Into the Badlands

by Brian J. Jarrett

  “Where’s Sandy?” Dave asked.

  Jim pointed to her; she was still sitting on the floor of the kitchen, sobbing. He and Dave exchanged a knowing look, then they walked into the kitchen and helped her to her feet.

  “Let's get the hell outta here,” Dave said.

  They stepped out onto the snow and ran.

  They escaped from the house, running as quickly as they could down the ruined streets of the forgotten subdivision. Signs of lives abruptly halted were everywhere: porch lights that hadn't been lit in years, sandboxes with faded plastic shovels and pails, a dog collar attached to a chain in an overgrown back yard. A rusty bicycle lay on its side on a street corner. Cars sat idle in driveways. It suddenly occurred to Dave that there hadn't been a new car manufactured in the world in three years.

  The bodies were everywhere, now mostly decayed into blackened lumps. They saw so many bodies they barely noticed anymore. It was impossible to know exactly how many of the corpses were dead carriers and how many of them were uninfected.

  After running a few blocks the trio slowed to a stop, breathing the crisp, cold air deeply into their burning lungs. Their legs ached from the lactic acid buildup caused by the sprint. Dave's head swam from the sudden exertion and the impact with the floor during the struggle with the carrier.

  The area was clear, so he decided to take an opportunity to check out the shotgun. He fired the unloaded gun once to ensure the hammers were still functional. They were. He then loaded the shotgun with two shells retrieved from the prior house then closed up the barrels. He handed Jim the pistol. Holding the barrel down and cradling the shotgun across his forearm, just as his grandfather had shown him while rabbit hunting as a young boy, they continued walking.

  As night continued to creep in, the darkness began eating up the scenery around them. They needed shelter; not only from the wind and the cold, but also from the carriers. After the attack at the house they were all reticent about just flippantly strolling into just any random house. As they walked they scoped out houses that looked safe, mostly those with unbroken windows and tightly closed doors. These were less likely to be squatter homes for carriers seeking shelter from the bitter cold.

  Eventually they happened upon a small house on the corner of the street on which they walked. Dave and Jim circled it with Sandy in tow, ensuring it appeared reasonably safe. It did. They walked to the front door and prepared to pry it open with Jim's claw hammer. On a whim, Sandy decided to check under the doormat for the house key. Surprisingly enough, she found it. She even smiled at her stroke of luck; something she hadn't done much of in a long time.

  It occurred to Dave that sometimes, even in the most dismal of all days, luck had a way of showing itself to the tenacious.

  Dave took the key from Sandy, kissed her on the cheek, then unlocked the door to the house. He slowly pushed it open, peering carefully inside. Meager sunlight shone inside, revealing a scene that looked more like a museum than a house. Dust layered the horizontal surfaces, evening clinging to the walls. The smell of mildew permeated the air. Childrens' toys still sat on the floor, covered in dust, undisturbed for years. Sandy stared at the toys, not saying a word. Dave knew what she was thinking, he just hoped she could keep her spirits up.

  With daylight fading Dave and Jim checked the rest of the house. It was clear. There was no basement, and Sandy was visibly pleased about that. She also made sure to lock the front door, promising herself she'd never forget that task ever again. Dave browsed the kitchen and found a meat cleaver to replace his hatchet. He also grabbed some matches while he was there.

  When dark finally fell they used the feeble light of the flashlight to navigate through the darkness and climb into a bed in one of the house’s bedrooms. They all slept in the same bed, slipping under the blankets and capitalizing on their combined body heat. The sheets smelled of mildew after being locked up airtight for three years, but they'd slept in conditions much worse. After all, a bed was a bed. The house had no fireplace, so they had to rely on the blankets and their shared body heat to keep them from freezing.

  As the trio began to warm up they dozed off into dreamless sleep. Dreamless for all but Dave, who dreamed he was the captain of a large ship, navigating icy ocean waters. It wasn't until just before he awoke that he realized the ship was the H.M.S. Titanic.

