First, I am excited to announce the release of The Exoterrestrials. This is something different from me...i.e., no zombies. I hope some of you will take the plunge. Even more important, I hope that you enjoy it.
When I sat down to write the DEAD series, I was surprised by the arrival of what would become the most disturbing character I've ever written: Garrett McCormick. Just the mention of his name has some of you giving an involuntary shiver. To celebrate my favorite month and the Brown household's equivalent of Christmas--October and Halloween--I have for you, over the course of this week, The Gruesome Tale of Garrett and Kirsten. This is their story pulled from the vignettes of Dead: The Ugly Beginning, Dead: Revelations, and Dead: Fortunes & Failures. It also includes the "bonus" material that appears in the special edition.
For those of you unfamiliar with the DEAD series, it is told in three rotating chapters. There is Steve's story--a first person narrative, The Geeks--a group of young men who thought the zombie apocalypse would be cool...and quickly discovered that they were wrong, and the Vignettes--when I set out to to the vignettes, what I wanted was a series of snapshots. They were meant to be like an intermission between the two main story lines. However, some of the vignettes took on a life of their own--Juan Hoya being the most notable. When Garrett arrived on the scene, I thought he would be my villian...I did not realize that he would become my ultimate bad guy.
Be warned, this story is disturbing. It will leave you feeling the need to shower. I have given fair warning. Proceed at your own risk. And now...The Gruesome Tale of Garrett and Kirsten (part 1):
Charleston, SC—“Garrett!” the raspy voice
barked, followed by a series of shredding coughs. “Git yer ass in here and stop
gawkin’ at that whore!”
Looking over his
shoulder into the dark, smoky house, Garrett McCormick tipped the half-empty
bottle of beer, draining the contents in three huge gulps. Not for the first
time today, he allowed the private reel in his mind to spool. Several possible
death scenarios played in his imagination; each one ending with Patty Garrett
meeting her end at his hands. Nothing as quick and impersonal as a gun would
do. He wanted to feel her physically leave her body; breathe her final,
tobacco-fouled breath into his face. He wanted to see the light fade and
finally extinguish from her eyes.
“You hear me,
boy!”
“Yes, mother.”
Garrett walked back into the house, letting the screen door slam behind him.
“Dammit! How
many times do I have to tell you ‘bout lettin’ that door slam?” Patty Garrett
scolded.
“Sorry, Mama.”
Garrett opened the fridge and grabbed another beer. He closed the door, twisted
the cap off, tossed it on the counter and lumbered into the living room.
Patty
McCormick’s obscenely obese form took up well over half of the sofa. A tray
table sat within reach, scattered with full and half-full ashtrays, an old one
gallon plastic milk container of sweet tea, and an empty box of Little Debbie
Nutty Bars. In one hand, the woman clutched the television remote, in the
other, the ever-present cigarette.
“Warm me up that
macaroni and cheese from last night and check my jar of sun tea on the front
porch.” Another series of painful
sounding coughs tore from the woman. After a few wet, hawking convulsions, she
swapped the remote for an old faded Double Gulp cup and spit a dark wad that seemed reluctant to completely free
itself from her pursed lips.
“Yes’m.” Garrett
trudged back to the kitchen and pulled the casserole dish out of the
refrigerator. He shoved it in the microwave and pushed a few buttons.
Shrill laughter
drifted in on the warm spring air. Garrett glanced out the grimy window as
Kimmy Vanderwall and April Williams emerged from the Vanderwall’s in-ground
swimming pool, each girl tilting her head to the side, wringing out their long,
wet hair.
He stared at
their bikini-clad bodies, unconsciously wiping at his mouth with the back of
his hand. He felt a stirring, and then the awkward strain of the growing bulge
in the crotch of his jeans. He reached down, adjusting slightly to ease the
discomfort. It took him a moment to realize he’d been holding his breath. It
was startled back to a regular rhythm when the microwave screeched to announce
that the macaroni and cheese was ready.
