Into the Badlands (4 page)

“Maybe. I think we need to-”

A footstep sounded on the top step. Then another. The hair on the back of their necks stood on end. Dave felt butterflies fluttering in his stomach. The group stood twenty feet from the wooden stairs leading down from above. Dwindling sunlight shone down from above, illuminating the steps in a pallid glow. A shadow fell on the steps, cast from doorway above.

Another step; this time they could see the thing's foot. It was clad in a dirty, mud-caked shoe, a shoe that hadn't been removed in three years. Tattered jeans barely covered the leg. Another step, this one a dead thud, as the carrier's paralyzed leg followed obediently along.

“Remember the plan,” Dave said quietly to the other two. He broke from Sandy's grip, and walked toward the bottom of the steps.

“Dave!” Sandy whispered, but he was gone. She saw his shadow flash in front of the stairs and then he disappeared into the darkness of the basement.

Another step, followed by the dull thud of the trailing limb. Dave wondered how the thing could even walk. He could only hope that this handicap would allow him the upper hand. Fighting the infected was incredibly dangerous; not only were they insane, but their insanity was catching. He'd have to get in and strike hard, then get his wife and friend out. He couldn't afford to fuck this up. If he did, they were all as good as dead. Using the gun would draw other carriers. Having that gun, and not being able to use it, was like being stranded in the ocean on a life raft; surrounded by water, but none of it fit to drink. Irony could be very cruel.

Another step, followed by the dead-leg thud. Dave removed the hatchet from his belt, wiped the sweat off his hand, then gripped the handle tightly. He was surprised his hands were sweating despite the cold. His muscles tensed, his senses leveled. Fight or flight had chosen fight, and his body was readying for it. He swallowed hard, tasting the dank, cold air of the basement. His eyes focused on the stairs, and he waited.

Another step, followed by the thud. Then another step.

Now.

Dave lunged from the shadows, hatchet in hand.

CHAPTER 4

Trish was awakened violently as she was forcefully grabbed in the darkness. She opened her eyes wide, searching the darkened building for her attacker. She could see nothing. Her heart raced, kick-started by a boost of adrenaline. She screamed, and a hand was placed over her mouth. She bit it hard, and she heard her attacker scream before a fist smashed into her face. The world spun, and she went limp. Flashing points of light flared in her eyes.

Though stunned, she didn’t lose consciousness. Her mind raced for answers. Her assailants weren't carriers; carriers tore and ate flesh, attacking wildly and viciously. This was a kidnapping, and Trish knew there was only one reason to kidnap a young woman.

There were some fates worse than death.

The kidnappers dragged her limp body out of the building and into the open air. She could feel the coldness of snowflakes falling on her neck. The bite of the freezing night air and driving wind brought her to her senses. She began to struggle against her captor's grip. In the dim light she could make out three figures surrounding her, two standing in front of her, and one pinning her arms behind her back.

“Let go of me, asshole!” she screamed.

A voice came from one of the dark silhouettes in front of her. “Shut the fuck up, cunt!” The figure then quickly lunged forward, driving his fist viciously into her stomach. Trish doubled over in agony. The world spun around her as she dropped to her knees and vomited up a small amount of bile from her empty stomach. Another heavy blow to the back of her head, and she drifted off into darkness.

When Trish awoke the first thing she noticed was the pounding headache; it felt as if her head would split open at any minute. She then noticed warmth in the air around her that she hadn't felt for weeks. Dazed and confused, she tried to move, but quickly discovered her hands were bound. Suddenly it all came back to her, and she quickly opened her eyes to look around.

She found herself in a small room, dimly lit with a single gas lantern. A small kerosene heater burned with glorious heat in the center of the room. Beside it sat a man on an empty drum, dressed in dirty overalls. He was small and thin with pasty-white skin. He was picking at his fingernails with a large knife.

The man on the drum noticed her eyes open then stopped the work on his fingernails. He nodded toward a figure out of Trish's sight, then flashed a blackened grin at her. Her stomach twisted in revulsion.

Another figure appeared from the darkness, pulled up a stool, then took a seat beside the first man. He was tall, black, and wore a beret. They both stared at her without saying a word. She stared back, her wits returning and her fear rising. She knew no good could come from any of this. She found herself wishing a carrier had gotten to her instead.

“Who are you?” she croaked, her mouth dry and her throat parched.

“Shut the fuck up, bitch,” the man on the drum said. The large man with the beret chuckled.

