This Rotten World | Book 1 | This Rotten World

by Morris, Jacy

  "What old guy?" asked the cop.

  "The one you have lying on the ground. We thought he was dead, I mean, he had his jugular ripped out by that other guy. The one without a face."

  The cop tried the doorknob, and then said, "Why don't you come out here, so we can talk. This yelling through the door nonsense is getting old, and I'd like you to explain the fact that this guy has had his throat ripped out and is still kicking?"

  Dustin leaned back against the wall, "That's the thing officer. The old man was fine until he got bit. Then he died. Now he wants to bite everyone he sees. Now one of you is bit, and it's only a matter of time until he's walking around biting other people. It's like something out of a movie!"

  "Sir, you can either come out of there or we're coming in to get you. We can sort this all out at the station."

  Dustin popped up out of the chair he was sitting in, and screamed through the door, "Maybe you're not listening to me! There is some crazy shit going on out there, and I'm not coming out until it's done!

  Dustin could hear muffled talking, and then the cop he had been talking to said, "Alright, you leave us no choice. We're going to break the door down."

  The door shook in the jamb, and then another voice was heard, the slightly crazy voice of the owner of the bar. "What you do here? No break door. You like if I come to your house and break door?"

  Old Han had been running The Sleazy Goat for years. It was no surprise that he had suddenly showed up out of nowhere. The crazy old bastard probably had at least ten live feeds of the bar fed into his house. You never knew what the old bastard would be accusing you of.

  "Uh, sorry, sir. We're just trying to get the guy out of the back room there."

  "Well why don't you ask? I have key right here. Why don't you ask? No, you start breaking door." Old Han sounded as crazy as ever. "And who is going to clean this mess? My carpet is ruined!"

  Dustin heard the metallic rattle of a key sliding home in the office door, and then it opened. There stood Old Han, his eyeglasses perched on the end of his nose and his greasy, black hair combed sideways over his balding head. With his massive key ring on his belt, he looked more like a janitor than the owner of one of the diviest dives in town. When he laid his eyes on Dustin, they widened, and the corners of his mouth dipped down in a frown. Old Han didn't so much view his employees as people as he did livestock.

  "What you doing in here? How did you get everyone killed? Get out of my office! You're fired!"

  Dustin didn't understand exactly what the old man was saying, the accent on Old Han was pretty bad. How a guy could live in a place for decades and not learn to speak the language was befuddling to Dustin. "What the fuck do you mean fired?"

  "What the fuck to you. You fired! What the fuck to you!"

  Dustin couldn't believe what he was hearing. "You're firing me as if this is my fault? Some guy comes in here and bites this dude's throat open and it's my fault? You're unbelievable."

  "You leave door open. You let man behind bar, rip out phone. Now I pay for it!" Han screamed as his face grew more and more red. "Now you clean mess, and get out."

  Dustin's mouth dropped open at the last part. "You think I'm going to clean this shit? Fuck you. I quit." The cops stood idly by as Han and Dustin had their shouting match, but when Dustin made to walk off, they spoke up.

  "You can't just leave the scene of a crime," said the taller of the two cops, the black one without the bite mark on his arm.

  "Yeah, we're going to need a statement from you," coughed the other cop, a short, red-headed gentleman with thick plastic eyeglasses, and sweat beading up on his forehead.

  "C'mon, man. I just quit. Can't we at least do this outside? I can't stand the stench of this cheap motherfucker anymore."

  "Motherfuck to you!" yelled Han.

  The cops looked at each other, and the black one said, "Alright, let's talk outside."

  The tall black cop pulled Bill to his feet and hustled him out of the front door of the bar. The ginger cop followed, and so did Dustin. As Dustin put his hand on the door, Old Han yelled to him and asked, "Who is going to clean up this mess?"

  Dustin shot him the finger and walked out the door.

