Grabbing up a pistol along the way, I rushed out into the hallway. Shadows owned the narrow passage as I hurried in the direction I had heard the noise. Rounding the corner, I was shocked by what my eyes beheld.
Before me were both Bobby and Mitch. Bobby was closer and had a shotgun leveled at me before I even understood what I was seeing. Mitch had a pistol in one hand and Loni in the other. He was keeping her in a half headlock with his hand clamped over her mouth. Her eyes were wide with horror, which was understandable when he pressed the barrel of the pistol against her temple.
“Hold it right there, Emery,” Mitch said. “Just play this cool, and no one needs to get hurt.”
“Get hurt! You are the one with the gun against my wife’s head! What the hell are you doing?”
“Now, you just calm down. Haven’t we shared everything we have with you? By God, we’ve shared the whole town with you. The least you could do is share the one thing you got with us. We wouldn’t need her every night, just once in a while to take the edge off, until we could find a couple of women for ourselves.”
“You’re sick! Let go of her right now!”
“We may be sick, but I think you are the one that needs to let go of something – your damn pistol. Drop it or I drop her.”
Mitch put his pistol against Loni’s leg. I don’t need her walking for what I want, and she’ll have a harder time running away with one leg.” We locked eyes for a long moment. “Don’t give me an excuse to take you out of the equation, boy.”
My pistol clattered to the floor.
“Good boy, glad to see you’re being smart. I like you, and I’d like for us to get past this and still be able to work as a team.”
“Screw you, Mitch.”
His face grew tense. “Don’t make me regret my choices, boy. Bobby, go grab that pistol.”
Moving closer, Bobby tried to keep both his gaze and his shotgun pointed at me as he stooped over to grab my fallen pistol. Sensing my intent, Loni began to struggle, and that was when I made my move. My foot lashed out, knocking the shotgun’s barrel to the side, and I drove in close, keeping Bobby between Mitch and me. A second later, my dagger filled my hand. A second after that, it found a new home in the left side of Bobby’s chest. The big man stumbled back with a groan. His body hit the wall and, then, slowly slid down it, dead before he reached the floor.
“Bobby! Bobby! You son of a bitch!” Mitch’s pistol was pointed at my face. “Give me one reason I shouldn’t just kill you where you stand.”
That was when Loni bit down on his hand while pushing his gun arm up towards the ceiling. Shots rang out loudly in the enclosed room and bits of plaster rained down on them as they struggled. I attempted to move toward them, but had only made it a few feet before Mitch shoved Loni against the wall. Her head connected with a metal candle stand, and she crumbled with a short gasp.
“You piece of-”
“Watch it, boy.” His pistol was once again pointed at my face. “I’m beginning to think you two are more trouble then you’re worth.”
“What, you just want to live here by yourself?” I couldn’t care less what Mitch wanted, but at the time I figured keeping him talking was a better alternative to have him pump me full of holes.
“No, I’ll keep her, but it’s you I’m uncertain about. You think you can behave?”
“While you rape my wife?” As soon as the words escaped my lips, I knew I shouldn’t have said them. From the look on his face, I knew this wasn’t the thing Mitch wanted to hear.
“Yeah, I guess that would be a hard road. Well, it was nice knowing you, kid.”
As he leveled his gun, I was wondering if there were any chance I could dodge to the side and …
That was when Bobby’s animated corpse reached out and grabbed Mitch’s leg. Mitch might have thought his friend was still alive, at least until his teeth tore out the man’s Achilles’ tendon.
There was a scuffle and shots, but I barely paid it any attention for I was scrambling for my pistol. “Oh, no,” I heard Mitch moan. “Am I going to become one of them now?”
“Nope,” was all I said, before my pistol roared to life.
The smoke hadn’t cleared before I sprinted over to Loni. “Loni, baby, are you okay?”
At first I thought the worst, but then her eyes fluttered open “Are we safe?”
I smiled. “Yeah, about as safe as one can be in a world full of zombies.”
