Rotter World (6 page)

Chapter Seven

Lee O’Bannon trudged across the compound toward his steel container, avoiding those who came to greet the returning raiding party. The well wishers meant no harm, and only wanted to express their appreciation that they made it back safely. Yet these homecomings irked the living fuck out of him. None of these assholes who came to greet the raiding parties had ever left the confines of the camp. For them it was a way of living vicariously, of pretending that they actually exposed themselves to danger. Maybe if they put their lives on the line once and came along on a run into rotter hell, O’Bannon might tolerate the hollow gesture. Until then, these well wishers were nothing more than pains in the ass.

God, how he hated these raids. Not because he was a coward. Hell, the last person at camp to accuse him of that lost a tooth and suffered a fractured jaw. O’Bannon had been on every raid since arriving at camp five months ago, and had volunteered to lead the ill-fated mission to Seabrook before Paul told him to stand down because they needed him here. Going one-on-one with the rotters did not bother him, either. Unlike some of the do-gooders around here who still harbored pre-apocalypse sensitivities about how to treat the dead, he saw the rotters for what they were: lifeless, soulless predators. He had as many qualms about putting a bullet through a rotter’s skull as he did about squashing a bug.

No, he hated taking the bloodsuckers along on the raids with them. The damn vampires had brought this whole rotter hell down upon themselves and mankind, so as far as he was concerned, the rest of the camp should drag them into the sunlight and watch them burn. As always, Paul thought otherwise. We need to cooperate to survive, Paul would preach, spouting tired old phrases about working together and strength in numbers. The others bought into it, but not O’Bannon. If the bloodsuckers’ supposed superior senses and strength were so beneficial to the raiding party, then why had five humans died over the past five months but not a single bloodsucker? Too fucking coincidental for him. Good luck getting that asshole Paul to see the truth, though. If Robson and the others kept listening to Paul, the human contingent of the raiding party would be dead by the end of the year.

Not if O’Bannon had his way. Before the toughest and strongest humans were all wasted in these useless raids, he would kill the bloodsuckers.

Arriving at the door to his quarters, which sat at the far end of a row of containers situated along the interior side of the barricade closest to the farmyard, O’Bannon removed the keys from his pocket and unlocked the door. As he stepped inside and closed the door, he noticed that the heavy blackout curtain had been pulled tight over the window and taped to the wall. His eyes scanned the confines of the container, unable to distinguish a thing until they adjusted to the dark. Slowly, he slid his gear off his shoulder and gently placed it on the floor. A faint rustling sounded from the far corner.

“Who’s there?”

The movement stopped. O’Bannon took a few tentative steps into the container. He reached out with his left hand, blindly feeling around.

“I know you’re there.”

Something moved behind him. O’Bannon spun around, only to have a strong hand grasp his outstretched arm by the elbow. A leg swung out and clipped him behind the knees, bending him over backwards. He tumbled to the floor, his fall broken only by the hand clutching his left arm. As he lay sprawled out, his attacker dropped onto his waist, while a pair of strong hands pinned his shoulders to the floor.

“Damn it. Can’t you just say hello like everyone else?” asked O’Bannon.

“It’s more fun this way.”

One of the hands lifted off his shoulder and reached to the left, flicking on a kerosene lamp by the foot of the cot. As its soft yellow glow lit the interior, O’Bannon looked up into the opal-colored eyes of Tatyana. Her raven-black hair cascaded over her shoulders and across her chest and back, with several loose strands hanging down in front of her face. The dim light only served to accentuate her natural beauty, from her stunningly gorgeous eyes to the seductive smile. She wore nothing but a sheer white nightgown that nicely complemented her pert breasts and cleavage. Robson had once said that Tatyana’s elegance reminded him of one of the Sirens from Homer. O’Bannon understood why. He surmised that Tatyana had used her beauty to seduce many a man to his death in the days before the outbreak.

“Not tonight.” O’Bannon tried to sit up, but Tatyana pressed his shoulders back against the metal floor. She slid her pelvis down onto his crotch and began slowly gyrating against him.

“What’s the matter?” she cooed. “Not up to it?”

Despite his best efforts, O’Bannon felt himself becoming aroused. “We had a rough night.”

“Just the way I like it.”

When in one of these moods, Tatyana was insatiable. Rolling to one side, O’Bannon tossed Tatyana onto the floor beside him and quickly jumped to his feet. “Damn it, I said not tonight.”

