by Brown, TW
The rising sun revealed the burned out vehicles we’d heard about, along with a scattered remnant of zombies walking among the charred husks and decaying corpses scattered on the ground.
To our north, a plume of dark smoke is clearly visible. The radio has been silent for over an hour. Whatever happened wasn’t good. The attack was by zombies as well as the living. I have no idea what that means, other than things are really bad.
Once we felt it was okay to stop, we all got out—except for the still sleeping little girls—and had a discussion. We would do our best to reconcile what has happened to our friends.
We’ve found this location, and it is far enough away from that dark smudge of a town that we should be able to observe things for a while. As I sit on the hood of this Hum-vee with a rifle across my lap I wonder…what do we expect to find? And, even if by a miracle we locate our missing friends and discover that they are alive…what do we do next?
17
Vignettes VI
“Pull in that line!” Thad shouted down to JoJo.
Keith was already hauling himself over the rail, having freed the final mooring line. The San Diego Freedom drifted slowly away from the dock. Once an elegant vessel used for dinner cruises, the San Diego Freedom had two levels. The lower was a windowed dining area with enough room to seat eighty. The upper was divided between the bridge, the kitchen area, and an open observation deck.
Thad was alone on the bridge. From there, he could see over the large fence—a fence he, Keith, and JoJo had covered with tarps so that the undead could not see in from the road that ran parallel to the waterfront. It was four lanes on each side with palm trees garnishing the divider island. There were what had to be hundreds of those things milling about. Wandering with no seeming purpose.
He pressed the button that would start the engines. Keith had been invaluable in giving everything a good going-over the past two days. This ship—or whatever it was at around a hundred-feet-long or so—was set up to be controlled with minimal crew. Most functions were automated to the point where very little manpower was needed to perform all the tasks necessary to get underway.
The rumble of the engines caused an immediate reaction outside the fences of the pier. In awkward, gradual, jerky motions, the zombies turned. Their focus began to shift to the direction of that noise. By the tens and hundreds they came up against those high fences, causing them to shudder.
Thad was grateful there were no other vessels in front or behind, because his rudimentary steering abilities would not allow for any fancy maneuvers. Easing the chrome handle—Keith identified it as the throttle—forward, the San Deigo Freedom began to move towards, and slowly beyond, the end of the long pier. Out into the San Diego Bay.
“There goes the fence!” JoJo yelled above the low thrum of the engines.
Thad watched as hordes of zombies poured into the confined space of the pier. All of them with outstretched arms—provided they had one or both arms remaining—stumbled forward in a vain attempt to reach this newly discovered source of possible food. A few of the leading zombies were forced over the edge, and into the water where they sunk from sight.
“So, you think Dinah’s ordered for us to be shot on sight yet?” Keith walked in through the open door that led to the port bridge-wing.
“First night we didn’t show up.” Thad turned the wheel just a fraction to the right as they reached the center of the bay.
“You really think we can make it all the way up to San Francisco?” JoJo asked as he came in through the opposite door on the starboard side.
“I won’t know what sort of gas mileage this thing gets until we’ve used half our fuel,” Thad answered.
“Well,” Keith plopped down in one of the raised chairs, “I think I’ve figured out how and where to take in fuel. The problem will be in coordinating the operation.”
“Maybe we can just find a quiet spot, drop anchor, and call it good,” JoJo said, leaning half in and half out of the doorway, bracing himself against the frame.
“I guess we’ve got plenty of time to figure it out.” Thad picked up his coffee cup, blew lightly across the surface, and took a sip. Even with all the supplies they’d loaded over the past weeks, the need would arise for them to venture ashore again. Still, that could be weeks, or even months from now.
Eventually, they rounded the bend and looked out into the open expanse of the Pacific Ocean. For the first time since this nightmare began, Thad realized he didn’t smell the stench of the dead…the undead. After another sip of coffee, he took a slow, deep inhale through his nostrils. Over the sounds of the engines and surf, he heard Keith and JoJo do the same.
***
Kirsten Malloy stared wide-eyed at the man who was currently busy rummaging through the pack of food she’d scavenged. Her face still stung from the backhanded slap he’d caught her with as she walked unaware through the doorway and into the room she’d been living in. He’d shoved her to the floor, then snatched her pack and commenced rooting through its contents.
“You know,” Kirsten’s anger had built enough steam to give her the nerve to finally speak, “I prob’ly woulda shared. Arturo and I lived together and shared with no problems.”
The stranger’s head popped up and snapped around to her. “Arturo?” he asked. She was surprised at the sound of his voice. She expected something much deeper and mean sounding.
“He worked here till all this…weird stuff happened,” Kirsten remembered her father and Philipé in a mental flash that made her voice crack just a bit.
“Where is this Arturo now?” the man asked as he pulled out a box that made Kirsten blush a bright shade of red. He examined the box of tampons, tossed it aside, and resumed digging through her pack.
“He’s…” Kirsten considered her answer. Could she lie convincingly and maybe scare this man away? “He’s out front.”
The man laughed. “So he’s one of them?”
