This Dark Earth

by John Hornor Jacobs

  The men at other tables look at the women—three of twenty in Bridge City—and I know they’d like to toss me over the Bridge Wall and take my seat.

  “Nothing, really.” I take a bite of salad, follow it with coffee. “Some fuel reserves down there. Gas storage for Murphy Oil. See if we can bring back a tanker. Nearer the site, we’ll rustle up a backhoe or something to be our spearhead and clear the roads for the tanker.”

  “Just you three?”

  “Can’t risk any more.” Jasper is looking at me like a deer in the headlights—I think that’s the saying—and Keb has crossed his arms. He’s glaring at the women.

  “That’s right, ladies. Just like the Lil Prince says.”

  “Keb, don’t call me that—”

  “Shit, G, it’s the goddamned truth. They’s grooming you to be part of the Council, sure as shit.”

  I eat some more. Barb puts her hand on my thigh.

  Dina, pretty even with the burns, says, “Well, we’ll have a little party for you boys tonight, at the women’s fire pit. You know, for the soldiers doomed to die and all that. Smells better there, less noise from the visitors at the Wall. We’ve got some whiskey we’ve been saving and some wine. I’ve invited Brandon and his friend too, and they said they’d bring their guitars. What do you say?”

  I swallow. “We’re leaving pretty early tomorrow—”

  Jasper stares at me and says, “Gus, you don’t get an invite to the women’s fire pit every day. They invite who they want.” Dina giggles. Really.

  I’ve heard them partying at night down by the pit. But I never really thought I’d be able to join the adults there until I moved out of the big family tent into my own, last year. Ellie came, and suddenly I wasn’t the only kid anymore. Not like I felt like one anyway.

  Women scare me. The women’s fire pit is like the cool kids’ table at school, back before the Big Turnover.

  I’m so excited, I put down my spork and look at Jasper and Keb grinning like idiots.

  “Um. Okay, I guess. That’d be great.”

  Jasper slams his hands down on the table. “Hell, yes! Keb, I told you Gus weren’t no pussy!”

  I don’t really know what to say to that. But I’m glad I’m not a pussy.

  Barb leans toward me, her mouth barely inches from my ear, and whispers, “It’ll be fun. I promise.”

  Mom yells, “You’re not going!” the moment I enter the Command Tent.

  “Now, Luce, let’s not get all excited about this.” Knock-Out is holding the baby, bouncing her. Wallis looks uncomfortable and stands up.

  She storms over to me, doing her best to shake the wooden flooring of the big tent, and gets right in my face.

  “Negative! No. Absolutely not. You aren’t going anywhere. I thought I lost you once. I’m not going to let that happen again.”

  “Lucy,” Wallis says. “He’s a man now. Old enough to make his own decisions.”

  “He’s not an adult. He’s just fourteen, for chrissakes. He should be in school, playing video games, having crushes on girls. Not leading an army of undead toward a pack of dogs who want to enslave us. In Texarkana, of all fucking places!”

  “Mom, I—”

  “Not a word, Gus!” She holds up her finger, old school. She hasn’t done that since, since . . . I don’t know. Since before.

  She stands there panting, glaring at me.

  “I’m fourteen now. It’s time you let me start taking some responsibility.” I can see her eyes, gray like mine, going back and forth. She’s already thinking up a rebuttal. “Jasper, Keb, Frazier . . . they’re starting to call me ‘the little prince.’ They think I’m too good to scavenge or fence-build, or gather wood beyond the Wall.”

  “He’s right, Lucy,” Wallis says, his voice serious. “I’ve heard the men talk. Everyone has to pull his weight at Bridge City.”

  “I don’t care. As far as we know, I’m the only fucking doctor in the whole goddamned world. So that does make him a prince. He’s staying here.”

  “Mom, I’m going. I don’t live with you anymore. I’ve got my own tent. I do my time knocking heads at the Wall—I’m not too good for that! I’m ready to become a real member of our . . . our . . . whatever it is we have here. To contribute.” I hold out my hand for her to take. A handshake. I know it’s weird to do with your mom. But I don’t know what to do. Hug her?

  She looks at my hand like it’s a zed.

