This Rotten World | Book 1 | This Rotten World

by Morris, Jacy

  "Easy, Lou," Zeke said. Lou fumed inside, but he composed himself as the soldier searched Brian.

  "Clean!" the soldier yelled. He then turned to Sarah, her daughters still clinging to her. "Sorry, ma'am, but I've got to."

  He reached towards Ruby to pull her away from her mother, but Sarah flinched back yelling, "You keep your hands off my babies!"

  She was frantic, wild-eyed. Her voice sent shivers through Lou. It was a primal voice.

  "Ma'am. I just need to see if she's bit."

  "She's not bit!" Sarah yelled.

  "Sarah, calm down. Just let him see. There's nothing to worry about, right?" Brian asked the soldier.

  The soldier looked at him, appreciative of Brian's help. "It's just a precaution. Nothing is going to happen."

  Sarah clutched Ruby tighter to her chest.

  "C'mon, baby. Just let them see," Brian said. Sarah squeezed her eyes shut, and then she set her daughter on the ground.

  "We've got a bite!" the soldier yelled. When Sarah had set Ruby on the ground, they could see the blood, even through the loud floral pattern of Sarah's dress. On her stomach, there was a round stain, not large, but enough to cause the soldier to back away, his rifle ready. "Ma'am, were you bit?"

  Tears came to Sarah's eyes. "It was just a little scratch, when we were running." Her hands went to the fabric of her dress, covering the hole in the dress as if to hide the wound. Brian's face drooped.

  "You and you," the soldier said pointing to Zeke and Lou, "get up that ladder. Take those kids with you." The girls began screaming right away. Lou picked up the littlest girl, while Zeke dragged the other one to the ladder. They fought and they kicked, but Lou knew what was going to happen next. Lou raised the little girl up, and a soldier grabbed her arms, lifting her roughly onto the deck of the navy boat. Together, Zeke and Lou hoisted the older daughter into the air, her legs kicking back and forth. Lou caught a sneaker in the lip for his trouble as she was pulled onto the deck, screaming at the top of her lungs.

  They climbed the ladder. Lou looked back to see Brian holding his wife in his arms, whispering into her ear and kissing the side of her hair. Sarah's eyes were squeezed closed. Lou didn't want to see anymore. It wasn't for him to see. Zeke tapped him on the shoulder and they walked to the other side of the boat, looking out over the water. Zeke pulled a battered pack of cigarettes out of his pocket and handed one to Lou. He lit it for him, and Lou took a deep drag, blowing the smoke into the air where it was whisked away by the ever-present river wind.

  From behind them, they heard a single gunshot. The girls screamed and sobbed. Lou took another drag from the cigarette, and blew more smoke into the air. This was the second boat Lou had ever been on. He hated it.

  Chapter 12: Two to Drop Off

  Their ride back to the refugee camp started out relatively uneventful. When Joan had finished her cigarette, coughing and complaining of being dizzy in the process, she had dropped to the ground and examined Martinez' wound. The man in the sunglasses handed Joan a knife and she sliced open the leg of his pants, exposing a nasty compound fracture. There was nothing that Joan could do at the moment, but she let them know that they would need to get where they were going pretty fast. The man in the sunglasses smiled as he accepted back his knife and said, "That's the plan."

  The truck swerved and bounced through the city, avoiding the dead. Even a giant truck like the one they were riding in would break down if it rammed into too many of the dead. It was a transport vehicle; not a bulldozer. 200 pounds of limp flesh at 30 miles an hour... that was a recipe for AAA. Only, AAA didn't exist anymore.

  "Thank you for your help, miss...," the man in the sunglasses said, leaving the statement open.

  "Winston, Joan Winston. I'm a doctor at the hospital, or at least I used to be."

  The man nodded his head. He was older than she had initially expected, somewhere in his forties. She could see silver in his hair.

  "I'm sorry about the whole naked thing. We can't be too careful. Being a doctor, I'm sure you can understand that."

  "Understand and like are two completely different things. But yes, I understand. And what is your name?"

  The soldier removed his sunglasses and hung them on the shirt pocket of his uniform. He held out his hand. "I'm Staff Sergeant Hubert." Joan shook his hand. "What can you tell me about what happened at the hospital?"