“Look, take what you want and go. Take everything if you like. I’ll go out tomorrow and find more.” Kirsten watched the man tear open the bag of barbecue chips that she’d been very excited to find. Her mouth watered as she smelled the tangy saltiness. He plunged a grimy hand in the bag and stuffed a bunch of chips in his mouth. What a pig, she thought.
“I will be,” he said around a mouthful of chips.
“Will be what?” Kirsten stared longingly at the bag of barbecue chips. Her bag of barbecue chips.
“Taking everything I want.”
Something in the man’s voice, in his eyes, chilled Kirsten. The way he looked at her, his eyes never really looking into hers even when he stared ar her face, made her feel bad. It was the kind of bad she’d felt when Tricia, the lady who took care of the family’s laundry, had walked into her room a few months ago and found her lying on her bed with her hands down her pants. She’d been watching Oliver Gleason, the cutest boy in the senior class, as he finished cleaning their pool. He’d been wearing knee-length green shorts, and nothing else.
Kirsten became suddenly aware of the silence. She’d been thinking of Oliver and completely spaced. The man had stopped eating and was simply staring at her.
“I can smell you,” the man’s voice was soft and frightening.
“I ain’t been able to take my bath yet today,” Kirsten snapped, blushing fiercely once again.
The man dropped the chips and rose to his feet. He was so big! Kirsten scooted back without realizing it, until her back came in contact with the wall. He took a step forward, licking his lips like he was seeing something really tasty. Kirsten glanced around for what he might be seeing. She looked up, confused, and tried to follow his gaze.
It seemed to lead straight to her lap.
She looked up again. The man was unbuckling his belt.
“No,” Kirsten breathed as the realization hit her like a punch in the stomach.
Much quicker than his size should have allowed, the man lunged, grabbing Kirsten by the hair. She struggled, only to be punche
d in the side of the head so hard that the world flashed bright, then began to dim. She felt hands tearing at her clothes. She could smell his breath, hot and foul, on her cheek. With a rip and a yank, her pants were gone and Kirsten was on her stomach. Hands were in places they shouldn’t be. Then…
Kirsten screamed.
***
Garrett leaned against the wall, picking up the half-eaten bag of barbecue chips, and settled down to snack and finish going through the bulging backpack of food. Across the room, the girl continued to sob. It was raw and raspy sounding. Mostly due to all the screaming she’d done earlier.
Glancing down, he felt that familiar delight in seeing the bright red smears of blood surrounding his crotch. He’d already taken her twice. He’d never considered the possibility of virginity. Garrett knew from his momma that all girls were whores.
This one had begged for him to stop like all the others. For just a moment, his mind tried to wonder if Ennis—the son of her mom’s boyfriend when Garrett was just ten years old—had gotten so much excitement from his cries all those years ago in that abandoned house they’d been exploring. He fixed his eyes on the curled up girl and let her crying cleanse his mind of such things.
It’d been a few weeks since Garrett left his last “Toy” back at the baseball stadium. So he’d been ready to go again in moments. His decision to have normal sex had been based solely on things he’d learned from past experiences. For example, until he’d properly molded their absolute submission of spirit, the mouth was off limits.
Garrett was used to a certain amount of physical resistance in the initial moments. But this was something different that no amount of spit or blood could lessen. For just a moment he felt sadness. He’d never be able to re-create that instance. His mind replayed that moment when his little Toy had screamed that certain way as he broke though, finalizing his violation.
The freshness of the memory added to its vividness. The sobs were beginning to subside to a quiet whimper. Garrett smiled at the stirring between his legs. He knew from past experiences that this hunger would take considerably longer to satiate. At last, he could truly enjoy the event. He clenched both huge fists. It was time to begin the process of teaching this whore her place in his new world. A world where nobody could call the police just because they didn’t like him. Like when Kimmy Vanderwall said he’d been peeking in her window. The same Kimmy Vanderwall who let Jim Edder put his hand down her pants in the movie theater. The same Kimmy Vanderwall who left her curtains wide open when she changed clothes.
Now Garrett was really angry. Well, the little whore could blame Kimmy Vanderwall for what was about to happen. He stood, dropping the bag of chips, letting them spill on the floor. The whimpering ceased with a gasp as the whore looked up at him with red-rimmed eyes. She tried to move and winced. Garrett was across the room in three long strides.
“Please,” the little whore whined. “No.”
Garrett grabbed a handful of hair and dragged her back across the room. He yanked her to her feet and forced her over the foot of the pink-canopied bed.
A scream of pain carried on the early afternoon air.
Garrett smiled.
***
Megan Bishop sat in the narrow stairwell. She heard them down there. She knew they’d broken through the barricades that managed to hold much longer than she’d believed possible. It had been several weeks since she and her crew ran into this twenty-seven floor office complex in mid-town Manhattan.
Death had been everywhere. The unthinkable was happening. Her job as a co-anchor on a morning financial channel news show became irrelevant overnight. Instead, she’d been covering the governmental response…for all of about seven hours!
There were so many of them. So mutilated and disfigured. It seemed impossible. They arrived in a swarm, and in minutes, not hours, they overwhelmed the armed soldiers who’d positioned themselves behind a useless wall of sandbags. Most of those same soldiers were already scattered amongst the ranks of the undead by the time she and her three-person remote team climbed down a makeshift line made of clothes tied together in sturdy knots.