  “No, Gus.” She won’t cry. She won’t. “Please. Stay here with me. Stay safe.”

  “Mom. I’m going with Jasper and Keb to make sure that she stays safe.” I point at Ellie. Knock-Out still bounces her up and down.

  Mom glares at me, her cheek muscles popping. She’s grinding her teeth. She stays that way for a long time, and then she bobs her head. A nod. That’s all she can give me.

  She turns to Knock-Out. He’s crying, tears running down his cheeks into his beard.

  “Why are you crying?” Mom sounds surprised and offended.

  “Because you can’t.”

  The whiskey tastes like fire, like the heat from the fire, like the heat from her chest pressed against my arm. It tastes like her lips when she kisses me.

  The men—I’ve forgotten their names—play guitar, eyes closed, and really get into it, stomping their feet and rocking their upper bodies in time with the chord changes. They hang on a chord—I don’t know which one—and then go to another, hang on it for a while, and then back to the first. They’re grunting and laughing and looking at each other, smiling.

  There are words, but I can’t make them out. They sound like iko iko or aikoaiko or something like that. It’s hypnotic.

  At the edges of the firelight, I can tell there are some men watching. I can feel their eyes on me. But then Jasper gets up, and Keb joins him, and they rush into the shadows, whooping and swinging fists, and whoever is watching starts yelping and cursing and then we’re alone. I stay seated, kissing Barb. Keb and Jasper are laughing when they sit back by the fire.

  Cindy sits nestled up to Jasper, and Dina has a hand on Keb’s knee but is flirting with one of the guitarists, and they don’t look friendly now, but I can’t pay too much attention to that because Barb’s breath is in my ear and then I’ve got goose bumps down my arms.

  She pulls at me, and I realize she wants me to stand. I do, but not without some balancing issues. Her lips are on mine again, and her hand is behind my head, in my hair, pulling me down, but her hand is on the front of my pants too, and I don’t know what to do with myself. All I can think of is that one piece of me that she’s rubbing.

  Then she pulls away, laughing, and starts dancing by the fire. She wants me to join her. She’s singing under her breath and moving her hands like a belly dancer might. I don’t know. I was ten when the world ended. I’ve read books. I remember some movies. That’s all.

  She crooks a finger at me and switches her hips and . . . damn . . . I wish with all my might that I could dance. The guitarists aren’t even playing now and I want to dance. But Jasper and Keb are watching me, laughing, and I stay where I am.

  Then one of the guitarists is up and dancing with her. The other one grins and begins to play. Instead of dancers matching the music, the music matches the dancers. Barb looks at me, shrugs, and puts her arms around the guitarist’s shoulders and whispers in his ear.

  I can feel the blood in my cheeks. I watch. My hands are balled into fists. I’m furious.

  On my way back to the tent, Frazier stumbles out of the dark, coming toward me. River’s on my left. My hand’s on the concrete railing. The moon silvers the surface, and everything is quiet. The shamblers aren’t moaning heavy tonight. We’re pretty far away from either gate. The Garden is right behind us and the Command and Mess look like empty circus tents, ruffling in the breeze.

  “Whaddya know. It’s the little prince.” He spits at my feet. Again. “Took your time getting back to the Wall. Left us there to knock heads for you. You stay back sucking your momma’s tit? Huh? Hidi
ng?”

  I stop. This is really the wrong time for this. He gets up in my face. He’s been drinking the old stuff, smells like. I look at him and can see the shambler waiting to come out. His breath smells rotten.

  “Punk kids like you, having shit handed to them . . . I can’t tolerate that.” He jabs me in the chest with a finger.

  Fuck. That hurts.

  “You little brat. The world ends and we still got punk kids with rich parents buying their way outta—”

  His last word isn’t a word at all. It’s a weird little sound. Eerp! Then I have him by the shirt and belt buckle, lifting him up and over the rail.

  The splash, when he hits the river, is small and far away. Doesn’t even have a chance to scream.

  I watch the water for a long time. He doesn’t come back up. I look around. There’s nobody, but that doesn’t mean nobody saw me. Not much I can do about it now.

  Damn.

