41.7245.
73.2128.
Beneath the numbers, a name.
Justine.
8
-WINTER-
-Justine-
SHE WASN’T STILL A VIRGIN AT SIXTEEN. Zeke didn’t seem to mind. It was nothing special, the two of them finally consummating their friendship with a go between the sheets. Her skin must’ve felt like ice compared to his. As warm as his body was, his demeanor was equally as cold. It was loveless, emotionless sex. Very little kissing, very little tenderness. Zeke wasn’t rough by any means, just distant. Elsewhere. He fucked like it was his duty, not because he liked it. It should’ve been a fight, if she had it her way. A battle of wills. Two animals, struggling for dominance. She saw right away that it wasn’t like that. She’d shacked up with the wrong sort of psychopath.
The next day she wore four shirts and a jacket. Zeke remained in that one long sleeved black turtleneck, pistol on one hip and the sawed-off on the other. They’d seen the first snow two nights prior. The lakes were frozen now, the trees bare, white skeletons marking their path. She began to wonder if maybe the infected couldn’t die from the cold. Zeke never seemed to feel it. He’d bathed in lakes right up until they’d frozen over, never once giving a shiver or a wince. Most days, she envied him for that.
Always, he carried that lone backpack. Just the one. No matter how much they stole, no matter how full their pockets were one night, the next morning it’d all be gone. He was discarding the things they didn’t need, or stashing things places. It was unclear which. But, either way, he was doing something. He’d leave her each night without a word, and for two or three hours she’d think she was going to die right there and then from the cold. Hypothermia. Frostbite. Who knew what. And then he’d return, the big warm lug, and wrap his arms around her again. If she loved him for nothing else, it was solely for his body heat.
The two of them had been everywhere. Traced the lines of both towns. Covington Center, Benton Lake, the Ridgewood Fairgrounds. All of it barren. The Strays were dying off, too. The factions falling apart. Only the Bloodline remained, and Zeke killed as many of them as he could get his hands on. He’d told her once that leaving a man alive meant making an enemy.
Yeah, she thought. You’ve got nothing but friends.
Justine wasn’t herself of late. More and more, her days were blending together. There was no in-between, no travel time. Everything was a scene, then a smash-cut to another scene, stacked one on top of the other on top of the other. No months, no days.
Wake up, put on your makeup. Be sure not to miss a spot. Cut to breakfast at Crowe’s long table. Snide comments. Wine. Cut to nightfall, awaking in bed. Walk down the stairs. Another fireside chat. Cut to midday, waking up at the table again. A different dress. Picking at your food. No appetite. More wine. You never remembered falling asleep, only coming to. There are bags under your eyes, visible, no matter how much concealer you cake on. Cut to the balcony, dress disheveled, one shoe on, staring out at the lake. Feeling the despair, in the pit of your stomach. Another bath. A wink of sleep. Come to at a dinner party. Come to in a chair by the fire. Come to in your bed, again, in a different dress, exhausted, and your body hardly feels like your own. Walk to the balcony to get some fresh air, and realize the slider door has been sealed shut.
“Where are we?”
Zeke led her down another empty road in Ridgewood. They’d been here before, she was sure of it. Cleared it weeks ago, maybe months. A residential area on the bad side of town. She passed one house, then the next. It took her a moment to notice that Zeke wasn’t following. She glanced back at him and he said nothing, tucking his hands into the pockets of his pants. Her black hood was up and her latest puffy oversized jacket was buttoned all the way up, her mouth covered by a scarf.
She turned back, looking to the end of the block. The library stood alone, like a monument to her past life. She turned towards the nearest house. Her breath caught in her throat.
This was her father’s house.
She began to walk up the driveway. The place had taken a beating since she’d last been there. It’d over a year, at that point. Where had the time gone? She stepped up to the door. All dark inside. She glanced back at Zeke, standing alone in the road, hands at his sides. In silence, he watched. Justine peeled open the screen, then the door behind it. Unlocked. She stepped inside.
