Dead World: Hero

by D. N. Harding

  He pushed himself away from the edge of the building so violently, that Randi was startled. She watched him march across the roof away from her. His body was rigid. His fists clenched at his side. Soon a cry rose from Jack’s direction. It was a sound filled with such pain that it made her want to hug herself and weep. She realized that this was the first time the truth of what was happening in the world became real to the man. He had thought it something else altogether. Now reality was wounding him. She wanted to run to him, but she would not. Instead, she allowed herself to weep for his pain.

  Jack couldn’t shake the images. Somehow, his mind had fed him the illusion of normalcy. Maybe he didn’t want to believe it so he refused to see the truth. Looking back, the evidence was there. The police officer he’d wrestled into the patrol car — the one that nearly bit him — was missing an eye. He didn’t see it. The big man he’d fought with in the restaurant had a fork stuck in his neck. He didn’t see it. The crowds that meandered past Margaret’s house in the night were filled with limbless, mindless dead. Some were missing their lower jaws. Others were missing large chunks of flesh from their chests, legs, or abdomens. He didn’t see any of it. The crowds of dead people that were attracted to the flashing device were in the same condition. They were all dead. The evidence was there. Why didn’t he see it? He had nearly killed himself over the grief and shame he felt for killing those dead things in defense of his own life!

  His mind went back to the news he’d heard over the HAM radio. Chicago was overrun, then Los Angeles and New York. Eventually every major city in the U.S. was reporting outbreaks. The word came back to him, again. Pandemic. The dead were taking over the world! In his mind, he saw millions of dead roaming the cities around the globe as the living struggled together to live in whatever safety they could find — humanity forced to hide like early mammals born in the Cretaceous period.

  His ears were filled with a mournful sound as he felt himself slipping into despair. He only vaguely realized that the sound was coming from him. Sobs racked his body and he collapsed to his knees in the gravel. Tears flowed freely. He wept not for himself. He wept for humanity.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  T he vinyl tent was too cold to allow for much sleep, so the women huddled together near the back trying to keep as far as possible from the entrance. Shirley Baker took an inventory of the women. There were fourteen total. Two of the girls were still being held in separate tents next door. The crude laughter and the occasional screams from the girls communicated much about what was going on. It grieved her to know that many of the women in this tent would spend a portion of their days satiating the sick appetites of the animals in the camp who pretended to be men. Shirley looked about the sparsely furnished tent. She wondered if this was what her life would now consist of and for how long.

  As much as she considered herself a strong woman, there were men in the camp who terrified her. There was something in the way they looked at her that bespoke a deep and profound darkness in their very souls. Colonel Berkley was one of them. He terrified her. His eyes were lifeless and cold, yet housed a frightening intelligence. When he looked at her, she knew that she would be treated according to her usefulness. She was a tool, an instrument to be used for the betterment, pleasure, and entertainment of those who really mattered — soldiers. She had overheard him speaking to a new batch of “recruits.” According to him, the only people who mattered were those who could fight for the security of humanity’s future. Everyone else must offer what he or she can to assist those who are engaged in the struggle. Shirley had seen firsthand what that meant. Women and children were forced into the role of slaves, while men of fighting age and ability were conscripted into the army as soldiers, laborers or fodder.

  She had seen men like Berkley before. He saw the cruelty of his men as a means to keep the populace under control. Fear kept people in their place, at least until he found a means to use them for the “good of mankind.” The Band’s reputation for savage cruelty against those who resisted them would eventually precede them, she knew. It was a psychological tactic designed to encourage many able-bodied men to leap at the opportunity to fight for Berkley — not wanting to face the alternative.

  Rumors of the Colonel’s prowess as a commander in the field made her expect to see a man in his late to middle fifties. Berkley wasn’t much older than thirty years. The amount of respect he earned from his men said much about the man. He was the sole source of law and to his followers his words were scripture. When they first moved her into the camp, she had the opportunity to witness Colonel Berkley’s effect on lesser men. The way they looked at him when he walked by was enough to fill her with a special terror. He was their savior. It was the first time in her life that she found herself in the presence of a true megalomaniac. This man was Genghis Khan. He was Hitler. He was Saddam Hussein. The proof was in the harshness of the punishments he meted out against those who failed to demonstrate the proper depth of gratitude for what he was doing.

  Shirley shivered again and pulled the rough green army blanket over her shoulders. Out of the horrors of the last few days, she had one consolation. Her daughter Randi had not been present when the living monsters arrived. She thought back to their argument. She knew that Randi was too young to be prancing about in a world that had suddenly turned upside down. Yet, she had heard the men brag about her talent for scavenging. Her and that stupid skateboard. All she needed was for the girl to slip and fall and the dead would have eaten her while she kicked and screamed. No amount of stubbornness would have saved her then! Shirley caught herself and smiled. That very stubbornness had saved her from the same fate her mother now suffered.

  “Tell me,” a voice whispered so softly that Shirley nearly missed it. Lying next to her was a woman whose name slipped her mind. Under her long red hair were eyes that held buckets of fear. “Tell me what you were thinking about that made you smile. I— I thought I would never see a smile again — at least not one I would want to see.” Tears fell heavily from the woman’s eyes when she blinked.

