The Ugly Beginning - 01

by T. W. Brown

  With that, he nodded to us, then patted Sergeant Wimmer on the shoulder and left. I glanced over at Barry and Ian and saw the same dubiousness that I felt tugging at my mind.

  At least I would have help watching out for trouble.

  I called Thalia over, and, after promising she could return as soon as we’d eaten, I gave a nod. We all fell into line as Sergeant Wimmer led us to what would be our sleeping quarters. From the rear of the group it was easy for me to spot Teresa’s hand entwined in Jamie’s.

  11

  Vignettes IV

  He had been one of the most infamous rockstars of this generation. Thousands of women found themselves the object of his temporary affections. Thousands more claimed so. He started in the clubs and finished in stadiums.

  With exceptional business smarts, he built an empire that transcended his status as just-another-rockstar. His former band-mates were not lacking for money, but he had reached an entirely different level of fame and fortune that continued to feed his bank account as well as his ego long after his last hit record slid from the charts.

  Though many who did not know him assumed he was little more than an extreme egomaniac, his depth of character and ability to love was an exception to most others in his line of work. So, it was no surprise to those who really knew him—his family and small circle of real friends—that, when one of his former bandmates with whom he was rumored to have an intense feud with became ill, he dropped everything to be bedside at the hospital.

  That is how he got bitten.

  That is how his family died.

  That is how he became just another member of the walking dead.

  Now he stumbled along Hollywood Boulevard with a pack of others just like him. Ironically, a young boy of about twelve was within an arm’s distance to his left with the tattered remnants of a tee-shirt that had his face on it. As a mob, they continued to gain numbers that were likewise drawn to the vibrations that, while dull sounding, rang in their ears. None of them were cognizant enough in any manner to identify the staccato sound of automatic weapon’s fire. They simply knew that where there was sound, there was food.

  The desire to feed was the only impulse their brain transmitted constantly and clearly. There were images, impulses really, that drove them to re-enact rituals that were the equivalent of mental fossils in their memories. That is why he walked for days until finally reaching the swarming streets of Hollywood.

  While others, some more…some less famous, had tried to avoid the crowds of fans and camera-wielding paparazzi, he’d relished it. Whenever he was feeling down, he would pop up in public and bathe in the heat of the strobe flashes. People would yell his name and once again, he mattered.

  The rumble grew to a steady buzz under the irregular beat of gunfire. Movement caused him to turn his head to the left. The jagged rip on his left forearm seeped a hint of dark fluid as his arms reached out.

  The bus, with armor plates welded all along the sides and topped with two machinegun turrets, inched through the growing throng of zombies. The snowplow blade mounted in front was shoving a wad of broken bodies before it that would occasionally crest and break like a wave of wriggling death.

  A bullet struck him in the face. His body toppled, eventually scooped up with so many others by the plow. Rolling, tumbling, end over end, until finally sliding off to the side.

  “Hey! Is that who I think it is?” a man who looked like he’d seen Easy Rider a few too many times called above the roar of the bus engine to the younger man at his side.

  “Who cares?” the younger man said and shrugged.

  ***

  The Old Man stared up at the sun that he could not see through his cataract-covered eyes. Nothing but the baked, sparsely vegetated Australian landscape surrounded him on all sides. The heat bathed his wrinkled, naked body as the light breeze caused his snow-white hair to flutter ever so slightly.

  He felt a tingle and knew he was in the right spot. Slowly, against the flaring pain of protest in both knees, The Old Man knelt on the ground and began to jab the hard clay with his pointed stick.

  Within an hour he had snacked on a few fat grubs and eventually reached his goal. At the bottom of the almost foot-deep gouge in the earth, water pooled. Occasionally he would scoop out a few swallows with a little tin cup that he carried.

  A dull pain formed behind his eyes and The Old Man surrendered as a new vision began to coalesce in his mind’s eye. Again, he could see the Earth from the Heavens. Things had changed. Beacons of gold that once indicated to him large clusters of mankind were all gone.

