Ressurection Days

by Wilson Tucker

A half-dozen oblong gray boxes were stacked nearby while yet another box rested alongside the hole being dug. Owen thought the boxes more resembled mummy cases with rounded ends than ordinary caskets. They looked plastic.

  He took a drink, pocketed the bottle, and ambled over to the open grave.

  “Hello, sports. Digging for buried treasure?”

  The zombies standing about the excavation ignored him. The pair down in the hole didn’t stop work or glance up at the newcomer.

  “Do you characters have any idea what you’re doing?”

  The two men in the hole continued to shovel dirt.

  “That’s what I thought,” Owen said.

  He eyed the small group aboveground; they did nothing more than lean on their shovels and watch the pair excavating the grave. Some of them watched the dirt being thrown out of the hole, while others watched the watchers who were watching the dirt. They reminded Owen of the feather merchants in the bad old days of the Depression, when gangs of WPA workers leaned on their shovels for hours, watching one or two new men actually work. It was a novel sight to watch a newcomer work for his pittance. The Republicans had been bitter about that, too.

  Owen studied the mummy case caskets. They were much too short to contain the bodies of any woman he’d seen thus far, but they seemed about the right size for the zombies. x

  He walked around the idle watchers and went along to the newly opened graves they had finished working earlier. Small notches or steps had been cut into the packed clay at one end of each pit, toeholds to enable the excavators to climb in and out, and in addition the men had dropped a gravestone or a broken chunk of marble into each grave as a further assist in climbing. The digs were six feet deep, but seemed narrower than the standard opening.

  Owen swung around to again study the stacked boxes that resembled streamlined mummy cases, then looked bade into the empty grave at his feet. It wasn’t entirely empty. There was debris at the bottom of the hole and something else small and round that gleamed dully in the sun. He’d almost overlooked the tiny object. The unknown something appeared to be a burnt yellow stone or perhaps a sickly orange one—it looked like a fat but dirty pearl.

  Owen climbed down into the grave to investigate.

  A man’s ring. A ring caked with damp clay and covered with mucky debris, but a fine ring nevertheless. He sat down on the marble throne the workmen had left behind and carefully washed the ring with whiskey, then cleaned and dried it on his sleeve. A very nice ring indeed. He thought it might be topaz, or perhaps a yellow sapphire—something quite expensive and much too valuable to be left behind. Someone had been careless.

  Owen turned the gem in the sunshine, admiring it. A woman’s strident voice sounded somewhere above him.

  He got up and crouched on the marble stoop to peer over the edge of the grave. Once again, baby pink; the long arm of the law had arrived. Yet another woman clad in the familiar pink garment stood a short distance away with her back to him, scolding the zombie crew clustered about the working grave. She was agitated and more than a little annoyed. She waved her hands in their faces and let them know her anger; her tone was accusatory.

  Owen knew her problem. She had heard him talking, she had overheard him trying to strike up a conversation with the crew while she was lollygagging in the timber, or whatever she was doing in there, and had come out to learn the reason. Talking wasn’t permitted among the males.

  Owen waited until she ran out of breath. He stood up straight on the marble stoop with his head and shoulders aboveground.

  “Hi, there, cupcake! I’m grave-robbing.”

  The woman spun around in startled disbelief.

  Owen looked at her ashen face and then her crumpling body as it tumbled into the weedy grass.

  “Now, ain’t that just like a woman?” he asked the zombies.’ “Give them a straight answer and they faint dead away.”

  Five

  The best liar is he who makes the smallest amount of lying

  go the longest way—who husbands it too carefully to waste it

  where it can be dispensed with.

  —-Samuel Butler

  Owen Hall couldn’t just leave the poor woman lying there in the sun to bake and bum, but she posed a problem.

  An unconscious body longer than six feet in length was more than he could manage up and over his shoulder— he couldn’t even get the body into a sitting or kneeling position to throw it over his shoulder—so he abandoned the niceties and simply dragged the woman into the shade* Her heels left twin grooves through the fresh dirt.