  Shirley put her hand gently on the woman’s head and began to pet her ever so softly. Her red hair had singled her out as one of the first to spend time with the men in the tents. They had hurt her pretty bad that day as the first thirty or so men lined up to sample the new goods that had just arrived. At one point, Shirley had heard the woman scream for the better part of an hour. It was then that she realized that not all the men shared the same appetites.

  “I was thinking about my daughter. She and I fought. Her stubbornness kept her from our fate. I used to hate that about her. She would fight with me just to say that she did. I never understood why she was so difficult or how she’d grown to be so strong. Now I rejoice because it was the very thing that saved her.” Shirley was staring out the front flap of the tent as she finished. She was lost in the memory.

  Quietly, the red haired woman smiled to herself and covered her head with her blanket. “She gets it from you,” she whispered, almost absentmindedly.

  Shirley remained awake for most of the night, watching over the girls as they slept fitfully, while waiting for the return of the other two. It was nearly daylight when Candice and Mary were returned to the tent. Their clothes were gone and they were wrapped in blankets. Both were weeping and holding each other as they entered. It was a hard sight to see. Neither of the two girls was much older than twenty and with tear-stained faces and running noses, they seemed much younger.

  As the other women began to parcel out the clothing they wore in an effort to clothe them, Shirley looked the girls over with her trained eye. She was glad to learn that outside of some terrible bruising and a few cuts and scrapes, they would survive their first night as “women who did their part.” It seemed the night shift was the most difficult to get through. However, a particular soldier was gaining in reputation as a man who took pleasure in hurting the girls. His name was Primrose. Shirley catalogued the name in a special file in her memory. She remembered his voice ov
er the radio offering assurances that help was on the way. She learned from one of the women who had been in the camp for over a month that Primrose had been known to torture and kill women now and then.

  “If he doesn’t do it too often, Berkley just leaves him to his pleasures,” the woman said.

  “Well that simply will not do,” Shirley said. “It’s time to put the brakes on Mr. Primrose.” She stood up and heard the girls gasp as she marched right out the front of the tent. She’d heard that the last woman to leave the tent without permission spent two consecutive nights in the rape tents.

  The camp itself was situated just outside of town, yet it was close enough so that foraging parties could be sent in to find supplies when necessary. The ground under Shirley’s feet was hard packed so that she felt as if she was walking on concrete. She turned her eyes to the morning sky. There was not a cloud in sight. The sun was a hand’s span over the horizon to the east. She let her eyes adjust and then took note of some important facts about the camp.

  The entire encampment was built around a massive structure at its center. The structure looked like a cross between a handful of RV’s and a dark green circus tent. Two soldiers stood at the end of the aisle ahead of her. At least that is what she thought they were. They stood at ease, talking and smoking cigarettes. Their weapons were held loosely in their hands. They were sentries, just not very disciplined ones, she noted.

  No one would be allowed to approach the tent-thing unannounced and that was fine by her. She marched down the aisle leaving the girls in the tent to themselves. Trying not to be too conspicuous, she took special care to soak in all the information she could about the camp — their placement in it and whatever else seemed to be important.

  “Where do you think your goin’, little missy?” the larger of the two soldiers said.

  The smaller one added, “Yeah, were you goin’, little missy?” His voice was mousy.

  “I’m on my way to see the Colonel, soldier. You’d best not keep him waiting,” she said in her best doctor’s voice.

  “He didn’t say nothin’ about having a visitor this early in the morning,” the larger man said.

  “Yeah, he didn’t say nothin’,” the smaller man repeated.

  “What’s yer business?”

  The man wasn’t as thickheaded as he looked and she realized that if she didn’t handle this right, she would lose this opportunity. She stepped forward so that she was close enough to smell the stale tobacco on him and then said in a lowered voice, “I can see that you are unfamiliar with what I do. I usually pass through over there.” She pointed to the command tent, which the larger soldier took to mean one of his comrades on the other side normally dealt with her. “But since you want to be difficult, I want to ask one question. Have you ever seen what happens to men who frustrate the Colonel? Hmm? Have you?” She raised her eyebrows with the question.

  Both men nodded dumbly and looked at each other.

  “Then I suggest you get out of my way!” Her voice carried throughout the encampment in such a way that everyone who was awake turned, stepped out, raised their head up, or peeked around a corner to see what was going on. The two men covered their ears from the sheer volume of her voice. The smaller soldier looked as if he had already soiled himself as he turned to the larger to determine what his next reaction should be. The larger soldier quickly stepped aside shooing her toward the command tent. “Thank you so kindly,” she added graciously as she walked past the duo.

  “Nobody would act in such a manner if she wasn’t in the right,” the larger soldier instructed the smaller.

  She offered the morning its second smile. Soon she would have her answers . . . or die trying.

