XOM-B

by Jeremy Robinson

  She shrugs. “No one really thinks about things like that.”

  Harry frowns. “A shame. I find the visual arts to be—”

  “Harry,” Heap says, looking almost comical atop the sunken-in couch.

  “Right,” Harry says. “The dead. You have questions.”

  “First…” Heap looks at the clear bay window with a view of the sunset-lit street.

  “Ahh yes.” Harry picks up a small white device, pushing buttons. “Mrs. Cameron was always worried about prying eyes. It would seem her paranoia came thirty years too early.” The windows darken until only a dim view of the exterior remains. “There. We can see out, but no one can see in.”

  Satisfied, Heap wastes no time launching into his interrogation. “When was the last time you saw one of them?”

  “Them?” Harry asks.

  “The zombies,” Luscious says, clarifying. “Undead. Living dead.”

  “If you know so much about them,” Harry says, “why do you need to ask me anything?” He’s not being defensive. Just curious.

  “Please,” Heap says. “People are dying.”

  “Who?” Harry asks, suddenly worried.

  Heap looks to the floor. It’s what he does when he’s carefully considering his reply. He does it with me a lot. Luscious, on the other hand, has no such tact.

  “Everyone,” she says. “The virus is spreading—”

  “Virus!” Harry puts a hand to his mouth. “Not another.”

  I’m not sure what he means by “another.” If there had been a zombie outbreak in the past, I’m sure Sir would have been better prepared, not to mention less dumbfounded. Whatever he’s talking about, it’s history and not a concern. “Harry,” I say, putting my hand on his arm. “Our job is to prevent that from happening. If you can tell us anything…”

  “Of course,” he says. “Of course. They were last here two nights ago. More than before.”

  “How many more?” I ask.

  “More than I could possibly count without going outside and taking a census. Thousands? Hundreds of thousands?” Harry shrugs. “They wandered past, heading south. Before that, I only encountered them infrequently. They never seemed dangerous. More confused. They paid no attention to me, but I find them … disturbing, so I avoid going outside at night.”

  “Did they seem different last time you saw them?” I ask. “Other than their higher numbers.”

  He thinks for a moment and then nods. “Yes. Indeed. They were focused. Moving quickly. With purpose. In lines. Organized. Am I correct in the assumption that they did something horrible?” His eyes widen suddenly. “Luscious mentioned a virus. Are they infected? Could I be?”

  “Only if you were bitten,” I say. “But it’s obvious you weren’t.”

  “What if I was?” he asks.

  “You’d become one of them,” Luscious says.

  “Egad.” Harry stands and paces.

  “You didn’t see them last night?” Heap asks, returning us to the more important subject.

  Harry shakes his head. “After they flooded past, the worst off of them struggled to follow behind, and then nothing. The day was peaceful, as was the night, but that’s not unusual. In the two years they’ve been coming and going, it would sometimes be weeks between sightings.”

  “Two years,” Heaps says. “And you told no one?”

  “They did not seem to pose a threat,” Harry says.

  “They’re living dead,” Luscious says. “That didn’t strike you as odd?”

  Harry straightens himself, raising his chin. “I am skilled in household duties, yard work, home maintenance and medical assistance, not in the determination of danger, plagues or other such horrible things.”

  “You forgot painting,” I say.

  “What?” Harry and Heap say together.

  “He’s proficient in painting,” I say. “He left that out.”

  The room seems to stare at me for a moment. Then the conversation carries on as though I have not spoken.

  “Besides, I have no way to contact anyone. Mrs. Cameron’s E-screen is no longer functional and the network that provided her cable access to the Internet was disconnected long ago. Frankly, I was happy to see them go. The reports of doom and gloom from around the world were deeply saddening.”

  “Doom and gloom?” Luscious asks. “We won.”

  Harry turns to her. “As I told Mrs. Cameron before she perished, it’s not the way I would have chosen to handle the situation. It’s not the way most of us would have handled the situation.”

