Life Among the Dead (Book 4): The End (17 page)

8

It isn’t supposed to be this way
, grumbles one survivor, his usual complaint in times of frustration over how his grand plan has turned out. Kenny Dewitt, known to members of his survivors’ network as PapaBear, isn’t enjoying the end of the world as much as he had thought he would.

It all started going south the moment he arrived at Mother’s home base. He’d be the first to admit, although not out loud, that he wasn’t exactly going by the playbook he wrote, he expected everyone else to though. Firstly, he was arriving alone although not empty handed. He had acquired some weapons and much in the way of survival rations, not the most appetizing food, but food nonetheless. He had taken a liking to the woman that set up their compound even before meeting her. He liked how easy she was to talk to, and the look of her profile picture. Since the inception of the group he had fantasized about being alone with her against the uncertain world. Once through the gates he noticed they wouldn’t get much alone time at all.

The vast fields of what was once a public school were being tended to by people, having never actually done such work himself he had no idea what they were doing out there at this time of year, less of an idea of why they were here in the first place. Only authorized official members were supposed to be welcomed. He waved back when they stopped their toils to greet him, they looked to be Mexican, all of them as far as he could see.

Mother was selected to choose and obtain their new home since she had the means, winner of the largest recorded lottery jackpot in American history. Most people who win the lottery win it by using the easy pick option and let a computer choose their numbers for them, but when Miranda Gentry thought about it she realized why. Since most lottery players use the easy pick, eighty percent according to her research, naturally more would win that way. She had a theory that if she chose her own, and played them faithfully for each and every drawing, her numbers were bound to come up. Every combination stands an equal chance to win, so the more times she used her combination the better her chances. Improving her odds even by a fraction was still an improvement.

For over five years Miranda played her numbers, despite the objections of her then husband, an overbearing man that until her win had controlled her and on more than one occasion hit her. She was a teacher at that time, had her own money and decided to play in secret. It only cost four dollars a week after the price per drawing was increased, the cost of each draw was doubled to offer even larger prizes, thus stimulating sales. She had almost quit playing her combination that by her rationale should come up at some point, albeit maybe not in her lifetime. This was her escape plan, her only way out of the home of the man that belittled her and treated her horribly, if not with millions of dollars then at least in her mind. Every time she bought her ticket she was buying the right to dream of a better life,
I can’t win it if I’m not in it
.

Winning, even after all her dreaming and running through the best and worst case scenarios, was the most exhilarating and stressful moment of her life. Her means of escape brought a feeling of dread, Edgar would find out. She waited to claim her ticket, went on with her life, continued to work her exhausting job, being verbally abused at home, while she struggled to think of the best way out, if not for her but for her son.

The only thing that held her back from taking charge of her life before was not knowing how she would manage to survive and take care of her child, even more than Edgar’s reaction to her leaving. With the means to support herself now she only had her husband to contend with, she feared he’d kill her for sure. From the safety of a women’s shelter, she filed the papers to dissolve their marriage, this after he hit her leaving deep bruises. She also filed a police report that got him thrown in jail, if only for a short amount of time she was out of his reach.

Separated, and with a restraining order in place, she was able to claim her prize. Edgar of course reemerged wanting a piece of the winnings he felt entitled to. Planning ahead, she had gotten him into a conversation about the lottery, and made sure to record the whole thing.

“Edgar,” she had said while grading her students’ tests from her home laptop, the camera rolling. “Did you hear the PowerPot is up to 850 million?”

“Naw! Someone won it. You ain’t playing the damn lotto again,” Edgar replied from his ratty old recliner. “Fuckin’ waste of money.”

“Oh, wouldn’t it be great though?” she continued. “Just imagine. The cash out must have been half a billion, after taxes.”

“You ain’t winnin’ it!” he said angrily, loud enough to hopefully end her yammering and let him watch the game. “You’re a loser, you’ll always be a loser. I’m in the lotto pool at work anyways. Odds are better.”

A few minutes passed, Miranda had returned to her grading when Edgar finally did something useful, he gave her what she needed. “It told you, don’t go buying tickets now! That’s an order!”

It stood up in court, he had made it clear he didn’t want her to play the lottery. Coupled with the recent police report, and Miranda’s testimony about her ex’s history of abuse, the judge declared it all to be hers since it wasn’t claimed until after the divorce and was thus income that occurred while they were no longer married.

It had been so long since she was on her own, and she had a child to consider, even with all the financial means at her disposal she feared the future. Remembering a quote by Susan B. Anthony “Woman must not depend upon the protection of man but must be taught to protect herself” she sought to do just that, learn to survive.

It was an internet search of the phrase ‘how to survive’ that lead her to a survivalist group. The social network offered her support and hope, but also fostered in her new fears of what may lie ahead. She had all the money she could ever need and then some, yet what if something happens that money can’t solve? She realized she couldn’t go it alone. The group was led by a man who just a few days after the world died came rolling up her driveway, PapaBear was home.

