The Rotting Souls Series (Book 1): Charon's Blight [Day One]

by Ray, Timothy A.

  The road was littered with abandoned cars. Doors hung open; the annoying bells reminding their long-gone owners to close them. She fought the ingrained behavior to step forward and do it for them; they didn’t have time for such a useless act. If the sound was going to attract attention, it would have done so long before she had stepped onto this sidewalk.

  Her eyes looked to a nearby road sign to try and get her bearings. The sun was hiding behind cloud cover and with all of the destruction the street had suffered, her mind was refusing to orient itself. The sign informed her that they were on Maryland Pkwy, and that meant that the accident had taken place south from their position.

  Looking in the direction of Tropicana, she caught the occasional wisp of smoke and flash of movement. People were moving around down there, but she didn’t know if they were friendly or the undead milling about waiting on some dumbass to just walk up on them.

  Either way, she wasn’t going to take that chance.

  She was momentarily pissed that Matt hadn’t taken them somewhere south so they wouldn’t have to cross between that massacre and the strip to the north. She sighed. There was nothing to be done but deal with it and move on. They would have to cut southeast through a cluster of buildings in order to make it to Spencer. Her mind tried desperately to plan out a route that would constantly shift on her as they went. She preferred to have every step worked out in advance, but that was impossible to do in a crisis like this.

  There were too many unknowns.

  The path they were being funneled through would take them dangerously close to the airport, but it was the fastest way to the 215. She couldn’t count on it being any safer than Tropicana was at the moment, but there had to be something for her to focus on; she could only deal with one dilemma at a time.

  The longer they remained immobile, the less the chance they’d survive.

  She took the lead with Matt covering her flank. Since stealth was paramount to their progress, she shouldered her rifle and drew her sword instead. The blade was kept sharp, the polished surface reflecting the sun as she brought it forward and ready. She stepped carefully past an abandoned car that had its trunk up blocking their view.

  She saw a twitching arm near the rear tire and she paused. A man was bent over a body, hands tearing flesh and shoving it in his gore filled mouth. It must have just happened because the man he was ripping into appeared to be breathing.

  He was being eaten alive!

  The zombie looked up and her blood turned cold. The undead man looked like a tourist. He had a name tag on his business shirt that must have come from a nearby convention, but she couldn’t make out the name due to the amount of blood on the creature’s chest. The zombie’s eyes blazed with a mixture fury and hunger. She could tell from his stance that he was preparing to spring at her.

  She tried to react but her limbs were frozen in place; she could die right here.

  Matt brushed past her and fired his rifle without hesitation. The head jerked backward and the zombie fell on top of the dying man. Her husband lowered his rifle and fired again, ending the dying man’s misery; a head shot ensuring that he didn’t come back from it.

  “You okay?” he asked with concern. He had seen her freeze. It was not something they could afford; it would get her killed.

  She nodded and tried to shrug it off; to harden herself against the world that was being born. It was hard after seeing such ugliness. She had seen her fair share at work and understood that the images would fade with time. She just had to ensure that she survived long enough to forget it. “Let’s keep going.”

  They avoided broken glass, sliding carefully past open car doors, eyes watchful for more hidden undead. They masked their progress as much as they could with so much destruction and chaos unfolding around them.

  A shrill scream came out of a building ahead but they didn’t pause. They were making their way past a neighborhood packed with closely built houses and the thought of what was hiding within made her too cautious to try to find the scream’s source.

  It wasn’t just the dead that was dangerous.

  People would defend themselves from anything at this point; even those that came to help. It was best to let them fend for themselves; for their progress to continue unabated. Her training as a nurse was pushing her to help, her humanity driving her towards the pain in those screams, but her body kept moving away and to the south.

  There was a time to be a hero and a time to just get the fuck out.

  She glanced behind her and saw that Matt was looking to their left, but she caught his eye and shook her head. His mouth became firmer, his eyes cold, but he nodded back; plowing his way past her and taking the lead. Having been in the military, it was not in him to avoid a fight, but to face it head on. She let him stay there, knowing that it was distracting him from wanting to turn around. She needed them to keep moving.

  They crossed the alley behind the houses and came to pause at a long white wall on the opposite side. She looked around the corner at the parking lot beyond, taking notice of any indications of danger. Not seeing any, they began moving once more.

  Tropicana was straight ahead. The accident site was to the west and she knew it had probably spread along the road in their direction. They listened to the chaos coming from that direction and tried to figure out its proximity to their location. Most of the sounds were echoing and it threw off her orientation.

  The screams that had been coming from their rear were suddenly cut short and Matt gave her an accusing look. She returned it, trying to keep herself strong and confident. She had hated herself for what they had done and couldn’t hold it for long. “We need to keep moving,” she whispered at him.

  “That doesn’t mean we stop being human,” he responded coldly.

  She glared at him. “This isn’t about being human, it’s about survival. You don’t know what you’d be walking into going to help whoever that was, wherever they were. You could have ended up dead before you even got to them. You’d throw your life away for nothing.”

