This Rotten World (Book 3): No More Heroes

by Jacy Morris

  It wasn't the sort of look where people just stared at you. It was the type of look where they couldn't even stand looking at you. Andy's eyes seemed to just slide off of him as if he didn't exist. Well fuck him. If he wants to be an asshole, he can do it somewhere else.

  But then there were the others to think about. Mort, Lou, Blake, Clara and Joan. They were out there somewhere, and while the people here were nice and all, they seemed almost helpless, as if they lived in a fantasy land comprised of fairy tales. And there it was again, that nagging feeling like he was about to make a very terrible decision. It was the same type of feeling he had felt when he had escaped from his apartment using the rusting fire escape... which had of course collapsed behind him as soon as he had gotten off of it. But he didn't have a choice then. He had a choice now. He didn't have to risk his life if he didn't want to.

  "What do you think?" he asked, his meal suddenly losing its appeal.

  "About what?" Amanda said around a mouthful of canned peas.

  "Should we stay here?"

  Amanda looked at him, and the smile left her face. He felt like a bastard for bringing up something that would make her unhappy, but he wanted to have this conversation before Tejada and the others asked what they were planning to do. He didn't want to have to figure it out on the spot. They needed a plan.

  "Do you want to stay here?" she asked.

  "It seems... normal here. Or as normal as any place can be," he said.

  "As normal as any place can be where all the buildings are filled with the dead."

  Rudy shrugged. "Everywhere we go is going to be filled with the dead. But at least here, no more are getting in."

  "That's true," Amanda said. She looked around, trying to get used to the modern building. Its heartless architecture was fine for looking at, or even working in, but she couldn't imagine herself living there. "It's so weird here."

  "How is it weird?" Rudy asked.

  "It's just so lifeless. Everyone here seems afraid."

  "That'll change," Rudy said.

  "So you want to stay?"

  "I think I do."

  "What about the others?" she asked.

  "You mean the soldiers or Lou and the others?"

  "Both I suppose."

  "Tejada and the others will be fine without us. It's not like we've been fitting in or anything. We're basically baggage to them. And Lou and the others... we don't even know where they are, or if they are even still alive?"

  Amanda nodded and looked at the soldiers at the other end of the table. "Then maybe we should stay. Maybe this place will grow on me."

  "It'll be nice to not have to worry."

  "Yeah, I suppose so," she said. Rudy didn't think she sounded sold on the prospect, but it was a start. Things would get better.

  ****

  Tejada had been chewing on the issue more than he had been chewing his food. He didn't like this place. He didn't like all the glass, all the buildings, the poor sight lines, the people who seemed about as capable of defending themselves as he was of shitting gold.

  But his men were sad... beaten. They had seen three of their number die in the course of three days. How many more days was it to the coast? Who could say? A week? A month? How many of them would be left by the end of a journey like that? Quigs, Kazinsky, Ramirez... all dead. But they had been put down at least, not left to wander the world as rotting corpses. Allen had assured him that he had put Quigs to rest. That was something.

  Now, here he was at a crossroads. Stay here, with these soft people who looked on him and his men as nothing more than hired help or make his way out in the real world, always looking over his shoulder to see if death was on his heels.

  They could use him here, him and his men. There were women here, the promise of a future if the hordes of Portland never found their way over the hills. Maybe if they cleared this place... but no. The decision wasn't his.

  He pushed his plate to the side, and decided now was as good a time as any to clear the air. When he looked up, he found the soldiers waiting for him to speak. Tejada wondered how long they had been staring at him and waiting. He looked each of them in the eye before he began. "I want you to remember this. I am not in charge of you. You are all men. You are all capable of making your own decisions. There is no such thing as going AWOL anymore. The entire world is AWOL. There is no such thing as duty and honor, there is only living."

  "Is there such a thing as loyalty?" Epps asked. He was a bright one. Perhaps the smartest of the bunch, and Tejada knew that Epps would know exactly where his speech was headed.

  "Loyalty is for dogs. You are not dogs. You are men, and I want you to understand something else before we go any further. Learn this, and learn it well. There are no heroes in this world, only the living. I'll let you chew on that for a second."

  He could see them thinking, digesting the words that he had said. They were hard words, but he felt they were true, and that's what they needed here, the truth. Though he had said loyalty was for dogs, he knew, other than the gear on his body and in his bag, it was all he really had. The only thing that kept him going was his loyalty to his men. "Do you understand what I'm saying?" he asked.

  "I understand you, sir." It was Allen. The soldier hadn't said more than a few words since they had lost Quigs getting over the wall. "When Quigs fell off the wall, I had it in my head that I could save him, that I could jump off the ladder and somehow keep him alive. But that was a hero talking, and I'm no hero. But I'm alive. I have to carry the guilt of that for the rest of my days, but I'm alive. So, yes, sir, I understand you one-hundred percent."

  "Then hopefully, you'll understand this as well. Tomorrow, you are each going to have to make your own decision about what you want to do. Do you want to stay here, or do you want to go back over the wall? It's not my decision to make, and I don't want you following me because you think you owe me something or because I saved your life once. That's a foolish way to operate in this world; it's a heroic way to operate, and goddammit, this world doesn't need heroes. It needs the living. So you decide what's going to be the best way for you to live, because I sure as hell am not going to make that decision for you."

