Dying to Live: Last Rites

by Kim Paffenroth

  “I don’t know. Put him in a tank full of sharks and have him fight them. I remember seeing that when I was younger. You remember that?”

  Bart laughed. “Oh hell, yeah! That was fun. If the dead dude got a hold of one shark and bit into it so it’d bleed, the others would attack it and he’d be safe. If he figured that out in time. I don’t know if this one’s smart enough to do that.” Bart smiled and looked back at Terry. “Did anybody ever tell you about the special shows there?”

  “What?”

  “You know—sex stuff. Naked lady zombies. You know, when you see some, they don’t look so bad, and you think how you’d tap that, if she weren’t all dead and shit. I heard they have some of them dancing around, doing stuff.”

  “That’s just gross.”

  “No, really. I heard about that. I even heard they pull the teeth out of some of them, and you can put on a condom and--”

  “Stop! That’s sick. No one would do that.”

  “Yeah, I know I wouldn’t. Sounds too risky. I’d still be afraid they might bite it off, even without teeth, or you’d get diseases and shit from them.”

  “No, I meant just doing it at all. Stop talking about it.”

  Bart shrugged. “Terry, you always act like such a girl about stuff like that.” He smacked Truman in the back of the head. “Keep moving.”

  They’d marched around the outside of the city, within sight of the wall that surrounded it. It was uneven and crudely constructed, but Truman figured it was enough to keep dead people out. Shortly after the sun rose, they came to a collection of ramshackle structures—tents and various buildings made out of plywood and other materials. The settlement seemed to stretch out quite a ways from the city wall, sprawling irregularly.

  They stopped and Truman looked around. A few people shuffled among the buildings, but none of them paid any attention to the three of them. One person even led a mangy horse, which Truman wondered at; he couldn’t remember when he’d seen one before.

  He heard some music in the distance, along with the occasional shout or bang of a hammer; an engine kicked on somewhere and backfired every few strokes before puttering off again. The air smelled of smoke and exhaust fumes, must and mold, damp animals and their droppings; cloying smells like popcorn and spun sugar wafted on top of the earthier undertones. Truman was surprised, but he didn’t mind the place that much. It reminded him of the storage facility where he’d met Lucy—a place of leftover, forgotten, broken objects, but where one could find things other people didn’t notice or appreciate. He hoped Lucy was in a place like this and that they hadn’t taken her to a place of intimidation and violence, which the living always seemed to prefer.

  “Where you figure this guy is?” Bart asked as they looked around.

  “I don’t know,” Terry answered. “I’ve never brought anyone here. It’s been months since I’ve been here at all.”

  “Me too. Looks like it’s gotten bigger.”

  “Yeah. I heard on the radio they were adding stuff.”

  A little black girl emerged from one of the better kept buildings—a trailer with a proper door and windows. The windows had bars across them. The girl wore a short yellow dress, and red rubber boots with big black dots on them, so that they looked like ladybugs. Her hair was done up in two pigtails, one tied with a piece of blue yarn, the other with a piece of white ribbon. She was the first person to stop and stare at the newcomers. She seemed the most interested in Truman, studying his face from a distance.

  “Hey,” Bart said to her. “Hey, little girl. Do you know where we can find Doctor Jack? The person who runs the show? We want to sell him our friend here.”

  The girl stared another moment before answering. “Yes, Doctor Jack buys dead people. He’s funny. I’ll take you to him.”

  “Thank you.” Bart gave Truman a shove as they started to follow the girl, who wended her way between the buildings and tents, her boots slopping in the mud.

  She looked back at them. “Doctor Jack says he’s not a real doctor, you know. But he’s so smart. Teaches dead people to do all kinds of tricks. He says he’s the only one in the world who can train them so good, and I believe him. What do you think?”

  “I don’t know,” Terry said. “You might be right.”

  The girl turned forward to keep leading them.

  “Smart—for a little jigaboo,” Bart said in a lower tone, with a smirk.

  “Shhh,” Terry replied. “She’ll hear you.”

