“Of course.”
“Something...something Mom and Dad would hate.”
He smiled.
“I have just the thing.”
He turned the clippers on.
3
-MAD BOMBER & THE KENNEL KING-
-Marco-
HE RAN A HAND OVER his buzz-cut scalp. Marco slouched in the wooden chair, which he’d pulled out from the table to face the door. Leon hung by the window, red eyes gazing out into the empty night, which was alive with the sound of crickets.
Marco often forgot how large the man was until they were up close like they were now. Late twenties and carved out of stone, Leon was in his absolute athletic prime. This was the kind of man who survived the apocalypse, who outgunned and outlasted his competition.
“There was this old man, name of Conrad, holed up at Ashe Memorial,” Leon said. “A hermit. Wasn’t involved in no factions, but he knew things. Knox found him a while ‘fore he ever showed ‘em to me. Could’ve been months he kept ‘em from me. When I finally got to meet him it was like some big deal. Come to find out he’s just some dusty old war vet. Weathered, like. And world weary.
“We never did tell Mother about him. Not until right before the end. Knox was worried she might tell us to kill him or bring him in for questioning or whatnot. I remember, those first few times I met him, I didn’t think he was crazy. It was in the way he talked to you. He was bright, but he was also on your level. He had a way of explaining the things that were happenin to him that made sense, things that’d seem batshit crazy otherwise. See, Conrad, he said he’d been here from the start. He’d been one of the first to contract. Men like him, he liked to call ‘em Old Blood.
“Me, I was always more worried about what faction we was at war with that week, or how to steal the Drop. The mystery of the virus is a hard thing to focus on when you gotta worry about survivin the night, you know? But, Knox, he’d visit the old man maybe once a week. Conrad didn’t believe that Army bullshit about the virus being cosmolic or whatever.”
“Cosmetic,” Marco said.
“Yeah, that one. Cosmetic. He figgered the bug needed time to incubate. It changed how we look, but it hadn’t taken effect on the inside. Time went on, he started to feel new symptoms. Shit I still haven’t felt to this day.”
“Like what?”
“Like ah…soreness. He said he felt sore in his back, just beneath the shoulder blades. And his gums too. And wrists. Those were the big three. But, he said the Pulse was different too. Certain nights it would get so loud, it was like his whole body could feel it. Like an earthquake from the inside. So, he’d curl up and cover his ears and wait for it to pass. Course I thought he was full of shit. You got a whole town of people ain’t had no symptoms and one guy says he does, who you gonna believe? But, Knox stuck with him. He didn’t talk much about it, but two, three nights a week he’d go missing and I always knew where he was at. Knox contracted the bug way before me, before most of us, actually. I think he kept that man around to use him as a measuring stick to see what might happen to him.”
“What happened?”
“He died.”
“From the virus?”
“From a bullet. We never saw what came next, virus-wise. Then a couple months go by, and Knox starts saying the same shit as the old man. I didn’t believe him, not totally, til I saw it. Maybe eight weeks ago, I walked in on him, same as you did. Saw it for myself. Nobody fakes that. Knox’s pain is real.”
Marco nodded in silent agreement. He pulled a cigarette from his pack, waving it Leon’s way as if to ask “is this okay?” The big grunt nodded.
“The old man knew all kinds of shit he shouldn’t have known. I’d ask him how he knew suttin or where he found out and he’d just smile. Take a puff of his cigar. A mystery man, to his last.”
“You ever find out who killed him?”
Leon scratched his head.
“Naw.” He was silent a moment. Reflective. Then those red eyes flickered back to life. “But, you understand now. This is why we have to find her.”
Marco was unsure how to respond. He settled on half-hearted words of support.
“We will.”
~
Knox rejoined them at daybreak, coated and grime and looking as if he’d hardly slept. He wore a white jersey with red letters and red trim. Number three. He greeted Marco’s stare the same as usual.
“The fuck are you looking at?”