  The table lapsed into silence, each man lost in his thoughts.

  "Have you made up your mind, sir?"

  It was Walt. All the men turned to look at him, for he was one of them now. Tejada nodded his head at the young man. "Yes, I have."

  "Well?" Walt prodded.

  "Tomorrow, I'm going back over that wall." The soldiers nodded, and he knew several of them would come along with him, but he also knew that some of them would stay , and maybe they would be able to salvage this place before the lights went dark for good.

  Several of the men just nodded, and he knew that they were now deep in thought. That was good. That's exactly what he wanted. "We'll meet in the morning, say our goodbyes." He looked every man in the eye, one by one. "And I'm dead serious about this. I don't want you following me out of some misguided sense of duty. If this looks like the type of place you want to be, then be here. Life's too short now to be playing by some playbook that didn't save our ass in the first place."

  Tejada turned his back on his men and headed toward the area of the building where he had seen all of those couches and comfy chairs. He was looking forward to sleeping in something that was actually soft for once.

  ****

  Never known for being the brightest star in the sky, Beacham sat on the table bench stunned. He couldn't understand what Tejada was saying about heroes and loyalty and all those other words he had never quite grasped. He kind of knew what those things were. They were good things, or at least they used to be. Now, Tejada made them sound like bad things.

  All Beacham knew was that in the morning, he was going to have to make a choice, and for him it wasn't much of a choice at all. His arm was busted. He would die on the road. He had never broken his arm before, and he didn't know how long it was going to take to heal, but he was pretty sure that if he fo
llowed along with the others, he would die and become one of those things.

  The idea of the others leaving him behind scared him. He hadn't been alone in a very long time, and the people on the Nike campus seemed smart, like the type of people that might look down on him or treat him badly.

  He imagined that without his army friends, he would be stuck in a situation not unlike when he was younger, when everyone seemed to want to make fun of him for being slow. Somehow he had managed to fumble his way through school, whether it was because the teachers felt sorry for him or not, he didn't know. But then, when the world had opened up before him, offering up all the opportunity in the world, he had found that he had no clue what to do. He had no direction, no desire. He just wanted to eat and be alive.

  So his mom, unable to keep feeding him and taking care of him with the money she made working at McDonald's, had talked him into joining the army. That was probably the best decision of his life. He didn't have to think so much. There were other people for that. He was what they called a grunt, just a body capable of doing certain things that needed to be done. Best of all, no one gave him a hard time because he always did his job.

  When the President had said he didn't have a job anymore, Beacham didn't know what to do. He watched the other soldiers bustling about, talking about going north or south or east, and he had no idea where he was. He didn't know which direction his mom was or how far he would have to go to get back home. So he had just sat, waiting for orders. If it wasn't for Tejada, he would still be sitting on that box, waiting for someone to tell him what to do.

  But Tejada had asked him to come along, not as a soldier, but as a man. Tejada respected him for some reason, when no one ever had. Even the other soldiers never actually treated him like an equal. They all knew they were smarter than him, but he tried to be nice. That was the key. If you were dumb and mean, like his daddy had been, then no one would like you. But if you were dumb and smart, then some people would stand up for you when you needed it. His Mom had told him that, and he had generally found it to be true.

  He listened as the others spoke, weighing the pros and cons of going or staying. All Beacham knew was that he liked it here with the walls around the place. He liked knowing that his arm would have the time to mend. He liked that there were more people here.

  Arnold Beacham had always liked people watching. He often, in his free time, would just go to a park, sit on a bench and watch the people go by. He would sit there, listening to the wind as it rushed through the trees, as people went about their daily lives. He would create stories about where they were going and what they were doing.

  Maybe staying here wouldn't be so bad. He could watch the people some more. With that, he made up his mind and rose up from the table.

  "Hey, where you going, Beacham?" Epps asked.

  "I'm gonna go get some sleep."

  "Are you going with us tomorrow?" Epps asked.

  Beacham shrugged uncomfortably. He didn't want to make Epps not like him. "I think I'm going to stay." He gestured to his good arm. "At least until this is better."

  Epps just nodded, knowing that it was probably the right decision. Still, Beacham saw the disappointment on his face. He turned away from it and went to find a place to sleep. On the lower floor of the building, he found a couch that was long enough to accommodate his giant body. He lay down, resting his head on his good arm, ignoring the scratchy feel of his beard on his forearm.

  It was a long time until he finally managed to fall asleep. In his mind, he kept seeing Epps' face, and he imagined them sitting around the cafeteria table making fun of him and calling him dumb. He knew they wouldn't do that, but he was still suspicious.

  When he first heard the screams, he couldn't tell if he was dreaming or awake. The building's lights had been dimmed at some point. As he sat up, he had trouble trying to figure out what he was looking at. All around him, there was action. People were running and screaming. He saw a slow-moving Annie tear into one of the Nike people. When the smell of blood hit him, he knew he wasn't dreaming.