  The stolid workmen watched them go, staring after the pink-clad body as if mesmerized.

  “Don’t get excited,” Owen called, but then realized that not even an earthquake would excite them. “I’m not going to rape her. Why don’t you guys come in here and sit down? It’s cooler in the shade.”

  They ignored his kindly invitation.

  Owen propped the woman’s body against a tree. She fell over. He straightened her up again, but the woman toppled as soon as he took his hands away.

  “Well, I never claimed I could win ’em all.”

  He left the unconscious woman where she lay and went in search of her resting place, her hideaway. She hadn’t been waiting here at the edge of the cemetery when he first stepped out of the timber and strolled over to inspect the graves. They would have seen each other at once— he would have caught the telltale flash of pink as she turned to stare at him. Owen prowled the woods along the borders of the cemetery looking for a trail that might point the way. He suspected that her campgrounds, or office, or whatever she called the lollygagging place would be out of sight of the opened graves. She’d likely have a poor stomach for that sort of thing. The fainting kind.

  Bright color caught his eye. He discovered a pink blanket spread in a shady clearing, a basket that must contain food, and an opaque bottle that offered something to drink.

  “Neato! A private picnic.”

  Owen went back to the field of labor to gather up the fallen woman. The workmen stood as he had left them, mutely staring at the slumped body. They turned their heads to gaze after the pink-clad body as it vanished into the timber and Owen recognized the key to command— all he needed was a change of clothing to become the shop steward or the prince of the realm. Well, that and a change of voice.

  Owen pulled and hauled and tugged the limp form through the underbrush and finally got it onto the blanket. He was more than a little tired by the struggle, but he made sure that her face wasn’t in the sun and. that she rested in a comfortable position before he flopped down beside her. She had remarkably long legs. Owen contemplated the legs for a moment and then reached for the lunch basket.

  He could almost guess which factory hands had whipped up the meal.

  The bread was very good and he could believe that it had been made by either of the two skilled bakers who had worked near him that morning. The meat to accompany the bread was tough and scrawny, poor horse, and Owen thought the man who’d made it must have been a shoemaker in his first life. There was a jar of something gooey that may have been lemon pudding, and then again it may have been yellow glue. He spat it out of his mouth and rinsed the taste with whiskey. The opaque bottle contained a lukewarm liquid that was either limeade or bitter grapefruit juice—the stuff defied identification and Owen put it aside. His own manufactured juice was more palatable. A few apples remained in the bottom of the basket—apples that were rosy red on the outside and inferior pulp inside. He decided that if he hung around this town much longer, eating this kind of scratch, he’d lodge a complaint with somebody.

  Owen finished lunch and lit another cigar. It was only marginally better than the first. He’d surely have to do better when he got another chance at the machine—his cigars were as poor as the sandwich meat. Perhaps he’d been too harsh on that shoemaker.

  The woman stirred on the blanket beside him and Owen glanced down. She had large brown eyes and they were open, fixed on him. Her face wa
s pale.

  “Good morning, cupcake. Feeling better?”

  The woman jerked to a sitting position and edged away from him. She was still wobbly and braced both hands on the blanket to keep herself upright. The pale face and brown eyes revealed her alarm.

  “Take it easy, honey, I won’t bite.” Owen gave her a warm smile that was meant to be reassuring. “No rape, no hanky-panky. I’m a respecter of American womanhood and you are a neat one. Indiana boys always ask first and say please.” He offered the jug. “Try a nip of this. It’s recommended for snakebite and fainting spells.”

  The woman stared at the bottle but kept a distance. She seemed to regard Owen as an apparition.

  “I brought you in out of the sun, baby doll. You’d burn to a crisp out there.” He examined the pale skin of her face but couldn’t decide if that paleness was caused by her faint or was her natural coloring. She had long brown hair to complement the dark brown eyes, but that was no clue to her natural color.

