Revelations - 02 (17 page)

Yes, he had an armored vehicle and plenty of ammo and weapons, but this was a group and they were carrying a buttload of weaponry if the shot up side of that brick building he’d slowed in front of was any indication. That was when he’d decided to get off-road and try to use as much cover as possible.

He’d found the perfect spot to get a look around. It was a ridge with a copse of clustered trees, but spaced enough to allow him to drive in. The sun was almost directly overhead, and there wasn’t a cloud in the sky. He’d get a good look. Climbing out of the vehicle, he grabbed a bottle of water and his binoculars. He was looking south after having to skirt a small city that was almost completely engulfed in flame and shrouded in smoke on the entire eastern side.

Below him, a highway ran east-west. But it was what was on the other side that had his attention. It was the largest picnic basket he had ever seen. And there was a newly reinforced fence and barricade all the way around the entire complex, including two large parking lots—one on either side. A few dozen vehicles were parked inside. There were tall scaffold-mounted watchtowers spaced all along the perimeter with men inside. Dark pits dug in an open field on his side of the highway showed where they disposed of bodies. Judging by the snowplow parked just inside, there’d been a lot.

He watched from his secluded location for quite a while. It looked like a military base with all the firepower he saw just out in the open. The question was whether these people were “good guys” or “bad guys.” These days, you couldn’t be too careful. He’d seen and heard enough of the latter to know just how prevalent it’d become in these lawless times.

He was seriously considering going down there. Hell, he was a doctor…mostly. Any group he met should welcome him with open arms. The voice in the back of his mind kept trying to remind him of all the destruction he’d passed today. The bodies, freshly killed, that hadn’t been zombies.

There was a commotion at the front doors of the giant picnic basket. He focused in as a single-file line of women were paraded outside. Closer inspection revealed that they were all cuffed and shackled. It was like a women’s prison, only, not. A long metal pipe mounted on five rolling posts was pushed out. Meanwhile, the women were being unbound and stripped.

“What the—?” Peter mumbled. Then streams of water began pouring.
Showers
, he thought.
Hmm, okay.

Even from this distance, he could hear some of the jeering, hooting, and catcalls—as well as screaming and crying.
Well
, Peter sighed,
that answers the question about what sort these people are.
There was no way that anything they could say would justify what he was seeing. Women, treated as cattle. He took another look. Correction. Women
and
girls.

Time to move on,
he decided. Taking another drink, finishing off the bottle of water, Peter stood. He turned…and froze.

“You just raise those hands and I won’t have to put a bullet in your head,” a behemoth of a man with an equally large gun aimed directly at his face said.

“Fuck,” Peter hissed.



Garrett walked out onto the porch. The sun was just rising. There was enough light now. He tugged at the clothesline he had wrapped around one hand. A pained whimper sounded as his Toy limped forward. He glanced at it briefly to ensure it was following. It limped from the shadows shielding its eyes from the sunlight.

“Come, Toy,” Garrett ordered and started down the stairs. There was only the briefest tension from the line, but it did as it was told.

He heard the winces and sharp inhaling of breath as he led it across the gravel and to the long driveway. As they neared the end, it was obvious thatThe Toy had an idea what was about to happen. The whimpers and pleading began, and the tension on the line increased, but the choking sounds were quickly followed by the line going slack again. The Hangman’s Noose-style knot around its neck really limited the amount of resistance that the pitiful thing could put up.

Garrett stopped at the four-by-four wooden post that he had planted in the ground to the left of the entry-gate just barely an arm’s lenth from the horde of terrible creatures that strained to reach through every available inch of space that the twisting iron bars allowed. He grabbed his tiny Toy by the hair and slammed it against the wood. That earned him a yelp of pain.

Good
, Garrett thought,
it is breaking to my will.
As he began wrapping the twenty-five feet of clothesline around and around to secure The Toy to the post, he couldn’t help but admire the bright blooms of purple that colored the pale, nude body of his Toy. One eye was swollen shut and flakes of dried blood still clung to the corners of its mouth.

