Slowly We Rot

by Bryan Smith

  “Is that right?”

  Noah’s nod was emphatic. “Swear to fucking God, man.”

  The leader regarded him for a long space of moments with a slack, emotionless expression. Then he shrugged and said, “Don’t matter what you thought you were doing. The law is the same regardless. You and your friends are criminals.” He gestured to the man behind Noah. “Teach this one a lesson. I told you not to run your mouth, son. You should’ve listened.”

  And with that he turned away from Noah and climbed atop his horse, grabbing the reins and pulling on them to calm the beast as it whinnied. Noah heard a low chuckle close to his ear and knew severe pain was imminent.

  He was right.

  A big fist drilled into his lower back with breathtaking force, dropping him instantly to his knees. The same fist felt like a cannonball hitting him as it connected with the back of his head and made him pitch forward. He heard yelling from Aubrey as his cheek scraped asphalt. She shrieked in pain as another man struck her. This resulted in a predictable roar of rage from Nick, which was subsequently silenced when one of the men on horseback pulled up beside him and whipped the stock of a rifle across his face.

  These things happened within moments as Noah remained on the ground, utterly unable to defend himself or go to the aid of his companions, who were suffering as a result of his actions. But he didn’t have time to feel bad about that, because the man who’d knocked him to the ground had a knee planted in his back and was punching him in the back of the head again. That big fist landed three more crushing blows before the leader called for a stop to the punishment.

  Noah guessed this was done only because much more of it would have resulted in his death. The leader clearly didn’t care whether he lived or died, though. He merely wanted Noah still breathing when he was brought to stand before the Judge.

  His head was throbbing as he was hauled back to his feet and dragged over to the wagon. The pummeling he’d taken had turned his vision blurry, but he could see just well enough to discern that Aubrey and Nick had already been loaded into the wagon’s cargo hold. The bearded man in the NYPD cap was also in the wagon. He was probably the one the leader had called Scott. He reached down and grabbed Noah under the arms, lifting him up into the wagon with the other man’s assistance. Scott then gave Noah a savage heave that sent him sliding all the way to the back, where he stopped when the top of his head struck wood.

  Through the ensuing fresh burst of pain, Noah heard a snapping of reins. Horses whinnied and in a moment the wagon started rolling forward, slowly at first but rapidly picking up speed. A clatter of hoofbeats soon turned into a cacophony of sound. Some minutes passed before things came back into focus for Noah. The juddering motion of the fast-moving wagon wasn’t doing his throbbing head any favors. But he finally felt steady enough to attempt sitting up.

  He turned over with a groan and put his back against the wagon’s rear wall. The sight that greeted him almost made him wish he hadn’t tried so hard to fight off unconsciousness. Nick was sprawled face-down in the middle of the wagon. He was alive but unmoving. Noah guessed he’d taken some additional punishment after getting whipped with the stock of the rifle. This was worrisome, but not nearly as much as what was happening to Aubrey.

  The fat man in the derby hat sat with his back against a side of the wagon. He had Aubrey pulled up against him between his spread legs. One massive arm was wrapped tight around her midsection to hold her in place. The hem of her ratty black dress was hiked up and his right hand was between her legs. Noah shifted around a bit and tried hard to summon the strength to launch himself at the perverted son of a bitch.

  Scott made a clucking sound and aimed his double-barreled shotgun at Noah. “You stay right where you are, kid. I’d hate to have to blow your fool head off.”

  Noah’s gaze flicked from the shotgun’s long barrel to Aubrey’s detached expression and back again. The rage engulfing him did not abate. To the contrary, it intensified. His whole body was shaking with the force of it. But any attempt at heroism was doomed to fail. It’d be suicide. There was a significant amount of give in the length of old rope knotted around his wrists. Getting free of it wouldn’t be difficult, but he wouldn’t be able to make it happen in time to give himself a real chance.

  Hal was staring right at him, his lips peeled back in a grin that revealed rotting teeth stained the color of mustard. He licked his lips and waggled his eyebrows in an exaggerated leer.

