Dying to Live: Last Rites

by Kim Paffenroth

  Lucy tried to see over the other people, but she wasn’t tall enough. She had the most driving curiosity about this, as well as a sense of dread. Just ignoring it wasn’t going to work.

  “No, I want to know,” Lucy said as she started to make her way through the crowd.

  “I’ll go with her,” she heard Christine say from behind.

  Lucy got to the front of the crowd, with Christine emerging a moment later to stand next to her. Eight small children—they looked like they’d been about five or so when they died—were in front of the main group. Ben was off to the side, looking down on the town through those things that make everything look closer. Not a telescope—that was one long tube, whereas these were two short ones that you held up to both eyes. A microscope? No, that was something else.

  It almost seemed as though Ben were supervising or directing, while the other men took bundles from the duffle bags and attached them to the children’s backs. Lucy looked more carefully at the children who were facing her direction. They appeared as ambivalent as the dead usually were about anything other than fire and live humans. They didn’t show fear or nervousness or even much interest in what was being done to them, their heads lolling around as they were jostled about. One boy who caught Lucy’s attention looked rather nasty and belligerent, baring his teeth as she stared at him. But he might have been squinting at the sun, or grimacing at the strap being pulled too tight. You never knew.

  When the children were prepared with their backpacks, the men turned them all toward the town below. Ben stepped forward to address them.

  “Men down there are not our friends,” he shouted. His voice was soothing and commanding at the same time. “They are bad men. They hurt our friends yesterday. You understand?” The children grunted and nodded. “You go down there.” He pulled two aside. “You two—go inside their big buildings.” He came down the line to the next two and separated them. “You two—there’s a pile of cars and trucks in the middle of town—climb up on it. The rest of you—make noise. Get bad men to chase you. Then run away from them—but do not come back here. Stay down there and find as many bad men as you can. Then let them get close to you. Pull the strings in your hands. Then you go.” Ben held his hands over his head. “You go—up to where Santa and bunnies and fairies live forever. They’ll be nice to you. They’ll give you so much love. You’ll be happy. You’ll never be hungry or scared again. You be proud now. You are heroes. Now—go!”

  The children lurched down the hill as best they could, in an uneven, tottering sort of jog. Lucy watched their small heads bobbing in the grass, which was almost as tall as they were.

  She turned on Christine. “They send them in there? With—things?” She hated it when she couldn’t remember a word, especially if she was trying to say it to someone else, but now her anger was increased by this monstrous scene, and by her own complicity in it. “With b-b-bombs?” She was so worked up she was stuttering now too, which further added to her shame, frustration, and rage.

  Christine looked completely unperturbed—though there might have been the tiniest spark of sympathy for Lucy, a shred of pity, almost, for someone who could still feel the obvious wrongness of all this. She put her hand on Lucy’s shoulder. “It’s better this way,” she said. “A few die, so others won’t.”

  Lucy pushed her hand away. “I don’t care. This isn’t better. This isn’t right.”

  “It doesn’t matter. This is the way it is. You don’t like it, then go away. Or maybe they can strap a bomb on you, if you hate it so much.” The two women glared at each other for a moment.

  “We can, but we won’t.” It was Ben’s low, steady voice.

  Lucy turned on him. She hadn’t noticed him coming over, but now he stood quite close to them. To think she’d been told how nice he was. To think she’d looked at him and thought how attractive he was. It was all maddening and disgusting now.

  “How can you?” she growled at him.

  He shook his head. “You don’t like this?”

  “No.”

  He nodded. “Good. Then you’re smart. I don’t like this, either.” He pointed to Christine. “She doesn’t like this.” He shrugged. “We do it to survive. Maybe someday we’ll stop doing it and find another way to survive. Maybe you don’t judge us until then. Okay—smart, pretty, dead lady?” Although his smile now wasn’t as perfect as before, tinged with something cold and sharp, it was still reassuring and captivating.

  Lucy waited a moment. “I’ll think about it,” she finally said.

