Bury Me in Black

by Royce Caradoc

  “I’d like to be immortal, I think,” he said, lying on his back, hands curled behind his head. “Like Bowie. The way that he always changed…it was like each time he just morphed into a new spirit in a new age. Never really aging in a natural way. He wasn’t older or younger, just a different edition.”

  She rolled over, short black hair a wreck. Bed head.

  “What the hell are you talking about?”

  He shrugged and made no reply. His tongue lashed out and licked at his scar.

  Zeke did all the cooking, when there was any to be done. He helped trim her hair, keeping it short like she liked it. He kept an eye out for the books she liked in those abandoned houses. She devoured crime thrillers. James Patterson’s Alex Cross series, with its short little chapters. Michael Connelly and Peter Corris.

  “You’d think I’d seen enough dead bodies in real life, that I wouldn’t want to read about them. But, there’s nothing like a good mystery. The author has all the keys, you know? He dangles the hints right in front of your face, the big ones, the ones that’ll be so, so obvious later. I’ve always been a sucker for a twist.” She curled her long black locks behind one ear. “It took me a while to really embrace my time with Zeke, to really take to this Bonnie and Clyde lifestyle that he had all planned out for us. Travelling, stealing, killing. You could see how that might be enticing to some girls. Every time I’d have second thoughts, he’d ask me that same dumb question. ‘Don’t you want to be free?’”

  He was fat for a scavenger. Late twenties, with a patchy brown beard. The tubby dreg was on his back, his two friends already dead. Zeke was crouched beside her, checking her vitals. She didn’t see a purpose, not really. Even though she was a morsel, dangling day after day before the sharks, she hardly ever got a scratch.

  Zeke stood, ready to approach the downed fool. That’s when the funny thing happened. The big scavenger somehow pulled his pistol from the holster, training it in her direction, and got off a shot. Just the one, and then his arm went limp and the pistol dropped from his hands.

  She gasped, frozen in place. Standing there, she waited for the blood to leak out; for the life to drain from her skinny body. Justine watched the spent casing on the floor roll past her feet. She held two palms against her belly. Slowly, she lifted her shirt up, past the navel, and touched her fingers to the wound.

  No. No wound. He’d missed.

  Zeke attacked with a fury she’d never before seen. He took a knife to the fat fool, thrusting and stabbing down wildly. It was unclear how long the man was alive, how far into the torturous death that he lasted. She watched in horror as he performed his fetid surgery. Vile squalor, before her very eyes, as long as she bothered to keep them uncovered.

  She thought to herself, so this is freedom.

  ~

  They didn’t speak much that night. The next, however, she had a request.

  “I need a gun,” she said.

  He was seated by the window, loading rounds into his mini boomstick. He gave her one look, worse than a scoff. The kind of glance you’d give a child who asks for your car keys.

  “I’m not kidding,” she said, standing in the middle of the room. “I need to be able to protect myself.”

  “You are protected.”

  “You can’t be everywhere. What happened today-”

  “Was a mistake. It won’t happen again. I promise you.”

  “Zeke, I need to learn-”

  “And you will,” he said.

  “So, teach me. Teach me one thing about gunfighting.”

  “I’ve been teaching you. You just haven’t been paying attention.”

  “What have you taught me?”

  “Today. We learned not to underestimate our enemies. A man on his back can still kill you.”

  “Don’t patronize me. I want a real lesson. Something I can use. Something specific. Let’s go outside.”

  “We don’t need to go outside.” He pointed to the chair across from him. “Sit.”

  She pulled out the chair and slumped into it, arms crossed.

  “Let’s hear it.”

  He loaded another shell.

  “Where do you look to see someone’s intentions?”

  “Umm…their eyes. Windows to the soul, right?”

  “No. Gunfighters are good at masking their intentions. Their eyes or faces won’t tell you anything.”

  “So, what then?”

  “Hands. Watch what he does with his hands. Are they close to the holster? Are they relaxed? Tense? Watch his hands out of the corner of your eye. They’ll give him away.”

