Dark Stories: Ray and Teddy, Part II

Here is the second half of the story of the two teenage boys.  This one is devoted to Teddy’s tale of his first exposure to the undead, and reveals some details about his family.  Not much more of an introduction is needed for this one, so without further ado:

 

Ray and Teddy, Part II

Teddy’s story was quite a bit different than Ray’s, but he had no interest in sharing it or anything else about his family with the other boy, or anyone else for that matter.  It just didn’t seem necessary.  His life had been altered permanently, like everyone else’s, and just like them he had a sad story to tell.  But it seemed like almost a violation of his privacy to share it with someone.

Teddy was an only child and his parents were much younger than Ray’s, but he had always been surrounded by cousins, aunts, and uncles his entire life.  His father and mother were born and lived in Ellington, Ohio.  Like the rest of his relatives, they stuck close the area, which was a small town not all that far from Manchester, where the RV’s were parked.

Teddy, like his father, had always been short but athletic.  His father was an outdoorsman who loved to hunt and fish and had tried extremely hard to pass that interest along to his son.  As many times as Teddy had been pushed out the door at four AM on cold fall mornings or was dragged along to sit all Saturday in a little boat out on a lake, he never gained much of an interest in either sport.  Instead, he discovered soccer.  His mother decided early on that he should be able to choose for himself what sports he could play and despite the fact that his father said no son of his was going to play a “queer” sport like soccer, his mother, who was usually quite passive, stood her ground.

Joe Schmidts never went to any of Teddy’s soccer games when he was little and even when his boy took up wrestling in the seventh grade, he didn’t think much of the sports his son had chosen.  By that time, Teddy’s parents were divorced and he was only with his father every other weekend.  They shared even less time than that together since all Joe ever wanted to do was go out on his fishing boat and get drunk on the weekends.  Teddy was old enough take care of himself, so he was left behind by his grumbling dad in the rickety shack he’d moved into after the divorce.

It was one of those weekends when things started getting strange.

It was about five PM on Saturday; at least three hours later than Joe usually got back from one of his typical fishing expeditions.  Usually his trips landed him no fish, but a case of empty Bud cans rattling around in the bottom of the ten foot aluminum Crestliner.  The boat was dented and beat up, but was the pride and joy of Ray’s father.  That and his collection of hunting rifles.

When his father finally did stumble into the house, he was drunk as a skunk, as Teddy’s mother used to say, and in a foul mood to boot.

Joe never hit his son, despite what Vicky believed.  He pushed Teddy around a bit to toughen him up, but never abused him.  At least not physically.  Usually he rambled on about Teddy being a wuss and that he should try out for the football team.  He was fast and could be a running back if he bulked up like his daddy.  Joe was all of five foot six himself, but weighed over two hundred pounds.  He claimed it had been all muscle in his day and perhaps that had been true when he had been a star player on the local high school baseball team.  But now his beer gut was the most impressive part of Joe’s physique.

Upon Joe’s return from his latest fishing expedition, he tripped through the door griping and growling, like he normally did.  But that wasn’t the first thing Teddy noticed about his dad.  It was the blood on his shirt sleeve and his sloppily bandaged hand.  It was wrapped with gauze from the first aid kit his father kept on the boat.  All the teen could get out of Joe was that some bastard had bitten him when he pulled his boat to shore.  After that, Joe proceeded to knock the man flat, kicking and punching him until he went down for the count.  After regaling his son with the brief story, Joe threw up and collapsed to the floor.

After checking to make sure he was still breathing, Teddy dragged his father to the couch and with a Herculean effort, got him up on it.  His father didn’t wake up the entire time his son manhandled him.  Teddy then managed to clean up the vomit, which had left a foul trail from the spot where his father fell all the way to the couch.  It bothered the teen that there was blood in his father’s puke, but he didn’t think much of it.  It wasn’t the first time that had happened.

Teddy glanced at the bandages on his father’s hand and dismissed them as well.  The gauze looked gross, but not too bad-the wound underneath had stopped bleeding.  He doubted the validity of the story his father had told, but had heard stories on the television about all sorts of the freaky stuff going on all over the place.  Teddy wasn’t much for TV so he didn’t pay much attention to those stories, figuring it was more of the same over blown crap newscasters were always babbling about.

Regardless, he made no connection between the news and what happened to his dad.  More than likely his father had done something stupid like get one of his fishing lures stuck in the webbing between his fingers where the cut was and in his drunken state ripped it out with some pliers.  Making up a ridiculous excuse about some nut job biting him just went with the territory with pops.

Teddy didn’t bother trying to take the bandages off or even looking too closely at the wound.  His father looked green around the gills and was probably going to throw up a few more times before it even got dark out.  Instead, Teddy grabbed a bucket from under the sink in the kitchen and set it on the floor close to his father’s mouth.

Teddy decided to go for a run to clear his head.  Exercise had always been like that for Teddy; it allowed him to think when all his thoughts seemed to be zooming by at a hundred miles an hour.  None of his friends liked running, even the ones he knew on the soccer and wrestling teams.  So he was typically in far better shape than nearly everyone else at the start of the new seasons of his two chosen sports.  In less than one month, soccer practice would begin and he wanted to make the varsity squad.  He would be the only sophomore if he made it, and his coach told him that he had a great chance this season.  There were enough seniors who had graduated the prior year that there would be room for one sophomore and he was hoping that Teddy would put in the effort to be that one.

Teddy couldn’t imagine not going full bore with every sport he tried.  Despite their differences, he knew that his father and he had persistence in common.  His father was a talented athlete, but said time and again that no one had given him a God damned thing—he worked his ass off for it all.  He claimed he got a scholarship to play baseball in college and did so for one year before he jacked up his knee.  And that, according to Teddy’s mother, was when the drinking started.  He and Vicky were married by then and Teddy came along a year later, but Joe was already on the path to oblivion well before his son was born.

Vicky had spotted Teddy’s natural abilities early on, as well as his endless energy, and got him into the peewee soccer leagues.  Wrestling was discovered later.  He excelled at it as well, but soccer was the boy’s first love.  Teddy dreamed of getting a scholarship like his father and leaving his small hometown for good.  The conditioning he put his body through would insure that he didn’t “jack up his knee” like dad, and maybe someday he would have the chance to play professionally.

So Teddy ran out of his dad’s dingy, broken down house out in the sticks and down his gravel road so he could clear his mind and focus on all his big goals for the future.

The other houses in the neighborhood were as cheap and shitty as his dad’s, and were populated mainly by Joe’s lame ass drinking buddies.  Buddies dad had made after the divorce.  All of them seemed as hateful and bitter as Teddy’s father toward women, and the world in general.  At least he would not have to put up with them tonight, since his father probably wouldn’t be awake to call them over.  Hopefully he would he would stay passed out all damn night and Teddy could head back to mom’s by noon the following day.  It wasn’t like dad wanted him around when he had a hangover anyway.

After about an hour of running, things started to look strange out on the road.  Teddy had followed his typical route of five miles down the road and back again.  He was about a mile from his father’s when he noticed a few people in their overgrown yards stumbling around nearby.

Must be Miller time. It seemed a bit early, but who was he to judge?  His father was already passed out on the couch and Teddy hadn’t seen anyone who lived along this back road that ever met a beer they didn’t like.  Still, it was only six o’clock.  Usually they were just getting started at this point and wouldn’t be fall-on-their-faces drunk until ten if they decided to stay home or a bit later if they headed to the local tavern Joe frequented with many of them.

What was stranger still was the fact that Teddy was seeing at least six or seven people out on their lawns all looking exactly the same-stoned out of their gourds.  His best guess was that someone had a booze picnic-he had to chuckle at the fact that his dad hadn’t been invited.  If he wasn’t passed out, Joe would’ve been pissed at the snub.

Teddy kept his eyes trained on the road, setting one foot in front of another, watching his feet kick up dust on the gravel road.  And yet, he couldn’t help but notice the people stumbling around.

It wasn’t just how they walked.  That would have been enough for Teddy to think it somewhat funny.  But as he glanced even closer he realized they looked messed up.  Really messed up.  Every last one looked like they had thrown up all over themselves, and not just with normal vomit—there was blood and other gunk all over their clothes.

After a few more moments of jogging, Teddy dared to look at one of the drunks head on.  He figured he could divert his eyes just as quickly if need be; if the person saw him staring and took offense.  Teddy learned that keeping his eyes diverted from some of his father’s “friends” was the best thing he could do most of the time.  They wouldn’t necessarily leave you alone because of that, but for the most part it kept them from pushing too hard when they were three sheets to the wind.

When he glanced at Missus Chilton, it was the first time that Teddy suspected that these people weren’t just drunk.

Marge Chilton was a widower who was probably ten years older than Teddy’s father, and Teddy unfortunately also knew from his dad that she was easy, which was grosser than just about anything.  Most of the men in the area had taken a “whack” at ‘ol Marge, and if what dad said was true he had ridden her a time or two as well.  That was far more than what Teddy needed or wanted to know about his father’s sex life, though Joe thought it was hilarious when his uptight son turned beet red and ran out of the room after several graphic descriptions of his conquests.

When Teddy worked up the courage to take a look at Missus Chilton, he stumbled and fell hard to his hands and knees on the gravel.  The pain was intense, though he barely noticed it as his eyes never left the woman stumbling toward him.

