The Dead World Ch. 01

The binoculars were held gently before her eyes as she observed the men begin to close in and form a line up against the southern barricade. It stood as a collection of old rusted cars that had been meticulously pushed back and arranged to block the road from a potential herd of dead... or slow down a large group of unwanted visitors.

The spike posts assembled between the dilapidated vehicles to catch the straggling few stumbling, rotting monsters left in the area had been taken down by the advancing party overnight, which eliminated her hopes of them simply being a small gathering just looking to pass through. She watched as they examined the handiwork of whoever had claimed the Oasis Palms Resort—the 'moat' constructed of all the dangers that had once been inside of the two towers of the hotel, herded into a formidable sea of bodies between the barricade and the make-shift fence.

The crowded channel of slow-moving rotting corpses had been placed there to dissuade any unwanted company, and had been plenty enough to do so, in the past. The seventy or so feral, lifeless beings had been enough to ward off many groups of survivors from trying to loot the resort, in the past. But they had been far more lively a few years back, and were now much slower and far less menacing as they starved and wasted into nothing. Barely flesh creatures which had baked beneath the sun of several summers, stumbling about blind, aimlessly snapping their jaws at anything they came into contact with.

The resort itself did not look like much, but stood as a promising structure atop a cliff with its two towers reaching into the sky along the rocky Georgia coast. Nestled beneath it was a golden beach decorated with shells and driftwood. It had been certainly the jewel of this location once upon a time.

Beyond the beach out in the waves in the deeper surf lay jagged rocks, which prevented any hope of safe water evacuation. There was only one way in, and one way out of Jekyll Island... the road down to the final barricade of construction barriers leading to the bridge just beyond it.

She tried to count them—somewhere between six and eight people. For all she knew, they could've only been a reconnaissance team. Charlotte drew back into her sanctuary slowly, keeping low from the tinted windows of the trashed and dark hotel lobby. As soon as she felt safely out of sight she hurried down into the darkness alongside a massive chain of luggage, once assembled as a crude attempt to keep the dead from over-running the lobby some horrid night many, many years ago.

As she disappeared into the dusty, once luxurious halls of the resort, she swallowed the lump in her throat as her heart pumped wildly beneath her breast. Matthew had knocked out windows, he smeared the blood of the dead in menacing threats on the outside walls, and stacked burned corpses along this foyer to ward away intruders.

All of this had been a valid attempt to keep away any curious or desperate groups looking to brave the resort. If it looked as if it had been ransacked long ago. No one would even bother. But it seemed the day had finally come when someone was just desperate enough to try.

She hurried to the farthest hall of the building, knowing well it would only be a day or so before those men came inside, and perhaps even claimed her quiet Eden as their own. The gardens she kept, the crops and fruit bearing trees within the greenhouse were well tended to. She grew enough to feed herself easily through most mild winters and now, six years into the downfall of the human race, she knew well enough judging the late summer and fall whether she should ration provisions. She stored and pickled what she could. The handful of chickens she kept clucked eagerly, trailing along behind after her as she crossed the foyer and moved out into the courtyard, making for the southernmost tower of the resort.

It took Charlotte and Matthew an entire year to get the generator started. The trek for fuel for it was their longest and farthest trip, and at last she was nearing the end of the precious supply. She was down to about seven diesel barrels—which if she acted sparingly could last a good three or four months. The hot showers, heat and air conditioning, the flat screen smart televisions with her expansive DVD collection were all the company she had for years now, here at the end of the world.

You would think that Charlotte would be happy to finally have contact with other people. That was hardly the case--not anymore. Before Matt disappeared, he had become less and less conversational about his foraging attempts. It seemed to be wearing him down. He kept less and less associates in the area, and more often returned with news of the untimely demise of some of their 'neighbors'. He had tried to protect her from sharing the grim details, but she insisted that he get it off of his chest.

