Just thinking about visiting Mort made him feel better. Pete dried his eyes, thought about joining his comrades. They had circled the wagons at sundown and lit a bonfire in the middle of camp, like they usually did. Pete could hear several of his crewmates talking, laughing, cutting up. They had camped in the boonies, about ten miles from town. It was late, the weather cool, and their laughter, the crackle of the campfire, was suddenly a little more inviting.
They were okay, his new buddies. They were all balls and bluster, like Pete, wouldn’t show their sensitive side if you paid them a hundred bucks. Not that money meant anything anymore. They used money to start campfires now. Or wipe their asses on, if they were out of toilet paper.
Hoping his eyes weren’t too red or swollen, Pete climbed down from the flatbed and went to join his crewmates.
The next morning, Pete was roused by a shout from one of his fellow Screw You’s. He snapped awake instantly—like all scouts did—thinking one of the Screws had spotted some inbound deadheads, but when he sat up in the back of the flatbed, his blankets falling away from his head, he saw that it was snowing.
“Look at that!” the scout who woke Pete cried out, eyes wide, a big goofy grin on his face. “The first snow of the season!”
It was one of the rookies. They had them every tour. There was always someone retiring from the scout crews or stumbling into the teeth and claws of some chompy rotter. This rookie’s name was Travis Bentley, though everyone called him “Get Bent” because he was kind of whiny and annoying. He was a young guy, maybe twenty-six. Thin, Caucasian, still a little wet behind the ears, and not a very good shot. There was a running wager how long he’d last outcamp before he bought the farm or decided there was an easier way to earn his fried chicken and cornbread. He’d awakened Pete from a very cozy dream, his mom and dad and brothers, grilling out on the deck, Billy and Steve playing frisbee with their blue setter Hank, but Pete was hard pressed to be impatient with the rookie this morning. The snow was something of a minor miracle.
The air was still, the kind of still that made you feel like your ears were stuffed with cotton, and drifting down through that throbbing hush were the biggest, fluffiest, whitest snowflakes Pete had seen in his entire life. The sun hadn’t yet peeked over the hilly horizon but its glow was in the sky, a kind of bluish lavender orange, and that fantastic multicolored hue limned the edges of those monstrous snowflakes, making them seem ethereal, like the dancing fairies in Walt Disney’s Fantasia.
“Cool, huh?” Get Bent said, nudging Pete with an elbow.
“Mucho cool,” Pete agreed, his words coming out in little puffs of vapor.
They had circled the caravan in an open field near the shoulder of a blacktop highway, Rural Route 23 on their maps, about halfway between the towns of Cooper’s Hollow and Kershaw. Their squad leader was planning to ride through Cooper’s Hollow later that day, and then they were homeward bound.
The field had been planted with corn, but the corn was all dead now, looked like rows of stubby yellow spears. Dense black wilderness surrounded the field on all three sides and pushed up to the ditch on the other side of the road. There was a farmhouse and barn perched atop the ridge to the south, hazy with distance, and low blue mountains to the east. The field and the road was already obscured beneath a delicate dusting of white, like some celestial baker had sprinkled the world with confectioner’s sugar.
“Reminds me of Christmas when I was a kid,” Get Bent said, climbing to his feet.
Pete rose with him. Scratching his head and checking on the other scouts, most of whom were wrapped up in their sleeping bags, snoring, Pete said, “Uh, yeah. It’s pretty.”
Mort could have taken one look and thought of some fancy way to describe the scene, Pete thought, hugging himself and stamping his feet. Could have made it sound like poetry, too, most likely.
“When is Christmas, anyway?” Get Bent asked. “I lose track of the days.”
“Soon,” Pete answered. He leaned over the side of the truck and cleared his sinuses, pressing his thumb against the side of his nose. One of the Screws standing guard in the next truck leaned out and Pete saluted. “It’s November 26 today, I think,” Pete said, “so about four more weeks.”
