Bury Me in Black

by Royce Caradoc

“I’m a master tracker.”

  “Fuckin monotone as hell. Say it better. Convince me.”

  “I know these towns like the back of my hand,” Marco said, much more confident this time around. “I’m a master tracker.”

  “Hell yeah you are.” He slapped his palms on the tabletop and stood. “C’mon. I’ll give you the tour.”

  ~

  Across the hall from Mother’s chamber was another locked door. Leon revealed a hefty ring of keys and opened it. He led Marco down a flight of rusted metal steps to the dank, dark underbelly of the Armory. It appeared at first glance to be a sprawling warehouse housing an assortment of random items, stuffed into boxes and milk crates and packed onto shelves. Marco spotted mostly cans, along with ammunition and boxes full of miscellaneous goods and clothing. The floors were concrete, the walls unpainted.

  “This is the overflow,” Leon said. “The rest gets sold upstairs on the trade bar in the back. Cans or bullets are the currency. Cash don’t matter. Oh, and if anyone catches you pocketing anything from down here, Mother will have your hands.” He glanced back at him. “That’s not a figure of speech.”

  Against the far wall, a short jog from the steps upstairs, one portion of the basement stood out. They walked towards it, feet echoing against all the empty space. Leon halted before a dangling bulb and pulled the chain. Let there be light.

  In that one corner, now illuminated, furniture had been set up to resemble three rooms without walls. Two bedrooms, complete with mattresses, nightstands and tables were closest to the wall. A living room area prefaced the bedrooms. Two couches, facing one another surrounded a round glass coffee table. The first was a moth-bitten loveseat, colored royal blue. Opposite it was a three seater, this one a faded red. Almost pink now. A bong sat on the glass table, just waiting for a friend. A large speaker was beside the couches, wires running to an outlet on the far wall.

  Surrounding the little squatter’s paradise, the walls were marred with graffiti. Among them were Bloodline tags; doodles, stick figures, and names written in block letters. Up against the walls—all the walls—and blocking some of this magnificent art, were gun safes. Large and small, thin and fat, the pale green or gunmetal colored safes were packed tight together and piled on top of one another, providing a border of sealed up goods around the fringes of the makeshift living space. A war chest, just lying in wait.

  “That bed over there is me. That one’s Knox. All those other jerkoffs gotta sleep upstairs. Being top dog has its perks,” he said, raising his eyebrows. “You can crash on the couch for the time being. Least til I’m confident you won’t get your throat slit up there while you sleep.”

  “You sure that won’t be a problem down here?” Marco asked, still looking around.

  “What, Knox? You let me worry about him. Here, sit,” he said, waving towards the couches. Again Leon had that janitor’s ring of keys in hand, looking for the right one. While the key to the door had been a big silver key, the rest were tiny and gold. Each unlocked a different safe, Marco quickly realized. He watched as Leon popped the first safe, which contained countless pieces of glassware and mason jars full to the brim with marijuana. He took some, sealed the safe back up, and then packed the bong. Next, he rummaged through a safe full of tiny mp3 players, grabbing one, another, a third—all of different shapes and sizes—and finally settled on one. He locked this safe too.

  Leon sunk into the red couch, so Marco took the blue loveseat.

  “This is…something,” Marco said, still in awe of the room.

  “Don’t look at me. It’s mostly Knox’s shit. The guy can’t help himself. He has a disease. Dude collects sneakers, coats, leftover drugs; you name it. For a while he was collecting cash. Credit cards, too,” he said, packing a bowl with marijuana. “I’m pretty sure he was convinced he was going to find a way out of this shithole and re-enter society a wealthy man. Jokes on him.”

  He tossed an mp3 player Marco’s way. Caught off guard, Marco fumbled it, nearly dropping it.

  “Man, there ain’t nothin smooth about you, huh?” he asked. Before Marco could answer he spoke again: “Plug that into the speakers there.”

  He did so and the first song began to play. A little too loud for his taste, but whatever. It was a melodic electronic track.

  “These guys were Jase’s,” he said, nodding towards the tiny music player, which Marco had left atop the speakers.

