Ressurection Days

by Wilson Tucker

  A good old Indiana cop would have had apoplexy after hearing that polite exchange.

  Owen climbed aboard and very nearly betrayed himself, very nearly turned to help Kehli on board. Some one of the wardens down the road would be watching. He busied himself with the mummy cases because that seemed safe enough; he pulled while those on the ground shoved the cases onto the roadway. Kehli climbed up unassisted.

  They began the distribution of the spoils.

  The woman had a list of numbers and one of the cases was dropped off each time they reached a door with a corresponding number. NO-770 got a delivery, and the entire crew left the road to watch lest they be carried away while Kehli and a zombie made the drop. There was no ceremony. Kehli made a clicking noise with her tongue and pointed. The crew understood the signals. The workman standing next to her stepped off the road and placed his burden on the doorstep, putting it crosswise so that the occupant of the house couldn’t enter or leave without falling over the obstacle. Kehli checked off a number on her list, clicked again, and made a little gesture. The crew returned to the rolling road and rode on to the next drop number.

  Owen thought it was like Father Christmas making his rounds in August and acknowledged that the. delivery system showed organization even though the gifts left something to be desired. Most red-blooded Indiana girls would prefer mink coats or diamonds or a ten-pound sack of sugar.

  Owen also noted that Kehli’s back was to him most of the time—she seemed to have forgotten his presence while she carried out her duties. After the third coffin had been deposited on the third doorstep, he had a new bug number. The worker standing behind him hadn’t so much as batted his eyes when Owen deftly switched their identification bars. He was now Recla/H-26034-28 and no question mark. It was pleasing to be twenty-eight again. Owen muttered his thanks to the donor.

  When the distribution was complete Kehli ordered the workmen to go home and to return to the cemetery tomorrow. The zombies separated and rode away.

  Owen first made sure there were no wardens watching, then handed over the blanket and picnic basket.

  “It’s been nice, cupcake. I had a good day.”

  She studied him for a long moment. “What will you do now?”

  “Go home,-1 reckon. Could be there’s something hot on the stove for me.” He looked up into her friendly eyes. “Unless you’d like me to come over to your place first. Got anything in mind?”

  “No,” she said too quickly. “No.”

  He patted the bottle in his pocket. “I’ve got enough to go around.”

  “No.” She appeared to be blushing again.

  “Suit yourself.” He dug out the address card and thumb-read the final numbers. “I’ve got to find B-343. It’s away back yonder somewhere on the other side of the timber. I’ll have to ride all the way around town.”

  Kehli said, “I also live in B section. Paoli is a neighbor.”

  “Well, good! Remember what I said about the party tonight—if you’re lonely and want to find out how Indiana boys peel the apple, come on over. Want a nip before you go? Last chance, now. Say—where are you going?”

  “That does not concern—” She stopped and began again. “I am not accustomed to being questioned. I must submit today’s reclamation list to the registrar and draw a new list for tomorrow.”

  “Back to the office, and dig, dig, dig.” Owen nodded. “You people are in the same old rut. Okay, cupcake, suit yourself. I’m going home. Don’t forget my invitation if you get thirsty or lonely. I’ve got something here to take your mind off your work.”

  The inquisitive and still fascinated woman asked one more question before they parted near a building that resembled the factory of Owen’s early-morning experience.

  “Are all variants like you?”

  “Damifino. I’m the only variant I’ve ever met. Try one sometime and find out for yourself.”

  She stepped off the road and left him, wearing an expression that Owen thought he could read. It would be a pleasure. He knew better than to look back, although he wanted to turn and wave goodbye, blow a kiss, or something to express his appreciation. Kehli was nice. The several hours spent in her company had been the most pleasant hours of the day—and he’d be willing to spend the night as well if he didn’t already have a date.

  The road carried him around the city.