For three more days they searched, clearing each secluded house one by one. Knox led the way on his motorcycle, and Leon followed behind, Marco riding shotgun. Searching was grunt work. Each of them had a turn with a room, looking for any missed detail, any small clue that might lead them towards the girl. Marco managed to find a stale half-pack of cigs on the second day, which he considered an unmitigated triumph. They traversed forests and followed streams. Each time, Leon would mark his map with that red magic marker. Another rock turned over, with nothing hiding underneath. If Knox had any episodes by nightfall, he did a good job of hiding them. Marco didn’t hear a peep from the man, despite spending half the night expecting it.
For himself, sleep was still hard to come by. He knew full-well that the less he slept, the more likely he was to see things that weren’t there or to drift off and lose focus or worse: lose his guard. But, the task was nigh impossible. The harder he tried to sleep, the more difficult it became. For the longest time he’d suspected that it was because he feared the night, and the unsuspected foe. Death in tattered clothes, waiting with a knife in hand for him to drift off. But, it was just as likely that he stayed awake to avoid that savage dreamscape that lay beneath. Ash and soot and white armor, and a little girl who called his name.
Garland.
~
“Ever seen anything like it?”
She was eight feet tall, slim and pale, and painted onto the side of a barn. Her black hair hung down onto her shoulders, arms outstretched as if welcoming someone for an embrace. But, the eyes stuck out most of all: penned in an icy blue that seemed to glow.
A mural on a wall.
All around the woman’s likeness were tags from this faction or that one, or graffiti doodles, but they hung along the fringes, not daring to touch the image of the girl. Surrounding her frame was what could only be described as an aura, a thin outline, drawn in red.
“I wasn’t aware that she was a celebrity,” Marco said.
“They call her the Maiden,” Leon said, crossing his arms. Knox hung further back, leaning against the car that they’d left parked sideways in the road, chomping his gum. “People need suttin to hope for, right? For a lot of people, it’s her.”
There was something about it that didn’t seem right to Marco. Maybe it was the way she was posed, or the aural way they’d drawn the blue of her eyes. The girl had been etched here like some sort of deity. A God, a savior. And one that either wasn’t coming or didn’t seem to care. Last he checked, mythical heroines didn’t often go into hiding.
“To be totally honest,” Marco said, “it kind of creeps me out.”
~
Another two days, and still nothing. By nightfall they made a campfire, which seemed to Marco like another in a long list of reckless ideas. Not that they’d listen if he did caution against it. Around the flame, Leon tipped back a bottle of Jack Daniels while Knox popped open a beer. All that was missing were the marshmallows.
For a while, they spoke the standard scavenger rhetoric, the kind of talk Marco had overheard during those days eavesdropping in the Armory main hall. The way he figured it, Bloodline scavengers mainly talked about three things. The first was guns. The dregs would discuss specs: my piece holds this many to a clip, fires this fast, can hit a target this far away. It was a dick-measuring contest, another opportunity to assert dominance. Second, was complaints. The rations aren’t large enough, the trade bar doesn’t have anything worth bartering for, and I lost ten cans in a card game the other night. More times than not there were veiled slights at
their fearless leader, but no one ever mentioned Mother by name.
And third, well…
“We was out there, me and Jase, and I swear I almost stepped on the thing. Pipe bomb, real do-it-yourself lookin. Musta been July…”
Third was war stories. Scavengers loved to talk about the things that almost killed them. In this regard, Leon had no rival.
“Ay Marco, you ever heard of the Mad Bomber?”
Marco shook his head. Leon smiled. He seemed to dig deeper into his seat, taking another swig.
“Ah, shit,” Knox sighed. “Now you’ve got him all wound up.”
The Mad Bomber, as it turned out, was a particularly devious scavenger. It was unclear what faction, if any, he was affiliated with, but he was on everyone’s radar. Leon told him how the Bomber was known for making homemade bombs and leaving them in the road for the unsuspecting scavenger to step on and lose a leg or get shot full of shrapnel. There was also Kid Suicide, a young gunslinger with scars all along his arms from the times he’d tried and failed to take his own life. Least believable of all was the Kennel King, an unusually tall, slim man who kept two infected dogs on a leash: Rottweilers or bloodhounds. Rumor was, he fed them human flesh.
