Raising Stony Mayhall

by Daryl Gregory

  His books. His sisters had kept all his books.

  He laughed aloud and pulled out a copy of John D. MacDonald’s The Green Ripper. Beneath it was Frank Herbert’s Dune, and below that:

  Head Case, by C. V. Ferris. A man in a business suit, his back to the audience, and on his left a beautiful red-haired woman in a clinging red dress, facing out. She rested her arm on his shoulder, looking devious. The man’s face, gray and decayed, was half turned toward her, grimacing. His right arm hung at his side, holding an automatic.

  C. V. Ferris wasn’t a chubby breather woman from New Jersey. He was an LD with a Royal manual typewriter. He was Jack Gore, a hard-bitten cop bitten hard.

  Still, he wished Gloria Stolberg well. He hoped she survived the outbreak. He didn’t need any more Jack Gore novels, but he would love to see what she’d written about the LD community. Now, after the outbreak, her book would either be a brilliant defense or damning evidence.

  No, that was the old way of thinking. Who would be alive to put them on trial? The surviving LDs would never indict their own.

  He moved all the boxes out of the metal room until finally the floor was clear, with only the little pallet of old blankets on the floor (blankets intact), and the two short bookshelves screwed to the wall. He picked up a flashlight that had been left behind on one of the shelves. It wouldn’t turn on. He shook it, then unscrewed the cap and tipped out the batteries. Completely corroded, as to be expected.

  He shut the room, then carried a couple of the book boxes back to the trapdoor and pushed them up and through.

  Ruby heard the noise and came to the hole. “Where the hell did you go? The cellar?”

  “Could you carry these back to the living room, please?”

  Soon they had enough boxes to make two chairs and an end table; Stony felt like they were playing house. Ruby, sweating now in the close atmosphere, sat down to eat her last protein bar. She set the pistol on the floor between her feet. “Do we have water at least?”

  “We should—it’s on a well, not city water.” He went into the kitchen and turned on the taps. The water sputtered, then ran orange-red, stinking of rust. He let it run and walked back to the living room. “It may be a few minutes until it’s drinkable.”

  She bit off another inch of the energy bar, then folded the foil over it and put it back into her backpack. “We’re going to have to hit that Walmart,” she said.

  “It’s almost sundown,” he said. “I’ll get you some food then.”

  “From where?”

  “I’ll think of something.”

  “You know, I’d like to know if you have any plan at all. What are we supposed to do, wait it out and hope the outbreak misses us?”

  “It won’t miss us. It won’t miss anyone.”

  “You can’t know that. We’re in the middle of nowhere.”

  He shook his head. “The mobs will be moving in from the cities, especially west from Chicago. We already saw Iowa City was spilling over. It’s only a matter of time till they get here.”

  “Like when—tonight?”

  He hesitated, then said, “Tomorrow morning at the latest.”

  He watched her take in this information, consider it, and set it on some mental shelf—not forgotten, but in plain sight. He loved her for this, how she refused to panic. Crystal would have been so proud.

  “You know,” Ruby said, “an abandoned farmhouse in the middle of a flat plain is not exactly where I’d pick to make my last stand.”

  He smiled. “I think I need to show you something.”

  He supported her under her arms as she lowered herself through the trapdoor, then followed after her. “I dug out this basement when I was in high school,” he said.

  Ruby played her flashlight around the space. “By yourself?”

  “I had a lot of time on my hands. Let me show you the best part.” He took her to the secret panel and swung it out of the way. “I called this my fortress of solitude.”

  She leaned in, and the beam of her flashlight gleamed against the metal. “Okay then,” Ruby said. Her voice echoed oddly. “Your own safe room.”

  Stony said, “If the undead get into the house, I want you to come down here, okay? Close the door behind you. You can bolt it from the inside.”

  “What about you?”

  “They won’t hurt me. And if things get really bad, lift up the pallet. Like this.” He squatted and levered the wooden platform out of the way.

  She aimed her light into the darkness. “Are those stairs?”

  “Just follow them down, and then keep following the tunnel. If you go left you’ll end up behind the Chos’ house. If you go right, you’ll end up in our barn, in one of the old stalls. And if you go down the middle passage, it’ll take you about half a mile away, near the highway.”