  “Jase?”

  “Knox’s brother,” he said, taking a big hit and exhaling.

  “Where’s he at?”

  “Dead,” he said. He passed the bowl Marco’s way, along with a white bic lighter.

  “I’m good, thanks.”

  “Don’t be a pussy. Smoke weed,” Leon said. “It’s good for you.”

  He sighed and took it. The first hit was small, but it was enough to cause him to cough once. He hadn’t smoked pot since high school.

  “Jase, he had like maybe thirty of these music players. He’d buy them off the trade bar, find them in drawers. Hell, he was taking them off bodies for a while. That sick little fucker, he used to play this game where he’d listen to the whole mp3 player, front to back, and try to figure out what the person was like. He’d invent these whole little stories about them. It’s real morbid though, because you had to figure the owners of these things had croaked months ago, right?”

  “Yeah.”

  “The best part, though, is the name. Jase used to call these things die-pods.” Leon took the bowl back and hit it again, with all the grace that Marco lacked. A natural. “You look like him, you know. Spitting image.”

  “Oh.”

  Marco took the bong again. Another hit. Why not?

  ~

  Soon the music was off and Leon called it a night. It was a good thing, too. His head was swimming, probably mostly because of the weed. Marco turned over the mp3 player in his hands. It was fire truck red. On the back, written in black magic market, someone had scribbled the name ‘Jorge.’

  He laid down on the red couch. His feet hung off the edge, but it was a comfortable seat nonetheless. These past few days it felt as if he’d hardly had any time to catch his breath. He’d been shipped from place to place, a prisoner, never sure whether he’d survive long enough to see another day. Even now, Mother could decree that he be killed and Leon would have no choice but to obey. He’d be nice about it, probably. He’d shrug and tell Marco it wasn’t his day. Sorry pal. And then Knox would appear, that big six-gun in hand, and paint the walls red.

  With thoughts like these, it was a wonder that Marco ever slept.

  11

  -ARMOR-

  -Marco-

  “PSST. You should wake up.”

  Marco snapped to life. He’d nodded off, he realized. Maybe he’d even slept. It had been a long time since he’d truly slumbered. There were always enemies to worry about, always reasons to keep one eye open. But, down there, in that basement, he may have actually found peace. Above him he could hear the muffled clatter of the room above him: people talking and yelling and walking; bodies constantly in motion. It made him feel protected in a way. There were windows down there, and only one door. If the Bloodline did decide to turn on him, it meant he wasn’t going anywhere anyway, so why worry? By that logic, he was either completely safe or completely fucked, and nothing he could do now could flip that switch one way or the other. It was the most comforting thought he’d had in ages.

  So, maybe he’d slept.

  He rubbed his eyes and straightened out on the red couch. Shelby sat across the glass coffee table, on the shorter blue couch, her feet kicking out. Left, right. Left, right.

  “You’re in danger,” she whispered.

  “When am I not?” he asked, rubbing his eyes. The room looked different somehow, like a couple of houses that he knew had been copied and pasted together. His surroundings seemed fluid, like they might change again at any moment. Only the couches were static.

  “No. I mean now. Here. They’ll kill you if they
find out what you are. You know that, don’t you?”

  “What I am…” he said. Just then he noticed that he was cradling a helmet under one arm. White, with a long black visor. He turned it over in his hands, so that it faced him. He saw his fragmented reflection in the cracked visor. Twenty different Marcos stared back, each distorted in his own unique way.

  “All the killers, rapists out there, but they hate us the worst. Don’t they?” Marco asked, eyes still on the helmet. “I guess they had to blame somebody for locking them into the q-zone, right?”

  Shelby nodded, saying nothing.

  “Quarantine soldiers are clean” Marco continued. “That has to be part of it, too.”

  It went deeper than that, he knew. He’d seen hate in a scavenger’s eyes, back when he’d worn the white armor. It was about control. About ownership.

  Marco balanced the helmet on his palm, close to his face. The black visor was cracked. One orbital fracture marked its right side, spawning the crooked lines that ran from the main fissure, trickling outward like wayward tears.