It had dared to bite him! The long slash of his knife across one small breast had forced the scream that had allowed him to pull himself free from its mouth. He’d considered killing it right then and there, but when Garrett looked into those defiant eyes, he’d known: it
must
be broken. He’d wanted to turn it onto its stomach and take it as violently as possible, but his
thing
hurt. Garrett knew what his
thing
was called, but he couldn’t even think the words. Mom had called it filthy, vile, and dirty. He’d first heard the word
penis
in school. When he got home that day, six-year-old Garrett McCormick asked his mother what a
penis
was. She’d broken three wooden spoons on his bare behind that day. Later, he’d heard other names for it. Many of them from Ennis while he was telling young Garrett what to do with his. He couldn’t think of that, especially when he wanted to do things with his Toy. If he did, his
thing
would not work. Right now, while he healed from the wicked bite of The Toy, those memories actually served him well when he felt a stirring
down there
. It made the feelings stop. Times like right now when he was on his knees, tying The Toy to the post, his face right in front of that soft, dark triangle between The Toy’s legs. When he could
smell
her.

Standing, Garrett backed away and looked at his handiwork. He pulled another piece of cord from one pocket and forced it in the mouth, then tied it securely to the post. This would keep its mouth open part way the whole time he was gone. Yes, Garrett smiled, it would learn to keep its mouth open.

He stood behind it for a moment. He watched the writhing wall of pale, dead arms strain to reach the squirming figure fastened to the splintery post. It learned quickly that moving caused two very unpleasant results: the noose would tighten and sharp slivers of the dry wood from the post would sink into its tender flesh.

Satisfied that it learned enough to be still, he loosened the noose just enough so it could once again breathe freely. Now, if it did anything to tighten the cord, it would die. He sensed that The Toy did not yet want to die. Not yet.

He grabbed his two tote bags and walked away. Occasionally he glanced over his shoulder. He’d made certain that none of those arms could actually reach. They would come close, but that was all. Perhaps when he came back, it would be happy to see him. It would be thankful that he would take it away from the dead faces it had known in life.

Reaching a tree, Garrett climbed and looked. It was clear. Those stupid things were all headed to the gate where they would not even get close enough to see inside because of the size of the crowd already gathered. With a quiet chuckle, he secured the knotted rope, dropped it over the wall and climbed.

It was time to go shopping!



Kirsten stared in horror at all of the familiar faces that pressed against the sturdy gate. So many mouths opening to reveal broken teeth, black tongues, and ropy strands of goo slobbering forth. So many sets of white filmed eyes shot full of squiggly black lines. Then there were the injuries, the open, gaping rips and tears in flesh. Mouth-sized chunks missing from arms and legs. Strands of guts hanging limply like the sausages she’d seen at her dad’s favorite deli. And other things, terrible, terrible things.

She could feel the vile breeze of the hands that swiped at her over and over with no concept of the definition of futility. All they were managing was to force a continuous wave of stench to wash over her.

She had to force herself to focus on the monsters to avoid thinking of other things. She did not want to allow in the pain of the clothesline biting into her flesh. How it seemed as if tiny lines of fire were burning every inch of her body. And then there was the scratchy, uncomfortable sensation of the wooden post at her back. Her mouth was a little more difficult to ignore. The Big Man had made a couple of wraps with the clothesline to tie her head to the pole. The line cut into the corners of her mouth, but it also made it impossible to really close it. Plus, she was drooling like those terrible things on the other side of the gate.

There was more than her current discomfort to try and block out of her mind. There were the events of yesterday and last night. The Big Man had returned…angry. She had no idea about what, there didn’t seem to ever be an identifiable reason to explain his rages and outbursts. If anything, he mostly reminded her of a spoiled-rotten child—like her cousin Rikki.

