Bury Me in Black

  At the end of the week, there was a celebration. Marco had overheard some talk of it. According to these dregs, it was the two-year anniversary of the Bloodline’s formation, which apparently was reason to celebrate. He ate alone, watching at the main atrium cleared out. The scavengers were funneling their way out to the yard. Soon, he could hear the boom of a bass, and rising voices. He read his magazine at the lunch table, and tried to ignore it. All around him, scavengers were clearing out. He read the same paragraph over and over, oblivious to the content, constantly losing his place while he was wound up in his own thoughts. The next time he looked up, the only remaining people in the room were children and the elderly.

  “Fine,” he set down the magazine. Marco walked out back. A man stood guard, a rifle in hand. Marco nodded at him, and the scavenger gave him a dirty look. Whatever. A sprawling yard lay behind the Armory, sealed in by concrete walls some five feet high. The sun was slowly setting, turning the sky a burnt orange. And all around, was chaos.

  He walked through the party in a state of shock, jaw slack. All around him, the yard was soaked in sin. He twirled in place, taking it in. Far off, a skinny scavenger in a jean jacket was doing donuts on a dirt bike. Everywhere was a pill on a tongue, everywhere was an exposed breast, and cackling laughter that he couldn’t help but feel was about him. His head was spinning. The schoolyard bullies had all grown up, slapped some tattoos and brands on their arms, and outlived the rest of the human race. Survival of the fittest had given way to these select few. These assholes. These are the best of us? Them? It left a bitter taste in his mouth.

  He saw Leon coming a mile away. There was nothing covert about the man. He walked in big long strides, with lumbering footsteps, often wearing that mischievous half smirk.

  “Follow me,” Leon said. “I got somethin for ya.”

  ~

  Leon led him further out into the yard. He made small talk with the others as they passed, even grabbing a swig of beer from one man. Twenty feet out from the fringes of the gathering, they passed by a lanky man in a brown leather outback hat, brim tipped low over his eyes. He held a rifle skyward, and paced around in circles, staring up at clouds. At nothing.

  “What’s with him?” Marco asked.

  “Don’t worry about that guy. He ain’t worth your time.”

  They continued to walk, passing by a pile of rocks at the base of a tall flagpole, with a tattered American flag that swung in the wind. Further out was what looked like a makeshift gun range. Three large posters had been erected in the distance, all displaying that classic diagram of a male body with little dots for target points.

  Leon halted a few feet away from the range, his hands behind his back. Hiding something.

  “I was gonna ask if the gunshots attract people. But, you guys don’t seem to care about making noise.”

  “Nah, the neighbors don’t call the cops much,” Leon said. “Honestly, though, our enemies know where we stay, whether we make noise or not. They want to find us, they know where to look.”

  “Do a lot of people use the range?”

  “Nah. Mostly it’s just one. He’s the only one with blanks,” Leon said. He didn’t need to mention a name. He was smirking again.

  “What?”

  “This is a rental,” Leon said, revealing what he’d been hiding. It was a black pistol, tucked into a worn nylon holster, colored pale blue, same as his old uniform. It was an M9 Beretta: black steel, black grip. Tied around the grip, blocking the cartridge from ejecting, was thick silver duct tape.

  “Go on,” Leon said. “It’s yours.”

  From the barrel, a skinny black centipede wormed its way out. An army of tiny legs propelled it as it exited, wrapping itself around the weapon like a snake does prey. Leon held out the gun, dumbfounded. He didn’t see the insect. Of course not. Marco scratched his own neck, looking down at the gun, then back up at Leon. Down at his side, he balled his hands into shaking fists.

  “The fuck…you some kind of pacifist?”

  “I…”

  “It scares you, don’t it? I can see by the way you’re looking at it.”

  Marco made no reply. Leon raised an eyebrow.

  “A gunslinger who’s afraid of guns. That’s a new one. You got any other phobias I should know about?”

  “Bugs,” Marco muttered.

  “I shouldn’t have asked.” Leon scratched his chin. “Now that I think of it, you didn’t have any weapons on your when we found ya, huh? I figgered them boys took that gun off you. But, they didn’t, did they? You were unarmed.”

