This Rotten World | Book 4 | Winter of Blood

by Morris, Jacy

  The dead man's cold hands clawed at his jacket, and he pushed the man backward, as far away as he could. Grunting as pain shot through his shoulder, he broke the man's grip on his jacket and rolled off the man. Mort crawled through the snow toward his hammer. He felt the dead man flip over on his belly and begin crawling up Mort's legs. He was torn between wanting to stand up and get the man off of him and wanting to reach his hammer.

  He couldn't use the guns now, not this close to the compound and the highway. His guns would draw more of the dead, and he was having trouble with just one of them at the moment. He pictured an army of the dead tumbling off the highway and into the woods, closing in on him and the location of his gunshots. As the nightmare of his own flesh being torn apart by the dead filtered through his mind, he grasped the hammer's handle with his left hand.

  He spun, torqueing his body and bringing the head of the hammer down on the top of the dead man's skull. The dead man jerked for a second but still tried to get at Mort. He brought the hammer down again, and this time he heard the audible crack of the hammer as the man's skull broke. But still he came, his face pressed into Mort's abdomen, his mouth opening and closing with mindless hunger. Mort aimed again, hitting the same spot as before, and this time he felt the head of the hammer push past the man's skull and into something softer. The dead man went still, but Mort didn't have the time to catch his breath.

  He could hear their footsteps in the woods, the cracking of branches broken in passing. He was being encircled, rounded up.

  Rather than strain his shoulder any more than he already had, instead of bench-pressing the corpse off his body, he slid out from underneath the man. Mort's body was cold now, heated only by his own exertions. His hands felt like blocks of ice, and as he bumbled through the snow-filled forest, he wondered how long he could go for.

  He stumbled now, his energy burned up. His stomach felt like a cold pit in his core. He knew that feeling—had known it for years of living under bridges and overpasses, riding trains from place to place to avoid weather like this. He knew it was only temporary, and that the feeling would go away as soon as he had a chance to eat something.

  But he wasn't prepared for the cold. He didn't like the snow, hated it. He had never been so cold in his life. He had spent his winters in places like California, Texas, always avoiding the South, the ghost of his father's memory, making it permanently off-limits to him. Mort wished he was there now, though, and every time he stumbled and fell into the snow, he wished for it even more.

  He managed to put some distance between himself and the dead. Fortunately for him, after his last brush with the dead man, he was able to quickly locate one of his marks on the trees. He moved from mark to mark, alternating between gasping in pain from jarring his shoulder or gasping for air as he slogged through the snow.

  His entire body was wet now, and the wind cut him like a knife, squinching his eyes into slits as fine, powdered snow assaulted his face. Then he saw it, the clearing around the compound.

  "Help!" he yelled, hoping that someone could hear him. He didn't care if the dead heard him. Either he was getting inside the compound, or he was going to die. "Open the gate!"

  He rushed headlong into the clearing, his eyes large.

  "Heeeeellllpppp!" he called. But no one appeared.

  He sprinted across the clearing, the sight of its trailers and fences inducing him to use up all of his energy reserves. He slammed into the gate, rattling the chain links against the plywood.

  He heard the clatter of boots on a metal roof and looked up. He recognized the lady that looked down at him, a spear cocked in her hands. Her large brown mole was not the type that one would forget. He put his left arm up in fear, ready to fend off any stab from the woman.

  "Let me in!" he pleaded.

  "Why should I let you in?" she asked, playfully aiming the tip of the spear at his face.

  "My friends are in there," he said, not understanding.

  "Your friends killed my friends," the woman said, a queer smile twisting her lips. "Maybe I want to kill one of theirs."

  Mort looked over his shoulder to see a semi-circle of pale faces advancing through the forest. In his current condition, it presented more of a fight than he could ever hope to win. He eyed the fence in front of him and the wall of trailers. There was no way he could climb it with his shoulder in the condition it was in.

  "You got any food?" the woman asked, seemingly unconcerned about the dead that approached.

  "I have nothing," Mort said.

