Afterworld: Into the Arms of Darkness Ch.1
Title: Afterworld: Into the Arms of Darkness
By: Pink Rabbit Productions
Chapter: 1
Date: 30 August, 2010
Disclaimer: Hmmm, characters, not mine, situation, mine, though with the proviso that certain scenarios owe a major debt of gratitude to George Romero. Sex? Likely. Genders involved? Likely all female (at least anything on camera). Also there are likely to be very bad things in this story. I'm not one for prodigious amounts of gore, but this is horror and there is likely to be ickiness and things that might disturb some folks. Seriously. If it's gonna bother you, move along.
Summary: When the dead rise, civilization falls.
Author's Notes: Awhile back, just for fun, I did a faux movie poster that set Otalia in a horror setting and used some elements from an idea I've had running around for ages (what can I say---it was the Halloween season). Sooo, at some point, it seemed like fun to take a gander at writing them in that universe. I've quite deliberately tried to break away from my usual style and make it a bit faster moving, with frequent chapter breaks, deliberate cliffhangers, shorter scenes and more directed pov. We'll see if I can keep to one pov per chapter (well, they are short chapters...lol).
In mathematics you don't understand things. You just get used to them.
Johann von Neumann (1903 - 1957)
Afterworld:
Into the Arms of Darkness
Chapter 1
Blood.
A lot of it.
Hers? Someone else's?
Olivia Spencer sincerely hoped it was someone else's because it seemed like she was lying in a sea of it. She could feel the cooling heat of it on her skin from her fingertips where they were splayed away from her body to her cheek where it rested on rough cement, while the wet stickiness of it soaked through her clothes down the full length of her body. She took a ragged breath, then fought a gag as the metallic, iron bite of liquid death filled her nostrils and coated her tongue. God, was there a time when she wouldn't have automatically known that stench and texture?
With her brain foggy and her body aching, she found she couldn't quite remember what it was like to be innocent of those stomach-churning details. Was it only a few months now? It seemed so damned much longer since blood hadn't been a part of her daily life. Since she'd been a successful business woman in fashionable clothes and hair-to-die-for. Since the world had gone insane.
Since zero hour.
When the dead walked and claimed the living for their own.
When the old world died and Afterworld took its place.
It began in all the places death usually begins: an angry spouse delivering one too many blows; an extra drink in a bar with the car keys already in hand; a dark alley, a greedy soul and a bulging wallet; a fading body at the natural end of life.
From those inauspicious moments, it moved to the emergency rooms, then the streets, a cold eyed evangelist who gained more converts with every passing day. And his children went forth, spreading his word with the unmatched determination of the most religious of zealots.
Wherever they passed, more would follow. The innocent, the guilty, the young, the old. It took them all, baptizing any who crossed its path in a river of blood that left no one unmarked.
The present was drowning in crimson, the past steeped in it, and Olivia could foresee waves of it washing up onto future shores.
Which was undoubtedly more philosophical than she could afford to be at this stage in her life, Olivia bitterly reminded herself. She had no time for lying around in the dark, no matter how badly it hurt to even contemplate moving.
Fighting a groan-now wasn't the time to make any noise considering that she had no idea who or what might be there in the dark with her-she managed to raise a hand, reaching to check her head. Her temple was wet, her hair sticky and plastered to her skull. Hopefully it was all someone else's, but in the dark, lying in a body temperature puddle, the metallic stench of blood heavy in the air and the stick of it clinging to clothes, hair, and skin, she had no way of being certain.
Despite her grim determination to remain silent, she uttered a soft curse, then mentally added a dozen more as she silently willed herself to move. As the obscenities running through her head grew more heated, she tried to remember a time when she she'd been a relatively clean-mouthed sort. Oh, she'd always been able to curse, but it had usually been limited to the appropriate situations: chewing out an incompetent employee, sales clerk or soon-to-be-ex husband. Then again, she supposed the end of the world was at least as good an excuse as receiving a steak cooked to medium instead of medium-rare.
"Gotta move," she reminded herself to resist the temptation to just lie there and let whatever demons might come for her have their fun.
Not that they'd find it fun. They were well beyond enjoying the simple pleasures of death, like slaughter and cannibalism.
Or did it qualify as cannibalism when the dead ate the living she wondered, since cannibalism was technically the eating of one's own species and the walking dead had so many different characteristics they ought to qualify for their own genus. Homo mortus?
Concentrating on that curious musing to distract herself, she cautiously pushed up on one hand, biting back on a scream as badly bruised ribs protested. The plates in her flak vest had protected her from the worst of the kicks, but it was open under the arms, and several blows had caught her solidly in the side. The question was, had any teeth. She tested her side with a hand and found fabric and flesh untorn. Damaged to be certain, but the surface was smooth and unblemished. Good, no bites, just the bruises from a handy-dandy Louisville slugger.
Not that she was from Louisville, but damned if she hadn't been slugged.
By a bunch of punks.
Dead punks now. And not the kind of dead that got up and played like the Energizer bunny, but rather the kind of dead that just lay there and bled out.
