The Human Zoo

by Kolin Wood

  Contents

  TITLE

  Legal

  quote

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Epilogue

  THE HUMAN ZOO

  A Story of Post Apocalyptic Horror

  By

  Kolin Wood

  The Human Zoo

  Kolin Wood

  Copyright 2017 Kolin Wood

  The Human Zoo is a work of fiction. The characters, incidents, situations, and all dialogue are entirely a product of the author’s imagination, or are used fictitiously and are not in any way representative of real people, places or things.

  Any resemblance to persons living or dead is entirely coincidental.

  All rights reserved

  No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system or transmitted in any form or by any means electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without prior written permissions of the author except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews

  “In a mad world, only the mad are sane.”

  Akira Kurosawa

  PROLOGUE

  The Culling is what we called it. Millions upon millions of people unwittingly wiped from the face of the earth in a matter of a few catastrophic and bloody months. A disease far worse than anything ever predicted, ravaged the bloated population, attacking with aggressive focus upon an unprepared majority. In the early days, as casualties began to mount, and the sick lined the halls of the under-resourced health facilities, a mutation from a virulent animal strain was blamed. It soon transpired to be something more primal, a weakness locked deep within our D.N.A.

  Perhaps, somewhere, somebody knows; perhaps they don’t. Whatever the reason, a vaccine never came. Soon, with the disintegration of the services and any form of public order, the bodies began to pile three or four high in the abandoned shops and doorways.

  It was not long after—as we tried to pick ourselves up among the ruins of the fallen cities—that the lights went out and the power stopped. Carnage and depravity ensued unchecked on the streets. The dark evenings rang heavy with the screams of the innocents and the merciless slaughter of the weak. The evil core inside of man, unhindered by the usual chains of a moral and just society, had freed itself and come out to feed.

  Decades of selfish, insular living and arrogant lifestyles had left most people with nothing more than a token sense of community and a splintered fragile network of relationships. Our fractured neighbourhoods, unable to join together in any cohesive numbers, began to fall foul of the gangs which roamed, unrestrained in their brutality.

  Many of the former inhabitants, still clinging to a watered-down version of humanity, fled the violence of the populated centres, heading for the countryside and the hope of a more peaceful and natural existence. The ones who did took with them what limited survival skills they had learned from dramatized television shows into a far more difficult way of living than they were ready for. A foolish few, like my family and I, remained, hiding in our house, hoping for something or someone to come and save us or, at the very least, to tell us what to do.

  But no one came.

  CHAPTER ONE

  A key rattled in the lock. The sound, coupled with the pungent smell of ammonia, forced Juliana from her slumber. She sat bolt upright and rubbed her eyes. The room was almost pitch-black, making it hard to focus on anything. It had been a while since anybody had been to visit. Recently, life had become one long night, punctuated with a few waking moments and occasional bursts of candle light. She put fingers to her dry lips and tried to whistle, but it was too late. The heavy steel door swung open. A large, bulky figure stood there, silhouetted against a backdrop of subtle light. Juliana strained her sleepy eyes against the darkness, immediately relieved when she realised that it was only Doyle. But the relief was short-lived. Another, smaller figure, pushed in from behind him, striding past her to the far side of the room.

  “GET UP!” Aaron shouted, as he reached down into the pile of blankets on the bed.

  Juliana could do nothing but watch, as a lump rose up, thick in her throat.

  Aaron pulled the girl from her coverings and forced her onto the floor at his feet. Broken nails clawed weakly at his thighs as he made thrusting movements towards her face, all the while laughing at her pitiful, mewling objections.

  Anger caused Juliana to shake. Aaron was only a kid, twenty at a push. He was malnourished and skinny. It would only take one good strike… She glanced over at Doyle who was looking at her as if reading her thoughts.

  “THAT… ith quite enough of that.”

  Another person—even skinnier than Aaron, wearing glasses and dressed from head to toe in the black uniform of a prison guard—strode over to the concrete table separating the beds, his leather heals clicking loudly on the hard floor. Dread unfurled in the pit of Juliana’s stomach as Doc stopped, set a candle down and began to thumb through a few of the random, scratchily-written pages which lay on the table. In such dim light, she knew that the gesture was merely for dramatic effect, used to heighten the drama of his entrance. But it was an effect which worked as intended; Juliana’s bladder suddenly felt full to the point of bursting. She watched from under her hair as a pair of immaculately polished boots hovered nearby.

  “Such a beauty, thith one. Wouldn’t you agree, Doyle?” Doc said.

  Doyle only grunted in acknowledgment. Aaron laughed but was ignored.

  “Such a rare and delicate thong bird, caught inthide the henhouthe.” The voice was nasal and thin, ridiculous despite the confidence with which it was wielded. The occasional S rang with a lisp that made it sound both stupid and horrific at the same time. Juliana thought back to a Stephen King book she had once read about a policeman who did horrible things to children and spoke with what she imagined to be the same lingering lisp. It had given her nightmares then, and it was definitely potent enough to make the hairs on her neck raise up now.

