The Famished 1 - Taking on the Dead

by Annie Walls

  “Wait,” I stop him. “How long have I been here?”

  “Hmmm, bout two days,” Guido says. His cigarette roll hangs in his mouth as he gets up to leave the room.

  I can’t remember being here that long. I remember dreaming about a turquoise ocean with blue skies and someone laughing. A bottle of water sits beside me on the floor. I drink the contents greedily, groaning as it wets my dry throat and coats my stomach.

  Taking stock of the small room, I’m on a full mattress on the floor, caddy-corner from the door. The only other furniture in the room consists of two old wooden dining chairs, once a part of a whole set. Now, they’re dried and cracked from lack of polish.

  Dirty blinds shield a small window over the bed. Looking out between the dusty slats, other buildings scatter down a sun-lit road. The room has a distinct “office” feel to it. The walls were once white, but are now a pale yellow over brick. The Berber carpet’s worn completely down, showing the high traffic area, seemingly the primary source for the smell of sex and vomit.

  The sheets are clean and stiff cotton, and I’m impressed the sheets are sterile and grateful for the help. My eyes settle on my pack at the end of the bed – my crossbow and holster perch next to it. Apparently, Guido doesn’t feel threatened by me.

  I rummage through my pack and find several cans of food with my can opener. Rudy must have thrown them in. I pull out my jacket and put it on to block the chill, and realize my locks have been tied back. Pulling them over my shoulder, I discover a dark green bandana holding them together – the one Rudy was wearing when I first saw him. Realizing he tied them back, I wonder if he has another bandana. I can’t imagine him without it.

  I eat my canned food without tasting it, and swallow the pills Guido left. Feeling as though a train ran over me, I feel for the cut on my temple. A bandage covers it, but I can tell the heat is gone. I let out a big breath, relieved. The whole ordeal could have been much worse. I can’t help but feel someone is watching over me.

  My body starts to relax in on itself with fuzzy lightness. I should have thought about only taking one pill before downing both. They’re powerful little bastards.

  Lying down and staring at the ceiling, I think it’s puzzling to see electricity. Several fluorescent lighting fixtures adorn the ceiling, but only one has a bulb. There must be a generator of some kind.

  Scratching my face and stomach because they’re incredibly itchy is the last thing I remember. Then, nothing.

  ***

  A soft strumming brings me into consciousness. I smile, because if it isn’t one of the best ways to fall asleep, it’s the best way to wake up. When I open my eyes, Rudy’s reclining on the small chair, previously occupied by Guido, playing his guitar. Having slept well, I’m feeling better. With a foggy head, I smile in appreciation.

  He grins back, “Sorry, I didn’t mean to wake you.”

  “No, I like to hear you play.” Blinking to clear the fog, I rub my eyes with my palms.

  “You look much better. The bruises on your face look better too.” He looks better himself. He wears a navy blue bandana with a black sweatshirt, unknowingly answering my question about a back up bandana. I reach around to untie the one from my hair and play it through my fingers. “I wanted to let you know we’ll be staying here for a while. Give you some time to heal up.” His gaze travels to the bandana in my hand. His pleasure is obvious when he grins at me.

  I waggle it in front of him, “Thanks.”

  He keeps smiling, and blasts me with his charm and dimples. This Rudy’s so much better than the worried, pissed off Rudy. I don’t want to be the focus of it again.

  “What’s a juice head gorilla?” I ask, changing the subject.

  Rich laughter escapes him. “Guido likes to tease, as if I use steroids. I don’t and never have. Believe it or not, I’m just toned from working outdoors and keeping in shape. Being in construction before, it wasn’t hard. I still like to spend most of my time outside,” he shrugs. My mind flashes to him doing pull-ups on the bars in the vault. Toned? If that’s not an understatement, I don’t know what is.

  “Hmm... You do sort of resemble a gorilla.”

  “You think so?” he asks, calling me on my teasing.

  “No. Gorilla has not once come to mind.” He opens his mouth, but I promptly say, “Guido mentioned you doing a favor?”