  * * *

  Kyle Berkley woke with a start. A whimpering moan escaped from under the blankets to his left. It made him smile as he stretched. He could almost smell her fear. It made for a good breakfast. Last night he’d called the young vixen to have the privilege of sharing his bed. He bestowed a great honor upon her, according to his own thinking. She should have been bubbling over in gratitude. His brow furled at the thought. He had failed to perform and he knew where the fault lay. She had failed to arouse him properly, so he settled for second best. He beat her unconscious, taking pleasure in her screams. He lifted the blanket to look at her. The blanket had to be peeled from her in places where the blood had dried overnight. Most of what he could see of her was a deep dark purple. She was a living bruise. Honestly, he was surprised that she survived the night. He must be getting soft.

  “Morning, darling,” he said to her as he leaned down to kiss the matted hair of her head. Her hair had been blonde, but now matted with blood she looked . . . maybe Italian. Flinching at his touch, she began to shiver uncontrollably. Her whimpering sounded nasally.

  “Then I suggest you get out of my way!” It was a woman’s voice coming from just outside. Kyle pulled the blankets off the bed with him when he got up, leaving the girl’s battered body uncovered. He glanced at her one more time wondering how she could possibly have survived the night. Blood pooled around her head like a dark halo. Her right arm bent the wrong way at the elbow. From his vantage point at the end of the bed, he could see very few places on her body that hinted of the pale, silky skin that had once been hers. Now she looked more like a dark, swollen sausage.

  Kyle was sitting on the bed pulling on a pair of black trousers when a woman stepped through the curtain into his bedchamber. She was a tall woman, taller than most of the women he’d seen of late. In her mid-forties, she had sandy blonde hair that hung limply about her shoulders with a touch of gray over her ears. Her eyeglasses rested on her head acting in their secondary role as a hair band. It was clear that she hadn’t bathed in a few days, but who had? She wore a white doctor’s coat on which was fashioned a large plastic badge that said, Doctor Shirley Baker. What he found most striking was her eyes. They were a soft, almost velvety green that lacked the most common ingredient these days. Fear. This woman was not afraid.

  * * *

  As Shirley approached the tent, she wondered what she was going to say and how she was going to say it. Yet, underneath those concerns was a base curiosity about what she would find inside the tent. Would the beloved Colonel be asleep and if so, what would he think about her waking him? Somewhere in the back of her mind, she heard the evil Queen of Hearts shouting, “Off with her head!” Maybe this is what Alice felt like as she approached the Queen’s court.

  The tent flap was heavier than she expected when she lifted it, stepping into the warm interior. The ground was covered in thick, plush carpet. There wasn’t enough light to see its color, but its texture under her shoes left her with the impression that it was expensive. She was standing in what looked to be a dark foyer. The exit behind her was tugging at her gently, begging her to leave, but then she remembered why she was there. Primrose.

  She could move four directions from her current position. To her right and left were additional tent flaps that led to unknown places within this monstrosity of a structure. Yet, before her was a wooden door built into the thick fabric of the tent that would most likely lead her directly to the man she was looking for. She looked at the doorknob. It had jewels in it. She didn’t care if they were real or not. It looked too ostentatious. Someone was trying to communicate a message there. She could see those who normally entered the tent being sincerely impressed by the sparkly knob. To her, however, it was a demonstration of a mindset.

  The knob was cool to the touch and turned without a sound. The room beyond smelled of cinnamon. The royal purple carpeting was so dark it swallowed the dim light coming from the small paper lanterns hanging on the thick posts that supported the ceiling. On closer inspection, she could see small red and white accents in the design of the carpet. The room was large. Sculptures of children posed in playful positions lined the tent walls behind the luxurious Victorian furniture. Overstuffed couches and leather recliners were surrounded by crystal and gold end tables, ottomans, and pots
filled with large broad-leafed grasses that rose high into the steepled ceiling. Dozens of crystal carafes filled with hundred dollar bills were the accent pieces to much of the décor in the room.

  A masculine voice spoke softly from the other side of a tent flap across the vast room. She recognized it as belonging to Berkley. Quickly, she padded over to the flap and put her ear to the material. She could hear the silent purr of a young girl in chronic pain. It was the sort of sound that stirred an emotional and instinctual desire to help the one who was hurting.

  Doctor Shirley Baker pushed the heavy flap aside and stepped into what appeared to be a bedchamber. The large muscular man seated on the edge of the bed was definitely Colonel Berkley. With his shirt off, he was probably the greatest physical specimen of a male that she’d ever seen. He looked to be cut from sheer granite. His shoulders, neck, chest and arms were thick with corded muscle, all of which were accentuated by the fact that his waist was narrow. His stomach was as flat as a driveway with laid pavers. If it hadn’t been for the sight of the girl lying on the bed, she might have been more impressed by his appearance.

  He smiled in a way that communicated no mirth. It was a raptor’s gaze. She figured this is what a field mouse experienced in the presence of a falcon. She should have been afraid, but the girl needed a doctor. Shirley was the doctor she needed. There was no room for fear.

  “Doctor, huh?” It wasn’t a question. “We haven’t had a real doctor as part of our humble family yet,” Berkley said.

  Shirley gave Berkley a long, no nonsense look and moved to the side of the bed where the teenage girl was curled in a fetal position. The blood loss had been severe. Her pulse barely registered.