Dead North: Canadian Zombie Fiction

by Silvia Moreno-Garcia

  “What do I know about kids?” Arthur shook his head.

  “What does anyone know about kids? Look, my sister Tracey’s got her hands full. Husband bolted, she’s got two younger daughters to look after and this kid Jake’s on the verge, you know? Caught him with a little weed – nothing serious, but she doesn’t know where he got it, who he’s hanging with. This kid needs some old-time upbringing, Art. You’re the steadiest hand I know, and I’ll bet you could use the help over the summer. Think of him as unpaid labour.”

  “I pretty much got that covered.”

  “That’s funny – you’re a funny cowboy – I like that. Seriously.”

  “But…where will he stay? What will he do?”

  “Mattress on a floor, Art – the harder the better. Put him in a tent out back the cabin. Make him mow lawns and carry heavy shit, you know? He’s thirteen. He needs to get his act together or he’ll get to a place where I can’t step in anymore, you know?”

  On and on like that. Todd Evers hadn’t gotten to where he was by being unpersuasive, and Arthur knew eventually he’d be taking on an apprentice, but before he gave in he fixed Todd with a meaningful stare and asked him point-blank: “What if I have to take care of badness while he’s around?”

  Evers had smiled indulgently, like young men new to power always seemed to do. Like they knew all the answers. “Oh. Yeah, that. When was the last time you had to deal with any of that?”

  “Maybe five, six years ago,” Arthur admitted. “But that’s only counting when It takes shape so you can handle It. You can’t tell me It hasn’t been active for the last little while. You can’t tell me everything that’s happened the last few years – that’s all just been back luck.”

  “Yeah, well. From what I understand, the peak threat from the region came back in the thirties – It doesn’t have the juice to seriously hurt people anymore. Look, if it so happens the kid sees something scary, maybe that’s not so bad. Maybe if a kid got a sense that there’s something bad at the end of the road for kids who make lousy decisions – maybe that’s not such a bad thing. But you and I both know the worst he’ll see is some traps and a whole lot of hard labour.”

  “That ain’t the worst,” Arthur had said, having seen “the worst” firsthand. “Not by a long shot.”

  Jake busted up the reverie with one of his sudden questions, forcing Arthur to refocus on the present. “Why you got so many hats?” the kid blurted. Johnny Cash rumbled on the radio, barely audible over the wind.

  “What?” Arthur said.

  “You got about fifty ball caps hanging on the wall at the cabin. But you always wear this same old beat-up ‘Toro’ cap. What’s with all the hats?”

  Arthur shrugged. “People give me hats – I collect ’em.”

  “You collect hats,” Jake grinned, shaking his head. Arthur grinned too. Couldn’t help himself. Kid brought it out of him.

  It hadn’t been as bad, as awkward, as Arthur had thought. Jake wasn’t some juvenile delinquent – he was shy, reserved, but he wasn’t hard-bitten or looking for trouble. He was lazy by nature, and drifted where the wind tended to blow, but he wasn’t like those kids Arthur saw on the news, shooting up stores and rampaging through schools. Jake was the kind of kid who took his cues from the strongest person in his immediate vicinity, for good or ill. And when Arthur had been the only person around, and Jake had learned how the townsfolk, farmers and ranchers all respected “the rat-patrol man,” Jake had responded in kind. Kid hadn’t enjoyed the 5:00 a.m. starts, hardy Scottish porridge breakfasts and manual labour at first, but he’d come around. Got so he’d dry dishes without being asked, while Arthur washed. Seemed to enjoy watching CFL games – Arthur in his big old E-Z chair, Jake sitting cross-legged on the floor. By and by, Arthur had to admit, taking care of the kid wasn’t a chore. He hadn’t realized how empty his little cabin had become, until he’d let someone else in.

  The Ford surged off gravel onto blacktop, roaring along down Highway 41 as Arthur coaxed the engine to sixty (he still reckoned in miles per hour). He’d been putting off buying a new truck for a couple of years, wanting to squeeze every last drop of utility out of the existing one, but now he could have used some brand-new horsepower. Out of the corner of his right eye, Arthur spotted an abandoned farmhouse leaning atop a low hill, grey and seemingly fragile, yet refusing to go down. Countryside was full of such stubborn relics. Reminded him of the people. Reminded him of Hank and Jeannie Dolan.

