Into the Badlands

by Brian J. Jarrett

  Her captors came and went from the room. They kept the kerosene heater burning and a guard, usually Trey, posted in the chair. The room was always dim, lit most of the time by the small lantern. Trey worked on his fingernails by the light of the lantern, then continued the work by candlelight when he was chastised for using too much lantern fuel.

  Ultimately lucidity returned; painful, clear, brutal, and honest lucidity. Her throat still burned, her stomach cramped. She was awake, but kept her eyes closed, feigning sleep and wishing for death. It could come in any form and from any source at this point, she would welcome it without prejudice. She began to see her torturers as saviors, the only people in the world who could deliver the sweet kiss of death and release her from the hell in which she now barely survived.

  The drugs had been stopped altogether, she could only assume. There was only one likely reason for that; they were finished with her. This realization initially caused fear, but it also carried with it joy and hope. Soon she could be released. Even if there was no shared afterlife she could at least join Tim in the same dark abyss. Together forever, blanketed by the same eternal darkness. No more pain, ever. With her wits once again about her she felt for the familiar comfort of Tim's ring on her finger.

  It was gone.

  She opened her eyes and looked down at her left hand just to make sure the ring was really gone. It was. It had been stolen right from her hand by those bastards. At that moment something inside her changed; what had once been overwhelming sadness and despair was now seething anger. She was immediately filled with rage, indignation, and hatred. She felt it overtake her body, starting in her aching stomach and radiating outward toward her limbs. She was weak, but she wasn't dead, at least not yet.

  Those motherfuckers, she thought. Then, instead of making plans to die, she started making plans to kill.

  She looked around the room; only Trey sat in the familiar guard chair. He was engrossed in his fingernails, as usual. She began to formulate her plan. She continued scanning the room with her eyes, being careful not to move her head, making out whatever she could in the shadows. There were at least some supplies in the room; this looked like a home base for these creeps. She remained careful not to move her head so as to not draw attention to herself.

  There were clothes in the room; some pants and some heavy coats. She saw a large container of what appeared to be water; several canteens sat on a shelf above it. There were boots and perhaps three dozen cans of various foodstuffs, the labels unreadable in the dark room. There were no guns, at least none she could see. This was where they stored their gear, the things they needed to go out kidnapping and raping innocent women.

  She turned her sights back on Trey; small, scrawny, and weak. He was a toadie, a lackey. She'd seen enough to understand that he was the low man on their totem pole. She remembered him on top of her between her blackouts, but only once or twice. He had always been made to go last, after the other two had gotten their fill. The idea mortified her, but she quelled it; she had plans to make. If the other two had had enough of her then Trey hopefully hadn't; that could be her opportunity.

  She also felt sure that Trey wouldn't kill her, not without the others' permission. It was doubtful he would defy them. He might beat her, but she could handle that. She'd been through worse than that already.

  She closed her eyes and finalized her plan. If she was going out she was going out fighting. She took a moment to think of Tim, to use him as inspiration, and then she opened her eyes again. She turned her head toward Trey and spoke.

  “Trey.” It came out as a raspy whisper.

  “Trey,” she repeated, louder this time.

  Trey looked up from his work. He stood up slowly, his fingernail-picking knife gripped in his hand. Trish had never addressed him by name before and this seemed to get his attention. He didn't reply. Instead he just stared, that same empty and stupid look spread across his scrawny face.

  “Trey, come here,” she said, hoarse from thirst. Her head still hurt from the dehydration.

  “Fuck all that,” he replied.

  “No, please. I need something.”

  “I ain't giving you shit.”

  “I'll give you something in return.”

  This piqued his interest. “You'll give me what?”

  “Come closer.”

  He inched closer, craning his neck to hear.

  “I need water. I'm thirsty. I'll return a favor with a favor.”

  He paused, thinking. “What kind of favor?”

  “You know what kind of favor.”

  “You won't.”

  “I will, but for water. I need water first.”

