Tales of the Decay

by James Barton

  There was a grunt from behind him and without thinking he spun around, the axe singing through the air. It struck one of the workers squarely in the neck. His head tilted to the side as his spine remained intact. The milky-eyed monster grabbed at Kevin unsuccessfully and flailed about before he was thrown to the deck. Kevin looked down at him for only a second before bolting and running through the maze of cargo containers. Arms grabbed at him from every opening. Each corner revealed new gory scenes and it reminded him of a haunted house he went to as a kid.

  Behind him, a concert audience was gathering as more and more appeared. He reached the small metal stairs that led to the bridge and raced up them. Once he was on the bridge platform, he saw five zombies clamoring to get inside. They clawed at the windows of the control room. Without thinking, Kevin swung the axe down on one of them and dropped it to its knees. He kicked it to the ground and smashed its head in with the blunt side of the ax. The other four turned to him in unison. Before they could begin to move in, Kevin grabbed at the small bronze doorknob and tried to turn it. Locked.

  “Captain, open up!”

  The captain looked over at him and then looked away. He gripped the steering wheel and stared blankly forward. The other zombies closed in around Kevin while a thin line struggled to climb the stairs. Kevin made a strong overhead swing that drove the axe blade cleanly between the closest man’s shoulder and neck. It was a blow that would have floored and decimated a living person, only this wasn’t. The graying-skinned man reached out, his fingertips brushing the front of Kevin’s shirt. Kevin kicked at the man, dislodging the ax and stumbling backward.

  “Open the fucking door!”

  From the other side of the bridge there was the sound of shattering glass and Kevin caught a glimpse of an infected tripping into the room. Some of the infected from below had made it up the stairs and were filing into the bridge. Two, three, four, more plopped into the room. Kevin was still fighting off his small cluster and barely noticed the horizon, which was now almost entirely filled with the view of the city. The port was closing in fast … much too fast.

  “Captain! Slow it down! We’re going to crash!” Kevin shouted. He turned his head to see the captain had left the wheel and was fiddling with the door. “Now that asshole wants to open up,” Kevin thought. Before the captain could turn the knob, a large bearded creature pushed him up against the glass. Fargus? Fear filled the captain’s eyes as the man bit down on the back of his neck. Kevin watched in horror as Thompson’s life faded from his eyes like a flickering candle in front of an open window.

  Some of the tourists that had come up to the bridge had made a bee line straight for Kevin. He fought them off the best he could. As it swung through the air, the blood and rain-soaked axe caught glimmers of the bloated moon as it sung through the night air. His arms burned and his body begged for rest. There was nowhere to go, he was surrounded. The thought of jumping off the ship crossed his mind, it was far, but not that far.

  Kevin glanced one more time into the captain’s chamber. The bald man had somehow gotten inside. He leaned down over the captain’s corpse and picked up something. Kevin kicked hard at a small group of zombies that had made it up the stairs and successfully pushed two of them sailing over the railing. It opened a small amount of breathing room. Again, he looked into the bridge and saw the bald man, now wearing the captain’s hat standing at the helm. He was studying the controls. Kevin couldn’t believe what he was seeing. The bald man looked over at Kevin as he placed his hand on the control console, that plastic smile stretched as far as humanly possible. He reached up and tipped his hat as a greeting and with one simple motion, he pressed the control for the ship’s horn. More incredibly, he made five short blasts without losing a fraction of his horrible grin. Even with his eyes locked with those of the pirate captain, Kevin sensed that every other creature on the ship momentarily froze in position, each wearing an almost comical look of wonder on their horrid faces. Kevin wondered if he wore that same ridiculous expression – it was likely that he alone, along with the pirate captain, understood the five-tone maritime signal from those booming horns signaled just one thing … DANGER!”

