by Brown, TW
“What?” Peter blurted.
Shaw didn’t need to hear anything else. He’d seen enough in the man’s face to know he had nothing to do with the convoy’s tardiness. Still, the doctor had been out there in his territory. Perhaps he’d seen or heard something useful without realizing it. Holding up his left hand he silenced the nervous doctor’s babbling.
“Are you absolutely certain that you didn’t see anybody else roaming these parts?” Shaw asked.
“Unless somebody else was torching buildings or hanging folks,” the doctor snapped, “nobody.”
“Fine,” Shaw said, and turned his back dismissively, scooping up a stack of papers, leafing through them. There was a brief silence, then the sound of footsteps receding down the corridor.
Something didn’t sit right. The worst part was that he had absolutely no idea what it was. Well, he set the papers back on his desk, there was one universal cure for stress. He left his room and walked down the stairs to the storage basement.
“S’up, Shaw?” the man on door guard greeted him.
“Havin’ a really crappy day,” Shaw said as he unbuckled his gun belt and hung it up on the peg-board. “I’ll be in room six, bring me that liberal-bitch senator.”
“Sure thing.” The big man grinned and slid open the oblong portal in the door. “Bring the senator to room six!” he called.
Shaw went through the door to his right and down the long hallway. He found the door with a number ‘6’ painted on it. He went inside and sat down on the twin bed. Yes, sir, he thought, nothing cured stress like a good grudge-fuck.
***
Peter watched Shaw stalk down the hallway to the south stairwell. He was probably headed down to The Cathouse. That’s what all the men called the basement where the women were kept.
The women down there were currently unassigned. That meant none of them were, as of yet, chosen to accompany one of the men. One of the so-called benefits of living in The Basket was the women. Every male resident was allowed to choose any female he pleased. There were rules such as: no man may make use of another man’s woman without permission, no man may strike a woman with a closed fist (apparently open-handed was okay), once a woman was pregnant she was moved to the top floor and you selected a new one, no female could be selected if she wasn’t of age to menstruate.
That last rule was one that he had some problems with. At least a dozen of the men at The Basket had girls in their early teens. When Peter had made a comment in front of Shaw and a few of his men, one of them, he thought it was Paris, said “Old enough to bleed, old enough to breed.” The women too old, or deemed too old—as well as not yet chosen—were housed in the basement. Any man not on duty was allowed to go down and take advantage of the ‘services’ of these females. From some of the stories he’d heard, it was mostly about fantasy, fetish, and abuse.
One of Peter’s tasks at The Basket was to inspect the females. He’d seen some horrific bruising, and in one case there’d been such incredible damage to a particularly petite young woman’s anus that he’d demanded to Shaw that she be placed off-limits. That’s how he’d met young Shari Bergman. The girl he’d examined did not even resemble the pop-music and tabloid celebrity he remembered seeing on television and on magazines in the check-out aisle at the grocery store.
Shaw’s answer had been something to the effect of, “You don’t close the whole park just because one ride is busted.”
Peter ‘selected’ Shari as his companion that day. In the first days, she hadn’t spoken a word and simply sat, curled up in a corner of his quarters. Eventually, she’d started to relax. That’s how he found out about her sister on the top floor, her mother, the senator, in the basement, and that she had another sister that Shari hadn’t seen since the second day. She’d been brought to one of the rooms and never come back.
Climbing the stairs to the fourth floor, he went to his quarters. Unlocking the door, he called out, “Shari, I’m home.”
“Peter?” Shari peeked out from the storage closet that served as their bedroom. Actually, it was barely large enough to fit the full-sized mattress that sat on the floor.
“Hey.” Peter went over to the shelf and pulled down a bottle of vodka. After two long pulls, he wiped his mouth and turned to face Shari. “I think something bad happened to that convoy that left here yesterday.”
“Something like they got eaten?” Her voice sounded almost eager and hopeful.
“Don’t know, but Shaw was pissed.”
“Good.”
