This Rotten World (Book 1) (15 page)

Mort's
landing had not been soft, but thankfully, it had not done any further damage
either. His body had flown over the top of the shopping cart as it collided
with the bumper of the red truck. He laid there for a second, trying to figure
out if he had hurt anything in the fall. His knee was still on fire and his
elbow still ached, but the cuts on his face had finally stopped bleeding. He
did have a nice case of road rash on his side where he had tumbled across the
pavement, leaving some of his skin behind.

He sat up,
and managed to stand on his one good leg, his other dangling gingerly, just
barely touching the ground. He looked back up the hill he had come down, and
saw shapes moving underneath the streetlights. They were coming. He didn't have
much time. He hopped over to the truck and saw the man from the grocery store.
His forehead was curved the wrong way thanks to the steering wheel of the
truck.

Mort looked
at the other car, and didn't imagine that things would be much better on the
inside of that car, as the entire front of the sedan had been ripped off by the
diesel beast of a truck. Mort fumbled around in the man's pockets, searching
for his gun. No luck. Then he noticed a glimmer of silver on the floor of the
truck. He reached for the shine and pulled out the man's handgun. It was heavy
in his hands.

He backed
away from the car, holding the gun gingerly and trying to avoid tripping over
the cans of food that littered the street. His only thought was of escape. He
looked at the gun in his hand, and for a moment, he was tempted to put the
barrel in his mouth and take the simplest way out. But that's not who he was.
He wasn't a quitter, and if he had been, he would have been dead a long time
ago.

Behind him
one of the cars caught fire. That was a good enough sign for him to move. Mort
hobbled down the street, looking for anywhere to hide. There were plenty of
ramshackle houses along the street, but the last thing he wanted to do was
break into a house and hold people at gunpoint. He settled on a small
restaurant named Hot Chops.

It was a
two-story house that had been converted into a business. Ten wooden steps
climbed up to the first floor of the house. He limped up the steps, each flex
of his bruised knee bringing more agony. He looked over his shoulder and back
down the street. They were gaining ground. Soon, the dead would be at the
vehicles he had left behind.

As he
reached the second floor landing, Mort put his face to the windows to see if he
could see inside. It was pitch black inside. Using the butt of the gun, he
smashed in one of the windows and then cleared away the glass. He crawled
inside, grunting in discomfort as he tried to maneuver his injured leg through
the window with the least amount of pain. Once he got inside, he laid there,
catching his breath and waiting for the pain to subside.

He listened
for footsteps or any other sounds of alarm, but there were none. When he was
satisfied that no one was going to come and shoot him in the back, he rose to
his feet and looked out the window. He was just in time to see the burning car
explode. It wasn't a huge explosion, but he felt the force and heat from it
down the block, and the sound was deafening. Car alarms erupted in a cacophony
of wailing throughout the neighborhood.

Shadows
stumbled in front of the fire, outlined against its brilliance as they moved
down the street and towards his hiding spot. Flame-engulfed figures emerged
from the conflagration and stumbled after them. A man with a hunting rifle
burst out of the front door of one of the houses next door. With his back to
Mort's vantage point, he began taking aim at the bodies moving down the street.
The loud report of the man's rifle echoed through the streets. He might as well
have been spitting spitballs at a mannequin for all the difference it made. In
the darkness, he couldn't see exactly where the man was hitting them, but he
watched just the same. Then, to his elation, one of the burning shapes went
down, and didn't move again.

Mort pulled
his head back in the window and smiled to himself. "So they can be
killed."

He stumbled
around in the darkness of the restaurant, bumping into clunky wooden tables. He
swept the place settings onto the floor with his arm, and tipped a table over
on its side. He pushed it across the wood floor and set it in front of the
broken window he had crawled into. It wasn't much for the moment, but it should
give him some sort of warning if one of those things tried to crawl inside, and
he simply couldn't do anything else with his knee in the condition that it was
in.

Car alarms
blared and the occasional sound of rifle fire masked all the noise that he
made. He was tempted to turn on a light, but he didn't know if the light would
draw those things to the house. Rather than risk it, he felt his way around the
dining room, and then made his way into the kitchen. Cold metal counters and
the smell of used cooking oil assaulted his nose. He would give anything for a
flashlight, but there was none to be had, at least not that his eyes could
distinguish in the dark.

He felt
around the kitchen until he discovered what he thought was a stand-up freezer,
visions of dead creatures in the darkness danced though his head. He pulled it
open. The light from the inside lit up the kitchen enough for him to see. The
kitchen appeared to be clear, so he tucked the gun into the back of his pants.
The barrel was cold against his skin.

By the
light of the freezer, he pulled up the left leg of his pants and examined his
knee. The swelling was awful. His knee looked like it belonged more to an
elephant than an out-of-shape homeless man. Mort lowered himself to the ground,
his leg stretched out before him. He reached into the freezer and pulled out a
pork chop, placing it on his knee. He sucked in a breath as the frozen meat
touched his skin.