  As the last echoes of the ship’s horns splintered against the approaching docks, the spell was broken and another group of zombies was nearly up the narrow stairs. Despite his exhaustion and overwhelming sense of defeat, Kevin savagely kicked at the top zombie and it fell like a stone to the deck, leaving Kevin staring down at a virtual sea of maneaters on the lower deck, surging in putrid waves toward him. There was no stopping them; there were other passageways that would eventually lead them to his lonely defensive position. And there was no doubt about it, Kevin was probably the last living human onboard this cursed vessel. Kevin glanced one last time into the bridge. The bald man pointed at something to Kevin’s side. Kevin looked over and attached to the railing was one of those yellow self-inflating rafts.

  Without questioning why the creature had pointed that out to him, he ripped the raft free from its small cradle. Kevin fumbled with the straps and then placed his hand firmly on the pull-cable. On the horizon, the docks were approaching fast, thirty more seconds and this ship would hit the concrete quayside at full speed. Kevin didn’t have time to think. He wrapped his arm tightly around one of the canvas straps and climbed up onto the slippery side railing. He couldn’t help but look back one last time, his eyes meeting those of the bald man. Still wearing the captain’s hat, the bald man gave him an overexaggerated salute. Stunned and dumbfounded, Kevin flung himself from the upper deck, into the salty abyss below.

  His jump from the ship was a discombobulating tumble through the night air. The drop had felt farther than it really was, but it was still enough. He hit the water hard and his arm jerked violently as he clung to the strap of the raft. His foot felt like it was on fire. The raft instantly inflated and Kevin climbed out of the water and into its rubbery center. He watched as the ship roared past him, its massive twin screws driving it to its unavoidable death. Seconds later, it crashed into the dock, digging itself a jagged trench as millions of tons of metal and concrete collided. There was a cacophony of metal screams and then just as quickly as they had begun, they were gone. There, resting partially in the harbor, was a ship of death.

  Kevin leaned back on the yellow raft, exhausted, sore and soaked in salty brine. The sky was finally beginning to clear and he watched as, less than a hundred yards away, small humanoid figures dripped like moonlit rain from the edges of the grounded ship. Despite the hard drop onto the concrete below, some of the zombies rose to their feet and wandered toward the city.

  Kevin had done everything in his power to survive. There was no denying that mistakes had been made, opportunities missed, and heroics denied. Kevin wondered, after all that had happened and was going to happen – could he still say that he’d finally come home? Or would this just be another strange port in a new world?

  With a small, painful shrug, he settled down inside the gently rocking raft, relaxed and looked at the stars that were beginning to peek through the scattering clouds. Perhaps the tide would lead him to the answer.

  Anyone Can Be a Hero

  Jerry Chambers was no ordinary loser – he was, like, the King of the Losers. At least, that is how everyone in his senior class at Waltersville, South Carolina, would describe him. Loser was a word with so many meanings, but at Waltersville High, it simply meant that you don’t fit in. Jerry had tried to fit in, but always failed ... spectacularly. He didn’t understand when to keep his mouth shut and how to just go with the flow. He was always scribbling things in his black and white cow-print notebook. He wrote down ideas for new weapons, survival tactics, and even blueprints of the best way to survive post-apocalyptic situations.

  He spent time practicing with his replica swords and makeshift weapons. Like nerds the world over, he always wished, both out loud and in his head, that one day the world would change. He would no longer be the guy picked on, but the guy people huddled behind
for his protection. He was ready to stand up and become a man.

  One morning, the morning, he was playing his favorite online game. “Headshot, bitch. Greenman23 just give up, you can’t beat me,” Jerry taunted into his headset.

  “Screw you, I think I hear your mom calling you.”

  “Nah, that’s your mom, she’s calling me back for seconds.”

  “Oh, burn!” tainttickler69 chimed in.

  “Guys!” some other player burst in. “Check the news! There is some real shit going down.”

  Orionsbelch logged off, followed by half of the other players. Jerry initially thought it was a prank, but something nagged him to listen and see what was going on. What he saw on his TV was the broadcast. The president spoke of zombies and urged people to stay inside. It ended with a gunshot. Jerry sat stunned, unable to move.