  "The place got seriously fucked. That's what happened at the hospital," Clara said, with her usual acidity.

  Hubert turned his head to regard Clara, as if he hadn't noticed her. "And who are you?"

  "I'm the only one of Joan's patients that's still alive."

  Joan put her hand on Clara's arm. "She doesn't mean anything. We've all had a tough night." The truck swerved to a stop, and they all lurched forward on the benches, splaying their arms to help them regain their balance.

  "What's going on?" Clara asked.

  Staff Sergeant Hubert put on his sunglasses and exited the back of the truck. His soldiers followed him, except for Martinez who lay on the floor groaning. Clara and Joan looked at each other, and silently came to the agreement that they should take a look as well.

  Clara hobbled over to the back of the truck. The soldiers were gathered around the vehicle, their faces robbed of their typical soldier stoicism, replaced by slack-jawed awe. A quarter-mile away, they could see the outline of the Memorial Coliseum. Fences ringed the stadium, pitiful things that looked as if they were hastily thrown up. Scaffolding was thrown up behind the fences, and between their truck and the fence, an army of the dead milled around.

  The problem was obvious; too many of the dead were milling around the fence. Hubert was gesturing and pointing at the fence with his hand, giving the men directions. He turned around and saw them peeking out the back of truck, and he smiled at them reassuringly.

  "This is not good," Clara said. "That's supposed to be the refugee camp?"

  For once, Joan agreed with her. She brushed a lock of brown hair out of her face and said, "We'll be alright," more to allay her own fear than to make Clara feel better. The soldiers finished their conversation, and they climbed back into the truck. They began peeling the tarp off the back of the truck, exposing the ribs like the mammoth fossils of a dead dinosaur.

  "What's the plan?" Joan asked.

  Hubert smiled. "It's simple. We're going to pull up along the fence, and jump out of the back onto the scaffolding."

  "You've got to be kidding me," Clara said.

  "Anyone want another cigarette?" he responded. Clara raised her hand, but Joan kept hers down, chewing on her lip.

  From the ground, Martinez said, "I'll take one, sir."

  Hubert knelt down on one knee, "You're going to be safe in a matter of minutes, Martinez." Blood covered the floor of the truck, and Martinez' skin had paled considerably. Hubert stuck a cigarette into the man's mouth, and lit it. Hubert's Zippo did the job of lighting the cigarette, while his sure smile did the job of lighting up Martinez' face.

  The men had removed the tarp, and the sun poured down on them. It had to be two or three in the afternoon, and the sun felt harsh on their skin. Joan felt sweat form on her lip. There was a breeze, but it wasn't enough to quell the heat. Hubert pounded on the cab of the truck and they moved towards the wall of the dead.

  The truck bounced around, the remaining men jostling back and forth in the back of the truck, their rifles held with one hand, while their other hand grasped the exposed ribs of the truck. The noise of the massive diesel engine drew the attention of the throng in front of the Coliseum. It wasn't long before the sound of a hundred dead hands banging on the thick steel of the truck created a deafening cacophony.

  A helicopter joined the fray, steaming out of the north. It tried to thin out the crowd of dead between the truck and the Coliseum, turning the infected into a pulp with guns that were meant to mow through steel and concrete. Head shots were not a sure thing with a helicopter being buffeted by the wind. Gore sprayed everywhere, the hel
icopter's artillery being a little bit of overkill for the soft mass of the dead. The soldiers opened fire, and over the noise of the chopper, the crack of rifles, and the hundreds of dead beating on the truck, no one noticed when the upper half of a torso flew into the back of the truck. Blown free from its legs by the powerful Gatling gun on the chopper, the torso landed right on Martinez.

  No one heard his screaming, as everyone's attention was focused on the wall of the infected that was trying to beat their way into the back of the truck. They were uncoordinated but tenacious. As it inched forward through the crowd, Hubert and his men fired into their mass, missing more often than not due to the jouncing of the truck over bodies. The truck pressed forward, but the bodies were too thick, and as it approached the fence head on, the wall of creatures was pressed inward against the thin mesh wiring. It began to bow inwards, and the soldiers on top of the scaffold signaled for the truck to back up.