  “At least I’d die trying,” he growled, but she knew that he understood on a deeper level what she was driving at. He just felt as helpless as she did and was taking it out on her. He took another look at the parking lot beyond. Feeling confident that they were in the clear, he raised his rifle and stepped forward. He was being driven by anger and she made sure she gave him some space as she covered his flank.

  Moving as fast as they dared, they flung themselves against the backside of the building. They braced themselves; fighting the impulse to just rush ahead. He checked the corner and she stepped out with him as he entered the side parking lot.

  A man came flying down the sidewalk ahead and they froze; weapons raised. It didn’t matter, he was oblivious to their presence. He was running full out and the look of terror was enough to get her heart pumping. Half a second later another figure appeared, causing her adrenaline to flood her system; Matt’s rifle tracking its progress.

  It was a scantily clad showgirl judging by the costume, which only covered half her body. Her feet were bare and dark muck was flipping up from her heels. She realized it was blood. The woman’s hair had been pulled back when she was alive; strands popping out everywhere as they came loose from the woman’s exertions. One of her breasts had pulled free of the costume and the lack of concern over the nudity drove it home that whoever that woman had been—she’d been replaced by a rabid monster.

  Having seen the occasional zombie movie, she was stunned at how normal the girl looked. Her stomach began to churn as she realized that it was going to be hard to discern friend from foe in the heat of the moment. She showed no obvious signs of death, other than the blood that was pooling in her legs. When the woman died and her heart quit pumping, the blood had pooled at the lowest point.

  Rosilynn wondered what was keeping that thing moving. What medical or scientific reasoning could be applied to this? She worked in the medical field and what she was seeing was just not possible. She
was pale from the lack of circulation, but so were half the people who hid indoors with their air conditioning; avoiding the sun.

  What else stood out that would help her make that split-second decision? It was the difference between murder and self-defense.

  As the showgirl passed from sight, having not for one second looked their way with such an obvious prey in front of her. She let the breath out that she hadn’t realized she had been holding. It came in a rush and Matt looked at her with concern. It hadn’t fazed him one bit.

  For a brief moment, she hated him for that.

  “Fuck,” she whispered in frustration. After so many years of movies, comics, and books, she had been anticipating a nasty ass monster that easily contrasted with the living. Where was the instant decay or the yellow eyes? These were supposed to be obvious signs, yet the medical part of her training insisted that none of that would ever happen. That it was more a tactic to make them seem scarier in the movies. People had no problem opening up on a hideous monster, but they might feel differently if the person looked completely normal.

  Now that she saw one that hadn’t died in a horrible accident, she wondered how well she’d be able to handle shooting someone that looked ordinary. “Damn it,” she whispered at her own naivetés. Matt glanced at her with curious eyes and she mouthed “later”, nodding for them to move on.

  He nodded and she watched as he began to cross the parking lot to a white sedan; the lone vehicle still parked at the Sherman Williams. He checked the lock and smiled, the door was open. Well hell, someone out there was looking out for them.

  He had begun to open the door when his head jerked and he let out a surprised yelp of pain. Scrambling backwards from the car, he began cursing and stamping at his feet. Quickly moving around to his side, the first thing she saw was blood. It was leaking from where his suit met his shoes, right at the ankle. Her first thoughts were about him not wearing his boots, but then it sank in; he had been bit.

  Rage filled her soul as she fully came around the car, her rifle forgotten and her sword in hand. Crawling out from under the vehicle was a young teen, his skin red and scorched from lying on the hot pavement. Blood was dripping from his teeth; his hands clawing to pull himself in her husband’s direction.

  Furiously, she swung her blade and cleaved the young man’s head in half. The skull cap flew across the parking lot where it struck the side of a nearby pub’s window; smearing the glass. As the corpse spasmed and the blood flowed, she sliced it several more times, her anger fueling her swings.

  “I’m so fucked!” her husband yelled; not caring who heard. “I’m dead Ros, I’m dead.” His eyes were looking at her with despair and in all the time she had known him, she’d never seen him so hopeless and defeated. The strength that he emanated was gone and the little boy who had escaped the ghetto at thirteen had returned.

  She instantly loathed what she saw and her words were fueled by that hatred. He was supposed to be the strong one. “Shut the fuck up and pull yourself together or we both will be dead.” Forcing him to sit on the hood of the car, she inspected his wound, her gut twisting at the seriousness of the bite. “Why the fuck are you wearing sneakers, dumbass?”

  He huffed and she ignored it; probing the wound with her finger. Had any saliva gotten through? Was this thing transferred through body fluids? How could she know, when she wasn’t sure of the cause or rate of infection? There were too many variables to consider.

  “The cat found my boots and decided to take a crap in them,” he responded angrily. It sounded like a punch line to a bad joke. It was such a mundane act in the scheme of things and it might have cost him his life. Gritting her teeth, she couldn’t believe her husband, the love of her life, was going to be taken away from her by cat shit. “Take my foot off Ros,” he pleaded, his usually confident voice trembling as he spoke.

