Into the Badlands

by Brian J. Jarrett

“No, not that,” Dave replied, “but still, it's not pleasant.”

  Sandy hadn’t seemed to be able to adjust to life after the outbreak, much less life on the run from the infected. She had bad days and worse days. She was withdrawn most of the time, lost in her own thoughts. She’d become almost child-like, relying on Dave to do virtually everything for her. He loved her, no doubt. His heart ached for her anguish. He tried to be understanding. There were days, however, when understanding was difficult to come by. Sometimes he didn’t want to have to think for her. Sometimes he just needed her to be strong on her own. Sandy needed a protector, though, and he had volunteered for that task, ‘til death did they part. So he did his part, every day. It was his duty, after all.

  With Sandy at bay Dave turned his attention back to the room in front of him. He walked in, lighting the way with the flashlight. The shotgun used in this brutal yet merciful act lay on the floor beside the man's body, the barrel slightly rusty from the dank, basement air. Dave handed the light to Jim, then picked up the shotgun. It looked functional at least; the only true test would be actually firing it.

  Judging from the scene in front of him he assumed both barrels were empty. He broke the gun open and confirmed this. He took the flashlight back, then handed the shotgun to Jim. A quick search of the room revealed a box with about a half-dozen shells. He placed them in his pocket, then took the flashlight back from Jim.

  Suddenly he felt the room squeezing him, the heavy air was suffocating. It was as if all the dread and despair that came with the outbreak had been crammed into that little space. He had to get out.

  Suddenly Sandy called down again. “I don't want to be up here anymore, Dave. I want to come down.”

  He called back up to her. “Come on down babe, just watch your step.”

  Sandy descended slowly down the steps, making sure to grasp the handrail tightly. Dave walked back to the bottom of the steps, shining the light to illuminate her way. “Just don't go in that room back there,” he warned.

  The trio spent the next fifteen minutes with a single flashlight in the bitter cold, searching for supplies for their packs. They found some canned tuna, Spam, and Vienna Sausages, some ramen noodles, and a book of matches. Apparently most of the food had been consumed before the homeowners met their terrible end.

  Jim discovered a hunting knife, which he kept, and a pair of boots too small for him, which he left. Sandy found a can of Sterno, partially burned, and Dave found a can opener. All but the boots went into their packs.

  Suddenly a loud bang sounded as an unknown object struck the floor above them. The trio froze, their muscles tightened. Dave extinguished the flashlight, and the three of them held their breath in the dark while they listened for any clue as to what had made the sound. Then they heard the floor creak, followed by what sounded like a paralyzed limb being dragged along.

  Something was upstairs.

  They strained their eyes to see in the darkened room, but they could see very little besides the feeble light illuminating the steps from above. Something had definitely gotten into the house; there was little doubt it was a carrier. Fuck! Dave thought. It'd been Sandy's job to lock the doors behind them; apparently she hadn't done it. That mistake might now cost them their lives.

  Dave turned to his wife and friend in the dark. “Let's see what this thing decides to do,” he whispered. “If it leaves on its own then we grab the backpacks and get the fuck outta here.”

  “And if it doesn't?” Jim whispered.

  “If it doesn't, then I'm going to catch it by surprise at the bottom of the steps.” He turned to face both his wife and Jim, whispering. “You guys stick together. Grab the backpacks and be ready. Sandy, give Jim the pistol.”

  “What about this shotgun?” Jim whispered back.

  “I don't know...give it to Sandy.” Jim and Sandy swapped guns.

  “I'm going to wait at the bottom of the stairs with the hatchet. If it comes down, I'll hack it to pieces.” He leaned in, touching Sandy's shoulder. “Nobody shoots unless I say so. I don't want to take a bullet meant for whatever's up there. Besides, one bang from that gun and they'll be on us like stink on shit.”

  “Do you think there are more than one up there?” Sandy asked.

  “I hope not,” he replied.

  Sandy reached up, placing her hand atop her husband's hand. “I'm afraid.”

  “I am too babe, but we have to face this head on; otherwise, we're all dead.”