As the stories transformed from 'camps overtaken by the biters' to 'butchered while asleep in their beds', she knew that the world was changing. She didn't ask anymore, after that. Mankind was changing... and it was not for the better of the world.

Charlie paused, moving beyond the desk to grab a few things vital to her initial escape plan. Provisions, ammunition, transportation. She gathered the inventory list to both the pantry and the store room, as well as the keys to several of the maintained vehicles in the basement garage. Every few weeks she went down to run them for a while to keep their aging batteries active. She'd take whichever had the fuller tank.

It would take her longest to move her provisions and secure enough fuel to get to the mountains of northern Georgia. Matthew often spoke of a cabin his family kept and visited every reunion that was cradled by the stream of a natural spring, with plenty to hunt and fish for, secluded and secure enough that they would be safe. Above all, it was private and off the beaten path, equipped with similar systems in place for sustainability off the grid.

It wasn't the average Atlanta woman's dream come true, but it had become her mental paradise, some grand place to run away to once they finally exhausted the resort and moved on to more peaceful grounds. It was the place she expected to encounter at the very least the essence and soul of her husband, and if she were so lucky, she would find him there in the flesh waiting for her. It was supposed to be someplace permanent for them.

With haste she made her way to the elevator, and pushed aside the gate of the lift to the right that had been designated for service. She pulled the cardkey from the pocket of her jeans and placed it in the slot before pressing the button for the fourth floor. Up the elevator went, far from as smoothly as it did the day the resort had opened.

Matt had a habit of being able to figure anything out with the proper resources, and it so happened the resort was made complete with a library, so when it stalled or a cable needed replacing he took care of it... but he wasn't here anymore. She reserved the elevator for times of dire need, and this was one such time.

Self-sufficiency was a luxury, but in the end it saved money, so it was a smart play on the billionaire asshole who had once owned the place to make certain that it could function independently. Despite the protest of the slow moving lift in need of repair, she needed to move quickly, and taking the stairs with supplies would not only wear her down quickly but take far too long.

She would sleep in the car and make her break for the backroads to the Blue Ridge safely tonight. It was best to get ready right away and not avoid taking any chances though, because there was no telling how long her unexpected visitors would remain lingering just beyond the barricades. Worst case scenario was this needed to be done in less than thirty minutes, because they could be downright lunatics and rush inside in less than an hour, and she did not want to stick around to find out what sort of people they were.

She began to gather her long, dark hair into one hand atop her head. She was only twenty-seven, but living in a wasteland with more reanimated dead than living people quickly took its toll on one's nerves, body and youth. She pulled the dark, loose spiral curls back and secured them with the black band around her wrist, nervously tapping her boot against the dark tile of the elevator floor. Through the window overlooking the beach, the sun linger low, reflecting over the ocean.

As the elevator stopped she quickly stepped out and slipped into the fourth room to the left, drawing the curtains wide to let the sun in. She stuffed a few small notebooks into a large black duffel bag, anxiously grasping for an old pack of Marlboro's she had found not too long ago when she'd poked through a few rooms that had gone unexplored.

She'd quit smoking the year it all went to hell. It wasn't too hard, considering you couldn't just meander down to the convenience store for your fix anymore. With active, fresh corpses lunging at you and clawing in massive crowds trying to tear your flesh from your bones, it was easy to not want to waste time in any establishment all for a pack of cigarettes. But on occasions like today when her nerves were frayed and fear began to slowly creep in... it wouldn't kill her to indulge.

—————

Oscar Callaghan stood with his back to the cluster of handmade, bloodied pikes stained in the decay of trapped, slow moving reanimated tourists. It was a none too pleasant stench. He watched as his men lined the barrier of cars obviously set by some hard working fellows, the structure up an ominous sight. His rough fingertips scratched the dark stubble along his gaunt cheeks, narrow eyes the color of the deep, troubled sea concentrated on the front entrance. He was observing for signs of activity.