The two girls
both shot glances over their shoulder. They’d
heard. They knew. Kimmy whispered something to April who responded by
making a face. The two girls burst out laughing, then vanished through an open
sliding glass door into the Vanderwall house.
“What’s keepin’
you, boy?” Patty Garrett croaked from the living room, the metallic ratchet of
the wheel of her lighter signaling the start of another cigarette.
Spooning the
gummy, orange-yellow mixture onto a plate, Garrett grabbed the bottle of
ketchup from the counter and brought lunch to his mother. He set the plate down
on the tray table and grabbed the fuller of the two ashtrays. He emptied it and
replaced it on his way past as he headed out to the front porch to check the
sun tea.
The street was
quiet for a Saturday. Usually, on a sunny spring day like this, kids were
riding bikes, playing basketball in the Gibson’s driveway, or mowing lawns. The
annoying tone of the Emergency Broadcasting System snapped Garrett out of his
stupor.
“We interrupt
this program to bring you the following bulletin,” a baritone voice blared from
the television. Garrett turned, still standing on the porch, his hulking frame
keeping out all but the smallest slivers of light. “Center for Disease Control spokeswoman
Doctor Linda Singh has released the following statement.” The photo of a
conservative looking woman with pinched features appeared on the left of an all
blue field. White letters appeared and the voice announced them verbatim.
“Continued
claims of the dead reanimating are being investigated. While it is doubtful
that this is true, citizens are advised to remain indoors while response teams
in your local area can coordinate with national officials in order to contain
this—what is now being officially labeled a pandemic.”
Garrett listened
to the words, but they just didn’t make much sense. It sounded bad, that was
certain. Also, he became aware that he was hearing an echo of sorts. He turned,
looking up and down the street. The same broadcast was pouring from every other
open door and window on the block, creating an eerie reverberation.
“These
statements seem to counter, at least somewhat, the complete denial made by Doctor
Singh yesterday. While still not validating the claims of the dead rising,
becoming what millions are now referring to as zombies, she has conceded that
the CDC is investigating the possibility that these rumors are true.”
“Quit standin’
there lettin’ all the flies in!” Patty growled through a mouthful of macaroni
and cheese.
“Yes’m.” Garrett
took the step inside, letting the screen shut against his back.
Meanwhile, Patty
McCormick was busy flipping through channels. Each one carried the same story
in one form or another, she paused on one and a flood of gibberish blared from
the tiny speaker. “Even the damned spics are babblin’ about this nonsense.”
“Don’t seem
likely,” Garrett scoffed and headed up the stairs to his room, leaving his
mother to her macaroni and cheese, television, and chain-smoking.
He walked down
the gloomy hallway to the last door on the right, his bedroom. Closing the door
behind himself, he mashed a button on his CD player. The intro to Blue Oyster
Cult’s, Burning for you began. Garrett
climbed across his bed and sat on the edge, peering through his partially open
curtains. He could spy perfectly down onto the deck and swimming pool in the
back yard of the Vanderwall residence.
Just as he
hoped, a moment later Kimmy and April came back out. They were looking back
over the fence. Don’t worry, whores,
Garrett thought, I’m not in the kitchen
anymore. Apparently satisfied, April unclasped her bikini top and stretched
out on her stomach on a towel; Kimmy was a time-delayed mirror image. The two
girls lay head to head, resting their chins on their hands. Most likely engaged
in useless chatter about which boy they’d be letting finger bang them after
school.
Garrett chased
that unwelcoming voice out from his head as he unzipped his pants and pulled
out his already stiff member. His eyes locked on the deep crease in the girls’
bikini bottoms. It’d been a while and the act took less than a minute. Unsatisfied,
he sat there for several minutes staring down at the two unsuspecting objects
of his dark fantasies.
***
“No, daddy!” a
voice begged, waking Garrett from a restless sleep full of unpleasant images of
leering faces.