  Twice he was examined by wardens before he reached the door that was his destination. He had been riding with his eyes cast down, mulling the events of the day, and hadn’t seen the first inquisitor until the flash of pink appeared before him and a hand plucked at the flap of his breast pocket. Owen stood passive and let the woman read his new number. She seemed satisfied and went on her way. The second warden accosted him on the opposite side of town, when he was nearing the house he sought. She read his bar, thumped his chest to learn if he would respond, then read the number a second time and left him alone.

  Owen told himself he was a hunted outlaw, destined for the salt mines if they learned his true identity. Somebody had snitched and now they were hunting him down.

  He was surprised to discover that number B-343 had a green door. It was not the sickly green door he’d been thrown through in the early-morning hours but instead a soothing pastel green that he imagined fitted Paoli’s personality. There was another door of bilious green just three or four houses up the road, toward that distant timber, and yet another one of indeterminate greenish hue a few houses behind him, but B-343 was a pleasing pastel he could live with. Owen swung off the road and went up the narrow walkway to knock loudly on the door.

  There was no response.

  He knocked again, then turned the knob and pushed, but the door refused to admit him. He put more strength into a second attempt, but the panel held fast to its latch.

  Owen kicked it open and stepped into the darkened interior. The remains of the door entered with him.

  “Hi, honey, I’m home!”

  Honey failed to reply.

  A few shattered bits of the door clung to the hinges but most of the debris was at his feet. It had been a most shoddily constructed door; an apprentice carpenter could have done better. Ordinal^ plate hinges on the outside of the frame had held “the door—any burglar with a screwdriver could enter after a few minutes’ work.

  The house was scarcely a house in the familiar sense, despite exterior appearances. In one way it reminded Owen of the factory, and in another it suggested a skinny tapering apartment. The house—or the apartment —consisted of one very long room stretching from front door to back door, having room dividers set here and there to break the vast monotonous expanse of the whole. The room was appreciably narrower at the rear. There were no windows in the room, no pretty pictures on the walls, no carpets on the floor, and no useless but ornamental bric-a-brac scattered about to catch dust. A dismal place.

  The dividers were opaque screens mounted on small casters for mobility. Between those dividers Owen found a spartan lounge area, a dining area, the blonde’s bedroom, a cubbyhole alongside the bedroom that served as a bath, and at the very rear of the long room another divider that concealed a cot. A bare cot, but nothing more —nary a pillow, blanket, nor chamber pot. Owen stared at the cot and shook his head—be damned if he’d sleep on that.

  The remainder of the apartment was a workshop, and here the suggestion of a factory was too broad to be ignored. It was a factory, dominated by a replica of the machine. A think-and-do machine just like downtown, but smaller, of course. The curved bar for the forehead, the window, and the row of buttons were set higher off the floor, tailored for the female occupant of the place rather than the peasants. The only other discernible difference in design was that this machine had a delivery door on one side—an opening that exactly resembled an oven door. It was a man-sized opening, not like the small clean-out door he’d used to recover his whiskey and cigars.

  Owen pulled the door open to peek inside. The oven was empty but for a smidgen of dust and an odor that caused hi
m to wrinkle his nose and slam the door.

  One of the streamlined mummy cases lay on the floor alongside the machine near the oven door. Because he was nosy, Owen lifted the lid of the coffin and looked inside. He closed it fast and backed away.

  A long workbench claimed his attention. It was a cluttered bench—the sign of a busy practitioner.

  A large-sized and well-worn book caught his eye and he picked it up to thumb the pages. Owen guessed it to be a service manual, a handy volume delivered with every home machine together with a ninety-day warranty. Several of the early pages folded out to double spreads and reminded him of blueprints, or schematic drawings, or something like that. The text was written in a peculiar English he failed to grasp and the technical terms were not at all familiar to a journeyman carpenter. What did an educated Indiana boy know—or need to know—about a clavicle, a sacrum, a patella? The illustrations were remarkably clear and comprehensible. They depicted men —sort of.