  He pauses long enough to run a hand over his bandana and remove it, letting his hair fall. “There is a mixed culture here. The people use money, most of them live a weird lifestyle I don’t really care too much about. They have things people need, and that’s what draws survivors into the community. The survivors living here are used for whatever skills they possess in return for having a secure place. They don’t live by ordinary rules. They… It’s best if I show you, but not now. As for the favor, I had to bring in a certain type of famished without killing them.”

  A long silence follows as I take in this information. First things first – “Why would they want the famished? Are they looking for a cure?”

  He snorts, “No, Kan. It’s amazing how you think, as if you’ve been sheltered for the past four years.” I feel the blood drain from my face, but he doesn’t notice. “You’re like a breath of fresh air, but a cure is pure fantasy. The famished are used for more fun in their weird lifestyles.”

  I really can’t think of anything to say, and by the look on his face, he has no idea how close he is to figuring me out. As for the famished, it’s shocking. I just thought everyone would go to government camps, or hide out, like me. “What kind of fun?” I try not to sound curious, but damned if I’m not.

  “You’ll see, I’m sure. I need to see some friends about getting help into the base, and talk to Guido about it.”

  I nod my agreement, and think of something else. “What do you mean by a certain type of famished?”

  I can tell he doesn’t want to answer by the way he flinches, but he does. “As newly turned as possible. They last longer.”

  I study him because he is clearly uncomfortable with the turn in conversation. “Clean shaven for famished hunting,” I determine, out-loud, “I’m jealous. I’m disgusting. This shirt is stiff from sweat and funk.” I wiggle to show my discomfort.

  He laughs, visibly relieved with the change of subject. “Showers. We’ll see about getting you one later. There’s a low water supply from an irrigation and filter system with a strict schedule for bathing. Unless you do something important for the community to earn showers,” he informs. “Most of the water runs the electricity.”

  Interesting. “How?”

  “Guido was some kind of engineer and built a hydropower source nearby. I suspect it was already there, he just got it up and running. He loves to lead, and uses what he knows to keep it that way.”

  “Confirms my theory. If the right people survive, anything is possible.” He nods as if this already occurred to him. “Wouldn’t have known that about Guido just by looking at him,” I joke, and we both laugh. His smooth laughter makes my heart swell with developing fondness and trust. I’ve forgotten how good friendship feels. “We don’t have to stay here. I’m well enough to travel,” I suggest on a more serious note.

  “We can’t.” He thinks about his next words. “My debt isn’t paid. I have to do a couple of rounds in their betting ring.” It comes out quickly, and he looks unsure.

  “What betting ring?” I ask, even though I can guess.

  Anticipating my questions, he says, “Fighting. No, I don’t want to fight. Yes, I’ve fought before out of necessity, just like I will now. It was why I wanted to find what we needed on our own, but we ran out of time.”

  This explains his scarred knuckles. I glance at his hands, feeling my lips harden. Damn barbarians, we have to fight enough for our lives. Why make it a sport? I try to think of a way I can contribute to help repay the debt. Nothing comes to mind.

  I don’t argue with him. “I hope you know what you’re doing, Gorilla. I guess I’m glad zombies are ea
sy to kill,” I try to make light.

  His lips turn up in a half smile. “I don’t have to fight zombies. That would be too easy. I’m fighting other men. People bet on who they think will win. It earns Guido money by holding the markers. He makes good money off me. I’ve even thrown some fights for him. Even though, he doesn’t need it. I think he’s just being greedy and wants to let people know he is still in charge.”

  Rudy stands up, leaning the guitar against the wall. “I have to go, but I’ll be back in a little while. Have you eaten?”

  I nod. “You’re fighting now?” I wonder if he’s telling me everything, or if there’s more to this story. I’m more than interested in seeing it. He ties the bandana on his head.

  “Yes, and I know what you’re thinking. Please stay here, I don’t want to worry about you.” I shoot him an indignant glare. A smirk briefly touches his lips. “You should rest anyway.” I’m not looking forward to going back to bed. I’ve been here for days.

  “Why did you fight before?” I ask.

  He scratches his chin, leaning against the wall like a perfectly chiseled statue, even with his hooded sweatshirt. “I needed some things that have made my life easier: guns, the electric stove, but mostly gas.” This makes sense since he escaped the base. I remember the arsenal in his armored truck. Where the hell would Guido get gasoline?

