by Brown, TW
It slept, head turned to one side, the long hair was matting up again and looked like a nest of knots and snarls. Perhaps, after he’d had his dinner, he would give her a good cleaning. It liked having its hair washed and brushed.
Going to the bed, he set the butane torch, the cleaver, and the cutting board on the nightstand. It stirred a little, but didn’t wake. Good, he thought, that will make this easier. He pulled the piece of nylon line from his pocket and picked a spot just above the left elbow. He slid it under the arm and The Toy began to stir. Folding one end of the line under the other, he gripped them each and pulled tight.
The Toy cried out, its eyes opening in alarm and pain as the nylon line bit into its flesh. It began crying out, asking questions. Garrett ignored everything and pulled the eight-inch dowel from his back pocket. He laid it right above where the line was cinched securely, wrapped the ends over once more and pulled tight again. The Toy was awake now and no longer making any sounds other than the forced breathing that hissed between clenched teeth. He began to twist the dowel, tightening the line. He could actually see the lower half of the arm losing its normal color turning to a shade of light blue that reminded him of those creatures outside. He quickly shook that thought away and wrenched the dowel another quarter turn.
He held it in place with one hand and fumbled in his shirt pocket for the lighter. The Toy’s eyes widened when he reached over and fumbled with the knob on the torch. He heard as well as smelled the gas as it hissed from the nozzle. With a flick of his thumb on the wheel, the flame danced on the wick of the lighter. He passed it in front of the nozzle and was rewarded with a popping sound and a small blue flame.
He flipped the lid shut on the lighter and dropped it back in his pocket. Then, he picked up the cutting board and slid it under The Toy’s arm. There was a moment of confusion on its face, then, like the rising sun, the slow dawning of comprehension.
As Garrett picked up the cleaver, he was almost disappointed. But then, he’d come to expect defiance from The Toy. He didn’t know why now should be any different. It pressed its lips together and glared. For just a second, the ferocity of that look gave him pause. When he raised the cleaver, he was able to feel just the slightest twinge of satisfaction. The Toy’s eyes widened.
Fear.
It’d been a while since he’d been able to savor such a wonderful feeling. The Toy had been many things; afraid was not among them. He brought the heavy blade down with all his might. There was a crack of bone…then an ear-piercing shriek of pain. It took two more whacks to separate the lower arm. By then, The Toy had lost consciousness.
Even with his preparation, there was quite a bit of blood. He set the severed piece of limb on the cutting board and placed it all on the floor. Then, grabbing the butane torch, he went to work on the bloody stump.
The smell of burning meat actually made his mouth start to water as he cauterized the hideous wound. When he was done, he undid the makeshift tourniquet. He could see a jaggedness in the pieces of bone that jutted from the wound. Perhaps next time he would use a saw. It might take a little longer, but it would definitely be cleaner.
He took a moment, deciding what to do next. Should he go to the kitchen and see just how this tasted, or should he clean up The Toy. He decided on the latter. It would be important to keep it clean now. He didn’t want infection setting in and ruining his source of food. Besides, his food wasn’t going anywhere.
***
Kirsten fought against consciousness. The first time she’d come to, she’d though it’d all been one terribly vivid nightmare. Then, the pain revealed itself. She’d immediately sicked up on herself. Of course, it was little more than throat burning bile since it’d been a few days since she’d had anything to eat.
Like it or not, she was awake. The first thing she realized was that her body had been wiped down again. The little bit of throw up that she’d managed was cleaned away. Also, her blackened stump had been wrapped up in what looked like one of her dad’s tee shirts.
As soon as she gave thought to it, the pain seemed to amplify as if there was a knob turned up on the pain. She tried to hold it back, but, seeing as she was alone and The Big Man wouldn’t have the satisfaction of seeing her do it, Kirsten allowed herself to cry.
At first it was just a hint of something she dismissed while she let tears of grief, pain, and frustration roll down her cheeks. But slowly, it became more pronounced. Her mouth began to water. When realization hit, she recoiled in horror. That delicious smell was her! The Big Man was somewhere downstairs cooking pieces of her! This brought a fresh wave of tears because, try as she might, she couldn’t stop her mouth from filling with saliva. Her hunger was more powerful than her feelings of revulsion.
She moved a bit and felt something. Her head snapped over so fast she heard and felt the tendons in her neck pop. The left arm—what was left of it—slipped almost free of its restraint! Without having a wrist, The Big Man hadn’t really paid attention to how he tied her up!
Kirsten felt something that was so foreign, it took her a few minutes to realize exactly what it was: Hope. It might’ve cost her half of her arm, but at last there was hope. She knew The Big Man well enough to know that he would drink himself into oblivion again sometime soon. Maybe not today…but soon.
All she had to do was be still and careful so as not to pull that arm loose until she heard those wall shaking snores. So many possibilities raced through her mind. Most of the early ones involved her sneaking in to The Big Man’s bedroom and beating his head in or chopping him up. However, Kirsten was no dummy. She questioned her strength physically to succeed such a task. It would’ve been difficult with two hands, much less one.