* * *
“So, that is how Loni and I came to be in possession of this choice stronghold. I’m glad that you have found us. Sure we get zombies here from time to time, even groups of them, but we are so far off the main routes that there hasn’t been anything we couldn’t handle, yet. We might be running out of food and ammo one day, but for now we are okay. Loni is raising chickens, and we even have a little garden.”
“So you’re welcome to stay, as long as you remember my one rule. No matter how long you stay here or how cute Loni may look working in the garden in her little shorts. Hands off! Loni is mine and mine alone, and if you don’t want to end up like the others you remember that.
“As long as you keep that in mind, I’m sure we’ll be great friends.”
Hips
By William Todd Rose
It was dark when she awoke. For a moment she laid in the sleeping bag with her eyes closed and listened to the shuffle of footsteps out in the hall. She could hear the heavy doors of the other cells being opened, one of the new girls sobbing softly, the murmur of conversation as her captors made their rounds . . . just like always.
Every day, the same sequence of events played out as if she were nothing more than a character in some macabre loop film. Judging by how muffled the sounds were, she knew she would hear seven other cell doors swing open before they made it to hers. As the squeaking of hinges grew louder, so would the terse commands of their keepers. The same set of orders repeated in voices that sounded emotionless and bored. Day in. Day out.
Her bladder felt as if a heavy stone had grown in it overnight. The stone had sharp edges that raked against the soft, unprotected lining of the organ, flaring with pain as she struggled to hold it in. A little wooden bucket sat in one corner of her cell, but even with the sleeping bag pulled up over her face she could still smell it: the stench of stale piss and caked-on shit, so thick that it seemed to lodge itself in little chunks in the back of her throat. A steady stream of urine would only make matters worse, churning yesterday's waste into a frothy, brown sludge and releasing even more of the noxious vapors. No, it was better to wait. Before they left her cell, they would empty it into the drum which sat across the hall. If not clean, at least it would be cleaner.
All part of the routine.
She finally opened her eyes and pulled the sleeping bag down to her shoulders. The view that greeted her was the usual brick walls that glistened with condensation and the concrete floor with its Rorschach stains of various bodily fluids. Her cell was no larger than a broom closet, and the only light came through the small, barred window on the wooden door . . . and even then only when torches had been lit in the hall. The wall opposite the door also had one of these windows, but beyond it was a darkness so complete that she could only hear the things that shuffled on the other side.
That would change soon, however. It was also part of the daily routine. The moment her door opened, they would be at the window, grasping through the bars with hands that looked shriveled and mummified in the dim light of the cell. With fingernails worn down to ragged splinters, they would reach through and claw at the air, scratching at the bricks as if they could somehow erode the rough mortar through persistence alone.
The creatures had deteriorated to the point that they no longer had an odor, but anytime a “freshie” was added to the group, there would be weeks where the stench of decay overpowered even the toilet bucket. Somehow, that was the worst part of the ordeal: smelling the greasy, sweet reek of rotting meat and knowing that once it had been someone just like her. Someone
who had learned to cope with life in the cells as best as she could. Someone to whom she'd spoken, perhaps, through the bars on their doors. Someone who was no longer useful . . . .
“Assume the position, Mole.”
The voice was closer now, maybe only four doors down or so.”I said, assume the position, Mole!”
The voice was more annoyed than angry. But if the unseen woman continued to resist, things could turn bad quickly. She'd heard (and felt) the beatings before: the dull thud and smack of sawed-off broomsticks against thighs, the cries of pain, the tears and sobbing and pleading apologies. “Just do, it.” she muttered. “Make it easy on yourself, Mole.”
She felt her face grow warm and her stomach churned in a nauseating mixture of disgust and shame. Mole. She'd actually called the woman that. Like their captors, she'd stripped away every fiber of personality from her fellow prisoner with a single word. It was a word that reduced a living, breathing, thinking person into nothing more than a single characteristic. It was a word that left her mouth feeling so dirty that she would rather drink her bucket of waste than utter it again.
