Bury Me in Black

by Royce Caradoc

  The next day was the same. And the one after that. Each day he’d awake in that cramped excuse for quarters, which consisted of a cot, three shelves on the wall and a five-foot by three-foot floor space beside the bed. There were guys in federal prison with better living arrangements than this. Marco had hung a calendar on the wall. It was good to track the days. He marked them off with a black magic marker, seeing dollar signs with each passing Friday. This shit job paid well, if nothing else. Still, he felt unfulfilled. Four months in, and he hadn’t set foot outside this facility. He’d never donned the armor and never fired a weapon in actual combat.

  After PT, Marco made for the drone operating room. He took the same seat he always did, not giving so much as a nod as he passed by the others. Five hours of drone work, then lunch with Victor. Same table, almost the exact same meal. He played with his food and engaged in small talk. Afterwards, it was back out to the smoking area. Another cigarette. More longing. Then back to his computer for five more hours.

  Clock in. Clock out. Lather, rinse, repeat.

  ~

  On Friday, his afternoon shift was replaced by the interview for his transfer request. Marco felt the nerves all morning. This time, after lunch, he treated himself to two cigarettes.

  They filed him into a claustrophobic little interrogation chamber, a windowless temporary building the size of a large shed. Inside it resembled the questioning box he’d always seen cops use on T.V.

  He and Doctor Barnes took seats on opposite sides of a small square table. James Dyson lounged on a bench behind the doctor, looking comfortable and bored. He was well over six feet and built like a bull. Dark and fierce, the Lieutenant was everything you’d want in a soldier: obedient and capable, but with a brooding anger just simmering there beneath the surface, waiting to be unleashed.

  “Private Shaw,” Barnes said, shuffling through two folders: one teal and one sky blue. “We have reviewed your submission for transfer. There are a few key issues we need to discuss.”

  Marco was breathless. Over Barnes’s shoulder, Dyson was glaring at him. The man had dark, inquisitive eyes, face always contorted into a half-smirk, half-snarl, as if he might chuckle or snap at any moment. Marco pretended not to notice him staring, and at the same time avoided direct eye contact.

  “Okay,” he said.

  “I was reviewing your entrance exam that you took upon your arrival to Outpost Four. Your marksman scores…” Barnes said, flipping through the file, “were suboptimal.”

  “They were horseshit,” Dyson said. “Pitiful. I may as well give a blind fuckin retarded kid a gat, then get him high on meth, and send him out there.”

  “You’ll have to excuse Sgt. Dyson,” Barnes said, donning a forced smile. “He has a erm…colorful way of expressing himself.”

  “The fuck’s that mean, colorful?” He stood to his full height, towering over the doctor. “Huh? What’s that mean?” he growled. Barnes sat completely stiff, face turning beet red. Dyson let this simmer a moment. His expression softened. “I’m just fuckin with you, Doc,” he said, slapping him on the shoulder. “Look at him. He’s about to shit himself.” Dyson slumped back into his seat on the bench behind Barnes. “Go on. You was saying?”

  “I erm…your scores, Private Shaw,” Barnes said, adjusting his collar. “Were not befitting the standard we have for our infantry men.”

  “They weren’t befitting a mall cop,” Dyson said.

  “Which brings us to your psych evaluation,” Barnes said, putting the teal folder on top. “Which also was not to the standard we expect. I’ll…try to be as delicate as I can when I say this. Based on this exam, we see the potential in you to have adverse reactions to live combat. The brain, Private Shaw, is a very complicated thing. No one exam can prove without a doubt that you are emotionally unfit for this unit. But, at this time, we feel it is a risk not worth taking.”

  Had he said more? Marco couldn’t recall. He remembered at some point that Dyson had asked the good doctor to leave, and he’d obliged and scurried out. The Lieutenant had slid into his seat and licked his lips. He silently sized Marco up for a moment.

  “You know I got sway in infantry. I can get any man through, regardless of whether the Doc agrees, long as they got the right stuff.”

  “Okay.”

  “You don’t.”

  He let these words hang in the air a moment.