  It was just what he had always wished for. The world was going to change. After nearly a whole minute, Jerry finally allowed himself to react.

  “Sweet!” he shouted while jumping to his feet.

  He ran around the room and began to prepare. He put on an old Army uniform he had bought at a pawn shop. He wrapped magazines and duct tape over his arms and sheathed his katana. It was only a replica, but he figured it would be good enough. He made his way into his parents’ room and groped for the key hidden behind the headboard. Jerry had spent too much time home alone last summer and had rooted through things he shouldn’t have.

  Jerry slid the key into the small blue safe box and turned it. There was a hearty click before the lid creaked open. Inside was a silver 9 mm pistol and two loaded magazines. Jerry slapped the first magazine in and fiddled with the lever. “Red means dead,” he said to himself as he switched off the safety. That is what his old man told him the first and only time he took him to the shooting range. Jerry’s dad never said it directly, but he too thought his son was a real loser and avoided quality time like it was the plague.

  Jerry was geared-up and ready to kick some ass. He stood at his front door, feeling like he should have a few one-liners ready. This was the start of a new Jerry. Jerry the hero.

  Jerry swung the door open and rushed into the street gripping his sword tightly. As he scanned the neighborhood, he couldn’t believe what he saw … nothing. There were no zombies, no fires, no overturned cars. Come to think of it, there weren’t any people either. “Maybe they all went to the stores to stock up and they are fighting off a horde there,” he thought to himself.

  Jerry slowly made his way to the gas station a couple blocks up the road. He moved somewhat slowly, the heavy pack was weighing him down and he was already getting tired. He had planned on working out; planned to do it tomorrow … always tomorrow. The movies also never showed how heavy a backpack can get. Up ahead, the gas station was gridlocked and swamped by moving figures. He jogged up to the commotion, wheezing slightly as he ran, the heavy pack bouncing uncomfortably on his back. His hand resting on the holstered pistol, he was prepared to shoot zombies, but instead was met with a crowd of looters. People of all shapes and sizes ran out of the store with armfuls of chips, drinks, and other miscellaneous items. Jerry felt stupid, again, he was just the outsider. No one here needed his help and this fact was reinforced as he was nearly run over by a fleeing looter’s car.

  Suddenly, there was a pinch in his upper back followed by the crack of gunfire. Jerry stiffened up and fell to the ground smashing his nose against the dirty black asphalt.

  There were screams of panic coming from all around him, but he struggled to move his head.

  “What the hell, man?” a voice said.

  “Shut up, just grab his shit,” a second voice said.

  Jerry felt pressure as hands forcefully rooted through his pockets and yanked the gun from its holster. His arms were wrenched out of the straps of his backpack, and this time, his head struck the pavement and rolled to the side. He tried to move, but felt nothing. He was completely paralyzed; he was completely helpless.

  In the following minutes, Jerry could still hear the commotion of people looting the Pass’N Gas. Darkness slowly began to wrap around the edges of his vision. He tried to call out for help, but instead only let out a soft “muh” that scattered a few black pebbles. Jerry lay motionless on the concrete. In this world, anyone could be a hero; except Jerry Chambers, the King of the Losers.

  Employee of the Month

  Two men stood in the kitchen of a two-story home. Natural light poured between the expensive drapes and shimmered against the surface of the matching stainless-steel appliances. Ryan stood with his arms folded against his yellow buttoned shirt. He rolled his eyes in defense.

  “Daniel, I’m telling you right now that we are safer right here. Batten down the hatches and all that jazz,” he said.

  “But there are literal monsters out there. What do we do if they swarm us?” Daniel asked meekly.

  “One, we haven’t seen a single zombie. Two, we are inside a brick house. Three, they have to bite you, or whatever, to infect you. The cops will have this contained before our game night on Friday.”

  “I hope you’re right,” Daniel replied.

  “I’m always right. I’m sure they are working on containing it as we speak.”