She, too, had a name once; but now she was simply Hips. Like her mother and boyfriend, her name had disappeared into the mists of time and memory. Sometimes, while the darkened hallway beyond her cell echoed with snores, she would lay in the gloom and whisper that name over and over. As if it were some sort of mantra that could magically teleport her from this dank dungeon to some distant place where she would feel the warmth of sun on her skin and hear birds chirping overhead. Without fail, though, it always took her mind back to that last day of freedom. To the day she lost everything . . . .
They were hunkered down in a burned out storefront, hidden behind the charred remains of the front counter. The sun had set several hours earlier, and a darkness had fallen across the town that made it seem as if they had been plunged into the void of space. The days of street lamps and the soft glow of curtained windows were over. No headlights splayed across the soot-stained walls, no winking neon or stop lights cycled through their array of colors. And on that particular night, there wasn't even the pale luminescence of moonlight to chase away the shadows.
With the darkness came silence, as well. She'd never realized how noisy society was until it had all been taken away. The humming of air conditioners, traffic four blocks over hissing through rain-slick streets, the muffled beat of music seeping through the walls of bars and clubs – all those things were missing now. The million other tiny sounds her ears had learned to take for granted had been replaced with a silence so complete that only a high-pitched ringing filled her ears.
And, it was really the quiet that worried her most. They had run their hands along the cinder-like edge of the counter and smeared the dark ash across their faces and arms commando style. They'd curled up beneath a black tarp Jeremy had found a few days back, had tried everything within their power to pass themselves off as just another cluster of shadows. So, in a sense, the darkness was their ally. Her boyfriend, however, had a tendency to talk in his sleep. In the bedroom of their apartment it had been nothing more than softly muttered gibberish, not even loud enough to wake her if she were sleeping. But out here that same sound would be like a loudspeaker broadcasting in the night: we're here, we're hiding over here, come get us, come quick.
Which was one of the reasons sleep came in short, quick bursts. Even though she was so exhausted that her muscles felt as if they were made of overcooked spaghetti, she had to be ready to clamp her hand over Jeremy's mouth, to push the words back into his throat if she could. She had to be ready to keep her loved ones safe.
She didn't have to worry about Mama, however. About two weeks earlier, they'd been attempting to sneak through a heavily infested area just outside of Redfield. There were rumors of a FEMA rescue station nearby, and her stepfather, Denny, had insisted on scouting the route ahead of them. They'd followed about 50 yards behind and hid behind dumpsters or wrecked cars when he'd form his hand into a fist and then move on when he'd wave.
Start and stop. Duck and hide, picking their way through the rubble and debris of a once proud society. But then he'd been pulled down by a pack of corpses that seemed to appear from nowhere, ripped apart right before their very eyes. Sometimes she'd still see him in her dreams: the way he fought and clawed and punched even as his knees buckled from the force of the assault . . . the bright, crimson arc of blood that spurted with slow-motion clarity as teeth pulled strands of flesh and muscle from a throat no longer capable of producing sound. He'd been a good husband and decent stepfather but, in the end, had made a horrible scout. He should have pushed his ego aside and listened to her suggestions instead of simply shrugging them off. Maybe if she'd been the one running point, things would've turned out differently.
But she'd learned quickly that in this new world regrets could quickly get your ass killed. You had to focus on the here and now, to push memory into the farthest corners of your mind and bury it beneath the weight of more pressing concerns. Food. Clean water. Shelter and survival.
The future operated on the same principle. In her previous life she'd had dreams: she'd finish college, get a job with a decent newspaper in a medium-size town, get married, and have kids eventually. At some hazy point on the timeline of her life, the grandchildren would come bursting through the front door with squeals of Grandma! She'd shower them with hugs and treats and smile serenely at the man by her side . . . the man whose face she'd seen morph from the smooth flesh of the young into a wrinkled mask of experience.
But things had changed, hadn't they? Hopes and ambitions were now exclusively short-term. Her ambitions had been reduced to making it through yet another night alive, of finding that mythical pocket of society that had somehow been untouched by the insanity that had swept over the world like a tsunami of death and mutilation. Life had been reduced to an almost constant state of now, and those who dared to dream too long would quickly find themselves wrapped in the darkness of a sleep from which they would never awaken.