No, Kirsten thought once her mind settled down, this was the chance to escape! She knew this area better than him, of that she was certain. She would use this opportunity to get away. Once she made it over the wall, he would have no idea which way she would run.
The shadows in the room were getting darker. That meant night was coming. Of course she didn’t expect to get lucky this soon, but also knew it was a case of the-sooner-the-better. The longer things went, the greater the chance he might discover his error. There was also the possibility that he might come back for seconds. She couldn’t have that.
Kirsten lay still, trying to ignore the gurgles of her empty stomach and the delicious smells causing her mouth to water. Instead, she focused on that blooming flower of hope growing inside her. All the persistence would finally pay off. No matter what had happened up to this point…she would win. Kirsten Malloy would defeat The Big Man.
As the room slowly darkened, leaving nothing but the hint of some sort of light downstairs casting its faint glow in her open doorway, Kirsten let herself smile.
***
A sound carried on the early afternoon breeze. Jenifer-zombie lurched forward, smashing herself against the iron gate that had barred her way for days…weeks… The mob rippled as those close enough “heard” the sound. None of this sea of undead could identify what was the shrill scream of a young girl. They no longer possessed such facilities.
Sound was food. That was the only twitch reaction their putrefied brain processed. And even then, it was forgotten seconds later. The term “forgotten” was in itself erroneous. These creatures possessed no memories. They simply reacted to the most recent stimulus. In the case of this mob that now numbered over ten thousand—circling the Malloy estate—they’d been drawn by a single source of heat initially. But others had fallen in with their kind simply because of something that fired instructing them that, where others gathered, there would be food…heat.
By day’s end, the ripples on the pond of the undead had stilled. They returned to standing their tireless vigil. Like the others, Jenifer-zombie stood.
Waiting.
***
Covering the basket of fresh-picked produce with plastic, Reginald switched off the lights in each of the observation chambers. It wasn’t like any of them would know the
difference. Besides, even though the specifications in the manual stated that they would have no worries about power for a minimum of ten years if the source was left completely untended, he didn’t see the point in wasting energy.
It was time for him to go in and check on Lucy. There was a flicker of a thought…a wish really…that she’d died in her sleep. He’d banished it quickly, but he couldn’t “unthink” it. He’d regretted bringing her out from the drug-induced coma that she and all the other test subjects had been in. Reginald had foolishly believed that he wanted companionship.
The last several hours had shown him otherwise. He’d returned to his real love…science. With only his own mind as a limitation, he was free to run any experiment he wished. With the other scientists long since dead—either through self-infliction or foolishness—he had complete and free reign over the lab. It was a dream come true.
The government, or military, or whomever had put this facility together, had spared absolutely no expense. There was even some equipment that he’d never seen, heard of, or knew of the possibility of its existence; the thrill of learning about something new. Dr. Reginald Cox loved to learn new things.
He punched in the door code and again scolded himself for not having given the codes to Lucy. If there were ever a reason…
Reginald paused just before punching the pound key. Perhaps it was best that she not have the code. He certainly didn’t want her disturbing him when he was experimenting. Then there was the whole issue of her drug problem.
Reginald pressed the button. The light changed to red and he pulled the door open and stepped inside the sally-port. Setting the covered basket inside the shielded compartment where it would be blasted with UV rays during his decontamination, Reginald pulled the door to the lab shut. It sealed, and there was a hiss. He stripped out of his clothing and placed them in the bin. Then, he pushed the blue button after affixing his goggles and respirator.
He wondered, as the jets sprayed him with their fine mist, which version of Lucy would be waiting. Also, he’d been gone a while…had he remembered to leave enough food? Of course she hadn’t eaten a bite the whole time she was high on the meth he’d made her.
As the air vents began to blow dry his body, Reginald started feeling more than a little nervous. Sure, he had some food, but he hadn’t made her anything drug or alcohol related. With a click, the fans stopped and the bright lighting came on overhead. He opened the compartment and pulled out a fresh jumpsuit, then retrieved the basket.
Taking a deep breath, Reginald turned the handle and spun the dogging wheel. The door opened and he felt his ears pop. The corridor was empty and he stepped out. So far, nothing. He shut the door and the sound of the automated locking mechanisms buzzed and clicked.
He made his way down the well-lit corridor, almost dreading to have contact with the woman he’d liked much better as Jane Doe. He reached their door and listened. He didn’t hear a sound.
Opening the door, Reginald peeked in. The front area was dark…and seemingly empty. Through the doorway that led to his sleeping area he could see what looked like the fluorescent light that would be over his bathroom sink flickering. He stepped in, creeping quietly. Had she gone crazy and left? he wondered. It was possible for her to leave through the escape hatch. Only, if she made it up to the bunker, would she have climbed up through the top hatch and just dove into that sea of bodies? It didn’t seem likely.
He set the basket down and moved towards the bedroom. He could see the bed, a tangled mess of sheets and blankets. It was empty. He crept in and got down on his knees. Maybe she—
He never saw Lucy step out from behind the door. Reginald wasn’t familiar with some of the common side-effects of meth. All he knew was about how it kept a person awake. Had he given it some thought, he might’ve deduced that the extreme lack of sleep produces a number of psychological issues; one of those being paranoia.
