This Rotten World (Book 3): No More Heroes

by Jacy Morris

  "Everyone I trust is in that building behind me," Allen said.

  "That's smart. My name is Nathan, by the way."

  "I'm Izzy," Allen said holding out his hand.

  "Well, nice to meet you," Nathan said, turning to head back inside the building.

  "What happened to your face?" Allen asked.

  "Oh, this is what happens when you do something that Queen Diana doesn't approve of." Nathan walked off, his head held high.

  Allen liked the guy. What he didn't like was the thought that Diana would throw a beating a man's way simply because he had spoken up. He shrugged his shoulders, wondering what would happen on the morrow when those people turned out to train under the watchful eye of Tejada and his soldiers?

  He smiled as he thought about it. Those people were in for one hell of a surprise. Army training doesn't start out as guns and fistfights. It's a slow build. In all likelihood, Tejada would have them running the perimeter of the campus for hours on end. It would be weeks before they learned anything useful or even touched a weapon.

  That was by design though. A good soldier had to be indoctrinated. They didn't need to be broken the way they did it in the old days, but they needed to suffer with their fellow man. They needed to get used to following orders so they could function as a machine rather than as a group of individuals.

  One thing was for sure. It was going to be a long time until they were free of this place. He looked westward. Hills and mountains rose up in the distance, and he wanted to be walking there. He wanted out of this death trap where the dead roamed in numbers that they could never hope to defeat. He wanted to make it to the beach, find a woman that looked like Diana, but who wasn't totally fucked up. He wanted to have a life, but first they were going to have to train these people to survive on their own. It was the right thing to do.

  They could have left in the middle of the night, taking all the weapons they wanted, but Tejada was too honorable for that. He wasn't going to allow the people of Nike to die, and without someone to teach them how to survive in this world, that's exactly what would happen. Diana might know how to scheme and bully people, but if she ever wanted this place to truly be safe, she was going to have to learn. He just hoped she would learn to be a good leader as well. There was no better example for that than Tejada.

  The sky began to turn gray above. He felt a drop of rain on his face, and then he turned to walk inside. They wouldn't be getting out of here until the spring by his estimation. He didn't look forward to a winter fighting off the dead, but it was better than fighting them from behind a wall than in the mountains and the snow. The door clicked shut behind him.

  Chapter 20: Interrupted Sleep

  Joan sat with Theresa in the trailer that she had shared with first Lou and then Clara. Katie and Clara slept fitfully, but Joan felt that something was wrong. Joan herself was exhausted, her hands cracked and dry from washing them over and over with soap after putting the two survivors back together.

  She had shared her fears of infection with Theresa, who despite their rocky beginnings, had shown herself as one of the only women in the compound with any common sense. She wasn't just a breeder. She was smart in the way that a particularly tough street cat might be smart. She would survive no matter what.

  Now Joan was exhausted. Her head drooped on her chest. She wanted to keep watch over her two friends, but she was struggling. She had finally come to terms with the fact that Katie was indeed a friend. After all, she had saved them, saved Clara from a death that would have broken her heart. She drifted in and out of consciousness, the day's events catching up to her.

  Her eyes closed, and Theresa took the rifle from her hands, letting her sleep.

  ****

  Theresa watched the two forms on the bed. They had tied them down, making sure that they weren't able to get at one another should they awaken as the living dead. The women had lapsed into unconsciousness in the courtyard. They had not stirred even when they had carried them into the trailer. Theresa could see that neither woman was well. Their breathing was heavy and raspy.

  Sweat poured from their brows, and they groaned fitfully in their sleep.

  She had them all right where she wanted them. She could end this whole charade right now. Theresa turned and aimed the rifle at Joan, centering the barrel on her forehead. Do it! Just do it! Her finger tensed on the trigger. But she couldn't do it. She would be stupid if she did. She returned to her watch.

  It was only a matter of time now. And as she thought this, one of the shapes on the bed began to stir. Theresa looked at Joan, wondering if she should wake her up. But she couldn't. It would be better for Joan if she didn't have to see this.

  She felt a stirring in her belly. It was Chad's baby. None of the other men had wanted anything to do with her, but Chad had believed in his plan of repopulating the world. She didn't mind. She had only been with a couple of men, and most of them when they were drunk. The two weeks when Chad had dutifully attempted to impregnate her had been the best of her life.

  Now, here she was without a father for her baby. Maybe she should just kill them all now. As the form on the bed groaned and struggled to release itself from its bonds, she turned the rifle on Joan. It was their fault that they were without men now. Now, they would have to learn to survive on their own, unless someone else showed up at their camp. But that was unlikely. The camp had been chosen for its remoteness. Unless you knew it was there, no one would likely stumble across it.

  No, they were on their own, and her baby would need a doctor if it were to survive. It would also need killers. The other women in the compound were scared, meek things, with the exception of Dez, but Theresa didn't fully trust her. She didn't trust the woman that had killed her baby's daddy. These other women had survived among the dead. They had uses.

  She came to a decision, and she aimed the rifle at the form on the bed. She pulled the trigger, and blood splattered the back of the trailer.