Marge Chilton’s left cheek was gone.  Teddy’s eyes were glued to the hole where he saw her jaw working underneath.  It was a bloody mess, with the white of her teeth and pale gums clearly outlined.  Part of the skin that had either been torn or ripped free remained behind and jiggled as she opened her mouth and moaned.  It was like nothing Teddy had ever heard before.  A ball of what looked like phlegm landed with an audible plop in front of her as her jaws split wide.

She was in a house coat, exposing a small and tight fitting nightgown beneath.  In the lunacy of the moment, Teddy could tell it was silk and that his mother had one just like it.  It clung tightly to the middle aged woman’s body.

Missus Chilton had been an attractive, if rather trashy, woman and her forty five year old figure still garnered its share of looks.  Teddy was not sure how trashy she really was, but she had been at his father’s house with all the guys and a few other women on occasion, and was hanging on a different man each time.  She smoked like a chimney and even tried flirting with Teddy once, which had ended with a horrified look on his face and her cackling like some insane witch at how funny she thought she was being.

The silk nightgown was covered in a brown fluid that Teddy guessed was a mixture of blood and something else he didn’t want to know anything about.  More importantly, she was shambling toward him across her small front yard.

“Missus Chilton?  Are you okay?”  Teddy winced as he tried to get back up and pushed up on hands that had a thousand shards of gravel jammed into them.  There were no cuts, at least.

She responded with another moan and if anything, it seemed even higher pitched than the one before, as if his voice excited her.  Teddy’s gut clenched as he got to his feet and inched backward.  He was afraid he was going to throw up as he imagined this horny old bag wanting to screw him, ripped up cheek and all, right here on the gravel road that ran in front of her house.  It was insane, but no more so than any of the other thoughts running through the boy’s mind at the moment.

As he continued to move backward and repeated “Missus Chilton?” one more time, Teddy spied something out of the corner of his eye.

There were several other people moving toward him.  The same ones who’d been stumbling around their yards like Missus Chilton.

They were walking just as slowly as the woman who was now only about ten feet from where the teenager stood.  As Teddy looked a bit closer at the one nearest, two houses down, he recognized Phil Gomez.  Phil was one of the few people who Teddy liked in his father’s neighborhood.  He drank like all the rest, and yet never acted drunk.  While he hung out with the other folks when they got together, he seemed to be the only one with a level head.  He always had something nice to say to the boy and didn’t mock him for playing soccer like his father encouraged everyone to do.

Phil looked just as screwed up as Marge.  Even more so.  There was a big chunk of meat missing from his right arm and a great deal of dried blood around the wound.  Teddy couldn’t see Phil’s eyes all that well but he thought they looked more cloudy than usual.  But what really stood out about the man was the fact that his midsection was a ragged mess.

Phil’s t-shirt was shredded, as if someone had tried to tear it off him like he was some sort of rock star.  The collar and sleeves were still intact, but the lower half was completely gone.  So were most of his internal organs below the rib cage.  Bits of gristle and whatever dark tubing that was supposed to be inside him were dangling down to his jeans.  Thankfully the denim was holding up, along with his spine.

When he moaned like the woman closing in on Teddy, the boy nearly fell again.  He felt woozy, but managed to stay on his feet.  His knees were weak, though the pain from where he’d fallen on them was already forgotten.  Behind Phil were at least three other people who looked as messed up as him.

Marge was getting closer.

Teddy panicked, not sure what to do.  He turned to face the direction he had been running, figuring he was faster than any of these people even when they had been … been what?  Normal?  What the hell is wrong with these people? What did this to them?

It still didn’t occur to Teddy that the things he heard on the television were somehow correlated to this.  That was the kind of crap you saw in the one of those sensational magazines his mother got a kick out of at the checkout stands in supermarkets.  This was real. It was here and now.  This was happening to people he knew.

When he turned back to the road, Teddy realized what a predicament he was in.  There were even more of them coming.

He didn’t bother counting.  There was more than he could slumping toward him.  If he didn’t move soon, he would be surrounded.

The teen took off running.

He didn’t remember the rest of the roughly three quarters of a mile to his father’s house, except when dodging a few grasping hands.  Teddy thought he had felt some fingers swipe the back of his shirt, but wasn’t quite sure.  He didn’t bother trying to speak to anyone after Missus Chilton, although he thought he saw Rodney Williams, the African American guy who lived two doors down from his dad.  Teddy always remembered that Rodney seemed blacker than black, his skin almost charcoal in color.  All his father could think to say about the man was something nonsensical like “he sure as hell ain’t high yella,” before laughing like a loon.  Teddy had no idea what it meant, but was sure it was offensive.

Rodney was the only black man in the area and some of the other neighbors didn’t seem to like him all that much for that reason, but Joe Schmidts had no issues with anyone as long as they brought beer with them when they visited, and Rodney always did.  He was as much of a lush as the rest of them.

Teddy got to the door without a scratch, although he was drenched in sweat and panting.  He opened the front door and slammed it shut behind him, locking it.

Teddy saw that the couch situated next to the front door was empty before he even got the door locked.  Screaming for his father, Teddy’s heart nearly exploded when Joe stumbled out of the kitchen.

He didn’t look as bad as the others outside, but it was clear that whatever had gotten a hold of them had gotten to him as well.  Joe’s skin had a grayish hue to it, and his eyes looked strange in the thin slivers of light trickling through the broken blinds on the front window.  But it was the sound emanating from Joe’s mouth that confirmed it for Teddy.  It was the same haunted, keening noise that he’d heard outside; as if some great sadness had gripped his father.

“Dad?” was all that Teddy managed to ask before Joe lunged at him.  Perhaps it was the adrenaline, or the realization that it was pointless trying to break through whatever fever had a hold of his father’s mind, but Teddy managed to dodge the sloppy attack and make a run for the bedroom before Joe could do much more than growl in frustration.

Teddy rushed into his father’s bedroom and locked the door.  It didn’t take long for him to hear banging on the front door over the sound of his own heavy breathing.  But it wasn’t until his father’s fists slammed into the bedroom door that a startled yelp burst from Teddy’s lips.

Looking around the room, Teddy moved to the small window that faced the backside of the house.  He could see several people moving toward the house across the acre-sized back lawn.  It took only a moment to confirm that they were in the same shape as the others.  Tugging on the pull cord, Teddy let the blinds drop across the window so they wouldn’t spot him.

Hearing glass shatter from across the house, Teddy knew that it was the back door being broken into.  The pounding on the front door continued, but he could already hear footsteps moving through the kitchen.  It didn’t take much to deduce that whichever neighbors were inside the house would be joining his father at the bedroom door within seconds.

Teddy rushed to the beat up dresser near the door and pushed against it.  It didn’t budge at first, but as he let out a grunt of frustration, he felt it slide an inch or two across the ratty carpet.  The sound of the effort acted as an incentive to his father, who increased his pounding on the door.  The cheap wood of the door wouldn’t hold up long and that was all the motivation Teddy needed to continue straining until he managed to slide the dresser in front of it.  The frame continued to rattle, but the heavy piece of furniture would at least give him a few minutes to think of an escape plan.

Scanning the sparsely decorated room, Teddy stepped to his father’s closet.  That was where the rifles were kept.  When Joe and Vicky were still married, he had a nice display case in the basement for all his weapons.  It was locked, but had a glass front.  All the rifles had trigger locks as well, which was something Teddy’s mom had insisted on.  Since he’d moved, Joe was forced to sell the display case to a friend and had taken each rifle and blasted the trigger locks to pieces.  Teddy supposed it was his father’s way of getting back at his mother for everything she had ever done to him.

Now the few rifles that remained in his collection were buried on the bottom of the closet.  The only admonishment that Joe ever gave his son anymore was “don’t touch them or I’ll break your neck.”  Teddy never had, until now.  He sifted through the pile of dirty clothes on the floor and grabbed the Springfield Model 70.  It was his father’s favorite.  He had been forced to sell most of the others to pay child support and alimony.  He couldn’t find steady work in construction so the collection, which had originally consisted of upwards of thirty different weapons, had diminished to about five rifles.  He’d handed over the shotguns and other rifles to some dealers and collectors, but held on to the old Springfield, even though it was probably was worth more than any of the other weapons he had.  It was Joe’s baby and when he’d bought it at a gun auction ten years before he swore up and down he would never part with it.  His father, Teddy’s grandfather, had one just like it and Joe grew up using it.

Teddy held the rifle awkwardly.  He had never fired it and had never really wanted to.  Guns held no fascination for him.

He grabbed a box of .30 caliber rounds and noticed that several other boxes said 7.62mm on them and knew that he could grab them as well—his father had taught him that much, at least.  He loaded the rifle as he had seen his dad do and poured as many bullets as he could into his pockets without feeling weighed down.  Moving out of the closet, Teddy glanced over at the dresser and opened one of the drawers.  He grabbed a pair of balled up socks and poured more of the stray cartridges into one of them.  He wasn’t quite sure what he was doing, but filled it about half way up and then tied the opening of the sock off into a thick knot.  Swinging it around a couple of times to test its weight, he hoped it would do the job of knocking someone silly if they got too close.

Staring at the dresser, Teddy watched it vibrate as several fists pounded on the door behind it.  There were at least three people out there with his father now, and he was sure more would be joining them.