Tatyana crawled over and knelt before him. She reached up with her right hand, her fingernails stretching into two-inch-long talons, and gently ran the talon of her forefinger along the bulge in his trousers. “You’re saying no, but
this
is saying yes.”

O’Bannon tried to back away. Tatyana grabbed him by the belt and held him in place. With her other hand, she pulled down his zipper. His erection popped out of his pants. Tatyana began stroking him with long, slow movements. Just as his balls began to tighten and churn, Tatyana pushed herself away.

“What’s your problem?” he demanded.

“No problem.” Tatyana smiled and licked her lips. Rolling over, she got onto her hands and knees, her ass raised toward him. She glanced over her shoulder, admiring him through matted strands of hair. “You know how I like it.”

O’Bannon stepped over, dropped his trousers down around his knees, and yanked the nightgown up over her thighs.

* * *

He stripped out of the rest of his clothes, flinging them into the corner. Tatyana rested on the floor at his feet, exhausted after whoring herself for the last fifteen minutes. A year ago he might have been turned on by a woman who reacted to him like she did. Now he looked down on Tatyana with contempt. She mistook their fucking for passion or lust. For him, she was merely a convenient way of venting his anger and hatred for how his world had gone to shit. For the bloodsuckers who had brought this on them. For that asshole Paul, who wanted to make nice with them. For having to go out and face the rotters night after night while more than half the camp sat around on their fat asses. For losing what few friends he had left. For being impotent to do anything in a world overrun with the living dead. Each time O’Bannon violated her, he vented a little more anger and hatred, but far from enough to purge his soul.

As he walked over to his cot, Tatyana rolled over and looked up at him adoringly. “You want me to join you?”

“I’m exhausted.” He did not care how unfeeling he sounded.

“I understand.” Tatyana did not do a good job of hiding her disappointment. “You had a rough night. I hope I helped a little.”

“You were just what I needed.” O’Bannon grinned at his inside joke.

Tatyana smiled. O’Bannon wondered what she would think if she knew a part of him wanted to open the door and throw her out into the sunlight.

Chapter Eight

Robson enjoyed the communal dining facility, and not just because of the food, which was much better than could be expected in the midst of a rotter apocalypse. The cooks were able to supplement the mundane supplies of canned goods and dry rations with fresh fruit and vegetables from the gardens Paul had planted in the common area, as well as smoked pork or beef jerky from the camp’s livestock. They could even count on the occasional egg from one of the chickens, though at the moment there were only enough chickens for every person to get a single egg once a week. Considering that almost everyone here had known days or weeks of starvation out in the rotter world before finding sanctuary within the camp, even the skimpiest of meals seemed a feast.

Robson enjoyed the fellowship. In the dining hall, everyone was equal. Raiders, Angels, mechanics, farmers, maintenance crews. It did not matter how dangerous or mundane your job, or whether it was mentally or physically draining. Breakfast and dinner were the two times that people could get together with old friends. They sat at the benches that ran in rows down the length of the dining hall, talking, joking, laughing, and flirting.

Especially the flirting. Robson had noticed a lot more of that in the past few months. As life ever so slowly took on a semblance of normality, and people began to realize they might actually survive and have a future, human desires worked their way back into the psyche. Several couples already had openly declared themselves in a relationship, with just as many keeping their trysts secret. Paul encouraged it, constantly stressing that if society was ever going to survive, then people had to procreate. Robson smiled to himself. Although he agreed with Paul, he prioritized things differently. People needed to feel comfortable about loving someone without fearing they would be devoured alive before they would start having children.

Thinking of relationships made him suddenly think of Caylee. He scanned the tables, eventually spotting her sitting alone at the farthest end of the last table in the hall. The red, bloodshot eyes and the dark circles beneath testified that she had been up all day crying. She sat at a slight angle that kept her back to most of the dining hall, sullenly staring at her plate and pushing the food around with her fork. Caylee had taken a chance on falling in love with Jordan and trying to live a normal life, only to have another loved one ripped away from her. Robson admired her strength, not sure if he could have mentally survived another loss.

He started to gather up his tray to go sit with Caylee when he heard an unfamiliar male voice from behind him. “Mind if we join you?”

Robson looked over his shoulder to see two people standing there. Thompson stood holding a tray of food, looking clean shaven and refreshed, but still wearing the same camouflage uniform from last night. He had that bearing about him that would have defined him as an officer even without the cammies, from the crew cut blonde hair to the ramrod straight posture. Robson guessed him to be about fifty, mostly because he wore the rank of colonel, though it would be difficult to guess his age from his appearance. His body had the lean, hard look of someone who worked out regularly, though the bagginess of his uniform around the waist indicated he had been living off of reduced rations for awhile now.