She couldn't even claim the kill. In their hurry to roll her and have a little fun while they were at it, they hadn't gotten the locks on their pilfered shelter fully engaged. Which was always a bad thing in Afterworld. Contrary to the myriad of books, movies and games on the topic, while the dead weren't precisely smart-- the old knowledge of life and love and human ties was apparently gone-- they could be crafty. More than a few seemed capable of working simple doors and levers. Keys were out, but gate latches and similar locks weren't beyond their abilities.
A door, simply pushed shut and latched, the dead bolt not engaged, was likely to be worked open in fairly short order.
So the dead had gotten in. Not a lot-three or four at most, but they'd been newly dead: fast and efficient, not like the ones that sometimes crawled out of graves and crypts, their movements slow and uncoordinated, their bodies weak and desiccated.
And with the dead had come the panicked yells, the shooting, the biting, the moans and groans. She'd already been down by then, curled up in a fetal ball in an effort to survive baseball bat blows and the kicking of steel-toed boots, so all the excitement had gone on over her head.
It had been brief, vicious and hideously bloody.
At least that's what it seemed like to Olivia. Being on the floor, not quite unconscious, but close enough had made tracking things next to impossible, though she had a distinct memory of screams, gunshots, and the thud of more than one body.
Despite the temptation to simply flee, she checked the urge to panic. That way lay death. Moving too quickly drew attention and stepping outside without a clear head and a clearer plan might well simply worsen the problem. No, she needed to catch her breath, get herself straightened out, assess the situation, then move. That was the safest course.
Staggering, she found the door and pushed it shut again, then fumbled the dead bolt shut by feel. Was she locking the dead out, she wondered, or locking herself in with them? They didn't tend to pay attention to anything that wasn't moving, so would have ignored her as long as she was still on the floor, but now she was a moving target-slow moving, but moving, and that always drew attention.
Hell, they often nipped and bit at each other like sharks or piranhas in a feeding frenzy.
Nothing. No sound, no movement.
Maybe they'd wandered out again once they'd finished or perhaps the punks had taken them out on their way to dying. The dead could be killed, though the movie version, a single shot to any part of the head, was total fiction. That might slow them down-or it might not-but it wouldn't take them down and keep them down. That took accuracy and sufficient firepower to destroy the most primitive parts of the brain at the base of the skull. In the dark, with only hazy memories of sound and panic, she had no way of knowing if the thugs might have managed the trick or if the dead had simply finished their work and wandered on.
She accepted the lack of knowledge with a certain equanimity. Ironic, given her previous life as an high-profile businesswoman running a small empire of posh hotels and resorts. Once she'd demanded logic and an ordered world, commanded reports be made on reports, had a team of employees on call, and typically grilled her investors nearly as hard as she did her acquisitions. Only there was no longer time for dotting Is and crossing Ts. In Afterworld anyone who slowed down long enough to worry about getting answers to their questions usually wound up as kibble.
All of which was irrelevant, Olivia reminded herself. The past was as dead as the unliving...deader really. It had laid down in its grave and was no more. The human dead, not so much.
She needed to move.
Her body was one giant, throbbing mass of agony. Fire flared in her side with every breath, but no stabbing pains. By the feel of it, her ribs were only bruised, not broken. One knee was also swollen and hurt like hell. She tested it carefully and it held her weight. Functional, but only just. She could walk, but if she had to run, she was in trouble. Her head, meanwhile, sported a couple of fresh contusions, a rising goose egg, and she was comfortably certain that if the lights were on, she'd find the world a hazy blur.
Lovely.
Muttering a curse under her breath, Olivia started checking her pockets, hoping the thugs hadn't gotten everything. Her guns and spare clips were gone along with the hunting knife and bali-song. The compact medical kit she'd had tucked in one pocket was likewise missing as was the Mini-Maglite she always kept in the breast pocket of her leather duster.
And now that she thought about it, she had a vague memory of unwanted hands in that vicinity being the start of the worst part of the beatdown. Some men just didn't take rejection well.
More patting down finally produced something. Car keys. There was a spare set in the SUV, and she was sure the thugs hadn't had time to check it out yet. They'd been too busy having fun with her. And besides, if they'd seen her vehicle, they'd have been unimpressed. It looked like crap. Just like she'd intended when she'd redone the gleaming white paint job to make it look more like a junker. Amazing just how lousy a few cans of stolen Krylon could make something look. Once done, it showed no sign of hotel logos, reinforced side panels, bulletproof glass or anything of its history transporting high profile VIPs and minor international dignitaries.
Perfect.
In Afterworld, it was wisest to eschew status symbols. Crap drew less notice and was less likely to get its owner murdered in the name of stolen property. Not that theft should have been a problem. Take the contents of the world and split it between the surviving 20% or so of the previous population and it should have left enough for everyone, but some people just couldn't seem to keep their hands to themselves.
In any event, her key ring had a tiny light on it, a single LED and a flat battery with a pressure switch. The kind of thing meant to help the owner get keys into locks on particularly dark nights. Not for the first time, it was a lifeline, allowing her to confirm that her tormentors were dead-in pieces really-then helping her to locate where they'd thrown her stolen gear.
