Fortunes & Failures - 03

by T. W. Brown

  A flash of lightning turned the world an electric-blue for a second…one…two…three…BOOM. Thunder vibrated the cans as well as the windows and everything else. Garrett loved storms and this had the marks of a doozy. It might even be a hurricane for all he knew. The Weather Channel had gone off the air a long time ago.

  A sudden thought wiped the drunken smile from his face. What if the gate collapsed, or a tree fell and crushed a section of the brick wall that kept those things out? Yesterday he’d gone out with the intentions of going to look for food. However, there was a problem; the entire property was surrounded. Those things were dozens deep at some of the thinner spots. In other places, they were all the way across the road and in the yards across the street. The hedge that had stood between the sidewalk and the narrow strip of grass was completely gone, no evidence remaining that it ever existed. At least nothing visible.

  Garrett had checked everywhere, becoming more and more frantic as he did so. He’d passed The Toy tied to her post three times before realizing it. There would be no more food runs until those things left. Only it didn’t seem those cursed abominations would be leaving any time soon. From the numerous upstairs windows, every place he could see out past the wall, the numbers continued to grow.

  Perhaps, if this were in fact a hurricane, it might brush these things aside. Tipping the can, Garrett drained another beer in two great swallows. As he set the empty can down, a shadow flickered across the big window. Garrett yelped and jumped to his feet. The sudden movement caused the room to swirl and sent a bolt of pain to his head. Once it subsided, he staggered to the front door, the poker from the rack beside the fireplace in his hand.

  A line of slobber dripped from his mouth and down his stubbly chin, hanging for a second before cascading onto his sweat-soaked shirt and vanishing in the big, dark stain already in place. The side of his face pressed against the coolness of the door, and he listened. All Garrett heard was the howling wind and the pebble-like cacophony of giant raindrops pelting the ground, roof, windows.

  Slowly he turned the knob. The door slammed into him and Garrett was certain that dozens if not hundreds of those things were pressed against it. He pushed back with all his might and the door shammed shut. Staggering back, he cocked his arm, ready to shatter the head of the first one of those freaks that came through the door. But nothing happened. He waited to hear the sound of dead hands pounding on the door, but all he heard was his heart hammering in his chest in sync with the pulsing sensation in his head.

  Garrett staggered to the window, peering around the edge of the curtains. The swing on the porch had toppled. Nothing more. He could see that the rain was coming down horizontally now. And as it hit the windows, it sounded as if somebody were throwing handfuls of gravel.

  Garrett laughed. At first in a nervous chuckle, then in all out hysterics. He was safe. Those things were stuck on the other side of the wall, and that’s where they would stay. His kingdom was safe. Returning to the cardboard box on the coffee table, he shoved his hand in and fished out the last can of beer. Popping the tab, Garrett guzzled it down, then belched loudly.

  Stomping over to the door, he turned the knob once more, this time letting it fling open. Rain and wind pummeled and pelted him, but Garrett didn’t care. He stepped out onto the porch, instantly soaked to the skin as if he’d plunged fully clothed into a swimming pool. Lightning flashed and thunder rumbled almost immediately. Stepping down off the porch, he turned his face to the sky and roared his defiance.

  He staggered along the walkway, the wind amplifying the weaving path he took as he stomped down the driveway. By the time he reached the gate, Garrett had transformed all the fear of just a few minutes ago into rage. He thrust the poker through the bars into the face of one of the hellish creatures on the other side. It dropped as soon as he withdrew. Again and again he stabbed. Sometimes in the face, other times in the body. All the while he screamed obscenities or roared challenges. Arms reached through and were beaten and broken. On and on it went until he was exhausted. His screams of anger became sobs of frustration as his efforts showed no sign of making the slightest dent in the numbers gathered just on the other side of the gate.

  In a final and futile act of desperation, Garrett unzipped his fly and urinated. Of course, the raging wind blew it away—in reality he probably got more on himself—but it was the act of defiance itself. Yet, even that brought him no comfort or contentment.