Beside Thompson stood the young woman whom they had saved along with the others. Last night she was dirty and scared, and looked like the hell she had lived through. Since then, some of the girls at camp had made her feel at home, obviously getting her a hot shower and a change of clothes. Auburn hair fell down to her shoulders in gentle curls, and she had abandoned the soiled clothes and lab coat for a white blouse and tan slacks. A broad smile lit up her face when Robson motioned to the empty seats opposite him.

“Please, be my guest. This must be the first hot meal you’ve had in a while.”

“Tell me about it.” Thompson sat directly across from Robson, with the young woman sitting to his right. “We’ve been eating MREs for months. And we ran out of those when the group that set out on its own in New York took all our supplies with them. By the way, I’m Colonel Glenn Thompson.”

“Mike Robson.” Robson shook the colonel’s outstretched hand, trying not to grin at the officer’s strong Alpha male grip.

“Sorry about pointing my weapon at you last night.”

“Don’t worry about it. I’ve had worse things greet me when I’ve opened strange doors.”

“I’m Jennifer,” the young woman said, holding out her hand, “Jennifer Wilson.”

Robson shook her hand, preferring the gentler grip. “No rank?”

“Nope. I’m a civilian detailee to the Department of Defense, at least when there was a DOD.”

“Well, welcome to paradise.”

“Is that what you call this place?” asked Thompson as he shoveled a fork full of green beans into his mouth.

“Depends on who you talk to. Some around here think of it as paradise compared to what’s outside. Others call it Martin’s Madhouse or the Tenth Circle of Hell.”

“What do you call it?”

Robson forced a smile. “Home.”

“Whatever you call it, you’ve got a nice set up here. I took a walk around the compound this afternoon.” Thompson bit off a piece of beef jerky and munched it as he talked. “Your own garden and livestock, a secure perimeter. Pretty nice accommodations, even if they are a bit Spartan.”

“You’ve probably seen worse.”

Thompson nodded. “Desert Storm. Mogadishu. Bosnia. Iraq. This place is a five-star hotel compared to them.”

“What about you?” Robson asked Jennifer.

“It’s not my townhouse back in Maryland, but it’s a hell of a lot better than being out there.”

“Amen to that.” Robson took a drink of coffee. “Paul’s done well by us. He made sure that we not only survived but thrived. It took awhile to bring in the steel containers, generators, and livestock, but we’re at a point now where the camp is self-sustained, and we can easily ride out the rotters.”

“It’s impressive,” said Jennifer.

“It seems your commander’s only problem is in identifying the enemy,” added Thompson.

“You mean the vampires.”

“Roger that.”

“It does seem strange,” Jennifer said, carefully choosing her words so as not to start an argument with her hosts. “I mean, we wouldn’t be in this mess if it wasn’t for them.”

Robson nodded. “It took most of us awhile to get used to the idea, too, but it works. And you should see them in a melee. They can take out ten times the number of rotters we can without even breaking a sweat.”

Thompson stopped eating and swallowed what he had in his mouth. “Which means the five bloodsuckers could take out this whole camp if they had half a mind to.”

Robson did not respond. He could not. All these months he spent convincing himself that the vampires were actually a benefit to the camp because of their strength and fighting skills, and never once had he considered the vampires could just as easily turn on them. What other dangers had he been so fucking naïve about?

Jennifer realized the conversation had reached an awkward point. “What do you do here?”

“I head up the raiding party,” said Robson, grateful for the change of subject.

“That’s all?”

Robson took a drink of coffee. “Paul has a rule that if you go out into rotter territory and put your life on the line to keep the camp supplied, then you don’t have to do any of the menial work on the compound.”

“Sweet deal,” said Thompson through a mouthful of food.

“It is. But most of us still help out, otherwise the boredom would drive us nuts.” Robson put down the empty coffee mug and pushed it aside. “What about you two?”

Thompson picked up the last piece of jerky and popped it into his mouth. “I’m chief of security for the eggheads.”

“And I suppose you’re one of the eggheads?” Robson asked Jennifer.

“More like an assistant egghead. I run lab tests for Doctor Compton and take notes for him.”

“What’s so important that you’d still be working on it during the outbreak?”

Thompson raised his left hand and held it up between Robson and Jennifer. “Sorry, but we’re not at liberty to talk about that.”