  “I shouldn’t uhh…I can’t.”

  “You will.” He forced the holstered weapon into Marco’s hands. “You don’t gotta promise me you’ll shoot it right away. But, in the meantime, at least wear it. We can’t be looking like pussies out there.”

  “I’m just a guide. I don’t need it.”

  “You want to be one of us, this is part of the deal.”

  The centipede on the gun brushed over Marco’s fingers. Little legs, scampering over him. Tickling him. He winced, but pretended not to notice, telling himself to focus his attention on Leon.

  “You notice the tape there,” Leon said. “The gun only has three bullets. And you deal with those three. No reloading, no grabbing an extra clip. Call it training wheels.”

  “This is a trust thing? Three bullets is plenty to kill someone with.”

  “Try me,” Leon said, with a smirk.

  Marco stared down at the weapon. He lifted his head and forced a nervous nod.

  “You strap it on your hip, right here,” Leon said. Marco did as he was told, attaching the weapon to his left hip. It felt odd, carrying a gun again, after all this time. The weight of it, the feel.

  “Lefty, huh?”

  “Yeah,” Marco said, with a nod.

  “Two more nights, then we’re hittin the road,” Leon said. “Mother’s supplied us with three weeks worth of food for all three of us.”

  “We’re going to look for the girl,” Marco said.

  “We’re going to find that bitch,” he slapped Marco on the shoulder.

  Leon waved a hand and they walked together back towards the door. On the way, they again passed that flagpole and the pile of rocks at its base.

  No. Not rocks.

  Marco stopped dead before it. This couldn’t be real. Piled around the base of the pole were breastplates and helmets, arm guards and shin guards. All off-white. Quarantine soldier armor. He tried to reassemble them in his mind, to match helmets to breastplates, to wrap his mind around the number of full suits that lay here. Every piece of equipment in the pile had its fair share of scratches and dents. They’d been recovered after combat, by the looks of them. It was obvious that this wasn’t a tribute to fallen soldiers. These were war prizes.

  They’d been taken. Claimed.

  “Admiring the collection?”

  Leon halted beside him, still beaming.

  “Impressive, ain’t it?” he asked.

  Marco swallowed hard, unsure what to say.

  “How…how many?” he asked.

  “At least fifty. Not full suits, but definitely helmets.”

  “You keep them?” He wasn’t looking at Leon while he spoke. Marco continued to stare at the savage shrine. He thought of his comrades in that crash. He thought of the chaos in Garland.

  “It’s not every soldier we kill. Just the first. When you kill your first q-soldier, you gotta prove it. So, you drag his armor back here and toss it in the pile.”

  “Why?” Marco gasped the word.

  “As a rite of passage. That’s how you become one of us.”

  Leon rolled up his sleeve over one shoulder, and pressed a finger to the brand that lay there. “That’s how you earn this.”

  12

  -SAWED-OFF-

  -Justine-

  OF LATE, she hardly remembered falling asleep. She always recalled waking, hair a mess, feeling the drain of a wine hangover. If she did sleep, it didn’t do much goo
d. Of late, she was sapped and sluggish. Maybe she was napping during the day without knowing it. Maybe she was narcoleptic. It sure felt like it. The days didn’t drag on like they used to; they weren’t one long experience. Rather, they felt more like scenes. She jumped from place to place. Cut to a luncheon with Jacob Crowe. Smash cut to a checkers game with another resident named Claire. Cut to fireside drinks with David. Cut back to her bedroom, waking in the morning light. More often than not, it seemed like she didn’t even bother to climb under the comforter. She slept atop it, makeup still on, still in her dress. Maybe she was drinking too much. Maybe she was overstressed. Or maybe, just maybe, she’d finally become completely unhinged.

  About time.

  Each day blurred into the next. Benjamin slipped in his subtle little taunts. A woman named Abby, a young widow, annoyed her to no end. It was the same routine, spiraling with no beginning or end. Her talks with David were her only solace. Arabian Nights-style, she told her tale, baiting him, stringing him along. Keeping his interest. He ate it up, all of it.