  “You’re unqualified and unstable,” Dyson continued. “Men like you get good soldiers killed, Shaw. And I won’t have it.”

  Marco was shell-shocked. He searched for words.

  “Sir is there…is there some way I can improve or…”

  “You ever see them, Shaw?”

  “Them?”

  “Yeah, man. Them. The infected.”

  “Of course.”

  “They look how you expect?”

  Marco swallowed.

  “No. They look…they look more normal than I expected.”

  “I thought the same thing. Except for the eyes, they look like people. They walk and talk like people. But…” he held up a finger, “every last one of them motherfuckers could be the one who gets loose and helps infect the whole country. The whole world. In the q-zone, my guys have a mantra we keep to. There are no warning shots. Say it.”

  “There are no warning shots.”

  “With the situation in Garland how it is, we might end up pulling soldiers from the less important units. You’ve got a transfer request already filed, so you’d be one of the first dudes they’d tag. If you end up out there, all mentally ill and unable to hit the broad side of a barn, you remember what I told you. Don’t let emotion get the best of you. No warning shots.”

  “Okay.”

  “You got a girl back home?”

  “What’s that got to do with anything?”

  “Just answer the fucking question.”

  “No.”

  “Well, then think about your folks. One of them gets out, it could lead to your parents getting the bug. Your brothers, sisters, friends, whoever else you got.”

  “I understand.”

  “Nah, man,” Dyson said, looking down. “You don’t. You’ve gotta stop looking at them as people. They ain’t.”

  ~

  Fast forward.

  “Psst…you should wake up.”

  He blinked his eyes open. He was back at the bottom of that staircase, with the little girl hovering over him. Marco lay on his side, grasping his rifle tight to him like a pillow. The blood was still trickling down the side of his head from where he’d cut it on the glass, painting a thin line of red horizontally across his forehead. He rose to a sitting position. Had he fainted? He remembered how he’d gotten there: donning his armor in the barracks, the Humvee trip to Garland, the roadside bomb, the ambush, running off to seek shelter, the wails of a child, the staircase, the girl.

  The girl.

  He looked up at her. Tiny, pretty, freckled thing with blonde hair and red eyes, gripping a teddy bear against her chest. Had she spoken? Had he just imagined it? Outside, an explosion. The floor shook, and the little girl whined fearfully.

  “Hey, hey, it’s okay,” he whispered. “Come, sit here with me. Please. Sit.”

  She was hesitant at first. Marco pushed his rifle off to the side and gently smiled, trying his best to look as calm and safe as possible. Slowly, like a cautious housecat, the girl drew closer, until finally she took a seat on the floor beside him. Chaos reigned all around them, but looking at one another in silence, each seemed to grow more and more calm, feeding off one another’s energy.

  “We’ll wait here until it’s over. Until it’s safe,” he said. “What’s your name?”

  She made no answer. He looked down at the teddy bear.

  “Well, what’s this guy’s name?”

  “…Teddy.”

  “Teddy. That’s a nice name. What about yours?”

  “Shel…Shelby.”

  “Shelby. That’s a nice name, too. Pretty. I’m Marco. Nice to meet
you, Shelby.”

  ~

  They waited. They waited until there were no more mini-quakes from grenades or sounds of automatic gunfire. They waited until the dust had settled, and then they waited longer. Marco took her by the hand and led Shelby out the front door. Outside, the Humvee continued to burn. Three soldiers had made a makeshift camp beside it. Two sat, sipping water from canteens. A third stood, leaning on his rifle. He straightened up when he saw Marco and Shelby, pointing his rifle at them.

  “Hey, stop there!”

  Marco halted. He had his rifle in one hand, down at his side, and held Shelby’s hand with the other.

  “He’s got one with him! Step away from it!”

  The second soldier had jumped to his feet as well. Both trained their rifles on Marco.

  “Wo! Wo! Hold on!” Marco said.

  The third man finished off his water and slowly stood, dusting himself off. He was taller than the others. He carried no rifle, just a pistol on his hip. On the back of his helmet, and also on his left breast, was a blue stripe signifying his rank. An officer.

  “What’re you doing, soldier?”

