"Is it because I'm black?"
"Nope. It's because you're not my type, and I'm not going to fuck you."
"Who said anything about making love?"
Tosha laughed at him. "Making love? Who the fuck says that?" She put her hands up in the air and started gyrating her hips. "I'm talking about fucking, grinding against me as you grab my ass and squeeze."
"Damn you." Rasta Dude walked to the door. "I'm going to get more of my things and bring them over."
"You can move them into her room," Tosha said and stopped, plopping down on the chair. "Are we going to bring the furniture, too?"
He shook his head. "I don't have much stuff worth moving, and I'd rather crash on your couch in case we're attacked or looters show up."
"We're wasting time."
"There's nowhere to go. Without any news, we'd be walking in a snowstorm blindly until we froze to death."
Tosha stood up. "Duh."
"What?"
"We went into the old woman's apartment because she had a radio. We need to get it, and clean up the dead bodies as well. I don't know how you keep walking past them each day when you leave." Since her sister's death, Tosha had refused to venture out for supplies, using the excuse about getting the apartment organized for them. She didn't want to see her sister's mutilated corpse.
"I'm afraid if I drag them into the street, it will attract more attention. And I can't move them alone."
"Tomorrow I'll help you with them."
"We need the radio and whatever else she has down there. Put a pair of shoes on, if you can fit them over fifteen pairs of socks."
"It's only three pair. I'll grab the bleach and garbage bags. And a bandanna to cover my face. I think I have gloves here, too."
"And a hat?"
"Good thinking."
"That was a joke," he said.
"I don't want my hair getting in my face. I haven't washed it in too long and it gets all frizzy and unmanageable. On your next looting session, try to find me some shampoo."
"Before all this, you ran out of shampoo?"
"I have this cheap shit Mathyu keeps buying. I want real stuff, but we can never afford it. I let her handle the money things, since I'm so bad at it. She's the only reason the apartment looks halfway decent. She spends her morning cleaning up after me so she can spend her afternoon on her computer, doing her job. Then she has her nights free to play stupid videogames."
Rasta Dude stared at her.
Tosha turned away and went to the window, shoving her face between two blinds and hr nose touching the cold glass. She tried to fight the tears. "I wanted to go first into the other bedroom. I had the baseball bat. I'm the aggressive one, the bitch who picked fights and beat on people. Not Mathyu. She talked her way out of confrontations, making friends with people. She was always the better person, and I was the street thug who tagged along and never learned a fucking thing."
"You can't blame yourself."
Tosha turned to him. "Why not? It really is my fault. Even with all this shit going on, she was still smiling and still having a fun time. She thought her life was a fucking videogame, and this was another level to complete. I should have opened that door."
"I'm sure she wants you to live. The only way to do that is to stop feeling sorry for yourself and do something about it. Weren't you just saying how much you jump into things, take charge, and act instead of react?"
"I don't remember those words," Tosha joked but she knew what he was getting at. She wiped her eyes with her sleeve. "I guess it's time to stop the crying and get on with my life. Shit, even if I wanted to give her a proper burial, it's so damn cold outside we couldn't dig her a grave."
"What if we wrapped her in blankets and hid her in the alley until this all blew over? Then we can bury her remains."
Tosha thought about it. She didn't want to toss her sister away like garbage. But she knew Rasta Dude was kidding himself if he thought this was magically going to end on a good note. "I'll get some of my blankets. Hers are the only ones that are actually clean."
He picked up the hand axe and nodded. "Don't forget your baseball bat."
Tosha went into her room and stripped her bed of the sheets and blanket and willed herself to be strong and not cry when they got downstairs. Mathyu would want her to get her shit together and stop being a crybaby.
"Let's do this," she said, her words sounding big and bold but her mind reeling at what they had to do.
Still Dying 2
Dying Days anthology
Edited by Jenny Adams
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying or recording or by any information storage and retrieval systems, without expressed written consent of the author and/or artists
This book is a work of fiction. Names characters, places and incidents are products of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual events or persons, living, dead or undead, is entirely coincidental.