Garrett sat up,
smacking his lips. He reached underneath his mattress and pulled out a pint
bottle of cheap, knock-off bourbon. A scream pierced the air causing dogs up
and down the street to begin barking. It was coming from the Vanderwall house.
Pulling the
curtains open, he leaned forward enough so that he could get a better look. The
scream changed register, and then faded into something that reminded Garrett of
gargling…only different.
He craned his
neck to try and get a clearer look. Kimmy Vanderwall’s bedroom window was on
the second floor just like his. Her curtains were partially open, and he could
see some movement. It looked like Kimmy’s dad had his daughter down on the bed.
He saw hands drumming on Greg Vanderwall’s back, but they seemed to be losing
steam. Hmmm, Garrett thought, maybe the little whore likes it.
As he continued
to watch, aware of his own growing arousal, he realized something wasn’t quite
right. Something dark coated Kimmy’s hands—which at this point had stopped moving.
Then Greg Vanderwall stood up. The man was still wearing his postal-carrier
uniform, but it was all torn up and stained with huge dark patches. His face
was dripping with what looked to Garrett like blood.
“Y’all get on
offa my porch!” Patty McCormick bellowed, causing Garrett to jump. It also
caused Greg Vanderwall’s head to twitch and turn towards the sound. He seemed
to have trouble turning, but in a few jerky steps, he was staggering out of Kimmy’s
room, presumably on his way over.
“Go on now! I said gitcher asses off my property or I’ll
call the law!”
Garrett heard
his mother shouting. He also heard what sounded like somebody banging on the
screen door.
And…moaning;
like whoever was out there might be hurt.
Something
brought his attention back to Kimmy’s window. The girl was standing there
staring at nothing. She hadn’t changed out of her bikini, but only the bottoms
were still on. That was because her upper body looked as if it’d been mauled by
a bear. There were rips, gashes, and what looked like actual chunks torn out.
The worst injury was just below the bottom of her pronounced rib cage. There
was a huge hole torn into the no-longer-tan skin with what looked to Garrett
like bloody sausages dipped in shit hanging out.
The screen door
slamming brought him back to what sounded like trouble brewing downstairs. That
also made Kimmy’s head snap around much like her father’s had a moment before.
In the same jerky motions, the girl disappeared out her bedroom door.
“What the hell
you think you’s doin’ just comin’ in my house?” Patty McCormick’s voice held
something Garrett had never heard in his twenty-seven years from his mother.
Fear.
Somebody was in
the house. No matter what else, that was something he could understand. Picking
up the axe handle that he referred to as his “nigger beater”, Garrett headed
for the stairs. He could puzzle out whatever the hell he’d seen at the
Vanderwall house later. Right now, he had business to attend.
What he expected
to see were a couple of coons from east of the river come around lookin’ to
steal something to fence for a little drug money. That was not the scene that
greeted him. Judy Vanderwall, Kimmy’s snobbish bitch of a mother was in the living
room with Gordon Grace, the neighbor from across the way. Both looked like
they’d had a fight with a meat grinder and lost. They were smeared and
spattered with blood. Some of it looked dry like it’d been there a while. Both
had faces dripping with slick, red wetness.
At over
six-and-a-half feet tall and nearly three hundred pounds, Garrett McCormick
wasn’t scared of much…other than his mother. Still, what he saw made him pause.
Judy and Gordon were both pawing at his mama from the backside of the sofa.
Both were snapping their teeth like they wanted to take a big bite out of the
woman who was busy squirming and pushing the two away.
With one big,
meaty paw of a hand, Patty smacked the toothpick with tits that was Judy
Vanderwall in the head hard enough to knock her down. The scrawny woman landed
on her back at Garrett’s feet. The skirt—too short for any fifty-year-old woman
to be wearing—hiked up. Garrett’s eyes went to the peach-colored panties. He
was transfixed on the dark triangle that shown beneath the sheer silk.