“Hey, you remember doing this?” Get Bent asked, and then he hopped down from the flatbed and stepped across the ditch onto the blacktop. Grinning, he turned in a circle with his tongue hanging out. His boots left black marks like commas on the snow-dusted tarmac. In the woods behind him, a tree branch crackled and fell, too brittle to support the weight of the gathering snow. The sound was curiously flat, like two large stones being clapped together.
Pete laughed. “You better watch it, Bent, ‘for something grabs ya!”
He no sooner said it than it happened.
As Travis Bentley pirouetted in the middle of Rural Route 23, catching snowflakes on his tongue like a grade school boy, something leapt out of the shadowy woods. It didn’t make a sound, and it was so rotten Pete couldn’t exactly make out what it was, but it was big and it was black and it was mean. The rookie didn’t stand a chance.
It plowed into Bent like a fur-covered fastball. Eyes wide, Bent made a gusty oof sound and tumbled back into the ditch. Pete heard a ripping sound, like a shirt being rent down the middle, and the kid grunting and gasping.
Pete yelled in surprise, reaching for his pistol, but he’d taken the gun and holster off last night before he crawled into his blankets. The scout on guard duty yelled, too, and someone took a shot, but no one had a clear line of sight. There was nothing anyone could have done to save the kid. It just happened too damn fast.
Get Bent let out one breathless cry and then the beast tore his throat out and swallowed it down hungrily.
Pete scooped up Bent’s rifle and ran to the end of the flatbed, flicking the safety off. He braced the stock against his shoulder and drew a bead on the creature.
“Smile, motherfucker!” Pete shouted.
The animal twisted its head up to snarl at him, muzzle streaked with wet gore. Its lips peeled back from yellow curved fangs. Bentley lay between its front paws, staring up at the fat drifting snowflakes with a heartbreaking expression of confusion. He was still twitching, blood bubbling from his mouth and savaged throat, but his eyes were already getting that faraway look, that dead look that Peter Bolin had become all too familiar with in the last six months or so. Travis Bentley would never catch another snowflake on his tongue.
Pete could identify the creature now. It was a wolf. A zombie wolf, to be exact, its eyes glazed and sunken, its coat hanging limp and kind of empty off its spindly, angular bones, like a matted old fur coat tossed upon a sawhorse.
It growled, low and dreadful, and then it took a step toward him.
Pete fired off a round, and the animal’s top lifted off its head like a hat someone had set a firecracker beneath. The dead canine fell on top of Bentley, hind legs trembling.
Pete cussed and hopped off the back of the flatbed. He was shaking. Adrenaline hangover. The rest of the squad was running his direction, shouting in confusion, asking what was going on, who was shooting, was somebody hurt? Vicky drew up close behind him, touching him lightly on the shoulder.
“Was that Bent?” she asked, peering into the ditch.
“Yep,” Pete said grimly.
“Looks like he ain’t going home.”
“Nope.”
“I guess I win then. You owe me a foot rub.”
“Looks that way.”
Then from the woods surrounding the caravan: howls, rising to the snowy heavens. Mournful and haunting, the chorus made Pete’s hair stand up. He heard the crash and crackle of the rest of the pack racing through the underbrush.
“Wolves!” Pete yelled at the top of his lungs, curling one hand around the side of his mouth.“Zombie fuckin’ wolves!”
They burst out of the forest in all directions, converging on Screw U 2... dark, humped, hairy things, hungry for living flesh.
Looked l
ike he was earning his biscuits and gravy this morning.
15
Dorm Life
Mort was sitting beside the window, enjoying his Thanksgiving dinner-- turkey, dressing, mashed potatoes, green beans and lime Jell-O-- when Dr. Whalen rapped on the door frame with his knuckles.
“How you doing today, Mort?” the man asked. He didn’t wait to be invited in, just entered the room and started flipping through Mort’s chart.
“Good,” Mort answered. “What are you doing here today? It’s Thanksgiving.”
New Jerusalem’s only physician (and a very tired one at that), Doctor Whalen was a tall handsome gentleman with wavy black hair, gone gray at the temples, and a nut brown golfer’s tan. “Oh, I don’t have time for holidays, my friend,” the physician said. “Not until the Archons haul in a couple more doctors to help take the load off. Then I’m taking a loooong vacation.”