Trish closed her eyes. To have come all this way, to have fought so hard, only to meet her end at the hands of these monsters was unthinkable. Tim had always told her that the world wasn't fair; he was right once again. She turned her thoughts to Tim, to the images of his face emblazoned within her mind, and she drifted off to blissful unconsciousness.

When Trish opened her eyes again she saw the same two men. This time they were standing around her, less than three feet away. A third man was in the room, again out of sight.

“Give her another dose,” she heard the hidden man say.

“Not so much this time,” the man in the beret said. “You just about killed her the last time.”

The pale, black-toothed man replied. He was so thin he was almost frail. His hair was greasy and long. “How the fuck am I supposed to know, Darnell? Ain't no instructions on the bottle, and I ain't no fuckin' doctor.”

“Don't use the needle this time then. You always fuck that shit up. Give her the pills,” Darnell replied.

“Which ones?”

The hidden man walked around from behind her and into the feeble light. She couldn't make out his features; she could only see his silhouette. He handed the scrawny man a bottle of pills. “The lorazepam, dummy. That's the only pills we got left. You keep this bitch quiet, or else she'll have the deadwalkers all over our shit.”

Trish felt herself being lifted to a sitting position. Her vision spun as she became level. Now her hands were more loosely bound and she was able to steady herself. Fingers forced her mouth open, and she felt two pills being placed inside, followed by a cup of water to wash it down. Although part of her knew not to swallow the pills, that part was groggy and very tired and had no desire to put up much of a fight. She was so thirsty that she almost swallowed unconsciously.

She was then unceremoniously dropped back down to the table, too weak to support herself. She felt as if she was underwater, or as if she was behind a thick glass wall watching things unfold. Pain flared in her groin. She’d been with no one since Tim, so she knew what must have been done to her. She began to silently sob, tears spilling from her swollen eyes.

She conjured up an image of Tim, strong and good, and she drifted off into an altered state once more.

Dreams of Tim and dreams of carriers clouded her mind. Tim would disappear; then the carriers would attack her, but she could never die. She dreamed of her parents once. In this dream she was eight years old, sitting in her backyard by a pool, despite the fact her parents had never owned a pool. In the dream her parents were young and in love, the way they’d been before the divorce.

Her mother was beautiful, kind, and happy; unaware of the bitter woman she would become. Her father was still alive; his eyes sparkling in the bright sunlight, without an inkling of the drunken car crash that would take his life two weeks before Trish's sixteenth birthday.

Once she awakened to the pressure of another body on top of her. The pain was intense. Not just in her groin, but all over her body. Then she drifted off again into a deep sleep. She'd will sleep to come when she could. She remembered being awakened to drink periodically, but she was offered no food. That hardly mattered; she wasn't even hungry anymore.

The pills they were giving her were provided regularly, along with consistent injections. She had no idea what they were shooting into her. She spent most of her time unconscious. When she was awake she tried not to think about what was happening. She began to look forward to the unconsciousness; with it she could fade away, dream, and pretend she was anyone or anywhere else.

Time passed in strange random bursts, running together and melting into a confusing, soupy mess. She wasn't sure if time was passing in hours, days, or weeks. She knew she was getting weaker, but death never came, no matter how much she wished for it. The agony seemed as if it would never end.

Sometimes the lantern was on, often it was not. When it was on she could mostly see her captors and her surroundings. She remembered eating some crackers once, and drinking water periodically, and she was once washed between her legs. She remembered all three men on top of her at one time or another, like monsters devouring crippled prey.

Eventually, after an unknown amount of time, she began to feel more lucid. She was sleeping less and she was noticing more. She could only assume they tapered down the dosage of whatever drugs they were feeding her, or maybe her captors were just running out. The return of her lucidity also brought with it the despair of her plight. She wanted to die. Her body ached, her pelvis and legs were bruised until they were almost black. Her throat burned from thirst. Hunger still showed no signs of returning. She'd hung on long enough, she'd done her best. Tim would forgive her if she let go. She deserved some relief, didn't she?

At some point she awakened to to find herself lying on her side, still atop the wooden table she'd been on since she was taken. She was cold, despite having been covered at some point with a thin blanket. Often she was left with just one of the kidnappers, usually the skinny one with the missing teeth. She remembered they called him Trey on a few occasions.

