by James, Guy
Chad didn’t see that, because he was still gazing at his wife. She’d been his last, and greatest, love.
PART THREE
Spotting
“The Order of the Dead isn’t real.
It’s just a boogeyman made up to keep kids away from the fences.”
Senna Phillips, former rec-crew spotter, citizen of New Crozet,
the longest-lived settlement in Virginia.
1
Shadows of dark were edging into the clearing outside New Crozet, reaching toward the burning breaks in the perimeter fence with their long, misshapen fingers. Paw at the town as they did, they were smothering the embers of daylight.
A mixture of sounds was coming from the now-exposed post-apocalyptic town. Crying, screaming, command-shouting, and the sound of feet scrambling on the dry earth could be heard distinctly in the commotion.
Then there was another sound.
It was Alan’s voice, rising over the chaotic din and cutting it off, and then he was yelling, which he did so rarely that no one in New Crozet, and not even Senna who’d known him before they’d come to the town, had ever heard him do it.
That was part of what made it so powerful, that those listening hadn’t even been aware he could raise his voice, much less do it so forcefully and with so much emotion behind the call to arms that he was now declaring.
The Tack Truck was moving with great speed toward the fence, mowing down anyone who was still in its path. Its course was set for the advancing shadow carpet of storm that would be its escape.
Moments later, it crossed the point in the fence where Saul’s charges had blown New Crozet wide open. But perhaps the town had done that to itself, by holding markets in the first place, by allowing children to attend, and by wanting to welcome new traders at the end of a long journey. By doing all those things good people were supposed to do.
In the darkening clearing outside the town, the truck was taken in by the shadows. There, as if the cloud cover had lent its engine strength, it accelerated, and sped off into the zombie-infested woods.
Only one man followed the truck into the forest. His scratched Wayfarers, which his lover had found for him in some pile of old clothes in the New Crozet church, were gone.
They’d fallen and were lying in the town proper, crushed and broken under the feet of the panicking townspeople. The lenses, at long last, were scuffed up and broken too much for the vintage sunglasses to ever be used again.
2
Alan’s pursuit failed. Sister Beth of the Order of the Dead shot him, and then the zombies came to finish the job.
3
Brother Acrisius ground his teeth until he could feel the scrape work its way down a nerve in his leg. He hated this. And soon he’d have to get one of the children out of the camp and to the Fleshers to do his part and keep to the bargain.
The exchange was to take place tonight. If everything went as planned, the Order’s stock of the Sultan would be replenished, Acrisius’s private stash of jerky would be as well, and they’d all be packed up and on their way to the next town by daybreak.
Fuck, how he could use some of that grand Sultan right now, how he craved it, needed it, to ease the knots on his soul.
They were still a good distance from the camp, and the world was becoming a sphere dominated by dark, even though it was still early in the day. Ahead of schedule—tell that to the clouds, which were preparing an onslaught this part of the world hadn’t seen in years, not since before the outbreak.
The Order’s founder was behind the wheel. He had on an expression of utmost serenity, of an otherworldly calm that Brother Acrisius found unnerving. It was his old look—that of a man who had access to an unseen world of information, of power.
The Order did business with the Fleshers regularly, and needed to if they were going to stay in the running. The Fleshers had everything: food, supplies, and a vast network of devoted followers. They had dope too—the noble Sultan—and the Order needed the aid of his great majesty to carry out their kidnappings.
The Fleshers had been kind enough, or rather, had had enough business sense, to give the Order a taste of the Sultan ahead of time, an advance. That advance was now keeping the townspeople unconscious in the back, and some of it had been used in Acrisius’s and Saul’s private games, but it was almost all used up now, and they had to get more.
To get it, they needed to trade something for it, or rather, some-one, and that lucky individual had to be under a certain age. ‘Not legal,’ as the Fleshers had put it to Acrisius, who didn’t give a damn one way or another about their stupid jokes and hadn’t laughed. It wasn’t like there were laws anymore, anyway.
A seam of lightning appeared in the sky and the world seemed to collapse inward, toppling over onto itself in great, ragged cutouts, some of which looked like they had barbs protruding from them.
The first buckets of rainwater were flung on the truck’s windshield, and more followed, obscuring the road. They traveled like this for nearly half a mile, the storm growing thicker while Brother Acrisius’s resolve thinned until it was the diameter of a saliva thread just before breaking.
When his will reached that watery girth, he was suddenly certain that they were being pursued, and not just by one or two of the fucking townspeople, but by all of them. That was impossible, of course, not only because the town had been full of worthless settlement people but because the storm was making the forest near unnavigable.
Still, all he wanted to do was turn around and look, and it was like a nasty, creeping itch that he couldn’t scratch, because no matter how hard he stared into the side mirror, the only thing he could see there was darkness and water. Dark water, watery dark, sloshing back and forth, and back and forth and rolling nauseatingly ad infinitum, and nothing more.
4
Mardu was squinting at the encroaching darkness. The headlights were off, and they would stay off a little while longer to reduce their chances of being followed, even though he was even more confident than Acrisius that the chances of anyone coming after them were ultra-slim.