“That sucks,” Mort said.
“Eh, it’s not so bad,” Whalen drawled. “I have a nice little cot in the closet by the nurses’ station.” To his credit, there was no real rancor in his voice. Chin to his chest, he scanned Mort’s paperwork. He snapped the chart shut and returned it to the plastic box at the foot of the bed. “So! What say we throw you out of here tomorrow morning?”
“Really?” Mort asked. “Tomorrow?”
“Sure, I think you’re ready,” the doctor said. “Don’t you?”
“Y-yeah, I guess so,” Mort stammered, brow furrowed.
“Ms. Beecher says you’re ready, and Scott thinks so too. I’d say it’s time for this little birdy to fly the nest.”
Mort drew himself up and said more confidently, “Yeah. Yeah, it is.”
And it was. He could think of no reason why he should remain in the infirmary. His head was mostly healed up. His leg had mended. He was getting around fine by himself. He still had to use a cane, but he wasn’t falling out in the floor anymore. He’d even been taking walks outside, and his physical therapy sessions had gone especially well lately. The more he thought about it, the more he felt like a louse, taking up a hospital bed when some other new arrival might need it more than he did.
The doctor checked him over, examining his injuries, shining a light in his eyes, assessing his strength and reflexes. When he was finished, he pronounced Mort healthy as a horse. He told Mort to enjoy his Thanksgiving dinner, then left to finish his rounds.
Mort was too nervous to eat any more Thanksgiving turkey, however. He rolled his tray to the door and shuffled around his room, gathering the few personal items he had accumulated since his arrival: some clothes, and a couple books and periodicals the nurses had brought to him. He piled them on his bedside table and then sat on the edge of his bed, thinking of all the things he must do when they discharged him from the infirmary in the morning.
At 8:00 PM, Nurse Vaughn brought in his pain med.
“I hear you’re getting discharged in the morning,” she said.
“That’s what the doctor said,” Mort grinned, popping the pill in his mouth.
“Excited?”
“Nervous,” he admitted, taking a swig of water.
“Well, here,” she said, throwing her arms around him. She smashed his face to her generous bosom. She smelled like bleach and old lady. “I won’t be here in the morning to say goodbye so let me get my hug now. And don’t worry. You’re a tough cookie. You’ll be fine.”
“I know. Thanks. For everything.”
“It’s been my pleasure, Mr. Lesser,” she said. “All right, I have to get back to my duties now. Use your call light if you need anything,” and then she departed.
He thought he would have a hard time sleeping, but he dozed off as soon as his head hit the pillow. Morning came so suddenly it shocked him.
He rose, took a shower, and changed into his outside clothes. Dr. Whalen returned briefly during his morning rounds, eyes bleary. He gave Mort some last minute instructions, wrote him out a prescription for pain medicine, then bid him good luck and went about his business.
Is that it? Do I just walk out? Mort wondered.
He put his things into a plastic bag, grabbed his cane and limped from his room.
One of the nurses called out to him as he stumped down the hallway. “Are you trying to sneak off without saying goodbye?” she asked, hands on her hips. After a few rounds of hugs and well-wishes from the staff, Mort showed himself to the door.
He limped out to the sidewalk and surveyed his surroundings, shivering in the late November chill. New Jerusalem was a sprawling prison-like complex enclosed by a double set of high chain link fences topped with barbed wire. Guard towers, looking like the Martian ships out of H.G. Wells’ War of the Worlds, divided the fences into fifty yard lengths. The sky was low and gray, and to the east: the Unicoi mountain range, its dark shoulders wreathed in a hazy stole of low-lying clouds.
A light snow was falling and he could see his breath in front of his face, but he was dressed warmly enough (jeans, sweatshirt, toboggan and jacket) so it was not exactly like they were putting him out in the cold. Only it felt that way. No one had accompanied him to the door, and there was no welcome wagon waiting outside. He’d been cut loose with vague directions to the housing office and that was about the extent of it.
