Bury Me in Black

by Royce Caradoc

  On the steps of the place that would become their home, she had each and every one of them make a pact. The old world would be forgotten. No longer were you going to be an accountant, a journalist, a cop, a postal worker. Pick a new name, a new history. Reinvent yourself. Who you were before does not matter.

  This is the first day of the rest of your life.

  They needed an identity, so she gave them a name. Hell, she gave them a logo. She had a few men gather cattle prods from every farm in town and picked the coolest one. They needed a fearsome name and symbol. The title was of special import; it had to roll off the tongue. The meaning itself was secondary, truth be told. They were the Bloodline because it made them sound united, made them sound like family. But, mostly, because it sounded cool.

  The hierarchy had been the last step. She needed her warriors to be the most proud of her disciples, in the same way as medieval knights. They needed to be the ones everyone looked up to, the ones everyone else strived to be like. But, they also had to be ruthless. They had to be mentally strong enough to do what must be done, and skilled enough to actually pull it off. Kill a trained soldier, in full armor. That was how they’d earn their stripes. She smiled now at how formulaic it had all been. Society Building 101.

  Gayle slapped at the hands below her with a rolled up piece of paper.

  “Slow down. What, do you have somewhere to be?”

  Cynthia, bony, freckled and awkward at seventeen, knelt before her, putting the finishing touches on a pedicure. Gayle was dressed in another kimono, this one black with silver trim. Her silver-grey hair was pulled back in a ponytail, as always. She wore no makeup or jewelry. On the wall behind her, stacked in little cubbies, were her many darkly-tinted tincture bottles, filled with an array of remedies. Tumeric for joint and stomach pain. Uva Ursi for kidney and bladder health. Motherwort for her blood pressure. Holistic medicine had been a part of her lifestyle long before the outbreak.

  “I’m sorry, Mother,” the girl said.

  Sorry. That was an accurate word to describe the girl. Gayle stopped her, and cupped her chin in one hand.

  “You are off somewhere. Dreaming.”

  “I’m sorry, I-”

  “Don’t talk back now. Let me finish. You’re off thinking about tonight. And tonight is an exciting night. The liquor will be flowing. We’ll have a bonfire. Maybe you could talk to one of the boys you’ve had your eye on. Eh?” She let go of the girl’s face, and snapped a finger just in front of her nose. “But! You must be present. Stay in the moment. Endure the harder moments so that you can fully enjoy the fun ones.” She glanced down at her toes. “Continue.”

  This one had a hard life ahead of her. Gayle often tried to project forward what each of her citizens might contribute to the society. Some were naturals, like Edward with his knack for trade or Leon with his brute strength. Others needed to be shaped. For most, all it took was a subtle push in this direction or that one, and Gayle was able to mold her people like clay. But, this girl, Cynthia, she didn’t seem very good at anything. She’d lost both her parents before she’d stumbled upon the Armory and had very little luck making friends. She was a shy, introverted thing, lacking confidence. Another wealthy daughter of Ridgewood, who had never wanted for anything and never learned a skill worth a damn.

  She’d never hold a gun, or hunt. She’d never be a cook or take on any kind of leadership role. This one was destined to become some scavenger’s shadow, warming his bed and waiting in the food line for his rations. That certainly wasn’t an easy life, but there were worse things. Gayle recalled the first few times she’d interacted with Jase, how hard it had been to pin down his role and project a year or two down the line. Knox’s little brother had been booksmart, but he was meek. Unconfident, and all skin and bone.

  It wasn’t until later that she realized why it’d been so hard to forsee his future. He didn’t have one.

  “Is there a boy you like that’ll be at the party tonight?” Gayle asked. “Edgar? Or how about Jeremy? He’s a handsome one. No…it’s Knox isn’t it? All the girls like Knox.” The girl began to blush. “Maybe I can introduce the two of you.” Again, she cupped the girl’s chin in her hand. “If you do a good job.”

  ~

  The Armory’s main atrium was, for once, near empty. She moved quickly towards the back door, glancing once over to the lunch tables, where an emaciated young man with a buzz-cut had his nose buried in an auto magazine. He didn’t notice her.