What the hell is wrong with everyone? It was the thought racing through Teddy’s mind as he stood, stunned and panting inside his father’s bedroom.  They were in varied states of messed up, with his own father the least so.  He remembered his father saying that someone had bitten him and that was starting to make more sense.  Perhaps that was what caused this.  Someone with rabies or hepatitis was out there attacking everyone, turning them into homicidal maniacs.

The more his mind raced, the stranger Teddy thought it was that no one out there appeared to be attacking anyone else.  They were all bloodied and messed up from some type of assault, but they were all after him, not one another.  Watching the door, Teddy held the rifle in front of him as he glanced furtively over to the window.  No one had attacked his dad-he couldn’t hear any brawling going on outside the bedroom door, and yet they all wanted to get at him.  Why?

Taking one last look around the room, Teddy cursed.  No phone.  His father had one phone and it was next to the couch.  The man refused to get a cell phone and it damn near took a court order to get him to buy an answering machine.  There weren’t too many people that Joe was interested in talking to anyway, and that left Teddy in a bind.  What the hell was he going to do?  In answer to his silent query, the sound of the bedroom door cracking made Teddy take a step back deeper into the room.

The truck!  His father’s truck was parked next to the house.  The beat up old shack didn’t have a garage.  Just a cheap sheet metal cover that counted as a car port.  The old beat up Chevy S-10 was underneath it with the boat attached behind.  Teddy had always shaken his head at the amazing luck his father displayed in driving back from the small lake where he fished.  They were out in the country, so he was almost always able to avoid the cops on his drunken returns home.  He was not quite as good with trees and fence posts though.  The truck had suffered some pretty nice dings and dents and Joe spent some plenty of his free time fixing a few neighbor’s split rail fences.  Fortunately for him, they were as apt to get ripped and do the exact same thing, so they were more or less forgiving of his indiscretions.

But where were the keys?

He thought back to his father’s return.  The old man didn’t carry the damn things in his pocket like a normal person.  If Joe remembered to get them out of the truck, he would usually toss them on a counter somewhere or underneath a pile of trash he had not cleaned up in months.  “My cleaning lady will get to it, but this is her year off.”  Some lame joke like that was always his excuse.  When Teddy tried to clean up once, his father told him to leave it.  He’d left the boy’s mother so he could get away from dealing with crap like that.

As the bedroom door splintered and the dresser shuttered, Teddy thought hard.  He couldn’t remember his father doing much more than throwing up and passing out when he got home.  That and talking about getting bitten.  No keys.  Were they still in the truck?

The question was rendered moot as the dresser moved and the door behind it gave way.  The moaning outside grew louder and it sounded like a lot more fists were pounding on the front door as well.

Teddy moved to the window and peaked through the blinds outside.  Nothing.  Just the weedy back yard that seemed to stretch for a mile.  No more shambling forms.  Anyone moving toward the house were probably already inside and trying to get at him through the bedroom door.

The window was fairly small and was at chest height.  Outside of the dresser and the bed there was not much to climb on in the room.  It would take too long to move the bed underneath the window.  Being short sometimes was a real disadvantage.  Teddy couldn’t remember how he managed, but he was able to slide the window open and pull himself up just as the dresser toppled over and crashed to the floor.  He tossed the rifle outside as the sock full of cartridges swung like a pendulum from where he had tied it to his sweatpants.

Before sliding through the window, Teddy took one last glance back into the room, which was a big mistake.  He froze halfway out the window as he stared into his father’s eyes.

The man was dead.  Looking at Marge Chilton had not convinced Teddy of that, nor had seeing Phil, even with his guts ripped out.  But looking into his father’s eyes as the man climbed over the toppled dresser made Teddy realize they were dead.  Every last one of them.

Teddy almost died alongside them right then and there.  He continued staring at his father, stunned by his revelation.  His father was dead, but somehow moving toward him.  The teen was frozen in place as his father crept closer, just a couple of feet away.  Joe would grab him by the legs and pull his son back inside where everyone in the neighborhood would do unspeakable things to him.  Then he would become one of them.

That was when Teddy felt the hand yanking him out the window.

He screamed as he fell to the ground, knocking down whoever had pulled him outside.  His legs had been scrapped up in the fall and the bag of bullets had landed on his back, knocking the air out of him and leaving some nice gouges there as well.

Teddy rolled away, trying hard to catch his breath as the other person climbed to their feet.  He rolled to his back so he could see what was going on.  As he looked up, he discovered that his savior was one of them.

He didn’t recognize this person.  It was man dressed in denim overalls with one of the straps missing.  So was the man’s right arm.

Teddy gaped at the man and once again felt as if he couldn’t move.  The rifle was behind the ghoul, out of the reach.  Not that he could manage his first shot with the weapon anyway.  There was no way in hell.  The only thing he could do was run.

Teddy tried to scoot backwards, but the man was moving faster than he could scoot.  When he did scoot, he heard the bag of bullets making noise as the cartridges clicked together in the sock.  He reached and tugged at it.  He had tied it to the pull string of his sweats and it had tried to break loose when he fell, but remained where he’d put it.  Teddy had tied it tight, wanting it to remain snug to his body.  Now he cursed as he struggled to get it loose.

The memory of how long it took to fumble the sock free played over and over in Teddy’s dreams for days.  In reality, it took less than a couple of seconds and then he was able to launch the makeshift sling at the man well before he could lunge for him.  But in his dreams, it was always one second too late …

Teddy watched as the weighted sock traveled upward and smacked the stiffening corpse in the nose.  It caused the man to stumble.  After a moment the monster regained control of his erstwhile feet and moved toward Teddy again.  By then the boy had snapped out of his trance and was on his feet, slipping backwards, away from the man.  The truck was on the side of the house, past the pus bag in front of him.  But that wasn’t the only problem: someone was stepping out the back door of his dad’s house and others were following.

A voice inside Teddy’s head managed to cut through all the static and noise racing around in there.  It whispered that he already knew that he was faster than any of these people.  All he had to do was move, and move quickly and there was no way in hell they could catch him.

He took the voice at its word and decided to run straight at the man.  This seemed to take the slug off guard a bit and it nearly toppled over.  Teddy feigned another move and the klutz did fall over this time.  Moving past the wriggling form, he snatched up his father’s rifle and then darted around the other dead figures pouring from the house as he ran to the truck.

The keys weren’t in the ignition.

Teddy slammed his fist against the window and was tempted to shoot the damn thing out of frustration.  That was when he saw the keys.  They were on the floorboards beside a discarded fast food bag.  Yelping with glee, Teddy tugged on the door handle and got into the truck.  He crammed the key in the ignition and tried to start it.  The engine wouldn’t turn over.

The wretched thing was fifteen years old and holding on for dear life.  It had some hard miles on it and had been a good truck for many years, but it was well past its expiration date.  Teddy, who had never driven before, was winging it.  Thankfully it was not a standard transmission or he would have been forced to run instead.  He was reasonably sure he could handle an automatic.

When the first fist slammed against the glass, Teddy nearly wet himself.  He stomped on the gas pedal and twisted the key again.  Nothing.  He remembered his father cursing the old beast a time or two and bitching about having flooded it.  About how temperamental she was, almost as bad as his mother.  Teddy cursed himself and brought the rifle up.  There were more monsters coming.

He saw the first one moving its fist down toward the door handle and he locked it, wondering in amazement why he hadn’t done that in the first place.  After another few moments of staring at the man close up, he blinked and leaned over to click the passenger side lock down as well.

For the next few minutes, Teddy Schmidts felt like he had been condemned to hell as punishment for not playing football as his father wished.  Joe Schmidts became a drunken loser because his son was a great disappointment, but that wasn’t punishment enough for Teddy.  No, he was going to be surrounded by his father’s disgusting neighbors so they could drag him down to the fiery pits, kicking and screaming.

That was when Teddy saw his father again.  The old man came through the back door after somehow managing to realize he couldn’t follow his son through the window.  The other neighbors in the room had followed and were out on the lawn coming toward the truck.  There were at least ten of them and Teddy was certain he recognized at least half of them.

Teddy spent a great deal of time later wondering about the seemingly endless time he spent behind the wheel of the idle truck.  Perhaps he should have died then.  Maybe it would have been easier.  He considered putting the rifle in his mouth and pulling the trigger.  Contemplated it, but never took the idea seriously.  It was no more a viable option to his way of thinking than shooting out the window and trying to blow away all those dead people.  Maybe shooting one would scare the others off, but Teddy had a sneaking suspicion they wouldn’t be bothered by such an effort.  Half already looked like they had been mauled by wild dogs or worse.  A little old rifle blast would probably just get them more excited.

After forcing himself to wait the necessary amount of time (based on the amount of his father’s curses when he dealt with the flooded engine), Teddy was able to get the engine to turn over.  When it started up, the rotters got even more agitated and slapped their fists into the truck even harder.  Teddy flipped it into drive and lurched out of the car port.  The boat tagged along for the ride, at least until he turned his first corner and it flipped off its carrier.  Apparently his father hadn’t done a good job of securing it on his return trip from the lake, so the ten foot long fishing boat ended up in a ditch.

Teddy, who had been bound and determined to make it home to his mother’s after fleeing his father’s place, ended up crashing into a tree a couple of miles down the road when he attempted to avoid hitting an elderly man who he recognized from town.  The old codger had been infected like all the rest.  Fortunately, Teddy was able to escape the truck before Russell Torrance could attack him.  Russell was the oldest citizen in Ellington and had a gold plated plaque to prove it.  It had even been signed by the Mayor.  Now he was just the oldest ghoul in town.

