Short of Decay


Deserted, abandoned, and unlocked. That was just the way Theo Snowden liked to find things.

In most cases, looting and thieving proved challenging. Only the deft of hand and incredibly sly were up for such a challenge, but now. . . Cars were left in the street unoccupied, doors were left open, and people were in hiding. Looting and thieving had gone from being a taboo, to a ritual. The only eyes roaming the city were the undead, and to Theo, they were seen simply as pests. Flies antagonizing the light bulb. They would never be a real danger, but they would always be a nuisance, he liked to tell himself.

The morning was bleak, gray, and ruinously lonely as Theo walked along. He kept both hands buried in the pockets of his gray jacket to stave off fall's icy bite. Frostbite is the last thing one needed.

Like always, the young man had his tan satchel hanging from one shoulder against his hip, currently light as a feather. The hope today, was that he'd fill it with valuables. With what happened the night before, he figured it'd by like taking candy from a baby.

The first undead he encountered this morning, had been a police officer. Obese, balding and old, the officer was ghastly pale, his uniform stained in crimson. Already over the initial shock of seeing walking corpses from the night before, Theo calmly assessed the situation. Too easy, for nimble Theo to crouch and sneak past the zombie along the side of a black Chevy. Unaware of Theo's presence, the moaning officer dragged on down the car-congested street. Theo couldn't help but smile as he stood erect again, and continued his search for nice things. Nearly a half-hour passed before he found something of value in city's the concrete maze.

A red Shelby GT500. The sports car was glorious to behold parked against the curb, miraculously unharmed by the night's turn. Too bad it won't fit in a satchel, Theo mused in his head. Unlike most vehicles Theo had passed, this car didn't have so much as a single drop of blood on it. It managed to stay clean, shining almost. It was more than Theo could have hoped for as he approached, his pale blue eyes lighting with excitement. Reaching the car, he placed a hand on the hood and slid it up to the car's open window, the smell of fresh leather greeting his nostrils. The same hand moved from the hood of the car to the door handle, but just as he gripped it, a cold shiver sparked down his spine.

"I'd let go of the car if I was you."

The voice possessed a southern tone Theo realized immediately, as he looked up to find a broad-shouldered stranger standing on the sidewalk. Theo was surprised to see another living, breathing person and narrowed his eyes, drinking in the fellow survivor. The man seemed normal enough, dark brownish-black hair covering the top of his head while a baseball sleeve shirt covered his muscular build. And here I thought I was the only one, Theo thought humorously.

"And just why should I do that," Theo asked, flicking light brown hair from his eyes. "Finders keepers? Are you trying to play that game? It's actually a personal favorite of mine."

The man regarded him coolly, his hands in fists at his sides. "No, I own it. And you should step away because I said so."

"How do I know you're not lying," Theo replied, a wry smile creeping beneath his hooked nose. "You could just be saying its your car when really. . . it used to belong to someone else. So tell me, just what sort of proof do you have? Hell, what's the plate number?" The man said nothing, continuing to glare. "That's kind of sad, you don't know your own plate number? Well here, let me tell ya." Theo walked to the front of the car, wary of the man's following eyes. "MGA-345. I get the feeling you didn't know that."

"Or maybe I just didn't have to answer. Now get lost. The world is hell enough without people like you."

Theo gave a reproachful look. "Ouch, ya know I think I might shed a tear!" The man remained cold as ice, he didn't even twitch at the sarcasm. "Wow, you're a real joy aren't cha? You keep on keeping on like this and any living person is going to leave your sorry ass in the dust. Not that that's my problem, mind you, I like the individual freedom." Still the man stared through him, mistrust evident on his face. A moment of vehement silence lingered between the two before the stranger reached behind his back and produced a gun. Theo froze as he stared down the shiny silver barrel. "Well, that's a pretty looking gun."

The pair of unacquainted young men gouged each other with their eyes until the scream of another turned their heads down the road. A chorus of moans and groans followed. A single ragged man jogged into the center of a three-way intersection, looking quite tired. He keeled over and leaned against a car, the abnormal groans echoing closer by the second. Theo was shocked to the see the man next to him raise his unarmed hand and wave.

"OVER HERE! HUR-," Theo tackled him to the unforgiving concrete before he could finish the words. After a few dazed moments, the man threw Theo off with ease, his face contorted in anger. "What the hell was that for!?" Behind him the first few walking dead came into view.

Theo half crouched, half stood from the ground, watching him intently. The herd's prey yelling out loud from the intersection.

"HEY! HELLO? ANYONE! SOMEBODY HELP ME! PLEASEEEE!"

