Into the Badlands (3 page)

CHAPTER 3

“Check that closet over there. Maybe there are some coats or some blankets,” Dave Porter said to his wife, Sandy, as they combed through an abandoned house two miles from the highway. She nodded. Their friend Jim was in the kitchen searching for any food or equally useful items that may have been left behind.

“Nothing,” Sandy replied.

“Dammit.” He turned to Jim. “Anything?”

“Nothing here either,” Jim replied. “The cupboards are bare, not even a bone for a dog.” He smiled, then dropped it when no one else returned it.

“We have to check the basement,” Dave said flatly. Jim and Sandy both looked at him apprehensively. “Look, I don’t want to either, but it’s our best chance.”

“Not after what we found at the last place,” Sandy said.

“I know, I know, but we have to. We didn’t get enough at the last house. You both know that. And whatever we find down there can’t hurt us. You saw the windows in this place; not a single one broken. The door was still locked for Christ’s sake. Nobody’s been in this place since the outbreak, not even the rats.”

“I don’t think I can handle seeing what I saw back there again,” Sandy confessed. Her lower lip trembled slightly. “They were just so small...” She trailed off, biting her lip.

“Jim and I will go. You stay up here. If the coast is clear we’ll call you down. We still have a couple more hours of daylight left, plenty of time to search the basement.”

Consternation washed over her face. “I don’t want to be up here by myself.”

Dave sighed. He tried to be patient, but it was often difficult. “I know, but you said you didn’t want to go down.”

“I don’t.”

Jim turned to Sandy and put his hand on her shoulder. “It’ll be alright, we’ll be right back up in a flash.”

Sandy nodded, but seemed less than convinced.

Dave pulled the hatchet he usually carried from his belt, then handed Sandy their only working gun. She took it.

“Don't shoot unless I tell you to,” he told her.

“I won't,” she replied.

Dave grabbed the flashlight they'd found during a prior house raid, and Jim held his ever-present hammer tightly in his hand as the two men walked toward the basement door. They reached the door and Dave turned the knob, slowly and carefully opening the door. It groaned and squeaked on its hinges as it gave way. They all listened intently for any audible signs of carriers seeking shelter within. They were met with reassuring silence. Dave knocked three times on the door; holding his hatchet tightly. Noises usually got the deadwalkers stirring. Despite the knocking they heard nothing from below.

He looked at Jim. “Let’s go.”

Dave placed one foot on the top step, testing his weight. It held. The steps were solid. He couldn’t be too careful; a broken ankle in this new world was a death sentence. He flipped on the flashlight. The batteries were low and the light was dim, but it would have to do. He took a deep breath as he and Jim proceeded down the steps.

There were no windows in the basement. The light from above illuminated the steps, but couldn't pierce far into the darkness below. The flashlight did little to help. He couldn't help but think it was more of a cellar than a basement. He paused halfway down the steps then listened for movement in the darkness below. He shone the flashlight back and forth quickly, scanning the basement for movement. There was none, so he deemed it safe enough to proceed.

He continued to descend into the darkened basement until his feet finally touched the concrete floor. Then he heard the steps creak as Jim brought up the rear. The basement was unfinished, but had wooden frames erected where walls had been planned. By the dim light of the flashlight those skeletal walls took on the sinister appearance of bars on a jail cell.

Dave made a right turn, choosing the direction at random. The light flashed across various objects; boxes, chairs, a workout bench, shelves, and more. It was all covered in dust, untouched for years. This was good. The basement smelled musty and dank, as if the air around them had absorbed the stagnant history of the past three years.

The pair entered into a small, unfinished room, framed in with the same partially finished walls. Jim stayed close behind in the darkness so as to not get separated. If there was one thing they had learned it was that staying together was critical to their survival.

Three years ago, when the infection quickly became a global pandemic, virtually all the survivors fled to the coasts like rats from a sinking ship. At the time, Dave and Sandy had been married for only a month. Living close to the eastern shoreline they had little distance to travel to make it to the coast and settle into what they thought would be only a temporary shelter.

Weeks became months, then months became years. The infected didn't die off as has been predicted. They adapted, learned to hunt, and the infection, although devastating psychologically, turned out not to be fatal. Some of them almost still seemed to possess at least some humanity, despite their behavior and appearance.

Dave had openly disagreed with their border town’s leadership. He was outspoken, even vehement. A folly of youth, in retrospect. That attitude and behavior had landed him few supporters within the town. Once they struck up a friendship with Jim, who was openly gay, things went bad very quickly. Before long they were framed for theft of town supplies. Punishment was severe: expulsion into the land outside the town’s fences: into the Badlands. Dave couldn’t prove it, but he felt the town council had found a convenient way to get rid of three of their problems in one fell swoop.

Once outside the town's fences the three outcasts found themselves wandering from one abandoned house to another, from grocery store to gas station, from truck stop to motel, all across an infected no man's land that had once been known as the Midwestern United States. If any form of government still existed it was absent from this dismal wasteland; the concept long ago forgotten, abandoned, or just dead. They survived for over a year on luck, teamwork, and determination.

Now two-thirds of that team stood in the basement of a long-abandoned house, searching for anything that could be used to buy them another day in hell. Dave kept the flashlight trained on the path in front of him. He raised the beam, then stopped.

In front of him, within the wooden skeleton of a room that would never be finished, an unknown tragedy had played out. Two corpses occupied the room; desiccated, frozen, slowly rotting, captured in the final scene of a macabre and horrible play. A woman, chained to the concrete wall, her head gone from the jaw up. The feeble beam cast by the flashlight showed dark stains on the wall behind her.