  The driver threw it into reverse, and the truck came to a halt. One of Hubert's men was off balance, and he fell onto the floor of the truck, where the torso of the dead creature that had thoroughly devoured the throat of Martinez reached for him, grasping onto his shirt. The soldier stood up with the dead torso hanging off of him. He clawed at the creature, and this time Hubert noticed. He signaled the soldier next to him, and Clara and Joan moved as far away from the struggling soldier as possible.

  The truck lurched forward, knocking the soldier with the dead torso off balance. He tumbled to the ground, and blood hit the green metal floor of the truck. Hubert took aim and shot the torso, and the bitten soldier sat up, touching his face. Blood came away on his hands and he looked at Hubert with a frightened look on his face, as his own mortality flooded his frontal lobe. Hubert pulled his sidearm and put a round through the soldier's head.

  From his position on the ground, Hubert didn't see Martinez' eyes snap open. Clara did. She yelled, "Watch out!" as loud as she could, but over the noise, it was a mere murmur. Martinez managed to stand on his one good leg, and as the truck rolled over more bodies, he lost his balance and fell forward, tackling Hubert to the ground. His sunglasses slid to the tailgate of the giant truck, and when he rolled over on his back, Joan could see the terror in his eyes.

  As the truck pulled parallel with the fence, Martinez took a bite out of Hubert's thigh. He screamed in pain, trying to shove him off with his left hand, while his right hand searched for the pistol that he had dropped when he fell to the ground. The two remaining soldiers had their work cut out for them, trying to keep the dead from climbing aboard.

  Hubert found his gun and place it against Martinez' forehead. He pulled the trigger and blood splattered the back wall of the truck's cab where Joan and Clara were standing. The soldiers on the other side of the fence called out to them, their hands outstretched. Without thinking, Joan pushed Clara forward. Clara's hands were held out in confusion as if she didn't know what to do next. To Joan, she seemed on the verge of breaking.

  The soldiers grabbed Clara's hands, yanked her out of the bed of the truck, and threw her down on the ground where more soldiers were waiting. It was a tough fall, but it was better than being dead, and the soldiers had very little time or patience at that particular moment. Joan fared better. She was more present than Clara was, and when the soldiers held out their arms to her, she gladly accepted them. Joan scrambled down the scaffolding, not wanting to be in the way. When she hit the bottom, she turned and watched as the last two soldiers made their way onto the platform.

  Then she saw something amazing. Hubert stood up in the back of the truck, his sunglasses back on his face, and a cigarette in his mouth. He waved to her, smiling as if to say it was all worth it, then he put a gun to his head and blew his own brains out. His body collapsed to the back of the truck as if in slow-motion.

  One of the soldiers on the scaffolding banged on the roof of the truck's cab, and it lurched away, rumbling over the dead, the driver checking his mirrors to see if he had any hangers on. How he was going to get out was a mystery to Joan, but he would figure it out.

  Right now, she was more concerned with all of the guns pointed at her and Clara.

  "Strip," one of the men said. Joan did so without hesitation. It was a new world, and public nudity was no longer frowned upon.

  Chapter 13: The Dumpster of Salvation

  Blake walked down the street, his hunting rifle in his hand. The rifle was solid, and Blake knew how to use it, but he only had one box of ammunition. Unlike most people, his rifle was actually only for hunting, and he had no need for more than one box of ammo... until he had woken up to find the world dying.

  Mort followed him closely, his pistol in his hand. There were only three bullets left in it. He was saving them for a special occasion. They ran down a thinly populated street, home to low buildings, the occasional tree, and the dead. They had seen a few people scattered about, but no one appeared interested in making friends. The few cars that had passed them by had been at full rev and flew past them without even slowing down. The buildings in this part of town looked like they had been built in the '70s. They were square squat structures that had the feel of a strip mall. Narrow alleys ran behind and between each of the buildings.

  They moved at a slow pace, necessitated by Mort's swollen knee. Blake knew where he was going, a pawn shop that was only a couple of blocks down the road. They had guns. They had plenty of them, but he didn't know if they would be able to get in. They were taking a chance, but if it led to them escaping from the city, then Mort was all for it, and he knew that he was going to need more than three bullets to pull off the Great Escape.