  Hank Dolan. Arthur shook his head. Stress of the mad cow scare, the ongoing crush of financial problems, and a sudden stroke had used Hank up in a series of unrelenting hammer blows. It had been sickening to watch – Hank making desperate moves, working harder, worrying more – and every decision just turning on him and biting him back like fangs in the face. Death had come as a release after all those trials – for Hank, and for Jean – but of course, even then, there had been mistakes to be made.

  Jean Dolan was as shrewd a business person as you could find – had no qualms about making pragmatic decisions. Some of the local ladies even accused her of being too pragmatic – like she enjoyed the feel of making tough decisions, and having everyone know she was making them. After the funeral, she’d wasted no time restructuring – got the books prettied up for final liquidation, started divestiture with single-minded focus. She was getting out, and neither her love of the land, nor her memories of the previous life would stop her from making the best damn deals she could. But what Arthur still couldn’t figure was why she insisted on handling the funeral the way she had. She’d been ruthless, even merciless with every other consideration since, but when it had come to Hank’s remains, Jeannie’d been downright sentimental.

  They’d buried Henry Dolan whole, in the little cemetery that bordered on Smith’s and Crowley’s – the one that held bodies stretching back to the flu epidemics of 1918. Some of those bodies hadn’t stayed put either, had to be handled by the men who would eventually be legitimized and funded by the province as “rat patrols.” Arthur had warned her against it, but in the end Jeannie Dolan did what Jeannie Dolan wanted. Truth is, the harder Arthur had pressed, the more resolved Jean had been to go ahead. Couldn’t really blame her, but Arthur had had a bad feeling about the whole thing – the queasy inevitability of it, like getting Hank into that particular ground might have been the point all along.

  Jake fiddled with the radio, searching for and finally picking up a weak signal out of Lethbridge: the monotone thumping of some rap artist. Arthur winced. Jake started nodding his head in time with the so-called music, riding his arm out the window like an airplane wing in the wind.

  “You know the Empire State Building in New York? The top of it?” Jake said, nimble mind taking off on its own tangent. Arthur and Jake had logged a ton of miles in the old Ford over the summer and Jake’s abrupt musings had helped to make that time fly.

  “Yeah?” Arthur said, perplexed, but knowing that resolution was right around the corner.

  “It’s supposed to be a docking port for airships. Is that wild or what? In the thirties, they figured Zeppelins would cross the Atlantic and anchor-up on the Empire State Building. Guess they tried it once and it didn’t work. But still. That’s cool.”

  Arthur chuckled – the kid’s curiosity was mind-boggling. Some of that had gotten him into trouble, but overall it was an endearing quality. Arthur wondered how many kids knew that about the Empire State Building. He wondered how many kids thought about airships at all, these days.

  Suddenly the feeling hit Arthur like a sandbag in the stomach: how fond he’d grown of the kid in a few short weeks. It had been nothing but early mornings, chores, long drives, routine border checks, trap laying and investigations, but the gaps had been filled in by Jake’s inquisitiveness, good-natured grumbling and quirky sense of humour. It had been a unique summer for Arthur Low, the most memorable, maybe the best of his life since Emily had passed. He wouldn’t ask, wouldn’t even bring it up, but if Todd Evers suggested that Jake sho
uld spend next summer helping out on patrol, that would be just fine with Arthur.

  There was, however, the little matter of Hank Dolan come back to life that needed to be tended to first.

  Jake wouldn’t necessarily be in danger over at Dolan’s – most of the time, people rarely got more than badly spooked by these events. Evers had been right about that – badness was reduced to mean little tricks and illusions these days, but this thing with Hank – it was positively muscular, bringing him all the way back like that. Arthur hated having to expose Jake like this, but there wasn’t time to take the kid home first, and besides – when it came right down to it – Arthur wanted him where he could see him. “Jacob,” Arthur said, reaching to turn off the radio.