Teddy spent the entire night trying to find a way past the infected so he could get to his mother’s, but had no luck.  After a sleepless night hiding out in woods near town, he realized he had to leave Ellington.  The area was swarming with those bastards.  There had to be someone, somewhere, who would know what to do.  Teddy hoped that his mom had escaped, but it was hard to believe that she had gotten out past the mess their town had become.  She lived near the center of town and the entire area was toast.  Several fires had been started, and he could hear gunfire and sirens off in the distance.  He prayed for her, but was already beginning to accept that she was gone for good.

The next few days were a nightmare of hiding and hoping.  When he was finally discovered by Michael’s group, Teddy had traveled nearly twenty miles away from Ellington and had only vague recollections of what he had ate and drank to stay alive.

*

Teddy glanced over at Ray.  He was his only friend now.  His father was dead and so was his mother.  Of that he was certain.  Unlike George, he’d seen the devastation wrought upon his hometown and knew there was no chance she had made it out alive.  He spoke to her on the phone just a couple of hours before his father got back to the house on that fateful Saturday and she told him she was going to stay inside the rest of the day.  There were strange reports on the news that were freaking her out.  It probably no big deal, but she asked him to be careful and not do anything foolish, at which Teddy had rolled his eyes.  Like what mom?  Get drunk with dad? He didn’t say it, but felt mild contempt for her concern, like any teenager would.

Thinking back on that conversation, Teddy was filled with tremendous guilt at the disdain he had for his mother.  She told him she loved him and he’d mumbled a response, like he always did, before hanging up.  That was the last time he ever spoke to her; ignoring her warnings and grunting at her like some sort of animal.  I’m so sorry mom.  I DO love you and I should have listened … not only then, but every time you tried to tell me something.

It took some time, but Teddy also realized soon enough that he loved his father too.  Despite the man’s flaws and contempt he showed for his son’s choice of sports, it was clear that his father cared for him.

Joe had revealed himself on occasion, when he was sober, as a man who actually cared about his boy.  It was clear to Teddy that his father was embarrassed about his failings and what his life had become-not that he would ever admit it.  Joe might not be the greatest dad in the world, but he didn’t deserve what had happened to him.

None of them did.

 

January 27, 2011 | Categories: Dark Stories, Into The Dark, The Shorts | Tags: comes the dark, dark stories, horror, Into The Dark, Library of the Living Dead, short stories, zombies | Leave a comment

Dark Stories: Michael and Cindy, Part I

This little vignette, which takes place in Michael and Cindy’s RV on the first night after Jeff and company’s arrival in the camp, mainly takes place in the minds of the two characters, though there is some dialog surrounding it.  I discarded this mainly because the story was able to move forward without knowing these two and their hidden agendas, but of course, this serves as a way to better know about the twisted relationship between these two.  Once again, Michael didn’t seem the type that would willingly fall in with a girl like Cindy, despite the lack of other women his age surrounding him.  This, and the next story I will post should provide more depth to their relationship, and how screwed up they really are.  Again, for those of you who haven’t read Into The Dark, this might not make much sense, so you might save checking this out until after you’ve had the chance to read that.

Again, as always, this is a rough cut, with my own meager editing efforts.  So forgive me the typos and other errors as you read.  Thanks.

 

Michael and Cindy

He grabbed her coarse blond hair and pulled her head back.  Biting at her neck, he listened as she moaned in pleasure.

“You like it rough, don’t you, bitch?”  It was a harsh whisper as his lips traveled up her neck and towards her earlobe.

“You know it baby.”  The voice was unstable, shaky.  If you didn’t know her you might think she was afraid.  But for the few who truly knew Cindy, of which Michael was the only one still alive, it was obvious there was no fear in the woman.  She was pure adrenaline and rage bottled up in a healthy young female package.  At twenty three she was already savvy enough to understand how things worked in the world (even this particular variation of it) and vicious enough to achieve any objective that she set her mind to.

The tattoos on her neck covered up the hickeys and bite marks that Michael gave her.  The scabs might be noticed, but no one would say anything.  It was odd enough that Michael, a graduate of the Michigan School of Business and the son of extremely wealthy and prestigious parents, was shacked up with her in the first place.  The additional ‘wounds’ that adorned her seemed to stretch comprehension levels to the breaking point.  Who would ever believe that the prototypical ‘boy next door’ was the culprit responsible for those?

When Cindy had wandered into his little clan, it was clear to her that since Michael was in charge, he was the only person for her.  He was far from her type, but her type was all dead, and that was just fine with her.  He bit and scratched in bed, but only because she had taught him so well.  She had unleashed his kinky side.  Michael in turn had shown her that all men have one, it just took a strong and harsh enough woman to pull it out of them, kicking and screaming if need be.

Michael was all the power in the universe now.  It was the only drug left to her after the last hit of ecstasy was gone well over a month ago.  Cindy had been an addict at one point or another in her illustrious career to nearly every drug and intoxicating substance known to mankind.  In essence, she was addicted to addiction.

Michael was just as addicting to her as anything she had sniffed, drank, or injected into her veins in the past.  He was a royal prick under his nice guy persona and it tripped her trigger that she knew it and had known it from the moment she laid eyes on him.  At first, she had repulsed him.  It made no difference to her and in no time she was able wear him down.  After all, geography might be the only thing they had in common in their relationship, but that was all she needed.

But some bony bitch had arrived in the camp and threatened to change the landscape drastically.  She was sweet, she was demure, and she was everything that Michael would have found appealing in the past, before Cindy had corrupted him.      Certainly the woman had the whole anorexia theme going, but beyond that she was perfectly “normal.”  Attractive even.  The jealously Cindy felt didn’t extend to any desire to be like that woman at all.  It was strictly raw rage at a potential threat to her existence as the Queen Bee.

That was not all of it.  Not by a long shot.  None of it would have bothered her (or so she had herself convinced) except that it was very clear that Michael had been eyeing the other woman.  Within the first five seconds the battle lines were drawn in Cindy’s mind.   She knew her man well enough to know that when he fixated on something, it would not be long before he went after it.  Michael was not one to take no for an answer.  He had little inclination to deny his own base needs either.  So far he had been satisfying them with Cindy, but now that Megan was here, she would be the new candy for him.

It was obvious.  He did not hide it very well.  She knew that sooner or later he would go after Megan and kick Cindy’s skanky ass to the curb.  Even if that other bitch did not return his interest, it would make no difference to him.  He would dump Cindy just to prove himself worthy of Megan.  What a lousy piece of shit name: Megan. Everything about the other woman was something to despise.

Cindy had felt hatred from the moment she saw her.  That was nothing big, she hated Lydia too.  Most men pissed her off pretty fiercely as well.  The teenagers had looked at her with lust in their eyes at first and that was amusing.  She had joked with Michael how she was going to break Ray and Teddy’s cherries at the same time.  She asked him if he wanted to watch while she did it.  In response, Michael had smacked her in the jaw so hard that she had been knocked unconscious.  When she came to, he was wringing his hands over her, in a panic, worried that he had killed her.  When she smiled up at him and licked at the trickle of blood on her chin demurely, he nearly fainted.  Then, when she insisted they have sex right then and there he almost had a nervous breakdown.  Still, he complied and it gave her a sense of power over Michael that nothing else could.  She owned him.  That bitch Megan could never have that sort of a control over a man.  Never.

The sex was interesting and Michael was willing to experiment, though he was amazed at how depraved Cindy’s mind could become.  It was all boring to her though.  She gave thought to cheating on him with that filthy scumbag Frank.  Or maybe Frank and Marcus together.  They were disgusting and they leered at her when they did not think she was looking.  She knew it would be a hell of a challenge to get them into bed though.  They were scared shitless of Michael and the idea of crossing him like that was probably the equivalent of committing suicide to their pea brains.  That turned her on even more.  Imagining having Michael walk in on something like that was delicious to think about.  He would beat the living shit out of her but he would kill them, just as they feared.  She knew she could get him to do it, especially if the look on her face when he burst in was of pure ecstasy.  Those two slime buckets couldn’t turn her on if they slapped an electric motor to her ass, but she would play it up for all it was worth if it did a number on Michael.

Later, as they lay side by side, panting, with their sweat soaking through the sheets, Cindy jumped on top of Michael, knocking the air out of him.  Anything that made him feel uncomfortable was a good thing.

“So what are you going to do about those new people?”

“What do you mean?”

“You know what I mean.”

Michael looked up at her in disgust.  “Bah, screw you tramp.  I do know what you mean.  You’re asking about Megan.”

A wicked grin creased her face.  In the darkness and shadows it was disconcerting, but Michael knew it was no better in daylight and was grateful that he could only see part of it now.

“Of course I am.”

The smile disappeared as she moved her hand up his hairless, muscular chest and grabbed at his nipple, squeezing it.  She moved her face directly in front of his, less than an inch away, and pinched his nipple as hard as she could as she hissed at him.

“So are you going to screw that whore?”

Cindy went flying, hitting the wall opposite the bed where she slumped to the floor.

“Bitch!  You might be into fucking pain but I’m not!”  Michael screamed as he stood before her.  She stared up at him, her eyes gliding down his naked torso.  She smiled.