  Noah grimaced and looked away.

  He spent the rest of the ride in the wagon filling his head with fantasies of how he meant to kill these men.

  38.

  Along with its escort of armed horsemen, the wagon headed out of the town’s small commercial district. Getting to where they were going didn’t take long. They passed through some residential areas and then a bit of open land before arriving at a house that was significantly grander-looking than any others Noah had glimpsed along the way. It had a large, sloping lawn surrounded by a brick-and-iron fence. A slatted iron gate barred entrance to a curving length of driveway that led up to the house and looped back around.

  In the center of the driveway loop was a large and ornate—and non-functioning—fountain. It appeared as if an ongoing effort was being made to keep the big lawn under control. This was in stark contrast to the other houses they had passed, all of which had gone to seed as badly as any others Noah had seen in his journey across the country. A number of lawn care tools were propped around the defunct fountain, including several self-powered mowers. Whoever lived here—the Judge, presumably—had a whole crew working to keep things presentable. Noah found this vaguely troubling. This Judge person was seeming more like a King than a post-apocalypse justice of the peace.

  The wagon drew to a stop at the gate. One of the horsemen climbed down from his mount and approached it, conferring briefly with a man on the other side. The other man then unlocked the gate and pulled it open. The man in the driver’s perch snapped the reins and the wagon started up the curving driveway.

  Nick had begun to stir by the time the wagon stopped again, this time alongside a long porch. He lifted his head and squinted at Noah, who regarded him warily, expecting trouble to erupt the moment the man got a look at the way Hal was holding Aubrey between his legs. Blood from a gash in Nick’s scalp had trickled down his forehead and dried there. The length of rope binding his wrists had come loose during the earlier struggle. Shaking it off, he touched the wound and grimaced. Then, with a loud grunt of effort, he got his hands braced beneath him and pushed himself into a sitting position.

  He turned his head and looked right at Hal. After glaring at him a moment, he made a loud sound in his throat and spat out a mix of phlegm and blood. Then he sneered. “Motherfucker, you’re gonna die.”

  Hal took the revolver from the holster at his hip and placed the muzzle against Aubrey’s head. “I don’t think so, hombre. You even flinch, your little whore here is the one who’s gonna die.”

  Nick wiped blood from his mouth with the back of a hand.

  Hal tensed and cocked the hammer of his gun. “I told you not to flinch.”

  Nick dropped his hand. “Relax. I’m not gonna kill you just yet. But your time is coming, fat man. That’s a promise.”

  Hal laughed. “It’s one you won’t get to keep.”

  “We’ll see about that.”

  All around them, men were climbing down from horses. The group’s leader gestured to one of the other men. “Let the Judge know we’re here. Explain the situation.”

  The appointed messenger responded with a nod and a tip of his cowboy hat before hurrying up the steps to the porch. A knock on the door was promptly answered and the man was admitted into the house. Another man came outside and exchanged a few mundane words with the posse’s leader, addressing him as Connor. The man on the porch wore khaki pants, loafers, and a golf shirt. His name was Chance. His clothes were the cleanest, crispest-looking garments Noah had seen anyone wearing in years. His dark b
lond hair was slicked back. He had an air of officiousness about him that made Noah pretty sure this guy was a close underling of the Judge, perhaps a personal assistant or direct second-in-command. He looked pained by the idea of allowing any of these dirty ruffians into his lord and master’s home.

  Noah hated him on sight. The old civilized world had gone down in flames, the human race had suffered a nearly extinction-level calamity, and somehow this person seemed unmarred by any of it. There was something very wrong about that, a perception that stirred a deep level of anxiety in Noah. A feeling of things not being quite as they seemed on the surface—the same thing he’d felt while staring at those TV screens in Walmart—recurred.