So, distracted by the sight of people he hadn’t expected to see upon arriving in Jasper, Georgia, Kenny almost ran over a group of kids playing in the parking lot of what was once a school. His presence had already earned him the attention of everyone, the chirp of his brakes brought them running. He scanned the assembling throng, going from face to face, trying to spot Mother. One woman approached closer than the rest, he saw a resemblance to the lady he had urged to join his network upon the revelation that she had the means to secure their homestead. He had fallen in love with her profile picture, the woman coming his way could be her mother. The glint of recognition in her eyes gave way the fact that she had used an old photo.

“Mother?” he asked her as he stepped down from the driver’s seat. “It’s me PapaBear.”

“Call me Miranda,” she held out her hand to take his. “What’s your real name?”

PapaBear was hoping to ride the online persona before revealing his first name in some imagined tender moment. “Kenny.”

“Nice to finally meet you, Kenny.”

“Who are all these people? Our society isn’t pro-slavery, is it?”

She laughed thinking it a joke, it wasn’t. “These are folks from town, workers that were building the homestead. Once the alerts started I tried to get everyone in here, the alerts came too late for most of the town I’m afraid. They fell to the dead before they even knew there was danger.”

“Good,” the new arrival said without thinking, “…thing you are so generous.”

She took the compliment with a smile. “It’s the whole point of what you started. Survivors helping survivors.”

It was true, that was their slogan, however his goal was more geared for survivors to help him. Miranda had misinterpreted the number one clause that stipulated that only those invited could join the group, and invited everyone she could. Had the world not gone downhill, he was planning on arranging a meeting with the then recently divorced woman under the veil of checking on her progress, and then progressing that into a romantic relationship. A marriage of stress and abuse had weathered and aged her from the ten year old picture she had posted. He wouldn’t rule out the idea of future intimate engagements with her, but he’d certainly be looking for someone his ego told him he deserved. The twelve year old that had joined Miranda to meet the man he had heard so much about was a definite strike two, Mother was in fact a mother.

He had to think quick when she asked where the others from the group were, sighing and trying to look sad he simply said, “They didn’t make it.” His arrival being much earlier than anticipated he made the mistake of mentioning that he hasn’t been to all the sites on his map, and isn’t sure if any of the rest are alive or not.

“You can always go out later,” Miranda replied, still saddened by the news about those that have fallen. “You deserve a rest before going back out there.”

Leaving was the furthest thing from his mind, so he planned on postponing it for as long as he could. The emergency rations he brought in were a welcomed sight and would nicely get them through the next year. The field was being prepared for planting; tilled and turned, fertilized and watered.

PapaBear may have been the leader of the Survivors Network, owner and moderator of the threads, but it was Miranda that wore the pants around the compound. Often she would have people on tasks, in her kind way of asking, where he would have them doing something else. If he tried to re-direct their way of doing things or attempted to order them to do something else, he often received puzzled looks and was ignored. Even during meals he never sat at the head of the table. The old school’s cafeteria fit everyone perfectly, most of the folding tables were stored along the walls or taken elsewhere were they could be more useful. Miranda sat where he considered to be the seat of power, her son and other close advisors always sat closest to her, Kenny was often at least ten people down and out of the loop. He tried to get to a meal early one day, early enough to sit at Miranda’s right hand, but in her kind way he was asked to slide down so she could converse with the head of their agricultural department through a translator.

It was more than a little emasculating. Kenny would have left if there was anywhere else to go. He would just take what he could and flee if Miranda wasn’t doing such a great job keeping them all safe. A week had passed before Miranda asked him about his plans to reach the others and the supplies they had stored. Much was needed and the caches were made for this very reason. He was able to put it off a few more weeks until the kind way of asking that Miranda was known and loved for changed, she became a little irritated by his procrastination.

They were a month into the apocalypse, Kenny looked into Miranda’s furious eyes, eyes that he had fallen in love with despite his initial private rejection due to her age. She was stronger than he thought she would be, no longer the broken, put upon housewife. She needed him now more than ever, he thought that if he heroically brought in the rest of the group, or at least their supplies, he’d be a hero. Perhaps, he could win her heart in the process, take the throne through marriage. He put off the trek for yet another week.

A fever has been spreading through the school like wild fire, the inhabitants are becoming too weak to work. At the onset of the apocalypse, Miranda had happily let in a doctor who is now working around the clock to figure out what the sickness could be, and what could save them. He too has become stricken yet still he tends to the sick alongside Miranda. The woman of the house sets her eyes on Kenny today as he is walking past a group of deliriously febrile children who should be joyfully playing and not in the miserable state they are in. Those once kind eyes see red.