  "Then you can't come in. This ain't no flophouse. Ya pay your way here."

  Mort imagined that at any moment, he would feel the cold embrace of the dead. Then he remembered the bear. "I killed a bear."

  "Was that what all that shooting was?" mole-lady asked. Over her shoulder, she spoke to someone that he couldn't see. "How about that, girls? He killed a bear."

  "We could use that," a harsh voice said. "We'll let him in."

  Mort heard the rattle of the chain, and then the gate slid open. He dove inside, falling on the ground. He spun around to sit on his backside. The faces of the dead disappeared as a bird-like woman closed the gate and sealed it with a chain and padlock.

  Another spear tip was aimed at his face.

  "Where's the meat?" the woman asked. She was large, and he could see the spark of intelligence in her eyes. It was a rare glint, the type of glint that you didn't see too often as a homeless man. But he had learned to recognize that glint. A smart man was a dangerous man in a homeless camp. Better to be surrounded by the dumb and the hopeless than to be stuck with someone who had options but chose that way of life. It usually meant there was something wrong with them. They either abused drugs, were alcoholics, or got off on hurting others. Either way, they weren't the type of person you wanted to be riding in a train car with.

  "It's out there," he gasped.

  The woman looked at him as if he were an idiot. "Well, go get it."

  "I can't. Not today."

  "He's exhausted," the bird-like woman said.

  The large woman looked at her with consternation on her face. "And I'm hungry."

  "Please," Mort pleaded. "I'm freezing. I'll get the food tomorrow. It should stay frozen overnight."

  The large lady looked at the others, and then she let the butt of her spear fall to the ground. "You promise?"

  It was a weird question to Mort's ears, and the words came without the hostility of all the other interactions. It was an oddly civil question for someone who had just been threatening him with a spear. "I promise," he said. What else could he do?

  The large woman clenched her jaw and then pointed at him with a meaty paw. "We'll see if you're a man of your word."

  He nodded quickly. "Oh, I am, miss." Mort had learned a long time ago that a little respect went a long way with those that looked down on you. Calling her "miss" couldn't hurt any.

  "Very well. Katie told us you were coming. I reckon you'll wanna see your friends."

  Mort nodded, afraid that speaking would ruin the woman's sudden shift in attitude.

  She pointed with the spear toward a ramshackle house that seemed to quake with each gust of icy wind. "You'll find them in there."

  He got to his feet and started walking toward the house.

  "And just you remember your promise," the large woman bawled after him. "Tomorrow. Meat."

  He nodded his understanding and continued toward the old house, feeling the women's eyes on him the entire way.

  ****

  "Why'd ya let him in?" Liz asked, absentmindedly scratching at the mole on her cheek.

  Theresa sighed. If only Liz was smart enough, she would be able to see exactly what she was doing, and she wouldn't have to waste her breath explaining all of the particulars to the two birdbrains. "You saw him. We got him where we want him. Tomorrow he's going to go out, and he's either going to die, or he's gonna bring back some bear meat. Either way, we win."

  Tammy whined, "But if he does c
ome back, that's another one of them."

  Theresa nodded. But she knew they were in dire straits. The weather was brutal, cold, and they were all pregnant as fuck. They would not be able to go out and hunt on their own, and the only food they would have coming their way would be from hunting. Food was an issue in the camp. They had come with plenty of supplies, but those supplies were dwindling. Soon they would be out of food, and then five pregnant women and a woman with a busted-up leg would have to fend for themselves.

  The plan had been to build a smokehouse. The men talked about it and talked about it, but they had never gotten around to it. Now they were dead, and the women were going to have to live off game. She was annoyed that Liz and Tammy hadn't thought of this on their own, but they never thought of anything on their own. They were calculators, only capable of producing correct answers when you pressed all of the buttons yourself.

  "We're gonna need him. You seen how much food we got left, ya dumb bitch? Ain't gonna last the winter if we have to live off that."

  Tammy and Liz looked at each other as if they had just realized how precarious their position was. Theresa sighed as she watched the lights come on in their heads. They weren't bad people, just dumb as a box of rocks.