  Joan jumped at the sound of the gunshot. By the weak lantern light she saw what Theresa had done. Her hand came up to her mouth, and all she could think to say was, "Oh God," over and over as if the words could bring back the dead.

  Theresa put a comforting hand on her shoulder. "It's ok," she said. "I'll help you bury her in the morning." She handed Joan the rifle and began untying the corpse on the bed. Theresa dragged the corpse through the trailer by its feet, kicking open the flimsy metal door to the trailer.

  "What happened?" a woman asked from outside.

  "One of 'em turned," she said sadly. "Help me with the body."

  As they exited, the metal door slammed shut, and Joan shook with sadness.

  In the night, the dead outside groaned, reinvigorated by the sound of the gunshot.

  "Oh, God. Oh, God. Oh, God..."

  Be sure to check out

  THE

  ENEMIES OF OUR

  ANCESTORS

  By

  Jacy Morris

  Here is a sneak preview:

  THE ENEMIES OF OUR ANCESTORS

  Prologue: The Night Whispers

  Kochen walked through the night, his bare feet testing for sharp rocks before he put his full weight on the ground. In this way, he moved through the black-chilled air. Wind blew through his obsidian hair, and his dusky brown skin raised gooseflesh in response. Kochen looked up and saw the outline of the canyon's rim against the night sky, the faint hint of blackness against a dark blue. More stars than he could count looked down at him. It was the time of the Lynx moon, the time of the bobcat. Its full, round face rose into the sky, bringing with it the onset of spring. He could smell the change in the air. Though he was only six-winters-old, in a world where seasons meant everything, he had learned the signs of change at a young age.

  He walked through the empty farmland, away from the mud and stone houses that his ancestors had carved and molded into the cliff, his toes sinking into the loose brown soil. Kochen lived on the lowest terrace of the village nestled among the cliffs, so he nee
ded no torch to descend down the variety of stone ladders that led from the highest level to the rough stone ground. He had simply walked out of his family's small room where his mother and father slumbered, inched down a single, thirty-rung ladder, and he was on the ground.

  The farm soil had already been broken up for the spring. The soil felt cool and soft against his toes as he plodded through the loose farmland, avoiding the budding shoots of corn. He stopped to relieve himself, pulling his loincloth to the side. His urine steamed in the night as it pattered to the ground, impossibly loud.

  Behind him, he heard someone doing the same. He turned to look and saw his father.

  "What are you doing out here?"

  "No, what are you doing out here?" his father shot back.

  Kochen had been told over and over to not wander far from their house to relieve himself in the night. No one had ever explained why; they just said not to.

  "I had to go. Besides, it's good for the crops." Kochen finished up his work and let his loincloth fall back into place. His father did the same. Kochen walked in his direction, and his father cuffed him on the back of the head.

  "That is for thinking you know it all. Get your skinny rear-end back into the house."

  Kochen ran in the night, lest his father's ire turn into more than just a simple cuff. He was usually slow to anger, but tonight he seemed different.

  "Next time, you go from the ledge like everyone else."

  Kochen heard the words, but dared not give a response on the odd chance that it would be seen as disrespectful. As Kochen put his first, rough hand on the ladder, he heard a noise, a low rumbling. It was not a noise he had ever heard before. It echoed through the canyon and across the farmland. A gust of wind blew the hair on his head backwards as he turned around to see what was making the noise.

  In the faint light of the moon, he could see the blue shine of his father's skin running towards him. The tilled farmland was darker in the night than the untilled earth of the canyon floor, and when his father reached the edge of it, the earth opened up. A shape emerged, maggot-white, and twice as tall as his father. At first it seemed like a massive white worm, erupting from the ground, but then he noticed the arms Twisted and corded with segmented veins, the creature's arms were all twisted muscle and bone. In place of hands, the shape had sharp spikes, hooked like the backwards limbs of a praying mantis, and its eyes were black bulbs in a misshapen skull that was covered in skin the color of fresh-washed mushrooms..

  Before he could even scream a warning to his father, the creature had shoved a claw through his father's middle, the other claw wrapping around his throat. Kochen's sob caught in his own throat, as his father descended into the ground in the embrace of the creature. The soil parted for him, and it was as if he had sunk into the river instead of the farmland of the village.

  Kochen climbed the ladder, and reached the edge of the limestone landing. He sat on the edge, his feet safely on stone, watching and waiting for his father's hand to appear from the ground. It was a good harvest that year.

  Be sure to check out

  KILLING

  THE

  CULT

  By Jacy Morris

  Here is a sneak preview:

  KILLING THE CULT

  Chapter 1: A Letter in the Mail

  It was the letter that started it all. It was the proverbial snowball that turned into an avalanche. Matt discovered the letter in his mailbox one sun-drenched afternoon after finishing his daily three-mile jog. At first, he had been ecstatic; the letter was from his daughter, Cleo, whom he hadn't heard from in ten years. He sat on the couch with a brass letter opener, his hand shaking with anticipation. The letter opener was his wife's. It was a gaudy piece, not the type of thing he would have bought himself. The handle was shaped like an eagle feather with the blade in the shape of a claw. She hadn't wanted it when they got the divorce, but not because it was ugly and stupid. She hadn't wanted anything. She could still hear her saying, "You can have it all, Matt. I don't want a single item that will remind me of you. I just want to pretend like we never even met." He thought it was a stupid sentiment. After all, she already had one thing that would always remind her of him... their daughter.

