Dead 04.5: The Gruesome Tale of Garrett and Kirsten

by T. W. Brown

  Click.

  “Robert E. Lee High School is on the list.” Garrett went back to looking out the curtain.

  “I ain’t leavin’ my house.” Patty McCormick waddled around the end of the couch to stand over Gordon Grace’s body. “Damned niggers and spics’ll be in here stealin’ the television before we’ve backed out the driveway.”

  “Might want to think that over,” Garrett said, letting the curtain fall back in place. He turned, hearing the floor protest every step his mother took. A meaty hand slapped him hard across the face.

  “Don’t you sass me, boy.”

  “Sorry, Mama,” Garrett looked down into the gray-blue eyes that glared up at him through folds of sagging skin. Without another word, he walked up the stairs.

  “Where you goin’, boy?”

  Garrett didn’t answer. He felt a tremor in his hands, a combination of anger, adrenaline, and anticipation. Without hesitation he went to his closet and shoved shoes and dirty clothes aside. Opening a cardboard box, he pulled out three bottles of Yukon Jack. A small, lime-green suitcase was on the shelf and he pulled it down, setting it on his bed. Flipping it open, he shoved the dozen Hustler magazines to one side in a neat pile and wrapped each precious bottle in the first shirt he pulled from the beat up chest of drawers.

  Reaching under the bed, Garrett found his leather jacket. As he stood, he heard the first thuds of hands on the front door. Dead hands, he thought. Closing the suitcase, he picked it up as his mother made a noise that was part scream and part cough.

  The sound of breaking glass made him pause at the top of the stairs. He walked down a few steps to see more than one pair of arms straining through the curtains. Glass from the living room window continued to break and fall with a crash on the floor.

  “Garrett!” Patty McCormick bellowed.

  He’d seen them outside. There were several on the street, and they were coming to the McCormick house, led by Kimmy Vanderwall. A body—a man in a policeman’s uniform—tumbled through the opening, pulling the curtains down in a heap. Patty McCormick screamed in a way Garrett had never heard before…and he’d heard his mama scream a lot.

  “Better run, Mama,” Garrett whispered as he watched more of those things tumble through. Then Kimmy Vanderwall’s mostly naked body appeared. Garrett’s breathing changed as his eyes took her in. What a shame, he thought as she landed awkwardly on the living room floor.

  He could hear his mama cursing and shrieking. None of the bodies seemed to notice him up on the stairs as they continued deeper into the house. A loud crash signaled what had to be his mama fighting off the dozen or so dead folks now in the McCormick living room. Kimmy was trying to get to her feet. No others were coming through the window…for now.

  Patty McCormick screamed in pain. Garrett crept down a few more stairs as his mother swung the leg of the coffee table at the closest of those things. Her left arm was bleeding bad, and she held it close to her body as she swung wildly with the right.

  “Git these things offa me, boy!” She made the mistake of taking her eyes off what she was doing to look at Garrett. Three of those things stumbled in, hands reaching, clawing. Garrett took one more step down the stairs…but no more.

  One of the creatures that had his mama by the arm bit into the sagging flesh. Blood welled around its mouth as the huge woman howled in agony. It pulled back, tearing away a chunk of meat. Patty McCormick slung her arm out to the side, tossing the individual into the television. It was quickly replaced by two more. All of these things had terrible injuries; just like the ones they were inflicting on the enormous woman.

  “Help me, baby!” Patty’s eyes met Garrett’s full of tears, but there was more. There was anger…the kind that ended in brutal punishment.

  He continued to watch, almost fascinated. It reminded him of a documentary he’d seen once when all these female lions were trying to bring down an old elephant. There were too many, and the blood loss weakened the behemoth…in this case…Patty McCormick. The jumble of arms and legs collapsed with a house jarring thud. There was a muffled cry, and then a scream pierced the night that was so chilling that it made the hair on Garrett’s arms stand up.

