The Wicked

My wonderful boyfriend recently celebrated his birthday. For a gift he asked for only one thing: a zombie story. This is what I came up with...

          The smell of the corpses took Cassie’s mind off of her popping blisters, so at least she could be grateful for that. She had planned to avoid cities on her way to the rumoured “safe zone” where she could fly toMontrealto be with relatives in what was, hopefully still, one of the few last strongholds in the rebellion. Unfortunately the caravan she was traveling with would only take her as far as six miles back and she’d had to walk ever since, the city skyline her only point of reference on the horizon. Cassie hoped that the city wasn’t as bad as the final news reports had said but it was actually so much worse.

Each street she passed had the same eerie emptiness. Almost every home and building had been abandoned months ago, she knew this, but the apparent suddenness of the mass desertion was jarring. Doors were left flung open. Pieces of luggage, missed when the escapees were hastily packing their cars to get the hell out of town, were left on the curb. A beloved teddy bear, dropped from a child’s arms as their mother dragged them running down the street, lay in the road, now rain-sodden and pathetic. Cassie could picture all of this vividly as she had seen it many times, over and over in the past eighteen months.

When it was finally understood that there was no end to the epidemic and that only the abundantly wealthy could afford the vaccination, every gated community on the continent began to fall. Those who initially started as protesters peacefully demanding equal distribution of food and medicine quickly became savage pillagers, intent on looting, destroying and killing in the name of the helpless masses. Cassie could see smoke billowing over the shared tennis courts of her neighbourhood and knew that soon her own home would be set ablaze.

She had cornered her sweet, loyal housekeeper Rita in the master bedroom and demanded that they trade clothing. “They will kill me, Rita! If they see me slipping out the back door in designer running shoes and a track suit that costs more than their cars, they will kill me or rape me or God knows what else.”

Cassie was like a wild animal bearing down on Rita, a wonderful stereotype of a maternal Hispanic maid and one of the very few people Cassie felt a fondness for and who surprisingly cared for Cassie in return. Rita wept as Cassie begged for her to take Cassie’s shoes and clothes in exchange for hers. Cassie stuffed money into Rita’s hands as she cried. She pleaded for Cassie to stop. “You don’t understand!” she sobbed as Cassie scrambled through her already packed luggage. “Please don’t do this!” Cassie only half understood at the time how she was dooming Rita.

Money was no longer a good thing. Money no longer brought envy and prestige. Money could buy you time, even resurrect you from the dead but having more than twenty dollars on your person was good enough to get you killed. Having money meant that you hadn’t already spent your every last dime stockpiling untainted food or buying weapons to safeguard your family, having money meant you were one of the one percent who weren’t struggling to survive. God forbid anybody saw that you had the vaccine.

The vaccine was supposed to save you but it ended up just marking you for death. Those with the tell-tale circle punched into their arm may not have to fear the airborne illness but they had to fear everything �" everyone �" else.

Cassie was just passing a burnt out pharmacy when she heard shuffling and laboured breathing followed by a sharp, high scream. She instinctively turned herself away from the screaming and quickened her pace despite her aching feet, crammed inside Rita’s shoes. Fierce self-preservation was a trait Cassie had inherited from her mother, a woman who knew from personal experience not to entrap yourself by relying on others. Judith Devoe-Hallick had married Cassie’s father mainly for his wealth and good breeding but had the cynical good sense to send her daughter to business school rather than let the family fortune eventually find its way up the nose of Oliver Jr., her firstborn.

Oliver Jr. had disappeared early on in the rebellion, Cassie assumed he had gone of his own accord. His coping strategy often involved sinking in his beloved club culture, consuming copious amounts of drugs and collecting as many young male lovers as he could find. Oliver Sr. had died not long after his son’s departure, his old-money sense that he must, for propriety’s sake, use his wealth and moderate fame for good having gotten him killed. Determined to not have the vaccination until it became available to all had unintentionally made him a person of interest for the “ninety-nines”, as they called themselves. It only took one brief encounter, a hearty spit in Oliver’s face, for him to contract one of the most virulent forms of the illness. He was dead within hours.

The last Cassie heard of her mother, she had retreated to the chaise lounge in her bedroom with a bottle of wine and her last fistful of Xanax, leaving the world as alone as she lived it. But none of this mattered now, Cassie had mourned all of their losses in her own way a long time ago. Her only option now was to keep moving.

Quick footsteps charged up behind her, she spun around quickly, grabbing the hunting knife she kept on her hip. A young boy, eyes wild with panic, scrambled to pass her in the debris littered street. He didn’t look sick, just really young and terrified. She grabbed at him and pulled him toward her.

“What’s wrong, kid?”

“There’s a zombie, a sicko!” He shrieked, pointing behind him down the street.

Cassie looked in time to see an infected shuffle and wheeze its way out of an alley about half a block away. “How close did it get? Did it bite you? Scratch you?” The boy shook his head. “Have you had the vaccine?”

“Christ, no!” The boy looked insulted that she dare assume he was one of the “ones”.

“It was just a question and watch your mouth,” she spat back. “Do you have people with you?”

“Why do you care?” he said, trying to pull his skinny arm out of her grasp.

“Because you look like you’re seven.”

“I’m nine!”

“Well, I knew a kid your age and he was as dumb as s**t so I don’t think you should be running around by yourself stirring up trouble,” she nodded toward the infected, who was still about a hundred feet away. “Stay here.”

She marched toward the “zombie” all the while scanning the area to ensure there was no one else around. They were completely alone.

In an unfair act of nature those who were obviously, wretchedly sick were the least contagious. Even the disease had begun to die within them. Those that had the charmingly rosy glow of fever could probably fell a whole neighbourhood with a single cough. This particular individual looked as he was more mucus-filled sack than human; he was practically harmless. Grabbing him by the scalp, Cassie spun him around and cut his throat in one swift movement. She was well practiced.

