The Dead World Ch. 10

Author's Note: I would like to thank DeducibleBabeMester for offering her editing expertise on the series, working with her has truly been a pleasure.

The following Chapter, and this Series overall, exists in a dark vein of a Post-Apocalyptic world overshadowed by fragmented morality, violence, survival and psychologically compelling scenes that may be unsuitable for sensitive audiences. I ask that you please read no further if you are triggered by these topics as described or simply find them unappealing. All scenes depicted are entirely fictional and penned for mature audiences, for the purpose of dark entertainment with erotic horror in mind.

Charlie spent the entire ill-fated night in the shower, scrubbing herself until her skin was red and tender. Her body was sore and bruised, but worse than that, he left a raw, carnal throbbing between her legs in her most intimate places. It was a sinister sort of erotic twinge, a pleasurable pain that forced her to think of him taking her so intensely with every step she took.

She cried, and broke things, and paced the suite, letting her mind wander to violently dark places. Over and over she couldn't help but envision herself shoving the heavy pistol into his smirking mouth and pulling the trigger... the way he promised to kill Dog. There was no ridding herself of the disgust and feeling of utter defilement. There wasn't such a thing as peace for Charlie... Not anymore...

When she wasn't fantasizing about killing him, her thoughts tormented her over her lack of reaction. She could have fought harder, instead of giving into her terror... instead of begging him to stop. He seemed to particularly enjoy that, her desperate pleas and her panic, perhaps only a little less than forcing wanton moans and breathless pants from her lips while he raped her. She had no one to help her as she spiraled down into that dark, dark place...

It felt like it had been weeks ago, now, and yet when she drifted off into sleep she found herself dragged back to that sinister point in time, and woke with renewed hatred, and replenished fear. She paid little mind to the bleeding wound that Skully had torn open as she struggled and fought him.

She hardly felt the pain, as her thoughts were consumed with tumultuous malice. She didn't care as the throbbing ache intensified and angry streaks of red spider-webbed out from the irritated wound.

After the first few days of hastily snatching the plates and clean gauze Diablo left for her and darting back inside, she finally fell prey to her paranoia and fear and pushed the furniture against the door to barricade herself within. She rationed the bag of produce she'd taken from the greenhouse, but as the days dragged on, her appetite faded into nothing. By the end of the week, she felt weaker than she ever had.

Her skin felt like it was on fire, not only the cauterized knife wound but every inch of her body. The next few days, she couldn't deny that she had fallen ill. She laid in her bed, listening to the buoys ringing out past the surf line in the ocean, and prayed quietly to herself that if she didn't wake up the next day, whatever waited for her after would be a sweet, welcomed relief from the cruelty of this dying world.

Oh... it would have been glorious to kill that demonic man, but some part of her found contentment in the thought that by expiring, she deprived him of whatever unspeakably evil things he had yet to do to her.

She stared at the clouds as they pillowed on the horizon in shades of magenta and gold. Dawn was just over the line where the sky met the sea, the scent of the ocean was sweet, the air frigid as it swept through the opened balcony doors.

A slow, ragged breath drew in, invoking a violent fit of coughing as the petite woman lay there, her usually warm brown eyes void... empty. She closed her eyes and drew another strained breath through her plush lips, and made a weak attempt to rise from the bed and shut the balcony doors. She didn't feel it but noticed by watching gentle streams of her breath in pillowy crystalline clouds hanging in the air. It was far too cold in her room.

How long had she laid here?

It felt like months.

There had been knocks on her door that went unanswered. Oz... then Slash, and then Diablo. Several times, the medic had come. She couldn't remember the last time now. He hadn't come back, but the fear that he would, drove her to total isolation. She didn't quite know it, but she had been in this room for nearly a week and a half.

Her brow furrowed together as each breath seemed to bring new suffering. She was bare beneath the blankets, having discarded the tattered bits of clothing Skully had torn from her body over the railing long ago.

She tucked herself at first into one of Matt's old band shirts but as time went on the fabric felt like sandpaper against her skin, and she removed the shirt and curled into a ball beneath the sheets with her arms wrapped around herself as a means of comfort.

It felt so hot in the room now.