She reached up and grabbed at him as he swatted her hand away.  Grabbing a hold of her other wrist, he wrestled her up on the bed again, jumping on top of her and holding her down.

Cindy purred like a kitten and Michael stared down at her, exasperated, but unable to deny that she had him aroused once again.

Michael hated Cindy.

But as much as he hated her he hated himself even more for ever having hooked up with the psycho bitch in the first place.  She was a piece of trash, pure and simple.  Somehow, as much as she appalled him, her trashiness was the root of everything that turned him on about her.  There was absolutely nothing he couldn’t do to her.  He could beat her to within an inch of her life and she would come crawling back for more.  When she had first provoked him he had resisted the temptation to smack her, but she cried out for it.  She dared him, taunted him, and did her best to humiliate him.

Michael had not been that violent of a man before he met her.  He’d never laid a finger on a woman in his entire life, and thought anyone who did was scum.  He’d beaten the crap out of a few losers, true enough.  A drunken brawl back at college had sent a guy to the hospital, but Michael’s father, with his many connections, was insurance that a little problem like that never became a big problem.

Michael had taken martial arts training to teach him balance and patience, but all it had done was allow him to bury the anger he felt a little deeper.  It didn’t rear its ugly head as much.  Still, he could be cool and calm one moment and explode violently the next, as it suited his needs.

His temper had all been well under control.  There was some rage inside of him, but that was fairly normal for most red-blooded American guys, wasn’t it?  Except these days there were plenty of excuses for rage to shine through and no one to question it anymore.  In fact, rage was an excellent motivator.  It drove Michael in his quest to survive and thrive in these dark times.  He had refused to yield to the undead, refused to believe that everything was over and done with just because some virus had torn the human race to shreds.  This was a new beginning.  Whoever was strong enough to stay alive and adapt would reap the rewards.

Cindy had just … amped things a little bit.  It was okay to unleash all that pent up rage in front of her, around her, and upon her.  Every impetuous desire he had been repressing his entire life could see the light of day.  In fact, he could use those impulses to help his followers to survive and prosper.

It frustrated him that Cindy had been the only piece of ass in his age range for miles around, possibly anywhere anymore.  So her aggressive tactics when they first met wasn’t a total turnoff.  What other options did he have, anyway?

Cindy was a tattooed and pierced freak that he would not have given the time of day to when he’d been wearing his Canali business suits and was climbing the corporate ladder.  The bleach in her hair was erratic and left her hair a mess of black and white scattered across her head.  It had originally been shaved on one side and spiky on the other, but as time went on she let it grow out and got rid of the dye.  Not that she had much of a choice.  Supplies they had collected did not include much in the way of hair care products outside of shampoo.

They made an odd pair and everyone knew it.  He made it clear from the moment they fell in bed together that he would tolerate no crass acts from her in front of the others.  Whatever she wanted to do with him, or more specifically to him, was to be limited to when they were in private … at the factory at first, and then in his RV when they had set up the camp in the woods.

Soon after they had gotten together she began provoking him.  At first it was simple taunting, but it turned into getting rough in bed.  Punching, kicking, and biting.  Part of him wanted to kick her to the curb right away.  But every time she would do something to him, she would pretend to be sorry.  She would promise him she would never do it again if he would forgive her.  Then she would blow his mind in the sack and he would be left trying to convince himself that the pain was worth it.

But finally, after a while, something happened.  In a fit of anger after one of her mocking abuse sessions, he hit her.  It was a slap, hard, across her face.  A little trickle of blood from the corner of her mouth was the result, plus a welt that would be hard to imagine makeup hiding like it did the hickeys he’d already given her.  After realizing what he had done, he lost his mind.  He begged forgiveness and apologized profusely, swearing he would never do something like that again.  For all the minor abuse she had heaped on him, hitting her had never crossed his mind.  But when she grinned and asked him to do it again, he was speechless.  He refused, so instead she jumped on him and practically raped him, which only served to confuse Michael even more.

But not for long.

The hit that knocked her unconscious was next.  From there it became easier for him to do whatever Cindy wanted.  The guilt was fading into the background he let the rage inside of him come to the surface.  After that, they learned to keep the bruised and welts hidden to avoid any questions from the others.

Over time, Michael began to dread the encounters he had with Cindy.  But it was dread drenched in an undeniable craving for what she offered.  Because she had unleashed a part of him that he didn’t know existed, a part that wanted to cause pain.  Specifically, pain to Cindy, which he could rationalize as okay—she wanted it, so he gave it to her.  But it was how that desire to administer pain was spilling over to everything else he did that was disturbing him.

And now, as he sat above her in what was supposed to be a position of complete control, she was the one in charge and deep down, Michael knew it.

Cindy’s purring stopped.  “So, you gonna screw the whore or am I going to slit the bitches’ throat?”  She smiled up at Michael, taunting him, prodding him onward.

The fist crashed down on her stomach.  Cindy gasped in surprise as the air whooshed out of her.  Her vision blurred and a thousand stars appeared before her eyes.  When her eyes were able to focus again, Michael was already laying next to her, pretending not to care about how badly he had hurt her this time.  She had taught him well.

Cindy was a masochist and enjoyed the pain, partly because after years of abusing her body with drugs and anything else she could get her hands on, her nerve endings had dulled to the point where excruciating pain was about the only thing she could feel anymore.  But even that was a fleeting sensation.

As the pain faded, her mind fixated on Megan once again.  So what does he see in that bitch anyway?

Megan looked pretty hideous to Cindy.  Although run down and so thin she was almost transparent, there was an aura of confidence and toughness about her.  She was ‘normal’ on top of that.  That more than anything drove Cindy bat shit crazy.  Megan was someone Michael could be seen with by the others and not be embarrassed.  She was the antithesis of everything that Cindy was or believed in.

And there were the others that had come into the camp with Megan.  Two men and a black kid.  The kid was nothing, just like those other little brats that Lydia dealt with.  The bigger man looked like some sort of whiney wimp.  That was obvious to Cindy almost immediately.  He moped around like he was already dead and in general irritated her.

The other, Jeff, was more interesting.  He appeared to be with the woman.  Not that it would stop Michael.  If he wanted Megan, not much would stand in his way.  In a twisted way that was yet another thing that turned Cindy on about him.  Society may have dulled that caveman edge out of him, but society was dead and Michael was the one making the rules these days, so he could take what he wanted.

Cindy didn’t so much care if he got his rocks off with the bitch once or twice, as long as that was all there was to it.  Hell, she would hold Megan down and get off watching him rape her if that was something that could be arranged.  Screwing meant nothing to Cindy.  It was all about control.  Being controlled and controlling the other person.

No one else seemed to understand the level of control you had over another person when you forced them to willfully inflict pain on you.  Michael beat her because she willed him to do it.  He did not want to, but she did.  Now, only after a few weeks, he couldn’t stop himself.  And because of all the guilt and trauma that it caused inside his head, she was able to manipulate him in other ways.  Michael was a good little puppet.

But that weasel, Marcus, had mentioned how Megan had slapped Michael when they first met.  That was something she could not tolerate.  Cindy knew the stupid bitch had no idea what a slap meant to Michael, the meaning attached to such a violent physical act, but she bet that if Megan had been looking deep into his eyes at the time her hand crossed his face she would have realized what it had done to him.  The fact that he had to let off some steam by putting a knife to Frank’s throat right after that confirmed how excited Megan had made him.  Cindy had corrupted Michael enough that the violence was the only thing that really turned him on any more.

There was no doubt in Cindy’s mind that her boyfriend was already fantasizing about that pathetic tramp.  But tackling that subject head on wasn’t going to give her any answers she wanted, so instead, Cindy knew to come at it sideways.

“Okay, so forget about Megan.  What are you going to do to put these newcomers in their place?”

Michael rolled over to face Cindy.  There was weakly hidden guilt tracing his features from the latest assault he had perpetrated on her.  It was always there, no matter how well he tried to hide it.  It made Cindy smile inside, though she was careful not to show it.  The guilt was a tease.  Everything forbidden had guilt associated with it.  Guilt was one of the strongest stimulants there was in the world.  As long as it kept showing up on his face, that meant whatever caused that guilt was still tantalizing and forbidden.  It was simply too much to for him to resist.

“What do you mean?”

He was tired and past getting angry or aroused anymore that night.  In other words, he was getting boring.  But it also meant that his defenses were down and she could easily get him to divulge the truth and perhaps even agree to do something she really wanted just to get her off his back.

“I mean, you dragged them in here and treated them like your best buddies.  Then you brought Jeff in the RV and had a nice little chat with him.  Now I hear that you and the rest of the guys are going into town tomorrow on some sort of supply run.  What the hell is the point of that?”

Michael closed his eyes and put his hand over them in hopes of blotting out all traces of light trickling through their window.

“So you’re asking what the hell I have planned.”  He paused.  She did not respond and he sighed heavily.  “Well my dear, that is very simple.  I am going to test their loyalty to me and see if they can obey orders like good little soldiers.”

“Loyalty?  From people you kidnapped off the fucking road?  Are you nuts?”

Michael opened his eyes and glared at Cindy.  “I must be if I’m with your psycho ass.”  She gave him a finger and he ignored it.  He propped a pillow up beneath him and put his hands behind his head.  “It shouldn’t be too difficult, actually.  The only one that will be a problem is Jeff.  He is too damn smart for his own good.”