  But that's the way things were. That part of his life had gone dark, the light snuffed out the moment they drove away with only their clothes and personal items in the car. So now, here Matt sat, a letter from his daughter in his hands... the first communication from his daughter in ten years. He had dreamed of this moment so often over the years that he couldn't believe it was finally here. He hesitated, the blade of the letter opener pressed against the plain white paper of the envelope. Bad news or good news? he wondered. Maybe his wife was dead. Maybe his daughter wanted him to be a part of her life again. Maybe he was forgiven for the past. The idea made him shake, and his ears and face flushed with warm blood simply from allowing himself to hope for such a possibility. He knew his fantasies were pathetic. Ten years was a long time, certainly long enough for a wife and a daughter to forget about a man like him. It was probably just a request for money.

  He rose from his recliner, leaving the envelope and the letter opener on the coffee table. He didn't want to open the letter, and he couldn't, not yet. Matt walked to the kitchen to grab a beer instead. He tried not to look at the piles of dirty dishes and the empty Chinese takeout boxes on the counter, but the buzz of flies told him these things were there whether he looked at them or not.

  He yanked the refrigerator door open and pulled out a bottle of Budweiser. He popped the bottle cap off and threw it into the open garbage can. It bounced off the pile of garbage and clanked onto the floor. Rejected, just as he had been once. Matt just left it there. That's all it really deserved.

  Through the back window of his kitchen, he could see the backyard, a wild and unkempt place that had once been a beautiful playground where beautiful memories were created. He looked at the old rusted swing set and remembered when it had been brand new, right after the move. He saw his daughter, tiny, so fragile, flying into the air and then back down again, in a semi-circle of happiness as he put his hand in her back and pushed her forward for another ride to the moon. "To the moon, Daddy! To the moon!" That's what she always squealed whenever he had pushed her on the swing. Maybe that's what the letter was. Maybe Cleo had become an astronaut.

  Matt took a sip of his beer, enjoying its bitterness. It paired well with the bitterness of his old memories. He stood in the kitchen, drinking and letting his regrets wash over him. He killed the beer in fifteen minutes and then set the empty bottle down on the counter next to the others. It was only right. Empty bottles belonged together.

  He walked back into the living room filled with purpose. Without giving himself time to second guess, he grabbed the letter opener, jammed it under the flap, and ripped open the envelope. He pulled the letter free and unfolded a single yellow page. The handwriting was small, neat, just as her mother's had been.

  He read through the letter once, and then he read it again, looking at every word as if some sort of code were hidden among the words. But there was no code. It was what it was. He sat down in his recliner and leaned his head back, a thousand thoughts running through his head. What the hell had happened? How could this be?

  Matt picked the letter up again, hoping that he had experienced some sort of temporary brain embolism or stroke, and that this time, the words in the letter would make more sense.

  Dear Dad,

  I know that's it's been a long time since we talked, and I hope that this letter finds you well. I've gone through some hard times recently, stuff that I won't bore you with, but know that some of those hard times were because you weren't around. I used to be angry with you. I used to be angry that you didn't fight harder for me when you and Mom split. But I know now that it took both of you to rip my life apart.

  It wasn't easy for me growing up without a father, especially since you were so great when you were there. But I want you to know that I've gotten over
it. I've gotten over it all. I'm in a good place now, a happy place.

  The reason you're receiving this letter is because my relationship with you, and with Mom, has prevented me from attaining my bliss... and I want that. I want it so bad.

  That's why I sent you this letter. I'm not doing it to make you feel bad, and if you do, please don't. Life's too short to feel anger or hurt. I sent you this letter so that I might close the wound of my past, so that I might better be able to enjoy the present.

  This may all seem weird to you, but believe me, the weirdest thing out there isn't me... it's the world. I want you to be happy. I believe that a great calamity is coming, a judgment that will change the face of the world as we know it. Only those that have truly enjoyed life will be spared, so please, Dad, if you do one thing for me, live your life to the fullest, and know that I forgive you, and in my heart, I have found the love for you that was hidden for so long.

  Yours truly,

  Cleo

  Matt read the letter again for the fifth time. He set it on the end table and looked at his dingy living room. The parts of the room that he didn't use were covered in a layer of dust. Old newspapers were stacked on the coffee table even though he had cancelled his subscription six months ago when they had streamlined the format. More empty bottles were stashed around the house, and the floor was so dirty that he doubted he could ever get it clean.

  It was the living room of an old forgotten man, but he was only 42, still capable of outrunning 90% of the population. He hadn't slowed a bit physically, but in his mind and in his heart, he had been dead ever since the divorce.

  The letter... that damned letter. Something was wrong. It sounded nothing like the little girl he knew, and immediately, he blamed Naomi.