All stories 2013 © copyright their respective authors
Cover Illustration copyright 2013 by Ash Arceneaux www.asharceneaux.deviantart.com
First printing December 2013
[email protected]
Special Thanks to the wonderful authors who decided to take a shot at writing in the Dying Days world… even in my wildest dreams I couldn't have had a better group of writers to add to the mythos of my world…
How Me And Bozy Became Dads by Patrick C. Greene
Gator Aid by Frank J. Edler
The Trap Line by Sean Slagle
Dying Days: Television by Armand Rosamilia
Flight 509 by Jaime Johnesee
The Old Man And The Apocalypse by A.D. Roland
The Happiest Kingdom On Earth by Brent Abell
Dying Days: Stew by Armand Rosamilia
Lucifer's Revenge by Mark Tufo
Dying Days: Angel by Tim Baker
How Me And Bozy Became Dads
Patrick C Greene
They just popped up one day, the creeps, when we were out doing some community service, clearing the highway.
Some guy was stumbling around, down the highway a good piece, and I said “Someday, that’s prolly gonna be me.”
“Stop jabbering to yo’ sef,” Bozy muttered, “They gonna send you off somewheres.”
“I don’t know, man,” I answered, “this is prolly the end of the line for me.”
“Don’t be all down. Be glad you’re outside today.”
Funny. Bozy had sort of turned into my bodyguard and big brother since I started my sentence back in February. What was funny about it, Bozy was about five-six, maybe one-forty after chow. He was locked up for stealing checks; he had used ‘em to buy his girlfriend some clothes for her new job, so they could get ahead.
And here I was, six-two and in for armed robbery. Bozy took up for me on day one. He was just a really good guy deep down. Being kinda small, he had to kick the shit out of three other inmates on his first day—and he did it, easy. I guess he saw the fear and nervousness in my eyes when they pushed me in. He told everybody right away to lay off. And they did.
I found myself turning around, realizing I got antsy anytime his black ass got too far away, and made my way toward him. Further down the stretch was Tollison, Jefferies and Pokey, so-named not because he was slow, but because he had poked out the eye of one of his mugging victims. They were all caught up in filling their trash bags, thinking about what it would be like to be back out here everyday, I guess.
Puttering around the side of the road, I found a half-empty, fairly fresh bag of Funyons, and thought about holding onto it, passing it off to the hobo when he made his way past us. I didn’t expect he’d get hit by a car.
Right as I picked up the bag and rolled it up, Officer Schlotsky started toward me, bowing up his arms and shoulders, bringing his shotgun around in front of him like he was ready to bring it up and butt me with it. “Whatchoo got there, Randall? L
emme see it.”
“It’s just a snack. For that man.” I pointed off toward the weird guy, still stumbling our way, sure Schlotsky would take one look and wave it off. Instead, he had to be an asshole about it.
He slapped the bag out of my hands, spilling Funyons all over the dewy grass. “Fuck that. If you was a good Samaritan, you wouldn’t be here.” Then Schlotsky stepped on those Funyons, crushing them into the ground, staring me down all squinty-eyed like the pig he was; tough with his shotgun. Just like I had been with mine.
I looked back at Bozy, kind of expecting him to get in Schlotsky’s grill. Instead, he just looked down at a Bud can he found and shook his head like he was warning either me or Schlotsky to let it go. Schlotsky was walking away by the time I turned back around. He was probably looking at the guy coming, eager to bust his balls too if he got too close to us goddamn dangerous inmates.
But it never came to that. A car came along, right about the time the guy –I could see his clothes were dirty and messy now- was crossing the road, coming toward us, but still like fifty or sixty feet away. He sorta shuffled out in front of the car, and when the driver hit the horn, he turned toward the sound. That’s the only way I can describe it, because he wasn’t startled or anything like that, just kinda curious.
