Among the Roaring Dead

by Christopher Sword

  The boy’s ears stuck out like large flaps on the side of his head. His eyes and teeth were also too large, perhaps taking on such an appearance due to his thin frame. He had yet to grow into his extremities.

  The room was loud from the cook’s clanging pots and Jess was able to talk without drawing much attention to himself. One or two faces around the table took a momentary interest as he spoke to the boy beside him but they must have grown tired of having to read lips because they soon turned their heads in another direction.

  “Where are we?”

  The boy held his fork in his hand tightly, perhaps due to hunger or the need of a weapon, Jess wasn’t sure.

  “I was headed towards East York,” Jess added.

  “East York? You’re in Scarborough. ‘bout a half hour out, if you can find a car. The walk would probably take you a couple days.”

  “How long have you been here?”

  “None of us have been here for long. It only happened about a week ago.”

  Jess looked around. People were still making themselves busy apart from the dozen bodies that sat at the table. The room reminded him of a museum house, replicating life from centuries in the past; cooking over an open fire. It was as if this event had thrown them back in time, which is what it must have been like after the flood of Noah’s Ark. Suddenly, everyone had to start over again like restacking an enormous house of cards that had just collapsed.

  “And before that?”

  “I wrote parking tickets for a municipality,” the boys said. “I had a car, but I didn’t get far. Roscoe saved me.”

  “Roscoe?”

  The kid’s head swivelled toward the front of the table. There he was: Roscoe. The curled hair was pulled back in some kind of elastic. The package of cigarettes bounced from one of his hands to the other. Jess hadn’t noticed the man’s features in detail before, but he was unmistakeable now. Plain and simple, he was the Smoker. His eyes were right on him, but he was far enough away that Jess was sure that he couldn’t hear what they were saying. There were plastic cups and pitchers of water near the centre of the table and he reached across and filled himself a glass.

  Roscoe’s eyes revolved around the table, while he ate something out of a bowl – the only one of them so far to have received food.

  “Who owns this place?”

  “Roscoe.”

  “He owns this whole place? What is he, a millionaire rancher?”

  “I don’t know if he owned it before, but it’s his now.”

  “So why is everyone so scared of him?”

  Jess whispered this, leaning in close to the boy’s ear.

  “I don’t know. It’s a rule. Nobody’s allowed to talk about the past. We have to focus on the present and save our asses. That’s all that matters, so keep it down, would you?”

  “Lovely,” Jess whispered. The apocalypse happens and suddenly everyone thinks they’re the second coming. “So how did he save you?”

  “Look, I don’t know what’s going on. If you want gossip, you’re asking the wrong guy. He brought us in and set up the rules. He knows how to keep those things out. I’ve seen him walk straight out the gates and kill four of them with an axe all by himself. I don’t ask questions, I just do what I’m told. It keeps me alive. If you’re smart, you’ll do the same.”

  The food was soon served to the rest of them and was quite good; porridge with cinnamon and brown sugar; salted hash browns and toast with jam. No one talked during the meal. They all ate; head down, except for Roscoe who had long since finished and was able to watch the rest without distraction.

  After they had eaten, Jess was led down a hall by one of the many men who seemed unwilling to talk.

  "Where to now?" Jess tried sounding more curious than concerned.

  "You'll be permitted to use our bathroom and shower facilities but I'm told that someone wants to see you first."

  "Really? Who's that?"

  "Just keep walking."

  He was stopped outside a small room and was told to take a seat. The room was cold, and although it sat empty save for a few chairs, it felt to Jess that it may have been a pantry. Wherever they were, it was like a compound or a small boarding school perhaps.

  A few minutes later, Jess was inspecting the floors for a lack of anything better to do. He thought about getting up to make a break for it until he heard the feet of his guardian pacing out in the hall. A pair of brown shoes appeared on the floor in front of Jess and when he looked up he saw the curly brown hair and olive-tinted face of Roscoe.

  "Hello," Jess said.

  "You're probably wondering why I'm here."

  "Well," Jess said, suddenly aware of some nagging voice in the back of his head telling him to be careful with his words. "I've heard that you're an important person around here. So yeah, I'm nobody special and I’m wondering what I can do for you."

  Roscoe rubbed the stub of his chin, like it was a big knob that wasn't quite on right.

  "I'm not quite so sure that you’re a nobody. You're a big guy. I'm just curious myself. What did you do for a living with the TTC again, security? We could use someone with those kind of skills."

  "No, not me. I played college football, but that was a long time ago. Now I'm just a simple subway worker."

  "Subway! Yes, yes, I forgot. I’m surprised it took me so long to recognize your jacket."

  "Yeah, I don't think they've changed the colours since the 70s. It looks like a fake leather sofa that my mother used to have in the 2020s."

  "I'm sure. So listen, people are noticing that you seem to like to chit-chat. You're new here, so I get that you're still trying to get the lay of the land and all that, but we're a quiet bunch that is doing what needs to be done to survive. If you want out, I'll let you leave but don't be riling up the masses while you're here. I don't care if you drive subways or fight in MMA matches on the weekend. We're living in a new world now.