  The following morning the group awoke, their bellies rumbling to remind their owners of their relentless need for energy. Sandy was still silent and aloof. She spoke very little as they all shared two cans of Spam and water from a single canteen. Dave attempted to coax some conversation out of her, but he was unsuccessful. It was becoming more and more difficult each day to keep her engaged.

  After their meager breakfast they combed the house for supplies. Since the house hadn’t been touched since the outbreak they were able to accumulate some useful items. Most of the food in the house had long-since rotted, but a pantry full of canned food still remained. They also found packages of stale crackers, cookies, and powdered milk. Bottles of water still sat in the pantry; they collected a few of those as well. Along with the foodstuffs they retrieved some candles and lighters. A check of the garage provided Dave with a replacement hatchet, albeit a little dull. A rough stone would solve that problem, somewhere safer where carriers wouldn't hear the sounds and come running for dinner.

  After replenishing their supplies and their bellies they stepped carefully out of the house into the bright daylight. The day was still cold, but the sunlight helped to warm things up, or to at least provide the impression that things weren't as cold as they actually were. They walked in a line along the ruined subdivisions, constantly on the lookout for attack. Dave felt a bit safer with the addition of the shotgun, despite it being untested.

  After walking for a while longer they eventually rounded a corner onto another subdivision street. There they ran into four oncoming travelers sharing the same route. Both groups stopped short. Dave instinctively stepped in front of Sandy; his grip tightened on the shotgun. A man with a short, red beard was in the lead. He was thin, his skin weathered, hair receding. He wore large, thick glasses taped on one side.

  “Not infected,” he said.

  A teenage boy and girl walking behind him both answered the same way. “Not infected,” they both said. A woman bringing up the rear replied with the same announcement.

  In his hand the man held a gun. He paused, his fingers tightening on the handle. Dave realized he was waiting for a response from them. “Not infected,” he replied. He looked back at Sandy and Jim, raising his eyebrows. They responded accordingly. The man's fingers relaxed on the trigger.

  Both groups gave each other a wide berth as they passed. As the family walked away Dave stopped. “Be careful...we ran into some trouble back that way.” The man stopped and looked back, then nodded before continuing on with his family.

  They traveled in this fashion for the rest of the day, stopping periodically for small meals and water. They drank the bottled water they'd found, then melted snow in their canteens by placing it near their bodies and allowing the temperature to rise. Eating too much snow could lower their body temperatures to dangerous levels. Despite near-continuous walking they were barely staying warm as it was.

  Along the way they ran across two infected deadwalkers; both were well over a hundred yards away and wandering aimlessly. The three travelers walked quietly past them, being careful to keep them in sight and remain quiet.

  They saw no more carriers the rest of that day, aside from the usual bodies that littered the streets. The sun was brightest around midday and they almost felt warm then. By the evening, however, the light and the heat was beginning to wane; it was going to be another cold night. Dave remembered when he could watch the six o'clock news to know what to expect from the weather; now he had to do it the old-fashioned way. Most often that meant just waking up and seeing what the day brought.

  They walked for hours with virtually no conversation. Sometimes Dave wondered why they
continued to walk at all. He often considered holing up inside of a house and just staking claim there. That would definitely reduce some of their risks. Eventually their supplies would run out though, and they'd have to venture out again. At least while traveling they could always find new sources of food and water, even shelter when they needed it.

  He also supposed that it did Sandy some good to keep moving. It gave her a goal, something to work toward, and made her feel less overwhelmed by their plight. Staying in one place meant accepting their inevitable doom; moving allowed her to continue believing otherwise. She'd had a tough enough time dealing with life even before the world had come to an end.

  He wasn't sure about Jim. Jim followed. He didn't say much, and he didn't want to lead. He was good to have around; he came through when needed. He also had a way of calming Sandy down, and what appeared to be a immeasurable amount of patience. That was a quality Dave didn't always exemplify.

