This Rotten World | Book 1 | This Rotten World

by Morris, Jacy

  "Yeah. At least I didn't have to make it myself," she said.

  "Amen to that." The man plopped his bottle of water onto his tray, and held out his now freed up hand. "My name's Zeke."

  Katie shook the man's proffered hand and smiled, "I'm sorry."

  "For what?" the man said.

  "That you've been stuck with that stupid name for your entire life."

  The man laughed, a deep hearty laugh that echoed throughout the concourse. It was a dusty sounding laugh, as if that register of his throat hadn't been used in years. "Yeah. I'm sorry too." They stood there for a moment, experiencing a brief moment of awkward silence before Zeke said, "Are you here with people?"

  Katie shook her head, the truth too raw and unpredictable to be allowed to cross her lips. "Well, would you like to eat with us?" he continued.

  "Us?" Katie asked. The man with the mean eyes pointed to a man who was waiting by an entrance to the arena, an impatient look on his smooth, almost baby-like face. "Oh, I don't..."

  Zeke interrupted her and said, "I'm not asking you out on a date, lady. I'm just trying to have some dinner and some conversation."

  Katie felt relieved and somewhat disappointed. Maybe she would like a date. Maybe she would like a little time to forget the last 24 hours, but the man had said he wasn't interested... but maybe that was just to cover up the fact that he was interested. Men were seldom "not interested," even when they pretended as if they weren't. Jason had been much the same when they first started going out... Jason.

  "I would love to join you," she said, hoping that dinner with the man and his friend would allow her to shake the sadness out of her mind, or at the very least smash it down into the background long enought to give her a break. Plus, it looked like the man could handle himself if it came down to it. He had the sort of physique that spoke of a lifetime of being fit. There was a little relaxation and normalcy laced over the top of it, but he had the rough thick hands of a man who could handle himself when the shit hit the fan. She needed people like that. Dread continued to gnaw at the nape of her neck, trying to claw its way inside her mind where it could explode into full-fledged panic.

  The man smiled at her, "Right this way, lady."

  Katie followed.

  Chapter 20: Polite Conversation

  Zeke didn't know why he decided to speak to the woman. She had that hollow look about her, that look that he'd seen soldiers get after something unspeakable happened. Shell-shock some called it, though the public had decided to give it an entirely more P.C. name. Zeke preferred shell-shock to PTSD. He had no time for acronyms. Whatever you decided to call it, the woman had that look about her. The look tugged at something inside him, something that he had long thought was dead. Here was a situation that he could do something about. Instead of just sitting in the bleachers and eating his traditional military meal, he could actually do something useful. The surprising part about it was that he wanted to. Compassion was something that he had thought he had lost underneath the hot sun of foreign lands.

  When Louis had decided to draw the dead away from Brian and his family on the waterfront, something had awakened in Zeke, something he had long ago buried. While they sat in the courtyard of the Coliseum stripping naked to show they weren't bitten, he had thought about the person that he had become over the last decade. For all intents and purposes, he had been committing suicide. His house, small and utilitarian, was to be his tomb. He sat inside it, eating, drinking, and polishing his guns, waiting for the day that he wouldn't wake up.

  Zeke's time in the military had been unremarkable for the most part. It was standard-issue. He had seen death in many shapes and forms, from the anonymous type to the up close and personal type. Somewhere along the way he had closed up shop. Now he found that the shop was open, and though the items were covered in a layer of dust, they were still useful; people still wanted and needed them. He would give them, free of charge.

  They hiked into the arena, holding their trays steady and climbing high, so they could have a good vantage point and avoid the crowd of refugees below. Most of them sat slumped in the arena's seats. Some were lying on the floor, their heads buried in their arms. Some sobbed, their hands buried in their faces.

  "Lady, this is Louis," Zeke said, introducing the man that he had gone through hell with. Zeke's legs were tight, his lower back felt like an alien was trying to erupt out of it, and he hadn't been that out of shape to begin with. How Louis was still walking around was a mystery to him.