  “And the fact of the matter is, you're in the Republic of Roscoe. You want to stay and enjoy the security and amenities of my kingdom, then you better play by my rules. You try to fuck me around like the rest of your lazy colleagues and you might not live to regret it. Those zombies aren't the most dangerous thing in these parts, I am."

  Jess started to murmur something about his innocence when Roscoe cut him off, standing up and imposingly staring down at him.

  "Oh I'm sure you're not like the rest of your kind. I used to work in the big city too some years ago before I smartened up. Took the fucking bus every morning like the rest of the lemmings in that place who scurry over a miniscule piece of cheese. Transit workers would sit around talking on their smartcard as much as they'd work, and they'd constantly go on strike, demanding more and more money. And for what? All your vehicles drive themselves now!"

  Roscoe put his palms up in front of him.

  "If you polled people in that city and asked them who they'd to kick in the nuts, they'd tell you the mayor first and then every selfish transit worker second. But I’m sure you’re not one of them. Not at all – I can see it in your eyes.”

  He winked at Jess and said: “Don’t prove me wrong now. I don’t reward laziness here.”

  Roscoe walked out the door and past the guard, saying as he walked away: “Get him the fuck out of here, he stinks.”

  His handler reappeared and motioned for him to start walking again.

  “I’ll show you the showers. The boss says you should take it easy today. You’ll be busy tomorrow.”

  “Yeah, sounds good. Listen buddy, can I ask you for a favour?”

  The man stopped walking.

  “What’s that?”

  “Is there anything decent to drink around here? I’m dying for a swig of something. I don’t really care what it is.”

  “No, there’s nothing to drink here like that.”

  The man started walking away and Jess felt a wave of anxiety envelop him. There was no way he was going to last two weeks here.

  Chapter 11

 
They had installed several cameras around the outer walls of the compound. One of the men they had picked up was an electronics expert and had the whole rig set up within a few days, pilfering items from a nearby hardware store. He was now their resident eye-in-the-sky and rarely came down from the tower, except to eat, shower and shit. People called him the Eagle because of his lofty perch. None of them knew any better since he had so little interaction with any of them.

  There was a row of six television screens circling a desk in the middle of that room. Roscoe found the whole thing quite reassuring but boring nonetheless. The nerd whose real name he could never remember could have the loft all to himself so long as he gave them an extra layer of warning and protection.

  It was on one of those screens now that the nameless watcher saw Roscoe walk out to the chain link fence on the northeast end of the compound. Dangling from Roscoe's right hand was a pitchfork. Four zombies quickly shuffled over to the fence in front of Roscoe. One-by-one, he plunged the three-pronged tool into eye sockets through the fence. The strong interwoven metal wire provided the resistance to help pull the bodies off the blades.

  As he tried to pull the third one off, the last of the group grabbed onto the pitchfork and they were in a bit of a stand-off, a tug-of-war on either side of the fence. But while zombies were dumb and stubborn, they weren’t particularly strong or agile. Roscoe twisted the handle to get it loose and the thing lost its grip and fell backwards. It grabbed on to the fence to pull itself back up but before it could plant both feet back on the ground Roscoe plunged the pitchfork into its head.

  “Screw this,” he said, and threw aside the tool.

  He unlocked the gate, walked through it and swung it closed behind him. A woman was moving towards him as he pulled a handgun out of the waistband of his pants. She came at him slowly – she only had one shoe on, with a bit of a heel on it, so it put her off-kilter, although she clearly didn’t know this, or care. She wore dirty grey slacks and a button-up shirt. Both were filthy and the shirt was torn so much that it practically hung off her, threatening to fall off completely at any moment. Beneath the shreds she had on a black lacy bra – the near sheer kind.

  She had a nice rack, Roscoe thought.

  She slowly walked towards him, with her mouth open.

  “Yeah, come on. I’ll give you something to put in that mouth.”

  He pointed the gun at her, a few inches away from her face and she took another step forward until it rested against her cheek. Arms outstretched, she reached for him. By instinct, it seemed, she moved her head to the left and tried to bite the end of the gun’s barrel.

  “That’s right baby, say ahh!”

  The back of her head exploded into a pile of meat some 20-feet behind her. The body shook from the electricity that came from the bullet and lost its strength to stand up and she slowly fell away from the gun that was still aimed at her forehead.

  Roscoe walked around the compound and found eight more, shooting each of them between the eyes.

  When he came back into the compound, many of those inside had watched him pass silently. He knew what they were thinking. They were running out of bullets and the noise was sure to bring more of them.

  But at this point, he didn’t care. He felt better for having done it, and besides, he was in charge.

  He paced the dining room. There was the threat of violence in his walk, though not everyone noticed it. He went back and forth, like a caged animal – frustrated.

  One of the men approached him, scratching his head as though he had fleas.

  “The kitchen staff are saying that our supplies are dipping considerably.”

  Roscoe stopped in place and looked up with his eyes only – his face was still pointed down towards the floor.

  “What does that mean? We have kitchen staff? Who are we, the Delta Chelsea?”

