Dying to Live: Last Rites

by Kim Paffenroth

  They leaned Becca against a thick tree. There were acorns all around its base; Lucy couldn’t remember the name of the tree that made those. She thought it was oak or maple, but wasn’t sure. Lucy laid the bat across the girl’s lap. She wouldn’t be able to do much to defend herself, but it’d make her feel better to have something cold and solid to hold on to. Lucy had made sure they’d gone a few steps into the forest before setting her down. Maybe the living people or other dead people wouldn’t spot the girl there and she’d have a better time of it than Lucy and the others. Lucy doubted it, but who knew? It was all too fucked up even to worry about. You just had to do what the weakest and most hurt in the group needed done, and then hope. Or else just try to forget.

  “Thanks,” Becca said.

  Lucy bent down and pressed her lips against Becca’s forehead. She didn’t taste as good as Will—dead people never did—but Lucy held her lips there longer, to prolong the moment that would have to sustain the girl until she was either snatched out of this hideous, broken existence, or until the world itself passed away, finally unable to withstand all the pain and injustice that filled it.

  Chapter 22: Rachel

  “How are you liking work?” Ken asked as they walked to the construction site.

  “It’s great,” Rachel replied. “I love driving those little track loaders. It’s like playing in a sandbox all day. I’d do it for free. Well, I guess I sorta did, back home.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Well, not exactly. I mean, we didn’t have money. We just worked, and traded with people. I don’t know how it all evened out, exactly, but you did whatever you did for the city, and you picked up food and stuff from other people when you needed it, and you gave them stuff when they needed it.”

  “No money? But how’d you know you’d worked enough, to get the stuff you wanted? Why would people work, if other people just gave them things? I don’t understand.”

  “I guess it’s hard to explain, if you haven’t lived there. It’s not like here. There weren’t nearly as many different things. Just simple stuff. So I guess we didn’t have to keep track of it as much. And we didn’t work nearly as much, either. I’d work a little in the summer, and most of the rest of the year I’d just putter around and help other people out. I guess we were kinda lazy and spoiled.”

  Ken laughed. “No, you’re fine. Will, too. You both work hard and you’re so honest and open.”

  Rachel blushed to think of all the stuff she’d deliberately left out of their conversations.

  “We’re glad you moved in.”

  “Us too. It’s nice to have regular people around or I don’t know what we’d do in this city. We’d never be able to find our way around.”

  “Oh, you’d manage. How’s Will?”

  Oh God, another time when Rachel had to decide how much to tell the neighbors, no matter how nice they were. “He’s been kinda down the last couple days. I think he’s stressed about his job.” That’d probably be about enough to say, and true as far as it went.

  “I don’t blame him,” Ken answered in his soothing, compassionate voice. “I’d be scared and nervous all day, out there with those things. I don’t know how he does it.”

  Rachel felt bad she couldn’t really explain why her boyfriend was all depressed about the other guys in his group shooting dead people. She didn’t really understand it herself. It was different if you’d known the person, or even if the dead person were nice, like Truman. But to just see one of them, wandering around in a field, looking hungry and stupid—what was the big deal with putting one of them down?

  “Well, he should be used to dead people. I wish he’d just snap out of it.” Rachel let a little more anger slip into her tone than she’d intended. She glanced at Ken. She didn’t want him to think she was a bitch. If she told him everything about Will’s attitudes, Ken would definitely see her point of view and not blame her for being pissed. But she kept it to herself. Letting people know your boyfriend was a little kooky always ended up backfiring, anyway, and made them think you might be weird, too.

  “I’m sure he will. He’ll be fine. It’s a big adjustment for you two, living here. He’ll come around.” Ken was always so supportive and encouraging.

  “You’re probably right.” Rachel certainly hoped so. Will hadn’t even had to do the actual shooting, after that first day when he’d proved himself, so why was he so distraught he barely ate? And never mind the sex. Four days without it—that was like a record for them, and she’d even been trying to coax him, so she knew he must really be in a funk. Funny how guys always thought girls were the moody ones, and they were ten times worse. Well, maybe tonight she’d get him to do it. Rachel sighed as they walked on without talking for a while.

