by Brown, TW
Occassionally, one of her former crew would find its way to the open deck. Unable to navigate the surface with any real coordination, the figure would stumble, fall, and eventually roll over the side, landing in the blue-green ocean water with a graceless splash.
Some of these creatures would eventually emerge from the surf and struggle to the refuge of the fine white sand of the beach. Others simply vanished.
***
Juan swung the sword in a sweeping arc, cleanly decapitating both zombies in one motion. He snatched his duffle bag from where he’d dropped it moments before and resumed running down the stairs. He saw a relatively clear path that would take him to the docks. Once there, he would have several boats to choose from.
Juan had never been on a boat in his life. Hell, he hadn’t been on as much as a rubber raft. In all honesty, he was a bit frightened of the water. He paused to glance over his shoulder. The leading edge of the pack of zombies that had been following him ever since he’d abandoned the white transport van he used to get away from the madness of the county jail—namely Gary Messer, and Travis Reynolds—was an uneven wave of bodies surging his way.
Dodging the outstretched arms of a zombie that had, in life, been an eight- or nine-year-old little girl, Juan reached the bottom of the switchback stairs that brought him near the water’s edge. About half of the slips were empty—although Juan didn’t personally know the term—but plenty of boats remained.
Tossing his bag over the ten-foot high Cyclone fence, Juan slowed just slightly to gauge his chances, and decided they were as good as they would get. He jumped, and, in a few less than graceful maneuvers, was safely up and over the fence.
As he passed what looked like some sort of guard shack, Juan glanced inside. Behind a Plexiglas panel were several sets of keys hanging from numbered hooks. Scanning the area, he made out numbers on small, square signs located along the dock. Seeing a boat that looked nice, but not too large, Juan broke through the Plexiglas, grabbed the key hanging from that corresponding number, and headed to his prize.
Using caution, he approached the boat. There was an open cabin atop a closed door that would lead to who-knows-what below. The tell-tale stench of the dead was slight and seemed to only be in the breeze coming at him from the fence that was quickly filling with dozens of zombies all clutching and biting at the wire mesh. He felt just a bit of apprehension as he stepped onto the boat. Leaning cautiously down the three stairs that would take him below to a narrow passage with a door on each side and one at the end, he sniffed.
Nothing.
Deciding that he could handle anything that may be lurking behind the three closed doors, he dropped his bag and climbed the ladder up to the bridge. The controls, while different from a car’s, at least appeared to be simple. There were a few gauges that made no sense, but then Juan wasn’t intent on spending too much time on this boat.
Finding the ignition, he slid in the key and turned. A lot of sputtering and a few noises that he couldn’t identify were his only reward. Just as he was about to give up, his eyes landed on a small cubbyhole off to one side. Inside were a few loose pages as well as a dog-eared and coffee-stained owner’s manual. The picture on the front looked a lot like the boat he was on!
Deciding that there was no way out of his current mess other than to take to the river, Juan set the manual on the big captain’s chair and went about untying all the mooring lines. Using a long aluminum pole, he shoved away from the dock and began to drift lazily out into the open harbor of the marina. Twenty minutes later he was chugging up river. He didn’t know exactly where he would go, and at the moment, he didn’t care.
***
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 he 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.
Moments later he was gazing out a mostly clear archway. A few stragglers remained, but nothing he couldn’t take down or outdistance. Fumbling in the pocket of his leather duster he produced his bolt cutter. With a squeeze, the padlock hasp was severed. Pulling the grate open, he shoved the first clutching corpse back. His other hand came up with a metal spike.
A few of the zombies stumbled through the gate as Garrett strode past with as close to indifference as a person could while navigating his way through a loose cluster of partially masticated, animated, walking corpses. Within moments, the parking lot was behind him. Zigzagging through the neighborhood, he finally managed to shake the growing mob.
A large raindrop splatted on his nose. Garrett paused and glanced skyward. A big storm was coming. He glanced around for suitable shelter and decided on a dreary looking tavern. There was a second floor that he could gain access to and leave minimal evidence of having passed. He took a quick look around to ensure none of those things would see.
Tomorrow he would seek a new companion. Eventually, he imagined he would run out. By then, perhaps he’d just walk into a pack of those things and let it end.
“Nah,” Garrett laughed quietly as he slid the window open to discover a musty office…and several unopened boxes of Jim Beam.
***
Jenifer Slaten stared at the ground. Her toes curled up reflexively as she stepped onto the hot sand. All around her, the whimpers and cries of the remaining breathers could be heard. Those cries drifted on the salt air of what had once been paradise.
Atlantis.
Now, the once crystal pools were filled with slime…or worse. The resort where her mother had recently landed a job as the CFO was mostly burned down. The landmark ziggurat was really all that remained in an undamaged state.
Standing atop the monolith was Adaire. As usual, he was surrounded by no less than ten of his machete-wielding henchmen. Kneeling, or, more accurately, sprawled, at their feet lay Liza Gordy. Liza was their most recent “example.” Her crime was refusal to willfully be bedded by Adaire. Her refusal alone was not really the problem. In all truth, Adaire liked it when you struggled. The real crime was that Liza managed to bite Adaire. It was a shame that Liza wasn’t one of the infected. Jenifer hadn’t seen for herself, but she heard that part of his ear was missing.
For just a moment, Jenifer almost smiled. Only, it seemed the muscles in her face that assisted with that most basic function had forgotten how to work. She’d seen so much death, pain, and sadness in the past weeks?…months? She couldn’t even remember what day it was. She had no idea that her eighteenth birthday had come and gone two days ago.