Always the professional, Megan was all about the story. She’d been on Wall Street during 9-11. She’d watched friends and former classmates vault past her that day after filing stories from Ground Zero. This time, it would be Megan Bishop on every channel. When this nightmare was finally over, it would be her reports that showed up in the countless documentaries that would be made.
Misery Porn.
That is what she called it. What else could you call footage of horrific, violent, agonizing tragedy? People got off on watching terrible events that befell strangers. And the money was amazing. Just ask that French documentary team fortunate enough to have shot the only footage of that first plane hitting the Trade Center.
Megan and her team—Paul, Hector, and André—had run for their lives. All the while, Hector rolled tape and André got the audio. Eventually, they’d arrived at this building. Its huge, open lobby had been empty! They’d made it inside and tossed every piece of furniture they could find at the entrance. Then, they’d gone up to the top floor. André insisted that they check every floor on the way up.
Empty!
They set up that day on the top floor and began filing reports. Of course they couldn’t send them without the equipment back in the truck several blocks away, but still they put them together.
By the fourth day, power went out across the city. The darkness had been terrifying. Coupled with the stench of the walking dead and the sporadic gunfire that would periodically shatter the utter silence, Megan experienced a fear so complete in the first days, that it made her physically ill.
That was also the day André changed into one of them. He’d gone downstairs to search for food and tried to slip out through one of the metal-doored emergency exits, hoping that all the crowds were in front. He’d been wrong. One of those things had taken a nip out of the fleshy part of his hand just below the pinky.
It was such a small bite really. By late that afternoon, André’s dark brown skin was almost grey. Just as the sun was setting, André died. No less than five minutes later, he sat up. Hector and Paul fought André off, and eventually forced him over the side.
The next morning, they looked down and saw André. His body was bent at several angles. But still he squirmed.
For days, the three of them existed off of what they scavenged from the desks and breakrooms of the top floor. The steady diet of vending-machine food kept them alive, but none of them were feeling very well after the second week.
Day after day they watched the crowds below grow in number. From some executive’s office they saw similar crowds around other buildings. Some days it would seem as if a dam suddenly breached and one of those crowds would surge into the building. Sometimes, Megan thought she heard screams come from those buildings.
One morning, she and Paul woke up to discover Hector was gone. No note. No sign of him on the ground like André. Of course the crowd had long since covered André, and if Hector had jumped, it would be almost impossible to tell.
A couple of weeks later, Paul hung himself. Megan had gone into the conference room where Paul slept and discovered him. She’d simply closed the door and never went back in.
Yesterday, the sounds of thick plate-glass windows breaking ended a long stretch of silence. Alone, but so numb from everything that had happened, Megan walked down sixteen floors before she saw the first one.
What had once been a man—he wore the tattered remnants of a suit that cost well over five-grand back when money mattered—was coming up the stairs. Could that really only be barely three months ago? She’d lost track. He was bringing hundreds just like him.
She’d scavenged every floor for every scrap of food and water. She ate the perishables during those first days. That included some fruit that had actually given her a bit of a buzz. But there’d been soups and crackers, ramen cups, and vending machines full of chips and candy. Every flo
or yielded the same bounty. But, it was almost gone. Last night, she’d been forced to drink rain water squeezed out of her clothes; along with what she’d caught in cups and buckets set out on the roof.
Now, they were coming. Turning around, Megan returned to the roof. She stood on the lip and looked out at the gray, dead city that lay spread out below. Millions of those things sloshed through ankle-deep water in places where the flooding from a storm that had roared through Manhattan a week ago still remained. Broken glass protruded from so many. Falling glass had found plenty of flesh to sink into. Unfeeling flesh. Undead flesh.
Hopelessness. For the first time in her life, Megan felt total hopelessness. She stood, watching the sun’s slow procession from behind the clouds. For the first time, she understood. Those things were coming. They would eat her alive. It would be terrible and agonizing.
The nightmare that haunted her for all those years…since that day suddenly made sense. She’d seen them. The Jumpers. She’d wondered all this time. Why? How? Now she knew. Death on her own terms.
Closing her eyes, spreading both arms wide, Megan stood on tiptoes, then…dove. She felt the wind on her face. Inside she felt victorious. Inside she felt peace.
A moment later, the sun was once again swallowed by the clouds. A light rain began to fall in Manhattan.
***
Juan dropped the watermelon, the burlap bags, and took off right on the heels of the big dog. He reached the house, rounding the corner and getting a full view of the long, covered front porch that wrapped around to the far side of the place. He quickly noticed that the huge picture window was boarded up with plywood. In fact, all the ground floor windows within the normal reach of a person had been similarly secured.
On the porch was a little deader. It couldn’t have been more than six before it turned. Juan no longer thought of the deaders as people. It helped with what he had to do. Also on the porch—with her leg through a rotted board—was a woman that Juan guessed to be in her mid-forties; at least she looked about the same age as his mom. She was using what looked like a fancy table leg to keep the deader at bay.