  “Half a mile?”

  “Alice said that I had a tendency to overdo things.”

  “She got that fucking right.”

  “Come on, let’s go out to the barn.” He walked down first and was pleased to find out that his wooden stairs were still sturdy. “Wait, I just remembered something.” He felt around under the last step, and there it was: the metal toolbox that used to belong to his sisters’ father. Stony had supplemented Ervin Mayhall’s tools with his own supplies. He pulled out two squat, white safety candles and a box of matches in a small plastic bag.

  Ruby said, “You planted that here.” Her tone was disbelieving. “When you were in high school.”

  “I read a lot of spy books. And at Kwang’s house they let me watch Hogan’s Heroes.”

  “Watch what?”

  “You’re yanking my chain again.”

  “Seriously, I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

  “It was a sitcom about a Nazi prisoner-of-war camp.”

  “You’re shitting me.”

  “Come on, Colonel Klink? Sergeant Schultz? Hilarious Nazis. Anyway, all those prisoners had secret passages, like stairs under a bunk that flipped up.”

  “Did all your ideas come from TV and movies?”

  “Pretty much.” It took him three tries, the matchsticks practically disintegrating at his touch, but he finally managed to light one of the candles. He saw her shocked expression through the flames, then she looked away.

  “What is it?” he asked. “Did I scare you?”

  “Nothing, it’s just—well, sometimes it catches me by surprise that you’re, well—”

  “A zombie.”

  She shook her head. “Come on. Off to the barn.”

  He decided to let it pass. Act normal. “So, which passage?” he asked.

  “Right to the barn,” she said. “Left to the Chos’. Middle to Bumblefuck, Egypt.”

  “Gold star,” he said. The barn tunnel was the first he’d dug when he was a kid, and the passage was much shorter than he remembered, in both height and length. They walked stooped over for perhaps twenty yards, a slight breeze in their faces, until they came to a ladder. It rose only six feet and dead-ended against the wooden floor of the barn. Stony climbed up a few rungs and pushed. The floor didn’t budge. He decided not to look down at Ruby to see what she thought of that.

  He climbed two steps higher so that he was bent under the floorboards. Then he straightened and pushed hard. The floor rose six inches. He began to shove it aside—and the rung snapped beneath his feet. He fell to the floor of the tunnel and the candle went out.

  “I was supposed to escape how?” Ruby asked.

  “I’ll fix that,” he said. He got to his feet, then boosted her up so that she could crawl into the barn. She even managed to keep the candle lit. He pulled himself up through the hatch in the floor, a square barely three feet by three feet.

  “We could have just walked over,” she said. The house, visible through the half-open barn door, was a short distance away.

  “But now we’ve tested the escape tunnel,” he said.

  The barn had been left largely undisturbed, probably because there’d been not
hing in it worth selling or stealing. In the corner, under the hayloft, were a score of ancient seed sacks that had been there since Ervin had stopped farming. More seed was up in the loft. He went to the stack and tried to pry the canvas bag from the top. Mold or some kind of growth had cemented the bags together. He wedged his arms under the edges of the top bag, gripped hard, and yanked. The bag tore free, and white, dusty soy seed spilled onto the floor.

  Ruby said, “You have a strange look on your face.”

  He looked at Ruby. “I know how to save us.”

  “What? How?”

  “I know how to save us!” He cradled what remained in the bag, nodded at the pile on the floor, and said, “Grab some of that. Come on.”

  “Stony, you’ve got to tell me what’s going on. What are you doing with this stuff? It’s getting dark.”

  “Something my mother taught me,” he said. “Your grandmother. Please, just trust me.”

  He walked out about fifty feet in front of the house. He tilted the bag, and began to pour a line of seed on the ground. Slowly he began to walk along the front of the house, leaving a trail. “Fill in where I miss, okay?” he told her.

  “No.”

  He stopped, adjusted the bag.

  She said, “I’m going inside, and I’m going to sit there with my gun aimed at the door, unless you tell me what the fuck you’re doing.”

  “I’m making a circle.”

