by Dirk Patton
Danny was realistic enough to understand that only one of two things was going to happen. Either the world as he knew it had ceased to exist, or this was all going to blow over in a couple of days and things would slowly get back to normal. Neither scenario favored him, though. He’d already seen the brutality resulting from whatever had happened and knew he wasn’t someone who could survive in that type of environment.
But what if things went back the way they were? Just as bad. A dead woman in a hotel room rented in his name. DNA. Fingerprints. A digital trail of their online communications. A first-year prosecutor wouldn’t have to break a sweat to secure a conviction or force him to plea to a lesser charge. Either scenario would almost assuredly result in some amount of prison time, and he was no better equipped to survive in that environment than he was in the world unfolding around him. At least in this one, he wasn’t disgraced and behind bars.
Taking a deep breath of resignation, Danny caught a glimpse of the house as a particularly strong gust of wind bent a leafy branch aside. Theresa and the girls. He cared about them but had never felt the husbandly and paternal love he heard his friends and co-workers profess.
Life was better with them because he was expected to present a specific appearance as a member of his law firm. Solid. Dependable. A family man with his head on straight. That’s what was expected. Not someone who trolled Internet sites and chat rooms, looking for anything with a pair of tits that was willing to hop into bed with him. No, he never would have gotten even a first interview with the firm were it not for Theresa and his daughters, let alone have made junior partner in less than ten years.
She had been the perfect wife. Always knew the right things to say in social settings. Made sure the family was active in volunteer work and was properly deferential to the spouses of the senior partners. In a word, they all loved her, and she had furthered his career immeasurably. But now… in a world collapsing in on itself, why did he need her? What did he need with the girls? In one day, they’d gone from asset to burden.
Still unmoving, Danny made a mental checklist of the pros and cons of having a family in the apocalypse. None of them could help with protection. That would all fall on him, whether he wanted it to or not. Food? Shelter? The basic necessities? Again, he wouldn’t only have to provide those things for himself, he would be expected to for them as well.
His list was short, but it only consisted of cons. Try as he might, he couldn’t come up with one single reason to continue being burdened with a wife and kids. Besides, there would be plenty of women out there willing to do whatever he asked if he could provide any of those things. Women a hell of a lot sexier and more interesting than Theresa.
Danny had his answer and he didn’t feel even a twinge of guilt. Perhaps a tad bit of loss as life with Theresa had once been exciting. But that had been a long time ago and hadn’t lasted past the first year of their marriage. After that, it had been nothing but bills and kids. This was his golden opportunity.
Decision made, he looked at the forest that was tight against the narrow trail. There was no way to reverse course. He would have to drive on to the house where there was a concrete driveway he could use to turn around. And if Theresa saw him, he’d simply ignore her and keep going. No need for an emotional parting. It would be easier on everyone if he just drove off and never came back.
Easing forward, he navigated slightly more than a hundred yards of forest before emerging into brilliant sunshine and bouncing onto a broad driveway. He breathed a sigh of relief when he didn’t see Theresa or the girls. Not that he’d expected to as he was sure she had them tucked into bed, cold compresses on both their heads.
Keeping his speed low to not alert them to his presence, he steered into the circular drive, following the curve as it turned back to the forest. A flash of movement from the corner of the house snapped his head around, then Theresa appeared at a dead run. Bright blood stained her blouse and she was screaming as she angled for the driveway.
Danny nearly accelerated before she could reach the car, but years of conditioning took over and he stepped on the brakes as his frantic wife ran in front of the Mercedes. She was screaming unintelligibly, shooting terrified glances at the side of the house as she worked her way around to the driver’s door. As she drew closer, Danny could see numerous gashes and what appeared to be bite marks on her exposed skin.
Pounding on the glass with bloody hands, she continued to scream something about the girls. Danny was momentarily frozen. Afraid he knew what was going on and unable to step out of the car and face it.