  Outside, she watched the festivities. She remained on the fringes, a silent spectator. It was so seldom that she allowed herself to be seen outside. Her every appearance needed to have meaning, to have weight. For days, even weeks at a time, she’d remain in her room. Some of the younger girls would deliver her food, as well as the latest gossip on the Armory floor. Teenagers. At least they were useful for something.

  Out there, under the night sky, Gayle couldn’t help but admire her own handiwork. Two years. They’d lasted two whole years, in this most dangerous of places. This was better than any case she’d ever won in the courtroom. Better than graduating at the top of her class at Yale. This was her opus.

  She let half a smile play on her lips. Just for a moment.

  A figure moved up beside her.

  “Any problems?” she asked.

  “Two fights. Nothin serious.”

  “You broke them up?”

  “No. No one drew, so I figured I’d let the fuggers tire themselves out.”

  Leon seemed to be in high spirits. His eyes were already foggy, shoulders slumped forward in a relaxed stance. She stared up at him, then moved her eyes slowly towards his mangled ear. Here she rested her gaze. Leon’s back straightened. He scratched his chin, obviously uncomfortable.

  “Keep your wits tonight.”

  “I will, Mother. You ain’t gotta worry about me.”

  “Did he give it to you?”

  “Uh-huh.”

  Leon tapped at his waistband.

  “You need to be the one to give it to him,” Gayle said. “He trusts you.”

  “Course he trusts me. I saved his life.”

  “You need to be careful with this one.”

  “Well, that’s what this here is for, ain’t it?” he said, again patting at his waist. “To learn where he stands.”

  ~

  Earlier that night, deep within the bowels of the Armory, a man loaded three guns.

  He lay the belt and holster out on the desk in front of him, stretching it to its full length as if it adorned two invisible hips. The .45 was first. A name was carved into the barrel of the weapon, four capital letters. LUCK. He slipped it from the left holster, which would sit a shooter’s right hip and ejected the clip. He took a cloth to the gun, wiping it clean, then slapped a new clip into place. Lethal pincers, expanding shrapnel and explosive, all in a fun-sized wrapper.

  Luck was the utility player: built for blasting off several rounds at a time or hitting a target at long distance. He tucked it back into its holster, letting it get some much deserved beauty rest. Next he drew the Colt revolver. The big gun. The business gun. Much like its brother, this one had a name etched into the barrel as well. In large letters it read JOHNNY U.

  He slid a round into each of the six chambers and then snapped Johnny shut. He ran a hand over his darling pistol.

  “You fuggin done yet?”

  A voice from the couch behind him. The man continued. He set Johnny to bed as well and put the third gun on the table. It looked so plain next to the other, much handsomer weapons. Jet black and simple, without even a name. He ejected the clip of the M9 Beretta.

  Behind him, the figure rose from the couch. He walked over to the desk, footsteps heavy, coming into the light. He hovered over Knox’s shoulder, yawning.

  “I know that piece,” Leon said.

  “Yup.”

  Manually, he took the bullets from the clip, one by one, and set them on the tabletop. 14 total. He snapped back the slide, sending the final bullet spi
raling through the air. Knox snatched it before it fell.

  “Ain’t you got enough pistols?”

  “Not for me. This is for your Stray.”

  “My Stray,” Leon chuckled. “You ain’t gonna give it to him?”

  “Mother thinks it’s better if you do.”

  “Prolly a smart move. But, like, why this gun?”

  “Because Nathan Conrad was a sucker. And so is he.”

  He loaded just three bullets into the M9, and then taped the cartridge shut.

  Three practice rounds. Blanks.

  OLD

  BLOOD

  1

  -PAUL PIERCE-

  -Marco-

  UNDER THE YELLOW MOON, he took a long drag of his cigarette. A week had passed at the Armory, seven days and seven nights, and bumming this cigarette had been his greatest accomplishment. It was his first since his capture by the twins. Four drags in, he was light-headed. He didn’t really get an itch for nicotine anymore; not since the bug. When he smoked now, it was more out of habit than anything. Screw it. If he pretended it helped with the stress, then it would be so. His favorite activity, reduced to a fucking placebo.