  There was a small squeak and a pair of naked, dirty feet joined the spotless boots directly in Juliana’s line of vision. She kept her head bowed and held her breath, adding more pressure to her painfully full bladder.

  “Clean her up and thend her to the thurgery,” Doc said.

  “Yes, Doc,” Doyle replied.

  The surgery. Juliana felt her blood run cold and she rubbed the crude scar that ran the length of her arm.

  The naked feet were suddenly gone, leaving only the polished toes, still pointed in her direction. Juliana could feel the weight of decision bearing down on the back of her head and she closed her eyes, expecting to feel a hand in her hair. But none came. When she opened her eyes again, the boots had disappeared. The big heavy door slammed shut and, just like that, she was alone.

  She stood quickly and walked barefoot over to the old grey bucket in the corner of the room. They had left her the candle, and the small flame was a welcome relief to the darkness in which she had recently had to function. Her thighs burned as she lifted the front of her flimsy cotton gown and squatted to relieve herself. Liquid splashed her legs as it poured freely over the ragged plastic top. Only habit kept he
r even using the bucket. It was a pointless practice; the floor was covered in piss anyway.

  Once finished, she straightened herself up and moved away from the growing puddle. She would have to ask for an empty today. To ask for anything in this place was dangerous and usually meant being singled out for ‘special’ treatment, something which Juliana had already been dealt her fair share of. Still, something would have to be done about the state of the room, and soon, before they were poisoned by their own filth.

  Without bothering to wipe her feet, she crouched down on the floor next to her bed. There had been a time when she would have probably cried at that point, but not anymore. Any softness that had once resided in her had long since been hunted down and systematically snuffed out by the constant torture and threat of degradation which she had been subjected to over the last… How long had it been? Eight or nine years at least. She’d lost count some time ago.

  Tears threatened her eyes as she looked over at the empty bed. Sarah was her name. At only twenty-one, she was younger than Juliana, had naturally long, flowing, blonde hair and kind, sparkling, green eyes. By anyone’s standard, she was beautiful. When they had first brought her in, the visits to come and see her had been regular. Often, she would be taken from the room and not returned until the morning, always wearing signs of degradation and brutality. And that is how it went, for a time.

  To begin with, not much had convinced Juliana that her new roommate was going to make it. Sarah had a soft soul. She had been cruelly ripped from a life of near-perfect innocence and thrown into the worst arena of sin imaginable. By her own admissions, Juliana had offered the girl very little in the way of support those first early weeks. She had not seen the point, having already seen so many come and go.

  But, as time was to prove, there was evidently more to the soft-featured girl than Juliana had initially given her credit for. The weeks passed, and the visits began to slow a little. Sarah started to change, to grow a thicker skin, to harden. The tears, which had fallen so freely, flowed less and less, and the screams in the night became more infrequent, eventually stopping altogether. Juliana had not felt any form of companionship since the beginning of her forced incarceration. It was true that they came from very different backgrounds, but regardless of her obviously sheltered and pampered life, she found Sarah to be witty and, at times, devilishly funny in the face of such cruel adversity. The two of them became friends. Laughter helped in the face of such hopelessness, and they tried the best they could to keep each other’s spirits up. Sometimes, however, things got so dark that it was impossible.

  Their tales bore shockingly violent similarities too. The night of the attack on her house, Sarah’s older brother had tried to protect her from the gang. Alone though, he never stood a chance; the two of them were easily over-powered and dragged outside in plain view of the neighbourhood. Her brother was stripped and violently bludgeoned about his face and body. After each blow, they made him stand before he would be beaten down again and again until there were no bones left unbroken. By the time they were through, his face was an unrecognisable swollen mess and fragments of his teeth were lying on the tarmac by her face. He was then shot in cold blood, right in front of her. Not one of their neighbours came to their assistance that day. None were brave enough to answer a single tear-soaked plea of help. Everybody it seemed, including herself, was a coward.

  Juliana dropped to the floor and began her daily exercise routine. Years of in-cell discipline had left her rigid and tight with slabs of muscle adorning her malnourished frame. Not in a manly way, but more in the way a professional athlete on the television might have looked, had there still been athletes in the world or televisions upon which to watch them. Small breaths pumped from her lungs as she raised and lowered her chest to the floor. She easily pushed through the one hundred target that she had set herself for the day, and decided to push out an extra ten more. Then, slowly bringing her body level on the last one, she flipped in one fluid and practiced motion, straight over onto her back to begin her sit ups.

  “One… two… three…”

  A bang at the door stopped her mid-flow. She barely had enough time to pull herself onto her knees before it swung open. In front of her, holding a tray, was Doyle.