  Another glass of wine, another story. Her inertia was out of whack, her life tipped on its axis, but still she continued her twisted tale. According to David, her story was just getting good.

  Justine did her best not to breathe. Her back was against the wall, heart pounding in her chest. She was all sweat and goose pimples. She prayed to God, any God, to send these men away. Turn them back. Set them on fire. Strike them down with lightning bolts. Anything.

  Footsteps. They were inside.

  She thought of running upstairs and barricading herself into the bedroom, but that seemed like delaying the inevitable. Instead she remained where she was, on the ground floor. She tucked herself beside the bookcase, standing upright in the unlit room, where only the dying embers could be seen. The house creaked and groaned with the weight of them. It was unclear how many there were, only that it was definitely more than one. She heard several clicks, which could only be someone toggling with a light switch. No luck.

  Across the house, a strobe ignited, bouncing off the glass, off the windows. Everywhere and nowhere all at once. It wasn’t her divine thunderbolt, unfortunately. Just a flashlight. It began to move through the house, searching...searching, moving in tandem with the shuffling feet and the groaning wooden floor. The light made its way through the kitchen and into the den, accompanied by the entourage of shades that wielded it. It licked at the floors, at the fireplace, at the walls. It searched and searched as she looked on, wide-eyed.

  And then it halted.

  “On me.”

  She held up an arm before her eyes, blinded. The light bowed, dipping low, halting at her waist. She blinked rapidly, lowering her arm, as the mound of silhouettes came more clearly into view. Three men in haggard clothes. The one holding the flashlight was tall and gaunt, his greasy black hair pulled back into a ponytail. All three stared at her, but none with the hunger of the one who stood front and center. It was a much different look than the one Zeke had given her upon their first meeting. Both he and this man, upon first glance, were primal, vicious things. But, Zeke had looked at her with a sense of curiosity. This one craved her. He donned an evil grin, positively beaming at his own dumb luck.

  He elbowed the one next to him, a teenage boy by the looks of him, with a peachfuzz moustache. He was a skinny thing, hesitant. He grabbed her by the bicep. She pulled back, but he tightened his grip. She tried to set her feet in place, to lodge herself between the wall and the bookcase, but she wasn’t strong enough. He pulled her away, throwing her down at the leader’s feet. She landed on her hands and knees and got up to run. The leader grabbed her by the hair, tossing her back down. The floor, again, came up to meet her. This time she didn’t catch her fall.

  He crouched down beside her, placing a palm flat on her back. She shivered at his touch, her entire form clenched tight.

  “No running,” he whispered. “Are you alone?”

  She didn’t answer. He tapped his fingers on her back: thumb, index, middle, ring, pinky and then back the other way. One of his cohorts sauntered off, climbing the stairs. She lay on her stomach, looking at the young one’s boots, cognizant of the crouched body beside her and the unnatural warmth that emanated from him. Somehow, in the darkness, they hadn’t noticed the color of her eyes. She listened to his breaths as the tears leaked down her nose, dotting the carpet in front of her. The third man returned after a few tense minutes. The leader stood.

  “Get her up,” he growled.

  His subordinates tucked a hand each beneath her arms and, with little effort, pulled her to her feet. They spun her around to face him, him and those smiling eyes. He licked his lips. Her body had gone near limp. She had no fight or flight instinct, it appeared. Only obedience. She’d already given in.

  “She’s fuckin hot,” the young one said.

  “Yeah, try and touch her before I’m in there,” the leader said. “I’ll cut your fucking dick off.” He was removing his coat, undoing his belt. “I ain’t had a good fuck in weeks.”

  Beneath his jacket, he wore a sleeveless white tank. A brand marked his shoulder, the imprint a gothic looking letter B.

  In the movies, in this situation, the girl always has a trick up her sleeve. Or some twist of fortune that lets her get away. Or, in those chauvinist flicks where the girl can’t defend herself, also known as most of film history, a man rides in to save the damsel in distress. A white knight, who arrives before the murder. Before the rape.

  Reality is such a drag.