  One of the ghoulish figures, it resembled Mister Whitaker from down the street, but was missing most of its face, squirmed free from the pile with a strand of something in its hands. The stench of shit and blood hit Garrett full-force, making his knees buckle just a bit. Still, he watched as the creature bit into the strand, a brownish slurry oozed from the rips in the sausage-like links and down its chin. The bile rose in Garrett’s throat as he backed slowly and quietly up the stairs.

  The wood squeaked and Kimmy Vanderwall, who had finally fought free of the tangled curtains and clothing on the floor, turned Garrett’s direction. Her hands came up and her mouth began opening and closing. Fluids dripped from the tear in her stomach, and a strand of dark, mucous-like drool swung lazily from her chin.

  Garrett retreated slowly, trying not to make any more noise. He could still hear the wet ripping and smacking sounds coming from the direction of his mama. None of them seemed inclined to follow after him, only Kimmy.

  He backed halfway down the hallway towards his room and waited. Sure enough, eventually, she made it up the stairs. He’d heard her fall a couple of times. Each time he’d crept out to see if Kimmy would give up; each time she’d seen him and made some sort of gurgling moan before continuing awkwardly up the stairs.

  A voice in Garrett’s head told him to run, and he didn’t really know why he wasn’t listening to it. The thought of the fate that had claimed his mama terrified him, and Garrett McCormick wasn’t a man easily terrified, but when Kimmy Vanderwall stumbled onto the floor of the hallway, her bikini bottoms down to her thighs from all the scooting and scrambling…he knew.

  He couldn’t take his eyes off of the smooth folds of her girlish flesh. He licked his lips unconsciously, the little whore kept it shaved. Backing into his room, he looked around, eyes finally lighting on what he wanted.

  Between the lack of coordination these things displayed and outweighing it by more than double, it was almost no effort to take Kimmy Vanderwall down. The most difficult part was avoiding the snapping jaws and grasping hands. When he was done, a rolled up pair of his underwear—a dirty pair from the floor—were stuffed in Kimmy’s mouth. Her hands were bound above her head with a shirt sleeve and secured to a slit in the headboard. The struggle was really much less than expected. He’d pulled off and tossed aside the bikini bottoms before using two more shirts to tie her legs spread-eagle, one to each of the useless wheels that supported the metal frame which held his box spring.

  Occasionally, he could hear a bang or crash from downstairs, along with the moans and other strange noises of the walking dead. Twice he thought he’d heard them on the stairs, but so far nothing had come to his bedroom door.

  He returned his attention to the creature squirming on his bed. “You don’t look nearly as pretty as ya used to,” Garrett whispered, climbing up on his bed, planting one foot on either side of the discolored, bloody, writhing thing laid out before him.

  “Never did give you a present for your Sweet Sixteen last week,” Garrett scoffed. “Course, after your parents called the cops on me…sayin’ I was peekin’ at you in your bedroom…” He unzipped his pants.

  His eyes drifted from the dead eyes of the girl to down between her legs. It didn’t take him long, standing above the helpless zombie, to finish. When he was done, he hopped off the bed and stuffed himself back in his pants.

  Walking over to his window, he looked outside. The neighborhood echoed a nightmarish symphony of screams and gunshots. North Charleston was no stranger to police patrols, but this was well above the norm. Most times it was a domestic dispute, and on rare occasions, somebody would try to deal a little meth. Problem with that, too many folks liked to sit on their porches. That sort of activity would instigate a flurry of phone calls. Well, Garrett thought, the police were in for a helluva night
, if what he was seein’ was any indication.

  Picking up his suitcase, he glanced back at the writhing figure of Kimmy Vanderwall. “Enjoy Hell, you filthy little whore,” he said. Garrett was certain that Hell was exactly where she would be…just like any whore; and that’s what she was. All women were whores. Mama said so. A lot.

  Climbing out the window and onto the eave, he walked down the gentle slope and peered over. The side yard was clear, so he dropped the suitcase flat. It landed in the grass with a whummp, next he dropped the axe handle and swung his legs over, hung, then let go. At his height, it wasn’t a very long drop. Gathering his stuff, Garrett stayed in the shadows and moved towards the street.

