This Rotten World (Book 2): We All Fall Down

by Vocabulariast, The

  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.

  "He needs help!" he yelled to the soldiers. They either didn't hear him or didn't care.

  "Put him down," they yelled, "and strip!" As soon as the family was ushered away to a more private location, Mort helped the barely conscious Blake sit on the ground, and he did as he was told. His dirty body gleamed in the spotlights, and he twirled around so they could see that he wasn't bitten.

  One soldier stepped up close to him, pointed to the cuts on Mort's forehead, and asked, "How did that happen?"

  I used my head to bash through the window of a cop car, he thought. "I jumped through a window."

  "None of those things got you?" the soldier asked.

  "Wouldn't be here if they did," Mort said.

  The soldier looked at Blake on the ground. "What about him? What's his story?"

  "He got his bell rung by an explosion. He needs a doctor."

  "He bit?" the soldier asked.

  "He wouldn't be here if he was, would he?"

  The soldier looked at Mort, and then made up his mind, pointing in a general direction. "There's a triage center back there."

  "Thanks," Mort said as he lifted Blake off the ground. Mort limped in the direction of the Coliseum, his throbbing knee of little concern.

  "Where are we?" Blake managed to mutter, before his head drooped to his chest.

  Mort surveyed his surroundings. He didn't like what he saw. Pale fingers, the flesh rubbed and scratched off of them, curled through the tiny diamonds of the chain-link fence surrounding the Coliseum. Faces devoid of color, with the exception of crimson blood, pressed against the fence, as if they could simply push their way through. There were too many for Mort to count. A clock started ticking in his head. His survival instincts kicked in, and he knew that it would only be a matter of time until the fences came down. He had to get Blake looked at before it was too late to check out.

  Chapter 22: The Last Show on Earth

  Sunlight poured into the back of the Turtle through the turret above. They were all calling it the Turtle now. Ace and his three surviving men threaded their way through the city in the Turtle. Their numbers had swelled somewhat after they had destroyed the helicopter. A handful of survivors had run out to them, waving guns in the air. They were not the sort of folk that appreciated such things as "martial law."

  Beer flowed in the back of the vehicle as Ace strummed his electric guitar. He had liberated it from Beelzebub's after the crash, along with his amplifier. The Turtle was too confined for him to plug it in, and playing the guitar without massive amounts of distortion was something of a turnoff.

  The others talked while Ace strummed, waiting for the next opportunity for chaos. Slutty Rivets drove the vehicle, with Spider in the front passenger seat. Pudge was in the back with Ace, making nice with their new passengers. He seemed relieved not to be stuck with only Ace to talk to. Ace listened to their conversation in the back of his mind while he played his favorite song "Death and Gasoline" on his guitar.

  "So you guys were just hiding in your apartment building the whole time?" Pudge asked, goofy disbelief in his words.

  A man with a thick gray beard nodded his head and said, "Yeah. We didn't know what we were going to do. I guess we thought about just sticking it out and hoping the military would handle it. When we saw you guys take out that helicopter, we knew the military wasn't going to be able to do shit."

  "Have you guys heard anything about other parts of the country?" Pudge asked.

  The man reached down and pulled a can of beer out of a bag. He popped the top and took a sip, drops of beer falling from his mustache to hang in his gray beard. "Ain't you guys seen the news?"

  Pudge shook his head. "We were locked up last night."

  The man with the gray beard just shook his head as if he couldn't believe the words that were coming out of his mouth. "It's all over, man. They got this shit in D.C., New York. Hell, they even got it over in Japan."

  Ace missed his fingering. Whether it was because of what the man said or because Slutty Rivets had just run over a bump in the road, he couldn't say. He wouldn't say. Not even to himself.

  "It's happening everywhere?"

  The bearded man shook his head. "Ain't no place safe, not in town, not outside of town. The only place that is safe would be the Coliseum. There's a station on the radio been broadcasting some nonsense about a rescue camp, but it's all nonsense, just government hooey to get us all to come out of our homes and get ourselves killed."

  "Why would they do that?" Pudge asked.

  The bearded man took a sip from his beer and smiled. "Overpopulation, my friend. There's just too many damn people, not enough jobs, not enough space. Hell, you think the government didn't know about this shit? You think they didn't know that there was a virus out there that could turn people into the living dead? They probably invented it! They probably have the cure out there right now, and they're holding onto it until enough of us have died. By then, there won't be enough of us to do anything about it. And if they do decide to save us, even after all of this mess, the people will probably still thank them."

  Ace smiled down at his guitar. He could see the bearded man's words seep into the other passengers' brains, burrowing deeper, like the roots of a tree, threatening to crack their brains apart as the roots thickened and the ideas gained more and more credence. They wanted answers, and a bearded man drinking a beer was giving them one. Though the answers were ridiculous and worthy of derision, they wanted one so badly that they were willing to accept even the most foolish answer given. Ace thanked the bearded man in his mind.

  "I don't like this government," Ace said.