  They tripped her at the ankles, dropping her to her knees. He unfurled himself, shoving it into her mouth, holding her shivering head in place. She choked on the thing and they laughed. He only indulged himself for a few minutes, leaving the stench of himself all over her face. He pulled it from her mouth and she coughed, crying, trying to form the word ‘why.’ This part she didn’t tell David. This part she left out.

  “Pick her up,” he said. “Take off her pants.”

  “NO!” she choked the word out, through the tears. “NO! NO!” They wiggled the jeans from her hips. She found her fight instinct, finally. She trying to kick, to claw, to bite. She flailed, grasping nothing but air. Utterly helpless. They pulled down her panties next, dropping them to her ankles.

  “NO! N...No! Zuh...ZEKE! ZEKE!”

  The leader gave her a hard backhand. Whack, and suddenly she didn’t have anything else to say. Her lip was bleeding and she let her head dangle there, neck limp. Her sight went foggy, all the sounds muffled.

  “Did she say...Zeke?”

  It was the boy’s voice. His face was just beside her ear. They held her wan, thin, feeble body upright. In that moment, it didn’t matter if she was alive or dead. They would do what they would do and that would be the end of it. There were no cops to call. No friends. No neighbors. No white knight.

  “Don’t overreact,” the leader grunted.

  “Nah. We should go, dude. She fuckin said Zeke.”

  “So what?” the leader said.

  “You...I mean, you’ve heard what they say about him.”

  “Cut the bullshit. Both of you.”

  “Dude, I’m just saying-”

  “You’re saying nothing! Fuck! He’s a man, Joe. You hear me? He’s a fucking man, just like us!”

  Justine sipped her wine. She sighed.

  “I didn’t know who Zeke was. Up until then, I figured he was just another survivor. What he did with my dad, dodging his knife, it was impressive. But, I had no way to know he was this, like...reviled figure. I’d been walking around with him all this time. Little did I know, he was a somebody.”

  White Knight, enter stage left.

  All of a sudden, she was falling. The boy released her and she crumpled to the ground, landing hard on her elbows. She winced and lowered her head to the floor, her panties and jeans around her ankles. That taste was still in her mouth. She shivered, closing her eyes, balled up on the floor.

  The room around her got loud.


  All around her, she heard explosions. Cracks of gunfire, a shuffling of feet. Bombs, it sounded like, blasting off left and right. Someone tripped over her and fell. His knee dug into her belly, but still she remained on the ground, her hands over head, blotting out everything. Eventually, the firework show came to an end. Her ears were ringing. She waited a long moment to open her eyes and remove her hands from atop her head. She found his face above her in the smoky room. Zeke.

  “Did they hurt you?” he asked.

  She shook her head. A lie.

  He helped her pull her panties back up. The jeans she’d kicked off at some point. Zeke didn’t bother retrieving them. Instead, he lifted her with both hands, her pale legs exposed, and carried her like a groom hoisting his bride over the threshold. He pulled her head close to his chest.

  “Don’t look,” he said. She didn’t listen. She peeked.

  He carried her through the bloody, bullet-ridden mess of a room. She rested her head on his shoulder. Her eyes found the tight black ponytail of the group’s leader, face down, his blood pooling. Her gaze lingered there a moment.

  Outside, the youngest of the three was still alive. He was crawling away from the house. It was slow going. She assumed he’d been shot. The moon was out, hanging above them. The boy was sniffling and grunting as he moved forward on his elbows. He tensed up when he heard Zeke’s fleet footsteps, pausing a moment and then pushing forward, doubling his speed. Crawling off to nowhere. Expending all this energy for nothing.

  Zeke set her down, slipping the sawed-off from its holster at his belt.

  “Don’t look,” he said.

  This time she listened.

  INTERLUDE

  ON THE EVE OF THE TWO-YEAR ANNIVERSAY, Gayle Tillman thought only of her children.

  There were so many of them now. Sixty total, though only twenty-one had thus far done their duty and earned the brand. She could imagine each of their faces, the way they’d been when they first formed the group. Gayle had a foresight that not many others had. She hadn’t been an apocalypse prepper, not really. She’d been a realist. The quarantine walls went up and she saw that a new world was about to be birthed, one that required a totally different skill set to survive.