The armed man looked over his shoulder at the herd as they swarmed into the intersection, their target shambling in his vague direction. Sensing movement out of the corner of his eye, he whipped around just in time to see Theo slip into his home. A wave of anger came over him as his face boiled red.

"HEY GET OUT OF THERE," he shouted, bursting through the door with his gun aimed.

The shiny Colt six-shooter was a hand-me-down from his long deceased grandfather, and he was very familiar with how to use it. Even now, as he waved it through his residential shit hole of an apartment searching for an intruder, he could feel confidence and security radiating from the gun. It leaked through the gun into his hands and into his veins, filling him with heated adrenaline. The type of adrenaline that wouldn't make him think twice about pulling the trigger.

Slowly moving into the living room, he found everything undisturbed. Unfortunately, the apartment embraced a gloomy dark with the window shutters down, giving his intruder that many more places to hide. But he dare not open the shutters. It's hard to say how many dead were lurking just outside the glass. Speaking of the undead, his thoughts went back to the man in the street. Pity filled his chest and he found himself turning back to the door, only to be greeted with a frying pan.

The metal screeched against his skull, knocking him to the floor so hard, the gun went bouncing free of his hand. Wide-eyed with an agonizing banging in his head, he shuffled to his feet as Theo dropped the frying pan and dived for the gun. They crashed together in a heap on the floor with a thud, grunting as they both desperately reached for the gun mere inches away. On the bottom, Theo found himself at a disadvantage. I should have killed him with the frying pan, he thought glumly.

Together the two wrestled fiercely, Theo eventually rolling to his back in an attempt to escape. It was no use. All the maneuver did for him was pull his hair and give his adversary a better position over him. Before he could comprehend the rapid arm motions between the two, the man's hands found his throat. Theo's pale hands went to his choker's and tried to pry them loose, but the choker's strength surpassed his. The firm hands continued to crush the life from Theo's throat, reddening his face and blurring his vision. Shit. . . End of the line? Theo tried a feeble punch at the man's face but missed by a mile as darkness began to overcome him. Shit. .. The world finally becomes completely free and I die. What irony. . .

Just as the intruder's eyes creaked shut, Gary Carver released him to stare. Did I just. . . Did I just kill this guy? No, no, no. . .

Panic washed over him as he leaned down to the intruder's face, listening in apprehension. It was faint, so very faint, but he could make it out just barely. A labored, unconscious breathing. The intruder was alive, granting Gary the gift of relief. A true miracle, because there was no way he could cope with killing someone. . . At least not this early in hell. . .

Climbing off the younger man, he retrieved his revolver and abruptly remembered the man outside. Euphoric adrenaline filled him again as he rushed out the apartment door back onto the street to witness the inevitable.

The gray haired man was done for. Twenty yards from where Gary stood, the man already laid on the pavement flailing uselessly. The undead were tearing into him one by one, his screams growing louder and wilder with each new bloody face biting into him. After watching the blood bath for mere seconds, dirty blood-stained legs of the staggering horde blocked all vision of the dying victim. But the absolute worst part of it all, had to be the herd of undead lumbering down the street.

They were truly endless in number. Scarlet smeared face upon scarlet smeared face was all Gary could see. They stretched all the way back to the intersection like an army, and were still pouring from the other street like a flood. Bloody, filthy, and moaning. Gary made eye contact with a tall bald man tripping towards him, the rest of the herd seeming to follow. No longer able to hear the man's screams over their moans, Gary found it difficult to understand what he was doing. He gritted his teeth, raised the gun two-handed, and pulled the trigger.

The inner workings of the pistol ignited, a fiery explosion spitting the .357 round down the length of the six inch barrel. The sound left a ring in Gary's ears as the round spiraled into the skull of the bald man, spewing brain matter, blood, and bone to the cement below. The mangled corpse of the once human fell backwards at the feet of a dozen more of its kind, each groaning their legs to hobble faster. Gary let loose a gasp and started to back peddle, the majority of the herd's focus now on him. He fired another shot, this bullet clipping a shoulder and ripping through a hand before resting in the chest of a fat African-American. Gary began to panic. Hands shaking, perspiration dripping, eyes scanning faces wildly, he turned and ran back inside.

Without thinking the door slammed shut behind him, the shrieks of the undead rapidly increasing in volume. He locked it and backed away, staring in complete disbelief. It didn't long for the first of the ghouls to reach the door, their hands pounding and clawing at the white wood. The backdoor, that was his best route for escape.