Judy’s eyes,
hideously filmed over in a pus-colored whiteness shot with dark traces, rolled
up and fixed on him. Her mouth opened and a ghost-like moan wheezed out. She
began to sit up, her hands reaching for him. Out of reflex, Garrett swung the
axe handle. It came down hard against the temple of the woman, snapping her
head violently.
Judy fell back,
but only for a second before attempting to struggle back up, once again
reaching for him. Garrett’s head tilted in confusion. At the least, that blow
should’ve knocked her out. In reality, it should’ve killed her. The bitch
hadn’t even cried out. He swung again, and twice more until the head broke
open, spilling its contents on the cigarette-burn marred floor and splattering
in an arc on the dirty, faded, peeling-in-places wallpaper.
He glanced over
where his mother was wrestling with Gordon Grace. The diminutive man’s back was
to Garrett, his bald spot looking strangely gray. The man’s long braid swung
back and forth in the struggle like an angry cat’s tail.
“Quit standin’
there gawkin’, boy!” Patty yelped, doing her best to keep Gordon’s snapping
teeth at bay.
Garrett stepped
over Judy’s body, coming up behind Gordon. He snatched the man by the collar,
tossing him across the living room. The body slammed into the wall and fell in
a heap. Squirming and struggling, he knocked over a lamp.
Garrett set his
feet and cocked back his arm, ready to wield the axe handle if Gordon Grace
came at him. Then he saw the man’s eyes. They looked like Judy Vanderwall’s,
but that wasn’t nearly as unsettling as the chunk of the man’s throat that was
missing. Blood had poured down the front of his tie-dyed tee-shirt, adding
another color to the pattern.
“That man tried
to bite me,” Patty wheezed, hawking up more thick mucus from her lungs.
“How come you
watchin’ that Jesus channel?” Garrett glanced at the screen. A sweaty looking
man in a white suit was pacing a stage telling all the folks in the auditorium
how wrong they were living their lives. Most likely all their wrongs could be
fixed if they put money in the baskets being passed around.
“All the other
channels were talkin’ ‘bout that Blue Plague nonsense.”
“Might want to
see what they’re sayin’,” Garrett studied Gordon as he slowly climbed to his
feet. His face had a blue-gray tint which only made the eyes stand out all the
more.
Patty reached
her feet only a little more gracefully than Gordon. Her bloated hand fumbled
with a new pack of cigarettes. She froze when a strangled sounding cry came
from the man’s open mouth. Garrett moved in, wielding the axe handle without
emotion, bringing it down again and again until the man’s head broke open just
like Judy Vanderwall’s.
“Why don’t they
cry out?” Patty’s voice suddenly seemed small.
“Don’t know,”
Garrett shrugged, snatching up one of his work shirts from the unfolded laundry
sitting in a heap next to the overturned basket, “but they didn’t seem to
notice a thing until their head busted open.”
A scream from
outside carried on the night air. Garrett walked over to the screen door and
peered into the darkness. A lone figure was staggering along the sidewalk. It
was Greg Vanderwall, but there was something wrong. Garrett already knew what
it was now that he’d seen Judy and Gordon up close. Another series of screams
and what sounded like gunshots pierced the night, drawing Greg Vanderwall down
the sidewalk past the McCormick house. Garrett stepped back and closed the
front door.
“Change the
channel, Mama,” Garrett said, moving over to the curtains to continue peering
outside. For the first time in as long as he could remember, he’d told his mama
to do something; what’s more, she did it.
“…president and
his staff were being moved to a secure location. Martial law is in effect, and
all non-active military personnel have been recalled.
“FEMA centers
have been designated, and should be displayed on the crawler at the bottom of
your screen. Military transport vehicles will be sweeping neighborhoods as
National Guard units muster. If you are able, get to a center in your area,
please do so after 7 a.m.”
Click.
“Robert E. Lee
High School is on the list.” Garrett went back to looking out the curtain.