  Chapter 16: A Total Lack of Trumpets

  Katie nearly relaxed when she saw the flashing blue and red lights pull up outside, but just as she was about to throw open the upstairs window and call out to the cops, Jason found a hidden reservoir of strength and threw the bedroom door open, the legs of the oak dresser screeching against the hardwood floor. Kevin, not being strong enough, simply slid along the floor in his socks, even as he put all of his pitiful weight into holding the dresser against the door.

  Jason's eyes fixed on Kevin, and Katie knew she had to do something. "Hey! Over here! You want to fight with someone, fight with me." Jason's attention was momentarily drawn, and she could see that he was conflicted about who he should attack, the one making all of the noise or the one that was closest. Jason finally made up his mind, or what was left of it anyway, and slowly approached Katie.

  She quickly threw open the window, as the door was blocked off by Jason's lumbering form. She continued calling the creature that was no longer her husband, hoping to distract him from the sight of Kevin inching towards the door. She backed out onto the roof, wishing for something with more grip than a pair of pink slippers.

  Everything was going according to plan, until Kevin, intent on not taking his eyes off of his father for even a second, bumped into the dresser and sent the lamp crashing to the floor. It's ceramic base burst into several pieces with a crash, drawing Jason's attention. Katie blinked and when she opened her eyes Jason's arms were around Kevin who struggled to get away.]

  "Stop! You're hurting me! Daddy!" he shrieked, sending chills through her body. Kevin's pleas fell upon deaf ears... and then Jason had his teeth in Kevin's throat.

  Katie's slippered feet slid on the hardwood floors, and she felt like she was in one of those nightmares where you run and run, but you just can't seem to break free. By the time she reached her son, he was covered in blood, and the light was fading from his eyes. She tugged him out of Jason's arms, tears streaming down her face. "How could you?" she yelled, dragging Kevin's rapidly fading body down the hall and away from Jason.

  Jason's only response was to shamble down the hallway, his hunger not sated. Kevin's feet thumped against the steps as she shuffled backwards down the stairwell, Kevin coughing up blood the entire time. She fumbled at the front door, but thankfully it was unlocked. Jason's shadowy shape teetered at the top of the stairs, and then he suddenly lost his balance and rolled to the bottom. His arm was clearly broken, but she didn't really care at the moment as she backed out into the yard, tugging her dead son like a load of laundry in a gunny sack. She knew he was dead, but she wasn't going to leave him behind. She would never leave him behind.

  Kevin rose from the pile he had collapsed in, a bone poking through the skin of his forearm. The lack of pain on his face made her skin crawl, and she began yelling for help.

  The cop car was there, but the cops seemed completely uninterested in helping her. Instead they seemed to be trying to get at the man in the back seat who was bashing his head against the window. Blood ran down his black face into his bushy beard, and when he saw her, a fire of hope lit his eyes.

  "Lady! Help me! Get me out of here!" he yelled.

  She continued dragging Kevin down the street, away from her murderous husband. She didn't know what was going on, but she wouldn't stop until Kevin was safe. His socks were soaked by the time she heard the window of the cop car break. As she looked up, she saw the man, who had the tell-tale look of homelessness about him, crawl out of the window. Despite her curiosity, the fact that Jason was still chasing after them kept her moving down the street.

  She had dragged poor Kevin a block when one of her neighbors came running out of his house. He was an old man in flannel pajama bottoms and a plain, white t-shirt. At least 70-years-old, she had seen the man
dutifully go for walks everyday for the last ten years. Though they had never shared anything but a wave, she could sense that he wanted to help her, which was good because she didn't know how much longer she could drag Kevin.

  The old man helped her lift up her son, and with one of Kevin's arms over each of their shoulders, they carried him inside and laid him down on the couch. The old man ran over to the door, closed it, and locked it. It wasn't long before Jason was at the door, pounding on it.

  Katie was unaware of any of it. She knelt next to the body of her son, holding his hand and rocking back and forth while calling his name.

  She didn't even notice as the old man called the police and received a busy signal every time. She had no idea how long he had been trying, as her grief seemed to impair all sense of time. In the night, there was an explosion, and for a second, Katie thought the world was ending, and she wouldn't have to bear being without her son any longer. There were no trumpets, no plagues. Hell, pigs didn't even fly. But she knew she would never have to be without her son again, because he had sat up on the couch and was blinking his eyes.