A flick of the beam caught sight of another corpse; a man, sitting in a rocking chair. His head was gone; only a jagged stump and a partial jawbone remained.

It didn't take long for Dave to understand what had happened; a husband carrying out a grim duty in the seclusion of a forgotten basement. She'd been infected; he hadn't. He'd ended her suffering, then he'd ended his own. Not a single person living knew this had even happened, this final act of bravery at the end of the world.

“Holy shit,” Jim said quietly from behind him as he gazed upon the gruesome scene.

“Yeah,” Dave replied.

“Dave?” Sandy called from the top of the steps. “Is everything okay down there?”

“We're fine,” Dave replied. “You?”

“I'm getting nervous up here by myself. What'd you find down there?”

After the horror they'd seen in the last house he wasn't sure if Sandy would be able to handle this too. “You might not want to see this.”

A pause. “Oh no, not again.”

“No, not that,” Dave replied, “but still, it's not pleasant.”

Sandy hadn’t seemed to be able to adjust to life after the outbreak, much less life on the run from the infected. She had bad days and worse days. She was withdrawn most of the time, lost in her own thoughts. She’d become almost child-like, relying on Dave to do virtually everything for her. He loved her, no doubt. His heart ached for her anguish. He tried to be understanding. There were days, however, when understanding was difficult to come by. Sometimes he didn’t want to have to think for her. Sometimes he just needed her to be strong on her own. Sandy needed a protector, though, and he had volunteered for that task, ‘til death did they part. So he did his part, every day. It was his duty, after all.

With Sandy at bay Dave turned his attention back to the room in front of him. He walked in, lighting the way with the flashlight. The shotgun used in this brutal yet merciful act lay on the floor beside the man's body, the barrel slightly rusty from the dank, basement air. Dave handed the light to Jim, then picked up the shotgun. It looked functional at least; the only true test would be actually firing it.

Judging from the scene in front of him he assumed both barrels were empty. He broke the gun open and confirmed this. He took the flashlight back, then handed the shotgun to Jim. A quick search of the room revealed a box with about a half-dozen shells. He placed them in his pocket, then took the flashlight back from Jim.

Suddenly he felt the room squeezing him, the heavy air was suffocating. It was as if all the dread and despair that came with the outbreak had been crammed into that little space. He had to get out.

Suddenly Sandy called down again. “I don't want to be up here anymore, Dave. I want to come down.”

He called back up to her. “Come on down babe, just watch your step.”

Sandy descended slowly down the steps, making sure to grasp the handrail tightly. Dave walked back to the bottom of the steps, shining the light to illuminate her way. “Just don't go in that room back there,” he warned.

The trio spent the next fifteen minutes with a single flashlight in the bitter cold, searching for supplies for their packs. They found some canned tuna, Spam, and Vienna Sausages, some ramen noodles, and a book of matches. Apparently most of the food had been consumed before the homeowners met their terrible end.

Jim discovered a hunting knife, which he kept, and a pair of boots too small for him, which he left. Sandy found a can of Sterno, partially burned, and Dave found a can opener. All but the boots went into their packs.

Suddenly a loud bang sounded as an unknown object struck the floor above them. The trio froze, their muscles tightened. Dave extinguished the flashlight, and the three of them held their breath in the dark while they listened for any clue as to what had made the sound. Then they heard the floor creak, followed by what sounded like a paralyzed limb being dragged along.

Something was upstairs.

They strained their eyes to see in the darkened room, but they could see very little besides the feeble light illuminating the steps from above. Something had definitely gotten into the house; there was little doubt it was a carrier.
Fuck!
Dave thought. It'd been Sandy's job to lock the doors behind them; apparently she hadn't done it. That mistake might now cost them their lives.

Dave turned to his wife and friend in the dark. “Let's see what this thing decides to do,” he whispered. “If it leaves on its own then we grab the backpacks and get the fuck outta here.”

“And if it doesn't?” Jim whispered.

“If it doesn't, then I'm going to catch it by surprise at the bottom of the steps.” He turned to face both his wife and Jim, whispering. “You guys stick together. Grab the backpacks and be ready. Sandy, give Jim the pistol.”

“What about this shotgun?” Jim whispered back.

“I don't know...give it to Sandy.” Jim and Sandy swapped guns.

“I'm going to wait at the bottom of the stairs with the hatchet. If it comes down, I'll hack it to pieces.” He leaned in, touching Sandy's shoulder. “Nobody shoots unless I say so. I don't want to take a bullet meant for whatever's up there. Besides, one bang from that gun and they'll be on us like stink on shit.”

“Do you think there are more than one up there?” Sandy asked.

“I hope not,” he replied.

Sandy reached up, placing her hand atop her husband's hand. “I'm afraid.”

“I am too babe, but we have to face this head on; otherwise, we're all dead.”

“Be careful baby,” she replied. Dave could tell she was ready to break down; she just wasn't equipped for this. He hoped she could hold it together and not get herself or the rest of them killed.

“I'll wait for your signal,” Jim whispered. Dave knew Jim wasn't trigger-happy, but Sandy was unpredictable.

They listened intently while the thing upstairs limped around above them. There was a crash as something was tossed carelessly onto the floor, followed by another crash, then another. It was ransacking the place, no doubt looking for food. Carriers almost never figured out how to open metal cans, but glass they'd just break. More often than not they'd eat the glass along with the food. A fitting last meal.

Then the sounds stopped. As they waited Dave counted the seconds off in his head. Fifteen, thirty, forty-five, one minute. He thought for a moment the thing might have just wandered back outside. Or it could be waiting for them, he considered. Doubtful but not impossible; some carriers were smarter than others.

Sandy's grip tightened around Dave's arm. “Is it gone?” she asked.