  He paused again, thinking. She could only imagine what an effort that must be for him. He glanced at the door, then back at Trish, then back at the door again. He then sheathed the knife. She hoped this was a good sign. She figured if the other two were there he wouldn't make a move. If they weren't, then he just might take the bait.

  “Until I finish, right?” he whispered, as if he didn't want anyone else to hear.

  “Until you finish. But water first,” she replied.

  Trey took another look at the door; this worried her. Maybe the other two were out there. It didn't matter; she was already committed to the plan. He walked to a large, white container, removed the lid, then dipped a canteen into the water, partially filling it. He then walked over to where Trish lay. She lifted herself into a sitting position, struggling against her own weight. The world swam around her; she wasn't sure how long it had been since she'd been vertical. Her hands were bound in front of her by a strip of cloth wrapped several times around her wrists, then tied.

  Trey handed her the canteen; she took it in her bound hands. She touched the canteen to her lips and then drank; the water tasted like heaven. She gulped as much as she could, paused, and then took another long drink until the canteen was empty.

  “More,” she asked.

  “Fuck no. A deal's a deal. And you better not fuckin' weasel out on me, or I'll kill you.”

  No you won't, she thought to herself. Not without their permission. “Help me off this table and onto my knees then,” she said.

  He stood, not moving, looking at her.

  “How else am I supposed to get down there?” she asked.

  Apparently convinced by this simple logic, he balanced her as she slid off the table. Her legs were weak, but she could stand on them. The thin blanket fell off her impossibly thin frame, and she recoiled at the sight of herself. In school she'd seen images of Nazi concentration camp victims who had a similar appearance.

  “Help me to my knees,” she asked. He obliged. “Now unzip your pants and unbuckle your belt.”

  “You try anything funny and you're fuckin' dead,” he warned, removing the knife from the sheath again. Trish said nothing. He unbuttoned his pants and unzipped his fly. Trish pulled his pants down to his knees, exposing his erect penis. He smelled of sweat and urine. As she took his penis in her hand she heard him gasp; she glanced to the side and saw that his grip on the knife had relaxed. She began to work his penis, then felt his body relax.

  It was time.

  She took his penis in her mouth and his testicles in her bound hands. Then, in one orchestrated motion, she bit his penis as hard as she possibly could, squeezing his testicles even harder. He screamed and instinctively hit her in the head with this free hand. She held on despite the blow, tasting the metallic flavor of his blood as she bit down harder. She bit with all her might, grinding her teeth back and forth on his member. He screamed again, hitting her repeatedly in the head and temple.

  She reached up, grasping his hand in both of her bound hands in an attempt to stop the beating. She wasn’t strong enough to keep her grip, however, and he wrestled it away. Despite this he didn't stab or cut her with the knife in his other hand. Her gamble had paid off; he was too afraid of his crew to actually kill her, even as she tried to bite his dick off.

  As he pulled his hand away he struck
the top of her head with the handle of the knife, leaving a gash. The pain was intense; it hurt so badly that she almost let go. Instead of letting go she pushed him backward. He fell, unable to keep his balance with his pants around his knees. He continued to fall backward, arms flailing. Trish released his bleeding penis, twisting his testicles one last time before he flew out of her grip. He struck his head on a shelf behind him, then landed hard on his back. The knife flew out of his hand, landing a few feet away. He screamed again as he hit the floor, then curled into the fetal position, holding his injured genitals. Blood from the laceration on Trish's head flowed into her left eye; she quickly wiped it away.

  She lunged toward the knife, scrambling across the dirty floor. Oh please, oh please, oh please, oh please she repeated again and again in her head as she reached out and grasped the knife in her hands. Adrenaline powered her tired muscles. In the background she heard Trey still screaming in pain. She picked the knife up, then crawled back toward the screaming man on the floor. The door didn't open and no one rushed in; they were still alone.