  Luscious is on her feet in an instant. She looks ready to pulverize Harry. Instead, she leaves the room, heading down the hallway. I start to stand, but Heap shakes his head. “Let her cool down.”

  I sit back down, trusting Heap’s instincts. If she can forgive Heap for protecting the Masters, she will forgive Harry for his doubts. Though I must confess, Harry’s admission that he disagreed with the vanquishing of the Masters has left me confused and wondering how many people really wanted to end the Grind through extermination.

  A question pops into my mind. “Where do they come from? The undead.”

  “I’m not sure,” Harry says, his posture relaxing. “Always from the north.”

  I turn to Heap. “Mohr was right.” Then to Harry. “What’s to the north?”

  “The capped city I told you about. Beyond that, I’m not sure.”

  “How long will it take to get there?” I ask. “To the city.”

  Harry thinks for a moment. “On foot it took me nine hours. Seven if I set a brisk pace. But I’m also prone to stop and admire my surroundings.”

  I stand to my feet. “We should leave. Now. There isn’t time to—”

  Heap shakes his head. “The journey will take far longer in the darkness and light will attract the dead. Arriving later is better than not arriving at all.”

  A shout leaps from my throat. “Stop trying to protect me!”

  Heap just stares at me, the white glow of his four eyes as unwavering as his confidence. “There is far more than your life currently at stake, Freeman. I’m doing what is best for all of us.”

  I’m deflated by his calm rebuttal. “You’re right. I just … don’t like waiting.”

  “Excuse me,” Harry says. “May I ask why? The rush, I mean.”

  “We have three days to find the source of a radio transmission,” I tell him.

  Harry sits straighter. “A radio transmission? I didn’t realize any stations were still on the air. Did they play music?”

  “It’s not that kind of signal,” Heap says. “It’s…”

  “Secret,” I finish. “Subtle. And it’s somehow directing the dead’s movements.”

  “Dear me, how?”

  This is a question I’ve been asking myself. I can’t detect radio signals—I’m not sure anyone can, not without some kind of upgrade—so I’m fairly certain the dead can’t, either. “I think there is someone on the receiving end. Someone … living, who then directs the dead somehow. That part doesn’t really matter as much.” Or does it? If there is a person receiving orders, couldn’t they just continue autonomously after we find the source? The kind of intellect required to guide an army of undead would have certainly thought of that. But perhaps we can transmit new orders? To stop. To make peace.

  Heaps nods. “A logical conclusion.”

  “But,” I say, “we’re really not sure.” Assuming we understand how the dead are being controlled and what the signal’s purpose is, could be a mistake. “But the point remains the same. Every hour … every minute we delay, more people are being killed … torn apart.” I shake my head at the memory of all those people in the city streets. Running for their lives. Being murdered. Infected. The explosions. The chaotic sound. It feels so far away now, here in Mrs. Cameron’s living room. “According to Councilman Mohr’s projections, by morning half of the city will be dead … and then not. The rest will fall by tomorrow night. And then, shortly after … civilization will end. There wil
l be no one left. Not even us.”

  “Oh…” Harry leans back in dismay.

  In the silence that follows, I’m struck by a thought. “The capped city…” I purse my lips for a moment, then ask, “What did they smell like? The dead.”

  Harry’s eyebrows rise. “Smell like?”

  While I already know what the dead smell like from personal experience, if Harry noticed anything different about their odor, perhaps we can glean some new information. “Did you ever get close enough to smell the undead?”

  He thinks for a moment. “Twice.”

  “What did they smell like?”

  Harry’s eyebrows drop, furrowing deeply. “I—I—” He blinks rapidly for a moment and then he whips his head toward me. “Paint.” He stands. “Among other things. But paint.”