  They all looked up at the ranger station. Theresa didn't like relying on the man any better than they did. But the sad fact was, they were pregnant, and not just a little bit pregnant. Theresa felt larger every day. A month, maybe two, and the camp would be filled with wailing babies. She didn't want to think about what that would do to the amount of dead out there. Their bawling would surely bring the dead, but they would handle it if it came to that.

  "Come on. Let's kill these things and then get inside. It's so cold it hurts out here.

  The women grabbed their spears and climbed awkwardly on top of the trailers, waddling, their bellies forcing them to turn sideways as they climbed.

  As she plunged a spear tip into the eye of one of the dead, Theresa realized she didn't know whether she wanted the black man to live or die tomorrow. Whatever will be, will be, she thought to herself, letting fate take control of the man's future.

  ****

  Mort stepped inside the ranger station. It was cold and dark. Down a hallway to the back, he saw a light coming from one of the rooms. The wind blew hard outside, and he shivered as it found its way inside through the flimsy walls and windows of the ranger station.

  A woman stepped into the hallway.

  "Who the fuck are you?" she asked.

  "I'm lookin' for my friends."

  The woman said nothing, but from the other room, he heard a voice. "Mort? Mort, is that you?"

  Tears came to his eyes. It had been so long since he had heard a familiar voice. "Yeah, it's me."

  He headed towards the sound of the voice. He ignored the pregnant woman as she cocked her thumb at him and asked, "You know this guy?" He rounded the open doorway, and he saw Joan sitting on the floor, her ruined leg splayed out before her.

  He didn't know how he got there, but he found himself squatting over Joan, his arms wrapped around her. She hugged him back, and he felt hot tears spill down his cheeks. It was the only warmth he felt at the moment. They stayed that way for a long time, until eventually, the pain in his shoulder reacquainted itself with his nervous system, and he was forced to stand up. It was then that he noticed Katie lying unconscious on the bed.

  She looked tired. Dark circles ringed her closed eyes. Despite the chill in the ranger station, a faint sheen of sweat shone on her face. Mort thought that the pale, white light from the lantern made her seem like a ghost.

  "Is she alright?" he asked.

  "I don't know," Joan said. "She came in here yesterday and passed out. She has a fever and only wakes up for a few moments at a time."

  As they spoke, Katie stirred on the bed. Her eyelids fluttered and then opened to reveal dark and glassy eyes. In a weak voice, she said, "Wait until your father gets home." Then she groaned softly, her eyelids fluttering and closing once more.

  "Well, can't you help her?" Mort asked.

  "I don't have any tools. Honestly, I can't even take her temperature. Without my tools, all I can do is let her rest and try and keep her warm."

  Mort nodded. He understood completely, but he didn't like seeing Katie in that condition. That wasn't the Katie he knew. That woman who woke up and talked; that didn't even sound like Katie. She had always been hard, somewhat clipped in her speech. That woman sounded different, soft and gentle, the way Mrs. Shapiro had always talked to him in kindergarten.

  "Who are those women out there?" Mort asked.

  "That's Theresa, Liz, and Tammy," the other woman said.

  If she hadn't been pregnant, Mort would have said that the lady was pretty. He might have even said she still was if it weren't for that cold light in her green eyes.

  "Yeah, well, they almost didn't let me in," he said. "I thought they was gonna kill me."

  The almost pretty woman said, "Liz and Tammy wouldn't have done nothing. They're too dumb to even think about it. Theresa, on the other hand, that's one bitch you don't want to cross." The woman rubbed some scars on her wrist with one of her hands, and she seemed to disappear for a moment. Then she said, "Be careful with that one," before turning and heading to a room on the other side of the hallway.

  She closed the door behind her. Mort heard a stream of obscenities through the rickety wooden door, and then he turned back to Joan. The question that had been on his mind for the last half-day was on his lips, but he felt like he already knew the answer.

  Joan looked up at him with a smile on her face. When she saw his face, the smile melted away like a candle in a fire. "Where's Clara?"

