Darlings of Decay Read online

  CARLY

  -One-Week Earlier-

  I stare down the empty halls of my old high school Maple Hills. The memories of walking with my friends to class now seem like pieced-together memories of an old movie. My fingers trace across the cold metal lockers as I walk down the hall searching for mine. So much has changed. Posters that were once filled with drug-free advertisements and S.A.T. announcements are now replaced with quarantine signs and warnings that read:

  THE UNDEAD AND THOSE INFECTED WILL BE SHOT ON SIGHT.

  At the end of the row of lockers, I find mine; number 513. I still remember my old combination 12, 42, 0. The locker pops open and inside sits my old textbooks. I smile as I turn them over; my pre-calculus book sits on top. I can remember Mr. Robinson spouting off about how pre-Cal would be important in our future. I’m pretty sure he didn’t mean to fight the undead with, although it is pretty heavy book. I slide my hand to the back of the locker and pull out a box of shotgun shells. I’ve been saving these for the right time.

  When the outbreak began, it started in small numbers, rapidly growing into what seemed like an overnight cataclysm. Cities like ours were scheduled for evacuation procedures that never came. The infection spread too quickly, taking out whole neighborhoods and leaving behind small numbers to fend for themselves against the undead. A few families like mine were saved and taken to quarantined areas outside of Los Angeles. It wasn’t long before even those sites were compromised and overrun by death.

  Nothing was ever normal again. Sometimes, I sit and think about what it would be like to have a normal life again. Maybe I would’ve gone to college and majored in Biology like Mom, or maybe history, like Dad. The Civil War is still my favorite time period. It would’ve been nice to get my first job in LA, maybe even an apartment. Somewhere far away from Tom.

  Everyday I wake up hoping this is all a bad dream. That none of this is real, but I wake up disappointed daily. It’s not good to dwell on the past, my mother would say, but sometimes the past is all you have.

  I shut my locker and head back toward the infirmary to find my mother. Today she’s making her rounds across the community. There aren’t very many people left who know a thing or two about medicine. My mother was a nurse at a prominent hospital in Los Angeles. Most of the people she worked with died immediately during the outbreak. My mother was taking her scheduled vacation days at home when the news reported the first incident. It was never confirmed how or where the outbreak first happened, but the television stations stopped reporting not too long after.

  The sound of footsteps catches me off guard on my way through the main hall. The exit is not too far from me, but I pause for a moment, holding my breath in fear of hearing the dreaded sound of shuffling feet. The footsteps stop completely.

  “You know you shouldn’t be in here by yourself.”

  Nathaniel Thorne, one of the commanding soldiers in the community, steps forward from the shadows.

  “What are you doing here?” I ask, startled.

  “It can be dangerous,” he says, avoiding my question. His stare lingers over me ever so slightly. “Something could’ve hurt you.”

  Or is it someone?

  “There aren’t any shufflers inside the community,” and even as I say it, I know that it doesn’t mean that there couldn’t be. I am reminded of it daily when the school bell rings at 3:00 pm preceded by the cold voice of a soldier that announces, all clear over the loudspeaker. Every day I listen for even the slightest tone of panic in the voice, but it’s always the same cold, emotionless tone.

  “Civilians aren’t allowed in unmonitored areas, even inside the fenced walls.” He says, gesturing to the restricted sign on the entrance doors - how could I forget. We’ve been warned and forbidden to leave the community and although we practice evacuation procedures weekly we’re never allowed to leave. A few have learned the hard way. The other day I watched David, a boy not much older than me climb the fence and when he returned soldiers were there to block him from re-entering. I overheard his mother crying during one of the evacuation procedures, she had pleaded with him not to go, but food is scarce these days and his family was starving. It’s almost certain that he’s dead by now.

  “I was just on my way to meet my mother,” I reply.

  Thorne comes closer. “Do you have a boyfriend Carly?” he asks, running his finger along my arm.

  I try to pull my arm away, but he grabs my wrist and pulls it to his lips.

  “Such a pretty thing,” he says, pressing his lips on my wrist.

  “Stop.” The feeling of his lips on me makes my skin crawl.

  “Thorne?” someone calls out.

  A voice echoes down the hall. Before Thorne can make another advance, a figure appears near the end of the lockers. It’s another soldier. He makes a beeline toward us. As he comes closer, I can’t help but notice something familiar about him.

  “Thorne, they need you over in Avenue C.”

  That voice.

  “Code 3.”

  The sound of another soldier’s voice comes crackling out of his hand radio. “Tremell! Do you copy that?”

  It’s him. Joshua. My heart flutters at the sound of his name. He looks different –taller, leaner, and so much more serious than I remember him. He stops a few feet away and turns, lifting the radio to his face. “Negative.” A flood of voices flow from the radio, barely audible, but somehow Joshua can discern their message. “Ten-four.” He carefully reattaches his radio and then looks up at me, as if just realizing I was still there. The shock registers on his face immediately. He wasn’t expecting me to be here – to be alive.