  Connor’s messenger returned a few moments later and said something in a low voice to Chance, who nodded. Noah and his companions were then roughly rousted from the wagon and marched into the house. They paused briefly inside a large foyer with a marble-tiled floor. Above them a glistening chandelier hung from a high, vaulted ceiling. A spiral staircase to their right led to a second floor. Noah could hear women speaking in hushed tones from somewhere up there.

  Chance ushered Connor and his prisoners out of the foyer and led them down a long, wide hallway. The muzzle of a rifle prodded at Noah’s back as he walked, urging him forward in a distinctly belligerent way. One time it rammed into him so hard he nearly stumbled and fell. He maintained his footing, though, and tried hard not to react to the snickers of amusement behind him.

  As they continued down the hallway, they passed several open rooms. All were spacious and tastefully appointed. One looked like a ballroom. It was beginning to hit him that this house was actually more of a mansion, the kind of residence reserved only for the most elite members of pre-apocalypse society. The impression that they were being granted an audience with royalty recurred and Noah had to wonder how it was this Judge was able to keep this place for himself. His captors certainly seemed tough enough and well-armed enough to claim it for themselves if they wanted. That consideration aside, Noah found it baffling that a home as ostentatious as this one was located in such a tiny Midwestern town. It was unlikely and bizarre, bordering on surreal, and yet here it was.

  Near the end of the long hallway they passed through an arch into another large room. This one was a library. Built-in bookcases occupied nearly every inch of wall-space. Leather-bound volumes filled most of these shelves. The sole exception was a single shelf of vintage paperbacks Noah glimpsed as the procession of prisoners and captors filed into the room. His head swiveled sharply to the left, the modest collection of paperbacks commanding his attention even as the rifle in his back prodded him forward. He was too far from the books to make out titles and author names, but it was clear they were old pulps. His preferred genre, the western, might even be represented there.

  A big fireplace dominated the wall to Noah’s right. Above the mantel were framed portraits of dour-looking old people, none of whom were anyone he recognized, unsurprisingly. In the center of the room was some furniture. Sofas, chairs, ottomans, and end tables, all spread out in a loose semi-circle. Ashtrays sat near the edge of each end table. The glass repositories were so clean they looked as if ash had never touched them.

  This was in stark contrast to the ashtray that rested in the center of a small table situated near a large window at the back of the library. Unlike its spotless cousins, this one had seen a fair amount of regular use. At least a half-inch of dark ash obscured its glass bottom. The gnawed butt-ends of several cigars protruded from the layer of ash like grave markers. Next to the table was a high-backed chair with velour upholstery and a frame of rich, dark wood. The person sitting in the chair was reading a leather-bound volume and smoking a freshly-lit cigar. She closed the book and glanced up as Noah and the others neared her. Her left hand gripped the book, partially obscuring the title, but Noah could see that it was called In Watermelon Sugar.

  Chance held up a hand, motioning for the group to stop. He addressed the woman, relating the reason for the visit as she stared impassively back at him. After a few moments, she cut him off with a wave of her hand and said, “I already know all this. Connor, step forward.”

  The leader of the posse did as she bade and launched into a strangely effusive summary of events, which Noah was appalled to note was embellished with half-truths and outright lies. This angered him, but the emotion was blunted by how taken aback he was by the situation.

  Not once had the possibility that the Judge might be a woman entered his mind. This wasn’t so much a sexist thing as it was a baffling incongruity. Noah had pictured the high authority these gangsters respected and feared as a grizzled old man in a black suit, like a corrupt railroad tycoon or robber baron from some old western movie. But this woman wasn’t like that at all. She was slim and sophisticated-looking, attired in the kind of sleek and stylish equestrian riding outfit Noah associated with aristocrats. She wore wire-rimmed glasses and had long blonde hair that was currently pinned up. Noah put her age at maybe forty or slightly above. She was attractive enough that it was a distraction despite the fact that his life was on the line. Part of it, he supposed, was that she strongly reminded him of an English teacher he’d had a crush on in junior high.

  Being in her presence had a similar effect on Connor, who was blushing as he spun out his tale of ridiculous lies. Noah took it as a given that the man was intimidated by her for reasons that were not yet apparent, but it seemed he was also infatuated with her.

