listen. When we left the club he was fine, just bleeding from his face. He wasn't like this when we left."

  The nurse listened punctiliously, but it was clear that she had already decided that Courtney was just another person who had overdone it. From her days of pink hair, pierced eyebrows, and fishnet stockings, she knew the look of instant judgment when she saw it. She also knew it was pointless to explain ignorance from a perceived position of inferiority. She just hoped that whoever the doctor was didn't have the same problem, or else she would have to fix the problem the way she did in the old days... with a fresh set of bony girl knuckles upside the bridge of a nose.

  "I'll just take his blood pressure, and then the doctor will be in to see you." The nurse leaned in close to put the blood pressure cuff on Courtney's arm, and that's when he came awake. For the first time, his eyes seemed to focus, and as the nurse went to tighten the blood pressure cuff, he grabbed her hand, pulled it to his mouth, and took a meaty chunk from between her thumb and index finger.

  The nurse's screams were immediate. She pushed Courtney away, and he and the wheelchair he was sitting in rolled into the curtain that separated the rooms. His arms began to flail, and he became entangled in the curtain.

  Clara rose to her feet, concerned for the nurse, for Courtney, and slightly for herself. "Are you ok?" she asked the nurse.

  The nurse held her hand away from her body as blood splashed on the white linoleum floor. "Does it look like I'm ok?" she spat at Clara. "Fuck."

  Just then a male nurse came around the corner. "What the hell is going on in here?"

  Courtney had finally gotten to his feet and freed himself from the hanging curtain. Clara went towards him to try and calm him down, but she took a step back when she saw the complete lack of recognition in his eyes. She didn't know who that was, but it wasn't Courtney. It wasn't the same guy who used to steal car stereos from unlocked cars at 2:30 in the morning. It wasn't the same guy who had held her for days when her mom had died. The man in front of her was a savage creature.