“Kenny!” she gets his attention. He notices her irritation with him from under the rag he breathes through in his hope of sparing himself whatever these people are afflicted with. “The doctor says we need antibiotics, lots of them. Here is a list of what he wants. You are to go out and get everything on this list and return as soon as possible. Understand?”

“Sure thing,” he replies with an optimistic tone. “Let me just plan a…”

“Just go!”

9

From his frequent plasma donations, Archie has no trouble with the week of pokes and prods he is subjected to while in captivity, just the captivity itself. Samples have been taken of his urine and blood, a long barrage of questions was asked of him about his health and his family’s medical history. The inquiry was delivered in the very room he is being held in, the tone used was robotic and icy, a beyond clinical lack of emotion or any trace of bedside manner. No matter how many times he pleaded with his captor to let him go, or asked how long he’d be held, no answer was forthcoming, nor would she respond when he asked about Stephanie and her son.

The captives have each been given a bucket so their waste can be disposed of. Gar occasionally provides her with a urine sample. “Marijuana accumulates in the system,” he had explained to his fellow prisoner. “I had a friend that had to take a pre-job drug test, it took him months to drop clean. Miss Andry says marijuana makes sperm slow and can cause birth defects.”

Gar had mentioned to Archie that this is the longest he’s been without his Mary Jane for as long as he can remember. He is growing depressed and aggravated without it. “These aren’t the seeds of love I’m supposed to be spreading, but it’s not like I wouldn’t’ve helped her out if she came at me the right way, man. I mean, she’s no Kelly Peel, but she’s not bad. Now, I wouldn’t fuck her with your dick and a zombie pushing.”

Their captor had revealed to Archie that he’d be taken to the clinic today, he isn’t entirely certain what that means, she wouldn’t say and Gar has yet to go there. He sits in the tense darkness and waits, jumping at every sound thinking it’s her coming to claim him.

“I saw this show once,” Gar breaks a long hiatus in dialogue. “One of those reenactment shows about weird ways to die. This chick once used a peeled carrot to, you know, herself. She had left some skin on it and it scratched her on the inside, this caused an embolism that killed her.”

“How does that help me?” Archie asks in despair.

“Well, I mean, if we want out of here you might have to…”

“Fuck her to death?” he finishes the thought, whispering the horrible solution. He briefly flashes back to his wild night with Rocky Roadkill, the derby girl who was so aggressive in bed there were times during the tryst he felt she was trying to do just that to him.

“I don’t like it any more than you do, but sometimes good people have to do bad things to survive,” Gar explains, knowing full well this fact. He tries not to think about the guys in the woods he left injured and screaming, allowing the dead to converge so he could rescue Gabe. “She’ll be coming for you soon, I’m just her last resort.”

As if his captivity wasn’t bad enough and the fact that he still has no idea what happened to his companions, the revelation of his only option for escape makes him feel sick. He isn’t sure if he can do it, not only is the ‘how-to’ baffling to him, he’s doubting his physiology at the moment. The constant fear and stress he is under is unbearable, Archie isn’t sure if he could manage an erection even if he wanted to use it as a weapon. In times of severe stress, as he is under now, a man may notice a decline in drive, to the point of waking without a familiar uncomfortable friend.

Pondering his predicament, he recollects a letter he had received from a former classmate that had gone off to boot camp. The letter revealed a paranoid thought many of the recruits held that their instructors were putting saltpeter in their food to kill their sex drive.

Silence gave away Archie’s reservations. Gar feels bad that he must encourage him to do something so vile, but he can’t think of any other options. “If you can get free and overpower her you won’t have to do what we’re talking about. You’ve heard the expression ‘nice guys finish last’, right?”

He’s heard it many times, he’s been living that expression for as long as he can remember. He never understood why life was setup for his failure, he’s so willing to help others, go out of his way for others, only to be taken advantage of and let down. Promises made to him so often have gone unfulfilled leaving him hurt and heartbroken.

No more
, Archie vows.
From this point I’m getting what I want, and I want out of here. If I find a way, even if it means doing something
…

The sound of the door to the ward opening brings his train of thought to a screeching halt. The shaft of light that slices through the darkness chops down the confidence he was building, replacing it with dread and panic. She’s coming for him, her slight footsteps sound monstrous as she approaches. The orb of light that emanates from her lantern is a harbinger of evil.

The captor is too smart to get close enough to her detainees that would allow him to lash out. She walks around the edge of his range of mobility, staying beyond his reach. Archie is too frightened to act, trembling on the verge of tears.

The lantern is set on a high counter, Miss Andry walks away becoming lost in the darkness outside the dim amber glow. Archie tries to track her, he hears movement but can’t nail down her location for certain until something falls over his head. A cord lands around his neck and constricts. With a yelp he thrashes against it, panicking he claws at his throat to remove it but can’t get his fingers underneath.