“I ain’t leavin’
my house.” Patty McCormick waddled around the end of the couch to stand over
Gordon Grace’s body. “Damned niggers and spics’ll be in here stealin’ the
television before we’ve backed out the driveway.”
“Might want to
think that over,” Garrett said, letting the curtain fall back in place. He
turned, hearing the floor protest every step his mother took. A meaty hand
slapped him hard across the face.
“Don’t you sass
me, boy.”
“Sorry, Mama,”
Garrett looked down into the gray-blue eyes that glared up at him through folds
of sagging skin. Without another word, he walked up the stairs.
“Where you
goin’, boy?”
Garrett didn’t
answer. He felt a tremor in his hands, a combination of anger, adrenaline, and
anticipation. Without hesitation he went to his closet and shoved shoes and
dirty clothes aside. Opening a cardboard box, he pulled out three bottles of
Yukon Jack. A small, lime-green suitcase was on the shelf and he pulled it
down, setting it on his bed. Flipping it open, he shoved the dozen Hustler magazines to one side in a neat
pile and wrapped each precious bottle in the first shirt he pulled from the
beat up chest of drawers.
Reaching under
the bed, Garrett found his leather jacket. As he stood, he heard the first
thuds of hands on the front door. Dead
hands, he thought. Closing the suitcase, he picked it up as his mother made
a noise that was part scream and part cough.
The sound of
breaking glass made him pause at the top of the stairs. He walked down a few
steps to see more than one pair of arms straining through the curtains. Glass
from the living room window continued to break and fall with a crash on the
floor.
“Garrett!” Patty
McCormick bellowed.
He’d seen them
outside. There were several on the street, and they were coming to the
McCormick house, led by Kimmy Vanderwall. A body—a man in a policeman’s
uniform—tumbled through the opening, pulling the curtains down in a heap. Patty
McCormick screamed in a way Garrett had never heard before…and he’d heard his
mama scream a lot.
“Better run,
Mama,” Garrett whispered as he watched more of those things tumble through.
Then Kimmy Vanderwall’s mostly naked body appeared. Garrett’s breathing changed
as his eyes took her in. What a shame,
he thought as she landed awkwardly on the living room floor.
He could hear
his mama cursing and shrieking. None of the bodies seemed to notice him up on
the stairs as they continued deeper into the house. A loud crash signaled what
had to be his mama fighting off the dozen or so dead folks now in the McCormick
living room. Kimmy was trying to get to her feet. No others were coming through
the window…for now.
Patty McCormick
screamed in pain. Garrett crept down a few more stairs as his mother swung the
leg of the coffee table at the closest of those things. Her left arm was
bleeding bad, and she held it close to her body as she swung wildly with the
right.
“Git these
things offa me, boy!” She made the
mistake of taking her eyes off what she was doing to look at Garrett. Three of
those things stumbled in, hands reaching, clawing. Garrett took one more step
down the stairs…but no more.
One of the
creatures that had his mama by the arm bit into the sagging flesh. Blood welled
around its mouth as the huge woman howled in agony. It pulled back, tearing
away a chunk of meat. Patty McCormick slung her arm out to the side, tossing
the individual into the television. It was quickly replaced by two more. All of
these things had terrible injuries; just like the ones they were inflicting on
the enormous woman.
“Help me, baby!”
Patty’s eyes met Garrett’s full of tears, but there was more. There was
anger…the kind that ended in brutal punishment.
He continued to
watch, almost fascinated. It reminded him of a documentary he’d seen once when
all these female lions were trying to bring down an old elephant. There were
too many, and the blood loss weakened the behemoth…in this case…Patty
McCormick. The jumble of arms and legs collapsed with a house jarring thud.
There was a muffled cry, and then a scream pierced the night that was so
chilling that it made the hair on Garrett’s arms stand up.