She pushed the blankets away with weak irritation as sweat glistened upon her forehead, her hair a haphazard mess and her youthful face frightfully pale. She just wanted to sleep now, unaware or uncaring that the wound at her shoulder wasn't faring well at all anymore...

A week and a half... how was she not dead yet?

When her eyes reopened to the balcony, she supposed she should have been shocked to see someone standing there in the doorway. Her eyes narrowed venomously.

She reached out for the lamp on the nightstand, wanting to throw it at the figure standing there on the balcony, but only succeeded in knocking it to the floor as another violent fit of coughing consumed her... and slowly... he stepped into the room.

He was worse for the wear, that much was visible. Beneath the shadow of the hood, he was weak and tired. His lip was healing, slowly, the black and blue bruises at the right side of his face and jawline yellowing and fading.

The lanky youth was thinner after being locked in the isolation room, if that was even possible. Hungry, but very much alive. The second Dog stepped into the room, he knew something was very wrong...

His eyes swept the space. There was blood dried upon the floor and the sheets. The furniture was overturned, and from her place there on the bed, she glared at him as if she wanted to rip his soul out through her hazy, reddened gaze. She struggled to sit. Dog hastily crossed the room, pressing his thin fingers against her head despite her weak attempts to push him away.

"Go... go to hell, you... monster..."

Her words were aggravated and almost incoherent, and he felt a sickening surge of fear seizing his heart. She was hot to the touch, damn near burning. He rushed to the bathroom, snatching a small towel from the countertop and turning the cold water on, filling the ice bucket with it as he hurried back to her. She had fallen still, and as carefully as he could, he wrung the water from the towel and placed it against her searing forehead. She shivered and groaned and tried to turn away from him.

"... Danny..."

He wasn't sure she had seen him or knew he was there. The pitiful way she called to him was like a stab to the heart. He swallowed down his nervousness, and carefully shifted the disoriented woman onto her left side, bringing the blankets down from her shoulders.

The knife wound torn into her right shoulder was vibrant and swollen. The marred skin showed signs of festering, and as he tested the tender flesh around it, he heard her whimper and felt her shudder in pain. He drew his hands back, and immediately darted to the gathering of furniture piled against the door, flinging them free of the entrance.

There wasn't any question to what had transpired. Skully had come the very night he thought to put the teenager in his place by forcing him into a room on the twenty-fifth floor. The windows had been blackened with spray paint and old newspapers and everything had been removed inside, except for the bed. He tossed Dog a notebook and pencil, and wanted to know every fucking thing he had done since he'd been there. He didn't test Skully's patience; he tried his best to withhold what he could, but Dog knew exactly what would happen next.

He cleared the doorway in an instant, rushing out into the hall and to the elevator, pushing the button to call the elevator up impatiently as he raced for Diablo. He knocked frantically on the door, praying to find the medic in his room, and shoved through the door the minute it opened.

Not one fucking day out of the hole and he was going against every order he had been given. Dog didn't care. He couldn't think of anything but the precious woman, and hadn't thought of anything but her for days. He'd left her to the wolves, alone, and now she was struggling for her fucking life upstairs.

"Hey! Jesus Fuck—a little fuckin' privacy, amigo?" Diablo had just come from the shower, suited only with a towel around his waist, his hair damp, messy waves. He'd neatly trimmed his mustache and goatee for the sake of familiarity. Without shame, he took full advantage of an actual fully functional camp while they were stuck here.

Dog rushed into the room and snatched the hotel pen from the desk. He didn't bother seeking paper. He wrote the note heavily on his palm.

'CHARLIE.'

"Take it to Oz, man... he said leave her, ain't heard a peep since she went back to her room—"

Dog's eyes narrowed, and he jabbed a finger into the man's chest and then pointed to the medic bag, and Diablo frowned thoughtfully. He had tried to help her. He checked on her the entire first week... and eventually she left the plates of food he set in the hall, and he didn't hear her moving much from behind the door. The poor girl.

If she was taking care of the wound, she'd be well on the mend by now, and his presence wasn't necessary, but if not...

