Nuclear Town USA

by David Nell

  "I would like to take this opportunity to tell you," the man in charge continued, "that should you scream, or become unruly, one of my men will be ordered to decapitate you where you kneel. Is that understood?"

  Julian nodded. As the gag was yanked from his mouth, he spat blood onto the floor in front of him. He glanced around the room, dry-swallowing, and noticed that all eyes had fallen upon him. He was their only hope now, and yet he knew that no matter what came to pass in the next few minutes, it would make very little difference to their chances of survival. In truth, he wasn't sure why he had volunteered to speak in the first place; he was just as – if not more – frightened than the rest of the room.

  "You may ask," the man sneered, gesturing in a manner that caused the blood to boil inside Julian, who was completely helpless and yet speculating just how quickly he could rush the barbaric little scrote and tear his fucking throat out with just his teeth.

  Julian asked the first question that came to mind: "Who are you, and what do you want?" He could taste the blood on his tongue; that metallic bitterness which is neither offensive nor tolerable.

  The man sighed, closed his eyes as if in deep thought. He started to speak with exaggerated clarity, almost patronizingly. "We are people, just like you. I don't suppose you recall what it's like to be an equal. While you were all holed up in safety, we had to fight. None of us became infected; that piddly fucking virus was nothing to some of us, and yet we were executed just the same as if we carried it." A pause as the man kicked the nearest person – which just happened to be an elderly gent by the name of George Simms – in the side of the head. The rest of the room gasped in horror; women and children began to sob once again. "You have no idea what it was like out there. I watched most of my family fall ill, suffer as the flu took them, and then die. But the ones who didn't die, my brother, my uncle, my niece, they were taken by your infernal Nucleus Note."

  For the first time since the man began to speak, Julian became aware of something cold and sharp at the nape of his neck. The guard was holding his blade to Julian; and now he was terrified.

  "You took it upon yourselves to finish off what the François Flu started, all the time cowering between these very walls like the cockroaches that you are. There is a place in Hell for you and yours," the man said as he lit a rudimentary hand-rolled cigarette. "For all of us, ultimately. We're the people who you've been killing, picking off with your silent poison. How does it feel to be helpless, to know that nobody will help you, to know that people want you dead?"

  Julian could tell him exactly how it felt; it felt like shit, but he managed to hold it down long enough to ask his next question. "How did you get in here?" There came an audible revolt from the cowering hostages, who couldn't quite figure out why Julian Graves was being so tenacious. The difference between them and him was, they could still envision a way out of this; he knew it was all over. The tone of his questioning might hasten the execution, but that was all. The one thing he was certain of was that there was going to be an execution tonight. These people, the women and children and men with whom he had shared quarters with all these years, would hopefully come to realise it while they still had a chance to pray.

  "We've had a lot of time to plan," the man said, crouching beside a squirming woman, who recoiled as his warm breath danced across her face. He stroked her cheek, and Julian suddenly realised that the man – that evil bastard – was not just taunting any woman with his touch; he was stroking the face of Evelyn Waugh. "Trust me, out there on the street, with all those maniacs running round losing their marbles, you find a few good men, people that still have a bit about them. It's survival instinct. Pick the biggest man in the room and stand behind him until the trouble's passed."

  Julian wanted to scream at the man; how dare he touch Dr. Evelyn Waugh. She was cringing, wincing every time the man's fingers brushed her skin. Julian swallowed the blood in his mouth and was about to lunge to his feet when the prick stood up and began to move away from her.

  Close.

  Too close, but now he knew where Evelyn was in the room. It offered him something wonderful to focus on as the horrors played out.

  "You once had a man here named Dugan," the little man continued, scratching at his partially-formed beard. "I believe he abandoned you when you executed three children in the middle of the city with your stupid Nucleus Note."

  Jasper didn't need to reply. This man had clearly had dealings with Marcus Dugan, which would explain how they had managed to penetrate the complex so easily. It had never crossed anyone's mind to alter the codes after Dugan went AWOL; a mistake that had now cost them dearly.

  "Word of advice, not that it's of any use to you now," the man said, a hint of a smile curling the corner of his lips. "Never annoy your allies. So many wars have been lost that way. When Dugan gave me the codes, I had him martyred. That man handed you to us on a plate, and for that he was commended. A few of us even went back for seconds, such was the taste of his bravery and lack of honour."

  They ate him, Julian thought. They fucking ate Dugan!

  "Which brings us here, to you, tonight, and what better way to finish off what has already been an amazing evening by personally thanking each and every one of you for your inexorable hard work in decreasing the population, infected or otherwise?"

  "You're going to kill us," Julian said. "Wouldn't that make you just as bad as us? How does that work in your tiny little mind?" From the ground across the hall, Evelyn gave him a cursory glance, a warning of sorts.

  "We're not going to kill you," the man said, gesturing to the guards nearest the door. They saluted and left. "You did that a long time ago, when you started playing God and annihilating innocents out there on the street."

  There was a clunk at the door, and the guards reappeared. They were wheeling something – a trolley, a gurney? - and people began to clamber out of the way as it was pushed through the room to where the unmasked man stood, grinning maniacally to himself. There was a white sheet across the trolley, which prevented the room from seeing what it actually was, and when the man grasped the cover and yanked it back, women screamed once again, men began to sob wholeheartedly as the realisation finally hit home.