  As she reached Trey she raised the knife above her head, preparing to drive it into his chest, but his fist connected with the side of her head before she could deliver the blow. He was weak from pain and it had little force, but it caught cleanly enough to knock her off balance and onto the floor. She retrained her grip on the knife, despite the fall.

  Trey then rolled to his stomach, attempting to get up, his pants still around his ankles. Blood dripped to the floor from his lacerated penis. Trish recovered, then jumped on his back, forcing him to the ground. She drove the knife into his back as hard as she could, twisting it as she did. Blood began to pour from the wound, soaking his clothing and running onto the floor. Trey screamed again, louder than ever.

  Trish pulled the knife out, then drove it into his back again. Then again, and again. She cried as she stabbed. She lost count of how many times she stabbed him before he stopped screaming. He made sticky drowning sounds as the blood poured into his punctured lungs then pooled on the floor around his body.

  Eventually she stopped stabbing. Then she stopped crying. She looked down at her captor then pulled the knife out. The blade made a slurpy, sucking sound as she removed it from his soggy back. Then she stabbed him one more time for good measure.

  She'd done it. The bastard was dead.

  Now it was time to get out of there.

  She picked herself up and her head swam. She fell down, dizzy, then got back up again. Pain roared through her head from a combination of dehydration and the impact of the knife blade. She had to move quickly if she wanted to get out alive. Blood continued to run down her face from the blunt force wound on her head. She once again wiped it from her eyes.

  She took the knife she used to kill Trey, then used it to cut through the bindings around her wrists. Once free, she grabbed some pants, socks, and boots, putting them on her naked body as quickly as possible. It was difficult just bending over. She was unable to locate a backpack or bag, but she found a pillowcase that would suffice. She filled it with as many canned goods as she thought she could carry. She then filled two canteens from the shelf with water, slinging the straps over her shoulders, and pulled on a coat from a hanger on the wall.

  Along with Tim's ring they also took her gun. It was nowhere to be found so she rushed to Trey's body, searching for a replacement. Apparently he couldn't be trusted by the others to carry one, or she just couldn't locate it. Either way she came up empty.

  The door remained closed. She hurried as quickly as she could, but she felt as if she was moving in slow motion. She was so weak and malnourished that everything was an incredible effort. She grabbed the pillowcase and attempted to lift it; it was too heavy. She pulled out some cans in order to make the bag transportable

  She then slung the pillowcase over her bony shoulder and looked down at the corpse on the floor. She spat a mixture of saliva and blood on it. “Fuck you, Trey,” she said, picking up the knife. She turned toward the door to leave.

  Then, from the other side of the door, she heard the sound of another door opening, followed by footsteps.

  CHAPTER 5

  As the hatchet struck the carrier's good leg, Dave turned his head to avoid contact with any blood spatter. The blade connected solidly above the thing's exposed ankle, separating the skin and stopping when it hit bone. The carrier shrieked with terrible ferocity as the hatchet sliced the skin and muscle. With both legs now unable to support its weight it tumbled headfirst to the bottom of the steps, striking the concrete floor squarely with its shoulder. Dave heard a loud crunch as the thing's collarbone snapped upon impact.

  Despite the broken bones, it tried to get up. Immediately Jim appeared and delivered two hammer blows to the base of the carrier's neck. A short scream slipped out of Sandy's mouth before she had the sense to muffle it. After the hammer blows the thing stopped trying to get up again. It now just moaned loudly, expelling the sound of a mortally wounded animal. As it breathed, its lungs made wet, slurping sounds, as if they were filled with fluid. The tragic figure squirmed on the floor, writhing in pain, bleeding and moaning.

  They all knew that noise could draw other carriers, provided they weren't already there. And, even if it wasn't human anymore it was still suffering. Dave lifted the hatchet and drove it forcefully into the back of the carrier's neck, burying it deeply into the thing's spinal column. It then went limp and silent. He pulled the hatchet out, shaking the infected blood off to the side.

  “Sandy! You okay?” Dave called.