  His smile seemed to brighten and broaden. “Good. They hate it when we think. Maybe your thinking will help us. Maybe it’ll do some hurt to the people who really are bad.”

  He turned back toward the town, raising the magnifying things to his eyes again. Binoculars—that’s what they were called. Funny word.

  Lucy followed his gaze. In a few minutes she heard the first explosion, like a dull thump. It was followed immediately by another, then a much louder one. This larger blast was simultaneous with a small fireball in the middle of the town. Lucy thought she saw a car flipping backwards through the air as well. There was a pause before she heard another explosion, though this one sounded muffled. There was a rumble immediately after it, as one of the taller buildings collapsed, falling over and crushing several of the smaller buildings near it.

  Lucy turned from the destruction and extended her hand to Christine. The other woman took a step toward her. “I’m sorry,” Lucy said. “It’s not your fault.”

  Christine nodded as she took her friend’s hand. “I’m sorry too. We do bad things. You’re right to r-r-remind us how we’re supposed to be.”

  Carole came up alongside them and together they watched a huge cloud of dust slowly rising up from the ruins of the town, flames leaping up here and there amidst the obscurity. The scene was punctuated by more explosions and occasional screams, while underneath it all, a rising chorus of moans accused and threatened them.

  Chapter 26: Rachel

  Will had shown polite interest in the concert tickets, but Rachel could tell he wasn’t interested. Maybe he really was scared about the job, though she couldn’t understand why, after he’d spent years out there among the dead, often alone. He’d said last night that they were going back to some truck stop that was supposed to be especially dangerous, and that made her wonder if he’d lost his nerve. She almost wished that was it, because at least she could sympathize with that, and try to reassure him or express her concern. And she was concerned—but only for him and not the zombies: that was the difference that was coming between them now.

  After dinner, she’d swung her leg over his lap and had straddled him, resting her butt on his thighs. She’d laced her fingers behind his neck and had told him how much she loved him and worried about him. It felt good to think maybe she knew now what was bothering him, at least in part. But she couldn’t very well tell him he was going to go out in the wilderness and not see zombies getting shot. That was just part of the deal and he should get used to it.

  She’d punctuated her consoling him with enough snuggling and kissing that he couldn’t help but get it up, and they’d done it on the floor—nice and hard and rough. Rachel congratulated herself on breaking the dry spell—God knows, it never would’ve ended if she’d left it up to Will. But as he slept next to her, she reflected that it had been pretty perfunctory—she’d only come because she hadn’t in so long—and he still wasn’t into it. Well, pity sex was still sex, and she’d work on him some more tonight.

  Rachel stayed up a while thinking of how to go about it. She’d had trouble sleeping the last couple nights, even though she’d been feeling tired during the day.

  After a fitful, uncomfortable night’s sleep, Rachel got up. Will had already left for work. It was her day off and she looked at herself naked in the bathroom mirror. She ran her hands down her thighs, and then back up. Those felt nice and firm, but as she dragged her hands over her hips and then her belly, she felt fat. Maybe tha
t was another part of why Will wasn’t interested in sex. That thought made Rachel feel so worthless and gross she nearly started crying, though she managed to pull herself together before the tears actually flowed. She’d just have to lay off the Chinese takeout.

  It’d been okay to binge a little at first with all the new stuff in the city, but now she’d let herself go too much. She’d take it easy on the late night snacks, even though she’d been having such a craving for spicy food. A little restraint there, together with the long walk to work, and she’d get back in shape in no time. That and some nice stuff from today’s outing with Shayna, and things would be fun again.

  Rachel wrapped a denim skirt around her waist and again considered her body. The piece of clothing looked pretty dumpy—it made her hips look bigger and her legs shorter, too—but she never got to wear a skirt at work, and they were so much more comfortable anyway. She lifted her foot and pointed her toe. Yeah, her legs still looked pretty nice. Rachel considered going braless—the things had been fun at first, but now they seemed to chafe and pinch more than before—but there was no way she could in public anymore. The catcalls and stares would quickly escalate past flattering all the way to humiliating and threatening. Well, again, you just had to put up with some things in a new place with new people and rules. She wouldn’t be a big crybaby like Will.