“He for sure isn’t real,” Knox said.
“Sure he is. My boy Nate seen him.”
“Yeah, Nate also said he ran into Zeke on the Ridgewood strip.”
“So? Who says he didn’t?”
Knox shook his head, a knowing smirk on his lips.
“This one here, Marco, he ain’t a believer,” Leon said, pointing a finger at his friend.
“It’s scavenger gossip.”
“Yeah?”
“Yeah. Don’t be so gullible,” Knox said. “Everyone and their mother says they’ve had a run-in with one of the local legends. The real gunslingers. Or they know a guy who did. And Zeke, the things they say about him…It’s like he’s a catch-all that we made up to say ‘that’s the reason my friend died. He got killed fighting the best.’ It’s bullshit. It can’t be the heavy hitters doing all the killing. More often than not, it’s a no name killing a no name over petty crap like women or a few cans.”
Knox addressed Leon when he spoke. Seemed like he always did; like Marco was an afterthought, not nearly cool enough to truly join their little club.
“It can’t all be bullshit,” Leon said.
“Sure it can. Everything is word of mouth now. We live in a society of hearsay. Yeah, maybe he really is this ultimate badass they make him out to be. But, I think the way more likely scenario is that he’s just another guy who we happened to pile a bunch of embellishments onto. Or else he never existed at all.”
The wind turned, blowing a plume of smoke in Marco’s face. He waved at it with a hand, coughing. Suddenly his whole world smelled of damp soot.
“I think you’re just afraid to lose your spot on the mountaintop. Best shot in the west!” Leon said, drawing a finger gun and firing. “I wonder if you could take em.”
“Who, Zeke?”
“Yeah.”
Knox smiled.
“He favors a sawed-off, right? So, I’d have to make sure he couldn’t get in close. Couldn’t get the jump on me.”
“You ever met one better than you? A gunfighter, I mean.”
“I don’t know,” Knox replied, contemplative. “Wade’s the only one where I ever really questioned it. He just…he moved differently, you know? The way he’d draw, the way he used cover. Everything was smooth and natural. It was a dance for him, but he was always moving two steps ahead of everyone else. The chaos of a battlefield, it was like he could read it, anticipate it. At least until he met me.”
Wade. Marco knew the name. They were referring to James ‘Stocker’ Wade, leader of the Deadeyes. Well, former leader.
“Cheers, then. To Stocker Wade. May he burn in hell,” Leon said, raising the bottle. Knox lazily lifted his beer can in salute. Marco nodded along with them. He lit a cigarette, letting his shoulders slump forward as he exhaled. Leon handed him the bottle.
“C’mon,” he said. “It’s good for you.”
He drank and smoked and let them spin their tales, laughing along with them. Leon was piss drunk by the end of it, so Marco agreed to take watch until dawn. Alone, he smoked and watched the flickering flame, twisting and twirling beneath a muted sky.
4
-B.B.-
-Justine-
THE RUTLEDGE PREPARATORY SCHOOL FOR GIRLS student parking lot was always full. The well-to-do bimbos who sat in front of her in history class, popping their gum, those same ones who ignored her in the hallway and gave her sideways glances at lunch, they’d all awoken on their sixteenth birthday to a brand new car. Range rover, Jetta, Miata. Parked neatly in the driveway behind Dad’s Mercedes, a giant red bow on the hood.
She’d never had such luxuries. A yellow school bus lifted her from the corner down the block from her house. Her stepfather had never been about hand-outs.
Many of those girls got their learner’s permits at fifteen, and with it the vehicle, lying in wait. One by one, the drama queens would secure their rite of passage. Four wheels and an air freshener; that’s all it took to become a woman. They’d all been deflowered by then anyway, she figured. It wasn’t like there was all that much left to learn.
“Turn the key.”