  Exhausted, Garrett turned and made his way back to the house. Somehow, the journey seemed longer and the wind felt even more powerful. He stumbled through the front door and fought for a moment against nature to get it shut.

  Peeling off his soaking wet clothes, Garrett made his way up the stairs. He paused in the doorway and stared in at The Toy, still bound by wrists and ankles to the four corners of the bed. Then, he staggered down the hallway to the master bedroom. Crawling into his own bed, he wrapped himself in the blankets and drifted off, grateful that, at least for tonight, he could fall asleep to something other than the sounds of the dead.

  

  Kirsten listened to the storm outside continue to grow stronger. The windows of her bedroom rattled as the wind and rain continued their onslaught. The flashes of lightning and rumbles of thunder had long since ceased in making her start.

  She’d never been afraid of the weather…until now. The world had become a more frightening place, and storms, like darkness, held an entire new mystery to them. Something outside clattered on the balcony, but Kirsten couldn’t see what it was.

  She lay still, her focus on keeping calm. It did no good to let fear overwhelm her. She needed to keep her head clear. The Big Man had changed in the past few days. In fact, he hadn’t touched her since that day he’d made the bargain resulting in her actually eating her fill. She shuddered involuntarily at what she’d had to do.

  It was after she ate that Kirsten realized that The Big Man had just sat quietly. He’d left her be. Even going so far as to let her get up and walk around a bit. She kept waiting for him to spring his trap, but it never happened. After about an hour, he’d tied her back up, but still, this was completely out of character.

  Laying in bed, staring at the ceiling, Kirsten felt the kernel of hope begin to sprout anew. What she had to do now was ensure that she watched for the opportunity. Perhaps she could lull The Big Man into making a mistake. She’d finally done that disgusting thing with her mouth that he’d wanted so badly without causing him injury. Maybe he thought that he’d won.

  Could it really be that easy? Was it really as simple as pretending that she’d given up fighting? Kirsten thought about it. Since that evening, he hadn’t hurt her, done any of those terrible things to her, or so much as laid a hand on her. Instead, he’d given her water, food—not much, but some—and untied her a few times a day and taken her downstairs to the library which was where he kept the toilet bucket. She hadn’t been forced to lay in her own filth. And, the one day she’d been left alone too long and peed the bed, he’d taken her out back for a bath and let her change the sheets.

  She heard the front door open and it startled her back to reality. The door slammed and continued to bang against the wall. The sound of the storm drifted up the stairs and the rain sounded like the television had been turned to a channel of all static and set to full volume.

  Another sound struggled to be heard above the storm. It sounded like The Big Man screaming. Kirsten felt a chill that had nothing to do with the wind that now whipped through the house. The storm was unlike anything she’d ever experienced. It dawned on her that perhaps this was a hurricane. If that were the case, it was possible something had happened to the wall. That might mean some of the monster-people had gotten in; and that scream…had they gotten The Big Man?

  Laying in bed, helpless, was not the way Kirsten wanted to die. She struggled to hear anything that resembled feet coming up the stairs. Dead feet slapping along the hardwood floor of the hallway, coming for her. She considered which would be wo
rse, seeing The Big Man turned into one of the monster-people walking through that door to eat her, or a bunch of complete strangers?

  Kirsten struggled at her bonds. This couldn’t happen. She felt tears well up, stinging her eyes. She lay still again and listened. All she heard now was the door banging, swinging on its hinges as the wind howled and the rain poured. Still no sound of approaching footsteps. In that moment, Kirsten realized she wasn’t actually afraid to die. What she was afraid of was dying helpless.

  She renewed her struggles, trying desperately to free just one arm. The tears changed from ones of frustration to those of anger. That feeling welled up and overflowed as she screamed. This couldn’t happen. She couldn’t die this way. Kirsten struggled, feeling the bonds cut into her, but she didn’t care.