  “Be careful baby,” she replied. Dave could tell she was ready to break down; she just wasn't equipped for this. He hoped she could hold it together and not get herself or the rest of them killed.

  “I'll wait for your signal,” Jim whispered. Dave knew Jim wasn't trigger-happy, but Sandy was unpredictable.

  They listened intently while the thing upstairs limped around above them. There was a crash as something was tossed carelessly onto the floor, followed by another crash, then another. It was ransacking the place, no doubt looking for food. Carriers almost never figured out how to open metal cans, but glass they'd just break. More often than not they'd eat the glass along with the food. A fitting last meal.

  Then the sounds stopped. As they waited Dave counted the seconds off in his head. Fifteen, thirty, forty-five, one minute. He thought for a moment the thing might have just wandered back outside. Or it could be waiting for them, he considered. Doubtful but not impossible; some carriers were smarter than others.

  Sandy's grip tightened around Dave's arm. “Is it gone?” she asked.

  “Maybe. I think we need to-”

  A footstep sounded on the top step. Then another. The hair on the back of their necks stood on end. Dave felt butterflies fluttering in his stomach. The group stood twenty feet from the wooden stairs leading down from above. Dwindling sunlight shone down from above, illuminating the steps in a pallid glow. A shadow fell on the steps, cast from doorway above.

  Another step; this time they could see the thing's foot. It was clad in a dirty, mud-caked shoe, a shoe that hadn't been removed in three years. Tattered jeans barely covered the leg. Another step, this one a dead thud, as the carrier's paralyzed leg followed obediently along.

  “Remember the plan,” Dave said quietly to the other two. He broke from Sandy's grip, and walked toward the bottom of the steps.

  “Dave!” Sandy whispered, but he was gone. She saw his shadow flash in front of the stairs and then he disappeared into the darkness of the basement.

  Another step, followed by the dull thud of the trailing limb. Dave wondered how the thing could even walk. He could only hope that this handicap would allow him the upper hand. Fighting the infected was incredibly dangerous; not only were they insane, but their insanity was catching. He'd have to get in and strike hard, then get his wife and friend out. He couldn't afford to fuck this up. If he did, they were all as good as dead. Using the gun would draw other carriers. Having that gun, and not being able to use it, was like being stranded in the ocean on a life raft; surrounded by water, but none of it fit to drink. Irony could be very cruel.

  Another step, followed by the dead-leg thud. Dave removed the hatchet from his belt, wiped the sweat off his hand, then gripped the handle tightly. He was surprised his hands were sweating despite the cold. His muscles tensed, his senses leveled. Fight or flight had chosen fight, and his body was readying for it. He swallowed hard, tasting the dank, cold air of the basement. His eyes focused on the stairs, and he waited.

  Another step, followed by the thud. Then another step.

  Now.

  Dave lunged from the shadows, hatchet in hand.

  CHAPTER 4

  Trish was awakened violently as she was forcefully grabbed in the darkness. She opened her eyes wide, searching the darkened building for her attacker. She could see nothing. Her heart raced, kick-started by a boost of adrenaline. She screamed, and a hand was placed over her mouth. She bit it hard, and she heard her attacker scream before a fist smashed into her face. The world spun, and she went
limp. Flashing points of light flared in her eyes.

  Though stunned, she didn’t lose consciousness. Her mind raced for answers. Her assailants weren't carriers; carriers tore and ate flesh, attacking wildly and viciously. This was a kidnapping, and Trish knew there was only one reason to kidnap a young woman.

  There were some fates worse than death.

  The kidnappers dragged her limp body out of the building and into the open air. She could feel the coldness of snowflakes falling on her neck. The bite of the freezing night air and driving wind brought her to her senses. She began to struggle against her captor's grip. In the dim light she could make out three figures surrounding her, two standing in front of her, and one pinning her arms behind her back.

  “Let go of me, asshole!” she screamed.