  “Hey—look at that,” Ken said, drawing her attention to a crowd near the entrance to the construction site. It was especially noticeable, as they weren’t the usual construction workers, but mostly young women.

  “What’re they doing?” Rachel asked.

  “Oh, I heard the guys talking about it yesterday. Since we’re almost done with the new amphitheater, they said one of the musicians might come by and give out tickets to the first concert. I bet I know who it is. Come on. We should get you some.” Ken hurried her along.

  Rachel laughed. “Why me? Don’t you want them too?”

  “Nah, we have to stay home with the baby. But let’s get two tickets and you can take Will.” Damn—could he be any more considerate? The guy was a dream.

  The crowd seethed around a man on a low stage that had been set up in the street. Several larger men kept the people moving along as they approached the stage and then moved away from it. The man who was drawing all this attention walked around the stage, giving people tickets, squeezing their hands, smiling. Sometimes he’d even bend low enough to accept a quick kiss on the cheek from a girl, before moving on to the next person. He was exceptionally good looking, in a way Rachel hadn’t seen in a long time. With the tousled hair, long but neatly-trimmed sideburns, button-down shirt under a rumpled jacket—he gave off an air of deliberately casual confidence and perfectly rehearsed spontaneity that was like a precious but fragile relic from the pre-zombie world. Observing him more closely, Rachel could see he was older than he appeared at first, but he still looked familiar, like an older version of someone she’d seen years ago.

  “Oh my God!” she exclaimed, nearly as loud and screechy as the other women in the crowd into which she and Ken now jostled their way ahead. “I know him!”

  “Yeah!” Ken laughed as he pushed her forward. “He and his brothers were in town back at the beginning. The other two didn’t make it. He dedicates each concert to them.” Rachel couldn’t help thinking how sweet that was.

  As Rachel and Ken made their way to the front of the crowd, she kept her gaze on the singer. She’d had a picture of him on her wall when she was a kid, and now she was going to meet him. Not the young, famous him, but still. She’d never met anyone like that before. It was funny how she’d forgotten about such people, as though none had survived. But practically the cutest one of them all was still alive, and just a few feet away. God, she hoped she looked okay. No time to do much about it, so she just tried to stand up straighter and stick her boobs out a little more, and gave her red curls a little fluff with her hand.

  Ken said, “Thanks,” as he grabbed a ticket from the man, then quickly shoved Rachel to the front so someone else wouldn’t take the spot. She looked right into the guy’s eyes as she reached up for a ticket, and his gaze overwhelmed her—not just with how gorgeous he was, but how easy and calm, the way he smiled at her, shook his head a little to throw his hair back out of his face. Regular people didn’t look or move like that—they either looked worn out and ordinary, or if they were a little better than average, then they were intolerably stuck up, like that bitch Julia. Not him. She wondered how long you’d have to be around someone that perfect for the rush and the fascination to wear off. Maybe never—maybe they ju
st floated along, above all the shit that made people distracted and tired, constantly emanating their energy and good fortune on those blessed enough to be near them.

  From the time she reached up, until the crowd pushed her aside, must’ve only been a second or two, though the moment seemed unbelievably long and vivid to her. Ken pulled her from the crowd and put his ticket in her hand, laughing at how dazed and disoriented she was. Rachel couldn’t believe her good luck. She’d just have to convince Will not to be such a downer, and life here would be great.

  Chapter 23: Truman

  As Dalia had predicted with her unusually astute business sense, Truman’s trick brought in lots of customers on the following nights. Doctor Jack was very pleased, as it brought people in before the Great Lardo’s performance, and kept them around after, spending their money to ask Truman where the Pyrenees were, or what was the chemical formula for salt, or the measurement of the hypotenuse of a right triangle. During the day Truman would try to learn new words and facts from the books.