"Shit, okay, fine... I'll go check up on her. But I'm telling you she ain't gonna open up—since we're on it, the fuck happened to your face, kid? Your ass been scrappin' with Slash again?"

Enzo dug out a pair of jeans from a worn black rucksack that he could deem mostly clean and dressed swiftly, Dog's impatience making him nervous. As he followed the younger male, he felt a certain sense of reluctance. Oz had said to stay clear of her unless she called.

She had left the walkie-talkie in the recovery room on the first floor, and out of all of them, he had never been the type to go against a direct order. Dog wasn't about to let it go, though. He marched Diablo to the elevator, who went along with him wordlessly. As the lift set them on the fourth floor, he all but pulled the older man to her room and pushed the door open.

"The fuck happened in here? Ah, fuck man..." He only had to look at her laying there to know she was in bad shape.

She'd pushed the blankets away from her again, the cool towel doing little to bring her temperature down as her shallow breaths were strained and slow. As Diablo crossed the room to the right side of the bed, his eyes fell upon the uncovered wound at her shoulder, and his face went grim.

"You just found her like this? She's bad off—real bad... Hey Charlie? C'mon, sweetheart... Charlie?" He tried to get her attention as he placed the medic bag on her bed, snapping his fingers aside her ear, and she mumbled with only sparse words. Her eyes fluttered behind closed eyelids.

With incredible care, Diablo pressed a set of fingers against her neck before readjusting the damp towel to her forehead. She had a high fever and an erratic pulse.

"Come on, chiquita... I need you to wake up and talk to me, huh? Charlieeee—Charlie?—fuck, get Oz, man. She ain't got much time left like this." He lifted one of her eyelids and scanned the end of a small handheld light over her dilated pupils, to little response.

Dog had turned to tear through the drawers of her dresser, causing Diablo to glance back as he shifted to gather what he could from the depths of the medic bag. "She wasn't bit, right?"

Dog shook his head and continued searching. Antibiotics were scarce. What could be found these days was losing potency, and an enormous amount of time had passed since they had come across anyone with a functioning civilization enough to trade for anything but expired pills. The topical ointment he had wouldn't be enough for a serious infection, but he drew it out all the same, and carefully applied it to her marred skin.

"What the fuck are you doing—Dog! Get Oz!"

The teen didn't respond, tossing stacks of papers here and there, sending them scattering around the suite. He fumbled at last with a stack of what appeared to be maps with roads on them, and then he tore a page from one of the long atlases, and bolted out of the room.

Dog sprinted down the hall, taking the lift to the first floor and rushing to Oz's room, knocking on the door viciously until the older man came to stand before him. His toned, scarred torso was exposed, and gray sweatpants clung to his hips; his feet were bare. His firearm was tucked into the right pocket, and he rubbed an eye groggily.

"Little early, isn't it?"

Dog shoved past Oz into his room, and fumbled desperately for paper, writing so quickly he damn near cramped his hand. With wide eyes, he gestured for Oz to take the note before setting his eyes on the sheet of the atlas he had torn out of Charlie's book, carefully brushing his fingers over it as he tried to locate the storage facility.

He then mapped his earlier path through the green space, toward the safe zone, near to what appeared to be the city of Brunswick. He hadn't realized there was a city so near, but it made sense—could have easily been where the dead traffic was originating.

He circled the suburban town rapidly as Oz closed the door, before coming to stand beside Danny, who pulled the black hood down and pushed the note into his leader's palm desperately. The older man's eyes swept over his rushed handwriting, struggling to make out the frantic needs of the shaken youngster.

He pointed down to the map, brows arched, anxiety twisting his gut as he waited for Oz's reaction, who read and observed in pensive contemplation.

'Charlie's dying. She needs medicine. Military zone, here... heavy infected trapped. Supplies, gear, medicine—Today.'

Oz frowned and set his eyes upon the youth. Dog jabbed a finger at the map, watching as Oz took in the information presented to him with a deep sigh. It was too early for it, and Oz had many questions.

"... This... is a lot to ask right now with the way shit is, kid. You just got out this morning, yeah? Eat something. I'll get the men down here... We'll talk it through."