“Do you have anything I can clean my knife with? Don’t want to take any chances,” Cassie said as she walked back to the boy who was frozen in open-mouthed awe. She took a small amount of pleasure in knowing that was probably the most badass thing he had ever seen.

“Yeah, yeah,” he said excitedly, “I’ve got some disinfectant and water and rags where I’m staying.” He pointed to a building a few streets over, tall enough to be visible from where they stood. She hesitated but the promise of water won her over.

“Lead the way.”

“My name’s Steven by the way, with a “v”.”

“I knew a Stephen, with a “ph”, once. He was dumb as s**t too.”

Stephen was Cassie’s last boyfriend, an overly tanned and arrogant business attorney. He was boring and made love like a jackhammer but had great taste in gifts, loved sharing exotic vacations at his expense and it made great business sense to have him working for her family’s company rather than have him working for one of their competitors, so she did what she had to do.

He was murdered about a year ago while drinking in a very expensive wine bar. He hadn’t taken the ninety-nines threats very seriously. His son Jake, the one boy Cassie knew around the same age as Steven, was not actually dumb as s**t but wonderfully smart with the most sardonic sense of humour a grade-schooler ever had. Jake’s mother, Stephen’s runway model ex-wife Ronnie, had crushed her entire anti-depressant collection into pancake batter one Saturday morning about six weeks later. They both died in a sticky mess of butter and maple syrup as they watched SpongeBob. Cassie could not think of a more kind and gentle way to protect one’s child from the madness that had since conquered the world.

She saw a great amount of Jake in Steven. He too was small for his age with knobby knees and a penchant for wearing clothes that were too big for him. It warmed her heart a little and made her extremely sad.

Steven babbled nonstop as they walked to the building, obviously excited to have someone new to talk to. He told her all about how he lost his father and younger siblings early on and how he recently lost his grandma, which wasn’t so bad as she was equally scary sick as she was healthy. All that was left was his uncle Jeff, his mom and some of their friends.

Outside the building, which had been gutted by fire, the ground was splattered with dried blood. Graffiti tagged the door, “MMMM… SWEET MEAT”, it read. Cassie couldn’t help grimacing. In a desperate attempt to stave off the infection, some had taken to eating the “sweet meat” of the vaccinated. She wasn’t sure if the vaccine did actually transfer from meat to consumer but hell, she thought, it was worth a try.

Inside the building, Steven led her straight to the third and highest floor. Sunlight poured through the broken windows, given the open space a warm and safe feeling. Steven threw himself on a pile of clothing.

“Make yourself comfortable,” he said, stretching out in the sunshine.

“You promised me disinfectant and water, remember?” Cassie desperately wanted to get off her weary feet but her practiced unease kept her alert.

“Uncle Jeff keeps that locked up. We’ll have to wait for him to get back.”

“Where is he now? And the rest of your group?” Cassie listened closely for any tell- tale sounds of company but all she could hear was the gentle breeze blowing through the broken glass on the other side of the building.

“Out looking for food,” Steven said before pulling a sweater sleeve over his eyes, fully preparing for a deep and satisfying nap.

It wasn’t long before his breathing slowed and grew heavy with sleep. The calming sound of it played like a lullaby to Cassie. All she wanted was to curl up and be as soundly asleep as Steven was. Looking out a window, Cassie scanned the street. It was just as deserted as before and she was a light sleeper; a quick nap shouldn’t be a problem. Crawling into a pile of mismatched clothing and blankets, Cassie was asleep before she laid her head down.

She awoke to someone nudging her feet.

“Wakey-wakey,” a deep male voice called.

Cassie tried to quickly stand but was stopped by her aching feet, hurting ten times more now that they had rested.

Standing above her was a slovenly man she assumed was Steven’s uncle. Behind him was Steven’s mother, her arm wrapped protectively around her son’s shoulders. Cassie followed the mother’s gaze to Cassie’s shoes, a patch of blood having grown on the left midsole while she rested.

“Damn cheap things are ripping my feet apart,” Cassie muttered.

“Cheap’s got nothing to do with it,” said Steven’s mother.

“Pardon?” Cassie could already feel in the air that something had gone horribly wrong.

“I wanted shoes like that for my birthday two years ago,” said the mother. “I didn’t get them, they were too expensive.”

Cassie tried to stand, an excuse for her shoes starting to form on her lips, when Jeff grabbed her roughly by her collar.

“These clothes aren’t cheap, either,” he said, barely containing his pleasure.

Cassie gave herself a once over. Compared to the designer business suits and cocktail dresses she was used to, these clothes seemed cheap and shoddily made. How was she supposed to know that her outfit was the high-end of mall fashion? Perhaps her father’s humanitarianism was buried deep within her after all, underneath the many layers of cold disregard her mother had coached her to create, causing her to pay Rita a more than fair wage, making the sweet housekeeper comfortably upper middle-class.

Jeff yanked Cassie’s jacket off of her left shoulder, revealing her vaccination scar.

“Good job, buddy,” Jeff said, turning to Steven. “We’ll be eating tonight!”

Steven looked uncomfortable but also very, very hungry. “Thanks for saving me from the sicko,” he whispered.

Cassie smiled weakly. Everything was coming to an end; the endless travelling, the constant fight for survival and, most importantly, the memories of everyone she had lost. She hoped that the “sweet meat” rumour was true, it made her feel less like she wasn’t giving up but rather like she was helping Steven and his family survive since her family couldn’t.

“No problem, kid. That was the highlight of my year.”

Author's Note

I copied and pasted this from my blog, which was copied and pasted from MS Word. I apologize for any formatting issues.

Photo courtesy of www.fotothing.com