  He thought about the family they'd passed earlier in the day; he supposed that Jim was a part of their family now. They surely all relied upon each other now like family. He wondered if maybe he should have invited them along; after all there was strength in numbers.

  Suddenly, two men appeared from behind one of the houses. They placed themselves in front of Dave and his companions, blocking their way.

  In their hands they held pistols.

  CHAPTER 6

  Trish froze when she heard the sound of her remaining captors returning. She stared at the door to the room, listening to the sounds getting louder, unsure of what to do next. Her stomach felt as though it was twisting into knots and she felt even sicker than she already did. She had to think fast if she was to have any chance of making it out alive.

  Darnell was big, much bigger than she. She also knew he still had his strength. She didn't. The other guy was a toss up; she never really saw him during any of her lucid periods. She had to assume he was stronger than her too. There wasn't time to make much of a plan; she decided she would just have to move quickly and be ready when the time came.

  She gently sat the pillowcase of food down on the floor, then quietly moved behind the door. She hoped she could ambush them with the knife from behind. If she could cut Darnell’s throat with the knife maybe she could stab the other one before he knew what was happening. It wasn’t much of a plan, but it was all she had. She just felt so weak; she wished she still had her gun. Unfortunately that was a lost cause.

  She looked at Trey's body lying on the floor, his blood pooled around it. Her spirits, already plummeting with doubt, dropped further. Once the other two caught sight of it she’d lose the element of surprise. She rushed over to the body, put down the knife, and then attempted to drag Trey's bloody remains out of sight.

  Although Trey's body was light Trish was very weak, and moving him proved incredibly difficult. She kept slipping in his blood each time she tried to get a foothold. She was making only inches of progress and the footsteps on the other side of the door were getting louder. She quickly abandoned that plan; it was time for another one, for better or worse.

  She searched the wall and found a coat hanging on a hook. She pulled it off the hook and laid it on Trey's body. It covered his upper body, but left his legs exposed. It would have to be good enough; she was out of time. She picked up the knife, then walked quickly to the chair where Trey had done his most diligent fingernail work and blew out the lantern. As soon as the light went out the door to the room opened. She didn’t have time to hide behind it now, so she backed into the shadows and stood very still. She clutched the knife tightly in her hand, butterflies racing through her stomach.

  Darnell paused after he opened the door, peering into the darkened room.

  “Trey!” he called. He repeated the call. “Trey! Where the fuck you at?”

  He entered slowly and walked carefully across the room, navigating the near-darkness. He made it to the lantern, then pulled out a match from a matchbook in his shirt pocket. He struck it, then touched the flame to the wick. The flame rose, burned brightly, then leveled out. He blew out the match, then held the lantern up to get a better look around the room.

  Trey’s covered body caught his attention, but he couldn't immediately identify what it was. He leaned forward in an attempt to get a better look. Once the light of the lantern fell upon the dark shape he noticed Trey’s legs protruding from underneath the coat. His eyes grew wide and he opened his mouth to call out.

  Trish struck before he could get any words out. She lunged forward with what little strength she still had left and stabbed at his face. Though surprised, Darnell was quick enough to deflect the knife. A split-second later and the knife would have gone through his eye socket and into his brain.

  His reflexes, however fast they were, weren't fast enough to avoid the blade completely. It continued its trajectory, slicing his left eye open like the belly of a fish. He felt warm liquid run down his face as the worst pain he'd ever felt in his life took hold of his eye. He dropped the lantern, screaming at the top of his lungs as his eye dripped. The flame was extinguished when the lantern hit the floor, and the room instantly became dark, lit only by the light trickling in through the open door.

  Trish saw her moment and darted toward the door. She was almost through when she was violently yanked backward by her hair. Even with his eye ruined, Darnell wasn't going to let her get away easily. She hit the ground hard, but she somehow managed to hold on to the knife. Pain radiated through her body as she struck the concrete floor. She rolled to her stomach then forced herself to her hands and knees as quickly as she could. It took all of her effort, but she managed.