He closed
his eyes and sat there. Enjoying the brief respite. He reached into his pocket
and pulled out a cigarette. It was his last one, who knew for how long. He lit
the cigarette, took a deep breath, and blew the smoke into the air.

He imagined
that he was on a train, headed to wherever, hiding in a train car, ready to
jump off at a moment's notice. Maybe he would go to the country. Maybe he could
find a way down South, take a look at the old family homestead. He doubted it
was still standing. It had been little more than a tin shack when he had left
it.

It was all
just a pipe dream anyway. He took a drag off of his cigarette and then ashed on
the floor. He wasn't in the mood for etiquette at the moment. As he exhaled, he
heard a noise upstairs. It sounded like the scraping of furniture on wood, but
he couldn't be sure. He put the pork chop he had been icing his knee with back
in the freezer and closed the door. He sat there, listening for any further
noise as his eyes adjusted to the dark, then he rose to his feet, pulling on
the counter to get himself up. Now that he had rested, he was calming down and
the adrenaline was leaving his body. He realized just how sore and tired he had
become. He didn't know how much longer he could go on for. All he wanted to do
was sleep, but first, he had to check out the noise.

He walked
into the dining room, and checked the table just to be sure. It was still
there, ready to be knocked over at the slightest disturbance. In the darkness,
he found a door that opened onto a steep staircase that led upstairs. He pulled
his purloined revolver from his pants and took a deep breath.

His climb
up the stairs was slow and arduous. The house was old, and the stairs squeaked
with every step. When he reached the top of the stairs, he stood there shrouded
in silence, clutching the pistol.

"Hello?
Is anybody there?"

From
somewhere in the house, he heard footsteps coming towards him, shuffling steps,
uneven. He couldn't tell what direction they were coming from. It was too dark
to see who or what was approaching him. His left hand instinctively searched
the wall for a light switch, while his right hand shook with the pistol in it.

"Stop
where you are."

The footsteps
continued, shuffling across the wooden floor.

"I
have a gun. I don't want to hurt you."

The fingers
of his left hand touched on a switch, and he flipped it up just as an elderly
black woman reached for his throat. He had time to see vomit dribble from her
mouth before they both tumbled down the stairs.

Somewhere
in the tumble, the gun went off. Blood dripped onto him as he fended off the
woman's bites. She was straddling him, and it was only a matter of time before
he was bitten. He fumbled around on the ground for the pistol, but he couldn't
find it. With his left arm locked at a ninety degree angle, he pushed the woman
back as far as he could, which wasn't far enough as far as he was concerned.
Vomit dripped from her mouth onto his face, and her cold weight sent fear
through his body.

The
fingertips of his free arm brushed against the metal of the pistol. It was just
out of his reach. He pushed the woman backwards and sat up, straining abdominal
muscles that hadn't been used in years. Holding the woman at arm's length, he
finally managed to grasp the butt of the gun. In one smooth motion, he brought
it up under her chin and pulled the trigger. The flash temporarily blinded him
in the darkness.

The
struggling stopped, and Mort let out a scream of rage as the woman's body
tumbled to the side, limp and very dead. He gestured at the woman's corpse with
the gun, searching for something, anything to say. But mostly he was just a raw
pile of emotions and fear. He heard the table in the dining room falling over,
as one of those things attempted to climb inside. He turned and fired blindly
at the window.

The light
from upstairs barely reached where he was, so he couldn't see anything, but he
heard a large thump as someone or something slithered in the broken window and
landed on the floor. That was enough for him. Mort backed up the stairs; his
entire body seemed composed of aches and wounds. He heard a couple more thumps,
and then he heard the telltale sound of shuffling feet, a sound he was coming
to despise. When he reached the landing, he examined the hallway.

There were
multiple doorways, but he chose one at random. He closed the door lightly. He was
in luck; the door he had chosen was to the bathroom, and it had a lock on it.
He stepped into the bathroom, closed the door, and turned the lock. At least he
was trapped in a place that had water. Mort wondered if he would turn into one
of those things if he died from thirst.

It wasn't
long until there was banging at the door. It was uncanny how they seemed to
find him everywhere he went. Mort lowered himself onto the ground, and peered
through the crack between the floor and the door. He could see a pair of shoes
standing in the hallway. Behind that pair of shoes he could see a corpse
climbing up the last few stairs in the stairwell. The sun couldn't rise soon
enough.

The police
weren't coming. Of that he was sure. He could see the beginnings of sunrise out
the window. He had thought about running to the fire escape, but he was frozen
in place in the hopes that the cops would come. They were still banging on the
door, and Rudy had no idea what he was going to do.

He was glad
he lived in an apartment complex with thick doors. He was even more glad that
he had several deadbolts. Rudy's stomach growled at him. It wasn't a sound he
was used to hearing; he usually did an excellent job of keeping his stomach
full. Part of him wanted to just run into the kitchen, pop a Hot Pocket in the
microwave and eat his last meal, but the other part of him thought that the
added noise would just keep the freaks outside banging on his door for even
longer. They would have to get tired sooner or later? Right?