  Now, the same blackness from the sun and moon covered Earth’s surface. Yet, tiny pinpricks of gold remained. That did not concern The Old Man. His visions always showed him more important things. He had seen dark, sickly gray swathes and blotches grow under those clusters of gold. The waters had turned color as well. Now, those gray lesions and bruises on Earth were fading. The healthy tinges of green were returning to the lands and blue was seeping into the waters.

  Man was dying. Earth was healing.

  The Old Man tilted his head to the sky and laughed long and loud.

  ***

  The once mighty warship slowly ground to an unceremonious halt. Washed into shallow waters, the USS Arliegh Burke tilted sharply to port. The awkward angle allowed the waves to crash repeatedly into her exposed starboard side. Over a period of several days, the gray behemoth shifted until she was almost parallel to the non-descript shoreline.

  Occassionally, one of her former crew would find its way to the open deck. Unable to navigate the surface with any real coordination, the figure would stumble, fall, and evenrually roll over the side, landing in the blue-green ocean water with a graceless splash.

  Some of these creatures would eventually emerge from the surf and struggle to the refuge of the fine white sand of the beach. Others simply vanished.

  ***

  Juan swung the sword in a sweeping arc, cleanly decapitating both zombies in one motion. He snatched his duffle bag from where he’d dropped it moments before and resumed running down the stairs. He saw a relatively clear path that would take him to the docks. Once there, he would have several boats to choose from.

  Juan had never been on a boat in his life. Hell, he hadn’t been on as much as a rubber raft. In all honesty, he was a bit frightened of the water. He paused to glance over his shoulder. The leading edge of the pack of zombies that had been following him ever since he’d abandoned the white transport van he used to get away from the madness of the county jail—namely Gary Messer, and Travis Reynolds—was an uneven wave of bodies surging his way.

  Dodging the outstretched arms of a zombie that had, in life, been an eight- or nine-year-old little girl, Juan reached the bottom of the switchback stairs that brought him near the water’s edge. About half of the slips were empty—although Juan didn’t personally know the term—but plenty of boats remained.

  Tossing his bag over the ten-foot high Cyclone fence, Juan slowed just slightly to gauge his chances, and decided they were as good as they would get. He jumped, and, in a few less than graceful maneuvers, was safely up and over the fence.

  As he passed what looked like some sort of guard shack, Juan glanced inside. Behind a Plexiglas panel were several sets of keys hanging from numbered hooks. Scanning the area, he made out numbers on small, square signs located along the dock. Seeing a boat that looked nice, but not too large, Juan broke through the Plexiglas, grabbed the key hanging from that corresponding number, and headed to his prize.

  Using caution, he approached the boat. There was an open cabin atop a closed door that would lead to who-knows-what below. The tell-tale stench of the dead was slight and seemed to only be in the breeze coming at him from the fence that was quickly filling with dozens of zombies all clutching and biting at the wire mesh. He felt just a bit of apprehension as he stepped onto the boat. Leaning cautiously down the three stairs that would take him below to a narrow passage with a door on each side and one at th
e end, he sniffed.

  Nothing.

  Deciding that he could handle anything that may be lurking behind the three closed doors, he dropped his bag and climbed the ladder up to the bridge. The controls, while different from a car’s, at least appeared to be simple. There were a few gauges that made no sense, but then Juan wasn’t intent on spending too much time on this boat.

  Finding the ignition, he slid in the key and turned. A lot of sputtering and a few noises that he couldn’t identify were his only reward. Just as he was about to give up, his eyes landed on a small cubbyhole off to one side. Inside were a few loose pages as well as a dog-eared and coffee-stained owner’s manual. The picture on the front looked a lot like the boat he was on!

  Deciding that there was no way out of his current mess other than to take to the river, Juan set the manual on the big captain’s chair and went about untying all the mooring lines. Using a long aluminum pole, he shoved away from the dock and began to drift lazily out into the open harbor of the marina. Twenty minutes later he was chugging up river. He didn’t know exactly where he would go, and at the moment, he didn’t care.