One of the
ghoulish figures, it resembled Mister Whitaker from down the street, but was
missing most of its face, squirmed free from the pile with a strand of something
in its hands. The stench of shit and blood hit Garrett full-force, making his
knees buckle just a bit. Still, he watched as the creature bit into the strand,
a brownish slurry oozed from the rips in the sausage-like links and down its
chin. The bile rose in Garrett’s throat as he backed slowly and quietly up the
stairs.
The wood
squeaked and Kimmy Vanderwall, who had finally fought free of the tangled
curtains and clothing on the floor, turned Garrett’s direction. Her hands came
up and her mouth began opening and closing. Fluids dripped from the tear in her
stomach, and a strand of dark, mucous-like drool swung lazily from her chin.
Garrett
retreated slowly, trying not to make any more noise. He could still hear the
wet ripping and smacking sounds coming from the direction of his mama. None of them seemed inclined to follow after
him, only Kimmy.
He backed
halfway down the hallway towards his room and waited. Sure enough, eventually,
she made it up the stairs. He’d heard her fall a couple of times. Each time
he’d crept out to see if Kimmy would give up; each time she’d seen him and made
some sort of gurgling moan before continuing awkwardly up the stairs.
A voice in
Garrett’s head told him to run, and he didn’t really know why he wasn’t
listening to it. The thought of the fate that had claimed his mama terrified
him, and Garrett McCormick wasn’t a man easily terrified, but when Kimmy Vanderwall
stumbled onto the floor of the hallway, her bikini bottoms down to her thighs
from all the scooting and scrambling…he knew.
He couldn’t take
his eyes off of the smooth folds of her girlish flesh. He licked his lips
unconsciously, the little whore kept it
shaved. Backing into his room, he looked around, eyes finally lighting on
what he wanted.
Between the lack
of coordination these things displayed and outweighing it by more than double,
it was almost no effort to take Kimmy Vanderwall down. The most difficult part
was avoiding the snapping jaws and grasping hands. When he was done, a rolled
up pair of his underwear—a dirty pair from the floor—were stuffed in Kimmy’s
mouth. Her hands were bound above her head with a shirt sleeve and secured to a
slit in the headboard. The struggle was really much less than expected. He’d
pulled off and tossed aside the bikini bottoms before using two more shirts to
tie her legs spread-eagle, one to each of the useless wheels that supported the
metal frame which held his box spring.
Occasionally, he
could hear a bang or crash from downstairs, along with the moans and other
strange noises of the walking dead. Twice he thought he’d heard them on the
stairs, but so far nothing had come to his bedroom door.
He returned his
attention to the creature squirming on his bed. “You don’t look nearly as
pretty as ya used to,” Garrett whispered, climbing up on his bed, planting one
foot on either side of the discolored, bloody, writhing thing laid out before
him.
“Never did give
you a present for your Sweet Sixteen last week,” Garrett scoffed. “Course,
after your parents called the cops on me…sayin’ I was peekin’ at you in your
bedroom…” He unzipped his pants.
His eyes drifted
from the dead eyes of the girl to down between her legs. It didn’t take him
long, standing above the helpless zombie, to finish. When he was done, he
hopped off the bed and stuffed himself back in his pants.
Walking over to
his window, he looked outside. The neighborhood echoed a nightmarish symphony
of screams and gunshots. North Charleston was no stranger to police patrols,
but this was well above the norm. Most times it was a domestic dispute, and on
rare occasions, somebody would try to deal a little meth. Problem with that,
too many folks liked to sit on their porches. That sort of activity would
instigate a flurry of phone calls. Well,
Garrett thought, the police were in for a
helluva night, if what he was
seein’ was any indication.
Picking up his
suitcase, he glanced back at the writhing figure of Kimmy Vanderwall. “Enjoy
Hell, you filthy little whore,” he said. Garrett was certain that Hell was
exactly where she would be…just like any whore; and that’s what she was. All
women were whores. Mama said so. A lot.