Trey was picking his fingernails with the knife again as part of what appeared to be his favorite pastime. She decided to speak to him, to reason with him, to appeal to his humanity, if he possessed any. It was worth a shot. She lifted an arm and attempted to wave it in the air; it felt as if it was made of lead. The slight movement was enough to catch his attention, however. He looked up from his fingernails, then stared at her.

She opened her mouth, but nothing came out. Her lips were dry and her head pounded. She was seriously dehydrated. She swallowed hard, then tried again. “Come...” she croaked.

Trey continued to stare at her, unmoved. His filthy face wore an utterly vacuous expression.

“Come...here,” she attempted again. The attempt at speech brought on a mild coughing fit, her head pounding with every cough. Eventually it subsided.

“Fuck off, bitch,” Trey replied.

“Come...here,” she tried again. A tear streamed from her left eye.

He stood up and walked closer, stopping a few feet away. “Shut the fuck up.”

He was stupid and cruel, Trish knew, but she had to try. She swallowed again. She needed out, she needed peace, she needed eternity.

“Kill me...please,” she begged.

Trey looked puzzled, then his expression changed. He pulled a knife from a sheath attached to his belt, lunged forward, then placed the blade against her throat. Trish tilted her head backward, exposing the area. “Do it,” she pleaded, closing her eyes. She waited; she was ready. It couldn't hurt more than she already hurt.

He began to chuckle. “Bitch, you're gonna die one day, but I ain't gonna be the one to kill ya. Not yet, at least.” He turned away and walked back to his chair. He resumed his fingernail work by the feeble light. “Kill me,” he mocked, chuckling to himself. He continued chuckling to himself as if remembering a funny joke heard earlier in the day.

Trish's spirits, previously bolstered by the thought of relief, now dropped. This man was a monster; they all were, all three of them. At the end of the world humans behaved as they always had. They killed and took what they wanted. Overwhelmed with grief and hopelessness she began to sob quietly, the tears again running down her cheeks and dripping onto the rough, wooden surface of the table beneath her. She then fell asleep once again.

She awoke. Her throat burned, her head ached. Her body reeled from pain. More pills, more sleep. Swimming time and blackouts. The molestations continued, though less often. Were they bored? She couldn't tell. How long could it continue to go on? She didn't know. How much time had passed was a mystery; hours and days were just a blur now.

Her captors came and went from the room. They kept the kerosene heater burning and a guard, usually Trey, posted in the chair. The room was always dim, lit most of the time by the small lantern. Trey worked on his fingernails by the light of the lantern, then continued the work by candlelight when he was chastised for using too much lantern fuel.

Ultimately lucidity returned; painful, clear, brutal, and honest lucidity. Her throat still burned, her stomach cramped. She was awake, but kept her eyes closed, feigning sleep and wishing for death. It could come in any form and from any source at this point, she would welcome it without prejudice. She began to see her torturers as saviors, the only people in the world who could deliver the sweet kiss of death and release her from the hell in which she now barely survived.

The drugs had been stopped altogether, she could only assume. There was only one likely reason for that; they were finished with her. This realization initially caused fear, but it also carried with it joy and hope. Soon she could be released. Even if there was no shared afterlife she could at least join Tim in the same dark abyss. Together forever, blanketed by the same eternal darkness. No more pain, ever. With her wits once again about her she felt for the familiar comfort of Tim's ring on her finger.

It was gone.

She opened her eyes and looked down at her left hand just to make sure the ring was really gone. It was. It had been stolen right from her hand by those bastards. At that moment something inside her changed; what had once been overwhelming sadness and despair was now seething anger. She was immediately filled with rage, indignation, and hatred. She felt it overtake her body, starting in her aching stomach and radiating outward toward her limbs. She was weak, but she wasn't dead, at least not yet.

Those motherfuckers
, she thought. Then, instead of making plans to die, she started making plans to kill.

She looked around the room; only Trey sat in the familiar guard chair. He was engrossed in his fingernails, as usual. She began to formulate her plan. She continued scanning the room with her eyes, being careful not to move her head, making out whatever she could in the shadows. There were at least some supplies in the room; this looked like a home base for these creeps. She remained careful not to move her head so as to not draw attention to herself.

There were clothes in the room; some pants and some heavy coats. She saw a large container of what appeared to be water; several canteens sat on a shelf above it. There were boots and perhaps three dozen cans of various foodstuffs, the labels unreadable in the dark room. There were no guns, at least none she could see. This was where they stored their gear, the things they needed to go out kidnapping and raping innocent women.