  A voice came from one of the dark silhouettes in front of her. “Shut the fuck up, cunt!” The figure then quickly lunged forward, driving his fist viciously into her stomach. Trish doubled over in agony. The world spun around her as she dropped to her knees and vomited up a small amount of bile from her empty stomach. Another heavy blow to the back of her head, and she drifted off into darkness.

  When Trish awoke the first thing she noticed was the pounding headache; it felt as if her head would split open at any minute. She then noticed warmth in the air around her that she hadn't felt for weeks. Dazed and confused, she tried to move, but quickly discovered her hands were bound. Suddenly it all came back to her, and she quickly opened her eyes to look around.

  She found herself in a small room, dimly lit with a single gas lantern. A small kerosene heater burned with glorious heat in the center of the room. Beside it sat a man on an empty drum, dressed in dirty overalls. He was small and thin with pasty-white skin. He was picking at his fingernails with a large knife.

  The man on the drum noticed her eyes open then stopped the work on his fingernails. He nodded toward a figure out of Trish's sight, then flashed a blackened grin at her. Her stomach twisted in revulsion.

  Another figure appeared from the darkness, pulled up a stool, then took a seat beside the first man. He was tall, black, and wore a beret. They both stared at her without saying a word. She stared back, her wits returning and her fear rising. She knew no good could come from any of this. She found herself wishing a carrier had gotten to her instead.

  “Who are you?” she croaked, her mouth dry and her throat parched.

  “Shut the fuck up, bitch,” the man on the drum said. The large man with the beret chuckled.

  Trish closed her eyes. To have come all this way, to have fought so hard, only to meet her end at the hands of these monsters was unthinkable. Tim had always told her that the world wasn't fair; he was right once again. She turned her thoughts to Tim, to the images of his face emblazoned within her mind, and she drifted off to blissful unconsciousness.

  When Trish opened her eyes again she saw the same two men. This time they were standing around her, less than three feet away. A third man was in the room, again out of sight.

  “Give her another dose,” she heard the hidden man say.

  “Not so much this time,” the man in the beret said. “You just about killed her the last time.”

  The pale, black-toothed man replied. He was so thin he was almost frail. His hair was greasy and long. “How the fuck am I supposed to know, Darnell? Ain't no instructions on the bottle, and I ain't no fuckin' doctor.”

  “Don't use the needle this time then. You always fuck that shit up. Give her the pills,” Darnell replied.

  “Which ones?”

  The hidden man walked around from behind her and into the feeble light. She couldn't make out his features; she could only see his silhouette. He handed the scrawny man a bottle of pills. “The lorazepam, dummy. That's the only pills we got left. You keep this bitch quiet, or else she'll have the deadwalkers all over our shit.”

  Trish felt herself being lifted to a sitting position. Her vision spun as she became level. Now her hands were more loosely bound and she was able to steady herself. Fingers forced her mouth open, and she felt two pills being placed inside, followed by a cup of water to wash it down. Although part of her knew not to swallow the pills, that part was groggy and very tired and had no desire to put up much of a fight. She was so thirsty that she almost swallowed unconsciously.

  She was then unceremoniously dropped back down to the table, too weak to support herself. She felt as if she was underwater, or as if she was behind a thick glass wall watching things unfold. Pain flared in her groin. She’d been with no one since Tim, so she knew what must have been done to her. She began to silently sob, tears spilling from her swollen eyes.

  She conjured up an image of Tim, strong and good, and she drifted off into an altered state once more.

  Dreams of Tim and dreams of carriers clouded her mind. Tim would disappear; then the carriers would attack her, but she could never die. She dreamed of her parents once. In this dream she was eight years old, sitting in her backyard by a pool, despite the fact her parents had never owned a pool. In the dream her parents were young and in love, the way they’d been before the divorce.

  Her mother was beautiful, kind, and happy; unaware of the bitter woman she would become. Her father was still alive; his eyes sparkling in the bright sunlight, without an inkling of the drunken car crash that would take his life two weeks before Trish's sixteenth birthday.

  Once she awakened to the pressure of another body on top of her. The pain was intense. Not just in her groin, but all over her body. Then she drifted off again into a deep sleep. She'd will sleep to come when she could. She remembered being awakened to drink periodically, but she was offered no food. That hardly mattered; she wasn't even hungry anymore.