  "Louis, this is..." Zeke waited for the lady to say her name, but none was forthcoming. "This is Lady."

  "Pleased to meet you," Louis said over his shoulder as he limped up the concrete stairs to a spot that was relatively devoid of other inhabitants. He side-shuffled a few seats into the narrow row of plastic seats, and plopped down, a great sigh escaping from his lips. Louis was exhausted, and Zeke knew that he would pass out soon.

  The woman sat down, her curly brown hair wild but ultimately attractive. Her clothing screamed "mom" to Zeke, her delicate un-toned hands and the pale ring of skin around her left ring finger spoke of tragedy. He wouldn't press the situation. She seemed nice enough. She most likely needed someone to talk to, and Zeke could tell that Louis was not long for consciousness. Even before he ate his food, Louis bent down and stripped off his shoes, sighing in relief as he pulled off the second boot.

  "You got anyone else here with you?" Zeke asked before spooning a forkful of once-dehydrated vegetables in his mouth. They were flavorless, and still hard in spots, but after years of eating them, Zeke didn't mind. When he looked at the woman, he saw that she was struggling to find a way to answer. He had started off with the wrong question.

  Trying to move past the awkwardness, Zeke said, "Me and Louis here had one hell of a ride into this place. Didn't we, Louis?" Louis nodded his head, his eyes droopy, as he forked a glob of mashed potatoes into his mouth. "Yeah, we got picked up in a boat with that guy over there." Zeke pointed to Brian and his two daughters, Ruby and Jane. They sat away from everyone else, the oldest daughter picking at her food while the youngest cried softly. The father had his arm around her, but he stared off into space, his mind somewhere else. Zeke felt for the man.

  He dropped his voice and said, "When the military stopped us, they executed his wife. She had been bitten, so he's a little... well, you know how it is." The woman looked at him, a quirk of a smile on her lips. She had that same far-off look that was clinging to Brian's face. Shit, he thought, I did it again.

  In a monotone voice, the lady said, "We have to get out of here."

  Zeke laughed. He had been thinking the same thing. The defenses were good, if you were guarding against humans, creatures that feared for their lives and could be incapacitated. The dead outside knew no fear. Those piddly chain-link fences were no match for the press of dead flesh. Zeke and Louis had seen that first-hand at the tenement they had escaped from... and those had been wrought-iron fences set into a concrete base. "Ain't that the truth, lady."

  "Do you have a plan? You seem like the type of guy that can handle himself. I don't want to be caught in here when it goes bad." The lady began forking the food into her mouth after speaking. It was as if articulating the words out loud had made the situation real and kicked her into high-gear.

  Zeke laughed. "Always be prepared. You must have been a Boy Scout when you were a kid."

  With a mouth full of breaded meat and gravy, the lady said, "Nope... I was a Brownie? So what's your big plan? A man like you must have a plan."

  "The plan? The plan is to rest up and be ready to move when it all goes down."

  The lady ate another bite of food, her delicate, soft-hands seeming out of step with the look in her eyes. She had the look of stubborn survival, undercut with a side of grief. It was an old look, not the sort of thing you'd expect to see on a housewife's face. Without having to ask, Zeke knew her story. Her family was dead, and she was shuffling on. Had she lost a husband? Kids? More than that? It didn't matter.
Zeke had no one to lose. He could be strong enough for her, if she would let him.

  "How do you think it's going to happen?" the lady said.

  Zeke leaned back against the hard, plastic seat, raising his arms above his head and stretching. He pulled his sealed bottle of water off the floor, unscrewed the top and tipped it back. "I think that when it happens, it's going to happen fast. There will be chaos, and that's when we have to make our move. Without a vehicle, we don't get out of here. Without weapons, food and water, even if we get out of here, we'll only be able to survive for a few days at most."

  Zeke pressed the side of the fork to the mystery meat on his plate, separating a bite-sized piece with minimal pressure and popping it into his mouth. "When it goes down, we'll know it's going down. In the meantime, eat, drink, be merry, save your water bottles and keep them filled. We'll keep someone on watch at the front of the Coliseum. When things go south, we'll all get out of here together."