All quiet. Justine paced through the living room, the paltry kitchen, the wreck of a bedroom. What a dump. This had never been her place, not really, but it felt strange to be back there all the same. Jeff hadn’t kept any pictures on the mantle. One wallet photo of her was all he’d had, and she supposed that was just to show off to girls at bars to make him seem like a stand-up guy, the kind who loves his daughter but can’t make it work with his wife. She wondered if he’d ever really loved her, or if the whole thing had been a sham. Her mother had loved her, though, and everyone had loved her mother. So, of course she’d been the one that God had decided to take away.
She went back to the living room, eyes searching the floor for that indentation. Her father’s secret hideaway. She recalled standing in this very spot, across from him.
“We’ll listen to the radio. We’ll know when it’s safe to come out.” Jeff said, nodding to himself. “You know, this could be good for us, kiddo. We could get to know each other again.”
Justine hovered over the trapdoor, her breaths suddenly becoming labored. She felt an emptiness in her gut, a fear that constricted around her body like a living vine. She glanced back to find Zeke. He’d remained outside. Justine swallowed hard and knelt, digging her fingers under the false hardwood and pulling, until the square outline of the door revealed itself. She pulled.
It squeaked and gave way. She let the door lay flat on the floor, like opening a book. The room below was pitch black. The smell hit her like a brick wall, that rancid odor. As soon as it hit her nostrils, the tears began to flow. She lifted her flashlight in one shaking hand. She closed her eyes, the tears rolling down her cheeks, and turned it on.
Justine opened her eyes.
Peering down that square hole in the floor, she saw her father. Jeff was on his back, decomposing, brown eyes looking up at her. No, past her. To the ceiling. To nothing. Part of his head was missing. He’d been dead a long time.
She thought then of the first time she’d seen Zeke kill someone. Back in that house, when she was nearly raped and murdered. The young one, she recalled, had been crawling away from the house. Beaten, probably near dead. She remembered how Zeke had circled back, making absolutely sure to put the already crippled fool out of his misery. Zeke always seemed to tie up loose ends. He’d spared her father because she’d asked him to. And later that night, she had no doubt, he’d circled back and made sure that he didn’t have a new enemy.
Of course he had.
She was on her knees then, the tears streaming from her eyes. His arms were around her, gripping her from behind, and he was so warm. He was always so warm.
“No,” she said, under her breath. “NO!”
She began to scream, but still he clutched her, pulling her up. Her feet kicked up in the air, torso writhing to escape his grasp. She cursed at him, again and again and again, not worried if the entire Armory heard her cries and came running to kill them. Justine would’ve shrugged off death at that particular moment. By that point the two of them deserved it.
They were due.
~
She cried that night. She cried until she was swollen around the eyes, until she’d cleared all the mucus from her nose. She was a disgusting mess when it was over. A day passed, and she refused to eat. Refused to sleep. He offered his warmth and she denied it. Better to shiver, teeth chattering, a few feet away then let him touch her. She didn’t share his bed, instead staying on the couch. Late one night, she lay rolled up in the fetal position, wrapped in sheets and blankets, her sweatshirt still on. Hood up.
He walked over to the couch and stood over her. He could tell
she was still awake. He was always able to tell.
“I want to show you something,” he said.
~
It took a few hour’s walk to find it. The place was on the far end of Covington, as close to the city of Garland as any sane person would go. She was in a fog, then. Hardly able to walk, cheeks eternally red from all the moisture she’d been shedding. She waddled after him, arms at her side, stuffed into too many layers to do much else. The house looked like any other. It was a light blue, paint peeling here and there, door off the hinges after being kicked in too many times. Zeke rounded the house, but only when he’d made sure the coast was clear.
Out back, he cleared away a large pile of grass and leaves. Beneath it, originally concealed by all the brown and green, were a pair of cellar doors with a large lock chained to the handle. He entered the correct combination on the first try and pulled the twin doors open. Zeke then turned to her and handed over the flashlight. He nodded towards the cellar doors.