Jogging through the living room with gun in hand, he snatched a duffle bag from the couch and heaved it over a shoulder. Frisking his person to make sure he had what he wanted, he stormed down the small hallway past a tiny bathroom and pitiful bedroom. Reaching the back door, he opened it cautiously, only to find the back alley empty. A single shoe got out the door before realization dawned on him. . .

He was forgetting something.


It's difficult to say how long Kyle sat in his apartment, listening to the crazies abuse his door. So far the small man had consumed three mugs of coffee, pissed four times, and taken a long, satisfying shit. Knowing his luck, he was quite amazed the door didn't give while he was on the toilet. Course that would have been a shitty death, quite literally. Alas, Kyle Quincent remained alive. He sat on the floor, staring at the wall deep in thought.

I could open the door and let them kill me. . . I mean, its not like my life got any better with their arrival.

The choice was very much entirely his, and he hated it. He despised nearly everything about his life. His job, his family, hell, even his apartment. He had nothing, and for the first time, he was actually beginning to grasp the concept.

His gaze drooping from the wall for the first time in what felt like years, he slowly staggered to his feet and even slower, waddled to his bed. Heaving himself onto the mattress, he crawled across the sheets to once again view the outside world. It hadn't changed from before.

Nickel Street, one of the city's busiest marketing streets, was a disaster. Everywhere one could look from Kyle's height would to make one frown. Cars were crashed, upturned, smoking, dented, and beaten. Some even burned, small little flames creeping underneath their dented hoods. They reminded Kyle of mouths with cigarettes, flames flickering between metal lips.

Perhaps in more pain than the cars, were the shops. Shattered glass, merchandise, and blood spat from their brick faces like vomit. Up and down the street every building's shop copied the other, regardless of how popular it once was. Even Kyle's favorite pawn shop on the end looked to be in bad shape. All of it was downright depressing.

And then there were the bodies. . . Some walked and some didn't, but every last one was mangled, crimson, and decaying. Their stench already reeking its way through the city like a snake, casting a shroud of relentless rot. Kyle dared not observe much longer for fear of retching, and pulled himself away to lay on the bed.

He found himself staring at the mundane ceiling, pondering life like he never had before. Stay here and starve to death, or open the door and embrace death? What a pleasant decision to make! A smile danced across his lips.

Allowing his mind to run free, he thought of his customers. Each and every damn one coming to him for financial advice, and each and every damn one stopping to snicker before taking him seriously. Well they all got theirs. . . The lot of them are hopefully dead by now.

His thoughts then went to his family. Garret Quincent, his millionaire father, renown for his hotel business. Marsha Quincent, his eternally bitter sister. And of course, Derrick, his famous brother. All three were much more pleasant people than him, and much fairer to look upon. However, underneath fake pearly smiles, they might as well be one person. Hate itself lived in the trio. They breathed, ate, slept, and dreamt of hatred for one particular person. Little, ugly, Kyle Quincent. The murderer and final son of the beloved Taylor Quincent. . .

Lingering on photographs of his mother in his head, Kyle stirred and leapt off the bed curling his fists. Sometimes he really disliked his thought process. This was one such instance.

Irritated, the dwarf began to pace the apartment. Hands clasped behind his back, his eyes found the floor and his feet shuffled along. His mind raced, his heart beat quickening. Soon sweat began to trickle past his brow, causing him to rip the suit coat from his shoulders and throw it the carpet. A new concept had burrowed into him. A new hope, a new belief. . . A fresh start in a world of chaos.

Kyle stopped pacing. Determination filled his little heart as he eyed the door, envisioning the monsters on the other side.

"Right," he said quietly, making for the kitchen cabinets. Inside he grabbed the first lethal utensil he found, a five inch knife. It would serve as good as anything else he found, so he took it and approached the chair-guarded door with apprehension. "Well. . . this is for you mother... wish me luck."

Kyle yanked the chair from its tilted position and waited, coming to the conclusion that if he didn't open the door himself, it might take awhile for the door to give. So grumbling curses to himself, the dwarf seized the chair, pulled it back and climbed on top of it. He struggled to keep his footing against the shaking wood, but bit his lip, giving his best attempt to reach the lock. He succeeded much quicker than before, but was taken totally unaware when the door flew open, slamming him against the wall.

In stumbled grotesque Hubert Hill and the woman, both falling into each other along with the kitchen table. They rolled together in a jumble of gnashing teeth, growls, and thuds before coming to rest near Kyle's bedroom. A streak of red ran along the tile pointing after them, giving Kyle a clear sense of where to find them as he regained his footing behind the door. He slipped out of the crevice just in time for the woman to spot him and hiss.

