by Brian Keene
"Hard to say," Skip shrugged, dabbing at his face with his shirttail.
"But if I were you, I'd tell him whatever he wants to know."
"But that's just it!" Baker exclaimed. "I don't know what he wants us for! I don't know anything. And even if I did know something, doesn't it stand to reason that he'd just kill us after I'd told him whatever it is he thinks I'm good for?"
"He probably would," Skip said, "but trust me, if you're in Schow's hands, you're better off as one of those things out there than as his prisoner. Speaking of which, I've got something to do."
He limped back over to the balcony, where Worm was still spitting over the side in delight, and looked down.
"Hmmra, only thirty feet. Not a far enough drop."
"What do you mean?" Baker asked.
"like I said, you're better off dead than in their clutches. They've got me already. I planned to throw myself off this ledge but the drop isn't far enough. I could end up just breaking my legs and then I'd be even worse off."
Horrified, Baker wondered how sinister this Colonel Schow could be, to inspire this man to commit suicide rather than face him. Surely, he couldn't be that bad?
A moment later, when he heard voices outside the door again, Baker knew that he was about to find out.
"On your feet, assholes," Lapine sneered, "Colonel Schow has requested your presence. You're going for a little ride."
Martin leaned forward in the seat, his wrinkled hands gripping the dash.
"Is that what I think it is, Jim?"
They'd just passed the sign for Gettysburg, and Jim slowed to a stop.
Directly ahead of them, two Humvees and a tank blocked the road. Several men in military uniforms milled about the roadblock, their attention now focused on the car. The tank's turret swiveled toward them.
"I don't believe it! They're soldiers, Jim!" Martin exclaimed. "It's the Army!"
"National Guard, I think," Jim corrected him, "but what the hell are they doing here?"
"Maybe this is a buffer zone! Maybe we're leaving the affected area?"
"No, that doesn't make any sense. If that were true, then why would New Jersey be affected? This was worldwide. And remember what Klinger told us?"
"He said the army was taking over south-central Pennsylvania."
"Right. I don't like this, Martin."
"What can we do? Those guys have machine guns, Jim! We can't outfight a tank!"
Weapons pointed at the car, two of the men approached them and tapped on the window. They did
not smile.
"Gentlemen, I'm going to ask you to exit your vehicle."
"Sure," Jim replied, trying to stay calm. "Can you just tell us what's going on?"
"We've got zombies in the perimeter, sir. It's for your own protection."
As if to verify this, one of the soldiers seated behind the Humvee's machine guns suddenly looked alert.
"Two o'clock!" he called, and swung the weapon towards the field.
A cluster of zombies were weaving their way through a row of civil war monuments, heading towards the road. Jim and Martin could smell them even from this distance.
The man atop the HumVee opened fire, mowing them down in their tracks.
Limbs and torsos were scattered, and still the creatures advanced, until the barrage reached their heads. Then they lay still.
"If you would, sirs." The soldier indicated the door, and reluctantly they complied.
"Lucky you fellows came along," Martin said. The troops did not reply.
"Sirs, we're going to have to check you for weapons. I'm sure you understand."
"But just tell us what is-"
"Put your hands on the fucking car now!"
Two more ran forward and slammed Martin against the car. Blood spurted from his nose and he cried out in pain and terror.
"Hey," Jim shouted, "you son of a bitch, can't you see he's old? What the hell is going on?"
Enraged, his fists balled in anger, he started forward. The soldier behind him kicked at his legs, knocking him to the ground. Two more fell on him, wrestling with him until they could snap a pair of handcuffs on him. Two more trussed up Martin.
"What is the meaning of this?" Martin demanded.
"You gentlemen are now civilian volunteers," the soldier informed them. "Please come with us."
"Do we have a choice?" Martin quipped.
"You don't understand!" Jim struggled in their grip. "I've got to get to my son!"
"Not any more you don't," the man told him, "as of this moment, you've both been drafted."
"You bastards," Jim screamed. "You god-damn fucking bastards! Let us go!
My son needs me!"
They dragged them toward the vehicles, and Jim watched the car, and New Jersey, get farther and farther away.
Frankie shivered, crossing her arms to her breasts as she walked down the corridor. The hospital was cold, and she could see her breath under the bright fluorescent lights.
The hallway was silent except for her footsteps. She grimaced as she breathed in the sterile, chemical smell that permeated all hospitals.
Underneath it, Frankie detected another smell, faint but still unmistakable. The reek of spoiled meat and carrion flesh.
The perfume of the undead.
She stopped in front of a set of double doors and ran her fingers over a sign hanging on the wall. MATERNITY WARD
She pushed and the doors swung silently open. She stepped through. The stench was stronger in this wing of the building.
She stood in front of the glass observation window, staring at the dozens of little white cribs that were lined up in neat, orderly rows.