  A pause. No response.

  “Sandy!”

  “Yes, I'm okay!” she replied, shaken. She sounded as if she'd been crying.

  Dave flipped on the flashlight and quickly found Sandy in the darkness. He looked at Jim. “We gotta get moving right now.”

  He then turned back to Sandy. “Grab the backpack and let's go.”

  She picked up the backpack, slinging it over her shoulder as she and Jim filed in behind Dave. He stepped over the carrier. As he did he envisioned for one sickening moment the thing reaching up and grabbing him by the leg. It didn't happen, but it was a difficult feeling to shake. It wasn't until he cleared the thing that he noticed how badly it smelled. If death wasn’t horrible enough on its own the virus made it even worse.

  The three of them climbed the steps: Dave first, then Sandy and Jim. Dave paused at the top of the steps and looked around the main floor of the house. It looked empty; apparently the thing had been alone. Daylight was fading, but there was still enough light to see clearly enough. He could see the pots and pans and other items the carrier had knocked to the floor during its rampage upstairs.

  “It's clear,” he called back to the others. “Let's go.”

  Dave walked to the front door. It was standing wide open. Sandy had forgotten to lock it. He closed his eyes, frustrated, then exhaled. The best laid plans of mice and men often go awry, he thought. He’d told her a dozen times not to leave the doors unlocked; this time it almost got them killed. He moved toward the door, then turned back to Sandy and Jim to get their attention.

  Suddenly Sandy screamed then ran to the kitchen. Dave turned toward the door just in time to see a large carrier, this one at least six feet tall, running toward him. He barely had time to react before the thing was through the open door and upon him. The bloody hatchet flew from his hand, striking the floor a few yards away. Dave landed squarely on his back with the carrier on top, his head striking the wooden floor upon impact. Sandy screamed from the kitchen as she huddled in the corner.

  The carrier was screaming, blackened teeth bared, its breath rank from the foul garbage it ate to survive. It smelled of urine and feces; the smell was overpowering up close. It exhibited no sign of physical handicap.

  Suddenly Jim appeared over the snarling thing and swung the hammer down squarely on its head. A dull thud sounded, like the sound of striking a melon, and the thing screamed even louder, turning its attention toward Jim.

&n
bsp; Jim followed up with another blow of the hammer, this one caught it between the eyes. It was less powerful than the first blow, but was enough to knock the thing to the ground. Dave scrambled onto his knees, his head pounding from the impact with the floor, then crawled over to his where his hatchet lay.

  Incredibly the thing started to rise, then began screaming again. Dave felt his blood run cold; it was an absolutely terrifying thing to behold. He gathered up his courage, then swung the hatchet as hard as he could. He buried it into the top of carrier's head before it could get up, piercing the skull and driving the blade into the thing's decaying brain.

  The screaming abruptly stopped as it dropped to the floor like a bag of sand, toxic blood pouring from the gaping wound in its head. It twitched a couple of times before finally lying motionless.

  Dave looked at his hatchet, still buried in the thing’s head. A thick, infected layer of blood ran down the hatchet's handle, draining into a pool on the hardwood floor. The hatchet was too bloody to retrieve safely, so he decided to chalk it up to a loss and leave it. At least they still had the pistol, plus the shotgun they’d found. He hoped the shotgun was functional.

  Jim turned to Dave. “You okay?” he asked. Then his eyes grew large and he motioned toward the corner of Dave's mouth. Dave wiped his face; his fingers came back red.

  Carrier blood.

  “Shit,” he said, then wiped the blood on his pants. He couldn't let Sandy know; she would lose it for good.

  “Yeah. I'm fine,” he replied. He looked himself over. His head was pounding, he had rug burn on his elbows, a few scratches on his arms, and a knot was forming on the back of his head. No carrier blood was on the cuts, at least not that he could see. He breathed a sigh of relief at that.

  “Thanks for the help,” he told Jim. Jim nodded.