  “YOU WHORE!” Darnell screamed as he stood over her. His left hand desperately covered his damaged eye, but he managed to raise his right arm and deliver a smashing blow to her head. She gripped tightly onto the handle of the knife and plunged it deep into his foot, just as his fist connected. The blade went through his foot, stopping only when it hit the concrete floor. He screamed again, now in even more agony than before. She left the knife in his foot, then scrambled to her feet, fighting disorientation and nausea in order to remain standing.

  A huge fist landed on the small of her back as she attempted to run away, sending dull pain all the way down to her toes. That blow, combined with the blow to her head, made her feel as if she’d been struck with a sledge hammer. Even injured Darnell was still incredibly strong. She fell to the floor once again. She pulled herself back up to her knees, then crawled through the door and into a long hallway. She barely noticed she was crying.

  Once through the door she rose to her feet as quickly as she could. She stumbled and fell into a wall, then righted herself. She suddenly found herself in a long, narrow hallway. The walls spun around her for a second, then stopped moving. Once upright and balanced she ran as fast as she could away from the room and from Darnell. She didn't look back.

  Darnell continued to scream from the room, as he pulled the knife from his foot. She didn't listen to see if the third kidnapper was in the building. She didn't stop to see if Tim's class ring was anywhere to be found. She didn't stop for her pillowcase of food. She didn’t look for her gun. She simply ran, bleeding from her head, leaving tiny red droplets behind as she did.

  She ran through the hallway toward the first door she could find. She made it through the door and into a large loading area of what appeared to be a warehouse. Bright sunlight shone through the high windows forcing her to squint to see. She looked quickly around for an escape route. To her left were loading docks, to her right were storage shelves. Then she found what she was looking for: a door leading to the outside. A non-functioning EXIT sign was mounted above it, with bright, white sunlight spilling through a wire-reinforced window within the door. Freedom was less than a hundred feet away.

  “YOU FUCKING CUNT! I'M GONNA RIP YOUR GODDAMN HEAD OFF!” Darnell screamed from behind her. She ran across the warehouse floor as fast as she could, hobbling and limping, then slammed her battered and bruis
ed body into the exit door. It didn't budge. It took a second or two for her to realize she’d just missed the panic bar. She pushed it hard with her hips. It opened.

  Halfway through the door she turned around to see the large black man right behind her, his missing beret revealing a shortly-cropped afro growing around a large, visible scar. His hand still covered his damaged left eye. Blood ran between his fingers and down his arm, dripping onto the floor as he ran.

  Without thinking she slammed the door as hard as she could, just as he came through the doorway. It struck him squarely in the face, driving two of his fingers into his already wasted eye. He fell to the floor, kicking and flailing wildly as his eye continued to gush blood.

  Trish wasted no time; she turned and she ran into the icy air, her eyes slowly adjusting to the bright sunlight. As she ran, the screaming behind her began to fade away. It was only then she noticed she was crying. She thought of Tim, and how proud he would have been to know how hard she'd fought to live.

  Once she’d gotten far enough away to feel relatively safe she slowed her hobbled running to a walk. The icy air bit into her lungs and she developed a stitch in her side that wouldn't go away. Her body ached all over, and she found it difficult to even breathe.

  Despite being able to see well in the sunlight, she wasn’t exactly sure where she was. Most of the snow was gone; melted away while she had been held captive. She couldn’t see the Howard Johnson’s where she’d been kidnapped, but she did find the highway.

  She walked along residential streets, parallel to the highway. She kept it in sight in order to keep her bearings; at least that provided her something to navigate by. She walked around the bodies on the ground, some decomposed so badly it was difficult to make out what they even were.

  Up ahead, about a quarter mile away by her estimates, she saw some large buildings. They appeared to be stores, all located within what had once been a strip mall. She saw a large building that appeared to be a Wal-mart or possibly a Target store; the sign long since destroyed to the point of being unreadable.