  My eyes are drawn to the fusion of emerald green and golden flecks in his eyes. He stares back at me, slowly looking me over. It’s hard not to stare at the fine muscles that have replaced the scrawny arms he once had. Two years have passed and I hardly recognize him. Joshua is three years older than me, but it never felt so, until now.

  He reaches out, and for a moment it seems like he might actually touch me…my skin hums with excitement. Did he miss me as much as I missed him?

  “You know this girl?”

  Thorne’s cold voice pierces my thoughts, drawing me back to reality. Joshua’s hand drops and he looks away, clearing his throat. The magic of the moment is over.

  “She used to live on the same street as me when we were children,” Joshua mutters.

  His dismissive tone strikes a chord in me. We were more than just neighbors.

  Thorne smirks, “Ah, I see.”

  The silence between the three of us is uncomfortable. My cheeks warm in embarrassment. I should’ve known that I didn’t mean anything to him.

  “Let me escort you back to your mother, Ms. Rios.”

  Joshua gestures toward the hallway exit with disinterest.

  “I can find my own way,” I say, cutting him off.

  The exit isn’t close enough. I hurry down the hall and out the door before anyone can follow me. It’s one thing having Joshua barely remember me and another thing letting him usher me around like some little girl. As I turn, I catch a glimpse of Thorne and Joshua in heated conversation.

  Joshua’s stare follows me. The look on his face is strange, and yet so familiar.

  ***

  Outside the fences of the community, buildings sit abandoned, slowly crumbling from neglect. Mounds of trash litters the streets, broken TV sets sit smashed on the sidewalk pavement, –thrown from shop windows. Looters have come and gone, stripping cars and stores for whatever they can. There are rows after rows of cars alongside the street.

  There are nights where I dream about walking outside the fence and taking one.

  “Carly?”

  I turn, startled by my mother’s voice. She stands outside the medical supply shed leaning against the ramp railing.

  “Carly, are you ready? Didn’t you hear me calling you?”

  “Sorry mom, I was just…”

  “Day-dreaming again?” She smiles.

  Always.


  “I’m ready.”

  She hands me a basket of medical supplies as she heads toward the first street of community houses. The town is divided in houses for military and civilians. Our walk is brief, but silent; we haven’t spoken since the fight we had the other night about my stepfather. A part of me feels compelled to say I’m sorry, but deep inside I know I’m right about Tom – I know firsthand.

  “Carly, I know it’s hard for you to accept Tom, but your brother and you need a father figure and Tom is a good man.”

  I scoff at the word good. She looks at me, pleading with her eyes. It’s impossible to see Tom as my father.

  “He’s really trying this time; you should give him a chance.”

  I gave him a chance last time and when you weren’t looking he put his hands all over me. The memory of his touch hits me with violent shivers.

  “What’s wrong?” She asks.

  I swallow my tears back and stare out into the vacant town around us. It’s early enough that few people are awake. From a distance something moves in the shadows catching my eye. I focus in on the movement past the fence. A gasp escapes from my mother’s lips and I know she sees it too. He’s running towards us breathless and behind him is a group of three shufflers, except they’re not shuffling, they’re running. His face is contorted in horror as he pushes his legs to run faster, but they’re catching up.

  “That’s David, Martha’s boy.”

  “I’ve never seen them run before.”

  “Carly, we have to help him!”

  My mother’s words snap me from my daze. David. It’s the boy who was recently exiled from the community.

  “How?”

  “Help me!” he screams.

  The sounds of his pleas send shivers down my spine. My stomach turns at the sound of desperation in his voice. Inside I know there’s nothing we can do for him; civilians aren’t allowed to carry weapons and if the soldiers knew we helped him inside, we would be exiled too. I turn toward my mother - anguish fills her eyes, she knows all too well that we should turn and continue on our route.

  “Carly, we have to help.” She says.

  He only has a few feet ahead of them. Their limbs thrash forward trying to reach him, like wild dogs they snarl and snap their teeth at their prey. Their skin sags, barely covering the bones across their chest. As David’s body slams into the fence, he scrambles to get underneath the concealed hole at the bottom.

  “Please! The fence, help me get under!”

  He must have cut it.

  My mother scrambles to hold up the loose section of the fence.

  “Carly help me.”

  I grab the opposite side of the fence and pull up. It’s a tight squeeze. He can get back in. He has to. David uses his feet to push his body beneath the fence, but just as he’s almost all the way through, his jeans catch on the bottom links.

  “Shit!” he yells.

  He pushes his foot against the fence in an effort to get loose.

  “Hurry! They’re too close!” I scream.

  I turn towards my mother - her face is pale white, her fingers bright red from holding the fence.

  “Help, I can’t get my leg loose. Oh God.”

  It’s too late. I want to let go and run away from all of this. I can’t watch him die. My mother drops to the floor and my heart goes still; what is she doing? Her hands slip beneath the fence pulling at the fabric of his jeans. I hold my breath in anticipation. My grip is slowly slipping. I close my eyes, whispering a silent prayer, but my thoughts are suddenly interrupted by a piercing scream. It’s my mothers. Blood oozes from her hand, a chunk of flesh is missing between her thumb and index finger. My fingers release the fence as I jump back from shock. I pull my mother away, keeping my eyes on the predator in front of us. I watch in disgust as the he chews on her missing flesh.