  A sound came from the house causing him to pause and look back. Mama was standing in the living room window. Her clothing had been torn away from her upper body, and there were huge chunks of her were missing. Her enormous, sagging gut was the worst. A huge portion had been ripped open and a slab of brownish-gray fat swung back and forth with her movements. For a moment, he considered going up there and bashing her head in. Then, leastways, she wouldn’t spend forever like that.

  As he stood there thinking, a car skidded around the corner at the head of the block. With a dismissive shrug he stepped out into the street. The car slowed and came to a stop. A petite brunette flung open the passenger door and waved at him to get in. Her eyes were wide with terror.

  “Thank God!” The woman’s voice was shaky with hysterics. “Do you live near here? We need to get off the streets.”

  With a twitch of his head indicating the house behind him, and holding up the suitcase, Garrett climbed into the car, “My house is full of those things. Maybe we could try your house?”

  “It’s the Low Country Overlook.” The woman shook her head. “That’s downtown, and those things are even worse there…they’re everywhere. I’ve driven past two checkpoints with no soldiers…not living anyway. It’s insane.”

  An idea came to Garrett. He’d gone down two weeks ago and applied for a job on the cleaning crew at the baseball stadium. It had heavy gates and was out in the middle of a big open area away from town. He looked at the woman to explain. She was wearing a blouse that was open well past what was proper; he could see two mounds of flesh pushed up and together by a silky looking bra.

  “I know where we can go,” Garrett struggled to keep his voice even. All he’d heard in the woman’s statement was that the soldiers were gone; could it really be that easy? Is this all it took to wipe away all those who’d made fun of him, looked down on him, and treated him unfairly?

  As they drove, he saw more and more of those horrible monsters. Some of them were clustered around a body sprawled on the ground; others walked in that slow, broken way he’d seen up close in his living room. They passed abandoned police cars with their lights flashing, doors open. Empty.

  Doing his best to remain calm, he continued to give directions. So few cars were out…everybody locked inside, obeying martial law without knowing that those in charge were gone…or now part of the problem.

  They rolled into the vast, empty parking lot of Rainbow Stadium. Garrett felt a thrill surge through him. Somewhere in the distance a huge fireball lit up the sky. A mushroom of flame rolled a hundred feet into the night, creating a momentary but false dawn.

  Yes, Garrett smiled as he thought, the world was about to change. A new rule: survival of the strongest. The weak would serve at the pleasure of their masters. Whores…like the one sitting beside him talking to the air—he certainly wasn’t listening—were mere playthings. Toys. Things to be used and discarded when they broke…or were outgrown.

  Turning in the seat, he stared at the pitifully small and helpless whore. Still talking, Garrett scowled. The orange glow of the dashboard lighting made the whore look like a wax figure. She never saw the fist that slammed into her temple.

  The body slumped over, head resting awkwardly against the driver side window. At first he thought he might’ve broken its neck. Leaning closer, he saw the light fog spread across the glass from the nose and mouth.

  Garrett got out of the car and walked around. He opened the door and the body spilled gracelessly to the ground, half in and half out of the car. Unbuckling the seatbelt, he scooped up the unconscious figure and tossed it over his shoulder. He walked until he found a door which he made short work of with a few fierce kicks. Once inside, he looked around. It was a long hallway that led to storage areas and locker rooms. Blocking the door he’d entered was no problem.

  Gunfire, explosions, and screams filled the night. Chaos grew to fill the void of order. Nobody noticed nor had the time to investigate just one more sound of a human being experiencing excruciating pain and unbridled terror.

  ***

  Garrett McCormick sat down on the wooden bench that ran most of the length of the baseball dugout. The remnants of a sign that once read “Rainbow Stadium” hung askew. One wire was all that kept it from joining the clutter on the ground. Even in the shade of the dugout, the hot South Carolina sun still sent a bead of sweat trickling down his spine.

  Taking a deep breath and holding it, he listened. Yes, he could hear the moans and odd cries of the walking dead that roamed outside this rundown—and currently useless—baseball stadium on the outskirts of North Charleston.

  With a heavy, booted foot, he nudged the female that lay sleeping, curled up under the bench. She moaned in her sleep. Yes, Garrett thought, I’m going to have to find a replacement soon. This one was losing its appeal.