  The front door slammed and suddenly it seemed almost silent. Even though she could hear the wind outside and the rain hammering against her window, the door being shut cut down on the noise tremendously. Kirsten froze and listened. She was almost positive that the monster-people wouldn’t have shut the door.

  Then, she heard them. Footsteps on the stairs. In strange, awkward sounding thuds, she heard them climb the stairs. Then, after another pause, she heard a sound she could definitely identify; the sound of belted jeans dropping to the floor. So…the break was over. As suspected, it had all been a trick. Well, she would try a trick of her own this time. She would pretend. Yes, Kirsten thought, I’ll make him believe I like him. She swallowed hard and prepared herself, closing her eyes, doing her best to clear her mind.

  The footsteps stopped at her doorway. Kirsten took a few deep breaths. She tried to imagine how she should act to make The Big Man think she liked what he did. Then…the footsteps continued down the hall. Tilting her head up, Kirsten stared at the empty doorway. A few minutes later, the sounds of snoring could just be heard above the storm.

  

  Jenifer-zombie stood amidst the masses. She had no concept of hundreds or thousands. Her body was pressed on all sides. Sometimes, a tiny gap would appear and she would move to fill it.

  A rain began to fall and a wind began to blow, but the Jenifer-zombie paid heed to neither. She’d long since forgotten why she had joined the others here. But there was no place else to go. Another small gap appeared and she stepped into it.

  Something flickered and Jenifer-zombie’s eyes twitched. There it was, beyond the heads of at least a dozen others, but it was there; the heat. Her hands scratched and clawed and Jenifer-zombie hissed at those who stood between her and the heat. Then, gaps began to happen. Jenifer-zombie moved forward, oblivious to the arms, legs, and torsos that she she stepped on as she drew closer and closer.

  Then, the heat moved away and vanished. Jenifer-zombie stood, pressed tight against the hard steel rails of a big gate. Sometimes she reached through, clutching for something that had vanished…from sight and eventually what little memory she possessed. Other times, she stood, clutching the gate, face pressed to the bars. Night came, and eventually, the rain stopped. But Jenifer-zombie didn’t notice. She simply stood there…waiting.

  

  The sun was about an hour from setting. Shaw crept along the roof of the recycling plant, doing his best to stay low. He’d never seen so many of those things. It reminded him of the parking lot of a stadium after a football game ended. Not a blowout where the lame, wannabe fans left early. No, this was a nail biter that wasn’t decided until the final gun sounded. And now, the stadium was spewing forth its contents all at once.

  It’d been the sounds of the dead that pulled him from a dream. A dream where he’d found that damned doctor and the senator’s two daughters. The one female, Shari—the talentless pop-star whore—had thanked him for rescuing her from the hands of Doctor Peter King. She’d thrown herself at his feet and begged forgiveness, saying that she was prepared for any punishment he deemed necessary. She wanted only to serve him and please him.

  Then, the little sister whose name he couldn’t recall went into labor. In a gush, a blue-grey baby slid from between the girl’s spread legs. It looked up at him with white-filmed eyes, grasping its own umbilical cord and biting into it. The black-veined rope burst open, spewing green pus. The baby opened its mouth and cried—

  Shaw had snapped awake. The stench of the undead filled his mouth and nose. Then, he heard the baby cry sound and struggled to separate the dream from reality. He felt sweat dripping down his body and sat up. That’s when he was able to see the surrounding area.

  They were everywhere. A sea of bodies walking, heading east. They flowed around the building he’d sought refuge atop just before sunrise. Somewhere, down on the ground, at the base of the ladder he’d climbed, the body of a zombie dressed in a tattered nurse’s uniform was being trod into a pulp. That one had truly scared him. It’d stood in a dark, almost visually impenetrable, shadow. Just as he’d started his climb up the metal rungs bolted into the exterior of the building, that zombified nurse had grabbed him by the leg. The only thing that saved him was that it had tried to bite down on the shin guard. Shaw managed to kick free, then he jammed a knife into the temple of the walking abomination. He’d been so frightened that he climbed up and left the knife sticking out of the creature’s head.