There were many windows along the tower that had been shattered out. Desk chairs littered the pavement below, some with unmoving corpses strapped to them. Oz scowled, not wanting to know whether or not the long decayed corpses were actually living or dead when they were rocketed from the upper level windows to shatter onto the asphalt below. It wasn't easy tossing anything through said windows either, to his knowledge. Even if they were reanimated, what sort of person took pleasure in strapping them to chairs and launching them out of windows?

Graffiti in black and red decorated the property, some even covering the panels of the upper-level balconies in ominous warnings of vulgar display. Severed heads of the reanimated decorated pikes leading to the canopy car-port packed with abandoned vehicles of the many visitors the resort had been certain to draw at the height of the disease. All of this lay ahead after one managed to make it through what appeared to be a wall of ravenous undead wedged between several layers of self constructed chain link fence, and the barrage of old cars that stood as a barrier.

"It's dead. Zero activity... probably empty, yeah? Look at it." Skully's low deep voice took a sharp, harsh, and considerably tired tone as he reported, swinging his rifle up to rest against his shoulder as he waited for his brother's word on whether they would press forward or pass the place up. Oz nodded gently, and took the binoculars away from his eyes, "Either that...or nobody's home right now. Someone moved those rotters there for a reason."

Oz peered through the scope of his rifle, stretching his gaze from the top of the structure to the bottom before drawing down to look at the man before him. The dark haired, slightly younger man before him bore a sharp resemblance, though his hair was trimmed a bit shorter.

Colton kept it a little long at the top and shaved down the sides, sweeping the thick length off to the right which left a few tendrils to linger in front of his piercing, icy blue gaze. Oscar was looking far more the rough and rugged of the two of them these days. He rarely bothered with hair cuts, and so his dark hair with its speckling of silver had grown rather haphazard, and he rarely saw the need to bother the stubble only to have to waste resources to shear it off again later.

"Whoever hit here first probably picked through it well. It's big as fuck, and probably a waste of time to try and forage by now... looks bone dry from out here. Whatever happened here, man... it wasn't pretty. Could've been more than one 'whatever happened', from the look of this shit... let's just keep it moving. Raleigh is our best bet not some shit-hole on the beach—"

"Yeah, that's possible. Or whoever set up here is set up real nice and they've got supplies, ammunition... fuel. It's still a three hundred mile trip to Raleigh, and that's if we can find enough gas. It's October, it's getting cooler at night. We need to resupply and head north, quickly, or get settled in til spring... and pray to fucking god that Raleigh is even still operational when it starts to warm up again. It's been a few months since we got that broadcast."

Colton scowled and slowly drew his bandana up and over his nose as a means to quiet himself, the bloodied skeletal 'jaw' of the facial covering meant to intimidate. There was never any point in arguing with Oz. Once he had his mind set, it was a wrap. He ignored the fact that it was a trait they both shared.

"You're the boss."

It had been Colton's idea initially to make their way to the coast. When all hope of finding out what sort of disease was ravaging the nation failed shortly after the outbreak, it became obvious civilization was steadily back-peddling down the evolutionary ladder. Finding a place to survive, maybe even try and start a new life seemed the most sensible thing to do—to Oscar, at least. To his younger brother, it was more for the sake of familiarity.

He came across from the Carolinas with a rowdy gang, and it was pure dumb luck to stumble across the other man... the odds were damn near astronomical that he had seen maybe fifty living people in the country at the start of things, and his older brother was one of them. Still... something about being near the ocean made things feel just a little less... apocalyptic.

Both brothers had long accepted by now that there would be no recovery for the world they had left behind. Only hopes of settling in and rebuilding it, someday. They wouldn't wake up one day to find the cavalry had finally arrived to fight off the legions of reanimated corpses and unstable live humans who now inhabited the earth. No, it was far too late for that. In fact, they had learned well enough to stay as far away from any gatherings of survivors who identified as former government or military. It seemed these days those types of survivors were even more deadly to their existence than the reanimated biters.

As months swept by, the survivors they encountered grew more and more hostile.