  Sitting atop the trolley was one giant speaker – an amplifier that could have previously been used for some now-defunct heavy-metal band's guitars – and Julian smiled ever-so-slightly as he came to the same conclusion as the rest of the room.

  The man began to flick switches on the speaker, whistling a tuneful little ditty as he went. "We came to terms with our demise a long time ago," he broke off long enough to say. "Humans aren't meant to survive out there, not any longer. Our days have gone; we were bettered by a virus billions of times smaller than us. You should have realised that and accepted it, instead of hiding in here and delaying the inevitable. Lots of innocent people died from François, but not nearly as many as those killed by your unholy creation. Today, for us, is all about making sure that we take the responsible party with us. And on that note...pardon the pun...I bid you all adieu..."

  He flicked the switch.

  Julian glanced across to Evelyn, but she was looking somewhere else. He could see people falling all around the room in his peripheral vision. The unmasked man was the last to go, hitting the ground with such force that Julian was certain he saw the man's head explode.

  He looked up to the huge, silent speaker, to the trolley rattling beneath it.

  And then there was nothing.

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR: Adam Millard is the author of thirteen novels and more than a hundred short stories, which can be found in various collections and anthologies. Probably best known for his post-apocalyptic fiction, Adam also writes fantasy/horror for children. He created the character Peter Crombie, Teenage Zombie just so he had something decent to read to his son at bedtime. Adam also writes Bizarro fiction for several publishers, who enjoy his tales of flesh-eating clown-beetles and rabies-infected derrieres so much that they keep printing them. His "Dead"
series has recently been the filling in a Stephen King/Bram Stoker sandwich on Amazon's bestsellers chart. When he's not writing about the nightmarish creatures battling for supremacy in his head, Adam writes for This Is Horror, whose columnists include Shaun Hutson, Simon Bestwick and Simon Marshall-Jones. Website: www.adammillard.co.uk.

  DRUTHERS

  Eryk Pruitt

  John Paul crouched lower behind the boulder and squinted, stared hard across a grove of beeches until certain that he indeed saw what had to be the first living human he'd seen in over three months. All along the face of the ravine, stony outcrops jutted forth like warts and he could just make it out, standing atop one of them and smoking what appeared to be a cigarette. It made no movement other than to bring the cigarette to its face, inhale, then return its arm to its side. It did this for several moments until the cigarette was snuffed.

  When it finished its business on the outcrop, John Paul followed it through the woods. When winter came, it never left, so he was careful not to slush along the forest floor rusted by pine needles. He kept a good distance, sometimes losing it in the bronzed beech leaves, but always finding it again. It kept a steady pace – neither fast nor slow – for folks long ago gave up needing somewhere to be.

  For a while, John Paul had been one of a group of nine. Two committed suicide, four ran off, one succumbed to injury and the other...well, the other had a strong opinion on which of the two of them had more to live for. John Paul's opinion ran counter. He'd been alone ever since.

  Until today.

  When first he noticed it, fear held him fast. He'd stood still, careful not to make a sound, hoping to high heaven he hadn't already been seen. All still save the current of the river below, shushing over shoals before going about its business somewhere downstream. And like a light, it was gone and, were it not for the lingering scent of tobacco, John Paul could have convinced himself he imagined it all together.

  "You was following me."

  John Paul whipped around and it stood before him, much like the others he could remember or what he could remember of them: two arms extending down into fists, heavily wrapped in clothing for a winter which still had yet to end and eyes, eyes that seemed to always ask "why?" John Paul took a step back and threw up his hands.

  "I mean you no harm," he said.

  "Why was you following me?" It was a man. Tow-headed. Its skin had gone grey, much like John Paul's did and like the others had started to before they were all gone. John Paul had long ago given up any memory of anger or need for it, but he suddenly felt reminded. He'd gone quite a spell without having to explain himself.

  "You are the first person I've seen in quite some time," he said.

  "There ain't been nobody else," it said. "Not for a while, there ain't."

  "So there's nobody else with you?"

  "You don't see nobody, do you?"

  John Paul squinted and took a breath. They stood at a part on the trail where there was plenty below them and still plenty above, somewhere halfway down a wooded ravine that dumped into a river which probably once had a name before names outlived their use. John Paul simply knew it as the river and, although he saw plenty others, gave little inclination to whether they were or were not all the same. All that mattered to him was whether or not he had to cross it.

  Pines overhead rollicked in the wind. Wind, historically, bore many dangers. John Paul pulled his jacket tighter.

  "You got news?" he asked the other fella.

  "I got nothing." Its stance remained defensive, challenging. He looked not right nor left. "I got nothing worth taking and nothing worth giving."

  "Perhaps I should move along," said John Paul. Careful not to show his back to the stranger, he stepped away, keeping to the trail.

  "That's fine," said the stranger. "Just run on. There ain't been hide nor hair of nobody and soon as you meet someone, you intend to tip your hat and be on your way. Fine by me. Off with you then. If you want my opinion, that's the lot of civilization and probably always has been."