  Owen slammed the book shut, suddenly ill at ease. His stomach threatened an uprising. He didn’t like to look at skeletons and at livid manlike things with their skins off. It was positively indecent.

  There were several hand tools on the bench—some familiar and some not—as well as a large box that contained two pairs of dun-colored coveralls and two pairs of work shoes. The garments weren’t as well made, or as stylish, as the several pairs of pink coveralls hanging in the bedroom. Owen thought that if he put his mind to it, he could whip up some pretty snappy clothes for himself in the think-and-do machine—especially if he had a copy of the Sears catalogue as a reference. For that matter, he could get the blonde out of her coveralls and into a dress, although doing up a pair of silk stockings and high-heeled pumps would tax his faculties somewhat Owen discovered a jar of old coins tucked away behind the box and was in the act of removing the lid to examine the treasure when he heard a noise at the door. He put down the jar and went to investigate.

  The lady of the house was home.

  He said in greeting, “Hi, there, toots. Nice little place you’ve got here.” But that was a white lie.

  The lady of the house was staring with consternation at the shattered remains of the door. Her surprise on seeing him in the house was equaled by her dismay at the wreckage. One hand was sweeping back and forth in the open doorway as if groping for the missing panel. The hand struck a fragment of wood clinging to the upper hinge, and that fragment fell to the floor.

  She cried, “What are you doing in there?”

  “Unfair! Unfair!” Owen retorted with heat. “You invited me! Now don’t try to wiggle out of it—-you invited me to come spend the night.”

  Aghast: “But what happened to this door?”

  *T kicked it open. It fell down.”

  “Why… why did you do that?”

  “Because it was locked,” Owen said simply,

  “You can’t kick down doors!”

  “I can—I’m an Indiana Democrat.”

  She stared at him. “Are you looped?”

  “Not yet, honey, not yet—but hoo boy! have I got a head start on you. We had a little party this morning.” “We don’t have parties at the workshops. Why did you leave your job?”

  “That old woman—you know, the granny—stopped the works and sent everybody home. I thought it was a short shift, better than union hours.”

  “But why did she do that?”

  Owen shrugged. “I didn’t ask. I’m not a company man.”

  “Was there a breakdown? Was there a malfunction?” “Nope. Everything was humming. But if you want a piece’ of advice, you won’t have butter on your toast in the morning. It looked like sick axle grease.”

  “That is very unusual. Something must have gone amiss. There was no explanation?’’

  “Hah! That old grouch wouldn’t explain how to put out a fire.”

  The frustrated warden looked past him into the interior of the house. “What were you doing in there?”

  “Casing the joint. It’s a square layout.”

  “But it isn’t square,” she contradicted him. “It is a trapezoid. Our city is planned.”

  Owen shook his head with mock sadness. “Honey, do you have any idea what a dumb broad is?”

  “No.”

  “I didn’t think so.” He waved her forward and held out a helping hand. “You may as well hop over that kindling and come on in. If you stay out there gabbing all day, people will think you’re selling subscriptions or something.” He moved backward to make way, noting that she avoided his hand. “And stop worrying about your door. I’m a carpenter. I’ll hang another one for you— and guarantee it, too.”

  “How do you know you are a carpenter?”

  “I found out things about me today. I’ve been busy.” He patted the twin surprises in his pockets and waited for the right time to introduce the bottles.

  The blonde stepped over the wreckage and entered her dwelling in something of a daze. Homecoming was never like this. She scanned the interior to see if anything else had been damaged and then looked back to Owen. Her expression was not one of relief.

  “I don’t understand you at all. You are unlike any other male I’ve ever known. You are incomprehensible.” “I’m a variant,” Owen said proudly, but humbly. It befitted an Indiana variant to be humble upon occasion. The woman pounced. “How do you know that?”

  “I was told so—a nice little brown-eyed doll told me. She dug me, if you get the joke.”

  The blonde traffic warden studied him in thoughtful silence. At length: “Was there a particular woman last night? Was there an unusual occurrence?”

