Dead Mann Running (9781101596494)

by Petrucha, Stefan

I shook my head. “Doesn’t make sense, brother. If ChemBet could really bring people back to life, they’d be rich.”

  “I didn’t say it made sense,” he said with a little shiver of emotion. “But it’s hope. My daughter gave it to me, so I plan to keep it. She said if we get enough of us into the testing facility, one of us may find it. We should all take a vow to try and bring it out. Maybe you’ll be the lucky one. You have to believe in something, right?”

  I gave him a smile. “Maybe, but every time I tell myself to cheer up, that things could be worse, I cheer up, and sure enough, things get worse.”

  He laughed, and his body calmed a little. “There’s a chak here running Kyua meetings. I hear he’s really smart. I saw you looking at one of the signs. Would you like to go to the meeting with me?”

  I’d been planning to do just that. Now I’d have someone big to hide behind.

  “Sure,” I said.

  Thankfully, it was time for the meeting before Hudson came back. Walking behind Gilmore, I followed a group through the maze and into the main hall, another temporary building, but with a tall roof. The first thing that surprised me was that there were about a hundred of us there. The second was that they were all smart enough to sit in folding chairs and face the same way.

  “Praise Kyua!” the man behind the podium said with a shit-eating grin.

  Son of a bitch.

  Thinking I was impressed, Gilmore nudged me. “They say he used to be a politician.”

  I shook my head. “No. A motivational speaker.”

  I should know. There, at the front of the room, yakking about divine love and rebirth like he’d been born to it, was my old pal Jonesey.

  15

  Jonesey was a chak’s worst enemy. He perpetually struggled against the darkness, kept a good thought, and tried to act “as if” the best were true. That sounds great, until you add in the fact that he was also the charismatic loon who organized the Dead Man March that caused the riots that caused the Chak Registration Act.

  At the time I didn’t think it was possible to have a zombie protest, like getting cats in a row, but I knew that having a bunch of walking corpses stroll down main street wasn’t a good idea. Worried about Jonesey going feral, like an idiot I passed out a few of his brochures. Turned out I was wrong about the impossible part and right about it being a bad idea. When push came to shove, one chak went feral, then another and another and another. The livebloods, matching crazy for crazy, attacked in earnest, and everyone went wild.

  Not that Jonesey ever considered for a moment that all these chak camps were his fault. He just kept acting “as if” right up until he failed his test. But here he was, eyes still sunken, goofy grin eternal. The only difference was that his old flannel shirt had been replaced with clean gray overalls that matched his skin. I was surprised he got the shirt off. He’d worn it so long, I thought for sure it’d melded with his skin.

  For all my slack-jawed gawking, he didn’t notice me. It wasn’t my brilliant disguise, or the crowd. I could’ve been standing on a table with a Hessius Mann sign plastered on my chest and Jonesey wouldn’t have blinked. He was too into himself to notice anything, in some sort of charismatic, ain’t-I-hot-shit trance. He ambled along the short width of the podium, stopping now and then to shake his head at the foolishness of the world. Silly thing, the world.

  Noticing I was the only one still standing, Gilmore tugged me into a seat.

  Jonesey turned to the crowd and slammed his palms onto the fake wood.

  “Life from death!” he cried out. “Whoa. That is one long mother of a trip to take without a map.”

  When the echo of his voice stopped, you could hear a pin drop. Then again, the audience was used to keeping still.

  “And the LBs hate us for it, right? We’re other, big-time. Not just from another country. It’s not like we’re going to open delis and integrate ourselves into the culture. It’s not like we’re bringing some strange new beliefs that’ll undermine the basic tenets of the American way of life. We are American. We have no other country to go back to. So we can’t leave. And that makes them hate us all the more.”

  His voice had more timbre to it than I remembered.

  “But we are from another country in a way, what Shakespeare called the undiscovered country. Death. Ask for directions and they’ll say you can’t get there from here. But we did, didn’t we? We got this far.” He nodded enthusiastically, answering his own question. “Oh yes, we did.”

  A few chakz parroted the nod. Gilmore did it, too.