  "What about weapons?"

  Zeke swallowed his meat, salt and grease clinging to his throat like desperation. "Look around. Everything is a weapon. The key is to keep them off of you. Killing them is good, but keeping them off of you so you can escape is just as good if not better."

  "How many people do you have going on this little field trip of yours?"

  "Well, there's me and my man Louis over here." Zeke was about to slap Louis on the arm, but he saw that Louis had finally fallen asleep. His tray leaned precariously on his lap, so Zeke picked it up as gently as he could and set it on the concrete ground. "Then we've got those guys over there as well," he said, pointing towards Brian.

  The lady turned her head and looked at them. The look on her face let Zeke know that she wasn't thrilled that they were being included in the package. "Seriously? Kids?"

  Zeke took a sip from his water bottle and nodded his head, as if there would be no negotiating.

  "What makes you think you can keep those kids alive?"

  "I can't. But there's vehicles out there that can. You ever heard of a Stryker?" Zeke asked.

  "You mean like someone goes on strike? My husband almost went on strike last year." Zeke didn't know what she was going to say next, but whatever it was it caught in her throat and would not come out.

  Zeke thought it best to forge ahead, so he said, "Yeah, well, a Stryker is an armored personnel carrier. They call it an APC in the military. It's pretty much impervious, runs on eight wheels, and can withstand all sorts of small arms fire. It's got room for ten. We get those kids in there, and we should be able to get out of the city. So what do you say? You want to come with us?"

  The lady looked over her shoulder again, eyeing the kids. Disgust was etched on her face, and something else. That's when Zeke knew that she had lost more than her husband. She had lost it all.

  The lady looked back at him and said, "If it comes down to me or those kids, I'm not saving them. You got that?"

  She had lost everything, including her compassion. Zeke knew the feeling. Hopefully, he could help her find it again. "They're not your responsibility. No one can make them your responsibility."

  The lady locked eyes with him. Brown eyes, clear as glass, not a speck of madness in them. "If those kids get bit, someone better take them down. Or else I will."

  Zeke didn't have much to say to that. He knew that there were dead children out there, faces pressed against the chain-link fences. The idea of having to kill one of them had never crossed his mind. The idea of having to kill a living child on the verge of turning made his skin crawl. Putting a gun to the head of an adult trying to feed on you was one thing, putting the gun to the head of a child that you could hold at arm's length was another.

  "You understand?" the lady said.

  Zeke nodded his head, and then the sadness flooded into her eyes, the logical, cold-blooded part of her, diluted by the cut of grief. She pulled a tiny bottle of wine from her purse, unscrewed the aluminum cap and took a sip. She held it out to Zeke. He shrugged his shoulders and took it from her. It tasted like acidic grape juice. It wasn't a PBR, but it would do the job.

  "Good, now I don't feel like such an alcoholic."

  "That makes two of us."

  For the first time, the lady smiled, lips parting like clouds, teeth like rays of sunshine. He would help this lady, if she would let him.

  Chapter 21: When is Check Out Time?

  Mort tried to hold onto his lunch throughout the chopper ride. He had never been in an airplane, let alone a helicopter. His ears still rang, but it was a damn sight better than it had been. On the rooftop, he had tried to help Blake get to his feet, so that they could move away from the fire, but Blake had been useless, even after his eyes had opened. His first few seconds of blinking didn't uncross his eyes, and as Mort helped the man to his feet, he had doubled over and vomited, falling to the ground like a drunk.

  Mort had barely noticed the sound of the thumping rotors of the helicopter as it hovered over them, turning the smoke from the burning thrift shop into roiling shapes that looked like waves. Blood dripped from Blake's ears, and Mort waved at the pilot, who sat behind the controls, looking down at them through the dark lenses of his helmet. He seemed more like a terrifying insect than an actual human.

  When the helicopter swung to the side, Mort shielded his eyes from the wind that sent the tiny pebbles and loose rocks that covered the roof flying. The side of the helicopter slid open and two soldiers hopped out. They yelled at him, but over the noise of the helicopter, Mort couldn't make out their words.