  “You’re not helping.”

  He looked toward the road. The sun was going down, gilding the tall grass. “It’s a magic circle,” he said. “Everything inside the circle is mine, and cannot be harmed.”

  “What the hell, Stony. Magic?”

  “Look, I know it doesn’t sound rational. But we’re a little bit beyond rational right now.”

  She stared at him for a long moment. A few white seeds slipped through her fingers. “Fuck it,” she said. “Magic circle it is.”

  She followed behind him. He went slowly, staring at the seed as it poured into the grass. Everything in this circle is mine, he said under his breath. Integrity is all.

  “Are you, uh, praying?” Ruby asked.

  “It’s kind of a mantra. Integrity is all.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “See, there was a guy named the Lump who—well, it’s complicated.”

  “All of your stories are complicated.”

  “It’s about keeping the body intact. If an LD can hold on to the idea of a body, then he can hold on to the idea of a self. Did I tell you about Calhoun’s Integrity Suit?”

  “Calhoun has integrity?”

  He told her how Calhoun lived in the suit, a second skin to keep himself from falling apart. “See, we all need the illusion of continuity. Your cells are replaced every seven years, without you even thinking about it. But for my people, staying intact is an act of will.”

  Ruby said, “So you can’t die unless you want to.”

  “Oh, we can die.”

  “But you just said—”

  “It’s complicated.”

  They made several trips back to the barn, opening bags of seed, racing the falling light. Ruby kept the flashlight tucked under one arm as they worked. They’d reached the west side of the house when Stony saw headlights swing off the road and head down the lane toward them.

  “Ruby.”

  She saw the lights and exchanged a look with him.

  “You get inside,” she said. “I’ll take care of this.”

  He thought about this. As she’d pointed out before, zombies didn’t drive cars. Then he said, “I’ll be right behind the front door.”

  “Move it, for Christ’s sake,” she said.

  He hurried inside but left the door ajar a few inches. The car rolled slowly toward the house, easing into and out of the potholes in the dirt lane. Ruby stood about ten feet in front of the door, her left hand behind her back, holding the pistol.

  The car, a light blue Buick LeSabre, stopped at the end of the drive, the headlights aimed at her and the front of the house. Stony stepped back a foot, keeping to the shadows.

  No one got out of the car. Ruby shifted her weight. Her fingers flexed on the grip of the gun.

  Then the car door opened and the dome light lit up, revealing two figures. The headlight warning tone chimed.

  Ding. Ding. Ding.

  A man stepped slowly out of the driver’s side but stayed behind the open car door. He was very thin and wore a white shirt. His arms stayed down, out of sight.

  He looked at Ruby, tilted his head.

  “This is not your house,” he said. His voice was firm, the accent still there but not as thick as it used to be.

  Ruby slid the gun from her waistband and Stony yanked open the door. “Ruby! Easy.”

  The man did not move. Stony stepped out into the light and held up a hand against the glare of the headlights. “Mr. Cho. It’s me, Stony.”

  Mr. Cho stepped out from the shelter of the door. In his arms he held a shotgun. Ruby raised her pistol.

  “Geez, hold on, you two!” Stony said. He stepped down from the porch, his arms raised. “Ruby, he’s a friend.”

  She said, “Tell him to put down the shotgun then.”

  Mr. Cho stared hard at her, then turned his attention to Stony. They had not seen each other since before the crash. The night Stony totaled the man’s car and took away his son’s legs.

  Mr. Cho set his gun on the car seat. He said something under his breath that could have been “Mayhalls.”

  Ruby dropped her arm. Stony strode past her, and at the same time Mrs. Cho stepped out of the passenger seat. She wore a green pantsuit with a wide, floral print collar. Even in the near dark he could see her bright red lipstick.

  He stopped, afraid of spooking her.

  She walked to him and stared up into his face. She was tiny. Her face was so sad.

  He said, “Hi, Mrs. Cho.”

  She reached up and touched his cheek. “Oh, my boy.” Suddenly she threw her arms around him. It was a long minute before she let him go.

  He said, “Mrs. Cho, this is Crystal’s—Chelsea’s daughter, Ruby.”