Chilling screams brought his head around to see his youngest daughter approaching at a full sprint. Blood stained her face and she ran like a gazelle despite having never been athletic in the least. Theresa screamed his name, grasping the door handle and tugging frantically. Danny looked down at the controls, spotting the unlock icon, but made no attempt to press it.
Theresa screamed for his help a final time before turning and running for the forest. Secure in the Mercedes, Danny watched in fascination as Hailey, then Lisa streaked past the grill in hot pursuit. Seconds later, before she’d gone twenty yards, they caught up with their mother.
Hailey launched herself into the air like a missile. Striking Theresa in the middle of the back, they tumbled to the concrete driveway, Lisa falling onto the pile an instant later. More screams pierced the air as they savaged their mother, then blood spurted, brilliant in the Georgia sunshine and silence fell as they began to feast.
Danny was absorbed in watching the carnage and jumped in surprise when several gunshots suddenly rang out. Hailey and Lisa flipped off their mother’s body and lay still, gaping wounds in their heads. Terrified, Danny gasped as two men stepped out of the forest onto the driveway. Immediately, like prehistoric beasts, several battered and muddy four-wheel-drive trucks emerged from the path and neatly boxed him in.
More men stepped out and formed a loose group around his wife’s and daughters’ corpses. They looked like what Danny had always privately thought of as hillbillies and each was armed. Cold fear flushed through him as the apparent leader strode to the car and tapped on the window with a chrome plated pistol.
He didn’t know what to do. Terror had him frozen, unable to respond. Until the man took a step back and aimed the revolver at his head. He’d never realized the hole in the end of a barrel was so big until that moment when he looked down one.
“Gonna count ta three, boy,” the man shouted in a thick, southern accent. “One!”
Hand shaking, Danny fumbled for the handle and pulled, popping the door a few inches. The man jerked it fully open before reaching in and grabbing a fistful of his shirt. With frightening strength, he pulled Danny from the car and shoved him against the fender.
“Watched ya let her die,” he said, sour beer breath washing across Danny’s face. “Ain’t no call for that shit. We needs women!”
“What?” was the only thing Danny could say.
“You slow, boy?” the man asked, earning a chuckle from the others.
He peered at Danny from beneath the brim of a greasy baseball cap. A grin spread across his face as he pushed his face close.
“Don’t always need women, though. Ol’ Tommy over there done a long stretch in the state pen. Says one hole’s perty much same as another when your dick’s hard.”
It took a moment for realization to dawn on Danny. A groan of fear escaped him as he looked around for any way to escape. He was completely surrounded with nowhere to go.
“Oh, God. No!” he breathed.
“God ain’t got nuthin’ ta do wit’ it, boy. Best put on ya best smile.”
Conviction
N.X. Sharps
On the 152nd day of our posting at Fort Conviction, Private Olyver Bagwell shit himself to death. His passing marked the third that week and the forty-third in total since the Stonewall Sharpshooters arrival.
Death had claimed a third of our unit, and another third had elected to gamble their lives
fleeing into the swamp rather than man Fort Conviction another day.
Doc Dunbarr did the best he could with the tools at his disposal, but we infantry are a superstitious lot. Had Bagwell not been of my own company I would not have stepped foot into that temple of death we had for an infirmary. But when the summons came, I grabbed a couple lads for funeral duty, and headed on down. When Doc saw us, he began to pry the sheets from Bagwell’s rigid death grip.
We were dangerously depleted of all supplies, linen included, and were unable to bury our dead out in the muck so we had taken to cremating them instead. It was preferable to being left to the wetland scavengers or, worse, the mirefolk and their profane ceremonies.
“Has Father Fehervari been by to anoint the body?” I asked.
“Aye, left shortly ‘fore you arrived. Commissar caught another one. Piotr couldn’t wait for you slugabones to show on account o’ needin’ to hear the lad’s confession ‘fore ‘e’s hanged.”
“Who?” I asked with trepidation.
Doc stopped cleaning, his eyes darting between Corporal Cobb and Private Soward. I gave a curt nod.
“Corporal Bahr,” said Doc.
“Feck,” I cursed.