  Should feel bad, but I don’t. He didn’t deserve it.

  But he did.

  Night Patrol will be by any minute. I should get back to the tent.

  Morning now. Gear up after a bad sleep. Bad dreams. I’m stuck in the TV, trying to get out. But I can’t. There’s a face on the other side of the screen, but I can’t make it out, so I smash the glass and come through, slip bloody and gashed over the lip and begin to fall, fall through the air, until I hit black water.

  Sweating when I wake. It might be a hangover from the whiskey. Or the dream. Maybe it’s just the sun’s up and my tent is hot.

  At midpoint of Bridge City, Joblownski winches down the motorcycles to a barge below. It smells like fish and hickory. We’re right near the industrial smoker where the catfish pulled from the river meet their final end.

  Joblownski, when he sees me, hands the winch control to Wilkins and waves me over.

  “Here’s your new armor, Gus. Check it out. I’ve had Wilkie work this leather bandolier into the fabric for extra rounds. And here—” He points to the chest piece. “I’ve fitted it with easy-grab bludgeons. In this case, a couple of camping hatchets. Fastened with Velcro for quick release.”

  “The chest piece looks good.” He fits it on me. Jasper and Keb walk up looking bloodshot and tired. Big night for them last night, I guess.

  Me too.

  I check the hatchets, rip them out, one in each fist, and grin at Keb.

  “Double fisted,” Jasper says. “Nice. Hey, why didn’t we get fancy new armor?”

  “Yours fits you. His didn’t.”

  I Velcro back the hatchets without any difficulty. On the leg armor, instead of holsters, he’s got Velcro rip-away .9mms. And extra clips. Already loaded.

  “Won’t that make it hard to draw?”

  “If you need a quick draw against the revs, there’s nothing I can give you that will keep you alive. But if you take a spill with this gear? You won’t lose all your weapons.” He picks up three small pieces of metal-studded leather.

  “These are called gorgets. They go over your throat. You know how the revs like biting necks. They have buckles around back and should fit easily under your helmets. Come over here and check this out, boys.”

  We all follow. A couple of new engineers join us. Now that I’m checking it out close, the motorcycle looks different from usual. There’s a rack soldered to the handlebars. And a big cast-iron bar welded a couple of feet in front. The rack holds an M16 and an A-Bolt .30-06 with scope.

  “Damn, Joblo, you sure got us mounted for bear.” Keb snaps his fingers and then slaps Jasper’s chest. “Posted at the trap, dog. The motherfucking trap!”

  “I have no idea what you’re talking about, Keb, but yes, you’ve got some armaments. Each of you has a grenade launcher attached to the M16, your old military-issue stuff. Use those to take out vehicles or clusters of revs if you have to. Shotgun too, for close work. There’s extra rounds in the bags. The big bar out front is to knock over zeds in front of you. And since you’ll be riding at night, I’ve mounted a rear headlight on each of your bikes, so you can check out how close your . . . herd, I guess . . . is.”

  Jasper looks at Joblo and says, “Does the seat eject, Q?”

  Keb and Joblo laugh.

  I watch them. “What?”

  They stop laughing and look at me.

  “You know, Gus. James Bond?”

  I point to one of the new engineers.

  “That him?”

  “No. James Bond. Double oh seven? British spy?”

  I shake my head.

  Keb says, “You telling me you don’t know who James Bond is, Lil P?”

  I don’t say anything. I don’t like when this happens.

  Two men, new looking—I can’t help but think of the big one as James Bond—come over to us, nodding, smoking grape vine, and harness the bike. We roll it over to the concrete side of the Bridge where they’ve knocked a hole and they winch the bike up and drop it the hundred feet to the party barge waiting below.

  I don’t know why they call it a party barge; maybe because it can hold a large party of people. But it can fit our three bikes and us and take us downstream to the dam.

  Wallis shows up, pulls me aside, and briefs me on the plan. Again. It’s pretty simple. Take as many zombies as possible to the slavers. Get back alive. He’ll have the Bradley waiting for us on I-40, outside of Arkadelphia.

  He slaps a case in my hand.