  He’d been coming out to the backyard alone these past few nights. If the others were keeping tabs on him, they were being coy about it. More often than not, he’d had his run of the place. He was beginning to grow comfortable, finding little hiding places like this one, away from the chatter and the wandering eyes.

  Further out, he could see the swaying flag, the very sight of which still made his stomach drop. He thought of the death it had taken to build that savage pile beneath it. Did they expect him to try to kill a quarantine soldier himself, and earn that same brand? Could he fake it? He pictured going off and finding some discarded armor, somewhere, and returning. He could picture Knox and Mother examining his bounty, scrutinizing it. They’d know it to be counterfeit, no doubt. Especially her. Kneeling before that woman, he’d felt naked, vulnerable. Under her watchful glare, every choice was the wrong one. A tiger lay behind every door.

  Far off in the night, he heard a guttural howl. In the distance, a shadow stood doubled over in pain, long hair in its eyes. It growled through a clenched jaw, as if holding some great pain at bay, as if a beast were fighting to burst through the flesh.

  Marco put out his cigarette on the bottom of his shoe and dipped back inside. He had no interest in crossing paths with this person. Fear beat out curiosity, at least this once.

  ~

  They loaded up the car the next day. Backpack after backpack, into the trunk of Leon’s old Trans Am. Like a freshman on the basketball team, they relied on Marco to do all the heavy lifting. Most of the bags were full of cans, which clinked as he walked, weighing down his bony shoulders. The others, he assumed, carried extra ammunition or whatever other gear his two companions planned to bring with them. Marco himself owned nothing. Leon had found a few old pairs of jeans his size, along with several t-shirts and one hooded sweatshirt. Almost all of it was black. Knox could keep his flashy basketball jerseys, but Marco preferred to be as incognito as possible. Black had always been his color.

  He stood just inside the front door, catching his breath, hands on his knees. Knox stood beside him, leaning against the wall. He wore his white shades, even indoors, and a green and white jersey, number 34. He wore a smug grin when he glanced upon the sweating, drained Stray at his side.

  “That’s a nice watch you got there.”

  A trio of scavengers had approached. All three were unseemly grunts, post-apocalyptic punks. The one who spoke had a head shaved clean bald, with two capital S’s embroidered on his neck.

  Charming.

  “Thanks,” Knox droned, bored.

  “Where’d you get it?”

  “I don’t know, man.”

  “You know, I had a watch just like that one,” the scavenger said, placing a finger to his lips. He took a step closer, dead-set on engaging. The two others took a step with him, in stride.

  “No kidding.”

  “I shit you not. It was my daddy’s watch.”

  Knox removed his back from the wall. He pushed his sunglasses up into his hair. He was finally present.

  “I got this one in Ridgewood, I think. On one of my runs.”

  “That’s a hell of a get,” the man said.

  “That’s what I said.”

  “Mine…I misplaced. I had it up until a few nights back. We was all out by the fire, having a good time. I drank too much, woke up the next day, and it was gone. I think it was what, Wednesday?”

  “That’s tough man,” Knox said, popping his gum. “I’ve been there.”

  Knox had widened his stance now. His hands were near his hips now. Near those two silver pistols.

  “It’s just…it’s funny, man. Seeing one just like it, so soon,” the man said, glaring at the golden timepiece on Knox’s wrist. “You was there Wednesday, wasn’t you?”

  “Don’t remember,” Knox said, chewing. He and the man held stare now. “Oh!” Knox snapped his fingers. “I think I understand what’s going on here. I see what you’re implying.” His hand slithered down to the weapon on his right hip. The big revolver. The business gun. He began to tap the butt of the weapon with his thumb. He made it very obvious. Right away, every eye was on his hand, and on that weapon. “What you’re implying…” Knox said, taking his time, “is that we both have great taste in watches. Right?”

  For a moment, no one said anything. The only sound was his thumb on the gun.

  Tap. Tap. Tap.

  “Because if you’re saying something else, we can go ahead and settle it, you and me,” Knox said. “Are ya?”