  “You should wake up.”

  “What?”

  “Up!”

  ~

  Her voice echoed, growing more and more distant, until it was gone. Marco opened his eyes, this time for real. As if there was a way to truly tell.

  He rose and stretched. The basement was empty. Further back, Leon’s bed was a mess, blankets strewn about, half-molded to his absent form. Knox’s bed was just as messy, but looked as if it hadn’t been touched in weeks.

  Marco thought about heading upstairs to find Leon, but to what end? He was safe down here in this secluded basement. A sanctuary within a sanctuary. He scooped a magazine off the floor. On the cover, two attractive Asian girls posed on either side of a souped-up car. He shrugged and turned the page, settling back into his seat. He glanced at mufflers and rims and Nitrous canisters. Exhilarating. Out of the corner of his eye he noticed one of the gun cases remained open. He glanced back towards the stairwell.

  Marco, Marco. You can’t help yourself.

  Rolled up magazine in hand, he hovered over the open drawer. Inside was one of the more useless collections he’d ever seen. Amongst a tangle of wires and headphones were dozens of mp3 players of all shapes, colors and sizes. Jase’s die-pods, all of them. Marco knelt low and dug through the pile, turning over this device, now that one. He settled on an oversized green one: very dated. Written in black magic marker was the name Robb. Robb with two B’s.

  He returned to the speaker behind the couch and plugged it in, lowering the volume so he could hardly hear it. He hovered close, listening. One song, now two. Each time, he turned the volume up just a notch or two. Finally, he let the device shuffle and laid back down on the couch, leafing through the auto magazine to the soothing sounds of Robb. Poor, probably dead Robb.

  Robb had shit taste.

  Jase had been right, you could tell who a person was just by listening. Or at least toss out a convincing guess. Marco tried to picture what Robb had been going through when he created this emo-as-hell playlist. Who was this guy? What did he drive? What kind of jacket did he wear? Marco put a finger to his lips, trying to suss out whether this particular song was earmarked for a lost love. Was Robb lonely? He didn’t hear the shuffling of footsteps until they were right on top of him, until the plug was pulled from the socket.

  The music stopped abruptly. Marco turned, magazine in hand. Knox hovered over the red couch, still clutching the detached wire. He chewed his gum. A woman stood behind him, a skinny, pretty thing with bright red hair.

  “What are you doing?” he asked. He was quite still, voice giving nothing away. But, something about the way he looked at Marco told him that this was a volcano waiting to erupt.

  “I…I’m sorry,” Marco said. He was on his feet. “Leon said-”

  “I don’t care what Leon said. Go. Now.”

  “Is he up there?”

  “Go find out,” Knox said. He tapped a foot, his free hand tucked into the loop of his pants. Marco didn’t need to be told twice. Knox followed at his heels, slamming the door shut behind him. Marco heard it lock. Only when he was on the other side did he notice that he was still holding the magazine.

  ~

  He froze outside the doorway, looking out at the main Armory floor. It felt at first as if every eye was on him, but Marco knew that couldn’t possibly be true. He stood there a moment, with his back to the basement door, scanning the crowd. No sign of Leon. He was on his own.

  Those front double doors were tantalizingly close. He could sprint to them and be outside at a moment’s notice. It was tempting to run, then and there. But, where to go? He’d be hunted this time around, and his old hiding places near the border of the exile city were useless: that’d be the first place they’d look. He rubbed his wrists, which were still a little raw from the handcuffs.

  Where do I go? Where is the safest place in the quarantine zone?

  A second voice in his head seemed to answer.

  You’re standing in it.

  He kept his back to the wall, sidling by, hands in his pockets, trying to be as nondescript as he possibly could. Marco glued himself there, sinking down to a sitting position. He closed his eyes, hoping to blend into the walls. To disappear.

  He opened them again. Life continued on. No one was staring menacingly at him. Hell, no one seemed to be looking his way at all. He wrapped his arms around his legs. Marco began to remember what it was like before the outbreak, before the constant one-eye-always-open fear. In a normal, regular society, no one was watching. No one gave a shit. He exhaled. It was a nice feeling.