  The passengers looked at Ace, a skinny man in a leather jacket, dark sunglasses covering his eyes, and his arm draped over an electric guitar. He had been quiet for the whole ride, so when he spoke they listened. Even Slutty Rivets and Spider in the front of the vehicle stopped their chattering.

  "I think this man is right," Ace continued, pointing at the bearded man. "But I also think the time for talk is gone. Now, today, we need actions. Who are they protecting in this Coliseum? You?" Ace pointed at the man with the gray beard.

  "Nah, man," he replied.

  "You?" Ace pointed at Pudge.

  "Do I look protected?"

  "So who are they protecting? They didn't protect me. When you were hiding, trapped inside, they didn't protect you. They protect themselves. They have the way to stop all of this, but they are not using it."

  Ace let his words sink into his passengers' brains, planting more roots, creeping, crawling roots.

  "They hide in this place, this Coliseum, waiting for us to die."

  The passengers' faces were angry now. The roots were swelling in their brains, pushing logic to the side, cracking reality, and casting Ace in a new light.

  "I say it's time to take it back. If they won't protect us, then we must protect ourselves."

  "Right on," the gray-bearded man yelled. Others joined in, echoing his sentiment.

  Pudge straightened his glasses and looked up at Ace, who was now standing, fever hanging on his lips. "How do we do that?"

  "If they want refugees, then we will bring them refugees." Ace looked down at his guitar and smiled. "We're going to put on a little concert. It's the last show on earth, boys and girls. And you're all invited."

  Chapter 23: Droppin' Like Flies

  The Annies were drawn by the helicopters. McCutcheon knew that. The Annies did not sleep. McCutcheon knew that. The Annies wanted to eat live flesh. McCutcheon knew that as well. What Mc
Cutcheon didn't know was that the Annies could have such a demoralizing effect on soldiers that had been hardened by years of service overseas.

  These were men that had seen and done things that most civilians could only begin to imagine. Yet, within the last four hours, he had received note of several suicides, a major outbreak in the base, and one notice of an entire chopper crew going AWOL, in addition to the ones that they had lost earlier in the day.

  McCutcheon could understand the chopper crew. They had the means, they had the chance, and they were now gone, and there was no way to get them back. He envied them. If he could get away with it, he would probably try to make his way back to Colorado and find his wife and daughter.

  What he couldn't understand were the men and women who killed themselves in their bunks. They found one man hanging from a pipe in the bathrooms, his legs jittering and kicking as if he were alive. He wasn't though, as the two men had found out when they attempted to cut him down. You couldn't blame them for trying to save him. It was an unfortunate situation, but the reality was that one man's selfish act had led to a mass panic resulting in the death of a couple hundred soldiers.

  After they had dispatched the suicidal soldier and all the victims of the outbreak, McCutcheon had to deal with an even worse problem. Two soldiers had been bitten during the outbreak, and he had them quarantined. He gave them one hour to get their affairs in order while a soldier stood guard over them, a rifle in hand. When their time was up, he collected their letters, saluted the men, and put the gun to their heads himself. They had only been bitten, but this was the protocol now, immediate termination of the compromised. Kill 'em, he thought. Simple bites and scratches had ended these men's lives. Before they could turn, he had ended theirs.

  McCutcheon wasn't mad. It was all just a matter of understanding reality. The reality was that outside of the perimeter, there were thousands of dead, honing in on their own encampment. Whether they knew they were there or whether they were simply following the helicopters didn't matter. The end result was the same. Outside of the camp, the dead gathered, their faces pressed against the fence. Men, women, and children of the United States of America, were now his number one enemy, and they were loud.

  The Terminal was filled with the constant buzz of their moaning and sighing. The noise seemed to cut through every sort of barrier that he had put between himself and the milling masses. It was a plaintive sound, one that found its way inside a man's brain and rattled around, until all you could think about were the thousands of decaying corpses that were pressed up against the Terminal's fortifications. He understood why a man would kill himself after listening to it for hours. Their situation seemed hopeless, and to be honest, McCutcheon's number one concern was no longer saving Portland, Oregon. It was now to do right by the soldiers under his command. They were outnumbered, they were under-supplied and understaffed... and they were falling apart.

  People were slipping away, either by disappearing or by killing themselves. Something had to be done, but what?

  McCutcheon sat in his chair, the voices of the dead threading through his mind and turning his thoughts dark. The latest soldier to kill himself had done a poor job of it. Slit wrists, followed by a crazy stumble through camp, during which he had latched onto several people, some of whom would later wind up locked in a room writing their final words to someone they loved, who may or may not be alive or dead. At least the first guy had the common decency to hang himself and prevent his corpse from wandering all over the damn Terminal.

  McCutcheon sat up in his chair and pawed through the letters, his fingers still reeking of gunpowder. He hoped he wouldn't have to shoot anyone else that day. The letters were sappy, showed little creativity, and were utterly heartbreaking in their simplicity. He stuffed the letters into a manila envelope and left it unsealed. There would be more. He knew that, and it wasn't like the damn post office was running anymore. He tossed the envelope on his desk and walked over to the coffee machine in the corner.