I don’t think the driver –turned out to be a suit-and-tie type dad taking his wife and kids some damn where- expected that, because he didn’t slow down much, not enough to keep from hitting that motherfucker anyway. He dropped to about thirty from sixty or so, and bashed right into that creepy dude.
The man flew back about seven or eight feet and smacked the road hard. Schlotsky and the other guard watched, but they kept an eye on us too. “Call 911,” Schlotsky told his partner, a guy named Kritzer or some shit like that, then he turned around to yell at us “Get together where I can see all y’all.”
Then he went back to Krisler or whatever and told him to go give that guy CPR, walking all backwards with his gun up like he thought we were all gonna bolt. He stopped with a weird look on his face.
I started to turn around and see what he was looking at, when a damn freezer semi came around the bend and slammed on his brakes, seeing the stopped sedan and the guy in the road. Well, the semi jackknifed and the tires smoked up as they slid on the road. The truck flipped on its side and skidded right up to the car, sending up sparks and screeching like all hell. By now, the driver and his wife were out, frazzled all to shit and dragging two little girls with them as they made for the middle section where we were.
But the creepy-ass guy on the ground reached up and grabbed the little girl who was dragging behind, holding her ma’s hand. She screamed, which I could barely hear because of the screeching metal of the truck. The mother turned around and stooped to pull the guy’s hand away from her baby’s ankle, Kritner still running toward them. They were still a good thirty feet away, but I could see the weird guy on the ground open his mouth wide and bite that lady right on the hand.
Meanwhile, the truck was finally coming to a stop and getting quiet. And that’s when I found out what Schlotsky was gawping at a second earlier.
I spun around and saw about twenty or thirty people, shuffling and staring at us all odd, just like the creepy dude that got clipped. They must have just come out of the trees down there a couple dozen yards, because we would have seen them before if they were just walking on the road.
Jefferies was long gone. To this day, I don’t know whatever happened to his ass. Tollison had never come forward as Schlotsky commanded, partly because he was caught up in the crazy shit with the truck and the accident, but probably also because he just didn’t like doing what he was told, which probably isn’t much of a surprise, given the circumstances.
He spun and saw these weirdoes reaching for him, and, I guess, decided to fight. He took a swing at the closest and connected, but it didn’t do much. Then the second one lunged at him, grabbed his arm and took a good bite out of it, chewing away a piece of that deep down skin right before you hit blood, which spilled out like from a busted beer bottle.
Schlotsky blew my eardrums out, blowing his whistle as he muscled past me, thinking it would make all those motherfuckers –found out they was sort of dead later, if that makes sense- stop chewing on poor old Tollison and respect Schlotsky’s badge and beer gut and shotgun. Instead, they just tore into Tolly, dragging him down and digging in with their nails and teeth, making a goddamn meal out of him.
Bozy took off running for the van, which was parked between us and the wreck. “You got to get us out of here!” he yelled at Schlotsky, but the big dopey screw didn’t listen, instead, raising his shotgun and yelling “Step away from that goddamn inmate, people!”
They didn’t. Now the screaming from both Tollison and the mother was getting louder, along with shouts from her husband. Kirkler or whatever-the-fuck, was trying to control the fucker on the ground, and judging by his pansy-squeal, he got bit too.
Schlotsky had his shotgun up, but when I looked over at him, there was a real sick/scared look in his eyes, seeing pieces of Tollison, still screaming, being yanked away and chewed up. “What’re you waiting for?! Shoot!” I yelled at him, and he did, blowing the legs right out from under the closest of those freaks, a ginger who might have been cute at some point.
The other weirdoes didn’t slow down at all, just stumbled and staggered right over the top of the legless ginger, who also didn’t slow down much herself, dragging herself toward us all moaning and hissing.
“Fuck!” Pokey screamed, tossing his trash bag down and heading to Schlotsky’s side.
