by T. W. Brown
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 irrellevant 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 floor 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 hoplessness. 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.
While Juan skidded to a halt to take a moment to decide how to deal with the situation, the dog plowed into the child-thing, knocking it onto its back. Deciding not to let the thing regain its footing, Juan moved in and brought the bat down on its head until the thing finally stopped squirming.
Looking up, Juan noticed a couple of things right away. One, the dog had simply sat down and was watching with its tongue hanging out making c
ontented doggy panting sounds. Two, the woman had freed her leg, and now held a large, black handgun leveled at him!
“Easy there, lady.” Juan raised his hands, setting his gore-drenched bat on the railing of the porch.
“Real slow, take that belt off and slide that gun over here,” the woman’s voice was still a bit hoarse from screaming.
“If I do, will you stop pointing that gun at me?” Juan slowly brought his hands down and twisted the clasp, releasing the belt. He held it up in one hand.
The distinct sound of a pump-action shotgun sounded behind him. He flinched, but resisted the urge to look over his shoulder.
“Just toss the belt, cowboy,” a young-sounding female voice almost purred.
Juan glanced at the dog. It was still simply taking everything in with a big doggy smile. “You in on this, too?” Juan asked the dog. Its stubby tail wiggled, and it got up and walked over to him, nudging his leg.
“Jade seems to like him,” the unseen shotgun holder said.
“All that means is that he’s not carrying the sickness,” the woman with the pistol snapped.
“C’mon, Mom, this guy took Carson out. He doesn’t seem like he was gonna do anything to you.”
“Maybe that’s because I didn’t give him the chance.”
“It’s been a month since Mister Billings. This is the first person we’ve seen since then. And he didn’t sneak through our window at night and try anything, this guy ran in and saved you,” the voice at his back replied. Juan really wanted to look over his shoulder. That voice sounded so absolutely beautiful.
“Are you willing to risk it, Mackenzie?”
“Are you willing to kill somebody who hasn’t done anything wrong and just saved your life, Mother?” Mackenzie asked.
Juan heard movement behind him, and a moment later Mackenzie came up the steps into view. Juan did his best not to show any reaction. An ugly wound crossed the young woman’s throat where it looked to him like somebody had taken a knife to it. Her left eye was so bloodshot that it looked crimson. There were other bruises visible on her arms, and a black and purple smudge could be seen extending down her thighs past the hem of her shorts. She was wearing cut-off sweats and Juan guessed it was likely that there were more bruises underneath.
“We had an unfortunate experience a few weeks back,” Mackenzie ignored her mom, shouldering the shotgun and extending a hand.
“I’m,” Juan stammered just a bit, “uh, well…”
“Mackenzie!” the woman barked as her daughter clasped hands with the stranger.
“Look,” Juan pulled his hand free, stepped back, and again raised his hands, “I had no idea anybody was here. I have my boat over at the beach.” He waved his arm in the general direction. “I was only taking a look. But when I smelled the fresh fruit. I…well…I—”
“You decided to steal some!” the woman snapped, still keeping the pistol leveled at Juan’s chest, although she was now using both hands. Even then, she was trembling slightly.
“I don’t want any problems.” Juan was getting a little tired of having a gun pointed at him. “I’ll just go back to my boat and—”
“And sneak back some night and either steal from us or worse,” the woman spat; she was really getting worked up. Juan knew fear when he saw it. If the lady was simply angry he could deal with that. But this one was scared, and scared people did things. Bad things.
“Mother, I don’t think this guy is gonna try and hurt us.” Mackenzie turned to the frightened woman, deliberately putting her back to Juan.
“You don’t know that,” the older woman’s voice cracked as she choked back a sob. “Jack Billings was our neighbor for… well…since before you were born.”
“And I always thought he was creepy.” Mackenzie placed her hands on her mothers, lowering the gun. “And when dad died, he never did accept that you weren’t looking for a new husband. Much less that you weren’t interested in him.”
Juan lowered his hands. Suddenly it was as if he weren’t there. Even the dog lying at his feet was intent on the two women who were in the midst of ripping off some sort of serious emotional scab. For a moment, he considered trying to excuse himself. Partially because he didn’t want to be nosy, and also because it was getting dark. He wanted to get back to his boat while he could still see. Juan cursed himself silently for not having thought to bring a flashlight.