  Chapter 17: From Worse to Worser

  "Get that man secured!" Joan shouted as she ran down the hallway to where she had left the sick old lady and her worried husband. Clara didn't know why, but she followed along. There wasn't much she could do for Courtney now, as the two security guards had him on the ground and were securing his hands and feet with zip ties

  A group of doctors and patients had gathered around the curtained off room where the screams had came from. Some had their hands over their faces. Other simply stared in awe. Joan had enough of the gawking. Why weren't any of these people acting? With a strong hand, she yanked back the curtain, and there she was, the sweet, sick old lady chewing on her husband's corpse... scratch that, he wasn't a corpse just yet.

  His head lifted slightly and he locked eyes with Joan, as if to say, "Why did you leave me?" The thing that would stick with her wouldn't be the sights, though they were horrific; the thing that really stuck in her memory was the noise of the dying husband's intestines as the old lady's hands pulled them out of his abdomen through a ragged tear that seemed no bigger than a quarter. The wet, slopping sounds, amid the silence of the onlookers, were only broken by the oddly tranquil, pained sighs of the husband, as he stared at Joan, curious and accepting.

  When the woman took a bite out of the intestines, as if they were some sort of jerky stick, Clara, and a few others, couldn't help but lose their lunch. The smell of fecal matter assaulted the group as the man's intestines were torn open amid the sound of retching and bile splattering across the floor. Joan felt sorry for the janitors tonight.

  The retching did have another effect. The old lady finally stopped eating her husband, and focused her eyes on the group. When she shoved her husband's now dead corpse off of the bed and stood up, the crowd backed up as if they were in a movie theater watching a horror movie and it had just turned real. They couldn't tear their eyes away, but only because they didn't believe it was actually happening.

  The old lady's hospital gown was smothered in red, and as she stumbled toward the group, Joan became instantly aware that whatever happened next would likely be laid at her feet.

  "Officers!" she yelled. "We've got another situation over here. The same as that guy I think."

  The two security guards ran down the hall, the one with the bite on his arm moved noticeably slower and he was looking a little green around the gills. She supposed she probably looked the same after witnessing the old lady's lunch. She felt bad that she didn't even remember her name. "I hope you brought more zip ties."

  The old lady lunged at them, and the security guards easily tackled her to the ground while avoiding her biting. The crowd dispersed, some hastening for the exit to the E.R., others mollified and returning back to their own personal world as if everything were under control; horrible, but under control.

  "What is wrong with her?" Clara asked.

  Joan looked at her, folded her arms, and said, "I don't know."

  Just then, a group of paramedics burst through the swinging doors of the E.R. A patient fought for her life on the gurney they were wheeling. "Make way!"

  Clara and Joan saw the tell-tale mark of teeth around the ragged wounds on the woman's face.

  "This is not good," Joan said to no one in particular.

  Chapter 18: Pop-Tarts and Paint Thinner, the Breakfast of Champions

  Mort's elbow seriously hurt, but not as much as his forehead. When his head finally stopped swimming, he crawled out of the window, eternally thankful that the cops hadn't seen fit to cuff his hands behind him. Just as with most things in his life, his landing wasn't graceful. Amid broken shards of safety glass and wet pavement, he slapped into the ground.

  When he got to his feet, he saw an old man help the lady that had run from the house. One of those things appeared to be chasing her. He couldn't blame her for not helping him; he had seldom asked for help and the results had always been the same.

  Mort pulled a cigarette from his pocket, lit it, and looked at the squad car. The creatures inside were still focused on him, and he had had enough of it. He ambled into the recently abandoned house, limping on his bad knee. It looked fine except for the fact that the front door had been left ajar.

  It was a nice home, simple in its decoration. Nothing stood out, just plain furniture that you could find at any large department store and a couple of pictures. The blood stains on the stairs were the only real original touch. There wasn't much to see, so he headed back to the kitchen to find what he needed.