  He stood there, trying to read their lips, shouting back and forth. The soldier on the left held up his arm and pretended to bite it, then he pointed at Mort and Blake, who was lying on the ground his arm over his face. Mort understood what the man was asking, and he shook his head, yelling, "We aren't bitten," as loud as he could. "It was an explosion!" he screamed. The man nodded, and turned around, giving the pilot a thumbs up from where he watched the proceedings in the cockpit.

  The soldiers lowered their weapons and helped Blake up off the ground. They dragged him to the hovering helicopter, and helped him into it. The best he could manage was to lie across the floor, the tips of his cowboy boots pointing up into the air. Once Blake was situated, the soldiers turned to Mort and waved for him to get on the helicopter. Mort bent down and picked up the bag with all of their weapons in it.

  Immediately, the larger soldier held out the palm of his hands and gestured for Mort to stop. He demanded to the see the bag and Mort handed it over reluctantly. The soldier went through the bag, and from the soldier's body language, he could tell that it was no longer his. When he was done inspecting the bag's contents, the soldier gave the pilot a thumbs up. Mort climbed into the helicopter, and they lifted into the air.

  Now he was trying to keep his lunch down. If it wasn't for Blake, he would have taken the guns and let the helicopter leave him on the roof, but Blake was hurt bad. The man had saved him, the least he could do was endure the presence of some authority until he was sure that Blake was alright. It was the code of the homeless. You didn't owe anyone anything, until they showed you kindness. Blake had showed him kindness. He owed it back. Maybe there was a doctor where they were going.

  The helicopter slowed to a hover over a rooftop, and the two soldiers in the back rappelled onto the roof. Slowing down somehow made his nausea even worse. Mort watched as the soldiers went through the same pantomime that Mort had gone through with a family of people clinging to the shingles of a roof. Mort took a risk and leaned out over the edge of the helicopter. Beneath them, the dead had gathered, their arms stretched to the sky as if they could climb the air to get at their prey. The world began to rock from side to side in his head, as if he had had too much whiskey, and he fell back and gripped the edge of his seat, cold sweat sprouting over every inch of his body. Mort was not a fan of heights.

  The family was sitting on the peak of a two-story house. Outside, the soldiers were having a heated discussion on the pitched roof. Mort coul
dn't catch the words that they were saying, but the man buried his hands in his face, briefly, and then hugged his kids and his wife. With that, the soldiers ushered the wife and children to the helicopter. Mort helped lift them into the helicopter, where they sat, tears running down their faces. The soldiers climbed on board, and though Mort didn't want to look, he did. On the roof, the man waved at his children, his face becoming smaller and smaller. Below him, the hordes continued trying to climb the sky. The man sat heavily on the shingles of the roof, his hands over his face as the chopper flew through the sky, packed with survivors and heavy emotions. Even after they were out of sight of the man, he could still see the look on his face and the small trickle of blood running from his forearm.

  They sped through the evening sky, and Mort was thankful for the thumping of the rotors and the roar of the wind, as it drowned out the noises of the grieving children who clung to their mother, her arms too busy being wrapped around their shoulders to stem the tide of tears pouring down her own face.

  As they flew through the city, Mort fantasized about stealing the helicopter and flying it to someplace better than the refugee camp that the soldiers assured him was safe. He would take it and fly it to the ocean. It had been a while since he had seen a beach, and there were certainly likely to be less of those things out there. What were they? Were they completely dead? Did they still have memories? There were so many questions and too few answers, but in the end, the only real question was would they survive? Mort closed his eyes so he wouldn't have to see the sad faces across from him.

  The rhythm of the helicopter's whirring rotor threatened to lull him to sleep, but before that could happen, they were touching down on the ground. Mort helped Blake to his feet, and they managed to get him out of the helicopter. Before they could even take a few steps, the helicopter was off into the sky. In its absence, the silence seemed louder than the helicopter; then he realized that the soldiers were yelling at him. He could make out the words above the ringing in his ears, but only barely.