Settlement dwellers never went past their fence. It wasn’t in whatever coward’s rulebook that passed for their code. They’d stay put, even though their children had been taken from them, because that was how the chicken-shit survivors lived.
Brother Mardu smiled. That was good. Fear could be counted on. It was the gift that kept on giving, and it did so predictably.
The next settlements they hit would be easier, because now that they’d done it once, it was a known quantity. And when they made their next run, it was unlikely they’d have to make their escape in a storm quite like this.
The rain let up as they passed out from under a heavy pocket, and they were afforded an illuminated glimpse at what they were driving through. Tree trunks and pits in the road seemed improbably close, as if they were conspiring to close in on the truck from all directions.
Acrisius let out a squeal, then said, “How can you see where you’re going? How can you see anything?” His voice was higher than usual, and the words had come fast.
“Are you alright?” Mardu said. “Of course I see where I’m going. Don’t you?”
Acrisius made no reply, and only stared harder at the darkening murk of forest they were plowing into. He felt like he was having an anxiety attack, and it wouldn’t have been the first one.
Brother Mardu shot him a look that was equal parts concern and irritation, then fixed his eyes on the road again.
It’d be nice, Mardu thought, if the ground didn’t subside on their way back. It was tough going, that was true, and it was on his mind, but it wasn’t turning him into a nervous wreck like Acrisius.
The ground wouldn’t give out beneath them, Mardu was sure. Luck would be on his side on their journey back, he could feel good fortune sitting there with him, and that reminded him of old times. How strong he’d been then, how driven.
And, as he’d proven today, all the luckier-than-the-devil days were no
t behind him. But that was a bit of shit, too, because he was thinking about it, and when you’re really in luckier-than-the-devil mode, you’re beyond analysis.
Fuck, he thought, and squeezed the steering wheel harder.
The last of the light was fading from the world as Mardu finally turned on the headlights. A trail of light began to draw its way through the woods, marking the Order’s progress with a washed-out, bumpily proceeding glare.
The truck was getting a good beating, just the sort that it liked. From below by the uneven ground, and from the flanks by reaching, greedy branches that scratched at the paint and exposed sheet metal like the caresses of scraggly-clawed hookers. And the truck liked that very much, especially the idea of it. To each its own, as they’d say if they knew how the truck felt. To each their own is the fetishist’s sole rule.
Brother Saul—who was on his way to the rendezvous point with Sister Beth—understood this concept well, too well for his own good, in fact, but that was how he lived, and how he wanted to live: under—or over, as the case may be, but usually under—Brother Acrisius in all of his magnificent hideousness. And the truck, aspire as it might, had nothing on Saul when it came to masochism.
To Saul, helping a man like Brother Acrisius, one in so much pain, a victim to such unique disfigurements, and with a passion to dole out wonderful abuse, was his highest calling, the highest calling, really. It was what he’d always wanted to do, to serve someone so completely, to exist only for them, and he’d gotten exactly that with Acrisius.
It hadn’t been the same with his prior masters. Their hearts hadn’t been in it the way Brother Acrisius’s was. His current master’s entire soul was in it, and when he was with Saul, he expressed himself to the full, letting free all of his base desires, all of his wrath, all of his venom, and with that, all of his being.
No one had ever opened up to Saul like this before. On one occasion, after beating Saul with all of his might—which did hardly any damage, the older man was weak and half-paralyzed, after all—Acrisius had actually cried. He’d broken down and sobbed for nearly an hour, telling Saul everything, baring all of himself.
At the end, Brother Acrisius had confessed that he’d never shared this much with anyone, and, to Saul, that was the greatest prize there was. Saul believed one thing that most other people didn’t—or hadn’t come to realize or understand yet, is how he’d put it—and that was that some people, Acrisius being one, could only show love by giving pain. And in Brother Saul’s world, that was okay, more than okay, actually, sought after.
Mardu looked over at Acrisius and saw the sweat dripping from the man’s brow as if his skin were popping out kernels of water. He was always emitting salty water from his face these days, and Mardu suspected there was something really wrong with him, and more than just the usual.
Maybe he was dying—not this moment, but soon. The man had long seemed to have a tenuous grasp on life, like he was hanging by a moldering thread, and the abyss beneath was waiting, looking into his soul and grinning hungrily. But maybe that was all an illusion, a house of smoke and mirrors haunted by semi-paralyzed reflections.
Acrisius and Saul were the only ones he trusted now, the only ones who didn’t have a two-thirds-formed coup written on their faces, and though they gave him the creeps, they were all he had. And, he told himself, they’d be enough.
The Order had fallen apart some but it was salvageable. He was really starting to believe that now. It could be saved. The entire Order’s faith in him would be put back once he re-upped their fear.
Restore the fear and they’ll believe again. And that’s exactly what he was going to do. He didn’t care if the storm was trying to wash the whole damned, rotten world away, he was going to have his Order back.
The truck’s wheels hit a dense overgrowth of tree roots and the whole thing jerked sideways and careened out of control. It was a familiar feeling for Mardu, one he’d come to know as the captain of the Order’s sinking ship. He fought a tug of war with the steering wheel, his teeth clenched and the sweat that had been building on his brow now dripping from it. He would hold firm, the truck wasn’t going to flip over, and the Order wasn’t going to be lost at sea. Not if he had a hand in it.