  “Your compound bow?”

  “Had it before the outbreak. Side hobby. Came in handy.”

  “Really? Me too,” I say casually. I don’t clarify the fact the crossbow was to prepare for the end of the world. His eyes widen as if I surprise him.

  “Yeah, you sure packed a lot of stuff,” he said, curiosity etched in his voice. I just look to the ground and swallow, not really knowing what he’s getting at.

  “If you are referring to the junk from the SUV, that stuff had been in there for a long time, and I was in a hurry.”

  He pierces me with his steady gaze. “I was talking about your laptop, Darlin’.” Oh. We stare at each other for a moment. “Anyway, that junk might be tradable for something you need,” he points out, after he realizes I won’t clarify about my laptop.

  “You have a lot of stuff too. You must have fought in the ring an awful lot for it,” I counter quickly, diverting the subject. He had to have fought a lot. Otherwise, how did he get the cache of weapons?

  “Kansas, medical attention is worth a lot to me,” he says, sincerely. Like me, he purposely changes the subject. It finally hits me that he is fighting for me. “I’ll be back.” He turns to the door. “Don’t show or tell anyone about your laptop,” he orders, before shutting the door quietly behind him.

  ***

  I’m so curious, I’m getting antsy. These people use the living dead for whatever they use them for. I guess that’s why they stayed here instead of going farther south. Plentiful game.

  Rudy made it clear he wants me to stay here. He doesn’t know me well. I’ve never been good at listening to authority. Not that he holds any power over me, but I really should take his guidance. He is paying for my medical attention, if you can call it that, but I’m curious. I’ve never seen anyone fight in this type of situation. Rudy’s done it before, and they want him to do it again. He must be good. Even if he isn’t fighting, the thought of people and how they are surviving together is more than enough to grab my interest. The more I think about it, the more I know I won’t miss it for the world.

  I get out a plain blue shirt and slip it over my injured head. I brush my teeth with my toothpaste and the jug of water. My boots never left my feet, so I stand, tying my locks back with the bandana again. Feeling around my wound for the bandage, I find it loose on one side. The gash is scabbed over with itchy stitches. Still sore, but no longer infected. Good. Taking the bandage off, I wipe a little rubbing alcohol on it. I’m ready to go, not sure what I’ll find.

  Chapter 16

  I open the door and peek out into the empty corridor. Doors line the hall, and each end seems to veer into other hallways. Fluorescent bulbs in every other lighting fixture shine bright, although one at the end blinks rapidly. I’m not sure which way to go.

  Looking for high traffic areas on the old office building floor, I can tell the hall is frequented in each direction. It smells of cigarettes and piss, and contains stains I don’t care to contemplate. The walls, textured with aged wallpaper, are yellowed and peeling. Taking a wild guess, I go right, but don’t get very far.

  “Where do yew think yew goin’, cupcake?” I turn around to the rail thin woman who greets me. Standing taller than me, at least 5’9, she’s easily the most dressed up person I’ve seen in four years. I close my mouth from the shock at finding people still dress up. Her bleached blonde hair’s in a curly up-do. A split in her lip, covered with glossy lipstick, shows through her pursed lips. A short tight skirt emphasizes her hip sticking out in one direction in a pose with tall black boots, ending above her knees. Judging by the heels, her actual height’s 5’6 or 5’7. Her billowy blouse shows the majority of her cleavage. Even pale and bruised, she looks good. Looking to be in her late thirties – early forties, she’s appraising me as I am, her.

  “Going to the fight,” I manage to say. She laughs at me, high and shrill.

  “So, yew tha one Rudy’s all in an uproar ‘bout, huh?” How’d she know Rudy? Her accent’s one of mixed culture. A southern lilt, yet she’s lived around Guido and his lackeys long enough to pick up their dialect, too. Rudy mentioned he had friends, but her apparel gives me an uneasy impression. I hate judging people, but there’s no doubt that she’s a hooker.

  “I guess, but I’m trying to find where he’s fighting. Could you point me in the right direction?” I ask brightly.