  “Oh, I know this little girl,” she said. She went to her and took Ruby’s hands in her own. “Crystal sends me a picture every Christmas.”

  Stony thought about hugging Mr. Cho, but of course that was out of the question. The man had never been hugged in his life. They shook hands and Stony impulsively escalated the intimacy by gripping Mr. Cho’s bicep.

  “Where’s Kwang?” Stony said. “Is he home?”

  Mr. Cho shook his head. “Bad luck. Up in St. Paul.”

  “He’s got an Internet girlfriend,” Mrs. Cho said. “He hasn’t called since …” A hand fluttered. “All this.”

  “I’m sure he’s fine,” Stony said.

  “Ruby should come with us,” Mrs. Cho said. “The whole town is leaving before they get here. Everyone’s going to Camp Dodge, in Johnston.”

  “You can’t do that,” Stony said. “That’s near Des Moines. You’ve got to stay away from the cities.”

  “National Guard is there,” Mrs. Cho said.

  “No, listen. The open road is no place to be. You’ve got to stay here, with me and Ruby. Tell your friends, too—they’ll be safe here.”

  “We’re building a magic circle,” Ruby said.

  Stony frowned at her, then turned back to the Chos. “I’ve got a bunker, okay? Tell your friends it’s a bomb shelter. I can keep them safe.”

  Mrs. Cho and her husband did not look at each other, but they seemed to be communicating. After a moment, Mr. Cho said, “They will not understand.”

  “Okay, right, I’m undead. I’ll hide. They won’t even know I’m here. But you have to believe me, this is the best place to be when the mob comes.”

  “Impossible,” Mr. Cho said.

  Mrs. Cho said, “The radio said the zombies are coming. Thousands.”

  “Mrs. Cho—”

  “Thousands!”

  M
r. Cho said. “Already in Ames. Very close.” He nodded to Ruby. “There is room in our car. Your family cannot afford to lose anyone else.”

  Ruby ran a hand through her hair. She looked back at the house. Then she said, “I’m staying with Stony.”

  It was full night when he completed the circle. Eight bags of seed to make an egg-shaped ellipse about fifty feet out from the walls of the house. Above, the moon was a hair’s breadth short of full. The white seed glowed.

  He heard a gunshot in the distance. Then another. He turned. The sound, if he judged correctly, came from the south end of town, where Ruby had driven through the roadblock. He waited thirty seconds, a minute—and then gunfire rolled like thunder.

  He hefted the ninth bag and tore open its top. He started at the circle and poured a line that ran up to the porch, then to the front door. He nudged open the door with his foot.

  Ruby, Mr. Cho, and Mrs. Cho sat on the improvised chairs, the candle burning on a box between them. Ruby held one of Mrs. Cho’s sandwiches. At their feet, plastic water bottles gleamed.

  Of course they’d heard the gunfire, too.

  “I think it’s time that you all retired to the basement,” Stony said.

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  April 29, 2010

  Easterly, Iowa

  o you remember Officer Tines? He was the young patrolman who pulled over the pickup truck full of Kwang’s friends that Halloween night in 1978. Kwang fell into his arms, mock-drunk, to allow the toilet-paper-wrapped Stony to escape. Yes—that guy. His full name was William Randolph Tines, but his friends and family called him Willie. (Drunk teenagers still called him Officer Tines, or else.) Willie wasn’t born in Easterly, but he came for the police job in 1976 and never left. Just adopted the place. He was thirty before he married Nancy, an apple-cheeked girl who was way too serious about politics, but pleasant besides that. They had four children: three brown-haired boys and a tall yellow-haired girl who poked up between them like a dandelion. They moved out to the unincorporated area north of town, a bigger place on a three-quarter-acre lot. His kids played every sport imaginable, and his daughter turned out to be a hell of a fast-pitch softball player; she got a partial scholarship to Iowa State. Willie was a good father. Not to say he was perfect. He hit forty like a bad spot in the road, started drinking more, then had an affair with a certifiably crazy woman who worked at the yarn store. But then he found Christ and straightened right up. Everyone said so. And even during the bad years he never missed a day of work or one of his kids’ games.