“What is this?”
“Downstairs,” he said.
She walked slowly, hesitant, with the flashlight in hand.
“Zeke, I-”
“Go,” he said. “I’m right behind you.”
She descended into the darkness, breathless. Her footsteps were heavy, echoing against the walls. He was two steps behind her. Never before had she been so cognizant of his presence. And yet, she didn’t dare glance back. Another step down. Another. She imagined a basement full of corpses, piled high, nearly to the ceiling. A private collection of horror and death. At the bottom of the steps, she clicked her flashlight on.
“Oh my God.”
It was everything. All of it. Every pair of boots, every necklace, every ring. All the weapons, the spare rounds, the backpacks, the cans. All of it in one place. Piles and piles, all of them separated by item. All of them sorted. Paintings stolen from houses. A chandelier, a pile of old leather-bound books. Everything valuable they’d ever found was here. In one corner was just money. Stacks and stacks and piles of useless, worthless cash. He hadn’t discarded a thing. Zeke had kept it all.
She paced the floor, twirling slowly around to take it in, mouth slightly ajar. Her face was still red and wet. She shined the flashlight at his feet, so that she could make out his likeness without blinding him.
“I’ll need you to look after this,” Zeke said.
She whirled around to face him, mouth agape.
“What?”
“It’s yours.”
Justine raised an eyebrow.
“Excuse me?”
~
David was waiting.
He always seemed to be the one to arrive first. Often two glasses of red were already poured and ready. How thoughtful. She settled into a seat by the fire, across from him, pushing her long black hair from her eyes.
“More wine?”
Her eyes flicked upward. Lost in thought, she’d nearly forgotten David was there. Of late, she was in a constant state of confusion, always playing catch-up with her surroundings. Come to at dinner, remember to eat. Come to at cocktail hour, remember to talk. Come to fireside, remember to spin your tale.
Funny. She never needed to remind herself to drink.
“It’s an eighty-six,” he said, pouring.
“Good year,” she replied, not that she knew with any certainty. Eighty-six sounded good enough. Two years ago, the only wine she ever had came out of a box, usually into a coffee mug. Eighty-six sounded splendid. “David, what do you know about Jacob?”
“How do you mean?”
“Like, before he was here.”
“I know he was big into hedge funds. That’s where he made his living. Retired, settled in Connecticut. Relocated to this place around the time of the outbreak. There isn’t much more to it than that.”
She brought the glass to her lips. He watched her, closely. She licked her lips, setting down her glass without drinking.
“No wife or children?”
“Not that I know of, no.”
“And you knew him, how?”
“Through work, mostly. Mutual contacts. I was in banking myself. I was back and forth from Covington to NYC most of the week. The quarantine happened, and Jacob extended the offer to stay here.”
“He told me this is a sanctuary.”
“Of sorts, I guess,” David said, shrugging. “Let’s talk more about Zeke. You were down in that secret hideaway, where he had all the stuff-”
“I wonder what Jacob gets out of it,” she said, cutting him off. “Inviting all of you here. It can’t be just for the company.”
“Umm. I don’t know. I…I suppose it’s an ego boost, right? Being the head honcho in a big house, full of all these people. Probably reminds him of the old days, commanding a board room.”
“Food, a roof, armed guards. And everyone goes along with it. No one wonders why the doors are all locked. No one asks questions.”
“We’re surviving, Justine. You’ve been out there. You know what it’s like. Nothing can protect you out there.”
“Jacob told me something similar.”
“It’s like…if it ain’t broke, don’t fix it, right? There’s some snobs here, but like, I get to wake up without having to worry about being robbed or murdered. Or…or starving to death, you know?”
“You owe Jacob a lot,” Justine said. “Actually, you owe him everything. I wonder how you return the favor. You’re both businessmen, aren’t you?”