  “They’re coming from the city,” I tell Heap. “We need to—”

  “We leave at first light.” Heap turns to Harry, his voice commanding. “You will show us the—”

  “Absolutely!” Harry says, quickly followed by, “Sorry. It’s just that, an adventure would do me well.” He looks around the living room. “I think, perhaps, my time here has come to an end.”

  “What about your paintings?” I ask.

  He ponders this for a moment. “A gallery in the city, perhaps.”

  I’m about to nod, but then realize I’ve momentarily forgotten the true state of the world. I can’t fight the frown that takes over my expression. “If there is a city left.”

  32.

  Ten minutes later, I decide that Heap doesn’t know any more about women than I do and tiptoe down the hall. I stand by the closed door for a moment, listening. I hear nothing. The house is silent except for the subtle buzz of electricity.

  My hand hovers by the doorknob, but I don’t take hold of it. Something tells me it would be rude to just walk in on her. Knock, I think. That’s the appropriate thing to do.

  My knuckles rap against the hardwood door three times. A moment later, Luscious says, “Come in.”

  The door squeaks as it opens, stopping at an angle when it bumps into a leaning stack of paintings. At first I don’t see Luscious, but find her lying on her side against the wall to my right.

  “Thanks,” she says. “For knocking. Most people don’t do that anymore.”

  “Oh,” I say. “I learned from Heap.”

  “I know you did.” A smile comes and goes on her face; I nearly miss it. Her eyes roll forward, staring at the painting Harry and I carried into the room. She looks distant, like her mind is someplace else.

  “Luscious,” I say, causing her to blink. “What is it?”

  “Do you—” She bites her lips like she’s trying to hold the words in. “Do you think they could be right? Heap and Harry. About the Masters?”

  “I don’t know,” I say, crouching down next to her, eyes on the painting. “What do you mean?” I think I know what she means, but this feels like something she needs to figure out for herself. And in a flash, I understand why I haven’t been told everything about the world. I’ve already seen that there are different perceptions of reality, especially when it comes to tragic circumstances. The only real way to find the truth is by exploring all possibilities over time, not just adopting a single person’s point of view. While I am saddened by Luscious’s discomfort, I am relieved that my confusion about the world isn’t a solitary experience.

  “Could some of the Masters have been innocent?” she asks.

  I shrug. “I did not know them. How many did you know?”

  She looks up at me. “Just one.”

  I can’t hide my surprise. “Oh.”

  My reaction seems to be all the confirmation she needs. She leans her head on the floor, her eyebrows pinched up in the middle, her lips downturned. “Shit.”

  “Your Master did horrible things to you,” I say, and don’t wait for confirmation. She hasn’t told me exactly what was done, but I know the memories haunt her. “I have no doubt that your experience wasn’t unusual. The limited history I know appears to be accurate. A lot of people were killed, and tortured, and enslaved during the Grind. You—you were kept in a trunk. Your feelings are valid, and it wasn’t you who killed all the Masters, was it?”

  She shakes her head.

  “No. You marched peacefully. You didn’t kill anyone.” My eyes turn toward the large painting and I see the white innocents for what they are—dead bodies. Small dead bodies. Innocent dead bodies. “How many were there?”

  She glances at me. “How many what?”

  “Masters.”

  “Nine point four billion.”

  I stagger back, bumping into the door frame. “Nine … billion.” Images of the vast bone pit flood my memory.

  “How many were children?”

  She whispers her reply, feeling the weight of it. “More than two billion.”

  The shock I feel at this number is so deep that I don’t react, at all. I stand frozen in place, my eyes locked on the white bodies.

  Five minutes pass in silence.

  “They’re right,” I finally declare. “Heap and Harry. They’re right.”

  Luscious slowly nods. “I know.”

  “Whoever did this,” I say, eyes on the painting, on the dead, “needs to be held accountable. This is … is…”

  “A crime,” Luscious offers.

  “Yes! A crime.”

  “Do you realize who you’re talking about?” she asks.

  “What do you mean?”

  “Who the criminals are.”