Climbing out the
window and onto the eave, he walked down the gentle slope and peered over. The
side yard was clear, so he dropped the suitcase flat. It landed in the grass
with a whummp, next he dropped the axe handle and swung his legs over, hung,
then let go. At his height, it wasn’t a very long drop. Gathering his stuff,
Garrett stayed in the shadows and moved towards the street.
A sound came
from the house causing him to pause and look back. Mama was standing in the
living room window. Her clothing had been torn away from her upper body, and
there were huge chunks of her were missing. Her enormous, sagging gut was the
worst. A huge portion had been ripped open and a slab of brownish-gray fat
swung back and forth with her movements. For a moment, he considered going up
there and bashing her head in. Then, leastways, she wouldn’t spend forever like
that.
As he stood
there thinking, a car skidded around the corner at the head of the block. With
a dismissive shrug he stepped out into the street. The car slowed and came to a
stop. A petite brunette flung open the passenger door and waved at him to get
in. Her eyes were wide with terror.
“Thank God!” The
woman’s voice was shaky with hysterics. “Do you live near here? We need to get
off the streets.”
With a twitch of
his head indicating the house behind him, and holding up the suitcase, Garrett
climbed into the car, “My house is full of those things. Maybe we could try
your house?”
“It’s the Low
Country Overlook.” The woman shook her head. “That’s downtown, and those things
are even worse there…they’re everywhere. I’ve driven past two checkpoints with
no soldiers…not living anyway. It’s insane.”
An idea came to
Garrett. He’d gone down two weeks ago and applied for a job on the cleaning
crew at the baseball stadium. It had heavy gates and was out in the middle of a
big open area away from town. He looked at the woman to explain. She was
wearing a blouse that was open well past what was proper; he could see two
mounds of flesh pushed up and together by a silky looking bra.
“I know where we
can go,” Garrett struggled to keep his voice even. All he’d heard in the
woman’s statement was that the soldiers were gone; could it really be that
easy? Is this all it took to wipe away
all those who’d made fun of him, looked down on him, and treated him unfairly?
As they drove,
he saw more and more of those horrible monsters. Some of them were clustered
around a body sprawled on the ground; others walked in that slow, broken way
he’d seen up close in his living room. They passed abandoned police cars with
their lights flashing, doors open. Empty.
Doing his best
to remain calm, he continued to give directions. So few cars were out…everybody
locked inside, obeying martial law without knowing that those in charge were
gone…or now part of the problem.
They rolled into
the vast, empty parking lot of Rainbow Stadium. Garrett felt a thrill surge
through him. Somewhere in the distance a huge fireball lit up the sky. A
mushroom of flame rolled a hundred feet into the night, creating a momentary
but false dawn.
Yes, Garrett smiled as he thought, the world was about to change. A new
rule: survival of the strongest. The weak would serve at the pleasure of their
masters. Whores…like the one sitting beside him talking to the air—he certainly
wasn’t listening—were mere playthings. Toys. Things to be used and discarded
when they broke…or were outgrown.
Turning in the
seat, he stared at the pitifully small and helpless whore. Still talking, Garrett scowled. The orange glow of the dashboard
lighting made the whore look like a wax figure. She never saw the fist that
slammed into her temple.
The body slumped
over, head resting awkwardly against the driver side window. At first he
thought he might’ve broken its neck. Leaning closer, he saw the light fog
spread across the glass from the nose and mouth.
Garrett got out
of the car and walked around. He opened the door and the body spilled
gracelessly to the ground, half in and half out of the car. Unbuckling the
seatbelt, he scooped up the unconscious figure and tossed it over his shoulder.
He walked until he found a door which he made short work of with a few fierce
kicks. Once inside, he looked around. It was a long hallway that led to storage
areas and locker rooms. Blocking the door he’d entered was no problem.
Gunfire,
explosions, and screams filled the night. Chaos grew to fill the void of order.
Nobody noticed nor had the time to investigate just one more sound of a human
being experiencing excruciating pain and unbridled terror.
Return this evening (5PM PST, 8PM EST) for a second installment...
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