  Mort stepped over the raw steak on the ground and opened up the cupboard under the sink. Just as he expected, he found a delightful array of cleaners, but it was the metal can of paint thinner that drew his attention. He pulled it out and stuck it under his arm. As he stood up, he noticed a box of Pop Tarts sitting on the edge of the counter.

  "I don't mind if I do," he said to no one in particular as he fished out a shiny foil package and opened it. Strawberry... not the best, but hell, it was at least something in his stomach. With the Pop Tarts in one hand, his cigarette in the other, and a can of paint thinner under his arm, Mort walked from the house. He stopped to close the door behind him and left it unlocked, in case the lady that ran from the house ever decided to come back. She might not considering he had probably just seen her dragging her dead son down the street while her dead husband chased her.

  The occupants of the squad car were still trying to get at him, and Dirty Kurt had inched closer to the window, although how he planned to hoist himself out of it was anybody's guess. Mort took a drag from his cigarette, and shoved the Pop-Tarts into one of the large pockets on his green military jacket. He popped the top of the paint thinner and sprayed it on the interior of the cop car, as if he were just some regular Joe getting ready to have a barbecue, only this time the charcoal happened to be wriggling humans with a craving for flesh. When he had used up half of the can, he tossed it inside the car, followed by his cigarette.

  Flames built slowly in the car. It wasn't the dramatic whoosh he was expecting, but it would get the job done. He had expected screams from Dirty Kurt, as he was the first one to light on fire, but he simply wriggled in the back seat, seemingly unaware that he was being consumed by flames. The smell was awful and when the mesh bag that was over Kurt's face melted to his skin, Mort decided that he had seen enough. He backed away, turned around and limped down the street, away from the fire. He was a mile down the road, munching on the last scrap of strawberry Pop-Tarts when he heard the car explode.

  Chapter 19: Iceman and Busy Signals

  Rudy had made it back to his apartment. It was a straight shot up the street, and when he turned around, he could see the man with the bloody jaw continuing his march. Rudy was glad that the door to his building locked. He gave the guy the finger, sneered at him, and ducked inside.

  He began the laborious climb up the three flights of stairs, his knees creaking at eve
ry step... as the steps did at his weight. He pulled an inhaler from his pocket at the second landing, and took a deep pull that tasted like shampoo. As he waited to catch his breath, he heard a rattling downstairs as if someone were trying to get into the building. The pounding was insistent, and Rudy didn't want to stick around to find out what was going on. Besides, it wasn't his job. That's why the building had a security guard. Where the hell was the security guard?

  He huffed up the last flight of stairs, fished out his keys, and unlocked the door to his apartment. Rudy placed his things down on the table next to the door, and then slammed the door shut, firing the deadbolt home with a quick twist of his pudgy wrist. He could faintly hear the banging downstairs, but decided to put it out of his mind. If the guy got into the building, someone would call the cops. That's the way the world works. The security guard was probably off getting high somewhere. When he finished, he would see the guy at the door, call, the cops, and the world would be set right again.

  Rudy waddled into the kitchen and put his spare bottle of Code Red into the fridge. He then plopped down into his favorite chair in the living room, which sat right in front of his TV. It was actually the only chair in the living room. Rudy didn't often have guests over. As a matter of fact, Rudy never had guests over.

  He opened his bottle of Code Red and took a liberal swig. The liquid fizzed as it went down his throat. He switched his TV on and tried to find something on TV. The search didn't take long. He only had about five channels or so. One day, when he was done with college, he would be able to splurge and get cable, but until then, it was local TV... which meant a whole lot of news and disposable sitcoms that made you want to gouge your own eyes out with a butter knife.

  His chair creaked as he leaned forward in it, springs popping from the strain. Every channel was a variation of the same thing. Special news reports populated the five channels, except for the WB. That channel only ever played teen dramas and infomercials. As tempting as it was to watch the skinny guy chop food and repeatedly say, "You're gonna love my nuts," he decided to check out the news reports. After all, he was like anyone else... he loved a good bit of disaster.