The noose is connected to a long pole that the captor uses to bring the man to the ground, it’s a tool used to capture stray animals. That’s how he feels as he is held to the floor gasping to breathe, she waits for the fight to go out of him. Once he has given up his resistance she moves in. His hands are locked behind him and the cord is loosened. Archie wheezes in relief, almost ready to thank her for the act of mercy.

Freed from his ankle leash he is pulled roughly to his feet and guided by his neck, at her command to go anywhere she wants him. She walks him straight into the doors to the ward, opening them with a slam. He is pushed through a waiting room, the wall to his right is all windows, blinding daylight shines in both glorious and painful to the man that has not seen the sun in he can’t even say how long.

His rubbery legs almost fail him as he is made to take several sets of stairs. They head up three flights in silence except for a mechanical hum that grows louder as they approach. Another door is opened with his body, another hall of searing daylight. He thinks to resist but fears becoming lost, with shackled hands and no sense of direction he’d have no way to fend off an attack or find Gar to release him.

Archie is marched past doors and darkened windows of clinics and units not in use, the signs he walks under that hang from the ceiling are no help to him with his unfocused vision. He can’t read them in order to tell where he is until he is forced to take an abrupt right and is slammed face first into a door that doesn’t give on the first try. His face draws back from a sign the reads:
Fertility Clinic

Forced inside by a second smash against the door, Archie is ushered all the way through a labyrinth of halls and offices to a treatment room. Placed against the wall like an unused mop for a moment while his keeper prepares something in the room. She maintains one hand on the pole, he can feel the tension lessen a bit.
Is this my chance?
he asks himself.
Should I make a move now?

Before he can act he is yanked away from the wall and backed against a low table. Though his legs are against it and can go no further, his neck is being forced back leaving him no choice but to sit. When the cord around his neck continues back he must slide his body until he is laying on the cushioned surface. A sheet of rough white paper crinkles below him as his body settles. His feet are quickly bound to the table. Lying like this is uncomfortable since his hands are cuffed behind his back, it’s uncomfortable on many levels but none more so than when his pants are taken from him along with his underwear. Both are drawn down to his ankles leaving him feeling even more vulnerable.

Archie feels foolish for thinking he’d be awarded any upper hand.
Of course she wouldn’t want my hands free,
he scolds himself. The woman switches on a shop light near the door that bathes the entire room in intense white light. Looking around the room for inspiration he is given little to go on, posters on the walls remind him of something Gar had said. The sober stoner, himself feeling quite down, tried to cheer up his cellmate at one point. The captive rewords Gar’s joke hoping that making this woman laugh might reach what humanity she has locked deep within, make her feel guilty about her actions.

“So, that’s what a vagina looks like on the inside,” he nods at a side view diagram of the female reproductive system. “It just stretches past the cervix like that? Like a dead end hallway? Maybe there’s a hidden passage back there, leading to a secret womb?”

Nothing. She gives his effort as much regard as he had given Gar when the depressed stoner had tried it on him. The woman goes on with her procedure, swabbing his genitals with a yellowing stain he recalls from PlasmaCore. The Betadine is cold as it is left to dry. Miss Andry rolls away on her stool to prepare for the next phase. Archie is nervous, more nervous than he had been his first time with a girl. This is different. This is something he does not want.

The table he lays on rises. The unwilling patient is confused at first, he wonders how she will be able to climb on the higher he is raised.
She isn’t doing this that way,
he again chastises his folly.

Despite the exposure and attention given to his genitalia, he has yet to feel even a twinge of arousal. Plastic cup at the ready, Miss Andry begins to coax the desired response. Her latex gloved hand is cold and without any trace of tenderness as she massages his penis into action. Archie fights it, he thinks of anything he can to stave off an erection, it’s the only way he can fight back.

He hardens against his will, his body betrays him. The woman grips him hard and commences into a robotic rhythm. He timidly looks down at her disinterested face, not even paying attention to the mechanical jerking of her hand, all that concerns her is the result and not the journey required to get there.

Holding back is his only weapon now, he hopes in vain he can tire her out, outlast her. Seconds later he’s already on the verge, betrayed once again by his physiology. Sensing the shift in the man’s body as he gives in to the forthcoming pleasure of the moment she speeds up her tempo and prepares for collection.

A tear rolls down Archie’s cheek, torn between how good it feels and just how very wrong. It has been a while since his night with Rocky, he pictures her as he erupts.

Having what she wants, Miss Andry releases him. She stands so quick the stool is sent rolling away. Archie closes his eyes as he grows limp, he doesn’t have the sense of confidence that normally follows receiving an act of gratification, just a deep feeling of shame. The woman strips the gloves off and caps her prize. She just leaves him, turning off the light. She utters one word before closing the door, the first and only thing she’s said to him this entire time, “Filth.”