Dog bit down on his bottom lip, an irritated wrinkle at his nose not going unnoticed as he balled his hands into fists and felt anger rising. He turned away from Oz, clearly frustrated, and expelled a heavy sigh. They didn't have time for that bullshit!

Dog tried his best to smother down his flaring temper, flipping the hood back over his head and nodding firmly as he snatched the page from the atlas and stuffed it into his hoodie pocket before nodding to Oz, pointing to his sidearm.

"... You'll get your gun back, after we talk. Get something to eat. If we're making this run, you're going to need it."

He wanted to ask him about the bruises, or that Dog looked as if he hadn't slept in days, but Dog didn't linger long enough for that. He knew where he could find weapons... and if he had to get into that fucking safe zone and find medicine for Charlotte alone, he was going to fucking do it.

He'd spent enough time with Charlie to know there was a supply closet in the burnt-out tower they didn't occupy, somewhere on the first floor that had been used as an armory at one point. If he could figure out which one it was, and get the door open, he could leave right away.

As he stalked down the hall toward the stairwell, however, the door flung open, and from within, Slash emerged, and just behind him was Skully. The men had yet to spot him, a lanky shadow in the dimly lit halls, but an urgent sense of panic gripped him and he all but froze where he stood. The sound of the old service elevator grinding down from the fourth floor drew his eyes, and he quickly backtracked to the lobby.

Lorenzo didn't look particularly thrilled about it. He did what he could to make her comfortable, but with her weak and barely conscious, it was a struggle to get her to accept the fever reducers. Antibiotic ointment was the closest thing he had to what she needed.

He didn't like it, not one bit of it. Judging by the state of her room, he hated to think of what Charlie had been going through. No one would know anything for sure until she was well enough to talk... if she made it that far.

Oz joined the group not long after, sporting a long sleeved hunter green button down shirt beneath a thick black coat. His legs were dressed in his usual worn jeans, along with heavy black boots. The long sword strap was drawn diagonally over his chest, making the weapon easily accessible at his back. His gun holster was looped at the waist. As he waited for the group to gather, his mind wandered to their hostess, who he was certain did not deserve to be fighting for her life at the moment. The guilt weighed heavily on the group leader's mind, knowing too well it was the fault of his own men who put her in the precarious position in the first place.

No one thought to get too comfortable.

He gestured to Dog, who deposited the page of the atlas in the center of the coffee table as Ruthless emerged from the stairwell, the last to join them.

"Charlie isn't doing well. Her wound is infected," Oz started solemnly, to the silence of the men. Expressions were unreadable at the moment, and so, he nodded and went on, "... Diablo and Dog found her this morning, judging by the looks of things she's been that way for a few days. She's going to need antibiotics if she's going to pull through."

"Shit, good as dead then, ain't she?" Slash frowned contemplatively as he shrugged a shoulder. "Might have somethin' left over from the pharmacy back in New Mexico... but it prolly ain't gonna be enough ta get her straight."

Skully's lucid gaze had turned slowly to Dog, who avoided him almost entirely as the men began their debates, and Oz gestured down to the map on the rounded glass table.

"Dog scouted this area—where you found them, Slash. He's written not only did it look like there were signs of survivors here in the last six months, but there's a Coast Guard safe zone established... right here... about ten-fifteen miles outside of Brunswick. Said it looks like it fell early on. The gates are still up and most of the rotters inside are crowded into the perimeter fences."

"Oh, hell no—you're kiddin', right? Y'all remember Albuquerque? I'm not doing that shit again; nooo fuckin' way—"

"It's not an entire air force base, Diablo. It's just a safe zone... there's a few military vehicles, tents, gates—no tanks, no barracks, no live ones. Rotters, mostly, maybe a few biters—no survivors."

"Devil is right. Risk high... reward, huh? Save girl? Die trying?"

"If what Dog says is true, the place hasn't been touched. So we get the tires for the Hummer, maybe treated diesel barrels the military left behind, and probably a good supply of ammunition, medical supplies, and provisions out of this. It puts us one step closer to hitting the road again." Oz crossed his arms as he tried to plead his best case, frowning slightly. "Saving Charlie, well... I feel it should be a priority. She's one of us... and our people got her into the predicament she's in now."