He’s scary angry, really, like he’s never been happy ever, not once.
“This him?” he says over his shoulder.
In the shadows of the tent behind him, a wavery voice says, “Yes. That’s the one. The Prince.”
Oh. Our old friend. The blubbery slaver who spilled it all.
And I let him go.
Caesar puts his face right in mine, like he wants to bite off my nose. His breath smells like peppermints and aftershave.
“Okay, young man. My name is Konstantin. Captain Konstantin.” His eyes search my face. “I’m merely a captain. Not a prince. So forgive me for speaking harshly.”
“I’m not a prince. That’s just a stupid—”
He holds up a finger and shushes me.
“Tell me about your defenses. Tell me everything about your community—”
“I don’t think tha—”
The blow, when it comes, totally surprises me. Catches me on the ridge of my eye. Zygomatic . . . Mom tried to teach me the human bones.
My zygomatic is fucked now. I felt something crack when he hit me and I can’t see anymore from that side.
The pain is just outrageous. The human body shouldn’t be allowed to feel this much pain. I’d cry if I could, it hurts so bad, but I think I’ve pissed myself instead.
With my good eye, I can see when Konstantin raises his fist and shows me the brass knuckles.
“Let me ask again.” He brushes an imaginary fleck of dust from his fatigues. He’s not looking at me at all now. “Tell me everything about your community. Everything. And let’s start with the king.”
“The king? We don’t have—”
He spares my head this time. So I’ve got that going for me. This time he slams his brass fist into my chest. Something goes crunchy in there too.
I didn’t think I could feel more pain than my fucked-up face but . . . well . . . as Mom always says, the human animal is an amazing creature.
Konstantin motions to his goons, and they move me to a wooden table.
“Okay, little prince. This looks like it might take a little while. So why don’t we all get comfy? Yes?”
One of the men takes my arms, puts them on the table, and feeds zip ties through the holes I’m just now noticing in the tabletop. They splay my hands flat.
“Are you right- or left-handed?”
“I’m . . .” It’s hard to talk. I make my mouth move. I don’t want him to hit me again. “I’m left dominant.”
“Hmm. Nice.” He cocks his head and nods at me, like he’s appraising something a tiny bit more interesting now. “I am a leftie too. We’ll focus on the right, then, for starters.”
When he takes out pruning shears, holds them in front of my face, just so I get the idea, clamps them down on the tip of my pinkie—snick!—and that little bit of me detaches itself and rolls across the table, leaving a trail of blood, I scream. I scream.
I scream.
I’m sorry, Mom, Knock-Out. I’m sorry, Ellie.
I’m so sorry.
“So, tell me about your king, little prince. Tell me about your home.”
I tell. Everything. Everything I know.
And some things I don’t.
I pass out a few times.
This man, Konstantin, it’s hard to believe that he really is here, that he exists. How can another human be this . . . this . . . inhuman?
Above the pain, beyond it, I think of Frazier. I shouldn’t have thrown you away, Frazier, like you were useless or something. I shouldn’t have killed you. I thought you were a shithead and that seemed to matter and be enough.
God, I’m an idiot.
Why did I let the slaver go? Principle? There’s no such thing as principle as little bits of you, of yourself, are being cut away.
When I come to, there’s not much left of my hand. Just index and thumb, giving it the look of a bloody claw.
Konstantin had pruning shears and questions. And he questioned and pruned. Down to my palms.
You think of yourself as tough. You think of yourself as different. All it took was three fingers for me to tell him everything. Everything I knew. By the second finger, I was brainstorming with him, trying to figure out the best ways to enslave my family. My home.
Like: focusing fire on the gates, RPGs, big-caliber weapons.
Dislike: finding barges upstream, setting them adrift, knocking all of Bridge City sideways.
Dislike: catapult with zombies.
Like: targeting the Motor Pool gas reserves.
Like: sending another “escaped slave” to infiltrate and sabotage.
Like: Joblownski and Mom. To be taken at all costs.