  “Only, it wasn’t a choice, was it? We didn’t do it by ourselves. We didn’t head back under our own power. I didn’t, did you?”

  A few groaned, “No.”

  “No, it was done to us. No one asked. We were just brought back, brought here. We don’t understand how. We don’t even know how long we’re staying. We don’t know much at all. If only I knew now what I knew then, right? But there is one thing we do know, one thing we know for a fact. We know it in our bones. And what is it?”

  He scanned the crowd like a teacher expecting a raised hand.

  A garbled sound came from up a chak up front: “Paghhr mbrgll!”

  Jonesey pointed at him like he was Einstein. “That’s it! That’s it exactly! We know it can’t be forever. Truth of the universe. Forget death, forget taxes. Nothing is forever. Nothing. Everything ends. Everything.”

  His fingers were a little stiff, but he did his best to wave them around, including this and that in his everything. “This wood, these chairs, those walls, everything. What’s inside, what’s outside, the sun, the stars, everything.”

  He dropped his hands dramatically. “But what does that mean to us? It means that even death dies. Even death. Look in the mirror. We’re the proof. We killed death. We kicked death’s ass. We’re his conquerors. We sure as hell look like it, don’t we? Don’t we?”

  More nods from the crowd.

  “Yes, we do. Zero to our bones, spiderweb minds, ashen hearts. We all look like what we are, people who kicked death’s motherfucking ass.”

  He pounded the podium with each word, then all at once, he dropped his smile. “But if we didn’t ask to be brought here, how’d it happen? What brought us to the fight? What’s carried us this far? The radical invigoration procedure? Some machine that filled our inanimate sacks with electrostatic magic? The liveblood technician who pushed the button on the machine? Maybe. Maybe. The man who built the machine? Dr. Travis Maruta, praised be his name? Maybe. But who brought them? Who brought Dr. Maruta? Kyua.”

  His voice rose to a shout again: “Kyua, Kyua, Kyua! The source, the cure, the core! And why did Kyua bring us here? Why did Kyua do this to us?”

  Because Kyua sucks?—came to mind, but that wasn’t where he was going. This camp had been good to him, I’d give him that. Out in the Bones, his enthusiasm had been stuttering at best.

  Jonesey answered his own question: “To test us. We’ve been tested, we’re being tested, and Kyua willing we will soon be tested again…in ChemBet. And we will pass. Sooner or later, we’ll all pass. How can anyone think for a second that Kyua won’t bring us the rest of the way, put sinew on our bones, cover us with new skin, make us breathe not just to speak, but because we need the air? Sure, we’re the walking dead, making our way through a dark forest. But how far can you walk into a forest? Halfway. After that, you’re walking out. Kyua walked us in, Kyua will walk us out. Kyua is in our bones. We carry Kyua, we bring Kyua to Kyua. Kyua is here, Kyua is coming, Kyua is eternal!”

  At that point, I didn’t have the slightest idea what the fuck he was talking about. I doubt anyone else did, either, but they all seemed to like it a lot. The sound of their approval wasn’t like liveblood applause, quick wet hoots and hollers. This was slower, more about grunting and jostling whoever was next to you.

  And that was it. Jonesey was done talking. The meeting was over.

  Some chakz stayed seated, confused about what to do next, others shuffled out, but a
decent-sized crowd made its way up front, to bask in the presence of the big J himself. Chakz with questions?

  When I didn’t budge, Gilmore nudged me. “He speaks well.”

  “Yeah. Uh…what did you think content-wise?”

  “I think my daughter would like me to believe him, so I’ll try. You?”

  I didn’t want to tell him I knew Jonesey. “Long story. If you don’t mind, I’ll stay a while. Maybe you should head back to the room to see if Hudson left anything standing.”

  “Hudson,” he said. With a vague head shake, he rose.

  Once he was out of sight, I made my way toward the chak-pack at the podium. They were all talking. As I got closer, I made out a few words. Most were off-topic, but still.

  “Think I left the stove on…left the stove…”

  “Have you met Kyua?”

  “When…he…come…?”

  “Did you get milk?”

  “Are you him?”

  I waited as long as I could for a gap in the noise, gritted my teeth and called out, “Jonesey!”