You can kill off most of mankind, but bureaucracy survives
, thought Robson. Even though he knew the answer to the next question, he asked it anyway. “Is it true that Compton is the one who created the Zombie Virus?”

Jennifer became uneasy and looked down at her plate.

Thompson stopped eating and fixed his eyes on Robson. “Where did you hear that?”

“From Mad Dog. He mentioned it this morning when you arrived.”

“Who’s Mad Dog?”

“He’s over there. Two tables over, facing us.”

Only then did Robson realize that Mad Dog was staring at them intently, the same look of disgust on his face as he’d had that morning when he first saw Compton. His gaze locked onto Thompson and the two glared at each other for several seconds. A cold hatred flared in Mad Dog’s eyes. He stood up, dropped his tray off in the plastic barrel to be washed, and headed their way, never once breaking eye contact with the colonel. For a moment, Robson thought Mad Dog would start something, but luckily he continued on past the table. Thompson kept an eye on him until he left the dining hall.

“Do you know him?” asked Robson.

Thompson pretended he did not hear the question. “What’s his name?”

“He never told us.”

“Where’s he from?”

“He never told us that either. We ran across him about five months ago held up in a gas station just outside of Newington. A pack of rotters had jumped him while he was fueling his Hummer. He had taken down over a dozen with nothing more than a baseball bat. We call him Mad Dog because of the way he tears into them.”

“I wonder what his story is,” said Jennifer. Robson could not be sure if her curiosity stemmed from genuine concern.

“You’ll find a lot of stories around here,” said Robson. “Most of us lived within sixty miles of this place before the outbreak. Some tried to escape but were overtaken by rotters and eventually made their way here. Others tried to hold out in their homes, which was where we picked them up during our supply runs.”

“Which one are you?” asked Thompson.

“I was a deputy up in Kennebunkport. My fiancé and I tried to head west when the outbreak got really bad. We were overrun not far from here. Susan didn’t make it. I did.” Robson felt that familiar self-loathing blackening his soul. He reached for the cup of coffee as a distraction, annoyed to find it empty.

“I’m sorry.” Jennifer noticed his discomfort, mistaking it for anguish. “I shouldn’t have brought it up.”

“Don’t worry about it. There’s not a single person here who hasn’t lost family or loved ones. The guy in the NASCAR cap is Daytona, one of our drivers. He made his way up here from Florida. Witnessed the whole east coast go to hell. The guy sitting with him is Whitehouse. He used to be an ambulance driver in Boston. He was at Mass General when the first bite victims turned and attacked the other patients and hospital staff. He barely made it out alive. And see those girls over there?” Robson pointed to the table where Natalie’s Angels sat, each one wearing leather pants and a white shirt. “One of them spent weeks in a rape gang until rotters overran their camp. She’s probably the only person here thankful for the living dead.”

“What’s with the leather?” asked Thompson. “Some type of fetish?”

“No. They’re the camp security detail. The leather outfits make it impossible for the rotters to bite anything but exposed flesh.”

Thompson shrugged

“What about you two?” asked Robson. “Did you lose someone during the outbreak?”

Thompson shook his head. “I’ve been a widower for ten years. I have only one son who was with the Army in Baghdad when the shit hit the fan. Last I heard, his unit had fallen back to a defensive position somewhere in Saudi Arabia.”

“I lost my parents in a car accident when I was eight,” said Jennifer. “Ever since I started working with the military at Fort Detrick, I’ve been too busy to even date. Right after the outbreak I was assigned to Doctor Compton’s staff. Shortly after that we flew out to Site R. I hadn’t even seen a rotter until we tried to make it to Portsmouth.”

“You gotta understand,” added Thompson, “the military did it that way on purpose. Everyone assigned to Compton’s staff had no family, so there was no one to worry about. They thought we would all concentrate on our work and not be distracted by wondering where our loved ones were.”

Robson opened his mouth to ask where Site R was located when Paul entered the dining hall. He stopped in front of the middle table, picked up a spoon, and clanged it against the side of a water glass until everyone had quieted down. Paul placed the spoon back onto the table.

“Ladies and gentlemen, listen up. We’re going to have an all hands tonight at seven o’clock. Everyone needs to be here, so make sure you pass the word around. Thank you.”

Paul turned around and left the dining hall as quickly as he had entered. Robson did not know what to make of it since Paul was never that abrupt. “What the hell was that all about?” he said to no one in particular.

Thompson stood, picked up his tray, and headed out. “I guess you’ll find out tonight.”