The world had changed. And she, in turn, had been forced to change with it.
The sun had just begun to paint the eastern horizon with streaks of amber and orange when she heard it: a scuffling sound from outside, so soft and furtive that it was almost lost beneath the rhythmic lull of her companions' breathing. Footsteps? The sound of well-worn soles sliding over concrete and asphalt?
She closed her eyes and tried to listen for the sounds to repeat, to lock in their distance and general location. But her heart hammered in her chest with such force that she could only hear the whooshing of blood as it surged through her veins.
The cold hand of fear squeezed her stomach and caused bile to shoot up through her esophagus and flooded her mouth with stinging bitterness. Beads of sweat dotted her forehead, and the muscle below her left eye twitched like a caged bird longing for flight. She held her breath, remaining perfectly still, listening, praying.
Maybe it had only been the breeze, or a yellowed scrap of newspaper, perhaps. Maybe it was a small animal. Dogs and cats were few and far between these days, having been hunted almost to extinction by the same masters who'd once showered them with toys and treats. They were rare, but not entirely unheard of.
Could that be it, then? Nothing more than a mangy cur scavenging for carrion?
She took a breath through her nostrils so slowly that it took nearly 10 seconds for her lungs to fill. She could smell the musty scent of age within the store, the smoky ghost of the fire that had gutted this place and refused to leave its haunt, and the sharp bite of dried sweat. If the stench of rotting flesh existed outside the shattered shop window, it was masked by these other odors.
But surely the reek of a rotter would've overpowered them? It had been so hot lately that the sun-bloated corpses who staggered across the landscape traveled in a cloud of fetor so repugnant that even the flies shunned them.
Had she imagined it all? Perhaps she'd slipped into sleep for a fraction of a second, and her min
d had amplified the sound of the tarp shifting into something much more sinister?
That had to be it. The dead were notoriously noisy, caring not for stealth or cunning. While it was true that they didn't grunt or growl or groan, they were clumsy for the most part and prone to knocking over precariously balanced piles of rubble or kicking old bottles as they shuffled forward. Surely a freshie or rotter would've tripped across the string of tin cans she'd tied between the splintered telephone pole and an old parking meter by now. They weren't smart enough to avoid traps, after all. Not even such primitive early detection systems as hers.
Mere feet away, something thumped against the floorboards of the store, and every muscle in her body tensed. Fight or run? Shit, how many of them are there? Shit, shit, shit . . . .
A long, slow creak as the wooden planks flexed beneath the weight of the intruder.
Just one. Has to be. More would be nosier. I can deal with just one. I know I can.
Her hand began crawling across the floor as if of its own accord, its fingertips searching for the cool reassurance of the tire iron.
Two blows. Quick crack to the skull to stun it. Then plunge the business end into the eye socket, go for the brain, use all your strength, all your weight, drive that fucker home.
The muscles in her arms and legs had begun to quiver with a mixture of fear and adrenaline. Her heart thudded out a cryptic message in Morse code, and her throat felt as if it had somehow expanded to allow more air to flow into her lungs.
You can do this, girl. You wake up Mama and Jeremy, and they'll be dead before they've even cleared the cobwebs outta their minds. You have to do this.
Her fingers wrapped around the smooth metal of the tire tool, and she lifted it from the floor so slowly that it almost seemed as if she suspected it would disintegrate if hoisted too quickly. Though her palms were warm and slick, the weight of the weapon immediately caused her breathing to even out. Drop that fucker fast and then get the hell outta here. Opening her eyes, she saw a dark shadow against the golden glow of sunrise on the wall. The silhouette was human shaped and grew larger with each beat of her heart. She couldn't lie to herself any longer: they were not alone in this old store, and the time had come to walk the tightrope between life and death.
Journalstone's 2010 Warped Words for Twisted Minds Page 15