  Only two miles east, Cole Peterson was driving to work. He had missed the entire panic of the broadcast the day prior. His weird night shift, day sleep, and hangover kept him from catching the latest news. His phone was an older model flip-phone that he only paid ten dollars a month for. He wanted one of the fancy ones, but money was an issue and he simply couldn’t afford it.

  Cole wasn’t the sort of guy you could count on when you really needed something done. He was the kind of guy that made plans and then disappeared into the void, unreachable even by texts when it really mattered. Hell, he struggled to even pull himself together enough to make it to work that day. Cole worked at the Freeport city water distribution plant. He already had two write-ups and if he missed another day of work, he would lose his job. Between child support and his overinflated rent costs, Cole was barely making ends meet. In a way, he wouldn’t care if he lost his job and couldn’t pay his rent. He almost wouldn’t care if he couldn’t make the child support checks. He was pretty sure his ex was spending it on other shit anyway. But Alice needed new school clothes, pencils, and a new backpack. Apparently, the cartoon characters on her current backpack were woefully out of fashion for a sixth-grader. He had to buy those supplies directly; it was the only way that she was guaranteed to get them. Cole had been a bad father and he aimed slowly, every day, to make up for that. He had even kicked the drugs … on weekdays.

  Cole turned the knob on his old radio, but only static came through instead of his usual morning dose of death metal. It wasn’t something that surprised him, because the air conditioner had gone out the week prior. It probably wouldn’t be long until that strange pinging noise coming from under the hood, euthanized his vehicle entirely. He ran his meaty fingers through his beard and let out a sigh as he pulled up to the plant.

  Normally, he parked toward the back of the parking lot, but today all the spaces were empty. The roads had been eerily quiet and he had passed two car wrecks that were abandoned. Something in his gut flipped and turned, crying out for him to leave. He got out of the vehicle and walked over to the employee entrance. This smaller plant helped to regulate the delivery of fresh water that had been purified at the larger plants. Even though it was roughly the size of two homes, it still had a small group of employees. Employees that should be here by now, especially since it was 7:41. Cole wasn’t the best at being on time.

  As he turned the corner, he found the door to the plant wide open. It was crooked and it seemed that the lock had been broken along with one of the hinges. The door let out a shrill creak as it swung even wider. The door came to a halt, half open, and silence followed. Normally, cars would be heard whizzing by, right on the other side of the chain-link fence that separated the road. This morning, there was only an occasional passing vehic
le.

  As he inched forward, he noticed something on the ground. He knelt to pick up a crowbar. It was flecked with green paint and he assumed it was the tool used to break the door. “No shit, Sherlock,” he thought to himself.

  The way the door opened, the way everything felt that morning … he felt a sense of heavy dread as he entered the building. The way the door hung lifelessly on half of its hinges, he almost expected to walk into a horror movie set, with jump-scares leaping from every dark corner. Instead, he simply found the plant that he worked at, only with no other employees. As he walked down the hallway, the pipes that ran interlaced through the ceiling and wall hissed. He had rarely run into problems, but this was a sound he had heard before. Something was blocking the flow. The pipes were filling up with too much air. He turned the corner and entered the flow control room, a small room that overlooked the largest exit pipe. What he saw was something the manual had never covered.

  Submerged and pinned up against the filtration grate was the remains of a huge man. Looking down into the small tank he could see that the corpse had to be four, maybe five hundred pounds.

  “What the hell?” Cole said aloud. He couldn’t even begin to imagine how it had gotten into the tank. After this tank, there were a handful of final methods to ensure water purity, but at this stage it was already assumed the water was drinkable. Cole stared through the cover and the corpse tilted its head back as the pump struggled to pull more water through the pipe. The body reached out for Cole as strands of soggy waterlogged skin disconnected from its arm. The tiny snake-like strands wiggled through the small unblocked section of the pipe.

  Cole had to admit that the corpse barely resembled a man and instead looked more like a human-shaped pile of raw chicken breasts. Streaming from its mouth was a reddish fluid that seeped into the water like ink.