Bury Me in Black

by Royce Caradoc

  Zeke had been right. The quarantine was no fairy tale. It was right there in front of her, lines drawn in the sand.

  “They can track a car coming from several miles away and destroy it before it ever gets close. It’s impressive, really. They’re true marksmen, these soldiers.”

  Impressive wasn’t quite the word she was looking for.

  “Let’s go back,” she said.

  He licked his lips.

  “Do they scare you?”

  “You scare me. I’m half expecting you to have some plan for us to escape right now. Sneak past them on foot or something.”

  “There’s no sneaking past. Up above the clouds, they have drones sweeping the quarantine zone. I’ve seen them. Big Brother hasn’t abandoned us just yet.”

  She tucked her hands into the pouch-like pockets of her sweatshirt, black hood still up.

  “The world is out there, huh? The real world.”

  “I suppose.”

  She gave the barricade the finger.

  “Screw that place.” She turned back towards the car, tapping him on the side as she passed. “C’mon,” she said, her back to him, trying in vain to hide a smirk. “Don’t lag behind now.”

  Halfway back to the car, he asked her if she’d like him to drive.

  “Not a chance in hell.” She adjusted her aviators. Twenty minutes later, her foot was to the floor, hands gripped tight around the steering wheel.

  Four wheels and an air freshener.

  ~

  Nausea set in before bed that night. A familiar occurrence. She took her bath and marked another day on her calendar, another big red X, and then drifted off to sleep. When she came to, it took a moment to recognize the time of day, or even where she was. Her dreams often bled into the morning, and she’d sometimes awake thinking she was in another upstairs bedroom, waiting for Zeke to return from his mystery trips. Sometimes it’d feel like she was in her mother’s house, or in that trapdoor basement, upon a bunk.

  But, always, to her chagrin, she awoke here. In Manor Crowe.

  She rose from her four-post, dressed in a silk nightgown that never kept her warm, colored crimson and silver. The previous occupants of this house, unfortunately for her, hadn’t left behind any sweats. Justine ran a bath and disrobed, humming a tune to herself that she hadn’t heard in a long while. It made her think of her mother.

  She bathed and dried herself with a towel. She blow-dried her hair next, and then meticulously straightened it. Benjamin would have it no other way. Underwear came next, and then she chose a dress from the closet. All Crowe had left her were evening dresses. She’d be prepped for the ball that was never coming, it seemed, every day until her last.

  It took some searching to find a dress her size. She tried on a conservative black dress and a low-backed royal blue one, both of which she’d donned on previous occasions. Both nearly slid off her feeble frame. After some searching, Justine found an emerald green number that fit snugly enough. She pulled it on before the vanity mirror and examined her figure. Still skin and bone, still gangly, still all knees and elbows. She applied her makeup next, covering every inch of revealed pink flesh with that chalk-white powder. She dipped her hand into her dress, covering up any skin that might be exposed with the wrong movement. When she was appropriately wan, she headed back to the bathroom. She’d hidden her contact kit under the sink, up against the far wall of the little cabinet. She cleaned them and placed them over her eyes, one by one, each of them shaded the devil’s red.

  Justine picked out a necklace. She considered adorning her neck with that bullet slug, her sole totem to Zeke the Dollface. Every time, she thought about it, and every time she chose something else. It wasn’t worth the risk of Benjamin seeing her wear it and confiscating the thing. It was all she had left.

  Next came lipstick, earrings, eye shadow, heels. Black velvet gloves, stretched up to her elbows.

  The transformation was complete.

  She felt woozy on the way down the stairs. Immediately she heard the ruckus. Chatter, the clanging of utensils, laughter. The honorable Lord Crowe was hosting another dinner party and no one had bothered to tell her.

  At the bottom of the stairs, she paced across the crimson carpet towards the dining room. Benjamin knelt before the front door, down on one knee, attending to a shoe that had come undone. His pant leg had lifted just above the ankle, just enough to show off a peculiar item strapped to his shin.

  A gun.