Lucy had convinced herself through a montage of fractured memories that Dr. Reggie was coming for her, and that he intended to turn her into one of those things…or perhaps feed her to one of the ones in those creepy glass-fronted chambers.
Lucy brought the metal chair leg down on the back of his balding head as the doctor crawled around, looking under the bed. She swung a second and third time until he collapsed flat on the floor. She saw the blood and realized that there was no way in the world that she would be able to talk or fuck her way out of it now. Lucy brought the bludgeon down again and again. At some point, the bloody head burst open and spilled its contents. Lucy dropped the weapon and retreated to the front room. She backed out the door and into the brightly lit corridor. Then she heard a noise. Damn! Maybe the doctor had turned into one of those terrible creatures. She remembered him saying something about the dead coming to life. She ran to the adjacent room and ducked inside. Shutting and locking the door she stood with her ear pressed to it, listening.
Waiting.
***
Juan looked up the beach. It’d been just over two weeks. Mackenzie was doing better. She’d been on the verge of tears almost constantly those first few days. And on the day they’d buried Margaret she’d cried herself silly. As usual, he didn’t have any idea what to say or do, so he just kept quiet and let her cry into his chest.
That boat had shown up on a crazy day. The three men, two women, and two children had been confused by all the insanity. And of course, being greeted by himself, JoJo, and Thad—each carrying a loaded shotgun and a brace of pistols on their hips.
Finally, things were settling down. Everybody was now working hard on the beach project. The posts were going in and strands of barbed wire were being secured. They’d been working in the rain the past few days, but today, it was sunny. Not exactly warm…but sunny.
Juan paused to wipe his forehead with the sleeve of his shirt. He watched the two children chasing each other up the beach. Mackenzie, Sandra and the two new women were watching from a blanket they’d spread out on the sand. He wished that he had a better memory when it came to people’s names. He only remembered one of the little girls’ names: Mindy. She was the one with the long blonde ponytail almost down to her waist.
“Hey, Big Man!” Thad called, carrying down three more posts. “Has JoJo brought the next batch of cement?” They’d found several bags of quick-drying cement and were anchoring all the posts with it.
“Nope,” Juan turned back to his task and plunged the post-hole digger into ground. Thad dropped the new posts and reached into the big pockets of his coveralls.
“Got a surprise for ya.” Thad grinned as he produced a Mason jar.
“Jeez,” Juan snorted, “you could fit a small child in those pockets.”
“Yeah,” Thad nodded as he twisted the lid off, “but instead…I bring beer.”
Keith and Thad had begun brewing a batch the same night the new people arrived. They’d said something about wanting a proper way to celebrate good times…or…in the case of Margaret—and even the travelling companions of LaVon and Sandra—mourn the bad ones.
“The guys wanted you to have the first jar.” Thad held it out for Juan.
Setting aside his tool, Juan took the jar and sniffed. It smelled pretty good. And …the jar felt cool. He took a sip.
“Well?” Thad asked expectantly.
“Tight!” Juan grinned, taking another much larger gulp. He covered his mouth as a belch rumbled from it. “Tight like a Tigah.”
“Well, don’t be a pig, man,” Thad held out a hand. “Share the goodness.”
Juan handed it over and Thad took a long drink. He nodded and passed it back. The two men made short work of the jar of beer.
“So,” Thad gestured to the row of posts running off in the distance behind them, “how much longer you think we got until this little project is done?”
“At least a couple weeks.”
“Then what?”
Juan thought it over for a second, only a little distracted by his beer buzz. “Then we think about how to defend
ourselves from the living.”
“You really think that’s gonna be a problem?”
“I don’t think…I know.” Juan’s mind drifted back to Travis Reynolds, Gary Messer, and the others. If there was one Travis Reynolds…there would be others. Perhaps even worse, he shuddered inwardly at the thought. Then he considered the people here on Sauvie Island. Of the dozen adults, at least a third had done time.
“So, do we go out and look for others, or do we wait and let them come to us?” Thad asked.
“I think that, at some point, we’re gonna have to go out there.” Juan jammed one of the posts into the freshly dug hole, then began shoveling the coarse, gray concrete in to fill it and stabilize the post. “Maybe not actually looking for people as much as for stuff, but we’ll need to go out there.”
“Ya know,” Thad chuckled, “you got a lot of people here fooled…but I’m on to you.”
“Huh?” Juan patted the concrete with a shovel and began tying the lines from four stakes already in place to keep the post stable while the concrete dried.
“You ain’t no dummy.”
Juan thought that statement over, deciding if he was offended, then determined that he wasn’t. “Didn’t know I was tryin’ to fool anybody.”
“Exactly.”
“Look,” Juan picked up the tools and began moving down to where he would position the next post, “I ain’t tryin’ to do anything but survive. It’d be nice if there were others. I ain’t runnin’ shit, ain’t tryin’ to run shit. I just want to have a place and be safe as we can. Other than that, I ain’t got no plans or big ideas.”
“And that, my friend,” Thad clapped him on the shoulders, “is precisely what makes you so smart.”