She circled the top of her glass with a finger. She still had yet to drink.
“David,” she said. “I’m losing time.”
He glanced up at the clock.
“It’s just after one.”
“You aren’t hearing me. I’m losing time. Waking up in different places. Blacking out. I was starting to think I was going crazy, but then I started thinking about it. Really thinking. Did you think it was strange how cold I was the other night? How my skin felt? Why don’t you ask me any real questions? All you want is to give me wine and listen to me talk. Always, with the wine. I know how you pay your debt.”
He stood to his feet, and instantly she hopped to hers as well. He reached out to her, grabbing her by the bicep, but she slipped from his grasp, backing up a step. He stared at her arm a long moment, hand still outstretched. His finger had left a trail, one line across her bicep. He’d wiped off the makeup, and one strip of pink flesh shone through. She scowled, snatched her wine glass off the table and tossed the contents in his face. Most of it flew over his shoulder, but a splash of red caught him beneath the eye. He wiped it with the back of one hand.
“David…what have they been doing to me?” the tears were welling in her eyes.
“Justine, darling, I-”
“I pass out from the pills. Every time. It’s in the wine. It’s in the wine!”
“You need to calm down.”
“What happens to me, David? After Jacob drugs me. After you! ...Drug me.”
“You’re talking nonsense,” he said, taking a step towards her. “Come, put that down.”
She glanced down at the large empty wine glass. Funny, she’d forgotten for a moment that she was even holding it.
“Justine, please,” he said, voice calmer now. “There’s no need to act rash.”
David took one more step towards her, his arms open, welcoming.
She smashed the glass over his head.
9
-DEAD MAN’S DIARY-
-Marco-
HE FOUND HIMSELF seated on that old green recliner. It was pale, almost lime colored, with wooden handles and made a throaty creak whenever it would move. Marco didn’t remember moving to the living room, or sitting down. Blink, and he was there, hunched over, the faux-leather diary in his lap. His surroundings faded. He ignored his gurgling stomach and his bladder and his need for sleep. There was only this book. He would read it cover to cover and then begin again, rising just once when the sun went down to turn on a lamp.
This journal, he quickly realized
, had belonged to one Nathan Conrad.
Across the room, on a small end table, his pistol lay, holster and all. It felt good to have it off of him. He watched it, teeth clenched, like some cursed relic that must be destroyed. Best to take his mind off it.
Shelby was seated on the floor before him. She was playing with her bear again, minding her own business. It was unclear how long she’d been there, just out of his reach as he’d devoured the pages, entranced by the words of a dead man. Not unlike himself, it appeared that Nathan Conrad had spent a long time alone.
And he had a lot to say.
He’d poured all of his thoughts onto the page, scribbling them in hardly legible handwriting. As the hours passed, Marco got better at discerning his ‘r’s’ from his ‘f’s’ and his ‘a’s’ from ‘g’s.’ Slowly but surely, he learned to speak Conrad.
Reading it in one sitting like he did, he noticed that the diary mapped out the evolution of a man. Marco could see it in his writing, the way his worldview shifted as the days and weeks passed. He’d been on the run at first, much like Marco, but with a wife and a young daughter. The mindset of the hunted bled into his words. The constant paranoia, the strain of spending all day every day on high alert and the fatigue that followed.
I can’t show them my fear. I must be strong for them.
Nathan Conrad poured his fear into those pages, exorcising himself of it so he could put on a brave face in the real world. It was a coping mechanism, Marco realized, an outlet to purge himself of all vulnerability. He felt a tinge of jealousy that he hadn’t found a similar outlet of his own.
On the floor, Shelby cleared her throat.
“Oh,” he said. “Right.”
The passages seldom had any dates, but Marco felt he could tell when time had passed without Conrad keeping up with his writing. Sometimes it was as simple as the pen changing color. Life on the run meant that Conrad wouldn’t necessarily have time every night to update his little diary.
Bury Me in Black Page 18