“He still shouldn’t have done what he did. Not to me…and certainly not to you.” Now the older woman was sobbing.
“And he’ll never do it again.” Mackenzie took her mom into her arms and hugged her. Juan noticed the wince. She must be pretty beat up, he thought.
“So,” Juan tried to talk quietly, in hopes that Mackenzie’s mom wouldn’t notice, “I’ll just be going.”
“Absolutely not,” Mackenzie said over her mother’s sobs.
“But,” now he was confused, “I just want to get back to my boat before dark. For what it’s worth, I’ll promise not to come back.”
“I don’t think you should go now,” Mackenzie said, looking at Juan over her mom’s head. “It’s almost dark, and I’d feel terrible if in a day or two you come staggering up with a few bites out of you.”
Mackenzie’s mother pushed away from her daughter. “And where do you think he’ll stay?”
“You know what, lady,” Juan was beginning to regret saving the woman, “I said I was just lookin’ for food. I’ve been out on the river for a long time. Folks have either run from me or shot at me. I’ve seen people do terrible things, and when I heard somebody screaming, I came to help. To me, that’s worth a few melons. So, I’m gonna go. On my way, I’m gonna put a few pieces of fresh fruit in my bags that I dropped when I came to save your ass from being eaten. Then,” he scooped up his belt and fastened it with angry, over-exaggerated movements, “I’m getting’ on my boat and leavin’. If you wanna shoot me, don’t miss.”
Juan stormed past the two women, reached the stairs, and froze. He spun suddenly. Both women’s eyes widened as he stomped back towards them. He never even gave them a glance as he reached over and grabbed his bat. Once again, minus a little pride and righteous anger, he made his exit. Just as he reached the bottom step, a voice called out.
“Wait!” it was the mother.
Juan had built up a head of steam. He was angry and continued on, ignoring the repeated calls for him to stop. He heard steps. They were chasing after him! Juan spun, the bat cocked back defensively.
“Please!” the woman held her hands up, slowing. Her daughter—several steps behind—was coming, too, but wincing visibly with every step. “I’m sorry. It’s just been so…” Her voice trailed off and she came to a stop an arm’s breadth away.
“Crazy?” Juan relaxed his arm, dropping the bat to his side. “Like a horror movie?”
“Worse.” Mackenzie caught up and stood beside her mom. “But let’s try this again. My name is Mackenzie Simms. This is my mother, Margaret. The dog’s name is Jade.”
“Juan,” he stepped forward, halving the distance between them, “Juan Hoya.”
“Pleased to meet you, Juan.” Margaret extended a hand. “Thank you for saving me.”
“Welcome,” Juan mumbled. He wasn’t real comfortable with compliments, praise, or thanks.
“Won’t you come back and join us for dinner?” Margaret extended an arm towards the house. “We’re having fresh grilled chicken and biscuits.”
“Tight,” Juan smiled a lop-sided grin. The three walked back to the house, Jade bounding up alongside them.
***
Jenifer sat on the beach, basking in the warmth of the morning sunlight. She heard the sounds of saws and hammers at work and willed them to be swallowed by the sounds of the surf. She only wanted ten minutes. Just ten minutes where she could relax and simply not think, worry, or care.
“Jenifer!” a thickly British-accented voice called. “We’ll be needing your hands to help raise the sails.”
“Dammit,” Jenifer s
ighed and pushed herself to her feet. Like those three men couldn’t raise a sail.
“Need to see if she’ll hold wind, love,” Graham Briarwood said standing on a fallen tree with his hands shielding his eyes.
“And you need me to do what?” Jenifer allowed the sarcasm to drip. “Admire your rippling muscles as you tug on a piece of rope?”
“Actually,” Gidean Ogilvie took a long drink of water from a bottle and passed it to Graham, “we need you to gather up your things. If this holds, we will be ready to go.”
“Yeah,” Eric Chatham piped up in his nauseatingly effeminate AND British-accented voice. “Be a love and start bringing down the rest of the baggage.”
“Whatever. Jenifer trudged through the sand to the cabana that the four of them had been sharing the past couple weeks as they repaired and outfitted a huge sailboat in preparation for their escape from this dead island.
She walked past one of the still burning piles of corpses. They’d bagged most of the things. There’d been fifteen of them after the storm. Fifteen living souls. Now, there were four. That was all that remained.