  He had a commanding baritone voice. Stern, no nonsense.

  Marco made no answer.

  “Bring her here,” the officer said, waving a finger his way.

  Marco stood his ground.

  “She’s just a little girl.”

  The officer’s expression was impossible to gauge behind that black visor.

  “Bring her to me.”

  ~

  Marco opened his eyes. The insects were gone, and so was she. It took him a moment to realize that his own face was wet with tears. He wiped it on his shirt and walked back towards the house. The first rays of light were peeking over the horizon. As the sun rose, so did a sudden anxiety within him. Something didn’t feel right.

  Back at the house, Leon was already loading their bags into the car.

  “You look like hell,” he told Marco.

  When do I not? He thought of saying it aloud, but kept it to himself. Their search of the woodland hovels, out here on the outskirts of town was finished. Knox appeared, walking at his own casual pace. He mounted his motorcycle and revved the engine. Onto the next one.

  They travelled another twenty minutes or so, halting upon the shores of Benton Lake. Here they searched those quaint little lakeside houses, often under cover of darkness to keep the prey off their scent. Marco liked the way the moon bounced off the water at night, the way the glistening light seemed to dance within the lapping waves. In a different life, he could have imagined living in a place like this. Although, on the path he’d been on, it was unlikely he’d of ever had the means. Places like this were occupied by retired doctors and lawyers; the moderately wealthy. He’d been an unmotivated community college student, floating along without a purpose. The only road here, to sleeping under this roof, oddly enough, had been the one he’d travelled. Life is weird sometimes.

  Leon sat at the dinner table, looking over his map. Mother had given them three weeks on the road, but three weeks were bleeding away fast and still they hadn’t glimpsed even the slightest sign of the Maiden. Marco sat on the floor. He glanced up at Leon, sharing a look for just one moment. The burly scavenger was losing hope, but doing his best not to show it. On the floor, Marco traced with his finger a capital letter ‘Z’ that someone had carved into the wood.

  Knox only had one more of his “flare-ups,” as Leon called them, and it appeared less serious than the last time. From the window, Marco had watched him stagger out and dip his head into the water for a few seconds, presumably to scream. Marco rubbed his own jaw as he watched. All of this felt like an exercise in futility. It was becoming clear that they would search and find nothing and return to the Armory. Hopefully he’d built up enough good faith with Leon to join them without a struggle.

  Outside, a gun went off.

  Both he and Leon were quickly on their feet. Leon’s pistol flashed from his hip. Marco followed him out into the night. Lakeside, the headlight of Knox’s motorcycle lit the scene. The scavenger stood in its glow, wearing a black and silver jersey, number 20. Marco followed Leon down to the beach, where they found the scavenger, pistol in hand, with his back to them. Down by his feet, a figure was slumped over on its stomach.

  “The other one can’t be far,” Knox said, wiping his brow. He glanced around, seeing nothing. “Keep an eye out.”

  Marco and Leon drew closer. Marco took sight of the figure on the ground. It was small and shirtless, with long, ragged hair. Knox rolled him over onto his belly.

  Marco gasped.

  “Shit, Marco,” Leon chuckled, “it’s one of your long lost friends.”

  It was one of the twins. The kids who had nearly killed him, all those weeks ago. Itch and Scratch. One of them lay prone, on his back now, dead by Knox’s hand.

  Knox knelt and patted down the corpse, searching his pockets. He made his way up from the pants to the shirt, to the shimmering item around his neck.

  “What’s this?”

  He lifted it, letting the item dangle on the end of one finger. Knox squinted his eyes to read it. Marco was frozen in place.

  There’s that feeling again. Shaky hands.

  Cold sweat.

  Knox was holding dog tags in his hand. Marco’s dog tags.

  The scavenger rose. A deviant smile split his lips as he stared back at Marco. Vindicated. Leon, confused, glanced back and forth between them.

  “I knew it,” Knox said. “From the start.”

  He raised his pistol, taking aim, but Leon stepped between them.

  “NO!” Leon screamed.