  The next few days were a balancing act. Whenever Knox came downstairs, Marco would awkwardly saunter off, banished to the upper level. There, he became a silent spectator. A ghost.

  In the windowless main hall, there was no day or night. A large, round analog clock hung high above the main double doors, ticking and ticking away. The people here knew when dinner time was, but for the most part they kept odd hours. Leon told him that there were a little over 60 people here, though only 21 had earned the mark. The mark was what they called that awful brand etched in their arms. Those lucky 21, however, were revered by the others, treated almost with a sort of celebrity. Marco learned to spot to them before even noticing the mark. It was all in how they carried themselves. They looked and acted equal parts Hell’s Angel and old west gunslinger, quick to anger and slow to back down. Knox was the only one who utilized a motorcycle; the others walked or packed into cars when they’d go on daily runs through the towns in hope of finding spoils worth the trip. More often than not these days, they wouldn’t return with much.

  Marco chose different spots off to the side of the main atrium. Most times, he’d pretend to read that magazine he’d snatched from downstairs, but it was all a ruse. Here before him was the greatest people watching opportunity of his life. So, he did what he did best, what the military had paid him to do. This was Drone Unit all over again.

  He eavesdropped. He listened. He saw.

  There was almost an art to it. Spots like the cafeteria, he could sit right in the thick of things and pop open the magazine, and no one was the wiser. Other places, he needed to keep his distance. Marco tested out certain spots to see how well sound travelled. He found locations he could sit where the buzz of the Armory wasn’t too much, where he could isolate one or two voices. He tried reading lips, a skill he’d learned to be good at but never quite mastered. There was so much to take in, so much activity in this one large room.

  Marco watched as the little rivalries budded and bloomed, surveyed arguments over this or that, heard the occasional shouting match. Outside the Armory walls the world was in chaos, but in here, people were still people. They complained and whined and got in their little scuffles: drama kings and queens ever teetering between worst enemies and best friends. Sometimes a circle would form to surround a fist-fight. No one ever broke these up, not until the fight itself was well past decided
. There were four different fights in that first week alone.

  The scavengers slept on their cots, ate at a set of old cafeteria tables packed into the far corner and loitered everywhere in between. They played cards, chess and darts. They read magazines. These monsters he’d been hiding all this time from seemed so very ordinary here. They still looked the part: mangy and dangerous, killers all, but it was different to see how they acted within a safe habitat. They were so normal. So human.

  The only thing missing, from what he saw, was their fearless leader, Mother. Had they not already met, Marco would’ve been contemplating whether the woman even existed, or if she were just some legend created to put a face to the Armory. A mustachioed Big Brother, straight from the pages of Orwell; a symbol of power and fear.

  For one hour a day, the trade bar was converted into a cafeteria. The only item that was ever on the menu was a bowl of heated up Shokuji product, which he overheard complaints about on a daily basis, but Marco didn’t mind. Food was food, and it was a welcome change to spend his days with a half-full belly. True blue Bloodline, the ones who had earned the brand, got a full can of the slop. The uninitiated, like Marco, got half a can.

  He grew bolder as the days passed, taking his meals closer and closer to the other scavengers, though never at the same table. Always he was gathering information about this or that, taking mental notes, learning the psyche of a Bloodline scavenger. From what he saw, they were a simple people. Much like in a prison yard, the highest currency was bravado. The smallest perceived slight could quickly lead to fisticuffs, but no more than that. There was a gun on every hip, but none of them were ever drawn within the Armory walls. This, he learned, was Mother’s one rule. Anything else was fair play. The scavengers drank, smoked, fucked, ate and fought under the same roof, but no blood was shed. This was a sort of sanctuary, it seemed. And it felt like it.

  After dinner, he took a seat and faded into the wall. He imagined his skin, his shirt, his jeans, all shifting slowly to the color of concrete until he was camouflaged, head to toe. He ran a hand over his scalp. It still felt strange having this buzz-cut in the place of that shaggy mane.