From the soldiers around them, Hank hastily gathered the components he needed to fashion a homemade bomb. It was going to take most of their ammo, but he hoped it would be worth it. “Any volunteers for the distraction?” he asked without looking up from his work.
“I’ll do it, sir,” Ben said, stepping forward.
Grant started to protest, but Hank somehow sensed it and cut him off. “Good on you, boy. If any of us make it out of this Godforsaken town alive, I swear your sacrifice will be remembered.”
When Hank was ready, Ben lowered a rope over the west edge and climbed down to hang just above the reach of the creatures, screaming and taunting them with his dangling legs. The dead swarmed beneath him in a frenzy, and more and more drifted around the building to converge beneath the young private.
Hank lit the fuse on his bomb and tossed it into the street on the eastern side. Another rope followed quickly after it, even before the explosion came. The roof shook—Ben, unable to hold on, fell into the grasping arms of the dead, and on the other side of the roof, men slid down the rope to the now mostly cleared street below them. Those who hit the ground first took potshots at the closest dead to buy time for the others. Then as a whole, the remnants of the platoon ran towards the edge of town and the cover of the trees.
#
Inside the jail, Wayne and two other men were using the last of their ammo on the dead. The things flung themselves over and over into the cells, stretching their arms between the iron bars. One of the other two soldiers had already been scratched, but Wayne was waiting till the last possible second to put him down. He wanted as many of the dead sent back to Hell as he could manage.
When the explosion hit the street outside and shook the building, it caught Wayne and the others off-guard. The soldier who wasn’t wounded careened into the hands of the dead, and Wayne saw them tear open his throat. Blood sprayed into the air.
The explosion weakened the building’s structure just enough for the cell door to give way under the mass of bodies ramming against it.
A rotting hand grabbed Wayne’s face and shoved its fingers into his eyes. He shouted in the face of death, fighting even as he fell.
#
As the men from the roof neared the edge of town, their legs pumping beneath them and their breath coming in ragged gasps, they saw movement in the trees. A flood of small figures emerged to meet them.
“Sweet Jesus!” someone cried out. “They’re just children!”
More than three dozen orphans stood between the men and their hope of survival. They were all dead.
“Keep moving!” Hank ordered. “Fight through them!”
The soldiers and the children collided in a running brawl. To Grant’s right, a child grabbed a man by the thigh and sent him sprawling. Before he even had a chance to scream, the children climbed all over him, tearing him apart with their tiny hands.
A young girl, who must have been no older than twelve when she died, dropped the doll she’d been cradling and reached out for Grant as maggots swam in the gray flesh of her contorted face. She growled, baring red-stained teeth, and Grant shot her in the head with his Colt. He didn’t take time to watch her body fall.
“This way!” someone shouted, and Grant changed his course to follow the sound of the voice.
Four
Grant collapsed on the ground of a small clearing in the woods, his muscles burning from being pushed past their limits.
“I think we’ve lost them for the moment,” Hank said as he and the other four survivors finally came to a stop.
“About damn time,” Clint spat and dropped to the ground, checking his rifle. They had been on the run for nearly two hours and were exhausted.
“We can’t stay here long,” Sam said.
“I know,” Hank agreed. He rested his weight against the trunk of a tree. “We’re never going to make it to the rally point. It’s too far, especially since we just backtracked away from it to stay alive.”
“This mission has gone all to Hell.” Clint loaded his last rounds into his rifle. “I vote we hightail it home while we still can.”
“There has to be some farmsteads in these parts,” Sam thought aloud. “It’s possible we could find some horses left alive while we head east. Make the trip a lot faster.”
Hank nodded. “That settles it then. Let’s get going before we have company.”
Grant wearily pushed himself to his feet as the exhausted men got back on the move. “Anybody got anything to eat?” he asked.
Hank handed him a hard biscuit from the pouch on his belt. “Go easy on it. There may not be anything else for a while.”
Grant thanked him for the food and nearly shattered his teeth on it. Stale or not, he had to admit the bread tasted wonderful. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d eaten, and his body needed something if he was going to keep moving. He cursed himself for spending far too much time behind his desk at Harper’s.
“Wait!” Clint said suddenly. “I think I know where we’re at. We passed this area on the march in. If I’m right, there should be a farm not too far from here to the north.”
“Well, what are we waiting for?” Hank asked. “Lead us to it.”
The farm was a large one. Fields of corn and wheat rustled in the wind as the men approached its barn. The horse inside had long ago starved to death, and flies buzzed over their remains. The house was empty as well, but at least they’d found a place to take shelter for the night. After a quick raid of the house’s pantry for a cold supper, they opted to stay in the barn despite the smell, sleeping high above the floor in the hayloft.
At the crack of dawn, they looted the last of the edible food for breakfast, then set out eastward once more. They found the road their regiment had marched in on and followed it towards the Mississippi River and the army’s beachhead. It seemed like every other hour of the long trek, they could hear the howls of the dead in the distance. Sometimes the cries came from behind them; other times they came from ahead—the men had no choice but to continue on.
“We must have pissed them off,” Clint said. “They weren’t this far east as we came in.”