“What about George?  Doesn’t he miss his ‘widdle famawy’?  He looks like he could tear your head off if he was motivated enough.  If you make him stay here against his will sooner or later he is going to try.”

Michael smiled at his girlfriend.  “Quite the contrary.  He is going to be a good little boy and do just as I tell him to.”

“How do you propose getting that to happen?”

“Nothing too technical.  I’ll just hold Megan and Jason hostage.  Once Jeff messes up and I have to ‘deal’ with him, George will realize that he is the only one that can protect them.  A few well placed words here and there along with a few delicate hints and he will decide for himself that staying is the best possible idea.  Momma and the kiddies are dead already and sooner or later he will realize that.  And then, he will come to love it here with us.  He’ll be just another big, dumb, malleable grunt like Ben.”

“If Ben heard you say that he would twist you into a pretzel.”

“Indeed.  He might just do that.  If he knew I said it.  But that is how things work around here.  The pawns do not realize what they are.  I am the king and I control the board.  They are expendable pieces, but valuable.  I move them into harm’s way as I see fit.  If there is a rogue piece, I simply get rid of it, sacrifice it to my opponent, and keep on moving.”

Cindy looked over at her man and saw a look on his face that was reminiscent of the cat after eating the canary.  He was just too damn self-satisfied.  But she decided to let it go.  He had his little plans and she had hers.  She knew a little bit about chess as well and while the King was the piece that ruled the board, the queen was the one who took care of business.

That Jason brat should be enough leverage to keep George in line.  He doesn’t need Megan as well.

With their conversation finished, Michael drifted off to sleep.  Cindy stayed awake a while longer, shaping and reshaping her own plans so that they merged and fit with her lover’s.  She smiled down at him as she did so.  He was a beautiful man, nearly perfect on the outside.  But it was his insides, his guts, which were getting black and ugly.  She had initiated the process, but it had taken hold and was flourishing without constant nurturing anymore.

She laid her finger on his jugular vein and felt it pulse.  She moved her mouth close and gently flicked her tongue out at it, like a snake.  It would be so easy. She grazed her teeth against it and Michael stirred, but sleep already had him in its grasp.  It was tantalizing: the idea of wrecking everything with one simple effort.  She could tear out his throat and even slip out the window with very little fuss and muss.  All they would discover was his bloodied carcass and the signs that she was responsible for his death all over the bed.  But they would never find her.

As tempting as it was, she knew that Michael was far more exciting alive than dead; powerful and yet powerless at the same time.  She had weakened him.  Before they met he was probably a good man with a penchant for anger now and again.  He could hide it then and he still could now, but that façade was chip away.  The violence was bubbling to the surface more often and more readily.  It was wondrous to behold.

She shivered in the bed next to him.  Whether in excitement or fear, it was hard to tell.  She laid back and planned the death of Megan LeValley.  It would be a simple thing, not too complicated.  It couldn’t be blatant though.  The others could never know what really happened.  She imagined the pain and agony Megan would experience when she did it.  But what would be the kicker was when Cindy got to tell Michael what she had done and the supreme pleasure she would get out of watching him react.

A few minutes later, Cindy wrapped her arms and legs around her man like a spider and fell asleep, content in knowing how things were going to play out over the next few days.

 

January 15, 2011 | Categories: Dark Stories, Into The Dark, The Shorts | Tags: comes the dark, dark stories, horror, Into The Dark, Library of the Living Dead, short stories, zombies | Leave a comment

Dark Stories: Michael, Frank, and Cindy

This is the first of the stories I originally wrote that would have appeared in Into The Dark had they made the cut.  Of course, I have revised this one a bit due to the fact that it is no longer integrated into the actual book.  This particular story is primarily flashback, with Michael being the main focus, but it also provides an introduction to both Frank as well as Cindy, explaining how he got mixed up with both of them.  Michael was always someone who was different than the people who were closest to him in the story, and this brief vignette hopefully explains why he was with them.

While this is primarily a flashback, it is mainly a story about Michael’s reflections on why and how he ended up with Cindy, and it is while he is sitting down at one of the tables in the RV camp on the morning after Jeff, Megan, George, and Jason have joined his group.

If you haven’t read Into The Dark as of yet, I won’t suggest that you don’t read this, but it might not make as much sense until you do have the chance to check it out.  The same applies to the rest of the stories that I will be posting from here on out.  I will do my best to avoid revealing anything that may come as a major surprise to anyone who hasn’t read further than Comes The Dark, but since none of these characters are even introduced until the second book in the trilogy, all of this is probably a surprise anyway.

As always, I must state that I have tried my best to catch all the typos and glitches that are in this story, but I am sure there are some still in there.  So forgive me for that.

Michael, Frank, and Cindy

He knew being with her was all wrong.  It wasn’t supposed to be like this.  Everything up to this point in his life had been regimented and controlled, structured to allow for the greatest amount of success.  Even when civilization crumbled, he had adapted and maintained control over the situation.  Now he was the leader of a small, but growing tribe of people.  The bloody lines on the map he looked at every day spoke of his triumphs: where he had come from (where they all had come from) and where they were heading.  They would continue heading east, away from large population centers, and find even more people to join them.  His power would grow as more people relied on him and trusted his leadership.  It was all working out as planned.

But all those visions, all those dreams, had been disrupted.  He still wanted the power, but there were other, darker things crossing his mind these days.  They hadn’t been there before.  They had been planted there recently.

Perhaps that was an excuse.  Maybe they had always been there, and it took the right, or more accurately, the wrong person to trudge them up.  So maybe if that person was out of the picture, maybe all those dark, hideous desires inside his head would disappear along with her.

Either way, he was sure that Cindy had to go.

*

Michael had been groomed for greatness by his parents from early on in life.  Private boarding schools, Princeton, and then Michigan for his MBA.  Business first, then politics.    There had been a stint in a corporate training program for Proctor and Gamble.  That was after they had wooed him and offered him the best compensation package amongst a slew of elite employers.  There were several rapid promotions leading to the executive level.  He was the youngest Vice President in the company and was expected to go much further with them … if he chose to stay.  The plan was to build relationships with various lobbyists, business leaders, and politicians, working those connections to his advantage.  His father was highly respected not only in Connecticut, where Michael had grown up, but had politicians in his back pocket from all across the country.  Between his own burgeoning relationships and those of his father, Michael would be ready to run for office either in Connecticut or Ohio shortly after turning thirty.  From there the sky was the limit.

He was to marry first, of course.  There had been a few respectable girls in Cincinnati he’d dated, but they were of the disposable variety.  Most were young and attractive, but interspersed with them were a few women of more … experience, who had helped him along his career path at P&G and with his political desires.  But he was from old money and the expectations were that he would marry old money.  There just was not enough of it in Cincinnati for his or his father’s liking.  So he had been shuttling back and forth between Cincinnati and New York on weekends for the past few months so he could court Ms. Penelope Warden.  Her father was a business associate of Michael’s father.  More importantly, Penelope’s family had political connections that ran up and down the east coast and it certainly didn’t hurt that as an only child, she was due to inherit substantial holdings in several Fortune 500 companies when dear old dad kicked the bucket.

That was about the time when things went haywire and the blasted virus came into play.  At first Michael reacted like everyone else, in a complete panic.  His world came crashing down around him.  His downtown Cincinnati condo was in jeopardy almost immediately and he found himself barricaded inside it as the city tore itself apart thirty stories below.  He tried to contact his parents and younger brother, but they were out of the country, somewhere in the Mediterranean on the family yacht.  When he couldn’t get a hold of anyone else back home or even any of the other P & G executives to see if he could snag a ride out of town on one of the corporate jets, he realized he was on his own.  He didn’t bother trying to contact Penelope.  Despite claims of undying love for him, she wasn’t going to be much help from over six hundred miles away.  In a way, it was a relief.  She was an insufferable bore and a hypochondriac that complained incessantly.  Michael could tolerate a lot to achieve his objectives in life, but having her at his side during the apocalypse terrified him.

As the world crumbled around him and he was certain his demise was eminent, Michael recalled something his father had said to him repeatedly as a young boy.  “Life is what you make of it.  When things go bad and you get knocked down, dust yourself off and get back up.  You were born with my blood running through your veins and I’ve never been a quitter.  So don’t bother with the excuses, because I’m not interested in them.”

Thinking back on it those words, they seemed trite and unimaginative to Michael as an adult.  But to a child of ten, they sounded far more impressive and scary.  It really was not the words anyway – it was how his father had backed them up.  He pushed Michael into every activity the private schools he’d attended had to offer.  Every sport, every extra-curricular activity.  He was never allowed to quit or perform at a subpar or average level.  He was expected to have stellar grades, leadership roles, and top notch girlfriends from well to do families.  Of course, nothing was ever good enough for dear old dad, and Michael spent much of his early life sniffing at his father’s feet for any sort of praise he could get.

There was no sob story attached to his upbringing.  Michael did not freak out, rebel, or ever climb onto a therapist’s couch.  Sure, dad had his mistresses and because of that, mom was a functional alcoholic and pill popper, but none of that ever played out in public or really caused any uproar.  It was simply par for the course for a well to do family.

Instead, he grew up knowing he was better and stronger than everyone else.  If for no other reason, because of all the sweat he had to pour into all he did.  His childhood had been hard, but he knew anything worth having in life was hard.  His father’s philosophy had carried him this far and he knew it would carry him further still.