  He slapped the chamber shut, swiftly holstering the weapon at his side in one quick motion.

  “Is that what you wanted?” he asked.

  “I still want a gun. But, I guess that’ll do for now.”

  ~

  She finished her glass.

  “You’re off somewhere again,” David said. He was stiff, sitting completely upright.

  “Sorry. Where was I?”

  “Your…near death experience, courtesy the fat man.”

  “Oh, right. Well, that’s about all that happened. That night at least.”

  At the edge of the armrest, David tapped his fingers impatiently.

  “Should I fill you up again?”

  Justine thought about for just a moment, then shrugged.

  “Sure. Thanks, David.”

  He stood, grabbing his own glass as well, even though it was still half-full. David walked to the mantle. He uncorked another bottle, filling his glass first. He shifted, maneuvering his body so that he blocked her view of him pouring her glass. Odd. She was probably just imagining things, she thought, probably just uneasy for no reason.

  David glanced back, shooting her a smile. She returned it, but her focus was elsewhere. Down by his waist, David was dipping a fist into the pocket of his blazer and quickly pulling it back out. It was a quick, swift motion, reminding her of a magician’s sleight of hand. He returned, smiling, and handed her the glass.

  “You look lovely tonight,” he said. That was true enough, she imagined. His expression did nothing to betray him. His eyes, his smile, everything appeared genuine.

  “You think so?” She lifted her glass, bringing it to her lips. She didn’t drink.

  “Yes, yes of course,” he replied. “Ravishing.”

  She forged a smile.

  “Thank you, David.”

  7

  -ASHE MEMORIAL-

  -Marco-

  MARCO PUT AN ENTIRE TOWN between him and his pursuers. On the far edge of Covington, as close to Garland as any sane man would venture, he finally stopped. He dragged Knox’s motorcycle into a wooded area nearby, covering it with as many stray branches as he could find. The thing was too damned noisy to keep riding. If he lucked upon a bicycle on his journey he’d gladly take it, but in the meantime Marco was content to continue on foot.

  There was nowhere they wouldn’t find him. He was well aware of that. He’d been beyond fortunate to survive his last foray alone, but even then no one had been actively searching for him. He knew Knox well enough to know that the scavenger would stop at nothing. He’d track him, find him and serve him a painful death. Braving the horrors of Garland was the only alternative, but it was unclear if it was even possible to survive within that blasted ruin.

  Marco trekked north, keeping an ear open for any sounds even resembling Leon’s busted old Trans Am. He had no food or water, just that black hooded sweatshirt and his duct-taped Beretta. As he paced away from the woods, back onto the main road, he noticed an old church. It was a simple looking thing. Composed of gray stone, the church had a high steeple in the center. The structure spread out from there, like half-open wings. The doors were a striking turquoise against all that dull gray. The windows were all medieval slits, save for one circle of glass at the structure’s center. Someone had tossed a rock through it.

  He stepped through the doors, gaze pausing upon that circular window high above him. The room was
draped in shadow. The sound of his boots against the floor echoed off the walls of the airy atrium. Four rows of pews faced an ornate altar, bookended by candle holders, both unlit. Marco walked down the aisle. He’d never been anything resembling religious, but there was something calming about this place. He had no doubt that it had been ransacked of all its golden chalices and lavish crosses, but for the most part the innards of the church looked undisturbed. At least in the dark.

  He took a seat in the first pew to the left and sat there a moment, crouched forward uncomfortably. A thought came over him suddenly. He felt the weight of the gun on his hip. He wondered if maybe the duct-taped gun had been a ruse. Maybe it’d been empty all along.

  Marco drew it.