  "Help me!" a woman yelled, locking eyes with Beacham. Her hand shot out to him, though he was a good ten feet away, and an Annie's gray hands pulled the woman in for a bite. She screamed in pain as it took a chunk of her shoulder meat. When the blood began to run down her dingy pink shirt, turning it a dark red, he finally understood what was happening.

  He popped to his feet, gasping in pain as his nervous system reminded him that his arm was broken. He drew his pistol with his good hand and thumbed the safety off. There were screams coming from all parts of the building, but he could only focus on the middle-aged lady in front of him, with her pleading eyes. He held the pistol up and squeezed the trigger. Her brains covered the glass window behind her. Then Beacham leveled his pistol at the Annie that had killed the woman. As he was about to squeeze the trigger, he felt something pulling him backwards by his shoulders. His shot went wide, and he screamed as he attempted to regain his balance by windmilling his arms.

  His broken arm fell from his sling, and Beacham grit his teeth against the pain which was so intense that it made his head swim. He felt more hands on his body, trying to pull him down, and then he began to panic. He held his pistol up, firing at anything that moved, alive or dead. Round after round he fired, missing more often than not, and still the arms gripped him, their weight bearing him down.

  When his gun clicked empty, he spun around, waving it at his attackers' heads. He tried to push them off, but with only one good arm it was impossible. They were rotting things, smaller than him, but still strong. He counted four or five. It was hard to see between the cold hands that were pawing at his face. He cracked the largest one in the temple with the butt of his gun, but it didn't do enough damage to even stagger it. Before he could take another swing, he screamed in pain. He looked down as his broken arm was bent backwards. The corpse of an old man held onto it as it backed away gnawing at his arm.

  The pain was too much, and he screamed even louder as he watched the old man try to walk away with his broken arm, the weight of the other Annies holding Beacham in place. The skin of his arm stretched, and just before one of the Annies dug a hand into his eyes, he saw the skin tear and snap apart like an overtaxed rubber band, and then it was off, the rotten old man falling away, holding his arm like a trophy.

  He finally fell to the ground, his screams just one among many that echoed throughout the building.

  ****

  Amanda awoke with wild eyes, panic fluttering in her chest. She immediately reached over to Rudy, shaking him by his large shoulder. He sat up, gasping for air as if he had been drowning.

  "What is going..." he began, the words dying on his lips as more screams began. He scrambled to his feet, and Amanda followed.

  They were in a dark office in the large building. The thick office door was closed, but they could see a sliver of light underneath it.

  "Shhh," Amanda said not wanting to draw the attention of any of the dead, for that was the only thing that it could be.

  "I'm going to take a look," Rudy said. He stepped gingerly across the carpeted floor, avoiding the shadowy shapes of office furniture. When he reached the door, he paused with his hand on the door handle. The screaming in the building intensified, and it seemed closer now. From other parts of the building, they heard the sound of gunfire.

  Amanda felt like her heart was going to burst out of her chest like one of those aliens in that old science fiction movie. She couldn't quite remember the name of it. She placed her hands on her chest in the hopes that she could keep her heart where it belonged.

  Rudy pressed the door handle downward and opened it just a crack. Blue-white light flooded inward, and Rudy, ever so carefully, opened the door wide enough so that he could poke his head out and see what was happening.

  Immediately, he withdrew, slowly closing the door behind him.

  In the darkness, Amanda could see him shaking his head. "What is it?" she hissed.

  "They'
re out there."

  "Should we bar the door?"

  "I think so."

  Quietly, they moved across the room, grabbing the edge of the only substantial furniture in the room, a giant desk that seemed much too large for the size of the office they were in. They half slid, half carried the thing across the room, and then they pressed it against the door. Amanda stood quaking, her arms pressed against the desk and her head hanging. She felt Rudy's soft hand on her arm, and she clung to him.

  The screams reverberated off the walls, and she was glad he was here with her, safe in this space, just the two of them. They whispered about random things from the world they had left behind. They talked in hushed whispers, sharing secrets like children trapped in a closet while playing hide and seek, blocking out the horrors on the other side of the door. But the horrors were still there, and they would have to face them sooner or later.

  ****

  Walt, formerly Andy, ran with Day and Gregg. To Walt, they seemed to be the two most normal people of all the soldiers, which was probably why he liked them the best. They didn't think about him. He never caught them analyzing his existence, trying to categorize who or what he was. The others did, but never Gregg or Day. They accepted him as just another person.

  They rounded a corner, and suddenly, a wall of the dead rose up before them. Walt reached for his pistol, but Gregg put his hand out and yelled, "Don't! There's people on the other side." Walt could see people rushing about in a hallway on the other side of the dead that might as well be the other side of the moon. In the tight confines of the hallway, their guns were now a last resort. Walt told them to step back, and he set his bowling ball into motion, spinning and sliding as he built the momentum of the eight-pound ball. He was thankful the building had tall ceilings; it gave him more room to maneuver. When he felt the moment arise, when the ball's force was ready to be unleashed, he swung it at the first of the dead. The poor thing's head caved in like a watermelon dropped from a three-story building, its left eye springing outward on its optic nerve as the pressure of the blow forced it outwards.