Guns, knives, spare clips, and the rest were quickly checked, then stowed. Armed again, she straightened her shoulders, consciously calming any tendency to panic. Panic was the worst possible response, she reminded herself, using it as a mantra to quell any temptation to move too fast. Slow and methodical. Gotta keep it slow and methodical.
Stepping between the scattered bits of her attackers, she traded the emergency light for a better view with a Mini-Maglite. The room where they'd dragged her was some kind of storage area. No windows unfortunately, so there was no way to get the lay of the land outside.
Damn.
She glanced at the door, noting the dim light sneaking through the crack at the bottom. Dusk. Not good. The darker it got, the more vulnerable she would be while moving around. Hard to stay safe when you couldn't see and artificial light was too likely to be noticed by the wrong sort. She'd hoped to be back in the SUV and someplace safe by nightfall. Headlights drew too much attention from too many quarters, and driving without them was just asking to wind up in some kind of accident. There might not be much in the way of traffic on the roads, but there was plenty of junk that could damage a vehicle and getting stuck was a very bad idea.
Damn and double damn.
She flashed the beam of the Mini-Mag all around herself, looking for anything that might offer some simple answer.
And pulled up short as light suddenly glittered faintly on a curved, grimy, metallic surface.
A doorknob.
She flashed her light the other way, momentarily afraid she'd gotten herself turned around in the dark, but no, the door she'd come in was still on the other end of the room.
Which meant what exactly?
Stepping closer, she ran the light over the door, studying it carefully. A painted wood door set in a painted frame, the knob badly oxidized brass, the lock the type that took an antique skeleton key.
It was an interior door, she realized in a rush. She wasn't in a storage shed, it was a pantry with an outside exit, probably meant to open onto the garden in the back. The elderly neighborhood with its wide-spaced houses and broad lawns had been built during another era when such amenities were standard. It sat at the edge of Springfield Township, a spot on the map she'd opted to check out in the vague hope that a wealthy ex-husband might be alive and of some assistance-a hope shattered when she'd found his family mansion burned and destroyed, nothing left but kindling. Phillip was undoubtedly dead and with him, any hopes she had of getting help.
Meanwhile, the door in front of her was locked, but rifling her attacker's remains quickly turned up a skeleton key.
The lock and hinge were both well oiled, and the door opened soundlessly.
Weapon drawn, safety off, she stepped cautiously into a well-appointed kitchen that was darker than the waning day outside. Her gaze went to well-boarded windows. They were reinforced and neatly done. She stepped closer, studying the work more closely. Zip screws locked the wood into place, not just nails, and additional triangle braces had been added on hinges that allowed them to easily swing into place for extra strength as needed. Somebody had taken time and known what they were doing. The thugs behind her weren't likely to do work like that and even if they were, a screw gun took electricity to stay charged and the electricity had probably been off for months. The work wasn't recent. Probably Huey, Dewey, and Dumbass had moved into an empty place. Or worse, emptied it.
She spent a moment and found that while the power was off, the water was still on.
Good.
She'd stopped in hopes of finding water, so maybe there was some chance the whole mess wasn't completely for nothing. Municipal services in Afterworld were a spotty thing. In some places, they'd cut out almost instantly, in others, everything still ran. In traveling, she'd found a mix of on and off, probably dependent on luck and how automated the machinery in charge was. Or perhaps there were still public servants somewhere who were still determined to continue servicing their dying clientele. She'd heard of stranger things in her life.
That thought still in her mind, she kept moving through the house.
It was a nice place; warm, homey, decorated with a mix of modern furniture and dark wood antiques. She found a picture of an older couple with a small child. Clearly happier times. The owners of the home and grandchildren? Or had the children lived here and posed with beloved grandparents during a visit?
Either way, it seemed unlikely that whoever had owned and loved this home had survived.
A quick bit of exploration revealed the ground floor to be empty of life and entirely boarded up, allowing her no view from which to check on things outside.
With no way to get a look outside, she crept up the stairs to the second level, moving carefully in case her attackers had more friends.
Still no movement, but now there was some light, dim and a little blue. The landing opened onto a narrow hallway, and there was a window at the opposite end. The lower half of the window was boarded up, but the upper portion was open with a hinged shutter that could be closed and locked down. It definitely wasn't the three stooges' workmanship.
Moving on light feet, she stepped up to the window and peered out, hunting for some sign of her SUV. Nothing. But there was also no sign of the tree under which she'd left it parked, so... Bad view. It was just a line of sight issue, she silently assured herself to quell the rising terror at the thought of losing what had become her home and which contained everything left in the world that she cared about.
"It's still there," she whispered aloud in a desperate effort to reassure herself. "Everything's gonna be okay. Just have to get out of here."
Several doors opened onto the hallway and she eased the nearest open a crack. Nothing moved. A pair of boarded-over windows dominated one wall, the shutters neatly closed and bolted. A quick check to clear the room, then she moved to unlatch one window and peer out hopefully. Still nothing.
She was midway through checking a second empty bedroom when a soft thump echoed in the wall to her left.
She spun, heart suddenly thudding violently in her chest.
Another thump.
Crap. Why couldn't there be just the tiniest bit of good news now and then?
* * * * * *
TBC