  “Wake up,” he growled, this time kicking hard enough to elicit a cry.

  “Please,” the brunette in her mid-twenties rasped, “water.”

  “I got somethin’ you can drink.” Garrett unzipped his jeans and fumbled with the fly to his underwear. A stream of urine splashed the woman’s face. Whether out of fear, or desperation, or thirst, he didn’t know, nor did he care, the woman who told him her name three days ago when he found her on the roof of a gutted mini-mart but he’d not taken the time to remember, opened her mouth. Alternating between gulps and gags, she took in mouthfuls of his piss.

  Garrett sighed in relief as his bladder—full from the two six-packs of warm beer he’d drunk the past couple of hours— emptied. Shaking himself, he enjoyed the look of fear on her face as he paused before stuffing himself back in his pants.

  Garrett took a step back to avoid the rivulet of urine that was inching towards his booted foot through the dust and occasional sunflower seed husk. He stared, albeit apathetically, at the dark haired, skinny-to-the-point-of-malnourished, bruised, and abraded woman who had curled up into herself again. Certainly it was not due to modesty. She’d been debased so severely that her nudity was of little import. No, she was trying to console herself from the horror of these past few days, and the potential horror to come.

  “On your feet,” Garrett said, pushing his enormous frame towards the exit of the sour smelling dugout.

  The skeletal woman staggered to her feet, weak from hunger and thirst. Her face showed the pain of every movement as she willed herself up the stairs.

  “That gate, number seven, we’re going that way,” he pointed, then watched as she slunk past. He looked her up and down from behind. Her back was a Rorschach pattern of bruises. His eyes lingered on the slight curve of her ass. He could see darkened flecks of dried blood from one of his more recent excursions. She hadn’t even cried out that time.

  Yes, it was time for a replacement. She was the third, and had lasted the shortest amount of time. Maybe it was time to leave the neighborhood and seek fresher grounds. He hadn’t even heard any gunshots in two days.

  As they ascended the concrete stairs to the darkened concourse, the moans of the dead grew louder. The smell intensified to a degree that clung to the skin in a rank, sickly sweetness with a strong undercurrent of rot. As they left sunlight behind for the cool darkness, Garrett knew how to facilitate his escape from the stadium and rid himself of this now useless creature.

  As h
e stepped up the last stair and gained the flat concrete walkway that once led countless fathers, sons, mothers, and daughters to beer gardens, popcorn vendors, souvenir stands, and restrooms, Garrett unzipped his pants. Out of reflexive fear, the woman stopped with a shudder and a sigh.

  Garrett grabbed her by the hair and pushed her forward. A long counter was just past the turnstiles. A sign reading “WILL CALL BOOTH” still hung just above the counter in front of a pair of shuttered windows. Her body offered no resistance as he bent her forward.

  He had never been all that interested in anal sex before. Mostly due to some shadowy memories he had from his childhood involving his mom’s best friend’s son. He swiped at those shadows and cleared his mind before it caused him to soften. With an angry thrust of his hips he tore his way into the body now bent to his whim and will.

  No reaction.

  As he shoved himself in and out against the initial, then eventually lessening resistance, he glanced to the right. Scores of milky-eyed onlookers strained to reach through the grate. Hands opened and closed on air, desperately wanting to feed upon the warm flesh only feet away.

  Without warning, he wrapped one huge arm around the waist of the unresponsive creature slouched before him and spun to his right. Those grasping hands found hair. Skin. Now she screamed. As she was pulled flush to the big grate, her arms yanked forward while several sets of teeth sunk into the loose flesh. She screamed louder. Garrett’s thrusting became faster. The screams changed pitch as what was left of one arm came away and disappeared into the ravenous mob.

  Garrett shuddered.

  Pulling back, he shoved himself back into his pants, wiping his semen and blood smeared hands on the back of his jeans.

  Like sharks they converged. Even those several yards away with no hope of reaching the gate came in stumbling, staggering steps. Maybe they can communicate, Garrett thought as he disappeared down a nearby tunnel.