  He did so quickly, before he thought better of it. Immediately, tiny bugs began to sprout from within the barrel. As they hit the open air, they blossomed, growing like small balloons. Roaches, centipedes, beetles. They moved down the gun and over his knuckles. Down his wrist. He swallowed, sweating, doing his best to ignore them. Marco picked at the duct tape with a fingernail, quickly, as one of the larger roaches disappeared up the sleeve of his shirt. One of the edges of the duct tape finally curled up, and he removed it. He ejected the clip, which felt light, but not empty. For the weight, three bullets sounded about right. He slapped the clip back into place. He felt the roaches, plump and wild, moving across his chest beneath his shirt. Re-emerging up by his neck. Travelling towards his face, his eyes.

  He tucked the pistol back into the holster, in one quick motion. The bugs vanished.

  Marco exhaled, wiping the sweat from his brow. Leon had been straight with him. He’d had an armed weapon, all this time. An odd choice, putting that much trust in him.

  Marco’s mind wandered. He looked up at the figure behind the altar, carved into stone. The back wall behind the altar was one big sculpture and the centerpiece was a man, arms splayed out, head slightly crooked to one side, his legs interlocked at the ankle.

  Did you do this to us? Marco wanted to ask. But, his lips wouldn’t cooperate. He still couldn’t find his voice. For a long moment he sat there, alone with his gun and someone else’s God, in total silence.

  As he stood, dusting himself off, an idea flashed before him. It was as if a thought had been placed in his mind by some outside force. A piece of the mystery was right here in Covington, maybe an hour’s walk from where he stood then. Leon had mentioned that man, the one who had contracted before even Knox: Nathan Conrad. The man had been holed up at Ashe Memorial, Leon had said, the sprawling nature preserve. Maybe something else was there, some hint about the origins of the virus. Or maybe Leon was lying and the old man was still alive. If nothing else, it gave Marco an excuse to keep moving. It also delayed his trip to Garland, which he welcomed. Even if it was only for a day.

  He headed back out onto the road. As he walked, he swore he could hear the tiny footsteps behind him, beating faintly against the pavement.

  Or maybe it was just the wind.

  ~

  Ashe Memorial’s entrance was something to behold. The rocky path headed straight, with woodlands rising on either side, their towering leaves creating a canopy to shade the long road. The path had a majestic look to it, with those tall oaks on either side. From where he stood, the rocky trail seemed to go on forever, just barely wide enough to fit two vehicles. He started off walking, then jogging, then finally burst into a run, kicking up rocks along the way. By the time he reached the clearing, he was gasping for air.

  That narrow path ended, and opened, into a wide new world. The place looked like something out of a fairy tale. It was a sprawling property, near all of it untouched green life, with a clearing at its center. Up ahead was a dirt parking lot, bookended by two buildings. From the parking lot spawned dirt paths that cut through the grass, connecting all three properties like veins to the organs, and then veering off into the woods. There seemed to be a hundred starting points to use to navigate the forest, a hundred entrances to a maze without end.

  Covington folks had probably eaten this shit up, he figured. This seemed like the perfect place for hiking and spending time in nature. Spotting deer taking a drink in a nearby brook, pulling berries from the trees. He tried to imagine these things and wondered if the images in his head were all accurate, or if they were just his memory of how a forest was supposed to look. The T.V. version of a hiking trail. It’d been difficult for him to acquire all that much firsthand knowledge in his time.

  The downsides of spending half your life looking at different sized screens.

  He approached the first of the two houses. This one, based on the sign out front, was the museum. He pushed through the creaking doorway and found himself at the top of a short stairwell looking down upon a large, rounded room. He flicked on a light beside him, and the place came to life. It was dimly lit, even with the lights on.

  The exhibits stood side by side, circling the circumference of the room. Bears, foxes, owls, all of them hovering in the black. They looked quite real, as if they were dead and stuffed rather than recreations. Knowing how much the locals had loved hunting, he wouldn’t have been all that surprised.