  “It’s okay,” Bart laughed. “They’re used to it. It’s no big deal.”

  The girl stopped at a lopsided building decorated with red and green stripes. Glittery white paint decorated the roof with fake snow. “Santa’s Workshop” was painted above the doorway, which had a canvas flap across it.

  “I help Doctor Jack sometimes,” the girl said. “You want to see the ones I helped train?”

  “Sure,” said Terry.

  The girl pulled aside the canvas and Truman looked in. His eyes had to adjust to the dim red light before he could see.

  The back part of the building was separated from the entrance by a barrier of chicken wire and metal bars. Behind it, a dozen dead children sat at a table. Three had been African American when they were alive; a couple of the others might’ve been Hispanic, but it was hard to tell in the odd light. They were all dressed in absurd green and red outfits—though, of course, they didn’t seem to notice or mind. The children looked up and, if it were possible, showed some recognition of the girl, even some happiness to see her—and not as a prospective meal, Truman thought.

  “See? They even look nicer now,” the girl said. “Doctor Jack let me help with them and now they know me.”

  Truman strained to see what the dead children were up to; they seemed to be fumbling with small objects on the table. The girl noticed his gaze, and she took a step inside the building. She came back out holding a small, wooden box in her hand.

  “Can I show him?” she asked, looking from Truman to Bart.

  Bart stepped back. “Sure,” he said. “Just don’t get too close.”

  “I won’t.” She held the box closer. The pieces were dovetailed, with excess glue seeping out between the cracks; the children probably could fit them together like puzzle pieces, if they had enough time to work with them. “They make these! I know it’s just a box, but it’s so cute how they can do that now.” She turned the box over. “One of them puts this sticker on when they’re done.”

  Truman squinted to read the small black letters on the gold foil, even as he wondered why the girl would show it to him, as though she knew he could read. The label read, “MADE IN THE USA—BY ELVES!”

  The girl turned and they started forward again. “Doctor Jack says everything used to be made in China. Do you know where that is?”

  “Yeah,” Bart said as he pushed Truman ahead. “I used to go there all the time.”

  The girl faced them, her eyes wide. “You did?”

  Bart laughed. “No, I’m teasing you. Who’d want to go there anyway? Just a bunch of gooks and rice.”

  “Well, I don’t know. But I think it’s nice dead people make stuff here now.”

  “I guess. Are you sure you know where this guy is?”

  “Yeah. He’s sometimes here.” The girl turned toward another odd building. This one was painted with lots of white and gold, and the tops of its plywood walls were notched, like the parapet of a castle or palace. Above the doorway here the sign read, “Las Vegas,” while banners on the right and left said, “El Dorado” and “Taj Mahal.”

  The girl led them inside. It was much darker than the other building. A middle-aged man in a grey suit sat at a table there, separated by a wire barrier from a dead man in a black suit. The living man was pretty big—taller than Truman and much heavier. His head was bare about two-thirds of the way back; what hair remained was partly grey. He had a mustache and goatee, both trimmed neatly. Everything about him was clipped and well-groomed, though right now he appeared to be
quite agitated and red-faced. He slapped the table with his open hand, then pointed to two cards lying there—an ace and a six.

  “See?” he shouted. “Seventeen! But it’s ‘soft’! You can count the ace as one or eleven! So if you get something higher than a four, you can count the ace as one. Don’t you get it, you stupid dumb ass?!”

  The dead man’s mouth hung open as he stared at the cards. He looked up at the angry man, then back down, then up, and shook his head.

  The angry man ran his hand across his bald head and through the wisps of hair in back. “Oh, for fuck’s sake! Never mind! We’ll just have to keep the rule that the house stays on all seventeens! Can you do that? Stay on seventeen, all right?”

  The dead man nodded and gathered up the cards. He shuffled them in his hands, concentrating on what he was doing. Finally the living man noticed the visitors.

  “Dalia, I’m sorry. I didn’t hear you come in,” the man said as he turned and got up. Truman thought her name was about the prettiest he’d ever heard.

