Jon Fore - Black Water

When its head came into view, fear spiked through Stan’s heart like a stiletto. It was a buck, not a predator…at least by nature. This deer was dark in color and more shade than brown. Its eyes were jet-black orbs of unblinking hatred, if a deer could express such a thing. It stepped into a better view, and Stan could see that it was bloated with testosterone in preparation for the rutting season, but its flesh laid rent and clawed from its body, the muzzle laid bare to the bone by some other creature’s savage bite. Atop its head sat a large rack of antlers, bits of bloody tissue dried there like some revolting decoration.

This was not a gentle foraging creature, but an animal gone almost rabid, bent to the same murderous rampage as the people of Black Water. It lifted its head and began to rotate its ears, listening intently until it turned toward Stan, its boney mouth hanging open slightly, its eyes soulless and enraged. It released a wicked distortion of a mule deer’s call and lowered its antlers at Stan.

Stan brought his weapon up in a snap and fired a quick series of three shots. They tore into the death-like shroud of flesh, and the creature stumbled. It then began to charge, its head lowered, and its antlers gleaming with a wet red. Stan fired again, this time shooting round after round until the thing fell, skidding on its chest before coming to rest just before him. It still quivered and jerked, but the deer’s body was ruined, shattered by the many bullets.

Stan stood and left the thing jerking and kicking in the underbrush. If this were all the forest would bear, there would be very little to eat indeed. No matter what the thing looked like, it bled black liquid and smelled of rotting flesh. Something not even a fire could make edible. The idea of surviving the end of the world just to starve to death was not a pleasing thought.

He crossed the expected road and entered the forest beyond, continuing his straight-line trek to the town. He thought it should be at least visible by now, but the fog still obscured the buildings below. The ground was becoming slicker, the result of rotting plants and the dark fluid that was once their pulpy internals.

He stumbled into a parking lot before he actually saw it. He stopped once more and squatted, listening intently for sound. After many moments of hearing nothing, he continued in the direction of the grocer he knew owned this parking lot.

The building loomed at him from the dark fog, an apparition before it became a discernable structure. He skirted the entrance, not wanting to come in on the most direct route and found the handicap handrails near the ramp leading to the store. Here he stopped again to listen, and as he strained with his ears, his eyes caught sight of the heads impaled and hanging above the frame of the automatic doors. They had some type of large nail driven into their open mouths, each one staring lifelessly and inverted.

Stan had never felt so revolted in his life. This was not just the taking of a life, nor the expected trophies of some serial killer. These heads hung outside like some proof of triumph, like an ancient king who had just defeated a long-sought enemy. This was proof to any that saw it that someone had ended some six or seven lives and this act deserved some form of recognition.

The automatic doors opened suddenly, and Stan found himself pointing his rifle at a man in some state-issued orange jumpsuit and a small child held close to a woman, the woman pointing the gapping end of a Glock at him. The little girl screamed, which caused the woman to scream. Stan found himself drowning in a wash of relief and fear at the same moment. He wanted this so much, but was ready to kill them if they decided to strike up a firefight.

“Whoa, wait, hold on now. Are you a cop or something? Shannon, lower your gun,” the man said nervously.

Before she could, someone spoke to one side in a deep gravelly voice, the voice of dried vocal chords, the dark ravaged voice of one insane. “Did someone call a cop? I’m a cop!”

Shannon turned to see a large figure in torn clothing, its face and neck almost completely covered in police badges driven through the skin. Only black eyes and wicked, broken teeth showed as it began to raise a police service revolver at her.

“I remember you! You’re a great lay, bitch!” it screamed wickedly at her.

The bum leaned over Ethan’s shoulder. “Funny, you’re the only one without a gun, and you’re the only real psycho here…”

“You sick son-of-a-bitch!” Shannon screamed, and then began firing at the new arrival. The small pistol she carried was extremely loud in the fog, and Kayla began screaming at each shot.

Ethan grabbed the girl and huddled back into the store with her. Another gun went off, this one firing in an impossibly quick progression. Something began to scream in many voices, a chorus of damned and tortured souls screaming for their ends. The gunfire continued for many rounds, many moments, and many deafening explosions before Shannon ducked back into the doorway crying. The automatic doors tried to close over and again, but reopened after sensing someone there.

She fumbled in her pockets for another clip, her face a mixture of unbridled rage and vengeance, sorrow, and violation. Her hands shook so violently she could not fit the new magazine into the gun before the gunfire stopped. Ethan reached over and steadied her hands. Shannon screamed and lashed out, striking Ethan along the jaw with the pistol, then screamed again, dropping the gun. She embraced Ethan quickly, almost crushing Kayla. “I’m so sorry, Ethan, I didn’t even see you, I’m sorry… Oh my God! I remembered him! I saw him! I remembered what he did to me! Fuck!”

Kayla continued to weep softly underneath her, and Ethan lifted Shannon just enough that the young girl could work herself free.

“You’re bleeding, Ethan, you’re bleeding…” Shannon sobbed.

“I’m fine, Shannon, really. Give me the gun.”

Shannon grabbed the gun and handed and handed it to him with the clip before even thinking of it, then grasped Kayla like a teddy bear.

Ethan slid the clip in and released the breach, slamming it into place. “I’ll be right back; stay here.”

Ethan rose and eased into the fog. The other man, possibly a police officer by the look of his equipment, was inspecting the bloated badge wearer with his foot.

“You hurt?” Ethan asked which spun the man around with lightening speed, the gun leveled right at Ethan’s chest. Ethan raised both hands but did not drop the gun. “I’m not your enemy. Is it dead?”

The man paused a minute before returning to the bloated pile of badges. “Yeah, it took a lot of ammunition, but it is dead. Who are you?”

“I am Ethan, the woman with me is Shannon, and the girl is Kayla.”

“You a family?” he asked, still staring at the body.

“No, we sort of found each other…”

“Like me, huh?” the man arched an eyebrow at Ethan.

“Yeah, who are you? Are you a cop?”

“No. My name is Stan. I live outside of town. Tell you the truth, I did not expect to find anyone alive down here. How did you survive?”

“I was a prisoner in a hospital, Shannon was beaten unconscious in the streets, and the girl hid in a dumpster all night.”

“Hospital? Are you nuts or something?”

“No, not really. I have problems, but I am not insane—at least I don’t think I am. You’re real, right?”

“Uh, yeah, I’m real,” Stan replied flatly.

“Then I am still sane.”

“Is it dead?” Shannon asked as she carried Kayla out of the store.

“Yeah,” Stan replied flatly. “Is there any food around?”

“Not really,” Ethan answered as he offered the gun back to Shannon.