Like: outposting at the Dam, where our boats are stored.
Really like: using flat bottoms to take the dock.
Really like: killing the ones who resist, putting the ones who submit in chains.
They’ve thrown some water on me to wake me up, and it’s washed away some of the blood and piss, but I smell horrible. And it’s river water; I can smell the muddiness of it. No telling what infections I will get now.
My face is okay, other than my eye. Konstantin left my face alone after the first wake-up call.
I told him everything he wanted. And more.
I’m sorry, Ellie. So sorry.
It seems I’m a prince. My mother is a queen. And Knock-Out.
He’s the king.
Konstantin orders them to strip me. A goon comes with the bloody shears that trimmed my hand and starts cutting away my clothes, the remnants of my armor.
They strip me bare. Naked as the day I was born.
More naked, really. They’ve stripped me of three fingers.
Konstantin says, “Crucify him. Their little fucking prince. Put him at the north gate as a warning to any others who might be about. As long as he’ll last. When he’s done and revivified, cut off his head. We’ll dunk it in wax for a keepsake.”
Mom is an atheist. Dad was too.
Now I know why.
When they stake me to the telephone pole, it’s a major effort.
“Why don’t we just kill him now?”
“Fuck that, man. You want him on your ass? The man expects a show.”
“A show? For fucking who? These unholies?”
“Naw, man. For us. The troops. Them.”
I manage to crack an eyelid. There’s a chain-link pen with Visqueen roof and flapping sides. A troop of hollow-eyed men watch as these idiots try to figure out the best way to crucify me.
Obviously, they’ve never done it before.
“Hey.” I can only manage a whisper. “Hey, retards.”
“The bait is talking, Jeb. You hear that shit?”
I don’t have the strength to keep my eyes open so I just assume the idiots are grimacing at me or something. Then I feel the fist. He’s hitting me. But it’s a faint feeling.
“Hey. Water.”
“The meat wants water.”
“Let’s give it to him.” Laughing now. Then I feel it. Taste it.
Piss. They’re pissing on me. On my face.
It stings, the urine. I didn’t think I was still capable of anger, but there it is, red hot, in my chest, like a burning ember. God, to see these men dead, I’d give the rest of my hand. My soul. To see them all dead. Everyone.
“Douche. You need to make an X with . . .” It’s hard to breathe. I’m having trouble getting used to the idea that these morons consider me a latrine.
“With what, bitch?”
A boot hits my ass, bowling me over. Then my chest, where Konstantin pummeled me with the knuckles. The crunchy rib goes crunchier, and I howl. I didn’t think I had the strength to make that much noise.
“Yo, what’s that? You hear that, man?”
“No, shithead. All I hear is this little bitch’s crying.”
They’re back to trying to figure out the best way to lift me up to the I-30 traffic sign. Finally they decide to tie some rope around my waist, throw the rope over the crossbar of the sign, an
d hoist me up.
That’s what they do.
It’s pretty painful, but by now I’m kinda, I don’t know, half dead.
When they’ve hoisted me high, the rope cutting into my waist and balls, the idiots stop. They’re on collapsible ladders and have me up there, oh, I don’t know, maybe fifteen feet high. Pretty high. Everybody for miles around can see me, it feels like.
Some shamblers are at the fence, looking at me, pawing. Moaning.
I guess the only good thing about being crucified this high is I’m not gonna get eaten.
“What’re we gonna do with his hands? Aren’t we supposed to stake them or some shit like that?”
Geniuses. I don’t know how Jesus had it so easy. At least the Romans were efficient.
“No, just cut some line and we’ll tie out his arms. Right. You get me?”
“Yeah. That’s a cinch.”
I try to laugh, but the ropes they’re throwing all over me are cutting off my breath. I want to breathe, so I stop.
A cinch.
Fucking idiots.
When they’re done, they’ve got me pretty much in the crucified position, more or less. I can feel myself slumping to one side because the rope is slipping off my mangled hand.