  An awkward silence ensued in the moments after Connor finished speaking. At last, the woman let out a breath and briefly looked at each of the faces assembled. Once she had made eye contact with them all, she looked at Chance and nodded. “Have someone take this one,” she said, pointing an index finger at Aubrey without looking at her, “upstairs and clean her up. Put her in something pretty and find a room for her.”

  There was nothing overtly sinister in what she’d said, but it was what had gone unspoken that bothered Noah. To what purpose was Aubrey being put in “something pretty”?

  Nick barked out a vehement protest.

  The woman didn’t look at him. Her expression was serenely unworried as she said, “Kill the big one. When he’s dead, hang his body with the others on Main Street.”

  Aubrey had tears in her eyes when she looked at Nick. “No.”

  “It’s okay,” he told her, his tone one of resignation. “I’m already dead.”

  Next the Judge looked at Noah and smiled. “Put this boy in a shed and shackle him. Tomorrow we’ll put him to work.”

  “Don’t kill our friend,” Noah said, a quaver in his voice. “He hasn’t done anything. I know he hasn’t.”

  “You heard the man,” the judge said, still smiling and looking right at him. “He’s already dead. And I don’t care what he has or hasn’t done. I need only look at him to know he’s too dangerous to keep alive.”

  Noah shook his head. “This is crazy. You’re crazy.”

  The Judge ignored this as she addressed her assistant. “Chance, see to the arrangements for the young lady and our new shed slave.”

  He nodded and briefly left the library, returning moments later with an attractive young brunette woman and a young man with short, dark hair. The two looked so much alike Noah figured they had to be twins. Both were dressed in the formal attire of manor servants, a black knee-length dress and black stockings for the woman, black trousers and a white shirt for her probable brother.

  Chance did some talking once these two were in the library. Noah was too fraught with anxiety about what was about to happen to focus clearly on everything the man was saying, but he picked up enough to know the twins would be training them in their new duties, whatever those were.

  The Judge then called an end to the proceedings and ordered everyone out of the library. Nick was dragged out of the room first. Noah went next, accompanied by his new trainer and one of Connor’s men. Out in the wide hallway, the trio trailed after Nick and the men who’d apparently soon be carr
ying out his execution. The thought filled Noah with fresh, helpless anger and a deep despair. Despite their sometimes contentious relationship, he didn’t want to see him die.

  But there was nothing Noah could do.

  He flinched when he heard screams behind him. Aubrey and her minders were in the hallway now. She called out desperately for help. Oddly, she was calling out for Noah rather than for Nick. The cries cut off abruptly in the wake of a sharp, snapping sound Noah guessed was a slap across his sister’s face. Hearing it made him angrier than ever.

  Still, there he was nothing he could do.

  Soon Noah’s group passed through a large kitchen and followed Nick and the others through a door at the back of the house. The rear of the property encompassed an impressive amount of land. A guest house some distance off to Noah’s left would have made an impressive home in its own right. Farther off were several smaller outlying buildings, some of which were probably the sheds the Judge had referenced. Beyond all this was some farmland.

  Noah watched with mounting distress as the men escorting Nick came to an abrupt halt and shoved him to the ground. His knees hit the dirt and his head sagged forward. He tried to get up, but Connor’s men converged on him, whipping him about the face with the stocks of their weapons. A thin line of blood and saliva depended from a corner of his mouth as he again got to his knees. He coughed and struggled to lift his head. The fat man in the derby hat, Hal, moved into position in front of Nick and lifted the bat embedded with spikes off his shoulder.

  He wound up and took a swing.

  Noah’s stomach clenched as he watched multiple thick spikes punch deep into the side of Nick’s head. His eyes went wide and his body stiffened. A moment later, he toppled over with the spikes still embedded in his skull. Hal glanced Noah’s way, winked, and braced the heel of a boot against Nick’s throat as he ripped the spikes loose. They came away coated with dripping gore.