  The pills they were giving her were provided regularly, along with consistent injections. She had no idea what they were shooting into her. She spent most of her time unconscious. When she was awake she tried not to think about what was happening. She began to look forward to the unconsciousness; with it she could fade away, dream, and pretend she was anyone or anywhere else.

  Time passed in strange random bursts, running together and melting into a confusing, soupy mess. She wasn't sure if time was passing in hours, days, or weeks. She knew she was getting weaker, but death never came, no matter how much she wished for it. The agony seemed as if it would never end.

  Sometimes the lantern was on, often it was not. When it was on she could mostly see her captors and her surroundings. She remembered eating some crackers once, and drinking water periodically, and she was once washed between her legs. She remembered all three men on top of her at one time or another, like monsters devouring crippled prey.

  Eventually, after an unknown amount of time, she began to feel more lucid. She was sleeping less and she was noticing more. She could only assume they tapered down the dosage of whatever drugs they were feeding her, or maybe her captors were just running out. The return of her lucidity also brought with it the despair of her plight. She wanted to die. Her body ached, her pelvis and legs were bruised until they were almost black. Her throat burned from thirst. Hunger still showed no signs of returning. She'd hung on long enough, she'd done her best. Tim would forgive her if she let go. She deserved some relief, didn't she?

  At some point she awakened to to find herself lying on her side, still atop the wooden table she'd been on since she was taken. She was cold, despite having been covered at some point with a thin blanket. Often she was left with just one of the kidnappers, usually the skinny one with the missing teeth. She remembered they called him Trey on a few occasions.

  Trey was picking his fingernails with the knife again as part of what appeared to be his favorite pastime. She decided to speak to him, to reason with him, to appeal to his humanity, if he possessed any. It was worth a shot. She lifted an arm and attempted to wave it in the air; it felt as if it was made of lead. The slight movement was enough to catch his attention, however. He looked up from his fingernails, then stared at her.

  S
he opened her mouth, but nothing came out. Her lips were dry and her head pounded. She was seriously dehydrated. She swallowed hard, then tried again. “Come...” she croaked.

  Trey continued to stare at her, unmoved. His filthy face wore an utterly vacuous expression.

  “Come...here,” she attempted again. The attempt at speech brought on a mild coughing fit, her head pounding with every cough. Eventually it subsided.

  “Fuck off, bitch,” Trey replied.

  “Come...here,” she tried again. A tear streamed from her left eye.

  He stood up and walked closer, stopping a few feet away. “Shut the fuck up.”

  He was stupid and cruel, Trish knew, but she had to try. She swallowed again. She needed out, she needed peace, she needed eternity.

  “Kill me...please,” she begged.

  Trey looked puzzled, then his expression changed. He pulled a knife from a sheath attached to his belt, lunged forward, then placed the blade against her throat. Trish tilted her head backward, exposing the area. “Do it,” she pleaded, closing her eyes. She waited; she was ready. It couldn't hurt more than she already hurt.

  He began to chuckle. “Bitch, you're gonna die one day, but I ain't gonna be the one to kill ya. Not yet, at least.” He turned away and walked back to his chair. He resumed his fingernail work by the feeble light. “Kill me,” he mocked, chuckling to himself. He continued chuckling to himself as if remembering a funny joke heard earlier in the day.

  Trish's spirits, previously bolstered by the thought of relief, now dropped. This man was a monster; they all were, all three of them. At the end of the world humans behaved as they always had. They killed and took what they wanted. Overwhelmed with grief and hopelessness she began to sob quietly, the tears again running down her cheeks and dripping onto the rough, wooden surface of the table beneath her. She then fell asleep once again.

  She awoke. Her throat burned, her head ached. Her body reeled from pain. More pills, more sleep. Swimming time and blackouts. The molestations continued, though less often. Were they bored? She couldn't tell. How long could it continue to go on? She didn't know. How much time had passed was a mystery; hours and days were just a blur now.