Schlotsky pumped and fired again, blowing the head and shoulders clean off a creep in a three piece. It disappeared as the ones behind it closed the gap, walking right over the body without even slowing down.
They weren’t stopping and there was no way Schlotsky’s four remaining shots would keep us from getting shredded and eaten.
Bozy was way ahead. “Come on!!!” he screamed from the open van door, waving us in. Me and Pokey bolted, hearing dumb ass Schlotsky waste another shell and another split second. I called for Jefferies, and then dove into the van. When clawing hands started yanking at my clothes, I was sure the fucking slobbering psychos had been faster than I thought and caught up with me. But no, it was just Pokey, crawling over the top of me to save his own ass.
“Where the fuck is Jefferies?!” Bozy asked.
I shook my head. “FUCK him!!!” Pokey yelled, “Straight wire this motherfucker and get us outta here!!”
“Fuck YOU!” Bozy said, pushing him to the back of the van before sticking his head out. Schlotsky was running hard, but reaching into his pockets for more shells and that was slowing him down.
I looked toward the wreck, and saw Krilner bashing the shit out of the downed creep with the butt of his shotgun. I screamed at the panicked family to get to us, not remembering they probably couldn’t hear through the locked-down windows, not to mention all the other chaos. I heard Schlotsky shoot again, and Pokey said “Aaah shit!”
I looked out the back window and there was Schlotsky, being swarmed, firing straight up in the air as the creepos grabbed and pulled at him, dragging him down like crocs rolling a fucking baby hippo in deep water. And oh my fucking god—there was Bozy running to help him.
“Can you straight wire this..?”
I never heard the rest of Pokey’s dumb ass question; I was taking Bozy’s lead, jumping out to help. Bozy got smart real quick. He turned around when some of the creeps saw him coming and charged to meet him.
I bolted across the road and went straight to that poor dad, who was in the midst of losing his shit and trying to figure out what to do about his bleeding wife and crying girls. I grabbed his arm. “Hey! Get to that van! You hear me!?”
He nodded, but something seemed way off.
“Hey! GET YOUR FAMILY AND GO!!” I shouted into his face, “THERE!!” I shoved him toward the van and scooped the smallest girl, who was sitting on her ass in the
grass just bawling. I went to Kitchner and pulled at his shoulder, then stepped back and covered the girl as he spun hard with the shotgun.
“Come on, man! We gotta go! We’re gettin’ overrun!”
He looked down at the mess of brains from the creep who had bitten him, then at his forearm, where a really nasty bite spurted dark blood. “Shit…”
“Come ON!” I yelled and he did, running toward the van without a word.
The herd or tribe or swarm or whatever they should be called was making hard for Bozy. I saw him go out of sight on the passenger side of the van—then he didn’t get in for some reason. I heard him say, “Open this motherfucker!!!”
Fucking Pokey. He had locked Bozy out. Us, too.
Kissinger wasn’t doing so well. After just a few feet, he collapsed. He had lost a lot of blood in a short time, and spent an assload of energy on beating down the freak. I kept the little girl at my side and bent down to help him to his feet. He made it up, but fell over after a step and a half.
“God DAMMIT, Kinston!” I screamed. I felt the little girl wiggle with fright—I can be pretty loud. Helps a lot in the armed robbery game. “I’m—shit, I’mo die man,” he said with a shaky voice.
“Nah. Get UP!” I replied.
But he just looked up at me, trying to catch his breath. I heard Bozy yelling at Pokey, almost about to cry.
“I’m done,” Kingler whispered between heaving breaths. I couldn’t stay there any longer—the creeps had caught wind of us. The father was turned around, screaming at us to come on.
“Do me in.” Kimmel said, “Don’t let those bastards do it.”
I thought faster, more carefully, than I ever have. Wish I’d been thinking like this when I was planning that robbery. I was probably gonna need the shells. Kelner had a sidearm. He could do himself in. He just wanted someone else to do it, maybe so he wouldn’t end up in hell, where I was going. But not today.
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