  It was a little revolver, silver, sitting a black holster. How odd. Benjamin was the last person she’d expected to see carrying. He glanced up, attempting to catch her eye, but she quickly averted her attention. Justine scurried off towards the glass double doors of the dining room and didn’t look back.

  The doors hung fully ajar. Inside, every seat looked to be full. Another table had been pushed against the already overlong dining room table and covered in that royal blue tablecloth. The entire house was here, by the looks of it, all crammed into one room. Their chatter died down as they slowly began to notice the pale skeleton hanging in the doorway. A hush spread across the table, infecting them one by one.

  “Darling,” croaked a voice from the far end of the room. “Have a seat.”

  Her place near the foot of the table was taken, but Justine spied an open spot just a few chairs down from the head. She walked towards it, keenly aware that every eye in the room was following her. She did her best to step gracefully, her heels clicking against the marble floor. She stumbled on the way and grabbed the back of the nearest chair to retain her balance.

  “I’m sorry,” she said faintly, offering a smile to the man whose chair she’d grabbed. He forced a halfhearted grin in return.

  She slumped into the seat, finally, and the rest of the table returned to life. It was venison, either from the basement reserve or freshly hunted. At the head of the table, she looked over at the master of ceremonies. He was chatting away, paying her no mind. She grabbed a spoonful of potatoes and plopped it onto her plate, glancing up to see the family across and three seats down from her. David, his wife, and little Tommy. David wiped his mouth with a handkerchief. He glanced over at her just for a moment, a millisecond shared. From that point on, he ignored her completely. She’d expected it, of course. It didn’t make it any less deflating.

  “Jeffrey Haim, now there was a true leader,” Crowe said, gossiping with the man seated to his right. “I never understood why he didn’t run again...what was it...two November’s ago. Bouchard didn’t give a damn about the people up here in the woods. Our tax dollars didn’t mean a thing to him. Just trying to make a buck, like the rest of them.”

  She raised her fork, looking down at the food in her plate. With the utensil, she moved the potatoes around, mixing it into the corn. She put the fork down.

  “Haim was a great public speaker,” the man agreed.

  “The best! I hadn’t seen anything like that in twenty-five years. Not since Lester Tillman in Covington, for Christ’s sakes. Haim always had a mind on commerce. Economic development. That’s what was going to bring Ridgewood into the next generation. Not some damned hardware store owner from down the road.”

  More nausea. She rubbed her eyes. All around her, the voices were blending together. No longer was she eavesdropping on this conversation or that one. It was all just muffled noise. She looked again at David, who was deep in conversation with the young man beside him. His wife kept looking her way. Justine avoided her eyes.

  “More potatoes, dear?” a middle aged man to her right asked, holding out the bowl. She suddenly felt like vomiting. She shook her head no.

  Pushing out her chair, the stick figure in emerald green opened her mouth to ask to be excused. Instead, her knees wobbled beneath her. She grabbed at the shoulder of the man beside her, clawing like a cat to find something to steady herself. Her fingers slid off of his sport coat and then she was falling. She didn’t remember hitting the ground.

  ~

  In a cold sweat, Justin
e awoke. She was in her bed, still in that green dress. One of her heels was gone. The other dangled from the end of her big toe. She felt exhausted, even still. Her head was pounding, and she felt a bruised sort of soreness behind her eyes. Justine forced herself to sit upright. She was in no mood to return to her dreams.

  It was pitch dark outside. She rose slowly, her stomach in a knot. Her hair was a mess, she didn’t need a mirror to tell that much. She wiped her eyes, pulling on her right heel. The other lay halfway between the bed and the door, tipped on its side. She approached that cloudy round mirror, finally, to view this sunken visage. She barely recognized herself. Long, frizzy, frazzled black hair orbited round black raccoon eyes. The eyeliner streamed down in all directions, frozen in the form of tears upon her cheeks, jutting out in strange directions like the legs of a spider.