  “Yeah?”

  “When we get to Jeannie Dolan’s, you stay right with me until I figure out what’s what, all right?”

  “Sure, yeah.”

  “Yeah. Don’t go wandering off.”

  “They got rats? Real rats? Finally!”

  “Yeah,” Arthur said, face grim. “Maybe they do.”

  ∆ ∆ ∆

  “Up at Crowley’s they had that dog, went wild and killed a couple hogs, then went after Jimmy Crowley, remember?” John Lockey said, trying to recall other instances of badness in his lifetime. Agnes Dolan, Jean’s older sister, sat in the rocking chair, gently squeaking back and forth. Jean sat with one broad hip on the porch rail, rifle across her lap, occasionally turning and looking over her shoulder past the circular barn.

  “And when I was little, supposedly this drilling crew went missing, just left all their stuff out in the open,” Johnny continued. “Nobody found anything except the rig and the sheds and tools and stuff.”

  Jean nodded. “Yep, that’s true. The dog wasn’t nothing though – just rabies. Nobody got hurt.”

  “You remember Grandma telling us those stories about the flu?” Agnes piped up, eyes wide, looking frail and small in her pink summer dress. With her white hair tugged back into a disapproving bun, she was just about as opposite in build and appearance to her sister as a woman could be. “Whole towns got killed off around here and then just disappeared. There’s towns around here that ain’t even on maps anymore – just old houses and broken-down fences. Died faster than the census takers could keep track.”

  “The flu’s the flu – nothing supernatural about that,” Jean said, brushing a fly away from her ear. “True enough about the ghost towns though.”

  “And you don’t want to be going to those towns either,” Agnes said, warming to her recollections. “Maybe they got cleaned out and maybe they didn’t. That was before the rat men you know.” She took a sip of Coke, then kept on babbling. “I ’member Grandma telling me, ‘It’s just badland, Agnes’ – that’s what she used to say. Just something about this place don’t like people living here. Saves Itself up till times get bad, then comes on strong, gets people when they’re at their most vulnerable.” That got a look from Jean, because it sounded right. Times had sure as hell been bad lately. On top of that, she’d been missing Hank, what with making plans to go and leave all the memories behind. She’d been missing him, and now…here he was.

  “Jesus!” John shoved himself up off the wall and pointed – Jean stood and turned. Coming around the western curve of the round barn, trailing his hand along the wooden wall of it, Hank Dolan wandered, like he’d never seen the place before. Jean swallowed, clutched the gun up tight. Agnes caught her breath, stopped rocking, and gripped her woven God’s eye the harder.

  Hank looked around, shuffled to the old water pump, ran his hand across it. Occasionally as he turned, his eyes shone silver, and his face bore no expression. He scuffed at dirt, rubbed his hands on the sides of his jeans. No plan, no hurry. He seemed lost, aimless, random.

  But eventually, he saw them on the porch.

  “Get inside,” Jean said, bringing the gun barrel up. She was a big woman, Jeannie Dolan was, shoulders and forearms like a man. When she barred your way, you paid attention.

  “But Arthur said…” John began.

  “You take my sister inside, you hear?”

  “But Arthur said you should go inside too – I told you that – we all should.”

  Hank began walking towards the porch, eyes shining. Eyes staring. Fixated now, no longer random.

  Jean moved to the steps and primed her weapon. She felt her own eyes get moist at the sight of the only man she had ever loved, spat out from this spoiled ground and returned to her like some massive, cosmic taunt. She cursed herself for not having listened to Arthur Low on this. “Henry John Dolan!” Jean shouted. “Don’t come any closer. I’ll put you down, Hank, you know I will.”

  Hank stopped. Nodded. He raised his right hand in an old familiar gesture, the one that said, “All right, Jean, you win,” and turned away. Now he was interested in the barn again. Started heading over towards it.

  Jean felt her throat tighten, forced herself to swallow down those tears. Hurry Arthur, she thought. For God’s sake, hurry.