  ***

  Garrett McCormick sat down on the wooden bench that ran most of the length of the baseball dugout. The remnants of a sign that once read “Rainbow Stadium” hung askew. One wire was all that kept it from joining the clutter on the ground. Even in the shade of the dugout, the hot South Carolina sun still sent a bead of sweat trickling down his spine.

  Taking a deep breath and holding it, he listened. Yes, he could hear the moans and odd cries of the walking dead that roamed outside this rundown—and currently useless—baseball stadium on the outskirts of North Charleston.

  With a heavy, booted foot, he nudged the female that lay sleeping, curled up under the bench. She moaned in her sleep. Yes, Garrett thought, I’m going to have to find a replacement soon. This one was losing its appeal.

  “Wake up,” he growled, this time kicking hard enough to elicit a cry.

  “Please,” the brunette in her mid-twenties rasped, “water.”

  “I got somethin’ you can drink.” Garrett unzipped his jeans and fumbled with the fly to his underwear. A stream of urine splashed the woman’s face. Whether out of fear, or desperation, or thirst, he didn’t know, nor did he care, the woman who told him her name three days ago when he found her on the roof of a gutted mini-mart but he’d not taken the time to remember, opened her mouth. Alternating between gulps and gags, she took in mouthfuls of his piss.

  Garrett sighed in relief as his bladder—full from the two six-packs of warm beer he’d drunk the past couple of hours— emptied. Shaking himself, he enjoyed the look of fear on her face as he paused before stuffing himself back in his pants.

  Garrett took a step back to avoid the rivulet of urine that was inching towards his booted foot through the dust and occasional sunflower seed husk. He stared, albeit apathetically, at the dark haired, skinny-to-the-point-of-malnourished, bruised, and abraded woman who had curled up into herself again. Certainly it was not due to modesty. She’d been debased so severely that her nudity was of little import. No, she was trying to console herself from the horror of these past few days, and the potential horror to come.

  “On your feet,” Garrett said, pushing his enormous frame towards the exit of the sour smelling dugout.

  The skeletal woman staggered to her feet, weak from hunger and thirst. Her face showed the pain of every movement as she willed herself up the stairs.

  “That gate, number seven, we’re going that way,” he pointed, then watched as she slunk past. He looked her up and down from behind. Her back was a Rorschach pattern of bruises. His eyes lingered on the slight curve of her ass. He could see darkened flecks of dried blood from one of his more recent excursions. She hadn’t even cried out that time.

  Yes, it was time for a replacement. She was the third, and had lasted the shortest amount of time. Maybe it was time to leave the neighborhood and seek fresher grounds. He hadn’t even heard any gunshots in two days.

  As they ascended the concrete stairs to the darkened concourse, the moans of the dead grew louder. The smell intensified to a degree that clung to the skin in a rank, sickly sweetness with a strong undercurrent of rot. As they left sunlight behind for the cool darkness, Garrett knew how to facilitate his escape from the stadium and rid himself of this now useless creature.

  As he stepped up the last stair and gained the flat concrete walkway that once led countless fathers, sons, mothers, and daughters to beer gardens, popcorn vendors, souvenir stands, and restrooms, Garrett unzipped his pants. Out of reflexive fear, the woman stopped with a shudder and a sigh.

  Garrett grabbed her by the hair and pushed her forward. A long counter was just past the turnstiles. A sign reading “WILL CALL BOOTH” still hung just above the counter in front of a pair of shuttered windows. Her body offered no resistance as he bent her forward.

  He had never been all that interested in anal sex before. Mostly due to some shadowy memories he had from his childhood involving his mom’s best friend’s son. He swiped at those shadows and cleared his mind before it caused him to soften. With an angry thrust of his hips he tore his way into the body now bent to his whim and will.

  No reaction.

  As he shoved himself in and out against the initial, then eventually lessening resistance, he glanced to the right. Scores of milky-eyed onlookers strained to reach through the grate. Hands opened and closed on air, desperately wanting to feed upon the warm flesh only feet away.