Each crib was occupied. Tiny fists and feet pumped the air, and here and there she spied a tuft of downy hair peeking over the rims.
I wonder which one is mine?
Her question was answered a moment later, as a pair of mottled, grey arms gripped the side of the crib and her baby pulled itself upright. Standing on diminutive legs, the baby climbed down to the floor and scampered over to its nearest neighbor. It scurried into the crib and fell upon the other newborn.
The other babies began to cry as one.
Frankie could hear the chewing sounds, even over the cries of the other babies and through the thick glass partition.
Even over her screams.
"Stop it! Stop it!"
Somebody was poking her and she opened her eyes, lashing out.
"Stop it!" she hollered one last time, and then glanced around in bewilderment.
A young girl, no more than fourteen, flinched away from her. The girl was pretty, and Frankie thought to herself that she was going to be a heartbreaker. Probably of mixed descent, possibly Hispanic and Irish.
But underneath her mournful, dark eyes were black circles. Both the eyes and the circles beneath spoke of harsh lessons learned before they should have been. Frankie had had the same look when she was the girl's age.
"Sorry," the girl apologized. "You were having a bad dream."
"Where am I?"
"In the GettysburgFitnessCenter," the girl said. "This is where we stay in between shifts on the Meat Wagon."
"The what?"
"The Meat Wagon," the girl repeated. "It's where they make us do the sex things. My name's Aimee."
"Hello Aimee. My name is Frankie. Now would you mind telling me how I can get out of here."
"You can't. They'll kill you if you try. It's not so bad, really. Some of them are even nice to you while they stick their thing in you."
"Aimee, come away from there now!" The woman who spoke was obviously the girl's mother. Frankie noticed the same pale skin, high cheekbones, and flowing, raven-like hair. Like the daughter, the woman's eyes spoke of suffering and pain, humiliation and hopelessness.
Frankie knew the look well. She'd worn it herself, in what now seemed like a lifetime ago.
"I'm Gina," the woman introduced herself. "Are you thirsty? Would you like some water?"
"Don't supp
ose you have any painkillers I can wash down with it?"
Frankie winced, touching her bruised face. Her shoulder and ribs were in agony, and her split lip throbbed in pain. She wished for some skag, then forced the thought away.
"Sorry," Gina said, "but they won't let us keep anything like that. I guess they're afraid some of the girls might swallow a handful of aspirin. Sometimes I think that might be a better alternative."
She handed Frankie a bottle of water and a cigarette. Frankie drank eagerly and then took a drag, letting the bitter, acrid smoke fill her lungs. She exhaled with a sigh.
"I never used to smoke," Gina said, "but I figure lung cancer is the least of my worries now. At least it's a quiet death."
"Yeah," Frankie mused "it sure as shit beats becoming a midnight snack for one of those things. Thanks."
She took another drag and looked around the room. True to the girl's word, she was in the gutted remains of a gym. The weight benches and exercise machines had been removed, and strewn in their place were mattresses and blankets. About two dozen other women lounged about, most of them eyeing Frankie with laconic interest, while a few others slept.
The oldest woman appeared to be in her late fifties. Aimee was the youngest.
"So what's the deal?" Frankie asked.
"They work us in shifts," Gina told her. "They've got a massive tractor trailer that they've outfitted into a mobile whorehouse. Keeps up the spirits of the troops and all that. They call it The Meat Wagon'. It's got bunk beds and office cubicle partitions that form little rooms. It-it gets easier. As long as you don't resist, most of them treat you okay, or at least indifferently. A few of them are rough, but I've managed to distract them from Aimee so far."
She paused and took another drag from the cigarette. Then she exhaled and said, "Still, every night, I die a little."
"You've got to put yourself somewhere else while it happens," Frankie counseled her. "Detach from your body."
Gina stared at her, mouth open but unable to speak.
Frankie shrugged. "I used to do this for a living."
The door opened and twelve more women entered, looking tired and smelling of sex and sweat. Several of them were crying softly. Four armed men followed behind them and took positions at the door.
"Next shift," one of them barked. "You twelve! Get a move on!"
Moving with a resigned shuffle, twelve more women followed them out and the women who had just come from the truck took their places, collapsing onto the vacant mattresses.
"Aimee and I will have to go in a few hours," Gina said, "but I imagine they'll let you recuperate at least one night."
"Hey," called a nasally, shrill voice from across the room, "who's the skinny black bitch sleeping in my bed?"
"Oh shit," Gina muttered and moved away quickly, not meeting Frankie's eyes. "I'm sorry."
"Whatchu doing in my bed, ho?"
The woman shoved her way forward through the crowd, and Frankie lazily watched her approach. She was big; bloated to the point of obesity, but solid. Lifeless, dishwater blonde hair clung to her head in a bowl-cut, and her mounds of flesh strained against her faded jeans and black t-shirt.