“Look,” Peter walked over, cupping her chin in his hand, “we gotta talk.”
“About?” Shari looked a bit frightened.
“Well, I’m gonna try and go out on the next run.”
“Why?” Shari protested. Fear had given way to anger in a hurry.
“Because, I’m gonna get us out of here.”
“What about my mom and sisters?”
“I’ve only seen Erin. And it will be hard enough to get you and I out of here,” Peter braced himself for the big argument. Truth be told, this conversation was just a test. If Shari was not convincible, he’d have to consider leaving her behind.
“But…you’ve probably considered your chances, huh?”
Peter was slightly surprised. The last thing he’d expected was reasonable and rational. He was ready for tears. Now, it seemed that he may have underestimated Shari. Perhaps she, much like he’d done up to this point, was playing a role.
“I’ll do what I can, but my main objective is to get out of here.” Peter shrugged.
“With or without me,” Shari said with no trace of anger.
“I’d prefer you to be with me,” Peter replied.
“I’d like that.” Shari stepped into his arms and kissed his neck.
“Will you be okay with it if we have to leave everything behind?” Peter asked, his nose breathing in the sweet smell of her femininity. He’d hate to leave her behind, but it was not just survival—he had no doubt that his chances were probably better if he stayed here at The Basket—it was about his sanity. This place was one step above an asylum.
Between the constant male posturing, physical and sexual abuse of the females, and Shaw’s militant-extremist mindset, this was a testosterone palace. He hadn’t fit in with those types in high school, or college. He’d had to convince his dad that he wasn’t gay simply because he didn’t play sports…well…except for golf. It didn’t matter that he loved watching sports like football and even hockey.
“Did you hear me?” Shari interrupted his thoughts.
“Sorry,” Peter kissed her forehead, “what did you say?”
“I said I think I want to try tonight.”
“Try?” Peter wondered what all she’d been saying while his mind drifted.
“You are such a guy,” Shari laughed, and walked to the bedroom leaving a trail of clothes.
Guy, Peter thought. He liked the sound of that.
***
Five bodies hung by their necks from knotted sheets. All of them began twitching and clawing at the air in earnest at the sight of him. Against the far wall, two more bodies lay in a heap, one of them ripped open, its guts spilled out in a congealed pile. Its head had been blown almost entirely away, probably by the double-barrel shotgun cast off in one far corner. The other body was in far better condition, but only relatively speaking. There was a bandage dark with dried blood on the left forearm and a neat hole on the right temple. A tiny, two-shot Derringer-style .22 pistol still clutched in one hand.
Garrett was transfixed for a moment by the lack of an exit-wound. He finally shook free of the trance and looked at all the bodies squirming from the rafters of this large storage room. He leaned in and grabbed the bloated ankle of a fat black woman wearing a blood-stained blue frock with an apron. He pulled her towards him a bit and let go. The body swung back, colliding into others and setting off a chain-reaction. The creatures all began struggling even more, some of them able to emit harsh croaking sounds. Garrett cla
pped his hands gleefully and repeated the action several more times.
Eventually he grew bored. Although, at one point, one of the skinny Latina housemaid’s panties slid down from her legs, stopping at her ankles. Garrett was transfixed by the clot of maggots wriggling in the crotch of the soiled—but long-since dried—red, cotton bikinis. He felt the stirring in his pants and winced at the pain from the injury The Toy had inflicted the other night.
Anger welling up, Garrett waded into the room and swung his machete at the closest dangling body—the heavy, black maid. The blade almost cleaved through the thing’s neck. He had to tug and wrench it free. Gravity finished the job as the body swung and spun before the weight was too much and it tore away.
Garrett’s mouth opened in a silent scream of victory. He looked up and his face went slack. The eyes still followed! The jaw still worked. The body at his feet wasn’t twitching or anything, but the head was still…alive?
He reached up and grabbed a handful of kinky, black hair. It actually took a few solid tugs to yank the neck free of the linen noose. He held it up and stared into its white-filmed, black-bloodshot eyes. Teasingly, he dangled a hand close to the mouth. It snapped shut with a click.