Einstein notices and fixes it. He takes his knife, stabs it through my palm, making a ragged hole, and then feeds the rope through the hole. I can feel it go between my bones. It’s a miracle he doesn’t cut an artery.
But he doesn’t. It’s all about the show.
I thought I knew pain. I thought I knew it.
I spend a day on the sign, I think. My last day. At one point, Einstein or one of his breed comes with a fishing pole with a sponge tied to the tip and dabs water on my face.
When I have the energy, I open my eyes. There’s guards working the fencing. Stabbing zeds in the eyes when they come to call.
One slaver, they call him Bonzo, he’s a crack aim with a slingshot, knocking down zeds one by one.
I can’t believe I didn’t think of slingshots. Something must’ve been wrong with my head. Bonzo’s smart. I’d save him.
The downside is that the bodies pile up outside the fence. You don’t want a pile of stinking dead undead rotting your air. At least I don’t.
And you don’t want to have to go outside your fortifications to try to get rid of the dead.
Murderholes are still a better practice. This makes me feel good for a moment, and then the pain returns. Fuck Bonzo.
What I can’t figure is why Konstantin was so fixated on the king. Now, looking back at my short, sorry life, that’s one question I have. Why did he keep cutting off bits of my fingers and asking about a king?
Maybe he’s jealous. Maybe he wants to be king.
Sorry, Knock-Out. I don’t know why I chose you over Wallis. But that’s what the man wanted to hear.
He wanted to hear about a throne. He wanted to hear about a crown.
So that’s what I told him. What he wanted to hear.
The pain comes in waves. It grows and swells, then ebbs and recedes, like a tide.
It’s not just a feeling, really. It’s become part of me, of who I am. I am pain, and my awareness travels out, away from my body.
The worst thing is, I’m gonna turn. Not today, maybe not tomorrow. But I’m gonna turn.
That’s hard to stomach.
Sometimes I muster the strength to reel my awareness back in, open my eyes and watch as Bonzo and the other jackasses who’ve killed me shoot the zombies at the fence with slingshots. When he misses, I can hear the chain link ping and reverberate. And, of course, above it all, the moans of the dead.
I beg for water. That’s not good. The begging. But it’s like I’ve never tasted water before and I need it, bad.
They laugh, piss on a sponge and dab my face with it.
God help me. I drink. I drink whatever they give me.
The sun has gone down and come back up. New morons at the fence.
I won’t make it another day. I don’t want to, anyway. I just want the pain to go away.
“You hear that, man?”
“Naw. It’s just the meat moaning.”
“No, not that. That.”
There’s a buzzing and a low rumble. From where they’ve crucified me, I can see something on the interstate leading away from the bridge, up I-30.
Holy shit.
Thousands of them, thousands coming toward us. And in front, Keb. Riding a Harley and waving. Not like he can see me. But he’s letting the guards know that he’s bringing them a little present. Right down their throats.
One of the morons screeches and scuttles off. Behind me I hear a siren wind up and scream. Men holding M-16s rush to the fence. The slaves in the Visqueened pen start to scream, and I hear one douche bag yell, “Don’t let them out! Leave them there if there’s a breach! We’re loading the women into the trucks.”
God, I hope that sonofabitch dies.
They start shooting at Keb, but it’s too late. The zombies hear the sirens and smell the scrumptious human flesh scurrying around behind those thin little fences.
Keb stops, kicks the kickstand, and parks the bike right in the middle of the interstate, motor still running, pretty as you please, then yanks his rifle from the rack. He runs off, down the shoulder, toward the trees lining the road. Some zombies follow him, but the majority come for us. And the majority is thousands. Almost as many as when they took me captive.
Keb makes a move that’s pretty easy to read even at this distance. He’s chucking a grenade into the launcher and aiming it right at me.
I hear the report, and then the outer fence gate disappears in a boom and explosion of fire and smoke. Something whangs off the sign they’ve tied me to.