He’d stomped into the room with
the look
. It was the look he always got when he was about to…rape her. That was the word she’d tried to avoid but couldn’t. Kirsten was no dummy. She certainly knew the difference between rape and sex. The Big Man had walked up to her and pulled the wicked blade he kept on his hip. Then, he’d unzipped his pants.

Kirsten shuddered, then forced herself to be still when the cord around her neck tightened just a bit. She wanted to spit. The memory of that taste returning uninvited. The drool trickling from her mouth tainted with the disgusting taste. Kirsten smiled just a bit. She remembered the sound of pain and surprise when she’d bit. Of course there was the sudden flash of pain from the knife slicing her. She’d screamed. And that would not be her last scream of the day or night. He’d whipped her with his calloused hands.

But, and this made her smile even though it hurt as the clothesline cut deeper into the corners of her mouth, he hadn’t been able to rape her again. He’d beaten her into unconsciousness more than once, but he had not been able to satisfy his
other
needs. If only she’d been able to bite it off. Let him try to rape her without a penis!

She felt sweat trickling down her body, wincing as the salty fluid found every cut, tear, and abrasion. The day was going to be hot. All the pain was merging, making it seem like her entire body was dipped in flame, what was a little more pain? She tried to let her mind go to that place it went when The Big Man was doing horrible things to her. It wasn’t much, but it was a tiny relief from all the pain and misery.

A few times, she considered going limp. The noose would constrict and it would be over. But she just couldn’t. Something deep down told her to fight. The Big Man was not too terribly smart. Eventually, he would make a mistake, and when he did, she would get away. Or, if she was lucky, kill him. Kill The Big Man. She’d given it thought, honestly asked herself if she could kill a living person. The Big Man
wasn’t
a person. He was an animal. Worse than the dead people who wanted to eat her. Worse than the dead person who’d bitten her dad.

Yes
, Kirsten thought,
The Big Man had to die.
And she would do it. The time would come, of that she was certain. He would die, and she, Kirsten Malloy, would do it.



She was young. No older than in her early twenties. Her blonde hair splayed out in greasy clumps around her head as she lay there, strapped to the gurney. Her eyes might be hazel, or brown, or green. They were too flat and listless for Dr. Reginald Cox to be absolutely sure. She was emaciated, and her skin was taut on her face, giving it a ghoulish appearance. Her skin was so translucent that he swore he could actually see the skull itself. Blue veins were visible on her face, arms, and legs. She was a poster child for meth.

He’d done all the testing on her, surprised to discover she didn’t test positive for hepatitis, AIDS, or a list of other venereal diseases. She was very anemic, even with the drip he’d had her on. Of course that drip was only designed to keep her from dying. No actual concern was given to having any of the subjects actually healthy. After all, they would end up one of those
anomalies
eventually.

Reginald laughed.
Anomalies
. Perhaps he should call them what the public and mainstream media had called them—zombies.

“Fiction,” he mumbled, then he glanced over his shoulder towards those containment rooms. The one that had been submerged these past days unnerved him considerably.

He returned his attention to the woman strapped down before him. Her breasts were little more than deflated flaps of skin. Further down, past each clearly visible rib, between the knobs of jutting pelvic bone was an abundantly bushy triangle. His thorough exam revealed that she had signs consistent with multiple abortions. He doubted her womb could support carrying a fetus full-term at this point, the damage was too extensive. Her uterine scar-tissue reminded him of the forehead of a wrestler he’d been a fan of as a child.

A muffled and very weak sound brought his eyes back up to that face. He looked into those cloudy—and possibly hazel—eyes. There was such despondency in them. This thing strapped to the gurney could barely be classified as human, much less female.

“Shh,” he laid one hand on Jane Doe’s shoulder, “I’m going to take excellent care of you. Starting with a hot shower. Would you like that?”

Jane nodded very slightly, but those eyes spoke much more clearly. There was a mixture of fear, suspicion, and… craving.
Yes
, Reginald thought,
she would want her toxic poison.
Her meth. Well, there wasn’t to be any of that.