  John Paul stopped. He considered the stranger again. Forties, maybe younger. From around here or not, it didn't matter. John Paul had no idea where he was anymore nor motivation to care. Some places still hung heavy with the stench of rot. Others with depair. John Paul preferred the woods.

  "You eat?" he asked.

  "I eat well enough," said the man. "But if you're offering, I won't shake it off."

  John Paul reached into his pack and opened a tin of SpaghettiOs. He peeled back the top, then handed over the can. He didn't think to offer his spoon, nor would he have if asked. The man looked inspected the can as if infested with insects, looked back at John Paul, then turned it up into his mouth and drank from it as if it were water, finishing it in a succession of gulps.

  "I like those things," said John Paul. "Some of the houses have plenty of stuff to choose from, but I prefer SpaghettiOs. I've probably gone out of my way in some of these towns to find a grocery store that still has them on the shelves just so I could–"

  "They'll do in a pinch," said the man, "but I'd rather eat something else if available. It's too sweet. All that sugar...That's what did everybody in, if you ask me."

  They managed up the hill, John Paul stopping every so often to let the older man keep up. He didn't ask many questions, but the stranger offered more as he felt more comfortable. The woods gave way to a small subdivision which looked like it had once been nice and no longer reeked of rot. John Paul looked over a few houses until he found one he thought would do just fine. He tried the door, then kicked it open.

  "We stay here tonight," said John Paul.

  The man went directly to the kitchen and set about rifling through the cupboards, the refrigerator, anything he could get his hands on. He made more noise than John Paul thought necessary. John Paul set about gathering blankets and quilts, fashioning a bed for himself and then, after thinking of it, fashioning one for the man in a different room. After a moment, the man appeared, eating from a tin of beef stew.

  "These people ate like shit," said the stranger. "They didn't have very nice things."

  "I doubt that matters now," said John Paul. "You can sleep in here, if you like."

  The man said nothing. John Paul went downstairs and looked through the cupboards. The stranger had knocked most everything about, but he was right: they had lived on junk food. Boxes of macaroni and cheese, instant pudding, cookies...He scanned each shelf and, after a bit of deliberation, selected a can of tomato soup and a handful of cookies.

  He pulled the curtains to. The appearance of the stranger had unsettled him. He always closed the curtains at sundown, simply because of some unnecessary instinct left behind from a life gone by. Suddenly he was aware of everything, whether it existed or not. He did not care to be seen by anyone.

  The previous occupants hung photographs of themselves and their family on the walls. Mom, dad, two boys and a girl. Everyone smiled, all the time. They didn't seem to have much. John Paul ran a finger along the frame of a photograph. It was posed, he told himself. They did what the photographer told them.

  Nearly every plate in the cupboard was chipped. The cups felt greasy to the touch. He couldn't fault the dust; the world was dusty. He did feel however, that the place could have long used a bit of repair. He toed at a tear in the linoleum. He pictured children running through the house, grabbing things, breaking things, laughing and screaming and punching each other. He became harried standing alone in the kitchen.

  "You coming up?" called the stranger from upstairs.

  John Paul looked at the ceiling for a long while. Who knows how long passed before he started to move, but it didn't matter. After a bit, he finally did, and before he left the room, he stopped still. On the counter sat an opened and emptied tin of SpaghettiOs in a puddle of its own juices. He picked it up, ran a finger along the inside of the can, then placed it in the garbage can. He looked to the ceiling again.

  After a moment, he mounted the stairs.

  "I
don't like to rise this early," said the man. "It ain't light out yet."

  He was right. The sky took to a sort of purple by which the silhouettes of the pines had yet to stand out. John Paul paid him no mind and gathered his things, trading out his own blanket for one he'd found at the house. It was lighter than his own and for a couple of days now, he'd wished for one less heavy.

  "Why you got to get up this early?" asked the stranger. "It ain't like you got somewhere to be. Or do you got somewhere to be? Where you headed?"

  "I want to get back to the woods," said John Paul.

  "We could stay here. Everything you could ever want is right here."

  "You could stay here," said John Paul. "I'm going to head to the woods."

  "What do you reckon to find out there?"

  "I aim to get to the next town by daybreak," he answered. "I'll stick to the woods, if it's all the same."

  "What's in the next town?"

  John Paul stuffed the last of his things into his pack and slung it over his shoulder. He stepped out of the room, out of the house, out of the street. He heard the man huffing and puffing behind him and slowed enough until he was alongside him.

  "You're a bit difficult to figure," said the stranger. John Paul kept along. "Look, I don't want to make you uncomfortable. I ain't seen nobody in such a spell that...slow down just a minute, will you? It's just that I been on my own for so long that I don't know how to be around people no more. I was married, you see, and I had me a real nice wife who made real nice meals and we had us some good friends. No children, you see. Sure, she wanted them real bad but I weren't the type to take to children. Slow down, just a minute, will you? She was always on about something but you know, she could cook some nice food. Anyway, me and her got on real well, but since...since, you know...I ain't had nobody and sometimes I forget how it can be, having to get on with other folk and...Excuse me, will you please slow down?"