Adaire was bellowing something through his megaphone in his thick Jamaican accent. Jenifer didn’t listen. Maybe some of the others still did, but she’d heard it enough. Like when her dad had “stolen food from the people.” It had been an orange, and he’d given it to her one morning as a surprise. Only, somebody had told. Then it was her mom for refusing to “perform services for the people.” She had actually broken free from the escorts taking her to Adaire’s cabana. Both had stood atop the pyramid as their “crimes” were announced. The verdict decided. The sentence carried out.
The long slide that once sparkled as water cascaded down, carrying happy tourists into the depths of an encapsulated tunnel where sharks drifted past, was now a chute that led to hordes of the dead. Then there were the screams. No longer of the thrilled patron; now, the screams were of pain. The sounds made when your flesh is gouged away in handfuls and torn by the teeth of ghouls.
Jenifer would not watch as Liza was tossed down the slide. And, even though she could hear the screams, she would not listen. Instead, her mind focused on the moans of the dead gathered against the hastily built barricades that kept this area of the once fantastic resort free from roamers.
Glancing skyward, she could see a smudge on the eastern horizon. Perhaps the rumor was true; a hurricane was bearing down on their island. She dared to offer up a prayer that it would hit them with everything it had. That way, when she pulled open the service gate near the living quarters, it was unlikely that she would be discovered. Even better…she may actually have a chance at escape.
***
Thad stared out the window of his room and tried to admire the beautiful California sunshine. If it weren’t for the sea of undead that stretched out for hundreds of yards in every direction, it would actually be a beautiful day.
“Come back to bed,” a sleep-slurred voice purred from behind him.
“There’s more and more every day, Bridgette.” Thad let the curtain flutter back into place and turned around.
They thought they’d been so clever; the parking lot full of cars wedged in like a Tetris puzzle. The hills leading up to the plateau that their hotel rested upon was strung with rows of razor wire. Only, those things didn’t care about any of that. They were oblivious as flesh was torn away. Eventually they were able to free themselves and inch closer.
When that mob of several thousand converged, there was nothing they could do. Sure, they’d torched a bunch, but the ones behind the first wave just kept coming and eventually, smothered the flames with their numbers. The ones trampled underfoot actually made their way under the parked cars. Hundreds of heads now poked up from between the cars. More continued to make their way on top of the cars. And nobody would say it, but it looked like those damned things are learning!
Thad remembered the first time he realized the horror of the possibility that something in those undead minds must in fact be functioning in at least some primitive way. He watched a young girl that had been no more than ten when something had eaten off the side of her face and burrowed into her stomach. She stood at the edge of the cars just swaying back and forth. Then, one of the zombies beside her toppled and fell. She stepped onto her fallen comrade and then just tipped over, sprawling on the hood of the car she’d stood in front of for countless hours apparently waiting for just such an event. Then, she stepped to the edge of the car’s hood and paused. He remembered waiting to see her stumble into the gap between her current and the next vehicle. Instead, she toppled forward, sprawling on the next car’s trunk! Two days later, she was halfway across the sea of parked cars. Obviously somebody else noticed, because a shot rang out from a few floors below him. She toppled back and vanished as a bullet blew out the back of her skull.
Nobody wanted to admit it, but others had since come across the cars in the same manner. Some were shot, but as the numbers grew exponentially, none of the snipers kept up with the task for a couple of reasons. First, it was becoming clear that it was as pointless as spitting in the ocean. Second, fallen bodies acted as bridges.
Thad glanced at his watch. Sitting at the foot of the bed, he reached down for his balled-up socks and began to dress.
“Do you have to go?” Bridgette sat up and slunk over behind him, wrapping her arms around his waist, resting her cheek on his left shoulder.
“Yep,” Thad tried to hide his boredom.
“Why do you always get these jobs?” she said in her annoying baby-doll voice that she thought was cute, but actually made his skin crawl.
“What’s to look at better than this?” Bridgette rose up on her knees and turned his head with one hand.
Thad’s eyes drifted from her pretty oval face framed by thick, chestnut-brown hair, and eyes the color of amber. He paused at her round breasts with perfect pink nipples and unconsciously licked his lips. Down to her perfectly curved waist that seemed built just to fit his hands. Further down, and he felt something stir down below at the sight of her smoothly shaved—
“Well?” her voice brought his eyes back to hers.
“Huh?”
“I said, it’s about time you told that militant bitch to find a new gopher. Every shit job that comes up seems to get your name attached to it. It’s almost like she is trying to get you killed, and every single time, you just nod and do what she asks. You might be fucking me, but she sure as hell seems to be fucking you,” Bridgette said with uncharacteristic anger.
“And she can think that as long as she wants.” Thad stood, pulling on his pants and buttoning them. “All the way up to the point when I am ready.”
“Ready for what? How come you won’t tell me anything about this plan?” Bridgett crossed her arms across her breasts and gave an over exaggerated pout. “Don’t you trust me?”
“Explicitly, pet,” Thad said, and kissed her right on that jutting lower lip. “But my experience is that women love to gossip. You could let out one sliver of information by total accident…and that would put an end to my little scheme in a hurry.”
Not waiting for a retort or further questions, he turned and headed out, grabbing his leather jacket from the chair next to the door on the way. JoJo was at the end of the hall waiting with two packs and their weapon belts.