"Yes, yes, hiss, hiss. Come on you stupid bitch, I'm right here, come and get me," he said from the apartment doorway, sounding much braver than he really was. The horrific creatures wrestled apart from each other and began a crude march towards him. The knife in Kyle's hand felt foreign as sweat pooled in his palm. Then with a shriek, the women fell on him. The knife dug deep into her shoulder as they toppled backwards on to the hallway floor.

Kyle pushed with all his might, his hands only succeeding in keeping the woman's snapping jaws from his lips. In addition to keeping cannibalism at bay, the dwarf was forced to smell her rancid breath. The foul scent scrunching Kyle's face up just as his neighbor joined the dog pile, flopping right on top of the woman's back. His expression went from disgusted to pained at the weight change, his stubby arms shaking with the effort of keeping his face from hers.

"I . . . don't . . . want to . . . kiss you, woman!" As if replying to his shout, the woman's putrid red eyes grew bigger. Her pupils casting his reflection as she edged closer with open jaws, Kyle closed his eyes. A dwarf was never destined for this world. . . Best to die trying rather than not, right?

Despite his eyes being closed, he sensed the shift of focus away from him.

One eye flicked open just in time for the woman's matted hair to sweep his face. She was looking down the hallway, but at what? A more appetizing meal than me?

"WHAT'S UP BITCHES!"

A woman's freakish loud voice came from above, accompanied by a swooshing sound that ended with a sick crunch. From Kyle's position he couldn't hope to see who was beyond the nasty woman's head, so logically, he squirmed. Without the woman's grueling stare, he found it quite easy to slip from her grasp and pop out on his rump from underneath her. Hissing, her gaze returned to his, but only for a second.

"AND BAM BITCH! ONE FOR YOU TOO!" An aluminum bat swept down at the woman's head, catching her in the side of the face and claiming a chunk of her cranium. Bits of bone, hair, and blood spattered to the floor and Kyle's shoes, the dwarf's jaw dropping in appall. He inclined his head upwards only to find he didn't have to look very far, she like him, was quite short.

"Heyyy, you're the little dude! The midget that lives here," she exclaimed, her bright smile contrasting her copper-colored face. The African-American woman was his savior, and gods be good did Kyle find her attractive. Curves where they needed to be, short dark burgundy hair cut close to the scalp, and a very pretty face. He was disappointed to remember who she was.

"And you're the whore," he replied, perhaps too coolly.

The woman's eyes lost their cheer and narrowed. "Well aren't you a charming little shit. I just saved your life and that's what you have to say? No thank you, or oh Cheri, thank god you came! Just, 'Oh, and you're the whore!' Come on man, that's low, even for someone of your height!"

Kyle scowled and gathered his feet, patting the blood off his shirt.

"Well, for your information, I take great offense to be called a midget."

"AND I TAKE GREAT OFFENSE TO BEING CALLED A WHORE!" Kyle was stunned at the retort, and had to regain his composure to face the taller woman. Albeit, she was hardly any taller than he was. Maybe ten inches. . . Can't even be a foot taller, the dwarf determined. "So, you gonna thank me or just stare?"

Kyle swallowed, his throat desert-dry from the near death encounter. "T-Thank you, for saving my life," he stammered. He faced down the hallway instead of at her, the improper mannerism made the woman roll her eyes. Between their feet lay the new skull-dashed bodies, each stiff as a dead tree coated in crimson.

"Apology so not accepted, but no worries, you can make up for it down the road." Kyle looked to her in mild surprise. "What? You wanna split up and try surviving on your own? Have you seen the city? Everything's fucked. . . we should stick together." Kyle wrestled with his tongue and thoughts for words. "As long as you can watch my back, I got yours. What do you say little man?"

Maybe this new world is the start of some freak show heaven for me.

"To that, I say I will try not to be a burden." His eyes examined the silverfish-red bat clutched in her hand warily. So much blood is going to make that thing rust. "I'm afraid dwarfism isn't the easiest thing to simply shake off." To that, she laughed, getting him to smile slightly.

"Well, nice to finally meet you neighbor. . . the name's Cheri."


A/N: This story hasn't been worked on for a very long time. Not since last year in fact! But here's where things stand as far as OC submissions:

Currently have three OCs: Theo Snowden, Gary Carver, and Cheri Henderson. I am accepting only five more people! Please fill out the rubric and send your characters to me in a PM if you wish to submit! Then just stay posted for acceptance.

On another note, hope everyone has enjoyed the story thus far!