  Justine haphazardly fixed her hair and wiped what makeup had smudged. When she was sufficiently presentable, and had retrieved her other heel, she turned and stumbled out the door. She clung to the rail on the way down those winding steps, one hand on her rumbling belly. She’d hardly eaten all day. At the bottom of the steps she turned and made for the fireplace lounge. To their secret, sacred place. Of course he was there, brandishing a glass of red. Always red.

  He got up when he saw her, but she raised a hand as if to say “it’s alright,” and then slid into her seat.

  “Justine…are you sure you should be up? That was quite a fall you took this morning.”

  “I’m fine.”

  “You look terrible. You should get some rest.”

  “I just woke up from a nap, actually,” she said, stretching and yawning. “Can you pour me a glass?”

  “In your condition?”

  “I’m fine, David. Wine. Please.”

  He seemed ready to protest again, but swallowed his words. Beside the fireplace, on the mantle, they’d made a makeshift bar. Glasses, and that one bottle of red. With his back to her, he poured a glass, then handed it to her and took his seat.

  “Thank you.”

  “Of course. So, what happened today?”

  “Just umm…just me being clumsy.”

  “Come on.”

  “I don’t know. Maybe I’m coming down with something.”

  “I’ve never heard of anyone getting sick. Not since…” David trailed off. “Well, maybe it was food poisoning, or something like that.”

  With his thumbs, he tapped the edges of his wine glass.

  “I was thinking…” he said. “About the other night.”

  Justine suddenly felt like she was being watched. The feeling came swiftly, and out of nowhere. She glanced back behind them, rising in her seat, scanning as far as she could see. Nothing. Justine sunk back into her seat.

  “What’s wrong?” he asked.

  So, this was what it was like. This was how it felt to come unglued.

  “Nothing,” she said. “I’m just tired is all.”

  5

  -TAG-

  -Marco-

  THERE’S THAT FEELING AGAIN. Shaky hands. Cold sweat.

  He was back in the Humvee again, shoulder to shoulder with the warriors in white. They were packed like sardines, over a dozen soldiers in white armor and dark, tinted visors that stretched from forehead to chin.

  Marco sat with his knees together, and every time he breathed, he nudged against the guy next to him. Marco wondered how many in this vehicle were real infantry and how many—like him—had been drafted into the role out of desperation. Every face was stoic, plain, but he could see which ones were forcing it, trying desperately to hide their fear. More than half, had to be. Nearly fifteen men and women in one tight space and you could hear a god damn pin drop.

  “How many of them do you think are dead?”

  He blinked, glancing up. The voice was thin and high-pitched. Innocent. He sat in the dirt, his legs pulled in close to him. All around him, the black of night was brightening to gray. Twilight on the outskirts of a broken world.

  The fire had long gone out. Even in the dead of night, he never felt cold. Another hour, maybe two, until sun up.

  “What?” he asked.

  Little Shelby sat across from him, holding a black teddy bear. She made it dance in front of her as she spoke.

  “From the car. Do you think they’re all dead?” Her voice was so small and innocent.

  He remembered when they hit the roadside bomb, the way his ears had popped. And then it was like the whole world was turning, spinning onto its side, bodies going airborne. Toppling. The smell of smoke. The heat.

  “It’s okay. They weren’t your friends. Not really.” She continued to move the bear, as if he were bouncing around in front of her. “Were we friends, Marco?”

  “Sure, Shelby. We’re friends now.”

  “Do you think Leon is your friend?”

  “I don’t know. Maybe. Do you think I should trust him?”

  “They’re bad,” Shelby said. “They kill people.”

  Next he was being pulled from the wreck. His visor was smashed, the glass crunched together and fragmented like a half-busted windshield. The others were speaking to him. They were yelling, but he couldn’t hear them. Trying to get him up, trying to get him to grab his gun. He wanted to remain on the ground. He wanted to curl up and die. A barrage of bullets took down the soldiers around him. Some were dropping, some were returning fire. Marco crawled, ears still ringing, moving away from the burning vehicle.

  Why did I come here?

  I want to go home.

  I WANT TO GO HOME!