  But Marco was no longer paying attention. He’d turned around and mounted Knox’s motorcycle. The keys were in the ignition and he brought the bike to life. Kicking at the sand, he grunted, turning the bike to face the other way as he hit the gas. He could’ve swore he felt a hand grasp at his shoulder, nails against the surface of his shirt. But then the rush of wind hit him and he was jolted forward, his weight too far left, the bike nearly toppling. He pulled his entire body to the right, steadying the bike, and then burst out onto the main road, a jet black blur against the night.

  6

  -SPACE ODDITY-

  -Justine-

  “ALL THE NEAR MISSES START TO ADD UP. The stray bullets seek everyone else out, but never you.” She sipped her wine. “These are the things that Zeke told me. He told me that after a while, it isn’t luck. You’re chosen. You. You have a succinct purpose. A reason to live, a role to play.” She smiled, setting down her drink. “Of course, he was mostly talking about himself.”

  There was a light drizzle and the night sky was dotted with stars. Behind those gray clouds peeked a pale white moon. The breaths escaped her lips in white puffs and dispersed. She clung to the sides of buildings, slipping, stumbling. The tears streamed down her cheeks and she fell, sobbing.

  In due time, they found her. Like sharks to blood they descended upon her. Red-eyed predators. Vampires. There were only two of them, both of them bearded and emaciated. She opened her eyes and looked up at them, wiping the tears from her eyes. They hovered over her, glaring down, some combination of lust and rage welling in their eyes. Her pale face glowing in the moonlight, she offered a gentle smile. Their expressions softened.

  The bullets cut the air, quiet as a whisper. As loud as a dart in flight, the covert rounds rushed to their destinations. She closed her eyes, feeling the spatter of blood on her face and neck. Sometimes, it simply couldn’t be avoided. Around her the two figures went limp, one at a time, and plopped down onto the pavement. Easy. Painless.

  Zeke emerged from the shadows, as he always did. His sawed-off remained holstered at his side, his new weapon of choice in one of his gloved hands. A silver pistol, fitted with a suppressor and a little scope. The only weapon in the four towns that was as sleek, silent and deadly as him.

  In the weeks prior, they’d gone up and down that long, winding road. They’d raided Ri
dgewood for all it had. She’d helped him search. Pulled out the drawers. Flipped the mattresses and checked the ceilings for trapdoors. Attics, basements. Little details that the other scavengers had maybe missed. After a while, it became clear to her that the key to survival wasn’t tearing apart homes. No, the much more lucrative deal was hunting people. Luring scavengers into their midst and then stripping them clean. At first he kept her away from the action. Stashed her at a house down the block before lighting a fire and waiting for the sharks to circle. In time, though, she became a resource. A tool. Justine became part of the game.

  She became bait.

  When it was over, he’d kneel to check on her and wipe the tears from her eyes. Then, he’d search the corpses. Early on, they found useful items on the newly dead: a watch, a nice pair of boots, maybe a can or two. But, as time went on, the bounty became meager. Anymore, you couldn’t just leave a fireplace going and expect scavengers to come running. Once, she thought she saw a group purposely avoid her during her crying routine. Across the towns, it seemed, Zeke’s mythos was spreading.

  “He was an urban legend, more than anything. A bogeyman. These things, you give them just a drop of water, and there’s no telling how tall they’ll grow. The embellishments piled up, I think, and in due time he was hardly even a man anymore. At least out there. But, I didn’t hear the noise, at least not until later. To me, he was just the peculiar killer that I shared my bed with.”

  “You...slept with him?”

  God, so jealous. Even now. It had taken some effort to get him back into that room that night, fireside like before. He appeared uneasy, barely drinking. His going green with envy was the first honest thing she’d seen from him all night. It felt sort of strange, not being the only liar in the group for once.

  “Not at first, no. Mostly we stayed together for warmth. The seasons changed, and I’d never had much meat on my bones. I was always cold and Zeke never was. So, at night we’d bundle up together. I don’t know that there was anything sexual to it. He was too damned stiff and awkward to be anything resembling romantic. Though,” she said, gazing dreamily upward, “he did have that mystical quality. The great unknown.” She snapped out of it. “That’s enough for some girls. I was a little more picky.”