  “Hi, Doctor Jack,” the girl said. “These men wanted to see you.”

  “Well, thank you very much. I’ll come fetch you later and we can work with the elves some more, clean some of the glue off them and make them look better for visitors. All right?” He smiled. His teeth were exceptionally white and straight.

  “That’ll be fun. Thanks!”

  Dalia left them and the man looked over Bart briefly. “I’m Jack Madison,” he said. “Folks around here call me Doctor, but that’s just for show.” He turned his attention to Truman. “You boys looking to sell this fellow?” he said as leaned to one side, inspecting Truman closely but still keeping a distance.

  “Yeah,” said Bart. “Some crazy hill people had him as a pet. Said he was really smart. He didn’t look like much of one for fighting, though, so we brought him to you.”

  “Oh, good. They have so many big, nasty ones for the patrols. This one looks more promising for our little show. He understand people?”

  “Yeah. He minds pretty good, too.”

  “That’s the most important.” The man looked in Truman’s eyes. “You understand me, boy?”

  Truman wondered what it was with all this “boy” shit. He wavered a moment, considering something violent. Nothing too much; maybe a lunge and snarl, just enough so they would treat him more like an animal and less like a child. Of course, it’d also bring on a vicious beating, or another zapping if they had one of those things around here. So he just nodded.

  “You know your numbers? Adding? What’s two plus two? This many?” The man held up all five fingers. Truman shook his head. “This many?” He held down his index finger with his thumb, so the last three fingers were still extended. Truman shook his head again. “This many?” His index finger came back up and Truman nodded.

  “Not bad.” The man reached into a pocket and produced some coins, keys, and two dice. He put one key, one die, and one coin on the table. “Okay. Let’s see if you know which one’s a square.” Truman wanted to say it was a cube and not a square, but he went along with it, pointing to the die. “A circle?” Truman pointed to the coin.

  The man smiled at him. “This one’s got some potential.” He got a wad of brightly colored paper out of his pocket and peeled off four bills.

  Bart eyed the bills but didn’t take them. “We got to divide it with some other guys back at the dock,” he said after a moment.

  Doctor Jack frowned, hesitated, then pulled off two more bills. “That’s it, boys. Times are tough all over. You can take this, or you can take your friend here and go.”

  Bart took the money.

  The Doctor said he wasn’t sure where he wanted to put Truman, so they chained him to a telephone pole outside and left him there. It was too sunny there, too bright and exposed, and all Truman could do was turn away from the sun and lean against the pole, defeated and alone as people went by—some of them talking with one another, very few of them noticing Truman at all, and none of them remarking his existence in any way.

  Chapter 12: Will

  Will sat staring at Rachel after she fell back asleep. She was still a bit wan, but was looking better almost by the hour. She was so pretty to begin with—her body full, well-muscled, but with just enough softness to make her feminine and desirable. So strong and confident, too, and that just added to how good it felt to be around her. He couldn’t believe how lucky he’d been, finding this city and saving her. This place was great. Maybe they could give him some more medicine and supplies, so they’d be safer when they went back out in the wild. He’d ask about that before they left.

  There was a light tapping behind him, and Will turned to see a young woman in the doorway. Her black skirt ended just above her knees, and she had a black jacket over a button-up white blouse. Will couldn’t help it, but, sitting in the chair, his eyes were right at chest level; for several moments he couldn’t take them off her breasts. How the hell did they stay up like that? She looked really young, sure, but no woman’s stayed up that high on her chest, especially not when they were as large as hers. Wait—did women here still wear bras? Everyone else he’d met had been a guy, except the nurses, and he’d been too distraught to notice their breasts. But that must be it—they wore bras as part of their regular clothes.

  Will hadn’t thought much about them when he was little, back before there were dead people walking around, and in his community since then, women just didn’t wear them, except at special occasions like weddings. They were considered luxury items and were only brought out a couple times a year. He doubted Rachel even had one; he’d certainly never seen her wearing one. Well, maybe she’d get one now.