  Without warning, he wrapped one huge arm around the waist of the unresponsive creature slouched before him and spun to his right. Those grasping hands found hair. Skin. Now she screamed. As she was pulled flush to the big grate, her arms yanked forward while several sets of teeth sunk into the loose flesh. She screamed louder. Garrett’s thrusting became faster. The screams changed pitch as what was left of one arm came away and disappeared into the ravenous mob.

  Garrett shuddered.

  Pulling back, he shoved himself back into his pants, wiping his semen and blood smeared hands on the back of his jeans.

  Like sharks they converged. Even those several yards away with no hope of reaching the gate came in stumbling, staggering steps. Maybe they can communicate, Garrett thought as he disappeared down a nearby tunnel.

  Moments later he was gazing out a mostly clear archway. A few stragglers remained, but nothing he couldn’t take down or outdistance. Fumbling in the pocket of his leather duster he produced his bolt cutter. With a squeeze, the padlock hasp was severed. Pulling the grate open, he shoved the first clutching corpse back. His other hand came up with a metal spike.

  A few of the zombies stumbled through the gate as Garrett strode past with as close to indifference as a person could while navigating his way through a loose cluster of partially masticated, animated, walking corpses. Within moments, the parking lot was behind him. Zigzagging through the neighborhood, he finally managed to shake the growing mob.

  A large raindrop splatted on his nose. Garrett paused and glanced skyward. A big storm was coming. He glanced around for suitable shelter and decided on a dreary looking tavern. There was a second floor that he could gain access to and leave minimal evidence of having passed. He took a quick look around to ensure none of those things would see.

  Tomorrow he would seek a new companion. Eventually, he imagined he would run out. By then, perhaps he’d just walk into a pack of those things and let it end.

  “Nah,” Garrett laughed quietly as he slid the window open to discover a musty office…and several unopened boxes of Jim Beam.

  ***

  Jenifer Slaten stared at the ground. Her toes curled up reflexively as she stepped onto the hot sand. All around her, the whimpers and cries of the remaining breathers could be heard. Those cries drifted on the salt air of what had once been paradise.

  Atlantis.

  Now, the once crystal pools were filled with slime…or worse. The resort where her mother had recently la
nded a job as the CFO was mostly burned down. The landmark ziggurat was really all that remained in an undamaged state.

  Standing atop the monolith was Adaire. As usual, he was surrounded by no less than ten of his machete-wielding hench-men. Kneeling, or, more accurately, sprawled, at their feet lay Liza Gordy. Liza was their most recent “example.” Her crime was refusal to willfully be bedded by Adaire. Her refusal alone was not really the problem. In all truth, Adaire liked it when you struggled. The real crime was that Liza managed to bite Adaire. It was a shame that Liza wasn’t one of the infected. Jenifer hadn’t seen for herself, but she heard that part of his ear was missing.

  For just a moment, Jenifer almost smiled. Only, it seemed the muscles in her face that assisted with that most basic function had forgotten how to work. She’d seen so much death, pain, and sadness in the past weeks?…months? She couldn’t even remember what day it was. She had no idea that her eighteenth birthday had come and gone two days ago.

  Adaire was bellowing something through his megaphone in his thick Jamaican accent. Jenifer didn’t listen. Maybe some of the others still did, but she’d heard it enough. Like when her dad had “stolen food from the people.” It had been an orange, and he’d given it to her one morning as a surprise. Only, somebody had told. Then it was her mom for refusing to “perform services for the people.” She had actually broken free from the escorts taking her to Adaire’s cabana. Both had stood atop the pyramid as their “crimes” were announced. The verdict decided. The sentence carried out.

  The long slide that once sparkled as water cascaded down, carrying happy tourists into the depths of an encapsulated tunnel where sharks drifted past, was now a chute that led to hordes of the dead. Then there were the screams. No longer of the thrilled patron; now, the screams were of pain. The sounds made when your flesh is gouged away in handfuls and torn by the teeth of ghouls.