“Or maybe other squads have already retreated to the beachhead along this road and the dead followed them,” Grant pointed out. “Either way, it was just a matter of time until they headed east. That’s why we were sent here, to stop them before they did. It’s what a disease does; it spreads.”
“Holy shit!” Clint exclaimed. A supply wagon sat in the middle of the road ahead of them. Two horses were harnessed to it, very much alive, though in poor shape and clearly spooked. Bodies covered the road around the wagon, and an overturned Gatling gun lay in the wagon’s bed; a soldier’s body was propped against it, rotting in the heat of the sun.
Clint broke into a run for the wagon.
“Clint!” Hank shouted, but the private didn’t even slow down.
As he reached the wagon, the soldier on the Gatling snarled and sprung at him. It wrestled him to the ground, and with jagged fingernails it slashed his cheek.
The others advanced more cautiously with Hank in the lead, checking bodies as they went.
“God help me!” Clint wailed, managing to roll out from underneath the dead man’s assault. He drew his Colt and jammed the barrel against the man’s forehead.
At the sound of the shot, the woods around the road roared to life with the hungry cries of the dead.
“Get the horses loose!” Hank barked, swinging to meet the corpse of a farmer that charged at him from the trees. Hank put a shot into its chest to slow the thing down, then put a second round into its face. The farmer hit the gravel road with a thud.
With his knife, Grant cut one of the horses free of its harness. The terrified animal fought to run as the dead poured onto the road, and Grant was barely able to hold it in place. Had the horse not been a trained military animal it would have been long gone the second he managed to get it loose.
Grant and Hank exchanged a sad glance as the othe
rs fired wildly to stem the tide of the dead.
“Go!” Hank ordered.
Grant didn’t hesitate. He mounted the animal and kicked its sides. The horse didn’t need any encouragement; it cut a path through the dead and charged away from the battle. Grant didn’t look back as the gunfire turned to screams.
Hank was the last to fall. He stood alone on the road as the dead circled him. His empty rifle smoked in his hands. “Come on, you pieces of shit! Come on and end this!”
He met the first one head-on and busted its skull with the butt of his weapon, but then, moving as one, the dead dragged him to the gravel, gnawing on his flesh even before his body hit the road. Hank screamed as they ripped his intestines from his stomach and passed them around. An ugly, deformed corpse with no nose leaned over and assaulted him with its rank breath. The thing tore into Hank’s throat, and blood spurted into its face.
Except for the chewing sounds, the road had fallen silent.
#
Near dawn, Grant’s horse gave out and he was forced to continue on foot toward the beachhead. Far in the distance, he could hear cannons discharging, and clouds of smoke rose from beyond the trees.
Longing for his rifle, Grant paused and drew his Colt. He counted three rounds left in the chamber and hoped they would be enough to see him the rest of the way.
As he stood, weapon in hand, a dead woman staggered out of the bushes to his right. He jerked his gun up, but held his finger on the trigger. She’s blind, he realized.
The bulk of her face was gone, as were her eyes, and her tissue looked burnt, as if she’d been caught in an explosion. A long trail of her insides spilt from her waist and dragged on the dirt behind her as she lumbered forward, oblivious to his presence. A low moan rose from her throat as she continued past Grant, deeper into the woods. He couldn’t keep his eyes from following her. He felt a mixture of hatred and pity he didn’t think he’d ever be able to describe for his readers should he make it home.
When the woman had vanished, Grant turned and continued towards the sound of the battle. The gunfire was louder now, and the cries of dying men intermingled with rifle fire. He reached the edge of the trees and ducked down as two dead men raced past him into the conflict on the river’s shore. The whole riverbank was a mass of blood and bodies, most of which lay unmoving. Only here and there in scattered formations were there soldiers left to hold the beachhead. Grant couldn’t distinguish the wounded from the dead in the sea of human flesh that littered the shore.
The army was in full retreat. Men were paddling small boats into the river’s currents as massive steamboats continued to fire at the shoreline with cannon emplacements. Grant heard the hiss of an incoming ball and ducked even lower as it exploded among the bodies.
As blood fell from the sky, Grant hopped to his feet and made a dash for the river. Hundreds of dead Indians were swarming out of the woods upstream. It looked as if all the tribes had finally united against the invading white man. Many of the dead clutched tomahawks out of instinct or some lingering phantom of their humanity, though it was clear they didn’t know how to use them. Several of them noticed him and with a cold, curdling war cry changed their course, running headlong in his direction.
In that moment, Grant knew the West was truly dead. If a people so noble and so courageous had failed to survive, what hope did Easterners have against them?
Grant chose the clearest route to the water, dodging the arms of a corpse sitting on a mound of its own shredded flesh. Its legs were nowhere to be seen.
Grant hit the river and waded in without slowing down, splashing his way along until the bottom was out of reach and he was swept up by the currents. The water was freezing cold, a brown mixture of blood and mud; he swam as hard as he could.
Through the thick clouds of smoke hanging on the surface of the water, he could see the fleet of mighty steamboats more clearly, the last great defenders of the eastern shore. As the current tugged him south, he struggled to swim eastward. His left foot brushed something underwater and he felt a hand close around his ankle. His head splashed under and he came face to face with the bloated remains of a fat man trapped in the rocks below.
