Empire

2 AfterBirth

The Jefferson Harbor Landfill was located at the end of town, near the swamp that defined the western perimeter. Concrete slabs had been erected in a crude wall at the edge of the swamp, with wire fencing used to cover any gaps. The whole mess was threaded with equal parts barbed wire and overgrowth. The west wall was a worthless measure if ever there was one, nothing like the well-built barriers on the north and eastern perimeters. To the south, the Gulf of Mexico.

Gene Pastore stood atop a mountain of filth and stared at the dense swamp. What was the point of putting that eyesore inside the perimeter? It wasn't even worth dumping in. The landfill's girth was expanding south, onto the beach. He'd have to burn another ton of this shit before it hit the water.

There was a P.O. boat just off the shoreline. Gene waved to the two patrol officers standing on it. They stared through him. "Didn't see me, I guess." He muttered. They were local boys, weren't they? No reason not to be polite, unlike the stone-faced Army fellas that had just pulled out of town. The radio said that military support was being withdrawn from all coastal cities. The Senate wanted people to move inland. Why? So the Senators and their families could take all the country's provisions? "Beats me," Gene said to himself. As far as he was concerned, moving everyone into the heartland was like building the rotters a triple cheeseburger.

God, it was hot. Boiling inside his ratty old uniform, Gene mopped his brow with an old handkerchief and dropped it into the garbage. His back was killing him too. At the age of sixty, he had hoped someone else would take his place, give the old man a break. But there was no retirement in his future. Just rats.

Rats, rats, rats. Most of them were undead, too. Only Gene could tell the living from the dead. They just had a look about them, a cold, solitary look. And the dead rats were fatter than the other ones. They fed on their own kind, and their kind were plentiful.

He was wearing waders and thick work gloves. The bastards wouldn't try to eat him but they'd probably bite if he wasn't careful. Gene carried a shovel to pin the vermin down and hack them up. Kicking them into a fire was easier, but garbage burns had to be controlled, small. The smoke rising into the sky brought undead. Not only that, but while Gene was used to the stench of the landfill, burns were another story. Maybe it was the charred, half-rotted flesh of the rats; the smell of death after death. Gene spat and wiped his mouth with a gloved hand.

"How does a starving town make this much fucking garbage?" He asked an undead rat. It was perched atop a broken chair, watching him intently. Part of its face had been gnawed off. A tiny red eye still rolled around inside the bony eye socket.

"You and me both." Gene said. He swung the shovel and smashed the rat down through the chair. These little buggers had actually given him a respect for the living rodents that still dared enter the landfill. It wasn't man versus animal anymore — it was the living against the undead. Gene brushed a fly off his cheek and wondered if they were undead too. Gone from eating shit to eating each other.

There was a sharp crack from the ocean, then another. Gene saw one of the P.O.s pointing a sniper rifle past him, toward the swamp. Must've seen something. What good did shooting at it do? Those boys were too scared to come ashore and nail the rotters. Gene hefted his shovel in one hand. He'd take care of any unwelcome visitors.

Speaking of which, another rat was lumbering over piles of soggy cardboard, distended belly dragging along. Gene aimed the blade of the shovel at its dark face and thrust downward. The rat skittered aside with surprising speed, just in time to avoid the strike, and the shovel sank into the refuse.

Gene shook the crap off the shovel. There was something bloody underneath the cardboard, too big to be a rat. It was partially wrapped in a moth-eaten blanket with smiling dinosaurs in bright colors. He considered this for a half-second before a terrible thought came to him.

"Oh my God."

He gingerly worked the shovel underneath the blanket and peeled it away. The underside was crimson, yellow dinosaurs obscured by gore. It was difficult to loosen; someone had lovingly bundled the misshapen form, tiny and frail and barely recognizable for what it was.

Gene stumbled back with a cry, dropping the shovel. His foot struck the ruin of the broken chair, and he fell flat on his back. A foul wetness seeped through his uniform and he found himself sliding helplessly down an incline. He pawed at the garbage around him; a glove came off and his bare hand sank into some curdled mess. "Shit! God!" He tried to orient himself so he could see where he was going, but only managed to go elbow-deep into the garbage, all the while still sliding.

He nicked his ungloved hand on something. Yanking it free, he saw the ragged little bite, and he saw the rat's head as it struggled in the garbage. It was dead.

He plowed headfirst into an array of discarded plumbing. Gene felt the surreal but distinct sensation of metal slicing through his cheek before he fell unconscious.