  “Your breakfast,” he said in a quiet voice, setting the tray down on the table next to the fluttering candle, the pens, and the paper.

  His discomfort with what had gone down earlier resonated from his face and transposed itself in his awkward, heavy movements, but it made her glad.

  Juliana jumped to her feet, aware of her unsupported breasts as they bounced loosely in the ill-fitting gown; Doyle, however, seemed not to notice. She walked to the table and sat in front of the tray, looking down at its grey and unsightly contents with disdain. They were treated no better than animals. Even dogs would turn their noses up at the slop.

  Too hungry to make an issue, she picked up a spoon and scooped the sludgy concoction into her mouth. After the scarceness of the past few weeks, anything was a welcome source of nutrition for her body. The stew was cold and there were no discernible lumps in it, but she sucked it down anyway, finally picking up the bowl and drinking down the last of the oily juices. She wiped her greasy lips with the back of her hand and looked up at Doyle, but his eyes would not return the look.

  “All this feel good, huh… big man?” she said, sarcasm heavy in her tone.

  Doyle reached out for the empty tray and Juliana placed her hand on top of the bulging muscles in his forearm, gripping tightly.

  “Another beast for that psycho’s cattle pen, is it? How about you, huh?” she said, pulling in an attempt to move his hand towards the front of her flimsy dress. “You want something too? Come on, baby, take it… TAKE IT!” As the stiff ends of his fingers rubbed the soft flesh at the top of her breasts, she stabbed her nails into his skin, drawing blood.

  “You weak fuck!”

  The large lad yanked his hand away and she laughed, letting him go. Then, hawking loudly, she spat into the bowl.

  “Tell his high and mightiness, Juliana says hi.”

  Doyle picked up the tray and backed away from her with his head bowed. He was clearly not rising to her bait.

  “I’m so sorry,” he whispered, and then the door was slammed closed on her for the second time that day.

  Alone again, Juliana watched the door. She hoped that Doyle was feeling bad about what had transpired. She hoped that he would feel too bad to report back on what she had just said to the General. If the General thought, for even a minute, that she was over-stepping the line and becoming a drain on resources then, well… it really did not bear thinking about—a one way trip to the surgery, more than likely. Often, she wondered why she was still here. They were not short on playthings; girls far younger and prettier than her too. Perhaps the fact that she had managed to remain alive, even after all they had thrown at her, had earned her some of their respect. Or maybe they had a bet running on her.

  She walked back over to her bed, sat down, and pulled her knees up to her chest. Try as she might to kid herself that she no longer felt scared, when it came to the General, she knew better than to test her mettle against him. He scared her. He appeared in the corridors on a whim, always cloaked in shadow, like a ghoul or spectre from some grind-house horror film, with that disgusting, blood-soaked bandage covering part of his face.

  ***

  Hours passed before the door finally opened again. With a shove, Sarah was pushed back into the room and she stumbled, falling heavily to the floor. Juliana waited for the door to slam shut before jumping from her bed and sliding across the dirty floor next to her.

  “Sarah! What have the bastards done to you?” she said, gently picking up her friend’s bloody head and laying it in her lap.

  Sarah’s nose looked broken and her lips were split on the top and bottom. Juliana had spent some time working as a nurse at the local hospital before becoming pregnant with her son. It had given her an extremely basic insigh
t into medicine, although she had never in her life professed to being of any real use in a proper emergency situation. However, she owed it to her friend to at least try to assess the extent of the damage.

  The dresses given to them were ill-fitting, smock-like garments, and neither of them wore any underwear, ever. The looseness of the neckline allowed Juliana to see inside with relative ease. The sight there caused her to put a hand to her mouth. The front part of Sarah’s body was raw with grazes and bite marks. It looked like a child had drawn all over her with lipstick, creating an undignified patchwork quilt of pain. She pulled on Sarah’s thin arms, easing the girl’s body forward to get a view of her back. There, on the reverse of the garment, she could see the faint outline of a bloody imprint about six inches long. It was still wet and had seeped through the thin material. Hot dread crept into her belly.

  Please god, no, not again.

  An incision, the same length of the imprint and with clean and straight sutures, lay there between her shoulder blades. It ran up her spine, stopping just below the nape of her neck.

  At first she feared that the spinal cord may have been cut, but as she prodded gently around the inflamed area, she assessed that the wound was in fact superficial, and she breathed a sigh of relief. This was much as her own scar had been; some twisted form of surgical practice. Anger boiled hot within her and she clenched her teeth. She knew that there was no way that Doc could have put her under a general anaesthetic; it would have been local at best. The girl would have been somewhat awake during the procedure, tied, and unable to move as he approached her with his dirty scalpel…

  Suddenly, Sarah screamed. Her eyes fluttered open and she began to thrash about, kicking her legs out indiscriminately. Juliana grabbed at her and gripped her close, pinning her arms, as much to stop her from hurting herself as to calm her.