Water flooded Grant’s lungs as he tried to scream, and moments later the murky waters of the Mississippi flowed a tiny bit redder.
Epilogue
President Johnson stood before Congress. Most of the faces stared at him with open contempt, still riled at him for allowing the Southern states into the Union after the slave war without harsher punishments for their transgressions. Even now, in the face of the darkness brewing in the West, they wanted their vengeance. Did they not understand what was happening in their own country? Were they too lost in the past to save the future? He prayed not.
“Gentleman, I have asked you all to gather for this emergency session because this morning I received some most bleak and frightening news. Our push westward has failed and our army is in a state of retreat.”
Murmurs and gasps of horror rose in the crowd.
Johnson steadied himself and continued. He knew he would take the blame for the army’s failure in the long run, assuming he lived long enough to see things return to normal.
“It is worse still, I’m afraid. I have been informed that the dead are now crossing the Mississippi in enough numbers to be a threat to us all. The plague has come ashore in the East, good sirs, and if we do not stop it now, we’ll have no other chance.”
As the room broke into chaos and panic, Johnson paused to take another deep breath and prayed he would be strong enough to lead this country to victory over such an unnatural and unholy foe.
He called for order and the congressmen settled enough for him to be heard.
“Now, gentlemen, this is what I suggest we do…”
As he laid out his plans for the next line of defense, outside in the streets of Washington a homeless man staggered out of an alleyway. A woman turned to him on the busy corner to ask if he was in need of help. The man’s hands closed on her neck as she tried to scream.
Bystanders recoiled in horror as the man pulled her close and bit into the top of her skull. The authorities came running to see what the trouble was, and the end of the world truly began.
RATS
One
Warren snuck a glance through the boards covering the living room window. The dead were everywhere, at least three dozen of them wandering up and down the street in search of their next meal. He doubted very much that they would find one. They didn’t seem intelligent enough to search the houses on their own, and the monster wasn’t here to lead them anymore.
The thing had just up and left an hour ago after it had guided the dead into the Petersons’ home. Warren supposed it had thought they were the last ones hiding on this street, and he was glad the thing was gone. The dead he could deal with, but that monster had been something beyond his comprehension.
It was what they called a demon, and it looked like a rat, with four razor-sharp primary teeth and beady black eyes that reflected moonlight, only the thing stood on two legs, seven feet tall. Just like a man, though there was nothing human about it. It reminded him of some kind of fairy-tale demon. He could’ve sworn it had hissed in frustration when it left the neighborhood without prey.
“Daddy,” Emily said, placing her tiny hand on Warren’s hip.
He looked down into her sad blue eyes. “What is it, honey?”
“Mommy wants you to come back to the basement.”
Warren nodded. He picked up his P-90 from where he’d propped it near the window and followed his daughter downstairs into the candlelit room. As he entered, he made sure to shut and lock the heavy door behind him.
Jessica was staring at him, her green eyes bloodshot from a seemingly endless flood of tears that she cried every time they managed to get Emily asleep.
“Don’t worry, baby,” Warren said. “The dead can’t get in here and that thing is gone. It’s not up there now. Everything’s going to be okay.”
&nb
sp; Emily wandered over to Jessica, who scooped her up. Warren could tell Jessica wanted to scream at him for locking them into this tiny basement to die, but she was holding her tongue for their daughter’s sake.
“The worst of it’s over,” Warren tried to assure her. “It’s just a matter of time until the dead wander off and we can make a break for it.”
Jessica nodded, trying to force a smile.
A scratching sound filled the room.
Warren frowned. “What the hell is that?”
“I don’t know,” Jessica said. “It started while you were upstairs. It starts up and then dies down every few minutes.”
“Why didn’t you come and get me before now?” Warren asked, holding in his rage.
“I… I think it’s coming from behind the washer,” Emily said. “It’s not the monsters trying to get in, is it, daddy?”
“No, I don’t think so. The monsters are all up on the street.” Warren moved over to the washing machine and slid it away from the wall. The second he did, he knew he’d made a terrible mistake. The whole section of wall behind it had been scratched away, and a mass of rats came pouring into the basement.
“Oh God!” Jessica yelled.
Warren sprayed the rats with his P-90 on instinct, and the gun boomed in the small space. He fought helplessly to stop the rodents, realizing that he was the only thing standing between them and his family. Trying to get a better aim at their center mass, he backed away from the wall and smashed one of the rats beneath his heavy boot. Emily squealed behind him and Jessica cried out in pain as the rats raced their way up her legs, eating holes into her flesh as they went.
“No!” Warren screamed.
And then the walls gave way and the entire room flooded with rats, so many that he drowned in them as their teeth ripped and tore into his skin.
#
Warren awoke in a shower of glass as a bullet blew out the window above his head. At first he could feel the rats all around him, but he managed to shake off the nightmare as he rolled from the car’s backseat onto the floorboard, taking his M-16 with him. His family had died long ago, but he was still alive and wasn’t going to die if he could help it.
Season of Rot Page 18