And then Keb is gone, running into the tree line, away from the zeds, the gunfire, his bike. He’s gone, God love him.
It doesn’t take long for the horde to reach the outer fence.
There’s frantic bellowing and yelling, and behind me I can hear them firing up what sounds like diesel engines and clanky machines.
I hear his voice. His voice. Konstantin.
It’s faint and hard to pick out over the noise of the evacuation.
“Secure the women and armaments, goddamn it. Goddamn you, soldier, secure the slaves! If we lose even one, I’ll have you as bait!”
Four extremely stupid slavers are firing into the mass of dead moaning at the fence, and someone hastily parks a cargo truck in the breach Keb blew open.
The fence looks like it’s gonna hold for a little while. But the zeds get a rhythm going, rocking back and forth, pushing. It’s hard to tell what’s causing the rocking motion, but most likely it’s zombies shoving. Groping from the rear. They’re packed so tight the ones in front can’t fall, and they surge forward, making the fence cave inward.
When it does cave, the front zeds drop flat with the fencing. The others tromp right over them, moaning, doing the whole undead thing.
The slavers who stuck around, firing into the mass, the shamblers catch them as they try to climb over the truck they parked in Keb’s breach. One guy screams so high it sounds like an animal keening. Four of the zombies start to chow on his arms and legs, and the rest of them use him like a bowl of onion dip at the old-time parties, scooping big gobbets out of his middle.
The rest I can’t see, it’s blocked by the truck. But the zeds are getting down.
I never thought a sight like this would make me happy, but there it is, happiness. It’s the last time I’ll feel it. It’s sweet.
The zeds shamble forward to the inner fence. The slavers have a little common sense. They have two rings of fencing.
It’s kind of elementary watching the way the zombies go through the chain-link. It’s like, after the first section, they’ve learned. Singly they’ve got the intelligence of a mayfly, but together, they’ve got the intelligence of a chicken or dog. An animal that can remember how to do things. We used to have a dog, Cookie, that knew how to open do
ors with her nose. She could even pull open drawers. Just a dog.
And here’s thousands of former humans with some cranial juice going on. Enough to walk, grab, bite. So maybe together, in a big ole group, they can take care of fences, easy.
I wish I’d been able to go to more school before the world ended.
None of the slavers even thinks about me. I’ve been so focused on my pain and watching the zombies take apart the fencing, I haven’t paid attention to what my fellow human beings are doing. And they obviously haven’t worried themselves with me. The sound of machines retreats. Behind me.
I’m left, crucified, looking down at a sea of undead.
Damnation.
That’s what they are. A pride of lions. A flight of angels. A damnation of undead.
And then the zombies break the second fence and pour through the breach.
The tide comes in. It washes around me.
Hours of moaning beneath me. Hours.
At times, when I come into consciousness, I think I’ve already died. Other times, I realize I’m moaning louder than the shamblers.
You see pictures of Jesus crucified, and he’s looking down, at what’s below him. Mary. Her girlfriends. Other people, I guess. My parents are atheists. Were atheists. I guess I am too. I don’t know all the details of the religious stuff. But I’ve seen pictures.
Damn, I’ve got sympathy for a guy who had to go through this. At least his tormentors knew what they were doing.
Mine were idiots. They tied me, tight, around the chest, so I can’t really lean forward and look at the ground or anything that’s below me.
I know there are zombies down there, pawing at the sign.
Thank God they hung me high.
Or maybe not. It might be better to die now. I can’t thank God. Thank stupidity.
Pain, white, overwhelming.
I’ve passed out, I think. And come to. Behind me I hear a very faint rumble of vehicles, the chatter and pop of automatic weapons.
There’s moaning below me, but not nearly as much. Within my field of view are a couple of shamblers that can’t shamble anymore. They’re draggers. No legs.
The party is over except for the zombies below me.
They’re like a little choir. Two baritones and a tenor. Two males and one female. The rest have gone to follow the slavers.
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