"That's Paula," Aimee whispered, but Gina quickly clamped a hand over the girl's mouth.
"I didn't see your name on it," Frankie said, and deliberately took another puff. "But then again, we haven't been introduced, so I wouldn't have known what name to look for."
"Oh, ain't you a fucking smart mouth!" Paula exclaimed. "What's your name, sweetheart?"
"Frankie."
"Frankie? That's a guy's name." She brayed laughter, hands cocked on her ample hips. None of the other women moved, hypnotized by the scene unfolding before them.
"Well, Frankie" she emphasized her name, "I'm Paula."
"Paul?"
"Paula! What the fuck, you deaf? P-A-U-LA...Paula!"
Frankie looked down at the mattress. "Nope, no Paula here. It does say 'Property of a Bull Dyke Bitch' though. Is that you?"
The women in the room gasped as one, and began to back away from the combatants. Paula gaped at Frankie in astonishment, clearly unaccustomed to this type of response.
"What did you say?"
Slowly, Frankie rose to her feet and faced the larger woman. She pressed forward till their breasts were almost touching. Then she removed the cigarette from her mouth and blew the smoke into Paula's eyes.
"I said to fuck off bitch, before I jack your fat ass up."
Paula moved fast, but Frankie was quicker. The big woman swung a fist at the side of her head and Frankie dodged it. With her other hand, Paula reached and grabbed a fistful of Frankie's hair, twisting it savagely.
Grunting, Frankie thrust forward with the still glowing cigarette butt, and shoved it into her attacker's eye.
Screaming, Paula let go of Frankie's hair and reared
backward, her hands clawing at her face. Frankie aimed a kick at her mid-section and felt her foot sink into the doughy flesh. Paula sank to her knees, shrieking in agony.
"I'll kill you bitch!" she screamed.
The other women were shouting now, unanimously cheering the newcomer on.
The door burst open and two guards dashed in, attracted by the commotion. Seeing a catfight in progress, they held back and watched in enjoyment, quickly placing bets.
Paula lashed outward blindly, grasping at Frankie's legs, but she darted back and circled around behind the crouching woman. As Paula turned in pursuit, Frankie slapped her face, then backhanded her a second time. It felt like hitting a side of beef, and Frankie's hand stung, immediately going numb. The wounds she'd received during the rape were reopening, and Frankie knew she had to end this quickly.
Suddenly, Paula rose to her feet and charged her, frothing with rage.
Frankie tried again to sidestep her, but this time the larger woman was too quick. Her massive weight bore them both to the floor, and Frankie's breath was forced out of her lungs as Paula crushed down on top of her.
Paula head-butted her, and then began to pound her chest and face, clubbing her senseless. Frankie tried to shout, tried to scream, and found she could do neither.
The crowd was circling them now, some chanting for Paula but the majority openly encouraging Frankie.
Paula tilted her head backward and brought it crashing down again. Just before it struck her, Frankie opened her mouth and bit down on her attacker's nose. Blood and mucous ran across her tongue and she clamped down hard. Paula thrashed on top of her, shaking her head furiously, but Frankie ground her teeth together, locking her jaws.
With a mighty effort, Paula heaved herself backward, and suddenly, Frankie could breathe again-after she spit out the tip of the woman's nose.
Paula had forgotten all about her now. Delirious from shock and pain, she cupped her mangled face in her hands. Blood streamed from between her fingers, flowing from both her nose and her right eye.
Frankie moved in for the kill.
One of the guards fired a single shot into the air. Plaster rained down upon them, and the cheering women scattered.
"That's enough," one of them warned her. "Step away."
Training their weapons on Frankie, they moved toward them and pulled Paula's gore-stained hands away from her face.
"Take her out back and shoot her," one of them dismissed her casually.
"This new one's a good enough replacement. She was too fucking fat anyway."
With some effort, they dragged the sobbing woman from the room, her blood leaving a trail behind them.
The room was completely still for a moment, and then all of the women began talking at once. Frankie's numb hands were pumped repeatedly, the bruises on her back slapped in joy and exultation.
"She was horrible," Gina said. "She beat several of the girls in here, even raped them herself, in between shifts."
"You're welcome," Frankie muttered, collapsing onto the bed. "Now give me another cigarette, would you?"
The space inside the helicopter
was cramped and tight, and Baker felt a wave of claustrophobia that was even worse than the spell that had gripped him while climbing up the elevator shaft during his escape from Havenbrook.
Skip, Worm, and he sat back to back on the floor. Their hands and feet were tied behind them. Schow, McFarland, and Gonzalez were seated around them. Torres sat up front, next to the pilot.
"We've spotted some just up ahead, Colonel!" Torres shouted above the roar of the rotors and Schow nodded in understanding. When he spoke, he didn't raise his voice, but Baker could understand him perfectly, despite the din.