  All in all, it wasn’t too bad, and he also noticed that Doctor Jack was pretty good about dividing the evening’s take with Dalia. Truman didn’t know if it was good or bad, that people so unevenly distributed their cruelty and compassion to other people. Most of the time he thought it was an inconvenient, annoying glitch in the universe, as it made it slightly harder for him to hate the living man for how he treated all the dead people. But Truman knew he only had a few hours to wait before he’d hear Lou groan and fall to the ground once more, and then just a little while longer before he’d have to cover his ears, trying to keep out Ramona’s moans and screams. Then he’d remember quite well how to regard the living man in his tidy suit and well-groomed beard. If Dalia’s goodness elicited some small response in the callous, rapacious man, then that was to her credit, not his, Truman decided.

  Dalia had coached Truman ahead of time, to throw some of the questions if he got too many right in succession. He didn’t have to do that too often, since he didn’t know the science questions very well, and the customer would usually pick up on that and keep asking him those. Whenever Truman gave an erroneous answer, the person would get back his or her money, plus some silly prize. As Dalia had said, Doctor Jack kept all sorts of things lying around, and now next to Truman’s cage there was a big box of such detritus to give out as rewards: dolls, inflatable hammers, snow globes, mirrors painted with supposedly funny sayings, and all sorts of rolled-up posters—mostly of rock stars who were long dead, or wandering around out there somewhere, no longer interested in their music or their fame. In addition to these, there were dozens of copies of one picture that had a poem written next to some footprints on a beach. Truman much preferred the dead rock stars; they at least looked happy, or amusing, or even intimidating.

  When Truman got a question wrong, he’d also have to wear a dunce cap for the next few questions, until he earned back the right to wear his regular costume—a crudely made mortar board, or a large purple turban with a plastic jewel and a feather in the front. He’d look at the props during the day and burn with anger at the mockery heaped on him, but each time he’d remind himself of poor Lou and Ramona, and such self-pity would disappear, even as his rage redoubled at their tormentors.

  Tonight Truman felt tired. It’d been a long day, with Lou’s afternoon show, and Truman having to keep people entertained and paying until his evening performances. Inside the tent was hot, and the people reeked of sweat and some kind of alcohol. Not the strong, bitter smell of liquor, but that sick, sour smell of beer. Something a little rancid about it, too, like it had gone bad, but they kept swilling it. Some smoked cigarettes as well, adding to the general stench.

  Truman eyed the living and thought how awful they were—greasy, lazy, ugly, and stupid. So many things to do, and instead they came here to laugh and add to the misery of some people who were more wretched than they were. Degrading outfit or not, he was glad he could answer their simple questions and maybe remind them how hideously, colossally moronic they were. In between customers, he looked down at Dalia and gave her a little smile. If it got her some money, too, then that was a bonus.

  Lou had gotten up from his third gut-smashing of the day. As he posed with some children for a picture, men and women sauntered back to Truman’s cage. He answered some questions as Dalia collected their money and hawked the novelty to the crowd. With her usual yellow dress, she now wore a little black bowler and carried a bamboo stick, to complete the look of the impresario or hawker. Truman also noticed she’d gotten new, shiny, black leather boots, and that filled him with pride that he’d helped procure them.

  “Come on, folks,” she shouted. “The Professor will answer all your questions. You pick from all these books, all these hard questions, and we check the Professor’s answer. No fooling around! You’ll be amazed! The smartest zombie on earth!” Truman forgave her the derogatory label. The people expected it, and besides—it didn’t even sound so bad when she said it.

  After a while, the women and children left, as new men filtered into the tent for Ramona’s show. They were more drunk and smelly than the previous crowd. Most didn’t even pay to ask Truman questions, but just taunted him. One man did finally step up and give Dalia the required fee. He was a little shorter than Truman, but broad, well-fed and muscled, with taut skin and angular features. Truman immediately hated him a bit more than the others. He wasn’t even as loud and abusive as some, necessarily, but something about him had that special confidence and arrogance the living—especially men, and especially younger men—so often had. It was that empty, reflexive vanity that came from no more remarkable accomplishment than being alive, that monumental self-assuredness that would never consider or blink at its own obvious fallibility and ignorance. That was the sort of man who faced Truman, and even if he were here primarily to see Ramona put herself through much worse degradations, and even if Truman’s act could make Dalia some money, Truman still took the man’s easy, affable grin as the most personal affront imaginable.