Tree limbs dragged new scars in the truck’s sheet metal, but, under Mardu’s guidance, the truck found a way to get all of its spinning feet back on the ground. He breathed a sigh of relief, letting it seep slowly out of his nose. There was no need to let Brother Acrisius see it, the man appeared to be on the verge of another stroke, and Mardu still needed him, and, more importantly, the strength of his minion, Saul. Mardu used a shirtsleeve to mop the sweat from his face, and on he drove, straining his eyes to see in the gloom of the storm.
When they’d made it to the agreed-upon rallying spot, they picked up a sopping wet Sister Beth and Brother Saul, then got going again. Crowded in the cab with all of them, Beth looked angry as a devil in an ice storm, and to add insult to injury, she was soaking wet too, her clothes clinging to her small body.
She didn’t tell them about how one of the townspeople had pursued them, because she didn’t care one way or another and was preoccupied with her own problems—those of the failed coup. Saul didn’t bring it up either, because Acrisius seemed extremely tense, so he figured he’d save it for a calmer time when they were back with the others.
Saul looked like he was puzzling through something in his mind, and though he was just as wet as Beth, he appeared not to notice it, engrossed as he was with watching the gears turn in his head.
Together, Mardu, Acrisius, Saul, and Beth, with the prize of townspeople they’d captured, journeyed the rest of the way to the Order’s campground in silence.
5
Under Tom Preston’s direction, the townspeople quickly set up a temporary barrier of netting that would protect them while they worked to repair the fence. After that they began to clear away the rubble and bring in new building materials. The plan was to work in shifts without pause until New Crozet was secure again.
Minutes earlier Alan had run back inside the town, forcing his way through the temporary net and then sealing it behind him with Corks’s help. He’d been shot in the shoulder, and then the zombies had come and he was no longer the pursuer but the pursued, a three-legged zombie foxhound leading the bite-Alan chase for a quarter mile, and he’d been forced to run back to New Crozet for cover.
Tom was in full swing directing the working men. Since climbing through the temporary barrier, Alan had been holding his wounded arm and trying to get Tom’s attention.
Now, frustrated at the lack of response, he grabbed Tom by the shoulders and squeezed, getting Tom to stay still. Alan’s shoulder was throbbing, but he held on, sending fresh shards of pain clinking up his nerve endings and into his brain.
Bargaining commenced, which gave way to pleading, and then to yelling, but Tom wasn’t having it. The big man stood there, glared at Alan, and shook his head.
How could he still be shaking his head, after what Alan had just said? There were people who could go, people whose lives were worth less than those of the children. Wasn’t that the point? Wasn’t that the objective answer? The children mattered more than some grumpy settlement hideaways. They had to get after the Tackers now.
But tomorrow was Tom’s answer, and maybe. Tomorrow? Maybe? Tomorrow! You’re her father!
Alan flew into a real rage for the first time in…well, in his whole life. Four men, Corks and Tom among them, had to get him under control.
Larry Knapp watched the struggle, his mouth agape. When Tom threatened to lock Alan in the jail, the fighting stopped. Alan knew he had to let them finish securing the town, and he could do no good locked up in a cell.
But he wouldn’t help with the fence. There were more than enough hands stirring the temporary barrier pot. He would find something else to do.
The light was stealing out of the day as if the fire in the sky—the same scenic burning that Alan had wanted, needed, to show Senna
and to share with her—were burning it out, leaving behind a charred dome that the light wouldn’t be able to shine through anymore.
After Alan was done making his scene and left the outer gate, Knapp went to sit in a corner of the church. All the cheer was gone from him now.
Despondent, he thought that Jack was missing for sure, and Sasha, he was beginning to realize, probably was too. Since the explosions, he hadn’t been able to find either.
The Tackers had taken them, and now, despite Alan’s efforts, there would be no search party.
Briefly, Knapp considered going after them alone, but he knew that was pointless. He hadn’t been outside in years, and would likely be dead in minutes.
They’d taken Jack.
And Sasha.
Knapp took his head in his hands and tried to understand that his children had been kidnapped, and not just them, but other children, and other townspeople, too—adults. He knew what could happen outside the settlements, what did happen. Jack could be…
“God I fucked up,” he said, with hardly a slur to it. It wasn’t just Jack. Sasha was his too. Of course she was. How foolish he’d been this whole time, and what terrible things he’d done to both of them, worst of all to her.
He hadn’t taught them enough stranger danger lessons. He hadn’t imparted anything to them at all.
He thought of the beer brewing in his home, and when he pictured it all he saw were vats and bottles of maggots, wan, yellow and crawling, looking for a way out of their containers and into his belly, from which they’d wriggle up into his brain, because, after all, that was where they fed.
Trying to swallow, he found that he couldn’t. His mouth had become too dry. The big-breasted, beer stein-carrying Tinkerbelle was gutted, her wings having been pinned down for the job. Someone had upended the steins she’d used to carry and poured their malty goodness into her gaping chest.