She listened. The engine roared to a start and then settled on a powerful purr. The gurgle of a God. She gripped the wheel with two hands, her thumbs poking through holes in the cuffs of her black sweatshirt. Her hood was up, chest and legs each covered in three layers. A pair of silver aviators sat on the dash. She glanced once at Zeke and then back to the oversized shades. She put them on, examining her reflection. Her frizzy black hair was long gone. Instead, her head was shaved on one side and in the back. The other side was combed over, hair falling over her ear. So stylish. So fashion forward.
Apocalypse chic.
“The last time I drove was when I got my license. Had to be nine months ago,” she said. “I can’t parallel park. I mean, I did it on the test, but, I was always pretty crappy at it.”
He nodded and reached over, shifting the car into drive.
“Show me.”
A Porsche. Even those rich sluts had never had one of these. All that was missing was the bow. She accelerated.
The familiar streets disappeared in a blur. In warmer weather, they’d have chosen a convertible. Zeke advised against it, given her aversion to the cold. Autumn was changing to winter, quickly, and the temperature had begun to reflect that. On a nightly basis they shared a bed now. She’d cling to his supernatural warmth until she faded to sleep. If she awoke during the night, he’d be gone, of course, but by morning he always returned.
What a rush. She whipped through the streets, turning onto the hilly roads of Ridgewood. The perfect destination for a midday drive. Miles and miles of hilly farmland lay vacant, crops left to die, livestock God knows where. From her chest, she felt that bubbling excitement rising.
“Up ahead, take the highway,” he instructed. It was as if he snapped his fingers, and her blissful trance was all but gone.
“The highway? You said the highway is blocked off.”
“Drive. There’s nothing to be afraid of.”
She signaled to no one and merged onto the highway. Route 8 South was surrounded on both sides by snowcapped mountains. They were probably tiny in comparison to the hills outside of Connecticut, but they were the only ones she’d ever known. All along the side of the road, the skeletons of trees stood tall. They were crystal-like at first glance, as if composed of glass. The mile markers whipped by. One exit and then the next. 43...42.
“Faster.” He waited a moment, watching. “”Faster!”
She put her foot to the floor. 85...90...95. It took such little effort to push this car to triple digits. The exits came faster now. 41...40...39...38.
“Slow, now.”
She nearly flipped the car. Her foot hit the brake, hard, and the high-p
owered car began to enter a tailspin. Zeke grabbed the wheel, ripping it in the opposite direction, stabilizing the expensive black vehicle. She stopped, finally, in the middle of the highway, chest heaving in an out as she gasped in each breath. Mouth still hanging open, inhaling and exhaling those hummingbird-quick gasps, she turned to Zeke. Buddhist monk bastard that he was, he stared blankly. Hidden behind her black hood, she adjusted her aviators and pushed the hair from her face.
“Fun, isn’t it?”
“Shut up,” she replied, heart still pounding. “Are we heading back?”
“No. Drive slowly, and stop at exit 37 up ahead. Pull over to the side of the road and take the keys. We’ll continue there on foot.”
~
After she parked, they stuck to the tree line, Zeke leading the way, as he always did. The sawed-off shotgun at his hip bobbed up and down as he moved. It seemed to her to be a safety hazard, but the thing never went off. A few miles of hiking and she was exhausted. Only then, when her empty stomach began to growl, did she finally begin to see what they’d come here for. She removed her sunglasses.
Lining the road, every half mile or so, was the burnt husk of what had once been a car. Blackened, charred, riddled with bullets, these vehicles lay dormant in random locations across the road. She glanced ahead at Zeke but asked no questions. Suddenly, she wasn’t so hungry anymore.
He held an arm in front of her to halt her from walking any further.
“There,” he said. “Do you see it?”
It would’ve been hard not to. The barricade was a sight to behold. The makeshift military compound had been constructed right in the middle of the road, blocking off both lanes. Tarps and tents as far as the eye could see. But, in front of all of it, was what looked like a wall made of steel, some twenty feet high. Protruding from it was a heavy turret gun, a massive, savage weapon the likes of which she’d never imagined. The kind of weapon that could bite through metal, chew through cars. She saw no people, just that never-ending line of makeshift tents, blocking off the rest of the world.
Bury Me in Black Page 14