  “Okay, mister,” Dalia said to him. “You can pick any of these books. We have lots. Pick a question, any question.”

  The arrogant man looked to his friends, laughing and joking with them as he picked a question. When Truman looked at his choice, however, he remembered the side-angle-side postulate, and Dalia got to keep the man’s money. He laughed and shook his head as his friends egged him on. Truman could tell he was trying to play the big sport. Truman didn’t doubt for a minute he’d give Dalia more money. Good for her. As Truman looked at the next question, he thought he might have to put the dunce cap on, but was mightily glad that he guessed correctly on the question about mitosis. He risked a little combination of a snarl and a smile at the expense of the man, who seemed much less easygoing this time as he shoved more money into Dalia’s hands and grabbed up another book.

  The man finished off a brown bottle of the foul smelling beer as he looked over the potential questions. He dropped the bottle on the ground, taking more time than before to find the question he wanted to ask.

  “There!” he said, an extra note of triumph added on top of his normal tone of presumption and entitlement. “Ha! I know that one. Most people don’t!”

  He handed the book to Dalia, who held it up to Truman. He looked at the question she was pointing at. Truman was surprised, as the other two had been much harder and required some thought. This one seemed pretty simple, and he wondered if the man were trying to trick him somehow. But all he could do was point at the answer he knew was correct this time.

  The man looked over the top of the book to see his answer. “Ha!” he said. “See! He’s not so smart!”

  Dalia brought the book down and turned to the answers in the back. “No, mister,” she said. “The Professor’s right!”

  “What? Give me that!” He looked at the contradictory evidence on the page, his face going crimson. “Trenton’s not the capital of New Jersey! I was born in New Jersey! It’s Newark!”

  �
�Sorry, mister,” Dalia said, casting a sideways smile at Truman. “It’s been a long time. You must’ve forgot.” The man’s friends loved that, punching his shoulder and teasing him.

  “I didn’t fucking forget, kid. That isn’t right.”

  “The answer’s in the book. We have to play by the rules. We follow the answer in the book. If you want to pay for another question, you can ask one.”

  “I don’t want to ask this stupid fucker another question!” the man said as he threw the book down on the ground and kicked at it. He got up closer to the bars of Truman’s cage. “How do you do it? It’s a trick. He doesn’t know anything. None of them do. They can’t. They’re all messed up.”

  Truman stared back at him. He didn’t snarl or even glare this time, but let the man’s friends work him to a further fury with their jeers, as they slapped him on the back and said he was dumber than a zombie, that maybe when he died he could be smart like one of them, or maybe he’d just get even stupider. Truman relished the moment.

  The man pointed at Truman. “If you were out here, you sorry piece of shit, I’d snap your stupid faggot neck.”

  Of course he would. He was big enough and strong enough to do so, and drunk and barbaric enough to want to. But Truman wasn’t out there now, was he? And the man was way too drunk to be making dumb-ass threats. And way too alive. He should realize in this world that being alive was not something to brag about, but a fragile liability that only a very few could hold on to, and then, only with the kind of enormous expense and sacrifice that a buffoon like this would never appreciate or understand. Truman tensed and thought how someone should remind him, in fact, of all those inconvenient truths.

  “Don’t talk that way to the Professor, mister,” Dalia said with an unusual sharpness. “And keep away from his cage. I don’t think he likes that.”

  As Truman lunged, he still wasn’t sure anything would come of it, since the man was so powerfully built. But he didn’t really care about the outcome. About all Truman could accomplish in his pathetic existence now was to surprise people like this with something their dim, selfish minds couldn’t comprehend or expect. That was his only meager satisfaction, but the shock and horror on the man’s face as Truman grabbed him with both hands made such satisfaction seem not at all paltry. Truman got a hold of the man’s thick, hairy arm, twisting and yanking it back into his cage. Truman had enough advantage from the leverage and surprise of the attack that the man fell forward and slammed his face into the bars as Truman pulled him off balance.