  Rachel strapped on the bra that hurt the least and pulled on a tee shirt. Nice, tight, low V-neck, lots of cleavage on display. She didn’t feel so bad anymore.

  Rachel checked her .38. That was another problem with the skirt—she’d have to wear her shoulder holster, which was feeling as uncomfortable as her bras lately. She slipped it on, though, and holstered her gun as she went out the front door.

  Rachel could hear Shayna fussing around with the baby as she knocked on their door. The door opened and Shayna greeted her, then turned to fumble with her purse and diaper bag.

  “Hi,” Rachel said as she again admired Shayna’s tall figure and the red highlights in her hair.

  Aisha was already in her stroller, and Rachel helped with the door and with hassling the contraption down the couple steps to the sidewalk. She cooed and smiled at the little girl, who was done up all in white and who returned her attention with equal enthusiasm.

  “How you doin’, girl?” Shayna asked as they started down the street.

  “Great,” Rachel said. It felt more natural to keep things from her, for some reason. With Ken, Rachel always felt a little guilty about her half-truths. But she told them equally to both of them, she knew, so it didn’t seem to make too much difference. One just took more effort than the other.

  “That’s good. We’re gonna have a nice time, just us three girls.”

  They chatted as they walked—just the usual small talk about the baby, Rachel’s work, the prices or scarcity of different food and other products. They stopped at several stores for practical purchases. They both opted for canned peaches at the food store, while Rachel also needed detergent, and Shayna more diapers. At the drug store Shayna wanted some sunscreen for the baby, and Rachel bought some as well: she hadn’t used any since she was a kid, but she wondered if it’d be a good idea to try it. With red hair and pale skin, her freckles got pretty bad in the summer and maybe that’d help.

  As they came out, Rachel saw one shop she hadn’t been in yet. It was a small storefront, with its name stenciled on the window in fancy, script lettering—“Fulci Leather.” She gravitated toward it without consulting Shayna, who followed along, pushing the stroller.

  “Oh, you like that?” Shayna said, pulling up alongside Rachel in front of the window, which was full of coats, boots, shoes, and bags. “The man does make nice stuff. Ken got me some shoes for Christmas. You should go in. Aisha’s good for a little while longer. Come on—let’s go in and look.”

  “Well, okay.”

  Rachel gravitated toward the display of boots along the one wall as a small, older man approached them from the back. What was left of his hair was still black, and slicked back on his mostly bald head. A yellow measuring tape hung around his neck.

  “Ladies, welcome,” he said, smiling as he took off his glasses and slipped them into the pocket of his shirt. The accent might’ve been fake, and Rachel wasn’t sure where it was supposed to be from, regardless.

  “Thank you,” Rachel and Shayna both said. Rachel smiled back at him before returning her attention to the goods, though she could see from the corner of her eye that he continued examining her.

  “You’re new here,” he continued after a moment.

  “Yes,” Rachel said. “We—well, I’m not from New Sparta.”

  “How nice. I’m so glad you stopped in. You’re interested in boots? Those are very nice.” Rachel was holding a knee-high, black leather one with about a three-and-a-half-inch heel. She was sure a pair of them would look awesome on her, but even without asking the price, she sighed and put it back, knowing it wouldn’t help get Will passionate about sex again. Didn’t matter how good she looked or how hard she tried—if he were all depressed about money and staying too long in the city, he’d be totally uninterested, even angry.

  “Hey, girl,” Shayna said from the other side of the store. “Here’s what you need.” She held up a large, black handbag.

  Rachel walked over and touched the leather. It was softer than any she could remember feeling. The maker had riveted triangular pieces of silver metal at the corners; these were like mirrors, they were so shiny. The handle was rigid leather, connected to the bag with round metal hoops, which also had leather fringe hanging from them. Around the handle there was another shiny metal band. This one had “Fulci” engraved on it.