  Some of the communications officers were there, talking in hushed tones, their faces gray and ashen.

  "What's the word, men?"

  Neither of the men could look him in the eye. That was not a good thing.

  McCutcheon grabbed the coffee pot, and dumped some mud into his cup. For a second, he thought about just drinking the coffee black for the men's sake, but only a maniac would let the army's supernatural coffee concoction slide down their throat without a dose of sugar or cream. He grabbed the powdered creamer on the counter, and dumped it into his cup, followed by one plain white packet of sugar.

  He could feel the communications officers watching him out of the corner of his eye. He stirred the coffee with a plain white swizzle stick, and when he couldn't stand their staring anymore, he said, "What is it?"

  The stockier of the two communications officers looked at him and stammered out a reply. "We were just talking about contingency plans, sir."

  McCutcheon laughed without looking at the men. "Oh, really? And what did you two geniuses come up with, all on your own?"

  The taller communications officer spoke. "We were just wondering when the mission would be called. I mean we've made almost no ground so far and..."

  McCutcheon stopped stirring his coffee and turned to face the men. "Stop right there, private. Your first mistake was talking in the first place. Your second mistake was trying to figure out something that is far beyond your pay grade. But your biggest mistake is walking around here flapping your gums about contingency plans."

  McCutcheon grabbed his cup of coffee and tossed it into the metal sink. He slammed the coffee cup on the counter and looked the tall man in the eye, boring a hole into his head with his stare. "You want out of here? Huh?" The men said nothing, their eyes large and round. "There are three ways out of here, private. One, you die. Two, you drop your shit and walk out of here, and you die alone. Three, you stop your sniveling, you get back on those comms, and you help us start winning this war."

  McCutcheon strode up to the tall man, and though the comms officer had some six inches on him, McCutcheon could feel him shrink with every syllable. "Now get your ass back on those comms, and if I hear any more of your uninformed suppositions about tactics, you'll find yourself hiking home through Annie territory with nothing but your dick in your hand. You got that?"

  "Sir, yes, sir." The communications officer saluted McCutcheon and turned on his heel, heading back to the small room where all of the communications equipment had been set up. The smaller communications officer did the same, and when they had both disappeared, McCutcheon set about the business of redoing his coffee, which he had only dumped purely for theatrical reasons.

  It was worse than he thought. The men were squirrelly, he could feel it. The two communications officers weren't just discussing contingency plans. They were feeling out the situation, testing his mettle, seeing if any cracks were forming in his resolve. This was how it went. This was why they were doomed.

  In a normal confrontation on foreign soil, this situation never happened. Soldiers did not simply drop their rifle and walk off into foreign lands. But they weren't in a foreign land. These men were home, their boots firmly walking on the dirt that they had each vowed to protect. Home was a stolen car away, and at the rate they were going, there wouldn't be an Army to bring them back in. First came the talk of contingency plans. Then came the talk of disappearing. Then came the outright defiance and a broken chain of command. McCutcheon was fairly sure that there was nothing he could do about any of this. The ball was dropping. He could either get out of the way or get crushed by it.

  "Fuck," McCutcheon said as he took a sip of mud. "Not enough sugar."

  Chapter 24: Barbarians at the Gate

  The first thing that Murph saw on the camera was the busted gate lying on the ground, entangled in the wheels of a pick-up truck. The gate had been a black iron thing that had always looked out of place. It was the type of gate that seemed more appropriate for a mansion than a power plant
. The gate was affixed to a couple of concrete guard shacks. As long as Murph could remember, there had never been any guards at the power plant, just a magnetic reader that scanned their work badges. Now the gate was twisted underneath the truck, while the guard shack itself was caved in by the front fender of the pick-up truck. He had no idea how long the truck had been there because he had no idea how long he had been lost in the hypnotic glow of the boiler.

  The doors to the truck were wide open, as if someone had fled the scene, and black exhaust still erupted from the truck's muffler. Bodies lay scattered about the desert ground, apparently thrown from the back of the pick-up in the collision. Sitting behind the wheel was a slumped form. Murph recognized the bony forearms immediately, even over the grainy camera footage. It was Skinny Tom. What the fuck was he doing?

  Murph watched as the form behind the steering wheel sat up and slid from the driver's seat. It stumbled drunkenly, and Murph could see that Skinny Tom was injured. The fingers of his right hand were missing, but he didn't seem to notice. Then Murph saw another form climb out of the cab of the truck, a little boy, his arm dripping blood and a blank look on his face that was a perfect match for the look plastered across Skinny Tom's face. On the black and white monitor, it looked as if the boy's overalls had been stained in oil, but Murph was certain it was more blood.

  The figures that had been thrown from the truck began to move. They must have been packed into the back of the pick-up like sardines. There were ten that Murph could see. He watched as Skinny Tom knelt next to a woman whose forehead was bleeding. He wrapped his arms around her and pulled her close, as if for a hug. Then her arms began to flail in the air, her head thrown back and her mouth wide open. Murph couldn't hear the scream, but it felt as if he could.