Death Role
We’ll all play a role in the apocalypse. Some of us will live, some will die and a few of us may become lost to our friends and family in the abyss of the spreading plague.
At Crypticon Seattle 2013, I offered fans the opportunity to become characters in my dying world. A location, to set the scene, was drawn from a bag. A roll of a die determined the outcome of the story. The chapters that will follow, all under the “Death Role” category, are the product of this little game.
The stories feature real people in fictional situations with sometimes gruesome result. All characters are used with permission and last names have been withheld for privacy. Enjoy and do forgive minor errors!
Death Role: Post Two, The Brothel
June 21, 2013
The Brothel
It was like stepping into the past, all heavy curtains and wallpaper, sitting rooms and elegant paintings. A giant, carpeted staircase rose to the second floor. Cendy felt incredibly underdressed for such grandeur. After she’d checked all the first floor rooms, she made her way back to the staircase. A door creaked open on the second floor.
“Hello?” she asked cautiously. Most of the buildings were abandoned but some were filled with violent squatters. Abandoned buildings didn’t have doors that opened themselves. She put a hand on her gun and prepared herself for a fight.
“We don’t get very many women in here,” a beautiful voice responded. “And I thought the door was locked.”
Cendy looked up to the second floor and saw an attractive, dark-haired woman wearing nothing but a thin silk robe. She was pointing a gun at her.
“The door was open,” Cendy said. “I can go somewhere else if it’s a problem.”
The woman lowered the gun. “No, we’re open. How can I service you?”
“Oh, no!” Cendy laughed, “I’m not here for that. I’m looking for a safe place to stay for awhile.”
“This isn’t a hotel and who’s to say we can trust you?” the woman asked as other half nude women gathered at the top of the stairs. Suddenly Cendy felt overdressed.
“She could help us with our problem,” a woman in green footie pajamas suggested.
“What problem?” Cendy asked, genuinely curious as to the unique troubles a whorehouse might have.
“The men, they keep coming in the door like usual. But some of them have been wounded and we’ve had to put them out the back door. I’m Magda, by the way. The madam here.” She walked down the stairs toward Cendy and slid her handgun back into its holster, expertly concealed beneath her dainty robe.
“Back yard’s full of zombies now,” a woman in a red corset said from above.
Thank God I didn’t open that door, Cendy thought. She considered her choices for a moment and, though her mind swam with fears of dirty beds and the possibility of a work-for-rent situation the building was safe. Its barred windows and doors, reinforced with steel, made it one of the safest places in the city.
“So if I get rid of your problem, I can stay?” She hoped it was that easy.
The women on the second floor huddled close and began whispering to one another. After their private discussion was finished, they looked to Magda for a decision.
“Clear out the backyard and you can have a room,” the madam said.
Cendy took her gun from its holster and turned the safety off. She walked down the hallway to the door that led outside. It had a small, frosted window inset near the top. She stood on her tiptoes and checked the opaque rectangle for movement, but it was impossible to tell what was happening on the other side.
“Ok, Cendy,” she calmed herself, “you’ve made it this far. Easy as one, two…three!” She pushed open the door and scanned the yard. It was little more than a wet patch of dirt surrounded by a fence; not even a bench or bird bath. The undead men represented a diverse cross-section of the city. She could see the mayor, a local bookstore owner, a police officer – all of whom were married – and several working-class others in the mix. It didn’t really matter anymore who they were in their previous lives or that they ran to a brothel when the world went to hell. All that mattered was they were between her and a safe room to sleep. One of the men was wearing only boxers. They must have found out a bit too late that he was infected, she thought.
They moved in her direction, bumping into one another, their feet sticking here and there in the mud. She looked down the short barrel of the pistol and attempted to steady her shaky hands. With determined accuracy, Cendy dispatched of the nine undead men, reloading part way through the slaughter.
“Nice work,” Magda said from the doorway, “the last room on the right is all yours.”
Cendy was happy to find that the bed was clean and she had a view of the street in front of the building. There wasn’t much to look at, other than the dead, but the birds still sang in the trees and the sun still rose and set. And, she was still alive.
Many more of the infected, drawn by the firing of her gun, pounded on the brothel’s facade.
Cendy laughed. “A popular place you have here,” she said to Magda, who stood beside her at the bedroom window.
“Yes, always they have come for our bodies, but now they come for our brains.”
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