Ever since Private Antony Lovatt abandoned his watch and walked into the night all those months ago, desertion had been an ongoing issue of no small severity. Commissar Normann stalked the renegades into the surrounding wetlands with his faithful hound. Whether he executed them, or they escaped his clutches the final result did naught to improve our dwindling number. It genuinely surprised me someone had yet to stick a knife in the bastard’s belly while he slept. Still, I did not expect the political officer to survive the coup we were concocting. Unless Corporal Bahr blew the bloody lid off the operation.
“Don’ fret,” said Doc, “Piotr’s goin’ to ‘ave a word with the dumb bastard about ‘is eternal soul, an’ you know how persuasive he can be.”
I spat. “We need to act.”
“Have we got the numbers? Aren’t some o’ the boys still on patrol?” he asked, applying a fresh layer of scented jelly above his lip to disguise the reek of the infirmary.
“Just be ready to move when you receive the signal,” I snapped. “Cobb, Soward, haul Bagwell here off to the pyre. Once you finish, grab your rifles and all the dry powder you can secure and inform the others to be ready. I’m off to speak with Father Fehervari.”
The deteriorating conditions at Fort Conviction and Major Tybalt’s pigheaded refusal to address it propelled me to act.
Our expected resupply was months past due and our orders were dreadfully outdated. The nearest village with which we could trade was days away and the inbred buggers were none too friendly. The reserve of tolerably clean water was perilously low and rats the size of round shot plagued what dwindling rations we still had. And the threat of the rebels and mirefolk loomed large over the Fort.
I bumped into Father Fehervari as he exited the brig. “Father,” I greeted him, bowing my head and making the sign of the Dual Pillars of Crown and Church over my heart.
“I assume you have heard of Corporal Bahr’s capture,” Father Fehervari said.
“I have, Father,” I whispered.
“He asserts that his lips are sealed, and he will not betray our confidence.”
I released a sigh of relief.
“The scum-sucking bastard is lying,” Father Fehervari said.
“What?” I asked, heart seizing.
“The conspiracy is safe for now, else you and I would be dancing a jig with ropes around our necks, but I could see it in his beady eyes. The blighter is going to sell us out in return for a pardon, may rats nibble on his rotten bollocks in the Abyss,” the priest sneered.
Private Weese, passing by on the way to his shift posting, reacted to the cursing as if physically struck, mouth gaping and eyes growing wide.
“Blessing be upon you my son,” said Father Fehervari with a smile and we continued at our leisurely pace.
“I can kill him,” said Father Fehervari, returning to his muted tone.
“Private Weese? That seems unnecessary, Father, I do not believe he heard anything that should concern us,” I said.
“Not Weese, you pillock. Bahr. I can go back there and slip him a splash of ‘holy water’ if you catch my drift. Next thing you know he’s slipping into a sweet, peaceful rest and the Commissar is none the wiser.”
“Peaceful? Truly?”
“Oh my, no, it is a horrible death. Headache, dizziness, vomiting, seizures – a most unpleasant way to meet the Lord.”
I frowned and shook my head. “Bahr is a complication. We need to address the root of the issue and we cannot stall another moment. We need to remove Tybalt from command now.”
“You don’t have to sell it to me, Lieutenant. If my addled mind can recall correctly it was a certain man of the cloth who has been proposing immediate action for weeks—”
“Father, I take it the deserter has confessed his sins?” came the boisterous voice of most hated man residing in Fort Conviction.
Commissar Normann strode toward us, that slobbering mutt close on his heels. I saluted as he approached, and he waved it off.
“Corporal Bahr has made his peace with the Lord,” said Father Fehervari.
“Good, good. Now he must make peace with me,” Commissar Normann sneered. “Would you care to sit in on my interrogation, Lieutenant? Not much else qualifies as entertainment around here.”
“Thank you, sir, but no. I have duties I must attend.”
“Do you see this dedication, Father? Lieutenant Skynner has no time for leisure, not when there are obligations to fulfill. With work ethic like that, I suspect Lorne here will make Major sooner than anyone expects,” Commissar Normann said with a wink.