  She didn’t want to seem like an ignorant hick by burying her face in the bag, but she risked leaning closer to inhale the pungent leather smell. It was an elegant, graceful piece, no question, but Rachel couldn’t really quite imagine what it was for. She’d never had a purse as an adult—just play handbags when she was a girl—so the item fascinated her; it just didn’t have the raw, sensual appeal of the boots.

  “I do?” she said with a smile.

  “Ah, you have excellent taste, miss,” the man said to Shayna. “I make everything myself, but the handbags are my favorite—so functional and beautiful. So much attention to detail, but so rugged and practical. Every lady needs a bag like this.”

  “He’s right,” Shayna said, still holding the bag before Rachel. “I didn’t want to say anything, but you really can’t go around packing like you do, with your gun all out in the open. You don’t see other gals doing that. I mean, maybe at work, since you’re out there on the site—but around town? You need to put it in a bag like regular folks.”

  “She’s right,” the man said, nodding and gesturing to her .38. “Such a lovely lady—you can’t have this ugly piece of metal strapped to your beautiful body. I saw your pretty face when you walked in, then I saw this gun, and for a moment I was scared and thought you were a robber.” He chuckled. “This bag would be perfect for you.”

  “I don’t know.” If Rachel had had doubts about the boots improving her sex life, she was virtually certain this thing wouldn’t, and it probably cost nearly as much as the boots. On the other hand, if it were something practical, something she needed to have, then Will could hardly object. He couldn’t ask her to go around town being ridiculed all the time, could he? That would be so unfair.

  “Yes, please, I want you to have this bag. I can make you an excellent deal on it. It’ll be my gift to you, as a newcomer to our city. Barely more than the cost of materials. Just for you.”

  The ridiculousness of a “gift” for which the recipient has to pay was not lost on Rachel. It made her smirk and almost push the bag away. But the man had that fawning and insistent quality of all good salesmen, that way of making you feel guilty if you don’t buy. And now he and Shayna really had made her self-conscious about carrying her sidearm in the open, so much so that the handle of the .38 rubbing against her left boob was almos
t unendurably irritating and embarrassing.

  “How much?” Shayna asked, pulling the bag slightly away from Rachel. They exchanged a glance, and Rachel could tell that her friend would be a bit better at bargaining, and she should go along with it.

  The man named a price much less than Rachel would’ve guessed for the boots, but still a lot under their present circumstances. Shayna balked at it, and Rachel played along by acting surprised and disappointed, even taking a step back, as though she were going to abandon negotiations. Aisha cooperated by starting to fuss right then, and Shayna was lifting the bag to hang it back on its hook. The price came down, and with a slight indication from Shayna, Rachel took the deal.

  They were barely out the door when Rachel wriggled out of her holster and put it and her gun in her new bag. She shouldered it, trying different ways of settling it between her elbow and her body. Although it didn’t really rub against her boob that differently or less annoyingly than the holster had, and though she was terrified now that she would put it down somewhere and forget, or that it’d be stolen, she was sure she’d get used to the feeling of it against her. And it still smelled really good.

  Chapter 27: Truman

  After the living closed up the tent, Truman and Ramona leaned against each other, her thin shoulder just touching his between the bars. Her presence wasn’t nearly as comforting as the beatific look on Dalia’s innocent face, but it was more solid and longer lasting.

  “You got that asshole good, Truman,” she said after a while. “Showed him he’s not all that.”

  “He was stupid,” said Lou, though Truman couldn’t see him in the darkness. “They call Lou stupid, but plenty of them are dumber. Talk too much. Talk all big, when they don’t know anything. Another minute and maybe Lou would’ve pulled his chain out of the ground. Go over and help Truman break the little lawyer-man. Tear his stupid arm off. Lou would give it to Truman to gnaw on for days and days, just like old times before.”