  Despite his elder appearances, his reflexes are quick. He lunges at the fence, shaking it in hunger. My mother’s blood drips warm over me as I lean her against my chest. I reach for gauze inside the medical basket and quickly wrap a layer around her hand. Her face is pale and her pulse is weak beneath my fingers. There isn’t enough gauze to stop the bleeding.

  As I look up, I realize David is still stuck under the fence. He fends off the other two shufflers as he struggles to kick them. The older shuffler turns his attention toward David. He’s no match against the three of them as they pull him back out the other side.

  I freeze as I watch them them dig their nails into his intestines, pulling them out in one thrust, like ripping weeds from a garden. I pray his death is quick, although I know not painless.

  “Nooo!” he gargles as blood surfaces his mouth.

  Silence follows his screams. The shufflers tear and pull at his body like a bone shared between three dogs. They ravage his intestines and chew his fingers and toes as if savoring the flavor.

  My mother shivers in my arms and her quiet voice calls me back to reality.

  “Carly, leave me. The soldiers will be here soon. They probably heard everything.”

  “No! You’re coming with me.”

  “Carly…”

  She looks down at the gauze wrapped around her hand. She’s infected. They’ve warned us, one bite is all it takes.

  “Mom, I can’t.”

  Unwanted tears spill down my cheeks.

  “I can’t,” I say as I shake my head. “No, you’re coming with me. I won’t leave you. They’ll kill you.”

  “Promise me…” she pleads.

  I help her scramble to her feet. I know what she wants me to promise. I squeeze my eyes tight, shaking my head.

  “I promise,” I whisper.

  My heart aches at the thought of my mother as one of those monsters. In the distance an alarm sounds off. Soldiers would soon be here.

  ***

  For more information on Vanessa Booke see:

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  Chantal Boudreau

  Just Another Day...

  Margot cursed as her toast landed peanut-butter side down. This kind of thing always happened to her when she was already running behind, and mornings lately always seemed to be such a rush. She supposed that that could be said for any working mother with a self-employed husband and two teenage boys. They were totally incapable of doing anything for themselves, leaving her constantly playing the role of super mom.

  She tossed what was meant to be her breakfast in the composter and scrubbed the sticky brown mess off of the linoleum, muttering under her breath as she did so. She had enough work to do around the house without adding to her own troubles. She supposed part of the reason that she was such a klutz lately was because she was so tired. Roy remained in his office when she went to bed, and she had difficulty falling asleep without him there. She had always been that way. Add to the fact that his office was below their bedroom, and that she could hear him shuffling about there, well into the night, and she was lucky to nab a couple of hours sleep before the alarm went off in the morning.

  Margot tossed the sponge into the sink, too rushed for time to rinse it clean. The house reeked badly enough already, a bit more mess in the sink would not make things any worse. She did not have any time during the week to do any serious cleaning, and she could not rely on her family for help. That left the weekends, and she managed what she could, but she had other obligations to attend to that she had not had a few months ago, thanks to Roy’s writing career. While cleaning, she did not dare disturb Roy’s office, and Hayden and Wesley had turned the basement into a complete wasteland. She would have to be insane to venture into the depths and try to sort out the mess that they had left there. No... even super mom was not that brave.

  Margot realized that things would likely have been different if Roy had found success before they had bought the house. It was a two bedroom bungalow, with a finished basement, in a questionable neighbourhood - all that they could afford on her miserable salary at the hospital. She would have made a lot more if s
he had actually finished school, but Hayden had come along and spoiled her plans. She had promised herself that she would go back, but that was not very likely with the way things stood now. She was far too busy to fit studying into her schedule. She was fortunate to be able to squeeze breathing in there.

  After buying the house came the dilemma of which of the boys would get the upstairs bedroom, and which one would be banished to one of the rooms in the basement. At the time, neither of the two liked the idea of being holed away in the cellar. After several rounds of rather spirited arguments, Roy had found a completely different method of resolving the issue. He had declared that he would be converting the upstairs room into an office, where he could write in peace. That meant that both boys would be forced to dwell in the cellar.

  “Yup,” Margot sighed, pouring coffee into her travel mug, “My cellar dwellers.”

  She could hear Roy moving around in his office, but not the boys downstairs. Roy rarely liked to stay put, but that was not the case with their sons. The two young men had eventually accepted living in the basement, and had stopped complaining, making the best of it once they had grown accustomed to it. Margot rarely heard from them now, but they were fairly lazy for their age, much more sluggish than their father.

  Margot added cream and sugar substitute, and stirred. She supposed that she could use real sugar, and her weight would not suffer for it. Watching after her family on a daily basis, and even looking out for herself from time to time, kept her so active, lately. She had thought that by her age, she would have more time to relax – spending weekends on the porch with Roy with a good book and some iced tea. That, however, was not her reality.