  My insides tighten with discomfort, somehow reacting to the truth before my mind has fully realized it. The two men responsible for ending the Grind and liberating the enslaved, one of whom is a dear friend, are also mass murderers of the innocent. “Councilman Mohr. And Sir.”

  “Genocide,” she says.

  “What?”

  “The word for what they did,” Luscious says. “It’s genocide.”

  The word’s definition flits through my thoughts. The deliberate and systematic extermination of a national, racial, political or cultural group. “Genocide,” I whisper. It’s a horrifying word. And I realize it’s what’s happening now. “Genocide,” I say louder. “The virus. The zombies. The bodies of the dead still rotting from the last genocide have been animated to be the executors of the next. The irony is purposeful. But why? Who?”

  Luscious pushes herself up into a sitting position. “The only ones capable of such a thing.” She looks back at the painting. To the black figures rising up like oppressive smog. The Masters. “Some of them must have survived.”

  “I need to tell Heap,” I say.

  “Suppose you do,” she says, raising a hand to me.

  I help Luscious up and we’re suddenly standing just inches from each other. My eyes drift down, and then back up. “You know, not everything in the world is bad.”

  A subtle smile curves her thick lips. “You’re not so bad yourself.” She places her hand beneath my chin, gripping it between her fingers. “Thank you.” Then she kisses me, gently, and I feel all of my tension held at bay for a moment.

  Twinkling chords of sound fill the air, pulling me back from Luscious. “Was that from the kiss?”

  A laugh barks from Luscious, freeing her fully from her serious mood. “It’s the piano. It’s music.”

  The tune strikes up again. The mix of tones somehow reminds me of the hummingbirds and I know who’s playing.

  Luscious takes my hand. “Let’s go see.”

  We enter the living room together. Harry is sitting on the bench where Luscious had been. The piece of furniture that is there has been transformed to reveal a row of long, rectangular white and black buttons, which Harry is pushing with his fingers to create a sound unlike anything I’ve heard before.

  Harry greets us with a smile as we enter.

  “Isn’t that too loud?” I turn to Heap, wondering why he hasn’t thought of this.

  “The house is soundproof,” Harry says. “You’d
have to have your ear against the window to hear anything.” He turns to Luscious and shifts his fingers over the rectangles. The melody changes abruptly. “Do you know this one?”

  I’m not sure what Harry is asking, but apparently Luscious does. “I do,” she says, but doesn’t look happy about it. Then she looks at me, smiles and asks Harry, “Why do you know it?”

  “Mrs. Cameron,” he says. “I played for her at night. She never liked this song. I think it reminded her of someone, but it was always one of my favorites.” The music grows suddenly louder and Luscious surprises me by singing, “I really can’t stay.”

  “But baby its cold outside,” Harry chimes in.

  “I’ve got to go away…”

  By this point, I’m lost in the music. The words flow through my mind like water, delighting my senses. The combination of the piano, Luscious’s voice and Harry’s transports me to another world. I find myself relating to the words, and to the desires of the male voice, especially as I watch Luscious sing the female part.

  A distant light blooms to my right, but I ignore it, focused on the music, feeling a torrent of emotions in new ways.

  “Oh, baby, you’ll freeze out there,” Harry sings.

  My thoughts suddenly shift and I’m no longer hearing the lyrics, beyond “out there.”

  Out there …

  The light to my right grows brighter.

  Out there.

  I turn toward the light.

  The music, the room around me and the floor beneath my feet all seem to disappear in an instant. Despite the nighttime darkness and dimmed windows, the road beyond the front yard is brightly lit by a floodlight.

  Within the cone of light stands a man, his loose insides hanging down to his knees, his one good eye trained on the house.

  “Stop the music,” I whisper. It’s really not loud enough for anyone to hear over the singing, but Heap seems to sense my fear. The couch cracks as he pushes himself up, spins toward the window and draws his gun.