  "She's dead."

  Mort backed up against the wall until he bumped into it and then slid down, his body unable to hold him up any longer. He listened in silence as Joan explained what had happened in the compound. He listened as she told of Chad Mauer burying Clara in the ground. He listened as she told of the chaos that had ensued when Katie and Mort had assaulted the compound, the rescue of Clara, and the moment when she had turned.

  It was too much for him. He cried, tears trailing down his face unashamedly. An unseen fist gripped his heart, and he couldn't breathe. Clara… she didn't deserve to be dead. She had never done nothin' to nobody. He could see her face in his mind's eye, and he realized that he had been dreaming of seeing Clara's face for some time.

  At night in the old lady's house, while laying next to the fire, his stomach grumbling, he had dreamed of all of their faces, picturing them one by one, and fantasizing about getting the group back together and heading to the ocean. Now there were only three of them left, himself, Katie, and Joan. He pictured the faces of the dead, of the people they had lost, Lou, Blake, and now Clara. Good people. His friends. The only good friends he'd ever had since he was a kid. A selfish part of him wished that he had never made friends in the first place, but then he knew he would be dead too. And he didn't want to be dead. He felt his life like it was an actual physical thing. He held his palms upwards, cradling the weight of his own existence, and panic welled within him, as he realized things could not go on as they were. They needed to get someplace safe. They needed to escape. Right now. This minute.

  Mort stood up, ignoring the aches and chills in his bones. "We gotta go," he said.

  "We can't," Joan said, her words falling on deaf ears.

  "We gotta get someplace else. We need to get to the ocean, get out of these mountains. They're going to be the death of all of us."

  "We can't," she said. "My leg won't handle the snow. Katie's not well… there's something wrong with her."

  "It don't matter. We gotta leave. We gotta survive."

  "We will," Joan said. "We're gonna make it. But we need some time. I can't leave; not with all these pregnant people running around. I don't care about the moms, but the kids, they at least deserve to breathe air."

  "Kids," Mort said, a lone word breaking through his panic and his
sorrow. "Kids." He smiled then. "You know, I've never held a baby before."

  Joan laughed then. "Stick around. You'll be holding a lot of them. When these mothers start popping, I'm going to need your help."

  Mort's panic arose anew. "You mean you want me to…" he pointed at Katie, lying on her side, her belly resting on the bed. "You want me to go and…" He couldn't say the words. He didn't have the vocabulary to talk about what Joan wanted him to do without sounding crass.

  Joan nodded. "When they're out, we can go. My leg will be healed by then, or at least better, and then we can get the fuck out of here. See the ocean, be safe, and then we'll never have to run again."

  "You sure about that?" he asked.

  "As sure as I can be. There's less people there. Less dead things. We can fish, go clamming. It hardly snows there, and if you get yourself a house on the beach, you can see for miles. None of those dead things will ever sneak up on us there."

  Mort nodded now, dabbing at his red eyes with the back of his sleeves. "Yeah, I'd like that."

  Joan just nodded at him.

  "Mort? Is that you?" a trembling voice asked.

  Mort laughed and smiled as big as he ever had. It was Katie. She looked at him, not quite believing her eyes. "It's me," he said. "Everything is going to be alright."

  He stepped to the side of the bed and grabbed her hand, but she was gone again. But she had recognized him. Maybe that meant she was going to get better. Maybe that meant that everything would be alright.

  Chapter 8: Doors and Dibs

  They snoozed in the conference room, all except for Masterson and Day, who were keeping watch, listening for any broken windows. That would mean the Annies were coming. Izzy Allen slept fitfully on the floor. His first chunk of sleep had been broken by the face of Diana in his dreams. He thought he had done an excellent job of holding his feelings for the woman at bay, but his dreams told him differently. His dreams told him how he really felt. He was never going to hold her in his arms again. He was never going to make love to her again. He was never going to fall asleep next to her again. When he was awake, he would admit that this was a good thing. But in his half-dream state, he felt a sadness about it.