  “Flare gun. You might need it to signal us. Wish I had a radio that worked, but the ham radios are just too big to carry.” He puts his hand on my shoulder and gives me a look. He’s trying to be friendly and doesn’t know how. “You weren’t with the unit, but I still feel like you’re one of my men. I want you to come back safe. And make sure Keb and Jasper get back safe too. They’re big and deadly. And loyal. But they barely have a brain between them. You are in charge.” He slaps my shoulder hard then, and says, “Your mother won’t be seeing you off. Ellie’s got a fever, and she needs to monitor her. But Knock-Out asked for you to wait just a bit.”

  After Wallis leaves, I watch as they winch down Jasper’s and Keb’s bikes. Keb tries to joke, but I’m not biting. I’m glad he’s smart enough not to rib me about last night.

  “Looks like you’re on your own now.” Knock-Out’s voice, behind me.

  I turn and he’s there, hands on his hips, looking at me, shaking his head. I don’t know why he’s doing that, the head shaking.

  I’ve known this man since I was ten. He was there when my father died true death.

  True death. I’ve never thought of it that way before. He had something to do with Dad’s end, but it was Mom who pulled the trigger.

  It had to be done.

  “Listen, Gus,” Knock-Out says. “I know I’m just some guy, and I’ve never tried to replace your . . . your dad. You know? You’re your own man. Even when you were young. Ten when I met you. So I just want you to let me talk to you, man to man. Can we do that?”

  Don’t see any problem with it, but can’t say I really want to have a heart-to-heart either. We move over to the side of the Bridge, away from the motorcycle winch, toward the smoker stinking of hickory and fish, and stop there.

  Knock-Out leans on the railing and stares out past the dock and rock-pilings below us, out at the river. There’s a pair of seagulls diving into the Arkansas’s brown waters. The sun shines off the surface, turning brown water blue.

  “Your mom is broken up about your leaving. Ain’t no doubt about it, she’s terrified you’ll not come back.”

  Don’t know what to say, except, “I know.”

  “But it’s more than that really, Gus. These slavers. You growing up with a .357 on your hip and knocking heads every day. Now with your leaving, Luce is reminded that the world, her world—the world she could control and define—all that is gone. And you, her son, are the first generation of the new, undefinable, uncontrollable world.”

  He pauses, spits, and watches as the spit falls to the river below.

  “Does that make any sen
se?”

  “Maybe. I think so. James Bond.”

  “What about him?”

  “I didn’t know who he was.” Jerk a thumb at Joblo, Keb, and Jasper. “They thought that was weird.”

  “No.” Knock-Out looks very serious. “It’s not weird. It’s just this new world we’re living in.”

  I get it. I’m not stupid.

  Knock-Out sighs and says, “Above all things, your mother needs understanding. She needs to be able to comprehend what’s going on. That’s why Bridge City, I guess, is important. It’s a community, and she sits at the top. Her never being able to figure out why the dead rise has eaten away at her these last few years. It’s worn away her sense of order.”

  “It doesn’t seem to have bothered you.”

  Knock-Out puts his hands on his hips and looks at me. “Or you either. You want to know why?”

  I wish he’d just get to the point.

  “When I was a boy, I watched my father beat my mother to death. He was dead drunk. And when he came for me, you know what I did?”

  I don’t understand. He’s talking about himself, but it’s so much like . . . like when Dad died. I can’t speak. I never knew that about him.

  “I locked myself in a closet and cried until the police came.”

  “Yeah. Okay. I see what you’re saying. We’re alike, you and me.”

  “No, the point is, for you and me, the worst thing that could ever happen has already happened to us. But for Luce, it hasn’t. For her, the worst thing would be to lose you. Or Ellie.”

  He coughs and then touches his side as if it’s sore.

  “You okay?”

  “Yeah. I’m fine.” He stands straight and puts his hand on my shoulder. “I need you to promise me you’ll bring yourself back. For us, for your mother. For the community. You might not think so, but you’re needed here. You might not know it, but people look to you for guidance.”

  “I’m just a—”

  “No, whatever you’re gonna say isn’t true. You’re not a kid. I don’t think you ever were one. Yesterday, when you told Keb what to do, did he argue?”

  “No, but—”