  Marco saw it. He saw the moment the fight faded from the other man’s eyes. This was Knox’s reputation, in full effect. This was the power of being who he was. Of doing what he’d done.

  “Nah,” the other one said, through gritted teeth.

  “Good,” Knox replied. He slapped Marco on the chest. “Let’s go. Ya’ll have a nice day, now,” he said, with a wink.

  ~

  Outside, halfway down the incline, they found the two vehicles parked: a rust red Trans Am and a sleek black motorcycle with a single round headlight at the front. Knox leaned against the car. Marco stood awkwardly nearby, hands in his pockets. Twice, maybe three times, he thought about making small talk with the jersey-clad scavenger, but Knox gave no signs of warmth. No opening. He acted like Marco was invisible. So, the two of them stood there, not saying anything, until Leon finally emerged.

  “About fucking time,” Knox said. He mounted his motorcycle.

  “Ay man, had to make sure we got enough joints for the road,” Leon said. “Who’s leadin?”

  “I will,” Knox said. He turned the key, and his bike gurgled to life. Leon hopped into the car and Marco took shotgun. It was an interesting feeling, to be outside with these two, a gun at his hip and a half-smoked cigarette behind one ear. He tried to keep a stoic look to him, but beneath it all he was giddy. Leon seemed to sense it.

  “Careful now,” the brute said. “You need to keep your eyes peeled out here. There’s enemies everywhere, and this here brand, it’s like a target on our backs.”

  “Well it’s a good thing I don’t have one yet,” Marco said.

  “Yeah,” Leon grunted. “Good thing.”

  ~

  On the road, the scavengers drove way too fast. With Leon behind the wheel, they were a rust red blur amongst all that overgrown green life, racing through the hilly roads without a pursuer or anything to chase. They drove through the empty town center next, passing by all those ghosted storefronts with their busted in windows. Marco knew from experience that you had to go way out into the sticks to find places that hadn’t already been searched a dozen times over. It’d been over a year since Covington Center had bore any fruit. This place had been ransacked early and often. No one even bothered scavenging here anymore. The place had epitomized rural New England once, but now it was covered in scars from all th
e times it’d been raped and pillaged. Damaged and graffiti stained, these buildings still stood. These not-quite-ruins. They zipped by in Leon’s beat up truck, past town hall. Up ahead, Knox weaved this way and that on his motorcycle, engine roaring in the empty air.

  They probably made quite the ruckus. It seemed careless to Marco. Stupid, even. Leon’s warning quickly lost its meaning once Marco saw how they actually handled a trip out to the towns. They rode through the streets of Covington like they had nothing to fear. Like a sniper’s bullets would just bounce off of them and the flattened slugs would land in the road. Leon had Marco grab him a beer from one of the bags and he downed it as he drove, belching loudly and tossing the thing out the window.

  “You know there ain’t one gas station in Ridgewood?” Leon asked.

  “No?” Marco replied.

  “What’s that say about a town? That it ain’t got one got damn gas station? Right?” he glanced over for reassurance. “I used to come out here praying I didn’t get a flat or run out of gas. Ain’t no cell reception out here, neither. I’d be stranded.”

  Marco sunk into his seat as they crossed over the Covington-Ridgewood line. He gazed out the window, taking in the sights of all this overgrown green life.

  Ridgewood was a stretch of hilly roads leading nowhere. To the west was the main drag of some six or seven building deep on either side: town hall, a church and a library. It was some small semblance of civilization. Knox, up ahead on his bike, led them the opposite direction, towards the farmland. To rural heaven.

  Each farm stretched for miles on end, marked off by unpainted wooden gates. Tractors sat on patches of dirt. Pickup trucks remained out front, abandoned. The paint peeled from the red barns, crops long dead. Weeds ran rampant, swallowing everything. An infection to all plant life. The grass grew past their waists in some places, so they stuck mostly to the road. Eventually, Marco thought, the grass would grow even higher. It’d overtake the pavement, swallow the old barns and houses whole. Time was all it needed. Centuries would pass, and the earth would take back what was hers. The urban sprawl would be forgotten. It would be like no one had ever been here.