  He moved through the museum, still a bit unsettled by the beady eyes of the animals that seemed to hover around him. Everywhere were little panels; some listed descriptions of the animals while others espoused the history of this place. According to them, Alain and May Ashe had purchased the land in the sixties, turning it into a conservation center and museum. They’d set up invisible boundaries all along the property, creating an environmental sanctuary on the edge of town. The Ashe family had been beyond wealthy. They’d had to be, for such a grand philanthropic undertaking. He wondered what they’d think of the place now. All these years had passed and still it remained. Completely unspoiled, as nature intended it.

  There was a basement level that was mostly unfinished, the walls wooden brown, unpainted. To the left was what appeared to be a storage area, filled with an assortment of stuffed owls, deer, birds, anything of the like. A few of the displays up here looked damaged, others looked like they’d been in the process of being set up. They were stacked beside each other in no particular order, this gallery of nature museum B-sides. He gently dug through boxes, careful not to overturn anything or make any sort of mess that might give away that someone had recently been there. He found nothing of value.

  The second of the two buildings was a house. It seemed too small for the mighty Ashe’s, so he assumed this is where one of the full-timers in the employ of the museum and conservation center had once stayed. From the looks of it, they hadn’t gotten too comfortable. There were no family relics to be found. Some old newspapers piled beside a recliner in the living room were the only signs anyone had ever been here. That is, until he reached the kitchen.

  There, a lone coffee mug sat upon the kitchen table, stained brown inside from when a half-drunk cup had dried up. Beyond it was another long-dried stain. Blood coated the back of the chair, the wall and the floor around it. The corpse itself was missing in action, but all other signs of a grisly murder remained. The slug had rolled over to one of the nearby cabinets. Just a single shot. The missing dead man hadn’t put up much of a fight.

  Marco went back to the living room and slumped into the recliner. He pictured a man sitting there, his fear palpable as the gun went off, his head popping like a watermelon to paint the walls. Marco felt the weight of the gun on his own hip. He swallowed hard. That choice remained there, floating far in the back of his mind like a dark cloud he refused to acknowledge. He was half-crazed and trapped in a savage world, with no prospects of a normal life. No possible future that included happiness, comfort or sustainability. Any chance of that went out the window when Knox found those dog tags. So, why hadn’t he ever really considered it, that sweet release he might well find deep within the black of a gun barrel?

  “No.”

  He placed his head in his hands, clawing at his own scalp. He stood, kicking over the stack of
newspapers. There were no options left. No endgame. He felt trapped, same as he had before the quarantine, before the legion of fruitless decisions that had led him here.

  So, for once in his life, he raged.

  He stomped into the kitchen, throwing open cabinets. He upturned the table, sending the coffee cup rocketing against the wall, where it shattered. Marco was a whirlwind, noisily tearing apart the house. Not so much searching as he was disrupting. Ruining this once quaint little residence.

  In the bedroom, he toppled a bookshelf, sending stacks of crummy paperback fiction to the floor in a tidal wave of adverbs and run-on sentences. He overturned the mattress, lifting a baseball bat from the closet. The mirror was the first thing he smashed, then the walls. Each swing sent a shockwave up his arms. Even unhinged, he was totally feeble. Last, he dropped the bat and threw a punch at the door, expecting to pull back a bloody hand that had left a fist-sized divot.

  Instead, the door had barely a scratch.

  He slumped down onto the floor, out of breath. The room around him was sufficiently wrecked. After months and months of tiptoeing around and never raising his voice above a whisper, it felt good to do some real damage. For once, there was proof he’d been there.

  Marco glanced over to the toppled bookcase. Pinned between the bookcase and the wall was a small leather-bound volume. He hadn’t seen it earlier. Based on where it was positioned, it looked like it had been hidden behind the bookshelf. He looked at it for a long moment and then stood, snatched it, and slumped back down into a sitting position.

  The leather binding of the book, he realized, was fake. The thing had probably been purchased in the back-to-school section of a department store, not that there were many of those up in these parts. Marco leafed through it. It appeared to be someone’s journal, but the writing was chicken scratch, hardly legible. He flipped through it, halting at the back jacket, where someone had haphazardly scribbled a set of numbers in pencil.