Rudy rose
from the ground, his legs quaking under his bulk. He walked over to the window
that looked out on the fire escape. The first touches of pink lit the horizon
to the east, and he could see people moving in the street. It wasn't normal
movement however. There were people running, and here and there he could see
forms stumbling right down the middle of the street. The people weren't walking
on the sidewalk, and he had seen that shambling gait before.

Things were
bad, and for the first time in Rudy's life, he knew that he was going to have
to get himself out of this jam on his own. No one was going to help him. With a
groan, he unlatched his window and lifted it up. His breathing was labored, and
he swore to himself when he looked over the ledge that led to the fire escape.
His head spun, and he cursed himself for ever agreeing to live on the third
floor of an apartment complex.

Rudy threw
one of his legs over the edge of the windowsill. The banging at the door
continued. His head spun as he looked down at the street. He couldn't do it.
Just as he was about to pull his leg back inside, he heard the sound of
splintering wood. The banging at the door became even more intense, and there
was no turning back.

He pulled
his other leg over the railing and put all of his weight on it. He yelped as
the fire escape shifted under his weight. He could see the bolts rattling ever
so slightly in the holes that had once been drilled in red brick decades ago.
At any moment, the fire escape could give way, but given the choice of being
eaten alive or plummeting to his death, Rudy would just as soon tumble to the
rain-soaked pavement.

Rudy inched
down the stairs of the fire escape, grasping the iron rails as he went. Wherever
his hand touched the rails, the white paint flaked off to reveal rusted iron surfaces.
The sun emerged over the top of the tall apartment buildings, and he was bathed
in an orange glow. From up above, he heard the door to his apartment burst
open. He had reached the landing to the next apartment, and he peeked inside.

The lights
were off, and the reflection of the sun prevented him from seeing anything
other than his own freckled face. Without warning, the window was thrown up,
and a hand pulled him inside. He fell without grace, sprawled on the ground and
in pain despite all of his unintentional padding. A soft hand was placed over
his face, and as he lay there, muffling his groans of pain. He realized that he
had been saved by the most beautiful woman that he had ever seen.

"Shut
up," she said.

He was too
shocked to make any noise. She left him wordless on the ground, as she ran to
the window and slammed it shut. That’s when they heard them, the two monsters
that had been banging on his door all night. They clumsily clambered onto the
fire escape, their footfalls echoing throughout the not-so-quiet morning. There
was a loud screech of metal, and then the fire escape tumbled away from the
building, bits of eroded brick dust glittering in the sunlight.

Rudy and
his savior rushed to the window. With a grace that matched her beauty, she
threw up the window, and they both looked over the edge.  In the street, the
fire escape sprawled out on the pavement, looking like nothing more than a
white-ribbed worm, a giant DNA model that had fallen to the ground. Amid the
twisted metal, his pursuers wiggled and squirmed, their appendages broken in
numerous spots. He shuddered to think what he would look like if he had been on
the fire escape when the two had emerged from his apartment.

He pulled
his head back in the window, and that’s when he noticed that the most beautiful
woman he had ever seen had a gun pointed at him.

“You can
leave now.”

Rudy’s
experience with talking to women was confined to arguing with his own foster
mothers and giving female professors a hard time. He wanted to talk to this
woman; he wanted to get to know her. But it was going to be hard to do that
with a gun pointed at his head.

“I have
nowhere to go,” he whined.

“Not my
problem,” she shot back. Clearly she had a heart, or else she wouldn’t have
saved him, but it was also apparent that she was scared out of her mind.

“Listen, I
can’t go back to my apartment. The door is broken down. If I get trapped in
there, there’s no way to escape.” Her only reply was to cock the gun.

He put his
hands up and backed away as a reply. “Can I at least know your name?”

Rudy didn’t
think she was going to say anything, but then she cocked her head, as if to
“Say what could it hurt?” With a voice like sweet apple pie she said, “My name
is Chloe.”

Rudy smiled
his best disarming smile and said “My name is Rudy, Rudy Lincoln.”

“Nice to
meet you Rudy. Now get the hell out of my apartment.” She gestured at the door
with her gun.

He turned
to go. Undoing the chain and throwing the deadbolts open, he pulled the door
open and stepped into the hallway of the apartment complex. As he shut the door
behind him, her heard Chloe’s sweet voice say, “Stay safe, Rudy.”

When he
shut the door, he heard the chain rattle against the door and the deadbolts
slide home. He wanted to be inside that apartment with Chloe. He wanted to
protect her, or be protected; he didn’t quite know which.

With his
head sunk between his shoulders, he moped up to his apartment. The door hung on
one brass hinge. The wood of the doorjamb was broken. He tried to close the
door, but the wood was damaged beyond repair.

Rudy sat in
his La-Z-Boy, and watched the sun rise. He opened his last Mountain Dew Code
Red and turned on his Xbox.

“Well, I
might as well get in a few more games before the end of the world.”