“Indolent hands are the Archfiend’s manufactory,” recited Father Fehervari.
“With your leave, sir?” I asked the Commissar.
“Dismissed Lieutenant,” he said.
I saluted again and skirted the panting hound, heart hammering and cold sweat breaking out across my palms. I hated leaving Father Fehervari behind with the Commissar but if anyone could go toe-to-toe with the political officer it was the company priest. Besides, time was running out if we were to affect a coup with minimal loss of life.
An hour later and with the weight of our crimes hanging over our necks like a guillotine, I performed a final circuit of the Fort, noting all my men in their intended positions then headed for the Officer’s Quarters with five reliable soldiers in tow, my pistol and saber at the ready.
I prayed Major Tybalt would relinquish command peacefully, and neither weapon would be required. My prayers went unheeded as we turned the corner of the storehouse and saw Commissar Normann and a selection of riflemen arrayed around the Officer’s Quarters, muskets unslung.
“Feck,” I muttered under my breath.
My fingers tightened around the grip of my pistol and I wondered if I could get a shot off before Normann’s lackeys blew me apart. With the sun sinking lower over the horizon we stared each other down across the avenue, daring the other to blink. My body ached for release, muscles compressed like coiled springs.
The sentry bell rang out loud and clear across the Fort, shattering the tension and nearly triggering a shootout. Incomprehensible shouting accompanied the clamoring bell, and, in my periphery, I could see the Commissar’s men glance about, straining to hear. Still his gaze remained locked on me, and mine on him.
“What are they saying?” asked one of the riflemen across the street.
“Artillery,” Sergeant Coates screamed from his position behind me. “Artillery fecking incoming!”
“Is this your doing? A diversion perhaps?” Commissar Normann hissed.
“No. Is it yours?” I retorted.
A series of deep crumps shook the ground and resolved the question for us.
“Take cover,” I bellowed.
I made three steps before the projectiles rained upon us, whistling all the
way down. Lobbed on high arcs over timber walls, the shells began detonating indiscriminately within the midst of Fort Conviction. Fragments scythed through the air and men came apart in welters of gore. A shell punched through the roof of the stables before detonating, and the blood-curdling screams of the few remaining horses that had not yet graced our supper bowls, rent the air. The surviving equines bucked madly to flee the stables as the wooden structure ignited. I kissed the mud and prayed.
The bombardment lasted less than a minute, but it felt the length of an entire campaign. I did not immediately register the cessation of fire until I was kicked onto my back. I thrust my pistol into the face of Commissar Normann, and he batted the barrel away with the back of his hand and hauled me close. With his nose inches from my own he spoke with sedate emphasis. I blinked and shook my head.
“We are not finished, you and I,” he said, and I heard it clear as day.
“No, we are not,” I spat, but Commissar Normann had already stormed off.
I picked myself off the ground and looked around to get my bearings. A smattering of men littered the avenue, some motionless, the majority merely shocked by the shelling. I about stumbled over the jellied remains of a soldier, swallowing my revulsion and snatching up a rifle and cartridge box. I waved the rifle over my head and shouted for the men’s attention.
“You four,” I singled out the boys who appeared most distressed by the bombardment. “Fetch buckets. Let the fire spread no further beyond the stables. The rest of you follow me.”
To their credit the shell-shocked lads leaped to their given tasks. I bolted for the palisades with the remaining troopers on my heels. We climbed the ramparts and took cover behind the protruding lip. Corporal Fadley, arguably the finest marksman in a company famed for its marksmen, had already claimed a spot and begun firing. Rebel irregulars approached through the brush, their unkempt beards, mud-daubed faces, and impromptu uniforms had the bastards look half-mad. They advanced without a perceivable degree of unit cohesion like the peasants they were. I aimed down my barrel and fired at a bear of a man with a leather coat and twigs in his hair. I cursed as my shot flew wide but Corporal Fadley fired a heartbeat later and his aim proved true. I dropped back behind the rampart and began reloading.