  Now he sat hunkered down, watching the flood of walking dead as they staggered past. A smell rose from them that eventually had Shaw fighting the overwhelming urge to vomit. No matter how he covered his face, the smell seeped in, seeming to soak into his pores. Before long he felt as if he’d been dipped in a rancid, oily brine of rot and filth. He began to fear that he would never be rid of the lingering stench.

  The sun had long since set by the time the last of the main body of the great zombie herd passed. He could still hear stragglers bumping into things, moaning, or even worse, letting go with that horrific baby cry sound. Almost as if those things were taunting him, the shrill cry sounded from close by. It continued for several minutes, almost persistent enough to get Shaw to consider that there may indeed be an infant near.

  He crept to the lip of the building’s edge, close to where he figured the sound to be coming from. He found himself looking down into a ramp that led to a metal roll-down door. All the way down at the bottom of that ramp, clawing at the door were a dozen of those things. A shaft of moonlight lit the tops of their heads. It wasn’t just one of those things doing it. Now that he was looking down directly on them he could distinctly hear one start up just as another was finishing. In a twisted way, it reminded him of a box of kittens. Each striving to be heard over the other as they mew-cried for their missing mother.

  They were seemingly stuck. The pack had gone down the long ramp to the dead-end—no pun intended—and didn’t have the sense to turn around and backtrack. If nothing came by to distract them, it was conceivable that they could still be there years from now.

  Shaw was contemplating the idea of going down there and killing them all. Partially for his own sanity, and partially out of mercy on their damned existence, when the distant sounds of small arms fire began. For a moment he was reminded of standing in the lobby of a movie theater while a fresh batch of popcorn was cooking. There were a few individual pops, then a small flurry, then a constant barrage that went on for what seemed like an incredibly long time.

  The Basket!

  Shaw did some fast mental calculating and came to a horrible conclusion that that swarm of undead must be at The Basket. They’d systematically been combing the region the past several months. Nothing could’ve evaded their detection sporting that much firepower.

  Like that batch of theater popcorn, the popping lessened. Soon there were only a few single shots, then…silence. He wasn’t stupid. He’d seen how many of those things were walking in that group. He doubted that there was enough ammo in all of The Basket’s store rooms to deal with that entire mob. While it was possible that one, or even a few of his men escaped, the odds were decidedly against it. Suddenly, Charlton Shaw felt alone…terribly alone.

  �
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  Reginald sat at his desk sipping from a steaming cup of coffee. Lucy’s wall rattling snores echoed from the bedroom. He adjusted the cold towel he had between his legs. Shivering slightly, then relaxing and allowing the cool relief to seep into his raw and abraded privates.

  The snoring ceased suddenly and Reginald froze in mid-sip. Please don’t wake-up, he chanted over and over in his mind. After a loud bodily noise that he forced himself to neither process, nor try to identify, the snoring resumed and he relaxed. It was the mixture of teeth rattling noises and repugnant bodily smells coming from Lucy since she’d finally crashed that had him out of the bedroom and at his desk. Of course, this was preferable to the last sixteen-or-so hours.

  He’d brought Lucy his batch of meth, nervous that he’d done it wrong. After all, her instructions had been a bit vague in places and the ingredients were a bit iffy when it came to exact amounts. Reginald Cox was a doctor and a man of science. He did not deal well with abstract generalities or approximations.

  Lucy almost pounced on him when he announced what the contents of the pan he’d been carrying to be. She’d smashed and ground a chunk into powder, then, in a very unladylike manner, snorted it up one nostril. The primal grunt and howl that followed had Reginald backing towards the door. He just knew that a large dose of abuse—verbal and physical—was about to follow. Instead, she looked over at him and leered, then repeated the process with another chunk (she called them shards); this time she ingested it up the other nostril.