The sense of helplessness he felt while watching the city burn evaporated as he concocted a plan.  Once the fear left him, things became clear.  He grabbed the camouflage outfit he’d bought for some retreat he’d gone on with other executives at P&G.  For three days Michael had played paintball, got drunk out in the woods, and howled at the moon.  It had been an absolutely worthless experience, but at least he got some useful duds out of it.  He also grabbed the rather large knife he’d bought out of a catalog after training with edged weapons in his martial arts classes.  Tai Kwan Do had been studied more for keeping in shape than for self-defense, but now it appeared that he would have the chance to put that training and the knife to good use.

For one last time he scanned his place; all the expensive decorating touches he had spent top dollar for.  He glanced over at his wine collection and the few pieces of artwork he’d bought at auction.  The accoutrements of wealth and success.  It was all kindling for the bonfire that humanity was being tossed into now, nothing more.

Being able to accept that was what made Michael stronger than his peers, and he knew it.  So many of them would be desperate to save the trappings of their prior lives, believing that somehow that would make a difference.  They would all die clutching at scraps of that old world.  He could relinquish it all – the wealth, the prestige, the potential power … and recognize that in this new world there would be other types of power which would allow only few to stand out from the crowd.  And that power would not come from possessions or connections, but from the strength of one’s determination and ability to adapt.  Michael vowed to embrace this new world order and show his father and every other ghost living inside his head that he was up to the challenge.

The next couple of days were a blur of furious movement and hiding in any hole he could find.  He managed to escape the tower he lived in with a couple of other tenants, though neither of them made it too far.  They were convinced the police or military would save them, or that they would find a safe haven within the city.  Michael didn’t spare much regret when they were torn to pieces within blocks of their former home.

The running seemed endless, as did the uncomfortable and cramped spaces he found himself in to avoid detection.  He slept in a broom closet in the bowels of an office building at one point, with the mop bucket and several large containers of cleaning solution pushed up against the door.  He swiped bottles of water and smashed in vending machines to get food.  He avoided confrontations with both the living and the undead while moving steadily in the direction that appeared to be the safest: east.

The city was not only in flames, it a war zone.  The trick, Michael learned, was to be counterintuitive.  Other refugees migrated toward the shelters and where the National Guard was located.  They headed to the hospitals, police, and fire stations.  They were idiots.  Because not only were the living moving in that direction, so were the dead.

Michael listened to a portable radio he had taken with him from his condo, and every report about a shelter that had been set up in the city told him exactly where not to go.  And when the reports stopped, he continued listening for gunfire, and steered clear of that as well.  He slipped into areas that had already been overrun by the dead, because the stiffs had a pack mentality and followed their prey where ever they could sense them.  That meant that only the stragglers and those too feeble to walk were usually left behind once all the living had fled or been devoured.  Those few ghouls were far easier to manage than the large hordes attacking the National Guard troops and the frightened sheep the general population had become.

By the time Michael met Frank, the endless hiding and running had taken its toll on him.  He was wearing down and feeling dispirited, questioning whether his brilliant plans for the future were all just a bunch of crap he’d made up to keep him motivated to stay alive when there wasn’t much sense in doing so.

Michael almost killed the other man by accident, thinking Frank was a rotter.  He was beating the brains in of a woman with his bare hands out on the street, and it was hard to tell which of the two was alive.

Michael tried avoiding situations where things might get out of control on him.  He had no interest in playing the hero or drawing a crowd, but this was in a quiet residential neighborhood that he was walking through – there was no one in sight beside the two people a dozen yards in front of him.  It was, in fact, one of the first streets he’d been on that didn’t have at least a half dozen stiffs wandering aimlessly on it.

He’d come down this road because he saw several cars and even a work van that appeared to be in working condition out in plain sight.  Looking for a vehicle he could drive out of the area had preoccupied Michael’s mind during much of his journey.  Walking was getting old, and being out in the open and vulnerable was making him a nervous wreck.

As he came up on the two struggling figures, Michael wondered if the man, or maybe the woman he was beating on, might have a set of keys to one of the vehicles nearby.  Looking around, he spotted a heavy tree branch that had snapped and fallen to the ground.  There was, in fact, plenty of debris all over the street to choose from.  Shattered door frames, discarded house wares, and even a few broken road signs.  The area, an old, rundown neighborhood filled with dilapidated row houses, looked like a tornado had hit it.  The two people doing battle appeared to be the last remnants of whatever madness had passed through the area.

Michael crept up behind the man and raised his weapon, ready to strike.  Frank chose that moment to turn his head, perhaps having spied Michael’s shadow from the corner of his eye.  That probably ended up saving his life.  He turned white as a sheet and raised an arm to ward off the blow as he scrambled backwards.  He stumbled over the woman he’d been pummeling and fell on his ass beside her.

The woman, no longer pinned to the ground, turned over in an effort to reach Frank, who scrabbled away from her.  Her face was an open wound.  A flap of skin that contained most of her facial features slapped at her skull with every jarring movement she made.  She was a heavy set, matronly woman with thick arms and legs.  She was trying to hiss out something through her lips, though nothing intelligible.  With it, there was a shower of spittle and blood that came from the depths of her throat.

Frank was babbling as well as he pressed up against one of the cars parked at the curb.  Reaching behind his back, he made an effort to hook his hand onto the bumper to help elevate his corpulent frame to a standing position.

Michael slammed his booted foot down on the small of the woman’s back and drove her chest toward the pavement.  One of the hands she had used to elevate her body skidded out from underneath her, leaving most of the skin from her palm on the asphalt.  Her other arm snapped, braking below the elbow, which caused her to collapse.  Swinging the tree branch, Michael landed several blows as the ghoul struggled to get back up.  A scattering of teeth sprayed from her mouth as the abuse rained down on the back of her skull.  After a minute or so, the matronly woman’s movements stilled.

Michael studied the corpse for a moment before looking back at Frank.  The expression on the filthy man’s face would have been amusing, if it weren’t so pathetic.  Frank looked about as terrified of Michael as the monster he’d been brawling with.

The fear turned into nervous appreciation as the two men traded introductions.  After that, Frank’s story came out in a tumble, as if he was relieved to have the chance to speak to a live human being.  He’d been stuck in his basement for several days, and had been forced to “deal” with his wife, who’d been bitten early on.  They had no children, so he had been all alone ever since.  After a while, the itch to see what was going on outside as well as a chance to grab something beside the pork n’ beans he’d been living on caused him to climb the stairs, pry open the door he’d nailed shut, and take a look around.  Most of the stiffs out of the street had migrated elsewhere by then, since a lot of Frank’s neighbors fled in the first couple of days of the madness that had gripped the city.  So he went on the hunt for food in his neighbor’s houses.  That was when he happened upon Lila, the woman he’d been attacking when Michael wandered by.  She lived a couple doors down from Frank.  He had entered her home and found her in the kitchen, snacking on Stanley, her husband.  “I guess she wanted fresher meat, ‘cause ol’ Stan smelled a mite sour, so she went after me,” Frank said with a crooked grin.

He rushed to leave the house, but Lila followed, smashing through the front door he’d slammed shut behind him, forcing him to deal with her out on the street.

“I never liked that bitch much anyway,” Frank said with a nervous chuckle as his story came to an end.

Michael patiently listened to the sweaty, smelly man’s tale and tried to ignore the fact that Frank looked like the type of person he wouldn’t have spoken to on a bet just a week prior, unless it was to pay him to do plumbing work or some other menial task … not that someone in Frank’s condition (even if he had showered and had on clean clothes) would have ever made it past the doorman of Michael’s building.  But things had changed, and the need to adapt to this new environment, and to the people who remained in it, was imperative.  There would be a need for men like Frank, like there always had been.  He was the type who took orders and was willing to get his hands dirty … very dirty, if necessary.

Nodding politely, Michael did his best to seem interested in what Frank had to say as his eyes kept gravitating to the work truck sitting in the driveway nearby.

Frank invited Michael into his house and they shared a sparse meal of the beans remaining in Frank’s stash and a few of the candy bars Michael was carrying.  He did his best not to cringe at the smell of the decrepit house, noticing all the while that Frank didn’t seem to mind the foul odor emanating from his basement.  Michael’s guess was that Frank’s wife was still down there, and his new acquaintance had grown used to the smell of her rotten corpse.

It didn’t take more than an hour with Frank for Michael to make up his mind.  Frank wasn’t too sharp, but he was malleable and appeared willing to do just about anything to get out of the stink trap he’d been living in for the past week.  The idle promise of some booze and the assurance that together they could forge a new existence for themselves and anyone else they found sounded pretty good to Frank.  He was a pig, but Michael knew he would be a loyal pig, as long as he was given some mud to root around in on occasion.

Before the day was over, they were on the road in the truck, which happened to be Frank’s, maneuvering past the most of the wrecks and areas crawling with mobile corpses as they headed east, away from the city.

Frank was just another piece of the puzzle Michael had been working on in his head.  Getting used to the filthy, disgusting man would be easy, since he was willing to follow orders and grew excited at the prospects of a lawless world that would need men like them to set things straight.  They might have to do a few questionable things along the way, but that would be okay – in the end, those living under their protection would thank them for what the two men were willing to do for them, with no questions asked.