  “They said we have food for about two more days, the way we’re going.”

  “Who said that?”

  “The people in the kitchen.”

  “I want a name.”

  “My wife – Kristina. But she was talking for all of them, really.”

  “Is that so,” Roscoe said.

  Though they all wore simple white chef outfits, Roscoe could still make out the women from across the room.

  “Which one is your wife?”

  The man pointed with a finger, and said: “She’s going into the pantry room.”

  “That’s where we keep the food,” Roscoe said, “that we are so desperately running out of?”

  The man nodded.

  “I’m going to go in there and have her show me what she has. Why don’t you go and make yourself useful and she’ll see you later?”

  The man nodded, a confused look upon his face and walked away to collect plates from the table.

  Roscoe pulled open the door and cool air wafted out at him. It was like a walk-in closet with steel shelves on each side, piled here and there with fruit and other packages.

  Upon seeing him, the woman immediately froze. Roscoe wasn’t sure if he had ever spoke to her directly before but he had noticed her in passing. She smelled like bubble gum.

  “I’ve heard you think we have a supply problem,” he said.

  She didn’t speak at first – her hands holding firm to one of the shelves.

  “We’re taking in more people,” she said, pulling a lock of hair out of her mouth, tucking it behind her ear. “But we’re not exactly bringing in more food.”

  “Well,” Roscoe said,” if that’s the case, I suppose we should either increase our supply of food or reduce the number of mouths we have to feed. What do you think?”

  “I, I would vote for increasing supplies.”

  “And how would you propose we do that?”

  Roscoe walked back to the door and turned a deadbolt that locked them inside.

  “That’s what I thought,” he said. “Because I’m the only one around here with the brains and the balls to do what it takes.

  He walked around behind her and said: “Your husband was smart enough to know when to shut up and listen to a real leader. So what about you? Are you smart enough to get it or are you going to be dumb and insubordinate and risk your happy little family?”

  His hand went to her waist and travelled up the side of her body, cupping her breast.

  She said nothing.

  Chapter 12

  Jess couldn’t stop his hands from shaking. They sat down to the same bland, but edible meal and Jess’s spoon threatened to fall right out of his hand. When they were finished, several large men entered the room to move those assembled into their respective work detail. Jess couldn’t help but feel like some kind of an inmate. A particularly unhappy handler had been assigned to Jess. Big as a linebacker, the man guided Jess down a long hall by the back of his arm while the others walked free from help. They went to a garage where other people were standing in front of a white van. Whereas most vehicles had windows around the length of its hull, the windows on this van were covered up by sheets of metal, bolted crudely to the sides. The thing looked like a makeshift tank and it didn’t take Jess long to realize that this was intentional. Large rivets kept the metal in place, shielding anyone inside from potential assault.

  Inside the garage there were five others, all men. All of them were motioned to take a seat on a bench against the wall. Jess did so without fuss.

  Roscoe walked in.

  “I hope you guys are going to show more energy than this,” he said, swinging himself around so that he was standing firmly with the van at his back and the six men before him. He brought a watch on his wrist up under his face. Jess’s watch. ”For some of you, this is your first or second day here.” He stared straight at Jess. “I like to call this place the Quixote Castle. You will earn your keep in return for your safety, lodging and meals. In two weeks’ time, if you wish to leave, you may.”

  Jess looked at the men beside him. None of them returned his look. The boy was present. Surely the rules d
idn’t apply to him if he had already been here for a week, but he said nothing.

  “The six of you are here to assist us. We make regular runs out into the towns to find resources that allow us to continue to exist. If we’re to live, we need food. We need supplies. You will be our runners, which is how you will earn your keep, and if you choose, your right to leave.

  “Runs are timed. You spend no more than one half hour at one site. You come back when your vehicle is full of supplies or at the end of the half hour; whichever comes first. The only person with a gun will be the driver and me. Anyone trying to run or otherwise break away from the group, may be shot.”

  Roscoe nodded to a man who must have been the driver. The guy who was standing beside the door of the vehicle, a gun holster visibly hanging from his belt. He was a middle-aged black man with a closely trimmed beard and tattoos running up and down his long, heavily veined arms. He spoke in a deep voice that did not carry well, but he spoke so slowly that everyone concentrated to hear all that he was saying. None of them wanted to miss a word when it came to these orders.

  “We’ve got three stops scheduled today. The first is a grocery store on the edge of town. It’s a large shop for this town but if you come from the big city like me, you’ll think it’s a glorified corner store. The same family’s been running it for the last 30 years but they probably ain’t around anymore. There shouldn’t be any problems but we don’t really know what to expect. We’ve hit two of the other big stores in the city in the last few weeks and we done good. There was only one zombie in the back room of one of the buildings, so that’s what we have to watch out for. You’ll be partnered up and will have to watch each other’s backs. The second place we’re going to is a retirement home just off the main strip. There’s a hundred rooms in this joint and a kitchen big enough to feed every one of them. Even if there are infections inside, we’re talking about people who used canes and wheelchairs to get around, so they’ll be at a double disadvantage.”