Feeling lonely and a little depressed, Mort set his shoulders and began to hobble his way toward the administration building. He would get his dorm assignment there.
The sidewalks were not icy, thank goodness, but he used his cane anyway, just to be safe. He felt strong—certainly healthy enough to get out on his own, finally. The medical crew wasn’t giving him the bum’s rush. Still, his right leg was probably going to be a little tricky the rest of his life, and the cold made his head throb, despite the toboggan he’d been given to wear.
There were a few people roaming about in the wintry chill this morning. He watched them scurry along the sidewalks, running errands, running to meet their friends... or their lovers. None of them paid him a whit of attention. All were strangers. He paused to let a few military-looking vehicles rumble past. SCU-7 was stenciled on the side of each vehicle. One of the drivers, a scowling man in aviator sunglasses, nodded down at Mort as the caravan rolled by, and Mort nodded back. He waited until all the trucks had gone past, then crossed the street.
He heard the joyful sound of children playing, their squeals and the high-pitched babble of their voices. Several small kids—three boys and two girls—were chasing each other in the white-dusted grass between two buildings. New Jerusalem had no playgrounds. It looked like they’d settled for tag. Watching them play in their toboggans and scarves and thick padded winter coats cheered him, especially the sight of their cherry noses and rosy cheeks.
He watched them for a few minutes, huddling in his light jacket, and tried to imagine having children with Dao-ming. What would they look like? Though he tried for a minute or two to summon up an image, a little boy or girl with his round face and Dao-ming’s exotic eyes, the picture eluded him. He shook his head finally. The image wouldn’t come. In truth, he was having trouble simply recalling her face. It was the brain damage, he supposed. Whatever brain cells had stored the image of his true love’s face, they’d met an abrupt, messy end at the hands of the psycho Da Vinci.
One more thing the killer had stolen from him...
A thin boy with lanky brown hair was chasing a plump girl with long coarse black curls. “I tagged you! I tagged you! You’re it!” the boy cried, but the girl continued to flee him, shaking her head and giggling. Feeling self-conscious (he didn’t want anyone to think he was some kind of kiddie-creeper) Mort limped on.
An elderly woman peeked out the front door of one of the dormitories as he turned, calling, “Drew? Drew! Come in for a little while and get warmed up. You’re going to catch your death!”
Mort continued on to the administration building, trying to limp as little as possible. He didn’t want any passersby to see his infirmity and feel sorry for him.
As he approache
d the corner of a building, he was tempted to stop and peek down the alley before crossing. Checking for deadheads...! He had to laugh. New Jerusalem was safe, he reassured himself. The DOD camp was surrounded by twenty foot tall chain link fences. The towers were manned by armed guards 24 hours a day. Not only that, their haven was remote, miles and miles from any heavily populated town. Standing in the middle of the compound, a person could turn 360 degrees and see not one sign of human civilization beyond the prison-like fences, just a couple meandering one lane roads and a few close outbuildings. The DOD camp had been built along the border of the Cherokee National Forest, Nurse Vaughn had told him, almost perfectly centered in a vast tract of wilderness and river runs. Not one zombie had stumbled upon the complex, Scott the Physical Therapy Guy assured him.
Not yet, anyways! Mort thought grimly.
Taped to the glass door of the administration building was a 8 1/2 X 11 printed sign. It said:
NJ ADMINISTRATION BLDG
Registration 1E
Information and Government 1H
Adjudication and Law 1J
Work Assignments 2A
Housing 2B
WELCOME TO NEW JERUSALEM!
Mort pushed through the door and into the building’s warmth and bright artificial light.
It still seemed like a minor miracle: heat and lights. After the power went out in DuChamp, it had taken him several days to stop flipping the light switches when going in or out of a room. It would probably be a couple more weeks before he began to take modern luxuries for granted again. He sighed in appreciation as the warmth enveloped him. It was good to be alive-- even better to be warm and dry! The throbbing in his leg and head eased as he started down the hallway, checking the signs on the doors.
Mort: Deluxe Illustrated Edition (The Fearlanders) Page 22