As they avoided the hordes of undead and the few clots of National Guardsmen still alive and still willing to fight, they passed their time capturing a few of the individual ghouls they came across.  Michael felt it was important to understand the enemy, to see if anything could be done to salvage these inhuman wrecks.  He tried to see if they would respond to any stimulus besides warm flesh, and if, given enough time, they could be turned into some sort of slave labor or mindless work force.

They would lure a single stiff into the back of the van.  A dead dog or cat carcass was usually enough to get them moving in the right direction.  The truck had a wire-reinforced barrier between the driver’s area and the back, which made it easy to collect specimens without fear of getting bit.  A couple of hockey sticks, a fishing net, and some padded gloves acquired from an abandoned sporting goods store were the only equipment they needed to manage the task, along with some stout rope.

When every experiment Michael did failed, he turned the monsters over to Frank, who enjoyed torturing the creatures.  Michael suspected it wasn’t because of some twisted desire for revenge that the small-minded man had, but because Frank got his rocks off that way.  Michael tolerated the behavior, though it repulsed him, because it gave his partner a little bit of joy in an otherwise dreary existence.

Over the next few days, they had run-ins with both the living and the dead, and managed to come out on top in each situation, adding to their level of confidence as well as their arsenal.  Frank laid claim to a double barreled shotgun while Michael got an M16 and 9mm pistol from some stubborn soldier who took a little bit of prodding before he gave them up.  Not long after that, they were also gathering people; stragglers more than happy to let Michael take the lead in their efforts to survive.  They ditched the van as their contingent grew in size, finding a small plastics factory that they could fortify until they could find more adequate transportation.

The battle to survive was a daily grind.  The group spent their time foraging for food, water, and other supplies that would help them make a go of it.  Everyone who joined Michael’s group was thrilled to be with other survivors and asked few questions about his methods, which was just how he liked things.  He doled out the responsibilities and Frank made sure everyone did as they were told.  It seemed that everyone was more than happy to be following orders – it gave their existence meaning and the confidence Michael exuded gave them hope.

Then Cindy came along.

Michael couldn’t say that she ruined everything.  To say that she had even changed his plans would be an exaggeration and a lie.  He knew Cindy didn’t change one single thing about his vision for the future.  They would still find a permanent home for the living that Michael preached about, and he would continue shaping everyone’s vision of the future.  Each step they took as a group was still as he dictated.

It wasn’t his vision that had changed with Cindy.  It was him who had changed.  After spending just a little time with her, he knew what she was.  She was a succubus, taking great pleasure sucking the life force out of him bit by bit.  But that wasn’t all.  She was not so indifferent to his suffering that she wanted to take everything away until he withered and died.  Instead, for every bit of him she took, she gave back piece of herself.  It was her gift.  For every rational thought, for every piece of compassion he tried to maintain a grip on but lost, there was something new put in its place.  Something that was dark and squirmed beneath his skin.  It burned in his gut and made it feel like his bones were turning to ash.

Cindy’s gift to Michael was her pure and unadulterated hatred for everyone and everything in the world.  And as much as he wanted to deny it, he had to admit that a part of him liked the gift she had given him.

Cindy had stumbled into the factory a couple of days after they’d set up camp and told a muddled story about a boyfriend who she’d shared a camper with until he was bitten.  The story was vague, but it didn’t bother Cindy that no one seemed to buy it – she stumbled over what her boyfriend’s name was and she was even vaguer about her existence before the virus had hit.  It was easy for Michael to dismiss; several of the people with them found it hard to talk about their past.  What was clear to him was that Cindy enjoyed the rough, harsh existence brought on by the plague, and didn’t have any problem killing infected.  She was good at it.  She was a strong, remorseless killer, and that appealed to him.  Most of the people he was surrounded by had an almost crippling fear of the undead, but not Cindy.

Almost immediately after being welcomed into the group, Cindy began the process of insinuating herself into Michael’s life.

Despite her outward appearance as a tattooed, rebellious free-spirit, Cindy was, in her own way, even more power hungry than Michael.  She recognized him as the person in charge and did everything she could to learn what made him tick.  Michael, who had rubbed elbows with politicians and the well to do his entire life, realized too late that he had no built in defense mechanisms to hold off the advances of someone so … raw, for lack of a better term.  Cindy had no fears, no boundaries, and a depraved, lusty nature that attracted Michael like a moth to the flame.

She was his girlfriend before he even realized it.  And from the first moment he did realize it, he understood that he needed to figure out a way to be free of her clutches.

Cindy scared Michael.  She could see right through him and knew from the get go that there was a repressed knot of rage buried deep inside that he rarely displayed.  She massaged that rage to the surface, prodding him into directing his anger toward her.  What scared Michael the most was that Cindy enjoyed it when he was mad at her.  She didn’t stop there, and pushed him into getting violent with her when no one else was around.  It was a sick trip, but the desire that burned in her eyes when she provoked him made it all the more frightening and appealing.  When he tried to restrain himself, she would push harder.  Lacing the violence with sex made it all the more confusing.  It was exhilarating and terrifying, and felt like they were in some sort of sick, symbiotic relationship; Cindy fed on his anger while at the same time encouraging more of it to grow inside of him so the supply she craved would be never ending.

The urge to resist Cindy weakened in time, though never disappeared.  There were far too many other things going on for Michael to worry about their relationship and what it was becoming.  About a week and a half after they claimed the factory as their own, it was overrun and several members of the group died as they escaped.

Michael’s group was once again out in the open and that was when the idea of getting a hold of an RV or two popped into his head.  Ben, one of the newcomers and a massive giant of a man, suggested they get more than just a couple, and set out to find a place they could bring them which would keep the group hidden away from danger.  He alluded at the fact that getting diesel to fuel those beasts would be tough, and become next to impossible in the upcoming months, but they would be incredibly useful even if they weren’t able to go that far.  They needed to find a place to hunker down that was defensible, and if they had enough RVs, they could create a barrier that would be difficult for the undead to penetrate.

It took several days, but they found an RV dealership not too far away while Ben found an ideal place to move the motor homes to near a small town called Manchester.  Things got messy and a few more members of the group perished during the process of moving and transplanting the RVs, but afterwards they were safe again, hidden behind massive metal walls and buried in a wooded area that would keep prying eyes, both living and dead, from seeing their new home.

As things settled down, Michael found himself with more free time, and more time to reflect on his existence than he’d had since he left his condo in downtown Cincinnati.  Marcus, who’d joined the group after they fled the factory, became Frank’s drinking buddy, which kept the lout preoccupied most of the time.  Ben volunteered to collect the supplies they needed and spent much of his time beyond the walls of the RV fortress hunting and scavenging around Manchester.  Lydia, one of the more recent additions to the group, was more than willing to take responsibility of managing the food and water and tending to the children.  All of this meant that Michael had more time to spend thinking … thinking about the future of the little civilization he was trying to create … and about how imperative it had become that he sever his ties with Cindy.

It couldn’t happen yet, not with the batch of newcomers that had just arrived, but soon enough.  No reason to give any of them any doubts about the stability of the pecking order in the camp.  Even if he did find Megan intriguing.

She wasn’t attractive … at least not at first glance.  She was physically weak and sickly looking, with dark circles beneath sunken eyes and pallor that was the norm for those who had spent the past few weeks either hiding or running in fear.  And yet, there was a sparkle in her eyes which was hard not to notice and traces of what she might have looked like before her world had been shattered haunted her face.  There was beauty hidden there, and given time and nurturing, it would return.  And for Michael, more important than any physical potential she possessed, she was a normal human being.  Megan was feisty, no doubt about it, but she wasn’t a sociopath, which elevated her status dramatically in his eyes.  She was a suitable match for him, and he doubted that anyone except Cindy would disagree with that.

But that could wait.  He could woo Megan after she, Jeff, and George understood their place in his little world.  It wouldn’t take long for them to realize they were better off doing things his way, rather than resisting the inevitable, or they would suffer the consequences.

Given enough time, Megan would regain the weight she’d lost and a healthy glow would return to her skin.  She would also come to her senses.  Life was a struggle, but it would be much easier with Michael at her side.  No amount of animosity she felt for him now would keep her from seeing the truth in the coming weeks.

The only thing standing in the way of that vision was Cindy.  She would have to be dealt with.  It had to happen soon.  Their relationship had grown more and more twisted with every day and night they spent together.

Michael knew that “dealing” with her wouldn’t just be a matter of kicking her out of the RV they shared or telling her it was over between them.  No.  It would require something a bit more drastic than that.

Perhaps a trip beyond the walls of their little fortress for just the two of them might be in order.  A trip she wouldn’t return from.  It wasn’t as if anyone would miss her anyway.

As he ran his finger along the razor sharp edge of the knife he kept strapped to his wrist, a nervous smile twitched at his lips.  He could deal with her.  He just had to work up the courage.

Then everything would return to normal inside of Michael’s head.  All the sinister urges Cindy had put in there would evaporate, disappear.  The dark cravings would be gone, and he would become the leader he had always wanted to be; the one everyone admired and respected, and not just feared.  All he had to do was get rid of her vile influence on him and everything would be just fine.

Soon.  He would do it soon.

January 8, 2011 | Categories: Dark Stories, Into The Dark, The Shorts | Tags: comes the dark, dark stories, horror, Into The Dark, Library of the Living Dead, short stories, zombies | Leave a comment