  “But, Mister Teddy, where is home?” Shelby asked. Marco glanced at the bear. He didn’t have the answers they were looking for. “Marco came here because he wanted friends.”

  “No, that’s not it. You know this! Why do I have to explain it every goddamn time?” he rose, running a hand over his scalp. He needed a cigarette. Marco patted his pockets, finding the pack, and lit up. “I came here for a purpose. For my life to actually mean something!”

  “And now you have it. You’re trying to find your…girlfriend,” she giggled.

  “Funny.”

  “I think it’s funny,” Shelby replied, “that you think you’re off to save the whoooole world.”

  Marco bit his lip.

  “He never had a real girlfriend, did he Mister Teddy?” Shelby asked, continuing to dance with the bear. “He used to sit alone at lunch in high school. And he,” she halted to laugh her cute little laugh, “he lost his virginity when he was nineteen!”

  “Are you done?” He placed his hands on his hips.

  “Do you think Leon and Knox really like him, Mister Teddy? Do you think these are his people? Them?” She looked up at him then, a sinister smile on that tiny face. “You’re alone, Marco. You’ve always been alone.”

  His eyes were drawn to the fire pit, suddenly. From beneath what wood they’d burned the night before, something was stirring. Marco could feel it before he saw it: something snaking its way out from under the charred sticks. Long and slender centipedes, jet black with red legs. They slithered out, and then came the roaches to join them. Ten, maybe twenty total, moving fast. Moving towards his feet. Towards him.

  Marco closed his eyes.

  “When is your-your-your evaluation?”

  He opened his eyes again and he was in the makeshift barracks, under a large green tent that reminded him of the circus. Before he’d ever filed into a Humvee. Before the crash and the little girl.

  They were in the cafeteria, he and Victor, a guy he’d gone to boot camp with. They occupied a small corner table, both dressed in the standard pale blue collared uniforms, a silver name plate upon their right breasts. They didn’t wear guns inside Outpost Four. There was no point. Instead, they dressed like this, appearing more like custodial workers than soldiers. Marco let his dog tags hang outside his shirt more times than not, if only to remind him what he was and why he was here. He wore his black hair high and tight, face clean shaven.

  Marco pushed his
food around his plate. It looked like a T.V. dinner: served on a cheap plastic tray. It felt reheated when it hit his tongue, near tasteless. Meat loaf, corn, potatoes. Oh joy. He lifted a spoonful of corn and let it drip down slowly back onto the plate.

  “Friday,” Marco said, eyes low. Preoccupied.

  “Shuh-shit. Just-just a few uhh days.”

  “Yeah. Doctor Barnes is giving my psych exam.”

  “And from infantry?”

  “Dyson.”

  Victor nearly spat his food.

  “Duh-duh-Dyson. Hah…have you uhh-met Dyson?”

  “No. But I hear he’s a little rough around the edges.”

  Victor chuckled at this.

  “That’s uhh one way to…to put it.”

  ~

  Outside the cafeteria, in the open air, Marco joined the other smokers. He didn’t talk with any of them, giving only a nod as people would pass. The nod was often unreturned. There was no skyline to see from here, just the open highway that led into the mystery that was Covington. Behind this outpost was the rest of the world, safe and uninfected; in front was the quarantine zone. It was funny to think that this little base was the one thing standing in the way, with an entire country’s well-being in the balance.

  The highway was bookended by trees on one side and a small New England mountain pass on the other. Marco took one last drag and flicked away his cigarette, happy to feel the sun on his face and the breeze against his skin. Marco let himself enjoy it for just a moment longer, and then headed back inside. He checked his watch. Time for work.

  By noon, Marco was back in that depressing little room, with all the other dead-eyed drone operators, face painted blue by the glow of an LED screen. He watched his drone: charting its path, keeping an eye on the machine’s vitals. Gasoline, air pressure, speed, drift. He jotted down his notes, watching the drone as it made an overhead pass above a brick-red structure that looked more like a castle than a building. Covington’s old abandoned armory. Marco let out a sigh.