  “Now, then,” Owen said cheerfully. “Your first question will be: ‘Who are you?’ And then you’ll ask about my equilibrium. Everybody does, so be my guest.” He sipped a drink and waited for her reaction.

  She only stared at what he was doing.

  Owen raised the flap on his breast pocket and invited her to read his number.

  “My name is Owen Hall. I’m a new boy here.”

  Still half afraid of him and ready to bolt or fight if he made the wrong move, the woman reached out timidly and touched his identification bar. Her thumb moved over the message twice while she eyed the whiskey bottle with open wonder. Owen gave her all the time she wanted to read his bug number.

  “See? I’m just one of the guys.”

  With bewilderment she said, “But you spoke to me— are speaking to me.”

  “I talk to everybody. I’m made that way.”

  “You are .. . different?”

  “In more ways than one, cupcake.”

  “Do you actually drink the liquid in that bottle?”

  “Well, of course! That’s what it’s for. Eat, drink, and be merry, for tomorrow we go to—to whatever this crazy place is. And anyway, I’ve already arrived. Here, look here.” And he showed the woman her depleted lunch basket. “I helped myself to your picnic goodies, but between you and me, toots, the meat and the pudding should be thrown to the hogs. Somebody didn’t have his mind on his business.”

  The woman inspected the basket with some surprise. “You eat and drink!” She seemed to find that incredible. “Doesn’t everybody?”

  “No.”

  “The dumb clucks don’t know what they’re missing. Those birds out there are losing half the fun of life.”

  “Were you hiding from me in the excavation?”

  “Oh, horsefeathers.”

  “What were you doing in there?”

  “Exploring, finding this ring.” Owen reached into his pocket for the topaz treasure. “Pretty, ain’t it?”

  “Was it yours?” She watched his eyes closely.

  “Nope. Never saw it before today, but it’s mine now, unless that fella comes around to claim it.” He lifted his gaze to hers. “What are you digging up all those stiffs for? Won’t the next of kin raise a row about that?”

  “The males are reconstituted for the labor force.”

  “That sounds like slave labor to me. Are you the official grave robber?”

  She said, “I am the supervisor of reclamation for this city. It is quite legal. The males are reclaimed and given useful employment. It is a privilege to serve the city.”

  “Horsefeathers,” Owen said again. “You sound like a couple of guys in Europe, names of Hitler and Mussolini. If you live long enough to dig them up, cupcake, you’ll have one hell of a mess on your hands. They don’t cooperate worth a tinker’s damn.”

  “I don’t know that city. Are they interred?”

  “They’re still alive and kicking, worse the luck.”

  The woman peered curiously at his face. “What is that object in your mouth?”

  “A cigar. Want one?”

  “Are you eating it?”

  “I’m smoking it, you ninny. Use those brown eyes.”

  “And what is the liquid in the bottle?”

  “Whiskey, rotgut. Want a nip?”

  “What does whiskey rotgut do?”

  “It makes me glow in the dark.”

  “Where did you obtain the cigar and the whiskey?” “From the big machine, of course. Where else?”

  “Was there no objection?”

  “Nobody said a word,” Owen assured her.

  She studied him in speculative silence for a while and Owen thought she was letting her guard down. The early fright of him was passing; tension and apprehension were slowly fading, leaving only wonderment. Owen guessed that not many people wandered by to inspect her diggings.

  At length she asked quietly, “Are you a variant?”

  “I don’t know. What’s a variant?”

  “A male who has been reconstituted in a different manner for a different purpose. One who is not given useful employment in the factories.”

  He considered that. “A particular purpose?”

  “A very particular purpose.” Her voice dropped.

  “Ah, you mean something special.” He mulled that. “I suppose so—I guess so. I’m not like the other nitwits around here. I’m different from those guys digging the graves out yonder. I’m different from all those other guys I met on the road this morning. I know what I’m doing.” She was insistent. “A variant is designed for a very specific purpose.” Again her voice carried a meaning. “Nothing illegal, I hope.”