  Still staring, Will thought of how Rachel’s breasts would look in a bra, or what it would be like to take it off of her.

  “Excuse me?” The woman’s high voice finally made Will raise his eyes. Blonde curls framed her long face, flowing around glasses with black, rectangular frames. She tucked some stray curls behind one ear, that cute gesture all women seemed to have in common. In her other hand she held a clipboard. Besides bras, the women here wore makeup, too. Her mouth probably wasn’t that striking when she got up that morning, but with bright red lipstick, and her pale skin and blonde hair, it was as captivating as her breasts had been.

  Will finally managed to stop staring at her various parts and stood up to greet her. “Oh, hi, sorry,” he stammered, stepping toward her as she took a step into the room. “I was just distracted. Haven’t slept much lately.”

  She smiled. Looking and dressing like that, she had to be used to men staring. Hell, he must look like shit, Will thought, but there wasn’t much to be done about that. As he came up closer to her, at least he had an excuse to look back down at her chest, as there was a nametag pinned there. It read “Peterson.”

  “Julia,” she said, sticking out her hand, which Will awkwardly took. He wasn’t used to that gesture, either, though they’d do it sometimes back in his old town. “I work for the City Council, Department of Citizen Accounts,” she said.

  What the hell was that? Sounded weird, and Julia looked a little less attractive when she said it. “Oh, okay,” was all Will could manage.

  Julia craned her long, shapely neck to look over his shoulder at Rachel, and for a moment the attraction came back full force. “How’s she doing?”

  “Much better, thanks. We’re so lucky we found you.”

  “I know. We’re so glad, too. Could we maybe step out into the hall for a minute, so we don’t disturb—” Julia checked her clipboard, “Rachel? We need to discuss your payment options.” That didn’t sound quite as incomprehensible as “Citizen Accounts,” but it sucked all the attractiveness from her, even though her smile was as broad as before, her eyes as sparkly, her breasts as perky. She suddenly seemed mysterious in a distinctly unsexual kind of way—now there was more of a threatening intractability about her.

  “Okay, sure,” Will said as he followed her into the hallway, out of the sunlight in Rach
el’s room.

  The light in the hall was artificial, and it had that harsh glare Will remembered from childhood. He hadn’t seen fluorescent lighting in years.

  Julia went through the various sheets on her clipboard, clicking her tongue as she went. “Now, let’s see,” she said. “You should only be here in the hospital another couple days, and there’s the dockage fee for your boat. Were you planning on leaving after that?”

  “Um, yeah, that’s kind of what we planned.”

  “All right, then here’s the total.” She got a business card out of her jacket pocket and put it on the clipboard to write some names and numbers on it. “This is my card. You can call me when you’re ready to leave. I’m writing the names of some traders on the back. Call them first and they can meet you at your boat and you all can negotiate some prices for whatever you have to sell, so we can take care of your bill.”

  “Call?”

  “Yes, on the telephone.” She looked at him and smiled. There was some condescension in the expression this time.

  “But I don’t think we really have anything to sell.”

  “Oh.” It had that note of deflating finality, like everything had been going according to plan, and there was no other way to do things, no other option, and now something very bad but completely undefined was going to happen.

  “Well, let’s see what we can do,” Julia said after a pause. She gave it a hopeful, musical tone, like she could work some magical, impossible feat, if only Will had faith in her.

  “Okay.” Will had decided there was no amount of feminine beauty or physical comfort worth this hassle. But he didn’t think he had much choice but to go along with her machinations.

  Julia began to fill out a form, and she used a smaller scrap sheet to work out some figures. “Well, we’ll need to put you up in a small house. We have lots of starter homes in town, all ready to move in. Utilities. Hookup fees. Food credits.” More figures went onto the scrap sheet, more lines were filled out on the form, as though she were filling in some high-tech code or occult incantation. “You’ll have to continue paying the dockage fees, unless you wanted to sell the boat?”