  The building was nothing special, but Blake walked around it anyway, peering in the windows. No one was home it appeared. The inside of the store was dark, and the windows were unbroken. They walked down the alley that ran down the west side of the store, enjoying the shade it provided. There was a back door there, but it had no handle. Blake thought for a second before saying, "I guess we're just going to have to break into the place."

  Mort shrugged his shoulders. Whatever they were going to do, he wanted to do it fast. They turned to walk out front. Blake smashed one of the unlucky dead that had followed them down the alley across the face with the butt of his rifle. It crumpled to the ground, but Blake gave it a couple more whacks. It was most definitely dead, permanently, when Blake stopped.

  They stood in front of the store, a handful of the dead shuffling down the street towards them.

  "Alright, here's the plan. We break in the window, and run to the rear as quick as we can. A shithole like this isn't going to have the guns out front. They'll most likely be in the back. We'll pop into the back, grab the guns, break out through the back door, and skirt around the back alley to avoid anything that comes investigating. Sound good?"

  Mort nodded, "Sounds like a plan."

  "Now if we break this glass and an alarm goes off, we're really going to have to move our asses."

  "Right," Mort said, taking deep breaths in preparation. "I'm ready."

  Blake looked at the front of the pawn shop. "4 DVD's for $10," was painted across the window in red, yellow, and black. "That's a hell of a deal," Blake said before smashing the window in with the butt of his rifle. There was no pause as the pawn shop's alarm sprang to life. It was an ear-splitting noise, so sharp and powerful that Mort could swear he felt each blast in his teeth. The alarm could probably be heard for blocks.

  Blake ran through the store. He was much quicker than Mort seeing as how he hadn't destroyed his knee the night before. Blake hopped over the counter in the back of the store and then kicked in the wooden door behind the counter. Mort moved as quick as he could, which wasn't actually all that quick. He rolled over the counter and landed on the other side. When he stepped into the back room, Blake was tossing boxes of old junk on the ground. DVD's, tools, and junk jewelry all piled up on the floor. On the opposite side of the room, Mort spied a chest hidden underneath some boxes of CD's that were covered in a layer of dus
t.

  Mort shoved the box to the side and lifted the cover of the chest. Lying in the chest was a treasure trove of guns. "Over here!" Mort yelled over the alarm.

  Blake spun, the cowboy hat on his head hiding his eyes in the shadows of the pawn shop. "Hell yeah, Mort. That oughta do."

  Blake playfully slapped Mort on the shoulder and then squatted next to him, pulling the guns out of the box. "No ammo. It's like havin' a Thanksgiving dinner in a can and no damn can opener."

  Mort looked around the room. Everything had been checked except for an ancient, olive green filing cabinet in the corner. He limped over to it and tugged on the cabinet's top drawer. It wouldn't budge. It was locked.

  Blake stood and looked out into the main part of the store. He could see the first of the dead ambling through the entrance. He pulled his hunting rifle from his shoulder, checked to see that it was loaded and the safety was off, and then he said, "Come on. Let's get out of here. We struck out."

  "No, man. I'm tellin' you, the ammo is in here," Mort said as he continued bashing on the file cabinet. He could hear a clinking sound inside.

  Blake held his rifle up to his eye, put the dead man's face in his sights and exhaled before squeezing the trigger. The body went down, and Blake racked another round into the chamber of his rifle. He could see the shadows of more dead moving around through the paint on the stores windows. The alarm was a dinner bell, calling the dead forward.

  "Stand back," Blake yelled, taking aim at the metal lock in the top right corner of the filing cabinet. Mort dove to the ground at Blake's words, and the shot he unleashed made the alarm pale in comparison. Mort put his hands to his ears, and wondered if he would ever hear again. He shook his head, and the head-splitting screech of the pawn shop's alarm slowly switched places with the ringing in his ears. Mort walked over to the filing cabinet and pulled on the handle of the top shelf. It slid open with just a little effort. The drawer was piled high with a haphazard collection of receipts and pawn slips. Mort ran his hand through them just to be sure. There was nothing in the top drawer, so he slammed it shut. Mort flinched as Blake fired off another ear-cracking round. He pulled open the middle drawer, and it was more of the same, and a bottle of whiskey.