  ∆ ∆ ∆

  The Ford cut off asphalt and tore onto loose gravel again, churning up a comet’s tail of dust as Arthur took the back road to Dolan’s. Coming in from the north, they could look across the grazing field with its clumps of foxtail and crocus, see the distinctive round bow of the grey-green barn, and as they progressed, they could see the main house in back. The Dolan place was old, but elegant, with white clapboard siding and a pointed turret on the western side. They drove right through the open gate, geared down as they passed round the back of the house, then took a curling route into the courtyard out front. No dogs to greet them, Arthur noticed. Nobody around anywhere. Arthur took a good look at all his compass points before he cut the engine.

  Arthur and Jake got out of the cab, went round the back of the truck. Jake wasn’t bowlegged, but he walked as though he were – he’d picked up a lot of Arthur’s mannerisms over the last few weeks. In the back of the truck there were lock-boxes nailed into the bed – long and white – holding the poisons, traps and tools of the rat patrol trade. Jake was nonchalant as he assumed he’d seen the contents before, but when Arthur hauled out a sawed-off, large-bore shotgun, Jake whistled and said, “Holy shit!”

  “Watch your language,” Arthur mumbled by rote. He reached for another object from the same box: a foot-long knife in a leather scabbard. Arthur pulled the thick blade out to check the edge, and the fierce steel gleamed in the sunlight.

  “What are those markings?” Jake asked, taking in the bone pommel and queer designs on the sheath.

  “Zulu words, I’m told.” Arthur was low key, didn’t want to get into it. The knife had been handed down from previous rat patrol men, originally brought to the country by an RCMP officer who had served in the Boer War and spent some time exploring Africa afterward. Something about the weapon solved certain problems peculiar to Southern Alberta – Arthur had no idea why. But if Hank Dolan really were up and around, Arthur would likely need the knife more than he would the shotgun.

  They headed towards the house.

  Steps creaked underfoot as they made the porch, tired old nails groaning under the weight. A half-empty plastic bottle of Coke stood beside the rocking chair. Arthur progressed to the door, knocked on it.

  The curtain at the window to the right of the door moved, then the door opened: Jeannie stood armed and ready, eyes red, but stern.

  “Arthur,” she said, tone warning him not to say he told her so.

  “Where is he?” Arthur asked.

  “He’s in the barn. Went in about fifteen minutes ago, hasn’t come out.”

  “Who you got with you?”

  “Just Agnes and Johnny. I called and cancelled the other fella I had coming in today.”

  “All right. You remember Jacob?”

  “Surely. Afternoon, Jake.”

  “Mrs. Dolan.”

  “Take him inside, will you?”

  Jake perked up, sensing an adult conspiracy to cheat him out of a rat sighting
. “Hey man, I’m your backup!”

  “Hey ‘man’ – you’re staying inside. Have a cookie. I’ll be right back.”

  Jean opened the screen door wide for Jake, exchanged a hard look with Arthur. Arthur set off towards the barn without a backward glance.

  The doors were open. Arthur approached cautiously, but his boots announced his presence by crunching gravel – whatever was in there would know he was coming. He came in off the left flank, shotgun forward, then stepped past the threshold.

  It was gloomy, but not dark – open loft doors illuminated golden motes of hay and dust suspended in midair. Great spools of wire lay off to the left, alongside old hand-tools, branding irons, gas cans, couple old kerosene lamps, wooden planks. The animal pens had been dismantled to make room for storage, but the steel stanchion posts were still there. Centre of the barn was taken up by the silo, but Arthur knew the tack room lay on the far side. He could smell hay from the loft, and cattle musk still prevailed despite the absence, forever, of the animals.

  Just to the right of the silo stood the Dolan’s green and yellow ’49 Farmall Cub – still the finest vintage tractor this side of Empress. And on the runner of that classic machine sat Hank Dolan, hands on his thighs, head inclined as he stared at the ground between his legs. Made sense he’d wind up at the Cub. Even pragmatic old Jean hadn’t been able to bring herself to sell it, Hank had loved it so.

  “Hank?” Arthur said.

  “Come on in,” Hank said, voice thick with phlegm, but clearly recognizable as the man who had once been Jean Dolan’s husband. He was young again, brought back at his best.