A smile oozed across Garrett’s face…malignant, mad, and malevolent. He dropped the head and stomped it with his heavy boots until it was a large, dark, clumpy smear.
He hurried through the house, taking note of things he might come back for. He did pause in one room; a nursery. Dried blood covered one wall in a huge arc. He went in and looked around, only leaving when he found a tiny hand cast off in a corner.
Two other rooms had bodies, but they were on beds, empty pill bottles on the nightstands beside them. After checking the entire house, he returned downstairs to the kitchen.
Stuffing bags full, occasionally Garrett would giggle. Yes, he thought as he loaded all the food he could carry, The Toy would soon see. He couldn’t wait to get back. At one point, his mind drifted to the memory of seeing her naked body tied to that post. He’d ignored the pain as long as he could, allowing his excitement to try and take hold. Eventually, it became too great.
“I have a new game, bitch,” Garrett snarled as he hefted the pack onto his back and headed for the door that would take him to the back yard.
***
Kirsten tried to bring in a slow, deep breath through her nostrils. She was miserable. Her drool had long since dried, leaving her skin feeling itchy all down her front. Her tongue felt three times its normal size and made of sandpaper. Her eyes were swollen and sore from the crying. It’d been so strange, once she’d started, the tears had poured unlike anything she thought possible. It was worse than that first night after her daddy was attacked. Worse than when her parents didn’t come back. Worse than when Arturo didn’t come back. Even worse than when The Big Man had shoved himself inside her the very first time.
Kirsten stared out at the mob of undead faces that yearned to reach her. The tiny body on the ground had long since been crushed to a pulp underfoot. She’d actually felt relief when that tiny head, wedged so tight and awkward against the bars began to crack. The right eye burst in a gray bubble of goo.
After a while, all the faces seemed to blur together. Pain came from every part of her and her skin began to blister under the burning sun that continued to creep slowly across the sky. Would it be terrible to die right here, Kirsten wondered. Maybe The Big Man ran into a pack of zombies. No, Kirsten scolded herself for such foolish hopes; she’d have heard the screams. He wouldn’t have gone far looking for food.
More than once as the day drew on, she considered simply sagging and letting that line around her neck finish her off. Every time that thought gained traction in her mind, Kirsten remembered the satisfaction of making him scream when she’d bitten down. She made a vow to herself that if he ever stuck that thing in her mouth again, he wasn’t getting it back.
The constant pain and the horror she was forced to watch furthered her resolve. The day would come when The Big Man made a mistake. He certainly liked to drink whiskey and beer. He would slip. Perhaps fail to tie her up properly one night…and she could wait. She was a Malloy, A family that not only survived, but prospered. Her daddy had shared stories of how her thrice-great-grandfather came home from the War Between the States to find the family property razed, the main house nothing but a blackened husk, and rebuilt bigger than before.
The Malloy’s were fighters and survivors.
Over and over she let that mantra play in her mind. She was so engrossed that Kirsten didn’t notice The Big Man walking towards her. A series of slaps to the face brought her around and she glared up defiantly at The Big Man.
He grinned like the idiot she assumed him to be. She watched as he pulled a cinched-up garbage bag loose from his belt. He opened it, peeking inside and then looking up, his grin even bigger…more idiotic. Carefully, he reached in and pulled out…
A head! More accurately, September Thomas’ head. The eyes stared at Kirsten and the mouth opened and closed, teeth gnashing inches from her face.
Kirsten looked up at The Big man…and laughed. His smile quickly faded.
***
Reginald stared up at the ceiling. He still felt the wetness of recent sex in the area surrounding his crotch. Jane—No, he reminded himself, her name is Lucy. Lucy asked him point-blank during dinner if he wanted to fuck. He’d choked, which earned one of her harsh, braying laughs. Of course, he’d finally managed to nod.