Eventually, after having not one, but two new additions to the group attempt to turn on them and lay claim to their goods—the weapons and ammunition they had begun to stock-pile—Oz had made a difficult, necessary executive decision of no longer allowing outsiders to join them. All members were under direct orders to ignore requests for assistance from any other survivors, and if necessary, use deadly force to protect themselves and members of their group against any threat. He had come to regret the last bit.

In the last few weeks especially, it seemed his boys had been increasingly vicious in their methods of driving away potential threats... especially since, in Oz's eyes, a few of those 'threats' were likely only frightened people killed while fleeing for their lives. It was hard to keep the men focused. Their encounters with the living became more brief... people were out here starving to death. Setting traps for travelers. There were men on the roads who hunted survivors for sport. Leads to sanctuaries turned up empty, or turned into even more dangerous encounters with those unsavory, lawless types who only had the intention of either collecting slaves or stacking corpses and collecting weapons.

If they rested here for a while, nestled on the quiet undisturbed coast with the ocean to their backs, almost everyone in the group might sleep just a little easier with having only one direction to keep an eye on. Maybe they could wind down from their constant state of survival and enjoy some leisure, and camaraderie, not only having to worry about making it to the next day. Their little corner of campground on Jekyll Island a mile and a half up the way by the bridge was bountiful in not only wildlife, but endless fishing from the pier down on the beach behind, sure... but who knew what luxuries could still be intact in the fancy vacation resort.

"We'll do a sweep." Oz relayed the directions to his brother, pulling from his daydream of much needed rest. The men were weary. They needed simple comforts, even if it was a cold ass shower and a real bed... they needed a reminder of better times. Skully's dead-pan expression told him everything he needed to know of his brother's opinion of it. It was too much space, too much work—too risky, very low chances for reward. The place could be bone dry, picked over by scavengers a million and one times, and nothing could work inside.

"You see that, right there?" He gestured to the fence where his group had assembled, dispatching the dead with strikes to their fragile skulls one by one as they clambered against the barrier for food. "That's all the proof I need that somebody's made this base, and they've probably got something to guard. We'll sweep it now, put down the biters... recon at sundown. Seeing as nobody's come out guns blazing they might be out, themselves. We'll take survivors. Clear out the supplies, cut 'em loose on our way out... nobody needs to get hurt."

"You're the boss." Colt retorted flatly, shrugging as he backed away and threw a set of fingers up to his temple before heading to aid in clearing the crude 'moat' of zombies from their path. Nobody ever needed to die, but well... the men were bored. Some of them were mentally scarred from their previous encounters, it had been a long few years—their mechanic was probably worse off than anyone. At one point at least two of them had been a prisoner of war before the brothers had come by them. There was no telling if the trigger happy group might just need to "vent" on whatever psychopathic hostiles had made this their home.

Hell, the boys might just think they were doing the world a favor.

This was a different matter than running for your life from fresh, live reanimated corpses. There were people—actual live people who were organized and possibly dangerous coming into her home of six years... right now. She placed one of the cigarettes between her lips and grinded the spark wheel, the end igniting. Inhaling the stale tobacco deeply, she continued to gather her belongings. Only the most important items were chosen—a few old photos, CDs, iPod, and several important atlases of the state and the area she was headed to.

She tucked her knife into her back pocket, and stuffed what essential clothing she had into Matt's old service pack. The thick make of the green Army bag was durable and it had space double that of a regular back-pack, making it easy to fit her necessities inside. Clothes for the cold, undergarments and socks, her toiletries and the few cherished items so she wouldn't waste space.

She carefully tugged a slightly worn white tank top down over her shoulders and her lightly toned stomach. Her ample breasts were snug beneath, and she had layered sports bras to lessen the prominence of her female figure. Charlie moved next to slide one of Matt's old band shirts over her head, and then another, before finally putting on his leather jacket. He told her long ago that if it came to leaving, she needed to present herself as close to a man as possible—though truly, androgynous might have been a better description looking at her.