  He’d been smiling beneficently, but the sound of my voice put a curious expression on his face. He looked up and stared straight at me, until a noseless woman grabbed him, twisted his head around and gave his cheek a peck.

  Was she actually kissing him?

  “Asshole!” I said, louder.

  He pulled away from her, looked my way again and rattled off a string of words. “Guest…mess…rest…”

  It was the memory game he played. It worked well enough. Despite the corpse bride trying to kiss him on the cheek again, he got there. “…chest…Herbert West. Hess. Hess? Is that you? What, are you in disguise? Are you hiding?”

  When they saw his widening smile directed my way, the little crowd parted for me like the Dead Sea.

  I stepped closer and grunted. “Trying.”

  He pulled free of the kisser and whispered, “Right. The cops want you. What’re you doing here?”

  “Looking for information. Figures I’d find you, instead.”

  He clicked his teeth. “Same old Hess. Keeping it real. I’m so sorry about Chester. How’s Misty taking it?”

  “A real piece of work kidnapped her, forced some crack into her. I got her out of it. Now she’s with her sponsor and I…don’t know how she’s taking anything.”

  Seeing someone familiar, I guess I’d been hoping for a real conversation. Jonesey, as usual, skipped over the ugly part.

  “But you, you’re okay. You. Are. A. Survivor. Say it with me.”

  I shook my head. “Little late for surviving, don’t you think? I’d like to say it’s good to see you, Jonesey, but the platitudes are making it tough. Can you cut the crap for old time’s sake?”

  He gave me a noncommittal shrug. The kisser had come up behind him, slow like a shadow, and started nibbling at his ear. Not in a cannibal way, more like she was sucking on a pacifier, which only made it creepier. Jonesey acted as if he hadn’t noticed her. “What kind of information are you looking for?”

  For half a second he looked like the down-and-out corpse I’d once used as an informant.

  “For starters, how much of this Kyua bullshit is grounded in actual fact?”

  He scowled. “All of it. All of it’s real.”

  Finally noticing the kisser, he pushed her away like she was a big fly. It was gentle, as shoves go, but she stumbled back, sank to her knees, and took to sobbing like she’d been slapped by a lover. When the sobs didn’t get an immediate reaction, she started wailing.

  “Newcomer,” Jonesey said, as if apologizing for her. He knelt and petted her, his hand a gray wallet against the dried grass of her hair.

  “It’s okay,” he said. “Kyua loves you.”

  He kissed her on the forehead. She closed her eyes and quieted. Other than a freaky snog between myself and Nell Parker, it was the most affection I’d ever seen between two chakz.

  When he rose, she stayed put, as if awaiting further orders.

  “A lot of chakz had faith when they were alive,” he said. “Sure, after they died, some stopped believing, but some didn’t. Right now, here in the camp, we’ve got a Muslim who still does his five daily prayers, six practicing Christians, and a Buddhist. But most chakz feel abandoned, like belief is only for the livebloods, that by our nature we’re damned, or somehow not part of God’s world. It doesn’t make them any less hungry for hope. So, Kyua. So, it’s real.”

  I squirmed. “Let me rephrase the question. How much of this bullshit has some kind of objective basis? As in, do you know what kind of projects ChemBet is really working on?”

  “Ah,” Jonesey said, crooking a finger. “Let’s talk.”

  Moving at a decent clip that left the other chakz behind, he led me to the rear of the hall. I hated to say it, but it was more than his voice that had improved. He looked…healthier.

  As we maneuvered the chain-link maze, he pointed out a few security cameras I’d never have spotted. “Those are video only. They don’t have the staff to monitor everyone round the clock, so they rely on audio sensors designed to detect moaners.”

  Suddenly he grinned and grabbed me around the shoulder. “Detective work! Ha! Been so long since the streets and all that badass stuff. Should I call you by some code name in case someone’s listening?”

  “The name on the card I used is Seabrook. But from what I’ve heard, the disguise isn’t great. It’s only a matter of time before a liveblood spots me.”

  “You have got to fix that attitude! You are a master of disguise! Stop being so negative.” He moved his shoulders upward, giving me a glimpse of his old plaid shirt, still on under the jumpsuit. So maybe it had melded with his skin.