That seemed to suffice because Lucy got up from the table, peeled out of her clothes and walked over to the bed. He’d followed, more like an errant school-boy on his way to the principal’s office as opposed to a man on his way to a sexual liaison with a willing woman.
Once in bed, it had not gone at all like he expected. First, she’d reached down between his legs and grabbed hold.
“I guess that’ll have to do,” she’d sighed. Not a very inspiring form of pillow talk.
He’d leaned forward to kiss her and Lucy had turned her head. “Nothing on the lips,” she’d insisted.
Once he recovered from those two setbacks, he moved on top of her and prepared to enter. Once again, she halted the proceedings, shoving him from her.
“That thing’s barely gonna get the tip in with that gut in the way,” she complained. “Plus, you’re gonna pop my lungs…all that weight smashing down on me.”
She rolled him onto his back and straddled him. Eventually, Reginald recovered from the series of stinging rebukes. Then, unfortunately, it had taken almost no time at all for him to reach completion. He did everything he could think of to try and prolong it when the sensation grew, but nothing worked. Not even trying to mentally recite the Periodic Table.
There’d been another cutting remark, and Lucy had climbed off and disappeared into the bathroom. To make matters worse, after she shut the door, she made sure to make a big show vocally of finishing herself.
So, he lay there, feeling every bit the failure. He couldn’t help it. It wasn’t as if he spent his nights as a lady’s man. He had much more experience by himself than with a partner. Still, there had to be something he could do to improve his poor standing in Lucy’s eyes.
A thought came, and in a flash, he was up and out of bed. As quickly as he could, he pulled on a set of scrubs. Play to your strengths, man, Reginald thought. And that would be his mind. This was something so simple, yet he had no doubt that it was something that Lucy would appreciate.
“I’ll be in the lab,” Reginald called on his way out. A non-committal grunt was the only reply.
Down the hall he hurried. A feeling of excitement churned in his belly. Punching in the code, he opened the door and flipped on the banks of lights. The lab-door code, he thought as he entered the first airlock. He could see his precious lab through the thick glass portal of the second door which was interlocked so that there was no way that both could be open at the same time. He would need to give that code to Lucy…just in case.
Closi
ng the first door after fixing his goggles and respirator that hung on the wall of the sally-port, Reginald heard, then felt the sanitizing mist as it sprayed down the chamber. A moment later, the fans kicked on. The whole process took ten minutes until the second door-light flashed green. There was an electric buzzing sound, and he pulled the door open, entering his lab after he replaced the goggles and respirator.
The stench of the lab was stronger today, perhaps because he’d been so engrossed in the scent of a woman these past hours. The circulation fans were not doing a good job of keeping up with the foul odor of death…or undeath.
An orange tabby-cat opened its eyes lazily from where it sat curled on a mostly cleared lab-bench. “Morris,” Dr. Reginald Cox greeted the animal as he slipped on his lab coat.
After only a cursory walk-through, checking all his specimens and opening the drain to the water-filled observation chamber, he went to the rear of the lab. A single door with a keypad was behind a thick, black curtain. Punching the buttons—that was another code Lucy would need—he stepped into the long, dimly lit room and pulled the door shut behind him.
This, he thought, is the most important part of the bunker. Walking down the first row, he inspected a near-ripe tomato under the violet-colored grow lights. It made his mouth water just a bit, but this wasn’t what he’d come for and he continued down, then left past a few more rows until he found them: strawberries. He sifted through all the plants, plucking off a couple to taste.
Yes, Reginald thought, these will make a fine wine.
***
Jenifer-zombie stopped. She sensed something different. Her brain did not function to the point where she could identify sound…only…different. Turning, she felt others of her kind jostle her as they passed. They’d sensed it, too. She began the walk down a long, dirt and gravel driveway.
She did not notice or appreciate the beauty of the canopy of centuries-old oak trees overhead, nor the quaint charm of the moss that hung from the branches. The trees that lined both sides of the road flickered with tiny specks of life, but something else at the end of the long driveway had Jenifer-zombie and a dozen others shuffling along in a cloud of dust.