  “We don’t know that it would make any difference,” she told him, trying to keep her voice steady, letting her training guide her through the motions. Her eyes were focused on his ankle and it was quite a nasty bite. It had nearly torn his flesh completely off, parts of it hung there loosely hanging by a thread. If he hadn’t jerked his leg back as quickly as he had, it would have been a hell of a lot worse. “Your blood has pumped that shit through your heart by now. Its science fiction to think that you could cease the infection with a quick amputation,” she replied, letting the clinical speak over her heart, because at that moment it wanted to cut that damn thing right off.

  They had all agreed on the steps that needed to be taken should one of them get bit and her heart sank at the realization that she was going to have to kill her husband. They had both made that pact three years ago. No matter who it was, if they were bit, they were dead already. Better to end it quickly and spare them the pain, then wait for them to die horribly, reanimate, and kill one of them instead. But then, they were operating under the dogma that had been created around the zombie phenomenon.

  After the showgirl, she was beginning to question what they knew versus what was actually true.

  She had seen a woman with a broken spine climb off a car. Even though she was crushed by the wheels of their vehicle, she had still come after them. But her death was caused by the accident; not a bite. The showgirl had shown no obvious signs of infection. The old lady in the car hadn’t been attacked. She had climbed out of that car with half a body, but none of the infected had gotten to her first.

  No, it had been that damn semi.

  Who had she seen turn from being attacked by the infected? Nobody. So far it had been people that died for other reasons. Could she safely judge that this wasn’t some airborne virus that acted upon death instead of a plague that turned anyone that got bit? It didn’t mesh with what she had seen and it wasn’t enough for her to just end his life; not without proof.

  She looked up at her husband and saw the defeat in his eyes. He was holding out his knife; the fight gone. He was ready to die. Her hand had already begun to reach for it and she saw the tremble in her usually calm hands. Fast under pressure, sure of herself in the OR, not once had she experienced the shakes.

  Taking a deep breath, she closed her eyes and tried to calm herself; to reconcile everything that had happened since her phone had gone off. Her mind was racing too fast to make any kind of coherent judgment. The showgirl kept coming back to her, constantly reminding her that she knew nothing about what the fuck was going on to be making a call like this. She poured Peroxide on the bite, watching as it foamed and went to work. Then she wrapped it tightly, trying to staunch the blood loss.

  She wasn’t about to give up on him.

  “We don’t know if getting bit turns you. If you get sick and there’s no other choice, then I’ll consider it. I’m not stupid, I don’t want to die, but at the moment, I need you. I need your strength,” she said, standing up and taking his face in her hands. She made his eyes meet hers. “I need you to stop acting like you’re already dead. This is not some movie, not a TV show trying to get ratings. We don’t know anything about this virus, if that’s what it is, and what affect it has on the human body. Until we do, I’m not going to kill you. You are not going to die. You are going to snap out of this, get your shit together, and help get us out of this fucking city. If you don’t, I might just kill you for slowing me down.”

  The forcefulness of her words drew anger and she smiled within, glad to see that there was still something there fighting to live. She hated that defeated look and if she ever saw it again, she’d forget he was hurt and kick his ass. It made her feel weak, and that vulnerability was not something she could afford. “Do we have an understanding Matthew Patrick Miller?” Only his mother used his full name and his eyes flared at her words and the command embedded within. She was willing to bear it if it got him to man up.

  “Yes, we do,” he said forcefully. “But when, not if, that time comes, you are going to take that knife and end me or I will eat a bullet. I will not become one of those things; I will not be the cause of you
r death.”

  “Agreed,” she said, welcoming the anger; it had wiped the defeat away.

  She heard movement from behind her and realized that in that intimate moment they had shared; they had forgotten that the world had gone to shit around them.

  A group of the undead was careening around the corner of the store in the direction the showgirl had taken. She sheathed her sword and brought her Rimfire up. She had fired a round before Matt had gotten back on his feet and brought up his own rifle in response. She didn’t have a suppressor and she winced at the cracking sound of gunfire.

  She knew she had no choice and found that she no longer cared. Right now, she needed to funnel her anger into something constructive and this herd had given her a target. A large blade appeared in the head of the leader of the pack, Matt having thrown the knife he had only just recently offered her. Her bullet took the one beside it. Both fell quickly and were trampled by the others.

  Matt now had his rifle up and was firing. It appeared his will to live had returned.

  Her next bullet took out an overweight tourist with a flowered shirt, her second winged a naked man coated in blue paint. No blood exited the bodies on impact, the congealed legs obviously housing the majority of what they’d when they died. She steadied herself as the distance was closed between them and squeezed the trigger once more, taking the blue man’s head off.

  The last three fell quickly after that, Matt’s aim truer than her own. His military bearing had returned. He marched over and retrieved his knife, wiping the blood on the flowered shirt of the fallen tourist. “We can discuss this later,” he said, as if she was the target of the argument instead of the other way around. “Let’s get out of here and stop wasting time,” he bit off, but wouldn’t look her in the eyes.

  She was happy enough to have her husband back that she didn’t care to retort, only nodded in agreement. He was limping from the wound, but otherwise there was no obvious sign that anything was wrong. However, he was pausing as he walked, looking down at the corpses at their feet. She knew in her heart that he was imagining becoming one of them.