  She smiles, “Sure, I can show yew. That boy a maniac, he is. Wut’s yew name, suga dumplin’?”

  “Kan….” I say warily, trying not to jump to any assumptions about how she would know Rudy. It’s not easy.

  She squeals and I flinch, “Oooh, like Candy? I love that name, but that otha slut took it. Fits yew betta, anyhow.” She smiles, clapping her hands, “Let’s go, we don’t wanna miss tha fun.” She puts her arm through mine, and I smell her overpowering perfume. I don’t want to think how she will spend her evening.

  We go right, and take a left at the end of the corridor. It leads us to a metal door. Outside in the dimness of early evening, she looks both ways, alert. We’re surrounded by office buildings and warehouses standing in the middle of a paved road. A tall chain link fence with barbed-wire attached to the top and outside, stands to our left. Blood stains and scorch spots dot the road and fence – evidence of famished. People mill about inside the gruesome fence. There’s nothing but open road and more buildings to the right.

  She eyes my crossbow I grip in my hand tightly. “Don’t get into tha fight with yew little Indian gear, that would be bad, Candy. It’s good ta have anyhow, case them dead ‘ems come scrimpin’,” she says, approvingly.

  “It’s just Kan, short for Kansas,” I inform lightly.

  She cocks her brow at me, patting her hair. “All right then, I’ll stick wit Suga. Cause these days, ain’t no place like home, fo sure.” I laugh at her reference because I haven’t heard that in a long time. I like her. She’s sassy. I briefly think of the other Candy.

  “Is Candy who you got in a fight with?” I ask, hoping she knows what I imply.

  As we cross the street, loud music and the chorus of a huge crowd permeates the air around building we’re headed to, as anticipation does the same for me. “Yeah, but that bitch – don’t worry ‘bout her. She already don’t like yew, no way. She got this thang for Rudy doll. Yew can take her.”

  Great. “What’s your name, by the way?”

  Glancing at me, she laughs and opens a door to a tall, well maintained warehouse, and music blasts out. The metal paneling isn’t rusted, but has that white crackled texture, as if it will begin to rust any day. “They call me Glinda.” We both laugh at the coincidence. My anxiousness grows as
the door slams behind us.

  ***

  “This is da Clap Trap, we call it. Cause it’s crazy, yew know?” Glinda says as I feast my eyes on everything, looking everywhere at once. It’s dark, except for the blinking Christmas lights mixed with various party lights. Strings of flamingos, pumpkins, hearts, and Chinese lanterns hang around as if they string together anything that lights up. Strobes and colorful spot lights are strategically placed throughout as well.

  The hollowed out warehouse has support beams going into the rafters. It’s as big as a football field, with walls spray painted graffiti, featuring X-rated cartoons in neon colors that glow in the black lights. This weird setting has an underground club feel to it. An office area takes up the right side with a hallway leading to the back – I guess there’s another entrance, bathrooms, and stairs. Windows at the top of the office space look out over the Clap Trap.

  On the ground floor, to my right, sits a gigantic three-quartered square bar. Beyond that, a big dance floor with a high stand fills the entire right corner. A person’s head pops over the short wall of the stand. Nine Inch Nails pumps out of the speakers located all around. I recognize it as a DJ stand. It reminds me of trips to the skating rink, in Jr. High.

  But the setting isn’t what shocks me. The people. Survivors. My eyes sting from a flash of nostalgia. People are everywhere. I’m frozen, watching them dance and laugh, as if the world hasn’t been overrun with zombies. “There are so many people,” I comment, wistfully.

  Glinda scoffs, striking a prissy pose. Her pursed lips are so glossy they seem to be blinking with the lights. “Wish sum of ‘em were dead ‘ems. I’d spend my hard earned cash pokin’ big ole holes in ‘em.” She seems oblivious to my emotion.

  It is the most people I’ve seen together in four years. I take a deep breath, pushing away my uneasiness from her comment.

  I grab her with a sudden thought, “Hey, Rudy can’t see me here.” She laughs knowingly as she walks to the makeshift bar. The closer I get to the bar, the more I can tell it’s made from various bars, and smells a little moldy, like old, dirty rags. I crinkle my nose.