  “Certainly not! The practice isn’t common, but it is quite legal. It wouldn’t be done otherwise, for the good of the city.” She bent forward and peered into his eyes, attempting to read secrets there. “Was there … was there a particular woman last night or this morning? An unusual woman?” Her manner had subtly changed.

  “Hah! There sure as hell was, and I’m not apt to forget her! Honey, when I left home and hit the road this morning, that hellcat was spinning her wheels. Looped. She couldn’t stand up straight. Oh, boy—she’d had it!”

  “Do you mean she was ill?”

  “No. I mean she was flying, floating, jumping with the old joy juice. She took on more than she could handle in one night. You know, three sheets in the wind.”

  “I am not familiar with that expression.”

  Owen fluttered his hands. “She was out of her head— Up, high, blotto, crazy, loaded with joy juice. I don’t think I’ve ever seen a woman that high before.”

  “She was exhilarated? Enraptured?”

  “And how! She was going off in all directions.”

  The brown-eyed woman stared at him with wonder and commented, “Oh.” Her attitude toward Owen was shifting and now she seemed at once both fascinated and repelled.

  “She won’t forget last night in a hurry,” Owen said.

  “May I assume that she liked it?”

  He grinned at the memory. “You can say that again. Cupcake, I think it was her first time, and she didn’t know how to handle it. Just overwhelmed by it all, I guess.” He tapped his chest with a finger. “Now me—I’m an old hand at the game. I know when to indulge and when to quit, but that baby took on quite a load.”

  She said once again, “Oh.”

  Owen relit his cigar and wondered if he had enough matches to last the day. The brown-eyed cupcake was good company and he just might decide to spend the afternoon with her; it was obvious that she was becoming attracted to him, now that she’d gotten over her fright.

  The woman studied him with open curiosity, finding a new facet to his nature that was foreign to hers. She was fascinated by a discovery.

  “You are a variant,” she said after a lengthy study. “I have not seen one before. You possess certain skills and privileges not given to other males.”

  Owen thought he could agree with that. “There ain’t no flie
s on me.”

  “What are you doing here?”

  “Collecting horsefeathers.”

  “What are horsefeathers?”

  “The rarest kind in all this world, cupcake. You don’t come across them very often.”

  “Have you found any?”

  “Not yet, but I’ve got all day.”

  “Who assigned you to that task?”

  “I don’t know her name—we were busy with something else.” Owen dug into his pocket for the metallic card the blonde had given him. He ran his thumb over the plate and passed it to the woman. “No name—just nothing but numbers here.”

  Her eyes widened as she read first the identification and then the address. The woman stared at Owen with a new astonishment. It was a day of startling discoveries. “Paoli!”

  “You know her—really know her? Is that her name? Well, neato! She never did get around to telling me her name—I guess I kept her pretty busy, what with one thing and other, and she didn’t think of it.” Owen reframed an image in his mind. “A tall blonde dolly with a freckle on the tip of her nose. I’ll bet she bats a thousand.”

  “Paoli.” The woman’s brown eyes had grown very large and she inspected Owen anew. “Are you going there again tonight?”

  “And how! Honey, I was ordered to be there tonight, and I wouldn’t miss the party for anything. We’re going to cut a rug.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “We’re going to peel the apple, celebrate, jump. I’m going to show her what Indiana boys can do in ragtime.” Hesitantly: “Do you … do you please her?”

  Owen waggled the calling card before the very large brown eyes and then put it away. “How do you think I got this, by picking her pocket? She said, ‘Be there * and, cupcake, I’m going to he there with bells on. She said she wanted to learn more about me, how I operate—you know—she wants to tinker around with one thing and another.”

  With awe: “You actually… touched Paoli?”

  “Well, I didn’t shine her shoes.” He looked at her chest. “We played push the button. Want me to show you what I did?” His hands drifted toward her identification.