  “Aha!” Owen cried with triumph. “I knew that was coming, I just knew it!” He smacked his fist into a palm. “Yes, there was, and I’m not going back there’ again, no matter what. I don’t like what happened and I wouldn’t go back there even if I could find the place. No, thanks!”

  “You didn’t tell me you were a variant this morning.”

  She made it sound like an accusation.

  “I didn’t know I was a variant this morning, but I’ve picked up some smarts since then. We had a picnic, and I found out one thing and another.”

  “Who had a picnic?”

  “Me and a jolly cupcake named’ Kelly. She’s nice. A little green, mind you, a little on the dumb side, but nice. If she listens to me she’ll come along fast.”

  The woman’s eyes widened, either with recognition or in astonishment. “There was another woman today?”

  “Yep,” Owen admitted. “We had a good time out there in the woods, poking into this and that. She had poor apples, though. I’ve seen better.”

  “Two women? Are you programmed?”

  “Good ol’ Indiana boys can dance all night. Five, ten women—it makes no difference. We please ’em all but we don’t bother with programs.”

  With complete frustration: “I don’t understand you!” “That puts the two of us in the same boat,” he retorted. “What did you do with Indiana?”

  “I never had your Indiana. I don’t know it.”

  “Indiana was the place I lived in back there, when I was twenty-eight the first time. You moved it—you hid it. And now here we are in one hundred and sixty-nine and I can’t find it.”

  Incredulously: “How did you know that?”

  “Easy—I’m a math genius; I know all about Einstein.” He pointed a finger. “You were born in one hundred and thirty-six and you’re thirty-three years old. Happy birthday, Paoli.”

  She stared at him with her mouth half open. It was a day of astonishments. “How did you learn my name?” Owen tapped his head with an index finger. “Kidneys. The question is, one hundred and sixty-nine what?”

  “What do you mean by what?”

  “There you are!” he shouted. “Always trying to give me the go-by! What is B.C. or A.D., or something like that.”

  “But what is B.C.A.D.?”

  Owen muttered a word that Indiana gentlemen didn’t usually mention in mixed company, b
ut in this instance it precisely mirrored his frame of mind. The woman was being obstinate.

  Paoli said, “I wish I knew your fabricator. You are flawed beyond belief.”

  “The pot is calling the kettle black again. Honey, you’re not all that great yourself, if you know what I mean—which I doubt. I’ve met a lot of people in this here town who were behind the door when the brains were passed out. The point is, what are we going to do,about it?”

  “Do about what?”

  Owen said dispiritedly, “Geez.” He seized her hand and pulled her into the workshop. As before, she was startled by his bold action but she went along with him. Owen paused beside the think-and-do machine and pointed dramatically to the coffin resting on the floor alongside the oven door.

  “Poor old Yorick is stuffed in there, in that box. Shame on you!”

  Incredulously: “Did you know him?”

  “Never saw him before in my life—either of my lives. Do you specialize in reconstituted orange juice?” He stood almost against her and peered up into her eyes in the same investigatory manner used by the wardens. His index finger tapped her chest. “I’ve got your number, babe.”

  “But of course you have. I gave it to you this morning.” She stared down at the finger on her chest.

  “Not that number, dammit!” Owen cried. “I mean, I know what’s going on here, in this house, in this town. I know everything! I know all about them zombies out there and where you’re getting them. Those guys are retreads!”

  Paoli looked down at Owen for a long while as his shouting died away and silence returned to the house. At last she said, “You are flawed. I am sorry about that, but the flaw must be eradicated.” Each7 word was given careful enunciation to make it fully understood. She held the close inspection of him.

  The long silence was unnerving.

  Owen shifted uncomfortably under her stare and looked away, looked around the long room seeking a distraction. He took a backward step to put safe distance between them and sought to turn her attention. He felt like a microbe under a microscope, and he wasn’t at all anxious to hop into anybody’s oven to be rebuilt.