  “I’m not negative. I’m positive. I’m positive you’re crazy. This isn’t about self-image, it’s about a ticking clock. Nothing lasts forever, right? So whatever I do has to be sooner rather than later.”

  He opened his mouth in a way that made me terrified he’d launch into another motivational speech, but a mechanical trill from his pocket cut him off. I recognized the first few notes of Michael Jackson’s “Thriller.” Looking like the arrogant Yuppie he must have been in life, Jonesey held up a finger as he flipped open his cell.

  “Martha! You did it! You dialed the phone and now you’re talking to someone! You didn’t think you could do that yesterday, did you? Now focus on remembering how I set it up for you—I’m four, like a door, your sister is five, ’cause she’s still alive. Four door, five alive. Got it? You go, girl!”

  He flipped it shut.

  I stared at him. “You can program your cell?”

  Proud as a puppy who’d learned to crap on the newspaper, he nodded. “Takes like an hour to get one number into the speed dial, but, well, I have a lot of time here.”

  Swapping the chain-link walls for corrugated steel, we reached an intersection between buildings. Jonesey pointed at one of the doors. “Mine, but we should probably talk out here.”

  “Afraid I’ll contaminate the positive energy?”

  “More like my work may have merited some extra attention. I’m doing so much to keep spirits up here, they may never ship me to the testing labs.” He got quiet for a bit, then noticed I was staring. “What? Do I have a piece of chak on me somewhere?”

  “No, it’s just…you look…better. I’m not saying you’ll win any beauty contests, but your eyes are clearer, you’re more reactive. You’ve even lost a bit of your slouch. If we ate, I’d wonder if they were slipping something into the food.”

  He looked around, at the walls and fences. “It’s simpler than that. Losing your freedom is supposed to be terrible, but think about it. We’re out of the elements, we have roofs, a slower pace, the bleach is free. The lack of stress really works for us. What was it, a month ago you said I went feral? Since I’ve been here, nothing.”

  “Next you’ll tell me that no one ever goes feral here in Shangri-la.”

  “Fewer than you’d think,” he said. He pointed to a chak laz
ing in a chair like he was sunning himself. “Hagado there used to be a concert pianist. When he arrived he was so out of it, even I thought he’d blow in a day. That was weeks ago. Now he’s picking out “Twinkle Twinkle Little Star” with one finger. Sure, it’s not his finger. I don’t know where he found it, but still, failing that test on purpose was the smartest thing I’ve ever done.”

  “You failed on purpose?”

  “Hey, hey, hey! You said yourself I look better…”

  If there were any moisture in my mouth, I’d have spit on him. “This is a showplace for the press, so they can show the world how humanely we’re treated. All your preaching helps them out! You’re a patsy.” I grabbed the cloth of his jumpsuit. “Do you have any idea what the other camps are like?”

  He held my wrists and actually forced me to let go. I hadn’t remembered him being that strong. A gravity crept across his face. “As a matter of fact, Hess, I do. The overflow camps where they take most of us are just walls, or fences. They don’t even have buildings, let alone bleach. They’re pens where you wait to rot or go feral. Close enough?”

  I was still angry, but caution kicked in. I rubbed my wrists, checked for loose bones. “You’re still connected. How?”

  “The cell phones. Every chak has one, right? I’ve got eyes in the other camps, Fort Hammer, and more. The only place I don’t hear from is the lab. They take the phones away after orientation. But it’s a great network to spread the news when it happens.”

  “When what happens?”

  “This is more than a showplace. This camp really does supply test subjects for ChemBet. One day soon, they’ll find a way to bring us back to life. Real life.”

  “Bullshit. At best ChemBet’s trying to figure out how to kill us. At worst, they’re making new monsters.”

  He put a hand on my shoulder. “For an old friend, I’ll put it another way, real obvious. If you had, like, terminal cancer, and there was the slightest chance of a cure, wouldn’t you want to try it?”

  I tried to steady my body. “Not if it was from the same freaks who gave me the cancer. Travis Maruta committed suicide because of what his work had done. Maybe Kyua knew something you don’t?”